What did any of that have to do with me?
17
I TOOK MY BACKPACK and made my way through the La Concha lobby and onto Duval Street. The fate of Betty’s port engine still awaited this morning’s inspection by Ray Floyd, mechanic, social critic, and island eccentric. I expected the worst.
Outside I found Karen tightening the laces on her roller-blades.
“You’re up early,” she said. “Feeling better?”
She was wearing spandex shorts and a tank-top. Her figure left me momentarily speechless. “Sure.”
She pointed to a backpack leaning against a potted plant. “Mind helping me with that?” The pack had a small, built-in cage that was empty. She caught my amused expression. “Morning’s the best time to catch loose chickens,” she said.
I couldn’t help laughing. “Dr. Livingston, I presume?”
“Funny, flyboy.”
She dug a heel in and bladed away, a fluid, graceful retreat. By far the best-looking chicken rescuer I’d ever seen.
Most days this was my favorite time to go for a run, since the tourists were out cold in alcohol-induced comas and the locals were preparing for another day working in paradise. Only fishermen, assorted town-dwelling rodents, loose chickens, and one foxy do-gooder were up and moving. Today, however, exercise was the last thing on my mind.
I went down Fleming, past the corner where B.O.’s Fish Wagon got its start, when “wagon” described the stand he operated like a hotdog vendor on the corner of what was then a gravel lot. I remembered lunching there as a kid, when my family stayed at the La Concha before we later rented what were then rustic Conch homes, now multi-million-dollar jewels. The sweet smell of moist flowers, bougainvillea, and hibiscus were made more fragrant by last night’s rain.
I focused on the few existing facts about the missing boat. Nothing made sense. Since the theft of my stash had come after we found Jo Jo, whose death had been attributed to foul play, and since both had potential connections to Santeria, it was time to learn more about the Carnival.
The sun had not risen above the trees, but the coming glow of morning muted colors, details, and my depth perception. The path toward my objective led me into the city cemetery. The six square blocks that separated Old Town from the Meadows was the most peaceful patch of coral and concrete on the island. A series of gravel paths set in a grid made for simple navigation, locating loved ones, shortcutting, or a forced march to focus the mind.
It stirred the memory of my parent’s dual burial in the Virginia countryside. They had been gone three years, and the circumstances contributing to and surrounding their deaths, why they had an account at a Swiss bank, and why my existence had changed so dramatically had all been stirred up by the theft of my stash.
What I had assumed to be their account identification but was actually a cipher was a major problem. How would I ever figure that out? Diplomatic codes? The vague remembrance that my father’s favorite puzzle-making method included a sea of letters provided little comfort.
Surrounded by gravestones, spirits of the dead were everywhere. I wondered where Jo Jo would be interred. Would his widow curse him with a silly epitaph, damning him to become the butt of humor on the nightly cemetery tours? I told you I was sick, or Good citizen for 65 of his 108 years? Doubtful. Ray Floyd’s wisecrack about my future epitaph now seemed portentous.
Questions about the Carnival quickened my pace, its point of departure a good place to start. A Harley with straight pipes accelerated down Eaton, and I followed it south before turning up William where a poster caught my attention. It advertised an art show at the San Carlos Institute scheduled for tomorrow night at 7:00 “m.p.”
Across Caroline was B.O.’s Fish Wagon. No longer the hotdog stand, it was now a full-fledged shack tucked into the bowels of the Bight. Once the home port for the island’s shrimp fleet, turtle industry, and centuries of wreckers ignobly considered pirates, the Bight had evolved into a contemporary tourist-driven diamond. It was now fully equipped with countless water sports operations, restaurants, bars, and a multitude of transient boat traffic. And they called wreckers pirates.
Just past the Waterfront Market’s parking area was the Port Operations and Administrative offices, where management of the sprawling twenty-acre seaport was handled. At this early hour their door was locked, but the sounds, smells, and activities of the harbor were not controlled by a time clock. I continued down the harbor walk toward Turtle Kraals.
18
DOCKAGE AT THE BIGHT was organized by zones, with the larger, deep-water commercial operators clustered around the “H” docks to the left and the live-aboards and ferry docks at the opposite end. The dockmaster’s shack was at pier C, which also contained the Chevron fuel docks—and a scruffy fellow stooped in a plastic lawn chair, hovering over a coffee mug and clutching a cigarette. He looked to be at the end of an all-night shift, or just up from a booze binge, or maybe both.
“Morning,” I said.
“Finally.” His voice had the huskiness of a lifetime smoker.
“It’s more quiet then when that mission boat set off yesterday, huh?”
He shrugged.
“Were you working then?”
The man’s eyes shrunk to slits. He flicked the spent cigarette into the water, coughed, and lit another.
“You a cop?”
“I’m a friend of Pastor Peebles from Church of the Redeemer.”
“Praise the Lord.” He spit into the water.
“You remember the boat?”
“You kidding me? This place was a zoo, people everywheres, cameras, reporters. Got the hell out soon as my shift was over.”
“Where does the Carnival berth?”
He hacked a phlegmy cough before spitting again. A pink bronchial clot lodged on his chin. A small boat zipped around the corner and was approaching the gas pump too fast. It had the words “RENT ME” painted on its hull.
“Slow down!”
The boat’s starboard gunwale scraped loudly against the planking. “Use your damn bumpers! Didn’t Billy tell you nothin? Damn fools come here, rent boats, and don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.” He wiped his chin, collected the pink substance, flicked it into the water, and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.
“They wasn’t from here. Helped ‘em tie up that morning other side of A dock there, near where the ferries come in.” He laughed. “Ferry boats, that is.”
“Didn’t they have to clear customs before leaving for Cuba?”
He ran a hand through his oily hair. “Was a big truck here waiting for ‘em, filled with all kinds of food and shit. The government boys had already picked it over. With all them people raising hell, you’d of thought they was carrying nuclear miss-iles.”
“Raising hell? In celebration?”
“Picketers, boy, they not usually celebrators.”
“Picketers? Could they have been Santeros?”
“San-what-os?”
“Religious people, kind of voodoo-like.”
“Hell no, they was assholes, Cuban-like. Fanatics picketing the damn mission.”
Why hadn’t Willy mentioned this?
“Was there any violence?”
“Thought you was with the church.”
“I missed the departure.” His eyes remained squinted, and I held my hands up. “Somebody’s got to work.”
“I hear that. Yeah, there was some shoving. Big dude on the boat, he about kicked some loudmouth’s ass for heckling this hot little chica on the dock.”
“You said the boat wasn’t from here. Was she from one of the other marinas? Garrison Bight, or maybe Oceanside?”
He tossed the cigarette into the water, coughed again, and checked his palm for fragments.
“Don’t remember no port of call on the transom.”
I thanked him and walked down the fuel dock past the Half Shell Raw Bar. Cuban-Americans had been picketing the departure? Could that have anything to do with Jo Jo getting his head s
mashed in? What about Santeria? I pictured the debris field where we’d found Jo Jo. Then it dawned on me. There was nothing from the boat itself afloat in the straits, only its cargo.
The realization clicked, but it left me feeling antsy instead of enlightened. If Willy didn’t want my help, I’d have to tell the Coast Guard about this myself. I had to get back out to search for clues and figure out why what happened led to the theft of my GPS—
The coordinates where we found Jo Jo were saved on it too.
At least I still had notes on my knee board of where we found him.
19
MY BRAIN BOUNCED INFORMATION around like light off a disco ball. I walked down Caroline to the courthouse. The vehicle I sought in the parking lot wasn’t there, so I meandered up Greene. My quarry’s routine would eventually lead him my way.
The T-shirt shops that lined Duval flourished like remora clinging to the underbelly of a great whale shark, culling cruise ship cattle like plankton through its fine teeth. They competed by promoting vulgar statements on cotton placards in their windows. One caught my eye, displayed like a masterpiece: TRUE LOVE IS A BLOWJOB AWAY.
A purr of giggling whispered ahead, but every restaurant and saloon was locked tight. The sound seemed to emanate from the Bull, but it was closed until the 10:00 a.m. Bloody Mary hour began. The laughter grew louder. A sudden drop of rain hit my shoulder—not rain, but a gush of … beer?
The laughter overhead escalated. “Sorry, sweetie.”
If I were anywhere else I’d have been shocked, but this being Key West I wasn’t even surprised to see two topless women leaning over the railing of The Whistle, the upstairs dance club to the downstairs pool joint.
“Oh, you’re a big one,” the blonde said. “Wanna come up and party?” Her breasts cantilevered over the railing. The other woman had jet-black hair, and what she lacked in the mammary department she compensated for with exotic tattoos of dragons facing off on her pasty chest.
A rusted-out baby blue Cadillac Coupe d’Elegance, vintage 1980, lurched down Duval. I waved him over.
“Oyé, what’chu doing?” Currito Salazar peered through the half-open window.
“Curro, check this out.”
He powered the window down and leaned out to behold the damsels in distress.
“Damn, cuz, they with you?”
“Uh, no.”
“Look like future clients to me.” He dug into the breast pocket of his stained SOLDANO CONSTRUCTION T-shirt. “Give ‘em these, okay?” He handed over a couple business cards. Conch Bail Bonds, Chartered and Certified.
The ladies were back to giggling and spilling beer over the railing. “If the police give you any trouble, call my man Currito here.” I put the cards in the crack of the door, then turned back to the caddie.
“Give me a ride?”
“The La Concha’s two blocks away—”
“To the airport.”
The passenger door swung open with a screech. I entered to wails of disparagement from the balcony. “Come on, honey, be our knight in shining latex!”
I pulled the door closed and the world dimmed behind the double-wrap of window tinting. The Cadillac edged onward, a wreck passing by the Wrecker’s Museum. One of the oldest cars on the island, riding past the oldest home.
“I was looking for you,” I said.
“Nothing happening at the courthouse yet, but if I drive up and down the strip long enough, someone always gets busted.” It was the bail bondsman’s version of ambulance chasing.
His nose twitched like a rabbit. “Damn, boy, you bathe in Aramis or what?”
I adjusted the backpack on my lap. “Didn’t get a shower this morning.”
A Parliament cigarette dangled from Currito’s lips. There was a carpet of ash below the overstuffed ashtray and a gray smudge on his belly. A Michelob pony bottle stuck up between his legs. Short, old, and gray, Currito had as much charisma as anyone I’d met on this rock.
“By the way, cuz, you crazy?” he said.
“There’s been speculation to that effect. Why—”
“Bruiser Lewis?”
I swallowed hard. “Too early in the morning to think about that.”
“Any time’s too early,” he said. “That was some shit yesterday, finding J-tres.”
“Been better if we’d found him alive. Did you know the others?”
“Sure, boy, locals, all of ‘em. Crazy fools.” He hacked a laugh. “Plenty people die making that crossing. We found a raft one time, eleven people dead and one little baby crying.” He waved the cigarette as he spoke. “You make that trip, you got to accept the risk.”
I’d heard rumors about trips Currito made back in the ‘70’s. Not to Cuba but to points further south, and not on cabin cruisers but shrimp boats, sans the shrimp. To the locals, though, he was good people. We drove slowly down Duval. At the La Concha I pressed my nose to the window to see my apartment six-floors up.
“Used to be a helluva disco there, called Fitzgerald’s,” Currito said. “My son was the disc jockey. Was the shit. Live bands came in from all over the country. And pussy? Damn, cuz, incredible.” His extended fingers snapped together in a brisk whip of his wrist.
Now it was a chain hotel with a Starbucks where the disco had been. Progress.
“Where’s your son now?”
“He left. Everybody left, one way or another. Jail, work, or dead. Hell, cuz, locals can’t afford to live here any more. My house weren’t paid for? Shit.”
Like most cities, Key West had been stripped of its historic character, except for a veneer of city funded exhibits. The rest was engorged with mass market franchises that left its only differentiation from the rest of the country climate, latitude and longitude. The homogenization of the planet may have been slowed by global economic failure, but human nature’s inexorable lust for profit will once again surge like a fungus when conditions allow. Lenny was right, and his political instinct merited attention. We needed leaders willing to restore individuality to our communities.
“You mind telling me something, Curro?”
He glanced over the top of his glasses. “Depends.”
“How did you feel about Redeemer’s mission?”
“I could care less. But it lit the fuse, that’s for damn sure.”
“The arguing when the boat left?”
“Put it this way, my business indicators are up and I smell a bumper crop of activity about to pop.”
“Bail bonding business?”
“No, bikini waxing, the hell you think? Of course bail bonding. Damn, cuz, Willy’s people are sticking their heads in the wrong beehive.”
An eye for an eye. “Santeria?”
“Don’t even think of messing with those bastards. I’ve seen Chango do some shit.
Piss Santeros off, they’ll fuck you up. One time, Bobby Delgado—you know him?”
How had I pissed them off? A headache began to fester behind my right eyeball.
“Can’t say I do.”
“His wife caught him nailing this girl from the high school, and Bobby had the cojones to kick her out of the house. Well, Theresa, that’s Bobby’s wife, her daddy was into that shit, and he got the Sancho on Stock Island to teach him some kind of curse. They sacrificed a goat or cat or something. Next thing you know, Bobby’s busted for smuggling grass.”
“Maybe it was a coincidence.” I tried popping my ears.
“What, you think I’m making this up? Chango can’t mess with you? Shit. That’s what Willy Peebles thought. Why don’t you ask him?”
A cringe curled my fingers.
“Cuz, trust me, Bobby’s cousin was the chief of police. He’d never have got busted. It’s the shit.”
The car stopped and Currito nodded toward a building on Duval Street. Cardboard covered where the shop window had been.
“Exotica?”
“Shotgun blast in the middle of the night,” he said.
“A sex toy shop?”
Currito turned sharply
toward me, his faced bunched into a wrinkled scowl. “Sex toys? You crazy, boy? It’s a Botanica. They sell shit for Santeria, candles, books, fucking goats for all I know. Game’s on now, brother. Somebody from Redeemer lit the fuse, only on the wrong bomb. Now it’s going to blow up in their faces.”
“You mind stopping here a minute?”
He checked the rearview mirror. “Whatever.”
Could Exotica have anything to do with Betty being broken into?
20
CARDBOARD WAS TAPED OVER the open window frame. After peeling its corner away, I could see book racks, mounds of candles, clothing, and some small cages toward the back. It was too dark inside to see much detail. The store had the feel of those new-age mystical places specializing in crystals and incense, but Santeria had a much more ominous reputation.
The cardboard suddenly fell inside. Remnants of safety glass left an edgy border along the frame. It would be easy to crawl through—I glanced back at Curro, who was looking down the street. I reached in and brushed my fingers down the frame to the lock. Breaking and entering would be a new—
A sudden movement caught my attention.
A blur spun toward me to the sound of fluttering.
A shriek rang out as the blur sprang through the window right at me.
I swatted at it—
“Bbaaa-kkkoookkk!”
A fat hen crashed off my forearm and smashed into the side window, where it erupted into feathers and a shrill avian screech.
“Hey!” A voice shot out of the darkness inside, followed by the unmistakable sound of a shell being pumped into a shotgun. “Paulo! No! Paulo, be away!”
A gun barrel pushed through the broken glass. I dove back into the car, startling Currito from a trance induced by a female roller-blading up Duval.
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