by Winton, Tom
“Is that what brought you down this way ... ” he asked as he down shifted the gears for a red light, “a busted up marriage?”
“Yeah,” I said, and as I continued I heard each of my words echo in the emptiness inside me, “seventeen years with the same woman. Then, one day, I found out that after all that time I couldn’t trust her anymore. Now there isn’t much of anything I trust.”
Buster said nothing as he hung a right onto North Roosevelt, and I just watched the small waves of Key West Harbor as they danced in the glowing light of the business district. A short distance later Buster turned a fast, hard left across the boulevard into the parking lot of Hugs & Jugs, just beating a barrage of oncoming headlights. The driver of the closest car leaned on his horn angrily as he passed by. It was a rushed, impulsive decision that I wouldn’t have expected Buster to make; way out of character for a man who normally took things slow and easy.
As soon as we entered the crowded parking lot we slowly motored around the lighted image of a fifteen-foot female dancer. A tall, pink neon Amazon she was; gyrating enticingly atop a high, metal post. With light dancing on the hood of Buster’s pickup, he drove around it and parked right next to the wild lady, facing the boulevard. Hearing the sign buzzing and the sound of insects popping on hot tubular glass, I asked Buster as we climbed out, “We want to lock it up here, don’t we?”
“You bet we do!” was his answer.
Inside the joint there was all kinds of hooting and hollering going on. Every type of psyched-up, boozed-up, horned-up male you can think of was in there. Sailors, drifters, business types, rednecks, tourists, pirates, villains and more were crowded around the sprawling bar and sitting at tables. Half of them were shouting words of encouragement to a dancer as she strutted her stuff on stage-like platform in back. All was dark except for some strobe lights that pulsated across the tall, scantly-covered blonde. I could see she had a tough edge to her face, but her body was shapely and she knew how to flaunt it. As she shimmied, bounced and jounced her goods to the Stones’ hit Start Me Up, Buster and I walked along the front of the place to an empty table by a window. Perfect. It looked right out into the parking lot.
As soon as we sat down, I lit a cigarette from a red-globed candle on the table and a waitress appeared. She seemed nervous as hell and didn’t look a day over sixteen. Sam bam she took our order and disappeared as quickly as she had arrived. I felt bad for the kid. With the expression on her face and the bashful look in her eyes, you didn’t have to be a genius to see that she did not want to be there for another minute. When she returned with two beers Buster and I both gave her a nice tip. We could have waited until we were about to leave but wanted to cheer her up a bit. She did manage a small smile but then went right back to her drudgery.
Buster and I each took a swallow of cold beer then glanced at the dancer. She had slowed the pace for a moment as two men took turns inserting bills in the string of her G. That was more than fine with her. But then another guy approached her. He looked like trouble. Resembling a long-haired James Dean but with a tattoo banded around his biceps, he wasn’t all smiles like the first two who’d made donations to the dancer’s cause. No, this guy had a pouty look about him, a cocky pouty look. And when he inserted his money, he didn’t just put it beneath the string that encircled her waist. He just had to put the bill inside the patch of red silky material in front of the G-string. The smile the blonde had been wearing quickly left her face, yet it looked as if she was going to let the nervy gesture go. But then Mister Dean let his fingers linger in there far longer than he should have. That’s when she lost it.
Taking one step back with her right foot the long-legged woman quickly snapped it forward, right smack into Mr. Dean’s face. It was nasty. His head snapped back and immediately blood oozed out of both nostrils. She swung her leg so hard that even after making contact her high-heeled foot lifted way up past her head.
The rowdy mob whistled and cheered, but the guy who got kicked didn’t think it was the least bit entertaining. He wiped his nose with his hand, looked at it, then leaped right up onto the stage. Retreating now, the dancer took two quick steps backward. But that didn’t matter. She was safe. For as quickly as the bad actor had jumped up, two burly bouncers emerged from the crowd. And they didn’t fool around. Each of them grabbed one of the guy’s ankles and they both yanked at the same time. The bad actor went straight down – face-first onto the stage. There was even more blood now. It splattered everywhere. But that didn’t faze the two housemen in the least. Nonchalantly, as if this kind of thing happened every fifteen minutes, they dragged the squirming, kicking, screaming man all the way to the front door. Once there they calmly opened it up, deposited him onto Roosevelt Boulevard, and returned to their posts inside. Not a word had been spoken between them. It was business as usual.
“Whoosh, that was bad,” I said to Buster. “Did you see her kick?”
“Sure did. If his head was a football it would have gone fifty yards.”
“This is one great place.” I said cynically.
“Yeah, I hear ya. I’ve only been in here two or three times before ... and only because I happened to be rip-roarin’ drunk.”
“I can see why,” I said as I checked out some of the shadier characters sitting and standing in the nearly dark establishment. “They’ve got a lovely clientele.”
Buster scoped out the crowd also but didn’t see any of Topper’s crowd. After that, his head snapped toward that window every time another car pulled into the parking lot. He must have looked out there fifteen times in as many minutes. He was hoping to spot a car with one dim taillight.
“Buster,” I finally said, “you know this is a long shot.”
“Yeah, I know. But that matchbook and a dim right-side taillight are all we’ve got to go on right now.”
A minute or so later, two more men entered the bar. It was Cap Forest and Dalton Judge. Cap’s stern face appeared a little looser than usual so I figured the two of them had been making the rounds. I stood up and flagged them over to the table just as a new dancer hopped onto the stage. A light-skinned black girl, with white features, she instantly went into her routine when the DJ blasted Madonna’s Material Girl so loud it sounded like a boom box in a closet.
“Hey Boss! Dalton! Over here!” I said, standing up and waving them over.
“How you boys doin’?” Cap mumbled without removing the Doral cigarette from his lips. Then, leaning over to shake Buster’s hand, he said, “Long time no see.”
“I’ve been okay. How ’bout yourself?”
“Gettin’ by,” Cap said as he and Dalton plopped down on chairs.
“I’ve been meanin’ to get up to the shop,” Buster said, “but ain’t got around to it. Need to stock up on some tackle and get you to replace some drag washers in my trollin’ reels.”
“I’ll get my Yankee here to replace ’em,” Forest said, actually allowing himself a smile when he looked my way. There was a hint of fondness in the good-natured remark, and I appreciated that, but I could also tell he’d already had more than a few swigs from that flask he always carried.
“Oh yeah,” Forest then said, pushing a rogue strand of hair out of his eyes, “this here’s Dalton Judge, Buster. And Dalton, this is Buster Bell.”
“Good to meet ya,” Dalton said.
After the two men shook hands and exchanged a few words, Cap tapped a passing waitress on the elbow and ordered two Johnnie Walker Red’s with beer chasers. Then he said to Buster, “Sonny told me you had a little trouble down there on Wrecker’s Key last night.”
“Yeah, we had trouble alright,” he said, twisting his beer bottle in little quarter turns on the table, looking at Dalton Judge now.
“You don’t have to worry about Dalton,” Cap said immediately. “He’s good people.”
“Well, like Sonny probably told ya, we were lucky. Got there `bout five minutes after the fire was set. A cloud opened up and all but doused it by the time we got there.”
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“Any idea who’d want to do somethin’ like that?” Cap asked.
“Yeah, I got an idea.”
“Who?”
“You ever heard of some rich-assed developer name of Topper?”
“Yeah,” said Cap Forest, “I sure have – Lionel Topper. Matter of fact that sumbitch just happened to be in here last night. Let me think what time he ... ”
“It was right kinda late, right about eleven,” Dalton Judge interrupted. “He came in with three others just like him – business types.”
“That’s right,” Cap said, lifting his dark eyebrows, “and about ten minutes later who walks in and sits with them but Brock Blackburn. You know him?”
“No. But I’ve heard stories about him.”
“Well, I guarantee ya everything you’ve heard about him is true, probably worse. Anyway, he walks over to Topper’s table and Topper gets all nervous looking. He’s lookin’ all around as if he don’t want to be seen with Blackburn. He got out of his chair real quick after that and the two of them went outside.”
“Yeah,” Dalton said. “Then a few minutes later Topper came back in alone. He sat back down with his buddies and, real secretive like, told them something. They all were leaning over their table, real close together like they were in a football huddle, and just as they straightened back up in their chairs, Brock Blackburn came back in.” Dalton stopped there for a second and jerked his thumb toward the club’s farthest wall before adding, “He went straight to that itty bitty auxiliary bar way over there, hammered down a few quickies, and then left.”
“Yeah,” Cap said, “and we weren’t far behind him. That’s how I know Dalton was right about Topper getting’ here at around eleven. We walked outta here right after Blackburn did, and I got home at ten after midnight. I know ’cause Maggie gave me holy hell when I got there.”
“What’s this Blackburn character look like?” Buster asked then. “And where’s he live?”
“`He lives in a trailer ... on Stock Island somewhere,” Cap said, looking more than a little tipsy by then. “He’s ’bout your size, Buster, maybe a bit taller even, with black hair almost down to his ass. Wears it all combed back, like a wild man. Muscular sumbitch too! I used to see him around when I was doin’ time in Raiford.”
Cap took another long swig of beer; glanced inside the bottle for god knows what, and raised his eyes back up at Buster’s. “You’ll know Blackburn if you see him. He’s got a gold ring on one ear and four tattooed teardrops falling from his left eye. Do ya know what them teardrops mean, Buster?”
“No.”
“I think I know,” I said, trying to fight off the look of dread that was forcing itself on my face. “Go ahead, tell us.”
“One tear means the person wearin’ it has killed at least one person.”
God knows what four signifies! I thought, my knees now bouncing for the second time that night.
“Blackburn got the tats in Raiford,” Cap slurred now. “We had an ink slinger they called `Hard Time’ – a black guy, a lifer who was locked up for a triple murder. He made this tattooing machine from a tiny Walkman motor and bits of guitar strings. Anyway, the general consensus of the population up there was that Blackburn didn’t like his art work. Because the day after Hard Time did Blackburn’s teardrops, the screws found him in a pile of dirty laundry – deader ’n shit. His neck was snapped and he had 18 stab wounds in his chest, back, and face. I saw him when they drug his body from that laundry pile, nothin’ but butchered black meat marinated in blood. And the words Payback’s a bitch’ were tattooed across his forehead.”
Cap’s head was getting heavy by now. It was plain to see he was fighting to support it. “Hard Time only gave Blackburn three tears that night. Two days later, ’e had a fourth one. And it wasn’t blue like the others; it was black. Even the guards didn’t ask no questions.”
“This guy sounds like a regular prince,” I said, silently questioning my involvement in this mess more than ever. Am I going to get myself killed over this? Maybe I better bow the hell out of this mess, before it’s too late.
“You know what he drives?” Buster asked.
“A beat-up Chevy pickup – burgundy,” Dalton said, turning his head toward the window and nodding at it. “We watched him pull out of the lot last night.”
“Alright, guys. Thanks,” Buster said. “You ready to go, Sonny?”
As we got up to leave, Cap gave us one more bit of information. Slurring his words by then he said, “Oh yeah, I almost forgot to tell ya something. When I was up in Raiford, Blackburn was in that time for arson. Word was he’s got a thing for fire. Sumbitch likes to play with matches.”
Chapter 14
Neither Buster nor I said much during the drive back to Wrecker’s Key. We were both too deep in our thoughts. Sitting there with the warm, night air rumbling through my open window, I knew that he was working out a plan of action. As for myself, I was ashamed of what I was thinking. I wanted out. Over and over I tried to find just the right words to tell Buster. No matter which words came to mind or how I arranged them, none if it seemed right. Finally, as if Buster was in this mess by himself now, I broke the silence saying, “What are you going to do about this guy, Buster?”
He remained silent for another few moments. He didn’t even look at me, but I watched his intent face. In the dim white glow of the dashboard I could see lines and creases that normally weren’t in his face. Finally, he turned to me and said, “I don’t know yet.”
“Maybe we better bring the cops in on this one.”
Shaking his head, his voice laced with both disappointment in me and anger at all the rest, he said, “That’s not how we do things down here.” Then he turned back to the road and silently drove on.
For the first time since I arrived on Wreckers, I felt alienated. I was wiggling my way out of tight spot and hated myself for it. I wanted to tell Buster that I’d be with him all the way, but I didn’t. Instead I lit a cigarette, exhaled the smoke out the open window, and watched it dissipate in the night – along with Buster’s earlier perception of me.
The next morning I rose to the clock radio like I always did. But lying in bed with my eyes open, I didn’t even see the ceiling above me. I was too deep in thought. And those first thoughts were the exact same as the previous night’s last – how I had disappointed Buster. It was the first morning since coming to Florida that I didn’t hop right out of bed. I couldn’t. My cowardice was eating at me too ferociously, and I again felt that nagging hollowness inside. This was the second time that I considered packing it in and leaving Wreckers Key.
Where will I go? I’ve got even less money behind me than when I first came down here. Maybe I should head up to Atlanta ... look for a real job again. No! I don’t think so.
I was falling in love with my new home and the alternative lifestyle I was living. Up until the night before, I’d felt like I belonged. The tropical keys were breathtaking. The warm, gentle climate and slow pace were helping me get reacquainted with my soul. I had calmed down considerably, driving slower and biting my fingernails less. Every time I looked out at the sparkling, turquoise ocean, I felt new hope and promise. I just couldn’t bring myself to leave.
I wanted to go after that Blackburn character with Buster, but this was a serious situation – possibly deadly serious. What would a lunatic like Blackburn do when we confronted him about the fire, just sit there and apologize? What’s he going to say, I’m so sorry, I won’t do it again? Was he going to break down and confess that Lionel Topper made him do it? No, that wasn’t going to happen. Brock Blackburn was a murderer, several times over. And what the hell was I going to do, shoot him?
As I got ready for work and later when I drove there, similar heavy thoughts preoccupied my mind. It wasn’t until I pulled into the parking area at Big Time Bait and Tackle that all that troublesome clutter cleared out of my head. Just a few minutes after seven and already there were customers waiting by the front door. I parked the van, unlo
cked the door and immediately serviced the three customers. As soon as they left, I put on a pot of coffee then turned on the VHF radio. After listening to a couple of charter boat captains squawking to each other for a few minutes, I heard Cap Forest’s tired voice reporting to another guide named J.D. Wells.
“We already boated a big ole cuda and a wahoo about thirty pounds.”
J.D. then asked him where he was fishing and I could hear Cap exhaling smoke with his answer, “We’re out over the Santa Maria wreck, and I’m on top of a ton of fish.”
The skippers always communicated in cryptic jargon when secretive information was being discussed. They had bogus names for certain hotspots they used amongst themselves. Doing so prevented any outsiders who might be listening from identifying where they were fishing. This way no strangers could crowd in on whoever was doing the talking. Fat chance the eavesdroppers would ever find the nonexistent Santa Maria wreck.
“That Cap freaking amazes me.” I said aloud to myself. “After the condition he was in last night, how in god’s name did he ever make it out on the water so early?”
Then it dawned on me. Certainly he did it with the help of his Jack Daniels flask.
I then walked to the tiny backroom and sure enough, the army cot was opened. An ashtray full of butts sat on the floor next to it and one had smoldered all the way to the filter. It was surely the previous evenings last. There were three empty cans of Busch beer strewn on the floor and one standing upright. It was half full of warm, stale beer. Obviously, Cap hadn’t made it home to Maggie. I figured that was just as well.
I folded up the canvas cot and trashed the beer cans after emptying the full one in the weeds outside the back door. When I stepped back inside someone came into the store. It was Julie, and I was genuinely surprised
“Hello, Sonny.”
“Hi! How are you?”
