by Ron Base
This caused nervous titters and small gasps of astonishment. “Don’t be so shocked. Mr. Hemingway could write bad books just like anyone else. He was not a god, after all. He was a real man and real men fail from time to time. But men are also capable of greatness, and one only has to read The Sun Also Rises to know Mr. Hemingway achieved that greatness.”
Hank then chose Tree and three others to make the climb up wrought iron stairs to peer through an iron latticework divider into a wide, bright room. An antelope head adorned the wall over a portable typewriter on a round table.
“A walkway used to connect the master bedroom to the office,” Hank explained. “That way, he merely had to get out of bed in the morning, cross over to the office, and go to work.”
“What do you think, Mr. Dearlove?” Tree squeezed himself in beside Hank. “What happened in there to make To Have and Have Not such a lousy novel?”
Dearlove looked momentarily surprised at being addressed by his surname. Then he said, “Maybe it was his lousy marriage. He was too distracted, just didn’t give a damn.”
The other three tourists began to file back down the stairs. Hank called for four more to come up. He turned back to Tree. “Seen enough?”
“I think we should talk,” Tree said.
“About Hemingway?”
“About Elizabeth Traven,” Tree said.
“And who might wish to discuss such a subject?”
“I’m Tree Callister. I’m a private detective.”
“Are you now?” Hank did not appear impressed.
“I’m here looking for her.”
“Well, she’s not at the Hemingway Estate, I can tell you that much. I don’t think Elizabeth even likes Hemingway.” He showed a neat row of yellowing teeth. “Why don’t you go back downstairs, Mr. Tree Callister, have a look in the gift shop. Maybe you’d like a Hemingway T-shirt. As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll find you.”
________
Tree spent some time poking around the gift shop. When he came out, he found Hank on a bench near the pool talking to a lingering elderly couple.
“So Hemingway gets home from Spain, where he’d been having it off with Martha Gelhorn,” Hank said. “Pauline, meanwhile, got wind of the affair and as revenge spent twenty thousand dollars building this swimming pool. The entire house only cost eight thousand. Ernest was furious. ‘You’ve cost me everything,’ he yelled at her. ‘Here, you might as well have my last red cent.’ And he threw a penny down on the ground. Pauline, who I guess had a sense of humor, had it embedded in the cement.”
He pointed a finger at a coin implanted in one of the deck stones. “And there it is.”
The couple chuckled nervously, uncertain whether Hemingway the adulterer was amusing. The husband slipped Hank a ten-dollar bill. His wife thanked him for the entertaining and informative tour, albeit a little controversial.
The elderly couple drifted off, and Tree joined Hank on the bench. The late afternoon sun threw long shadows across Hemingway’s lushly tropical backyard.
“You didn’t buy a T-shirt.”
“No.”
“Funny. You struck me as the kind of guy who might wear a Hemingway T-shirt.”
“That’s not a compliment, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.” Hank grinned.
“Anything to that last red cent story?”
Hank shrugged. “As true as anything, I suppose. Is the furniture in the house his?” Another shrug. “Well, Mr. Hemingway and Pauline divorced in 1940. She kept the house, since she paid for it, and lived here until she died in 1951. She and Hadley rekindled their friendship, incidentally. I suppose they had a lot to talk about.
“After Pauline was gone, the house reverted back to Mr. Hemingway, but he never returned. The place was sold to a local businesswoman in 1961. She held onto it until there were so many tourists pounding on the door it was decided to turn it into a museum. Hard to believe the original furniture survived all that. Nevertheless, we tell them it’s real. For all I know it is. And for all I know, Mr. Callister, you are a harmless enough individual who might be tempted to buy a T-shirt in Key West, but who otherwise should steer clear of the trouble you seem bound and determined to get into.”
“Are you in love with Elizabeth Traven?”
He seemed slightly taken aback by the question. “Should I be?”
“Everyone else seems to be.”
“Elizabeth is the sort of woman you watch carefully, Mr. Callister. You don’t fall in love with her—that is if you’ve got any brains.”
“Where Elizabeth is concerned, men don’t seem to have them.”
“You could be talking about yourself, Mr. Callister.”
“Is she still in Key West?”
“Mr. Callister, you are a private detective, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Tree said.
“I’m afraid you have been sent here by idiots to do an idiot’s work.”
“What about you, Dearlove? You appear to be mixed up with them.”
“If I was, I soon realized I had made a mistake. You would be wise to do the same thing.”
“And do what?”
“Buy your T-shirt at the gift shop, and then go away and forget about all this.”
“Answer my question first. Is Elizabeth in Key West?”
“I have no idea where she is.”
“Suppose I think you’re lying.”
The watery smile was back as Hank heaved himself to his feet. “The people who hired you are old fools, involved in something they should never have become involved in. Meaning no disrespect to you, Mr. Callister, stumbling amateurs have hired an amateur to work for them. Your enthusiasm is commendable, but if you push this any further, you are going to get into a lot of trouble, and it will end badly for you, I promise.”
“Everyone I meet threatens me these days.”
“Some threats you should take more seriously than others,” Hank said.
“Yours, for instance?”
“You might be wise.”
If you see Elizabeth, tell her I’d like to talk to her.”
“Mention my name at the gift shop,” Hank said. “You’ll get a twenty-five per cent discount on that T-shirt.”
Hank moved off, displaying a certain frayed elegance even in sandals. Tree studied Hemingway’s penny embedded in the pool deck.
15
Tree Callister, intrepid private eye, stood outside the Hemingway Estate, trying to think what to do next. Hank Dearlove had not turned out to be much help. Tree was uncertain whether Elizabeth was even in Key West. Dearlove had suggested that since Tree had been hired by fools, he was probably a fool himself.
Standing there, trying to think of the next move, Tree couldn’t disagree.
Dusk was falling now. The gates had closed. Whitehead Street was empty except for the Range Rover. Tree hadn’t noticed it before. It was parked at the curb, a few yards away.
Suddenly, the Rover leapt forward and screeched to a stop so close it made him jump back in alarm. Two big Latino men leaped out. One wore a pork pie hat while the other was in a broad-brimmed straw hat. Pork Pie Hat grabbed Tree and threw him against the vehicle. Immediately, the second Latino in the straw hat was pressing something into his back, hissing in his ear: “Get in, hombre, and don’t argue about it.”
Tree allowed himself to be propelled forward into the Rover’s interior.
“Get over there,” Straw Hat ordered.
Tree scrambled awkwardly across the seat while Straw Hat crowded in beside him. Pork Pie Hat was in the front behind the wheel.
“What is this?” demanded Tree.
“What is this?” said Pork Pie Hat. “Right now this is nothing. This is a drive. Give us any trouble and it’s a whole lot of something else. So sit quiet and enjoy the ride.”
Straw Hat beside him now had a gun that he held up so Tree could see it. When he smiled, he had a couple of front teeth missing.
The toothless gunman said, “Don’t worry about
doing up your seatbelt, hombre.”
_________
Conch house-lined residential streets flashed past as the Range Rover turned left and then right, and then executed a bewildering series of left-right turns. The driver kept hitting the brakes and jerking the vehicle to hard stops before gunning it again—erratic enough to make Tree’s stomach spin.
Great, he thought. The tough guy private detective would frighten his captors by throwing up on them. Is this how Hemingway would have acted had a couple of toughs grabbed him outside his house? Doubtful. Visions of Francis Macomber confronting the lion flashed through his mind—Macomber cowering in the back seat of a Range Rover.
The driver clamped on the brakes one last time and the Range Rover shuddered to a stop. The straw hat with the gun ordered him out.
Tree opened the side door and slid out into uncertain darkness. Fish smells carried on sea air assailed his nostrils. Tree Callister, the Sherlock Holmes of Florida detectives, concluded he had been deposited somewhere near the waterfront which, in Key West, could be just about anywhere.
A light snapped on, throwing an amber glow over a long table pushed against a cinderblock wall. A pink box wrapped in a red ribbon lay on the table beside a machete.
Edgar Bunya stepped into the circle of light. Tree’s stomach tightened. Edgar once again was in a beautifully tailored, pinstriped suit, his high-collared, snow-white shirt offset by a bright blue tie. He was not wearing a hat, but he carried a lily. He smiled when he saw Tree, and he said, “My friend.”
He laid the lily on the table beside the machete and the pink box.
“Ganache,” he said.
“The filling in the macaron,” Tree said. “You didn’t know what it was.”
“I have since done some investigating,” Edgar said. “It’s a glaze or sauce made of cream and dark chocolate.”
“You don’t say,” Tree said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice.
Edgar removed his suit jacket. “You make it by warming cream and then pouring it over chopped semi-sweet chocolate.” As he spoke, Edgar hung the jacket over a nearby chair. Chunky gold cufflinks gleamed in the lamplight. “Then you mix the two together until smoothness is achieved. You can also add liqueurs if you have the inclination.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tree said.
“And the best news: I have found macarons here in Key West.”
“That is good news,” Tree agreed.
Edgar picked up the pink box and pulled at the ribbon until it came loose. He then raised the lid to reveal two neatly laid out rows of multi-colored macarons. “Let me see, which one will I try? What about you, Mr. Callister? What is your favorite?”
“I don’t know.”
“The salty caramel, lavender, or pistachio—what do you think?”
Tree didn’t say anything.
Edgar plucked a purple macaron from the box. “I believe I will try the lavender.”
He bit into the crunchy meringue shell, chewed reflectively for a moment and then with a sharp gasp of disgust, he spit out the macaron’s masticated remains and simultaneously backhanded Tree across the face. “Where is it?” he demanded.
“Where is what?” said Tree, dazed, bending forward, holding his throbbing face.
“Where is my ten million dollars?”
“Ten million dollars?”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re saying Elizabeth has stolen ten million dollars? Is that why you are looking for her?”
“The devil woman and the two idiots she works for.”
“Miram Shah and Javor Zoran.”
Edgar threw the rest of the macarons onto the floor. “This really is disappointing. If those are the best macarons Key West has to offer, I couldn’t possibly spend more time here.”
He pushed the lily away and picked up the machete.
The stinging sensation drifted off, but the side of Tree’s face remained numb. He continued to hold it as he said, “I didn’t know anything about the money. I thought Miram Shah and Javor Zoran were in love with Elizabeth. That’s why they hired me to find her.”
“Believe me this has nothing to do with love.” Edgar stalked toward him, holding the machete. “Where is she? Where is the devil woman? Where is my money?”
When Tree didn’t immediately answer, Edgar hit him again, much harder this time. The force of the blow rocked him back into the arms of the two henchmen who prevented him from falling to the floor.
“I am losing patience with you, Mr. Callister.”
Unwanted tears sprang into Tree’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “I don’t know where she is.”
Edgar slapped the flat edge of the machete blade against the tabletop. “Sometimes when I was a boy, we would go into a village, and we would do as many as one hundred short sleeves in an afternoon. Often we would become bored with the short sleeves and we would give out long sleeves. Funny, the things boredom makes you do, Mr. Callister. The ways you are willing to keep yourself entertained—do you cut off a man’s arms or his hands? Which will it be? You would think these actions would deeply affect a person, but they don’t. They become the things you do. So you see, it makes no difference to me whether you keep your hands. But it probably matters to you, so tell me where Elizabeth is, and I will let you keep at least one hand.”
The two men shoved Tree hard against the table. Straw Hat grabbed his left hand. Tree tried to yank it away. Then the two simultaneously had a grip on him, pressing him forward, so that his elbow was on the table and they were forcing his arm out, palm up. His wrist, caught in the lamplight, seemed thin and terribly vulnerable.
“Don’t do this,” Tree said. His voice sounded so high and hoarse, he feared Edgar might get the idea he was scared out of his wits.
“But this is what I do, you see.” Edgar’s voice, icily calm. “This is the weapon I employ to get what I want. What I want is that money and the devil woman herself, Elizabeth Traven. So I am going to give you one more chance to give me the answer I am looking for before I cut your hand off.”
Amazing how little control he had over his body, Tree thought. As much as he fought against the pressure on his arm, he understood how totally powerless he was to do anything about it. “No,” he shouted, as if that would do the least bit of good.
Edgar’s arm rose, the machete in his fist, the blade gleaming in the light. Tree closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to stifle the sobs bursting out of him, terrible sounds he could not control.
And then another voice said, “That’s enough.”
Tree blinked hard and squinted against the uncertain light. He couldn’t see anything.
The voice reiterated, “Let him go, or I start shooting people.”
Edgar very calmly said, “Who will you shoot first?”
“You, with the machete. The guy overdressed for the occasion. I’ll shoot you first.”
“It is called a cutlass,” Edgar said.
“Who cares? Let him go.”
The strong, binding hands slowly released him.
“Move into the light where I can see the three of you,” the voice said. “Do it.”
Edgar and his pals shuffled ahead so that the light struck them full on. Tree noticed that Pork Pie Hat had lost his hat. Edgar’s face in the uncertain light was hard to read, and that made him even more dangerous in Tree’s estimation.
“Tree,” the voice said. “Come over here.”
“Where are you?” Tree said.
“Just come toward me.”
Tree wasn’t quite sure his legs would support him. But as he wobbled forward, they held. He could see a shadow forming itself into a woman holding a gun with both hands. She moved as he came toward her and even in the hard light, Cailie Fisk’s face held its angular beauty. Or was it Susan Troy’s angular beauty? No matter. Whatever she called herself, she seemed to know how to handle a gun, and right now that’s all that counted.
Edgar, still
holding the machete, spoke calmly, as if to test the changed climate. “I think you won’t shoot anyone.”
“Is that what you think?” Cailie said. “That’s fine. I’m a former St. Louis police officer. I’ve shot three people in the line of duty and to be frank, they deserved it a lot less than you morons. So do something stupid, and let’s find out if I’m willing to pull the trigger.”
No one moved except Tree who reached Cailie’s side. Was that a Glock pistol she held so steadily?
“Tree,” she said, “start moving toward the exit.”
The order was promptly followed by a loud crash—the lamp hitting the floor.
The world plunged into darkness.
16
A hollow bang echoed through the darkness. It took Tree a moment to register that the sound came from a gun. A screamed curse was followed by the sound of scrambling feet. Coming toward him or running away? Tree could not tell which.
He called out Cailie’s name. No reply. Maybe he got her name wrong. Maybe Susan no longer responded to Cailie.
Hands propelled him forward. He lunged through the black void he found himself in, feeling curiously claustrophobic, as though entombed in darkness.
Presently, a spot in the distance appeared, the blackness broken by a rectangle of gray. Tree plunged through it—diving into the rabbit hole. He found himself outside suddenly, the sketchy outlines of fishing trawlers, a tangle of masts draped in moonlight. Cailie was right behind him.
“Keep moving,” she said in a breathless voice.
“Who did you shoot?”
“It was dark. I’m not sure I shot anyone. I’ve got a car over by the wharf.”
The car was a gunmetal gray Yari hatchback. He squeezed into the passenger seat while she got behind the wheel. “Here,” she said, handing him her gun. “Hold this.”
He took the Glock while she started up the car. He worried that Edgar and his men would come charging and he would be forced to open fire. That’s all he needed, dealing with the fallout from shooting someone in Key West.
But no one came after them as the Yari jumped forward, headlights capturing the hulls of dry-docked fishing boats, a section of chain link fence, and then open gates and a strip of roadway.
