Bone Key

by Les Standiford

  Bone Key

  Bone Key

  Les Standiford

  www.les-standiford.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 2004 by Les Standiford

  First Trade Paperback Edition 2007

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006940932

  ISBN-13 Print: 978-1-59058-345-6 Trade Paperback

  ISBN-13 eBook: 978-1-61595-309-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Lyrics from “Carey” by Joni Mitchell. Copyright 1975 Crazy Crow Music. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  info@poisonedpenpress.com

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Knox Burger, Nat Sobel,

  and Scott Waxman, three stand-up guys.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Epigraph

  …this is a climate that is kind to bright-blooming greenery and to joys of the flesh—frisky trysts, rum, and rumpled bedsheets—and so it is that many of the citizens are well acquainted with mischief, but at a cost.

  —John Hersey

  Key West Tales

  Acknowledgments

  While Deal and I love Key West just as it really and truly exists, this is a work of fiction, and in that spirit, I have taken certain liberties with geography and place names. May they please the guilty and the innocent alike.

  For their advice on matters pertaining to the grape and the vine, I would like to extend a special thanks to George Foote, Wine Educator at GuinessUDV, as well as to connoisseurs nonpareil Michael Bittel, Bob Dickinson, and Alan Diamond—their advice, their knowledge, and their encouragement have been invaluable. Any apparent fabrications in this arena are attributable to the author and certainly not to them.

  Chapter One

  Key West 1931

  The storm had passed through the Florida Straits the night before, at that time a piddling hurricane, with winds no more than seventy-five or eighty miles per hour, according to the newspapers. Gusts in everyday summer thunderstorms might reach those speeds in this part of the world. If you were a seafaring man, you understood that much, and being a Caymaner by birth, and therefore a seafarer, Ainsley Spencer understood, even if he could not read the newspapers.

  He also understood that hurricanes were feckless creatures that considered no man’s prayers or wishes, and disregarded probability and logic when it suited them. Take what was bearing down upon them now: a storm that had somehow done the impossible.

  Just when everyone on the island had breathed a sigh of relief and muttered their good riddances, this storm retraced its steps, whirling right back through the broad channel that separated Key West from Cuba. Just as it seemed the storm would barrel into Havana Bay, it had, in an ultimate display of capriciousness, turned due north, gathering strength from the warm August waters all the while.

  Now the storm carried winds twice its original strength, a real monster, barreling hell-bent toward this island of one mile by four, where the highest land lay no more than sixteen feet above the boundless waters on the calmest of days. Already Ainsley could taste salt in the sheeted rain running down his face.

  The senator had called for Ainsley just after supper, asking that he bring three of his best men along. By then, the winds were howling, and most anyone with sense had taken the best shelter they could. But when the senator called, there was no saying wait or maybe, much less no. That was just the way it was, and the three men whom Ainsley had picked felt exactly as he did. He’d told June Anna where he was going and why, and she’d nodded and sent him on his way with a wordless embrace.

  Now, the four of them dragged themselves down windswept Whitehead Street toward the harbor, none of them wasting energy trying to talk about the clamoring storm. Ainsley glanced up as they passed the Rexall drugstore to see the swinging sign tear loose of its standard and go flying into the ever-darkening distance. Pity the man who looked up to see that metal sail bearing down on him, he thought. Slice him in two and keep on going, that’s what. Growing up in the islands, Ainsley had seen such things and worse.

  He led the way past the two-story brick bank building that marked the entrance to the docks, where the wind seemed to kick up another notch now that there was nothing left to shield them. The iron gates had been drawn shut and padlocked across the broad double doors of the bank’s entrance, creaking and clanking against their chain in the gusts. Gates that might keep a thief out, Ainsley thought, but useless in a certain wind. He stepped off the sidewalk curb over a sodden wad of feathers that was a pigeon’s carcass, but told himself it had likely been lying in the gutter before the storm’s approach. Things had not gotten that bad yet.

  There was a sheriff’s car parked at the entrance to the docks, its headlights flaring at the group’s approach. Ainsley lifted his chin into the gale and held up a hand, the rain nicking his palm as hard as buckshot. A spotlight snapped on and ran across his spattered features, then lapsed back into darkness, along with the headlights. Ainsley motioned the others forward.

  In the harbor, several small boats heaved at their moorings as if they longed to leave the frothing sea and hurtle skyward. Some of the smallest craft had been hauled out to drydock, one already out of its chocks and tumbled onto its side. The hull needed a scraping, Ainsley saw. Maybe it would get one—if the boat survived the storm, that is.

  The bigger boats had put out to sea, some bent on racing the storm northward toward Miami, others intending to ride it out nose to nose, where there were no pilings, no reefs, no neighboring craft to contend with. If you knew what you were about, Ainsley thought, it was not a bad way to go.

  There was one freighter that remained at the dock, however, its bulk rising and falling with the erratic tides, first straining at its heavy lines, then crashing back against the mooring bumpers with a crash of waves. The Magdelena, Ainsley nodded. Some Spanish he could read. The name didn’t fit with the thoughts in his mind, though: Instead of a woman, he saw a giant metal bull thrashing panicked in its stall.

  Men were staggering
down a gangway that led to the docks from a port that yawned in the side of the big ship, each with a wooden crate on one shoulder and a hand on one of the swaying guy lines. There was a growing mound of crates on the dock below, fed by the antlike procession of the crew.

  A man in a watch cap and slicker stood at the rail on the ship’s bridge, measuring the progress intently. The captain, Ainsley assumed. A dark-browed man with Slavic features who looked like he’d be at home in the North Atlantic. Surely he longed to be untethered from this dock and out where he could deal with the storm on his own terms.

  Ordinarily, a crane or cargo boom would make short work of such unloading, but in weather like this, such equipment was useless. If whatever it was had been owned by anyone besides the senator, Ainsley thought, there’d likely be no unloading going on at all.

  As they crossed the docks toward the stacked crates, Ainsley felt more than heard the rumble behind him. As a heavy burst of rain swept over them, he turned to see a pair of canvas-topped trucks following in their footsteps, the lights of each flashing as they passed the sheriff’s car. When the second truck had passed onto the docks, the sheriff’s car roared into life, then rolled away quickly toward town. In moments it had been swallowed in the gloom.

  Ainsley and his men stepped aside as the trucks rolled by. Ainsley didn’t recognize the drivers, but he knew who employed them, as he knew there was no longer a need for whatever security the two in the sheriff’s car might have been able to provide.

  The trucks passed by the mound of crates then turned at the foot of the dock and came back to a stop beside the cargo, nosed toward town, their lights doused, engines running. The last of the crates had been stacked on the docks and the drenched crew members were making their way back up the bucking gangway toward the hold.

  Ainsley saw that a man—small and hunched inside a yellow slicker that seemed to swallow him—had come to join the captain at the bridge. The captain said something to the man in the oversized slicker and pointed at the trucks. The man nodded and quickly clambered down a set of outer stairs onto the deck, then disappeared through a deckside door. In moments he reappeared at the gangway, pulling himself hand over hand down one of the lines to the dock.

  Ainsley and his companions kept their distance as another man stepped down from the trucks and handed a satchel to the man in the flapping slicker, who opened it briefly and glanced inside. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, for he turned to signal the captain on the bridge, then hurried back up the gangway with the satchel tucked to his chest.

  “Let’s go!” the man who’d handed over the satchel shouted to Ainsley then, and Ainsley motioned his men forward.

  They had the crates loaded in less than half an hour, Ainsley reckoned, glancing out at the wind-riled harbor that receded behind him. He and his men had climbed aboard in the cargo space of the second truck, sitting now atop crates beneath the canvas that clattered with the waves of buckshot rain.

  The Magdelena had long since steamed out of sight, and none too soon, he thought. As they’d finished loading the crates onto the trucks, a sloop had broken loose from its moorings out in the harbor to come shattering against the dock. With its mast and wheelhouse sheared away and a hole in her starboard hull, it had taken only moments for the boat to go down.

  Ainsley, who felt about boats as most did about people, had watched it all as if witnessing a drowning he could do nothing to prevent. He glanced at the boats still rolling in the harbor and wondered how many of them would make it until morning.

  There was a sudden pulsing of light on the distant seaward horizon then, followed by a rumbling sound that might have come from the storm. One of the men with Ainsley glanced over.

  “What do you reckon?” he asked.

  “Just thunder,” said the man next to him.

  Ainsley glanced out in the direction where the flash had come, thinking that in all this storming, he’d heard no thunder yet, and probably still had not. He turned back to the others and nodded.

  “I reckon thunder,” he said, and for the others, that was that.

  ***

  What was printed on the crates was indecipherable, neither English nor Spanish. Ainsley assumed that what they were hauling was some exotic kind of whiskey, valuable enough for the senator to have brought it to port in weather such as this. He’d unloaded similar goods for his employer many times before, and often ran a tender well out into the Gulf Stream to take on shipments from captains loath to flout the laws of Prohibition. Normally, they would offload their cargo, then truck whatever that might be to a warehouse on Stock Island, where it was shipped by rail to places Ainsley did not care to know about.

  The senator, whom Ainsley understood lived in some distant northern state and wielded an influence greater than anyone he’d known, including the Cayman governor himself, seldom came to Key West, but when he did, he treated Ainsley with the utmost respect. He’d set up an account for Ainsley in the very bank they’d passed on the way to the docks and had instructed Ainsley how to draw from that source when he needed.

  Ainsley understood that the senator derived a great portion of his income from means that the government considered illegal, but this caused him not the slightest discomfort. He was a Caymaner and a seafaring man, and he understood that no one governed the sea. Furthermore, islands, being surrounded by the sea, existed in a sealike state themselves. Whatever the inhabitants of an island deemed right and proper for the conduct of their lives constituted the natural law. In these climes, governments were like barnacles: You put up with them, and then you scraped them away.

  He felt the truck slowing and glanced out the back in mild surprise. They hadn’t passed over the cut to Stock Island yet. He wondered why they were stopping.

  He heard a door open and slam, then saw the man who’d handed over the satchel at the docks appear at the back of the truck. The man grabbed hold of a stave and vaulted up onto the bed beside him, an adroit move for someone of his size and bulk, Ainsley thought.

  “Have ’em put these on,” the man said, tossing a soggy wad of cloth into Ainsley’s lap.

  Ainsley glanced down at the wad, realizing it was bandannas that he held, lengths of cloth folded up into long strips a couple of inches wide. Four of them. “Blindfolds?” he asked, staring up at the man.

  Water dripped from the man’s chin and from the brim of his hat. “It’s for your own good,” he said. “The less you know, the better.”

  Ainsley thought about this, but he didn’t have to think for long. If the senator wanted him to be blindfolded, he would be blindfolded. He turned and handed each of his men one of the folded bandannas. When they had tied the blindfolds into place, Ainsley heard a banging on the side of the truck and then they were under way again.

  There were several turns and much more driving than the confines of a four-mile island would have allowed, but the journey could have included some backtracking and unnecessary turning to throw them off, Ainsley thought. In any case, he made no attempt to determine where they might be going. He simply hoped to get there before the storm arrived with its full fury.

  Finally, he felt the truck slowing again and sensed that they had reached their destination. “Just sit tight,” the man who’d delivered the blindfolds said when Ainsley stirred.

  There was a wrenching sound as if heavy doors were being opened, then a lurch as the truck moved forward again. The crashing of the rain and the wild flapping of the canvas top stopped abruptly, leaving a silence that was almost painful to Ainsley’s ears.

  The heavy doors slammed closed again and Ainsley felt himself enveloped by a damp mustiness, the sounds of the storm a distant rumble. “Okay,” the man said, jumping down from the truck. “Take ’em off.”

  Ainsley did as he was told, blinking in the dim light that greeted him. As his eyes adjusted, he jumped down from the truck as well, his feet meeting a packed earthen floor.

  It was a sizable room they’d pulled into—not
hing as big as the warehouse on Stock Island, but able to accommodate the two trucks with plenty of room to spare. A lantern, which hung on a peg beside a pair of tall wooden doors, provided the only illumination. The windowless walls were formed of coquina, the native limestone, and the wooden roof loomed high above, barely illumined by the lantern’s glow.

  It seemed a veritable fortress they’d come to, but still the rain pounded hard on the roof and the heavy doors bulged and gave with the winds like a pair of weary lungs. Spray managed to find its way into the cavernous room with each inward pulse brought by the winds, and Ainsley decided that it was a most illusory kind of safety they had found. His own home was built of native South Florida pine, the strongest wood capable of being carpentered, its few windows shuttered by the same materials.

  His home, anchored to the coral rock by deeply driven pilings no storm could budge, might be small, but it was strong, and he longed to finish this business and join June Anna that they might weather this mess together. He assumed that he and his men would make quick work of stacking the crates along the walls and then be gone. He had turned in fact to begin the organizing of his men, when an odd creaking noise sounded behind him and he turned to peer into the recesses of the room.

  Two men had pried a massive iron grate up from where it had been set into the floor, he realized, and were staggering about trying to keep it from falling back into place. “Sonofabitch is heavy,” one of the men said.

  “Just hold on,” the other one said, grunting with effort. “Help me ease it against the wall.”

  Ainsley turned to the man beside him with a questioning gaze. The man pointed. “Take it down there,” he said, handing over a second lantern he’d got going. “Be careful with the steps.”

  Ainsley glanced at the man, then took the smoking lantern to the portal that yawned in the corner of the room. He passed the two men who’d pried the gate up without looking at them, mindful of their panting as he held the lantern high to illumine a dank set of steps leading down to a sizable storage area chiseled out of the coral rock. Whoever had managed the feat had accomplished something, Ainsley thought with a glance at the heavy grate. And whatever you put down there would surely be safe.