by Jeff Lindsay
Life goes on. And a big part of my life was Nancy. Or it had been. Now I wasn’t sure, and I needed to be. Nicky would come to terms with his dead body, one way or another, without me.
I realized how sour that seemed. I knew I should feel some concern, try to talk to Nicky and get him straightened away, feeling better about what had happened. But I was so used to having him try to cheer me up, it didn’t seem right the other way around. I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, after being cooped up with him on the sailboat, I was ready for a vacation from manic energy, beer, handguns, and cries of, “EE-hah!”
I went into my house and turned on the huge, ancient, window-mounted air conditioner. The roar of it was like being on the flight line when a wing of B-25s takes off, but after a few minutes the room was cooler and I could turn the thing down to a level that didn’t threaten to rupture ear drums on Duval Street.
When I left town all I could think of was trying to call Nancy. All that had changed. I had been out of town, in the clean air and salty water, long enough for my head to clear and for my brain to organize all my thoughts. I waited for all the thoughts to look organized—it didn’t happen. All I could think about was trying to call Nancy.
So I called Nancy. There was no answer at her place, and her answering machine wasn’t turned on. That wasn’t like her.
Now I was worried. Key West was no longer the sleepy fishing village it had been when I was a kid. Bad things happened here. It could have happened to her. She could be lying on her floor, helpless, slowly dying, wondering why I didn’t come find her.
I had to do something, anything. Either that or turn into a permanent couch cover.
I went outside and looked at my car, a two-year-old Ford Explorer. I hadn’t started it since April. No, wait; I had gone to that wedding in Marathon—late June?
It wasn’t that long ago. The thing might even start. I climbed in and turned the key. The motor whined at me, complained of being tired, then finally kicked over, coughed, and started.
I idled it for a few minutes, letting the engine get used to the idea of running again. Pretty soon it sounded smoother and I put it in gear.
I drove over to Nancy’s apartment. Her car was not in its parking space. A plastic Winn-Dixie bag had blown into her space. A litter of leaves and gum wrappers sat on top of the bag. I walked around to the front. There was a small clutter of mail sticking out of her mailbox.
I drove out to the hospital on Stock Island. Nancy’s car was in the parking lot. I parked a few rows away, closer to the exit, and turned off the engine. I waited.
I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for, more than just seeing Nancy. She was inside, sooner or later she would come out. And then—
What? Force her to reason with me? Keep her from getting into her car until she admitted she still loved me? Show her my winning smile and say, “Let’s start all over”?
Confrontation didn’t seem like any kind of answer. She could either dodge it or win it too quickly. I didn’t want that.
So what did I want? I wanted her to love me, because I loved her. I couldn’t make that happen. And by confronting her I might spoil the last chance of preserving it if she did still love me.
I wanted to see her—but only if she wanted to see me. Again, if she didn’t want to, she could just get in her car and go, and probably that would kill the last chance, too. If there was one.
I knew all that. I had known it for weeks. It was why I hadn’t done this before. So why was I sitting in the hospital parking lot in the hot sun, watching Nancy’s car? Because—I had tried to call her. And there were too many times when she wasn’t home and wasn’t at work.
Where was she?
There was one very good, very simple and logical, answer. I just didn’t like it. So I sat in the car. I found a peppermint and a stick of gum in the glove compartment. I ate the peppermint. It had been in the car so long that most of it clung to the wrapper, a soft and warm mush of sweetness. The flavor was still okay.
I watched people going in and out of the hospital. None of them noticed me. Most people wouldn’t notice a UFO in a hospital parking lot. They’re too wrapped up, thinking about what might happen to their precious, irreplaceable hides, or how they’re going to get through the rest of their lives without somebody who’s slipping away inside, or how they will ever pay for it all.
I’ve always thought that hospitals must know this, know that people won’t notice anything at all beyond the clutter of tubes and shininess, the gurgle of life support machines. It’s a diving board into death, either your own or someone you love, and no one can see beyond that. The hospitals know that. That explains the decor in the waiting rooms.
It was almost dark when Nancy finally came out to her car. A guy came out with her. He was tall and slender and very dark-skinned, almost blue-black. He wore a green hospital jacket with a pocket protector and a stethoscope around his neck. He walked Nancy to her car; a good idea, since even Key West has joined the 21st century. We have crack, and we have rapes, robberies, assaults, smash-and-grabs. I was glad Nancy was being safe and having someone walk her out.
The two of them reached her car, stopped for a minute to say something I couldn’t hear, and then Nancy opened her car door. She turned back and the guy gave her a peck on the cheek. She reached behind his head and pulled his face down to hers. They stayed like that for a long moment. Then the guy took a half step back and stroked her face before he turned and walked back into the hospital.
Nancy watched him go for a minute. He turned once and waved. She smiled at him and climbed into her car.
She drove across Stock Island and I followed her. On the far side of the island from the hospital there is a series of trailer parks. Nancy drove into one of them, not the worst. She parked in front of one of the trailers, took a key from her purse and went inside.
I guess I had known it for a while. I had not admitted it, but the knowledge had been there at the edge of my thoughts, lurking the way something evil lurks under a kid’s bed. Always there, hugging the dark, the thought had just been hiding, waiting to slide out and eat me when the lights were finally all out.
Nancy had somebody else. Of course I had known that. Finding love is easy in Key West. Keeping it may be impossible, but it is always there to be found.
Nancy had found somebody else.
Somebody else. The funny thing was, I felt a sense of relief. Sure, I was hurt, mad, hollow-feeling. But I was relieved, too. Now I knew. Now I was not in doubt, wondering where the relationship was going, wondering if it was even alive anymore.
It was dead. No room for doubt. I was out, the guy in the intern’s coat was in. Ballgame over, no extra innings. Case closed. No appeal.
Somebody else.
I got home and found a bottle of peppermint schnapps somebody had left in my kitchen after a party. I poured a glass. I drank it. It was the traditional thing to do. It tasted awful. I could see why somebody had left it.
It was all I could do to drink the whole bottle.
Chapter Seven
The sun came up in the wrong place. It was supposed to be on the other wall and not so far up. There was something wrong with my neck, too. I wasn’t sure, but I thought maybe it shouldn’t be at that angle. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much.
A weird-looking object squatted beside me. It seemed to be an empty bottle. I moved my head to look. My stomach roared. I had to get on my feet fast. That wasn’t easy. First I had to find them.
I was lying on the floor beside the bed. Most of me anyway. My feet were up, tangled in the sheets. I yanked them free and made it to the bathroom just in time, trailing a stream of bed linen behind me.
Half an hour of shower, hot as I could stand it, helped a little. So did coffee, toast, aspirin.
When I was done I took a little walk to clear my head. It didn’t seem to work, but at least I wasn’t nauseated anymore. I was moving in slow motion. Everything seemed to be hard-edged and far away. I had to spend a lot o
f time on complicated things like opening the door.
At the corner I bought a newspaper, the Key West Citizen, and flipped it open.
How nice, I thought. That was a very good picture of Nicky. I didn’t know he owned a tie. It must be from his official immigration file.
I looked at the picture for a long time before my brain got the next message down the wires. Oh. Right. Why is Nicky’s picture on the front page?
I moved my eyes. They seemed to crackle when they turned. It hurt, but I focused them, tried to read the headline. Local Businessman Chains Self To Conch Train, it said. Of course. That would explain it. Sure. If Nicky chained himself to the Conch Train they would almost have to put his picture in the paper.
Another slow message worked through my brain: This is not normal—even for Nicky. I blinked. It felt good, so I held my eyes closed for a minute. I let the breeze move over my face. That felt good, too. This was a complicated problem, but maybe if I just stood with my eyes closed for a minute I could get it.
I opened my eyes and looked down at the newspaper. It was tough work, but I read the first few lines of the story.
Yup, that explained it. He couldn’t come tell me about it.
Nicky was in jail.
• • •
A crowd of almost five people stood outside the jail. A few held signs saying, “FREE NICKY CAMERON,” and “HAITIANS ARE HUMANS.”
“Disturbing the peace,” the on-duty sergeant told me, “Creating a nuisance, obstructing a public vehicle, and littering.”
“Littering? Nicky?”
The sergeant shrugged. “He had a couple of signs about Haitian refugees with him. The wind blew ’em off.”
I nodded. “Can I see him?”
He looked me over. The only decent thing I was wearing was my tan. And that was still a little green underneath. “You a lawyer?”
“A friend.”
He glanced through a file folder with Nicky’s name on it. “Your name Knight?”
“Mate,” Nicky said as they led him in to the visiting room. “What kept you?”
“Bad timing, Nicky.”
He peered at me a little more carefully. “Christ on a bun, look at you. Hung fucking over, eh?”
“Just a little.”
“A little, he says. Green as a gator, you are. You got completely pissed. Had yourself quite a party, eh?”
“Nothing like yours, Nicky.”
He cackled. “Too right. You missed a doozy, Billy.”
“Why did you put my name down as counsel, Nicky?”
He looked surprised. “So you’d get involved, Billy. Think I want you as my lawyer?”
I shook my head. It still hurt. Maybe it was the lingering hangover, but he wasn’t making sense. At least, I hoped he wasn’t. “The sergeant says they’ll let you out. You just have to pay a fine.”
“I don’t want out, mate. Not until I get justice.”
“That could take some time.”
“As may be.” He set his shoulders and tried to look tough and stubborn. “The fact is I made the front page and called attention to a very bad situation. While I stay here I’m making a statement they can’t ignore. Reckon I can hold out a little longer, long as I’m doing some good.”
“They’re going to put you out in a couple of weeks anyway, Nicky.”
“I can wait.”
I stood up and waved at the guard. “I already paid.”
He looked stubborn. “I won’t go.”
“As your counsel, it is my duty to advise you that the large officer standing behind you is going to commit an act of police brutality on you if you don’t get out of his jail. And there are no members of the media present.”
That seemed to be the clincher. Nicky wasn’t afraid of much—except maybe a virus that would kill hops—but he wanted attention for his Cause. If there wasn’t any to be had, why take the lumps?
The paperwork took a few more minutes. I had never realized how hard it is to bust somebody out of jail if they don’t really want to go. But I finally bullied him into signing the last of the forms and got him out the front door.
When we stepped outside there was a small cheer from the clot of protesters, and Nicky gave them a little speech. He told them the fight wasn’t over and letting him out of jail couldn’t break his spirit. Then he said there would be a big rally for Haitian Awareness tomorrow night and they should spread the word.
The sound of four people clapping was thunderous, but I managed to get him safely through the crush and home.
• • •
But as I drove Nicky home it hit me that he had a master plan for getting justice, and I was a big part of it. So when he stopped talking to a take a breath, I asked him. “What is it you think I can do?”
He beamed at me. “Fix it, Billy. It’s something you’re good at. You’ll get this whole thing straightened out.”
“What whole thing?”
He just kept smiling. “The Haitian thing, Billy. The Haitian problem. This body I found is only the tip of the iceberg. I’ve checked into it. The coppers aren’t interested because this is an ordinary event. Happens all the time.” He whacked my arm.
“Ow,” I said.
“Does that strike you as a wanky little bit bizarre, mate? There’s so many of these bodies they think of it as normal? I mean, if the captain got hit on the head by a frog turd he’d investigate, but if seven tons of reptile shit fell from the sky he’d call it weather? Eh? That make sense to you?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s the way cops work. You can put your finger in a dike. You can’t put your finger in the ocean.”
He waved his finger at me. “Wrongo, Billy. Hundredth monkey. We can make a difference. Every one of us. Mass murder happens because nobody can believe it’s happening. Nobody thinks they can stop it. And so Hitler invades Poland—”
“Nicky, hold on. This isn’t mass murder—”
“Isn’t it?”
“—this is just one Haitian refugee who didn’t make it. I’m sorry, but it does happen all the time. They sail in tiny, leaky boats, so crowded they can’t float—”
“With no money, Billy? With nothing in their pockets except a picture of Saint Patrick?”
I blinked and turned to look at him. He was still smiling, but it looked a little dangerous now. A horn snarled and I turned back in time to avoid broadsiding a van filled with bright pink Canadians. “What the hell are you talking about, Nicky?”
“I saw the file, Billy. The man’s pockets were empty. A refugee has some cash, something of value. He has an address of friends or relatives tucked away. Christ on a bun, mate, he has a wallet on him any road. This man didn’t.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Aw spit, Billy. You know it does.”
“It might have fallen out. It might have been in a backpack. His wife might have been holding it. There are a hundred explanations—”
“Or one very simple one. Somebody went through his pockets before they chucked him over into the drink.”
“And anyway this isn’t my problem. I’m not James Bond, Nicky. I take people fishing.”
Nicky just shook his head. “You can’t fight it, Billy. You’re already in this. You may not know it yet, but you’re hooked.” And he settled back with a smug look on his face.
I got a very ugly suspicion. “Nicky,” I said.
“Yeah, mate?”
“Why did you get yourself arrested?”
He tried to look surprised. “To wake you up, Billy. To get your attention. To get you involved.”
I felt like I was in one of those old cartoons. I was Elmer Fudd with steam coming out of my ears while Bugs Bunny calmly chewed one of my prize carrots in my face. “You went to jail just to get me involved?”
Nicky smirked. “And here you are. The hook is set. You’ll fight it, but it’s too late. You’re in.”
I came as close to hitting Nicky as I’d ever been since I’d met him. But nothin
g I could think of to say made a dent in his cast-iron smug certainty that I was going to get involved and fix everything.
I got him home without strangling him, but that may be because the hangover had slowed me down. I told Nicky there was a lot in what he said and I would think about it. Then I made him promise not to do anything more about making people aware of the problem without telling me first. That cheered him up. It meant I was involved. He agreed, and was happily opening a couple of beers when I closed his front door and hopped the short coral wall to my own yard.
I spent most of that day circling around my living room until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rode my bicycle over to the marina, dodging around Art’s dockmaster shack. I didn’t want to listen to a list of my shortcomings right now.
Nobody had stolen my boat. Nobody had cleaned the moss off the bottom, either. I sat and looked at it for a while. I could almost see the barnacles grow.
This was supposed to be what I wanted. This was why I had come here. To take a small boat out onto the flats and catch fish every day. Lately every day had turned into every now and then, but the desire to do it was still there. Wasn’t it?
I didn’t know. There was a hollow place where hope and desire had been carved out of me. Maybe it would grow back. Maybe it was dead, burned away by the August heat.
I wondered if Nancy was happy.
Chapter Eight
It was about an hour from sunset when I got back to my house. Nicky waited for me in my kitchen. “Mate,” he said pleasantly. “Have a cold one.” He generously handed me one of my own beers.
“Thanks,”
“So,” he said casually. “What’re your plans for the evening, mate?”
“I’m off duty tonight. I don’t feel up to saving the world.”
Nicky gave me a look of complete and permanent innocence. It was one of his best. “What’s that, eh? Did I say fetch the Batmobile? Put on the cape? Didn’t I say have a beer? Your name’s Billy, not Silly.”
He said that last like it solved everything, with the complete satisfaction of an Australian who has ended an argument with a rhyme. I don’t know why they feel that way about putting two rhyming words together, but they do. Rhymes had a magical power for Nicky and his countrymen. Even if it doesn’t mean anything, an Australian hit with a rhyme will back off, mutter, “Right, sorry,” and call for another round, on him. Maybe it comes from living in a place where all the towns have names like “Woolamaroo,” “Kalgoorlie,” and “Wollongong.” In a landscape littered with impossible sounds, putting two of them together is so unlikely it must call for an automatic celebration.
