He had another sip of his drink and walked to join Stone and Russell, who had made their way to the hors d’œuvre table. Don’t Worry, Be Happy, he recited to himself. The Caribbean Credo.
Chapter Seven
“Now here,” Franklin Stone was saying, moving a mouse pointer over the image on the screen before them, “is the centerpiece of Villas Cayo Hueso.”
A few minutes before, they had moved in from the deck through a set of French doors leading to a nautical-themed study that Stone used for a presentation room. Deal and Russell, fresh drinks in hand, sat in leather easy chairs while Stone manipulated the controls of a notebook computer at his desk, a suitably massive rosewood affair that took up one corner of the airy room. The computer had been hooked up to a huge flat-panel monitor recessed in a bookcase wall, a setup that must have cost thousands, Deal thought. At DealCo, he was still sketching out preliminary plans for clients on lunchtime napkins.
“The tower was one of the original gun emplacements commissioned by the commander of Fort Taylor, back in 1858,” Stone said, running his pointer around the image of a tall, red-brick structure that looked like a wing of the Smithsonian snapped off and dropped down in the Tropics.
“It was a star-crossed undertaking from the beginning,” Stone continued. “The bricks had to be imported, of course, and an outbreak of yellow fever, likely carried by mosquitoes from the neighboring salt ponds, decimated the work force. Before they’d finished, the development of rifled cannon shells made such fortifications obsolete. The tower was never completed by the military, in fact. There wasn’t even a roof until the local historical society stepped in, in the middle of the last century.”
“Wait a minute,” Deal said. “You’re talking about the East Martello Tower? That’s a museum.”
“Until recently,” Stone said, looking decidedly agreeable.
“You bought the East Martello Tower?”
“A white elephant, really,” Stone said. “As you know, there is a West Tower as well, a counterpart structure that sits a short distance away, but never developed due to a lack of funds. We agreed to make a donation that would allow the historical society to renovate the West Tower in its entirety.” Stone smiled. “We also conveyed ownership to a neighboring tract with little development potential which the society could use for parking or whatever else. In exchange, we took over a ninety-nine-year lease on the East Tower, where we’ll install a restaurant, club rooms, and the like.”
“The city council went for that?” Deal said, feeling slightly foolish as the words left his mouth.
“Why wouldn’t they?” Stone asked, his expression bland.
“I could think of about a dozen reasons,” Deal said. “It’s a historical site, for one thing.”
“And that’s one reason why I want you on this project, Johnny-boy. I’m well aware of what you’ve been doing on the Terrell property up in Miami. You’ve got an appreciation for history. You’ll see that things are done right.”
Deal shook his head in wonder. The “Terrell property” that Stone referred to was an antiquated bayside home in Coconut Grove, rescued from ruin by computer magnate Terrence Terrell, designer of the machine that had successfully competed with the IBM prototype for years. Taken by the elaborate fancy of the Italian Renaissance architecture and the beauty of the secluded grounds, Terrell had hired Deal to renovate the twenty-seven-room coral-rock structure, a sizable commission that had kept him afloat through the some of the leanest years of struggle to bring DealCo back from the dead. Work on the Terrell compound still continued, for that matter. Like painting the Golden Gate Bridge, it was a job that threatened never to be finished. The only difference was that Terrell’s compound was private property, and always had been.
“What about the wildlife refuge?” Deal said, pointing toward the screen.
Stone gave him another smile and pushed a button on his controls. The image of the tower disappeared, replaced by an aerial view of the southeast corner of the one-mile-by-four-mile island. Along the bottom of the screen ran the beach road where he and Russell had been jogging. Just to the north of the beachside road lay the undeveloped marshland that Stone planned to transform into a community of million-dollar townhomes. At the upper right-hand corner of the plot, a section of airport runway was visible. In the lower corner was the top of the tower they’d been looking at a moment ago. Not far from the tower was an area carved out of the marsh by a dotted white line, marking the boundaries of the wildlife refuge, Deal supposed.
Stone clicked his mouse and the image shifted, transforming itself into a tightly packed network of barrel-tiled condominiums springing up where there had been only salt marsh an instant before. The area outlined in white remained pristine, however, though it was now crisscrossed by what looked like wooden walkways elevated over the bog. What he’d just witnessed was not only a developer’s dream, but a tax-assessor’s as well, Deal thought.
“We’ve been putting the finishing touches on the plans to incorporate the refuge,” Stone said. “We’ll present to the commission next week, but I’m sanguine about the prospects.”
As well he might be, Deal nodded. Maybe after he was finished with Key West, Stone could work things out in the Middle East.
“What’s that say, anyhow?” Russell Straight asked. He was pointing at the inscription at the top of the screen: Villas Cayo Hueso, went the bold inscription above the image, flanked by what looked like coats of arms.
“It’s Spanish,” Stone told him. “Cayo Hueso means ‘Key of Bone.’ It’s the name the original explorers gave Key West.”
“Why would they do that?” Russell persisted.
Stone shrugged. “Some say it’s because of the look of the coral rock, or because of all the fossilized remains therein. Others say there might have been some terrible massacre here.”
Russell grunted. “Well, it’s America now,” he said. “Why not call your houses something in English?”
Stone smiled. “I understand your sentiments, Russell. But the marketing people know what they’re doing.”
“Uh-huh,” Russell replied. “The boss and I had us a bottle of wine last night. They put this French label on it so they could charge whatever they wanted. If you call it Mad Dog 20/20, it’s only a dollar twenty-five.”
“Something like that,” Stone said, though he seemed a bit uncertain.
The image on screen had shifted again, becoming now a ground-level virtual tour of the planned complex, replete with splashing fountains, tanned couples lounging on balconies, even a virtual crocodile basking contentedly on the shores of the refuge pond, indifferent—in this made-up world—to a great blue heron wading nearby. Deal wanted to point out that in the actual universe, the bird might last all of a second or two before it disappeared inside a pair of snapping crocodile jaws, but he didn’t see the point.
He’d had a couple of drinks now, and either they, or the ions, were having their effect. The mention of the wine had in fact rekindled memories of his stint at the Pier House lounge the night before, especially those of Annie Dodds and the dress she’d been wearing, and Deal found himself stealing a look at his watch, wondering if he might still make happy hour back at the hotel.
“I’ve had my people put together some figures, John,” Stone was saying as the images flickered across the screen. “There’s a package in your room at the hotel.”
Deal nodded absently, his attention on the screen. Various elevations of the condos. A family strolling at a sunset-streaked beachside, the Martello Tower looming in the background. A couple in tennis whites, cavorting on a redclay court. “I think you’ll find the terms more than agreeable,” Stone continued, “but if you’ve the slightest reservation, just let me know. I need someone with knowhow, someone I can trust, someone who hasn’t been corrupted by too many seasons down here in Mañanaville, Johnny-boy.”
Deal found himself wondering why, if Stone was so anxious to get him signed on to the project, it had
taken him two days to manage this meeting. But there was no need to be confrontational. It was Key West, after all.
On the screen was the image—so vivid as to seem three-dimensional—of a sun-bronzed woman in a scanty two-piece bathing suit, poised for a plunge into a crystalline pool. Something familiar about her, Deal was thinking, wondering if it was some luminary Stone had inveigled into the pose, or simply a model he might have seen in another ad. He had turned with a question on his lips for Stone, in fact, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“Oh God, Franklin,” she said. “I’ve asked you a dozen times to get that picture out of there.”
Chapter Eight
“Anita,” Franklin Stone said, a smile lighting his handsome features.
Deal swiveled in his seat to find Annie Dodds standing in a hall doorway, clad in a lime-green version of the previous night’s floor-length gown. She’d been attractive enough then, but here, in such disparate surroundings, she looked positively stunning.
When she saw him, her gaze barely flickered. Deal couldn’t be sure, but he assumed his jaw was somewhere near his chest.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said to Deal, then turned coolly back to Stone. “Really, Franklin. It’s embarrassing.” She gestured at the screen, where the image had shifted to a dreamy couple watching a raging sunset from the balcony of their virtual condo.
Stone gave her a conciliatory nod and snapped the monitor into darkness. “An oversight, I assure you. But on the other hand, why cloak such beauty?” He sent what was supposed to be a good-natured grin toward Deal and Russell Straight, then turned back to her. “This is John Deal and his associate, Russell Straight,” he said. “Mr. Deal’s is the most highly regarded building firm in South Florida. I’m hoping to convince him to take on the Villas project.”
“Actually, Mr. Deal and I have met,” she said, moving to extend her hand Deal’s way. When she bent toward him, Deal swore he could feel heat rising from the plane of her tanned chest. He willed himself to look away from the front of her low-cut gown, fumbling for something to say. Should he invoke the Miami High fight song, mention all the good times in the National Honor Society?
He managed to get to his feet, realizing Annie’s fingers still clasped his. “You were the one at the bar who complimented me on ‘When Sunny Gets Blue,’” she continued.
Deal felt himself nodding. “I liked that,” he managed, turning to Stone, whose eyes remained fixed on Annie. “She was awesome.”
Stone nodded. “So I keep telling her, but she’s a tough one to convince.”
“He means I’m a perfectionist,” she told Deal. “He thinks I’m too hard on myself.”
“I met Anita when she was performing in a play in New York. When she started to sing, it was as if the rest of the cast had vanished,” Stone said. “I managed to convince her that her future lay in music.”
Annie gave Deal a tolerant smile. “Anita Dobbins is a stage name,” she said. “My real name is Annie Dodds. I went to school in Miami, did I mention that?”
Deal stared back at her, then found himself shaking his head. “I guess not,” he said.
“It was a long time ago.” She shrugged. “And, speaking of time…” she added, with what must have been an apologetic glance at Stone, “duty calls.”
“Balart will bring the car around,” Stone said, moving to give her a peck on the cheek. “Break a leg,” he told her.
“You are going to get rid of that photograph, aren’t you?” she said, pulling away from him.
“I promise,” Stone said.
She turned and gave Deal her smile. “It was good seeing you again,” she said.
“Likewise,” Deal answered. He had to pry his gaze away from her departing form.
“She is something, isn’t she?” Stone was saying at his shoulder.
“You could say that,” Deal managed, his mind an utter whirl. Annie Dodds was living with Franklin Stone? That was enough to chew on all by itself. No wonder she’d turned down his offer to buy her a drink last night.
But as to why she wanted to keep their high-school romance a secret from Stone, he couldn’t fathom. And the way she’d looked at him moments ago…it was as if she’d never laid eyes on him before. Either he had dreamed up the whole encounter, he thought, or Annie Dodds was as accomplished an actor as she was a singer.
“You’ve heard her sing, then,” Stone was saying. “Do you think I’m mistaken about her talent?”
Deal turned to Stone, who seemed beside himself with pride. “Not even a little bit,” he said.
Stone nodded, his gaze still on the hallway where she’d disappeared. They heard the sound of a motor starting outside, and Stone’s smile turned wistful. “She could take that ability anywhere,” he said, then lifted his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “But she seems content just fooling around.” He waved his hand, as if appearing in the Pier House lounge meant nothing.
Deal nodded, his gaze taking in their surroundings. It seemed a place where contentment might come easily, when you thought about it. Outside, it was dusk, and a series of discreetly placed lamps had snapped on to illuminate the palms that waved above the jutting deck. He heard the distant sounds of a steel band drifting through the open French doors, probably the ragtag group of Bahamians who drifted around Key West setting up impromptu performances anywhere a crowd might gather.
Stone’s house sat very near to Southernmost Point, a spot where a giant buoy poked up from the rocky shoals, marking the end of the American continent. It was a place at the end of Duval Street where tourists liked to congregate at the close of day, if they didn’t want to join the throngs at the Malory Docks on the west side of the island to watch the sun sink into the sea, that is.
Though you couldn’t see the sunset at Southernmost Point, you stood a much slimmer chance of having your hair singed by the fire swallowers or your pocket picked, Deal thought. You didn’t have to dodge the knife jugglers or shoo away the face painters or the caricature artists.
You simply took your drink in hand and walked out of your room or away from the bar, down to the literal end of the American road, and stood and stared out past the buoy in the direction of Havana, which was less than a hundred miles away, closer by half to the island than Miami. And, almost always, you found yourself standing at the end of the line, marveling where life had taken you. He could recall being there with Janice, not so many years ago, gazing out to sea and congratulating himself on how far he had come.
Now he turned back to Stone, suddenly feeling as if he were carrying a lead-filled safe on his shoulders.
“You look tired,” Stone said.
“It’s been a day,” Deal agreed, still trying to come to terms with the feelings that roiled within him.
“Balart will be back shortly. I can have him run you to the hotel.”
“It’s all right,” Deal told him. He put his half-finished drink down on a table. “I could stand the walk.”
He cut his gaze to Russell Straight, who gave him a shrug worthy of Vernon Driscoll.
“You’ll have a look at that proposal, then?” Stone asked.
“I will,” Deal said.
“Take your time,” Stone said. “Get a good night’s sleep, maybe spend some time on the beach tomorrow. Your man here might enjoy a look at what goes on over by Louie’s.” He gave something of a leer as he clapped a hand on Russell Straight’s brawny shoulder.
“I’ll pick you up at the hotel about seven tomorrow evening,” he continued. “We’ll have a drink and you’ll let me know then if there’s anything I’ve left out of the package.”
“I’ll have a look,” Deal said, “but it’s only fair to tell you, Franklin—”
“Not now,” Stone said, putting a finger to his lips. “Don’t say a thing until you see what I’ve got in mind. Whatever you decide, you can let me know tomorrow, fair enough?”
Deal felt himself give an inward sigh. What the
hell, he thought. One more day on the cuff in paradise. With work on the Port project closed down for the weekend, there was no point in hurrying back to Miami, was there? His daughter, Isabel, was in good hands, Janice was off on her own holiday. And he owed it to himself to study Franklin Stone’s proposal with a careful eye, didn’t he?
Even if Stone’s style was abrasive, even if he had more than a few doubts about the wisdom of the venture the man proposed, there was a great likelihood that the project would go forward. If all the obstacles had indeed been overcome, someone would build Franklin Stone’s Villas of Cayo Hueso and would probably make a healthy return in the process.
And as for a healthy return, it had been all too long since Deal had enjoyed one of those. He’d been under the gun for years now, ever since his father had died with DealCo business in the crapper. He’d been supporting Janice ever since she’d decided to move out “for a while,” and not only had “a while” turned out to be significantly longer than he expected, but there were also significant bills for Isabel’s private schooling, Janice’s continuing therapy, and the like.
So why shouldn’t it be Deal to take on Stone’s project? He was not a corner-cutter nor a builder who would perpetrate some environmental outrage and worry about the fallout later. He’d known others to clear-cut vast swathes of protected coastline mangroves, for instance, and simply shrug when inspectors tried to shut their projects down. “The subcontractors did it,” was a favorite response. Sure. Blame it on some traveling tree-trimming outfit that existed nowhere but on paper, vanished like smoke, and was just as impossible to prosecute. Meantime, the mangroves were gone, and even the condos on the first floor had gained their unobstructed view of the sea. In a few days, business would be back to normal.
In that way, he could be the best part about Stone’s project, Deal told himself. Wouldn’t it be nice to think so, at the very least?
Bone Key Page 8
