Just then, the door opened. A big, bald black man was silhouetted by the blinding light from outside. He stepped in and another large black man followed him through the door. The second man let the door close and the two stood there waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the bar. After a moment, the two men, both wearing sports jackets, headed toward the bar.
Definitely not from around here, I thought as Rusty got up from the table and went around behind the bar. Not because of their skin color, but nobody in their right mind wears a jacket when both the temperature and humidity are near triple digits. Unless they’re hiding something under the jacket.
The back door opened and Rufus casually walked in, carrying two plates of food for the guides, sitting by an open window. I watched the two men carefully, some sixth sense alerting me to trouble. They looked close enough alike to be twins, but one was maybe an inch taller and ten pounds lighter than the other. The shorter, heavier guy seemed to be the leader. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
As I watched, I saw him push something across the bar to Rusty, saying something in a tone so low I couldn’t hear his words. From the look on Rusty’s face, whatever the guy said definitely meant trouble. I slowly and quietly stood up from the table and nonchalantly made my way to the far end of the bar.
Jimmy was sitting two stools over from the leader, who was now leaning across the bar. The second guy was standing behind his boss. From the look on Jimmy’s face, I knew there was about to be an altercation. Jimmy was as laid-back as any islander, but always seemed to be able to sense trouble.
Rufus stepped up beside the big black man and looked at him, with a quizzical expression. Kind of like a snake might look at a third mouse after eating the first two and having his appetite sated.
“Di cosmic grouper told I and I just last week dat you be here very soon,” Rufus said to the man leaning on the bar. “But yuh won’t find what yuh seek in dis place.”
The big man glared sideways at Rufus, slowly straightening to his full height and turning toward him. “I ain’t talking to you,” he said through clenched teeth.
Standing at the end of the bar I was shielded from the two men’s sight and slowly reached back and put my right hand on the grip of the Sig under my shirt. I naturally assumed what they were hiding under their jackets were guns. Hopefully not guns and badges.
“You’re not in the big city anymore, friend,” I said, pulling the Sig from the holster and holding it just below the bar top.
The first man stepped back from the bar, his partner retreating a step to give him room. The leader of the two turned so he could see me, Rufus, and Rusty together.
Behind him, chair legs scraped the floor as Dink and the other guide stood up. The feeling in the air was electric and the two guides had picked up on it. Islanders are a tight-knit bunch. If you step on one of our toes we’ll all say, “Ouch.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean, tough guy?” the leader asked me.
I slowly pulled the Sig up and rested it on the bar. I didn’t have to check to see if there was a round chambered. I heard the distinct sound of two hammers being thumbed, cocking pistols, one coming from the guides by the window and the other from under the bar in front of Jimmy. These sounds hadn’t escaped the attention of the two men, either.
The sound of a shotgun chambering a shell got the first man’s full attention. I kept my eyes on his as Rusty slowly drew his twelve-gauge sawed-off deck sweeper from its holster beneath the bar and brought it up across his chest.
“What he means is,” Rusty began in an even tone, “everyone down here has guns. Now, real slowly, using just your left hands, pull those pistols out from under those coats and slide ’em down to the end of bar.”
The first man looked slowly around the bar, noting that there were now at least four guns already drawn and both he and his partner still had their jackets buttoned.
“Do what he says, Erik,” the first man said as he slowly unbuttoned his coat with his left hand and lifted his stainless .45 from its holster.
The two men slid their guns down the bar past where Jimmy sat. Jimmy studied the leader’s face a moment and said, “I know you, man. Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker, late nineties, right? Gerald Tremont Bradley. You blew your knee out in a game against Miami in ninety-nine.”
“GT,” the man corrected Jimmy. Looking back at Rusty, he said, “We don’t want no trouble, mister, just looking for someone that owes me money. He bought lunch here about an hour and a half ago.”
“He was charged with trafficking a couple times, Rusty,” Jimmy continued, ignoring GT Bradley’s comment. “A few years back, man. Up in Pittsburgh.”
Rufus stepped in front of the two much larger men. “Like I and I say, yuh won’t find what yuh seek here. Di stars aren’t aligned for you yet.” Looking back over his shoulder at Rusty and me, Rufus said, “Put away di guns, mon. Dere will be no trouble from dese two men.”
Rusty nodded to me and slowly lowered the shotgun, putting it back into its hiding spot below the bar, and I holstered my Sig.
Rufus turned back to the two men and spoke evenly, but very quietly. “Mistuh GT, yuh must leave now.”
GT Bradley lowered his head and stared at the small old man in front of him. It was obvious he was unused to being told what to do and much more accustomed to others cowering in front of him.
“Old man, if these others didn’t have me outgunned, I’d break you in half for just thinking you could order me around.”
Rufus’s eyes never left the much bigger man’s. He spoke again with the same calm and quiet voice, but more firmly this time. “No suh, Mistuh GT. Di spirits have left you. Your aura is low, flat and dull blue. Impotent. The guiding light burns bright over my head. It say dat you cannot do dis ting.”
GT’s eyes flashed with the ferocity of a jungle cat, and as quick as a lightning bolt, his right hand shot out at Rufus, his speed surprising me. But it never connected. Rufus was suddenly beside the much larger man and in a blur of movement, he spun and caught GT in the middle of his back with an open hand. The impact and GT’s forward momentum sent him crashing into the bar with a solid thunk as his chest impacted the heavy mahogany armrest of the bar.
Before the second man could move a muscle, old Rufus was on him, literally climbing the man’s tree trunk of a body like a monkey, stabbing him from groin to head with short, soundless punches, then vaulting over the man’s shoulder and landing lightly on the ground behind him.
As GT turned around to face the old island man, Rufus pulled a chair from a table and placed it behind the one called Erik, whose eyes were already closed. Rufus slowly lowered the bigger man into the chair, where he slumped forward.
Rufus stepped around the unconscious man in the chair and faced Bradley, calmly, his shoulders and arms hanging loosely. I’d seen this posture before, when Rufus would begin his stretching exercise. “Like I and I done told you,” he barely whispered, but was clearly heard all over the room. “Di spirits say you cannot do dese tings. What you seek is not here. Go, Mistuh GT, while you are still able to do so.”
Bradley was holding a hand to one of his ribs and looked in astonishment at the little Jamaican man, meanness evident on the bigger man’s face.
Bradley snarled, “I’m gonna kill you!” as he started to take a step forward, blinded by fury.
Again, Rufus moved faster than my eyes could follow. In less than an eye blink, he was standing two feet in front of the larger man and placed a fingertip to Bradley’s forehead, freezing the charging rhino of a man dead in his tracks.
Rufus stood there for a few seconds, his fingertip barely making contact with the big ex-linebacker’s forehead. Suddenly, Bradley collapsed to the ground at Rufus’s feet, like a marionette with its strings cut.
Rufus smiled at Rusty. His voice taking on the more singsong tone of his heritage, he said, “See, mon. No trubba heah. Everting is irie.”
Turning to an e
mpty table, Rufus scooped up two plates and two glasses and headed out the back door toward his kitchen.
I shook my head, trying to make sense of what I’d just witnessed. “What the hell just happened?”
“Dude!” Jimmy exclaimed with an astonished expression. “That was intense!”
“I’m not sure I can even comprehend what I think my eyes just told me,” Rusty agreed, coming quickly around the bar.
Both GT and Erik were out cold, but there wasn’t a mark on either man. I checked for a pulse and found both strong and steady. They just seemed to be sleeping. I glanced toward the door that Rufus had disappeared through, then Rusty and I dragged GT, lifting him into a chair next to the other man. I checked their pockets and did a quick pat down, finding a small .38-caliber Smith and Wesson in an ankle holster on Erik’s left leg and handed it to Jimmy.
Suddenly, both men simply woke up and lifted their big bald heads, looking around very confused. Finally, GT’s eyes settled on me. “What happened?”
“My guess is you got your stars realigned a little,” I replied, still not fully understanding what I’d witnessed. “What do you want here?”
GT blinked, confusion still showing on his face. “A guy was here about an hour ago. Bought something with a credit card. He owes me a lot of money and I been following him all the way from Pittsburgh.”
“This is my bar,” Rusty said, a bit of anger rising in his voice. “A lot of people eat and drink here.”
“Paid with a credit card. Name’s Michal Grabowski.”
“Figures,” Rusty said and turned toward the bar. “Another damned smug druggler.”
“You see what I mean?” I said to my old friend. “This isn’t what I came down here for. And it’s getting worse.”
“Yeah,” Rusty said and then turned back to Bradley. “Your friend was here a while ago, ordered lunch. Short guy, long, greasy hair, rotten teeth, and a really ugly mug? He tried to sell drugs to one of my friends. Now the two of you can do the same as he did. Get your asses outta my bar and don’t even think of coming back.”
Both men still looked confused as they slowly stood up. “What about our guns?” Bradley asked.
“What guns?” Rusty snarled. “Come back again and I’ll blow your heads off with them.”
Michal Grabowski hurried along Duval Street in the sweltering late-afternoon heat. Today, he sported a new pair of Kino sandals and his feet were tinged pink from the previous day’s hot sun. The girl last night had given him a lot of advice about how to dress under the tropical heat, but he was determined to at least get some sun on his legs and feet before taking her advice. She was spot-on about the sandals, though. The leather didn’t seem to transfer the heat as bad as the rubber flip-flops he’d bought his first day here.
Michal had spent the prior afternoon and most of the evening at Irish Kevin’s, talking with the bartender. She’d said her name was Coral and she was from Boston, but had now been living in Key West for three years. Michal had lost all track of time and purpose, enchanted by the girl’s ready smile and sharp wit.
Forgetting his mission to unload the coke he’d stolen, he’d nursed a brace of beers while watching the girl work, occasionally talking with her about Key West and how to dress so as not to be marked as a tourist. Then she’d asked if he liked hockey. She was a huge Bruins fan.
Being a Pittsburgh native, Michal was a Penguins fan. In fact, hockey was his favorite sport, being one of the few physical team sports where size took a backseat to agility and speed on the ice. It was obvious that she had more than a bartender’s passing knowledge of the sport.
Watching Coral work the tourists and locals alike was similar to watching a play, he’d decided. She was friendly, smiling and even a little flirtatious with the guys that visited her bar. Dressed in cutoff denim shorts and a short Irish Kevin’s T-shirt, she moved around behind the bar like a dancer. Her tip jar quickly filled.
During a lull, he’d asked about her hair. What he’d at first perceived as a short, tangled mess were actually dreadlocks, like they wore in Jamaica.
“Baby dreads,” Coral had explained with a bright smile, shaking her head, causing the braids to bounce around beneath her Bruins cap. Leaning close on the cooler, she smiled, fiddled with one of her blond locks and added, “Like in the Kenny Chesney song. I like everything to be in a no fuss, no muss kind of way.”
While Michal couldn’t be certain, he thought she was paying him slightly more attention than the other men at the bar. When she finished her shift at seven, he mustered his courage up to ask her out.
New place, new life, new person, he’d thought at the time. Overcoming his awkward shyness, he’d asked her to have dinner with him.
Coral had touched his hand then and smiled very warmly. “I never go out with someone I just met.” Then, with a teasing grin, she asked, “Will you be back here tomorrow?”
He’d promised he would and stood at the door watching as she’d climbed into the front seat of a big black taxi, driven by a silver-haired black man.
All morning, he’d been anticipating returning. She’d finished her shift before sunset last night and disappeared in the taxi, so he was pretty sure she didn’t live nearby. If she worked a later shift today, he’d been planning to just nurse a couple of beers until then.
Feeling the cold blast of air as he opened the door, Michal stepped inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside Irish Kevin’s.
Coral was behind the bar, her back to him, as she stocked a cooler with beer bottles at the far end. She was wearing the now familiar Boston Bruins ball cap, loosely covering her baby dreads.
Michal walked around to the end of the bar, stealing a glance at Coral’s firm ass and legs as he passed the bar’s length and took the stool in the corner. She was wearing a bright neon-green T-shirt this time. Again it was cut off and exposed a couple of inches of fit, tanned belly. Below that, she wore high-waisted spandex shorts, with no sign of a panty line. The bright red shorts were very revealing, barely covering her ass cheeks, and so tight that there was very little left to a man’s imagination. But imagine he did.
When Michal sat down at the bar, Coral looked up, surprised. Bending over the cooler as she was, her T-shirt hung loosely from her shoulders, the V-neck offering a substantial view of the cleavage between her small, firm breasts. On the front of the shirt was a little bearded man, wearing a green top hat. Below that, in big dark green letters, it proclaimed, “I’m A Fucking Leprechaun.” But the U was replaced with a shamrock, covering one pert nipple.
Coral smiled brightly. “I’m glad you came back, Michal. Wasn’t sure if you would after I saw that the cruise ship that was at the docks yesterday had left some time last night.”
“Not on a cruise,” he said with a grin. “I’m here for a while. Maybe permanently if everyone’s as friendly as you, Coral.”
She spun around and pulled a frosted mug from the cooler below the long row of beer taps, tilting it under the Iron City Beer one. She filled it with a nice foamy head, which she deftly swiped with the blade of a long knife, and placed it on a coaster in front of him.
“I’m off in two hours, if that invitation to dinner is still on,” Coral said, a coy smile lighting her face as she twirled one of her dreads.
Michal couldn’t believe his luck. Back home, women mostly ignored him, which he sometimes attributed to his invisibility. But here, it was different. His plain, normal features were a novelty.
He grinned from ear to ear. “Absolutely!” Emboldened by her forwardness, he added, “But you’ll have to pick where we go. I only got into town three nights ago.”
“Edith raw?” Coral said, her smile becoming brighter still. At first, Michal misunderstood her words and blushed. She winked and enunciated more clearly, “Edith, like Archie’s wife in All in the Family? The Half Shell Raw Bar is a couple blocks away, over on Key West Bight. Edith raw is kinda their slogan.”
“Raw bar?”
“Oysters are gr
eat for the libido,” she said, twirling her dreads once more, amused at his misunderstanding, though she’d done it intentionally.
She turned away to wait on other customers, giving Michal a better view of her perfect little body as she stretched high on bare feet for a wine glass from the overhead rack. She disappeared down the bar, Michal grinning like the Cheshire cat.
Earlier in the day, he’d been able to sell quite a few of the small packets and had several hundred bucks in his pocket. More importantly, the guy he’d sold them to was a local he’d met the night before, and he’d said he knew a guy that might be able to buy quantity. He explained that things were kinda dry at the moment. Michal had planned to sell it off a little at a time, but the longer he had it, the more chance there was of selling to the wrong person and being caught by the law.
Looking out the front window, Michal thought this was something he’d have to consider. He could probably unload all he had left to one person, but then he’d only make a tenth of the money. Selling ounces could go faster, he thought while watching the throngs of people walk by on the sidewalk. Feed the guy an ounce at a time. He’d try to find the guy again tomorrow.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Coral asked, surprising him as he nursed his beer.
“Oh, I was just thinking how nice it must be to live here. I’m considering making it permanent.”
“You said last night you worked in a steel mill. I doubt you’ll find that kind of work here. Can you weld?”
What’s she know from welding? he wondered. “Yeah, I’m a welder. Arc, mig, tig, steel, aluminum, just about anything.”
“Cool,” she said, leaning over and opening the cooler in front of him again, giving him another look down the neck of her loose T-shirt. Coral slid the cover back in place and made a note on a pad next to it. “I do a little welding on the side. At a bike shop.”
“You’re a welder?”
Fallen Honor: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 7) Page 5
