The fragrance of lilac emanated from her ponytail. I looked at her white teeth and pink lips and made myself think about the contents of the flight bag: my pilot’s license, hand-held VHF radio, medical certificates, and knee board. Then she hits me with the soothing southern accent.
“I know this isn’t the best timing, which is why it’s perfect,” she said. “You need a break, and I need your help, so I have another favor to ask.”
“Ask away.”
“Ownership wants to redecorate the lobby and public areas, and I have to go to an art show tomorrow night.” She beamed a high-wattage smile to soften me up.
“You’re actually going out at night? I didn’t think—”
“Could you coach me on art a little first?”
Her request brought me squarely into the moment.
“You have all those art books… They want a Latin theme here—”
“The show at the San Carlos Institute?”
“How did you know?”
“Because I’m going too.”
“Corporate introduced me to the dealer. He’s been chasing me around ever since.”
“Manny Gutierrez?”
“You know him?”
“Oh yeah, we go way back,” I said.
“I’m not sure if he’s interested in selling art or is just a flirt, but I don’t know what I’m looking at anyway. Can you show me some of your art books?”
The scent of her hair tickled my senses. “Why don’t we go to the show together? We could start with dinner.”
The suggestion lit a tiny spark in her eyes, which put a glow in my heart.
“Sure you won’t be too tired?”
“Seven Fish is right around the corner from…where I need to go first.”
She cut a glance back to the reception desk. A short line had formed in her absence. “Perfect, we can also talk about how you’re going to help me with the festival. I’m striking out on the special events front.”
“Still desperate?”
She smiled. “I have an idea how you could help launch the entire event. We can talk about it at dinner.” The excitement in her voice was contagious.
“So, great,” she said. “Seven Fish. The show’s at—”
“Seven o’clock m.p.” Her eyes narrowed. “Posters all over town have that typo. Let’s meet at five-thirty.”
“I’d never have figured you for an art connoisseur,” she said.
“Speaking of the festival, I’d bet Manny can come up with some ideas.”
“You think?” She sat up straight, a new light in her eyes.
“He’s a big shot philanthropist who donated the food for Redeemer’s mission.”
On my way upstairs I had a flashback. In my days at e-Antiquity, manipulation was part of my job. Among other things I had to incentivize museums to sponsor our archaeological pursuits. Then there was pimping the boys on Wall Street in order to inflate share price and liquidity. Is that what this date with Karen was about? Was I taking advantage of her request for help to further my own interests?
The art show would be the perfect opportunity to investigate what the people hostile toward the missionaries had against me. With Karen on my arm, Manny would have to talk to me, so the answer was unavoidably, yes.
But it was her smile at the proposition that had my heart pumping in overdrive, not the show.
23
ONCE INSIDE MY APARTMENT the first thing I saw was my flight bag on the table.
How did—
Two men dressed in black jumpsuits rushed out of my bedroom. One, wearing a Bill Clinton Halloween mask, was pointing a pistol at me. The other’s mask was George W. Bush.
“Sit in the chair,” Bush said.
I didn’t hesitate, given the gun in Clinton’s hand.
“Fantasy Fest is six months away, you boys are little early,” I said.
“Shut up and listen,” Bush said. I detected a slight Latin accent. He reached into a bag and pulled out something that caused me to grip the arms of the chair. My waterproof pouch. Clinton held the gun up, no doubt reading my expression.
“The charts aren’t inside the satchel, so don’t get any stupid ideas. I wanted you to understand that if you ignore me, there will be severe ramifications.”
I concentrated on breathing. That, and Clinton’s pistol.
“What do you want?” I said.
“For you to butt out of the search for the boat.”
“So this is about Redeemer?”
“Discontinue your search, or the contents of this satchel go to the police.”
My heart sank.
“Why would the police care about my business expenses?”
Bush laughed. “The payments Ben Reilly has been making to Mrs. Dodson—isn’t that your brother and former partner’s wife? Given your bankruptcy and Dodson’s incarceration, I suspect the police would be very interested in these payments. Two hundred grand over the past two years, plus another hundred grand to you.”
I slumped back into the seat.
“I say we boil him,” Clinton said. He had a much thicker accent. Cuban?
“What’s the big deal about the missing boat?” I said.
“No more questions! Butt out, or your documents go to the police, and the articles in the Citizen will get much more explicit. They’re dying for more. Even in Key West the public loves stories of fallen tycoons.”
I swallowed hard. “Can I at least have my GPS back?”
“Boil him!” Clinton shoved the gun in my face.
Bush laughed again. “I’m going to compare the GPS points you saved to the notations on the nautical charts, see what you were up to.”
With that Bush picked up the bag containing my waterproof pouch and walked to the door. Clinton followed after, but when he passed by me, he bent down and whispered: “You don’t butt out, I boil you.”
“Don’t leave your room for thirty minutes,” Bush said. “Remember, your bird no fly, and leave the spirits of the dead alone.”
“What the hell’s that mean?”
The door slammed shut. At least they had returned my flight bag.
When I picked it up, it was noticeably heavier than usual. Standing still for a long few seconds, I listened but heard nothing. I unzipped the bag, peered in—and dropped it.
There was a dead chicken inside, decapitated with a wash of blood coating everything. Underneath the bird was a small clay figurine of a man with nails protruding from his body. The chest cavity was hollow, and inside it was the finger from a leather glove. I recognized the frayed seam on its tip. It was the index finger from the work gloves in my truck.
Everything else was there, except…my knee board was gone.
I watched from my window but never saw them on Duval Street.
Now, in addition to all my charts and my GPS being gone, which included the location of the gold, the notes from where I found Jo Jo were gone too. The thieves hadn’t mentioned the Swiss bank key, but they were going to compare the GPS points against those marked on the chart. It would lead them to the gold.
If I continued the search for the Carnival, all the payments Ben had been making to keep Dodson quiet would be exposed.
Crap.
24
PASTOR WILLY PEEBLES LED an emotional service at Redeemer aimed at calming the growing cries for blood. He never mentioned his missing daughter. Jo Jo Jeffries’s wife gave a heart-rending eulogy, which although brief didn’t leave a dry eye in the sanctuary. All the raw emotion rekindled mine from my parent’s funeral. After everything I’d been through, their deaths were the straw that really broke me and led me to abandon the real world for Key West.
Pain will either paralyze or inspire most people. For me it erased a decade of success—along with any semblance of family. I had been squeezed, twisted, bent in half, crumpled, crushed and discarded, and somewhere along the line, I just stopped caring. The pain in Willy’s eyes reawakened me, though. And the theft of my stash was a kick in the ass.
“Now’s not the time to cast stones.” His voice was low but clear. “Now’s not the time to assign blame or seek retribution. It’s time to mourn, to heal, and to continue searching for our missing loved ones.”
At the end of his sermon he asked for people to share “words of memoriam” about Jo Jo. Several stood next to his pewter urn upon the altar and gave testimony, blinking away tears. A quiet calm followed. After a respectful pause, Willy returned to the podium. Then another man stood up in the middle of the pews.
It was Manny Gutierrez.
“Are we going to let the Santeria swine get away with murder?”
Every head spun toward him, and Willy’s mouth fell open. Manny smashed a fist into his palm. “One of them left a threatening message at my gallery this morning, warning me to butt out, or else!” A wave of commotion erupted.
Did he say, butt out?
A short, bald man suddenly jumped up and stabbed a finger toward Manny. He began to shout in Spanish. I couldn’t understand him, but it had to be Mingie Posada, the local CANC boss. A half dozen others leapt to their feet, also screamed in Spanish, and lifted signs with pictures of Shaniqua, and “REVENGE” boldly above her smiling face.
The room exploded. The sudden anger reignited the cries for retribution, which continued outside the church, where Manny and Posada squared off.
“Santeria’s nothing but a tool used by the Cubans! Don’t be a fool,” Poquito said.
Younger and more fit, Manny could drop Poquito with a backhand, but he maintained his poise.
“Mingie, you can’t blame everything that happens on the Cuban government.”
Willy burst out the door ready for battle but was restrained by Lenny and a couple of the other rough-cut young men who’d been at the church yesterday. The tension was thick during the procession to the cemetery, where Jo Jo’s powdered remains were lowered into the coral tomb. Willy’s fears that the missionaries’ deaths would be manipulated to advance other agendas had become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
25
I STOOD UNDER A broad gumbo-limbo tree, back from the crowd. The threats from the blackmailing thieves had worked. Renewed problems with the law, not only for me but my brother, snuffed my ability to search for either the gold or the girl.
A fresh concrete crypt had been poured next to a corner grave belonging to Reverend J. Van Duzer, which for some reason was a big deal. Nearly the entire population of Bahama Village was in attendance, in addition to a smattering of old Conches paying their last respects, not only to Jo Jo but to those still missing at sea. His widow was a skinny woman with a build similar to Jo Jo’s, and his two daughters were both thin to the point of frail. They all had dark black skin, nearly blue in pigment and were all struggling to remain composed.
From my spot under the tree I saw that Lenny was still shaken. He stood near Willy and looked like a pillar of the community. Maybe Conch Man’s political ambitions weren’t so far-fetched after all.
No results from Jo Jo’s autopsy had been made public, but considering the coroner’s initial assessment of foul play, could any of these people be something other than concerned friends? Were the goons here now? Bush and Clinton? If so, were they keeping an eye on me? Had they left the message on Manny’s machine?
Currito Salazar edged up next to me.
“Some shit, huh? What you get for sticking your neck out,” he said.
Was he referring to me or Jo Jo? I aimed my chin at the neighboring plot. “Who’s J. Van Duzer?”
“Ah, the Reverend. First missionary to Cuba. Killed by the Spanish.”
“Listen, Curro, yesterday you said you knew a Sancho.” His eyes narrowed, and he nodded toward Willy like a kid worried he might get scolded by his teacher. “Can you introduce me to him?” I said.
He waved me off and pressed into the crowd.
A rumble sounded from the group. Willy had bent down to close the lid on Jo Jo’s crypt, sending a shudder through the mass of people as if they were a single, living, breathing body. A wail made me wince—had to be one of the daughters. The sobs continued, gradually augmented by others. The sobbing grew louder until the entire crowd was gushing. I felt a hot streak down my cheek.
I watched the widow Jeffries and recalled Jo Jo bungee-corded in place of the lost kayak. A chill made me shiver. Why did the thieves want me off the Carnival’s trail? Had Jo Jo died a hero or a victim? Or a coward?
Afterwards, Willy came up behind me and caught my arm. “The Coast Guard hasn’t found squat. Your plane ready yet?” Dark bags bulged under his eyes.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
Behind him the crowd was in retreat, the placards with Shaniqua’s photo again on display. The anti-Santeros and the anti-Cubans were back to arguing. For Willy, mourning would be impossible. He’d be forced instead to try and keep peace while the authorities investigated. Anger and helplessness pulled at his face.
The six enlarged photographs from the memorial service stood on easels next to Jo Jo’s grave. Four of the pictures were clear and of good quality. One was a strong-looking young black man, Rodney, the Polo-clad Zodiac captain. Another was an old Cuban American, Ortega. Next was a shot of Jo Jo with one of the posters of Shaniqua sharing its easel. The other three pictures were grainy and had the feel of surveillance shots. Pictures of the three crewmen taken when the Key West Citizen covered the Carnival’s departure. I was struck by the realization that not a soul had appeared on their behalf at the memorial service.
I leaned in closer to study their faces. One man was older with a serious expression and had the air of a captain. The picture of the next man was poor, his face turned away, but he was muscular and young, maybe in his late twenties. The final picture took my breath away. The man stared straight into the camera lens. He had matching scars on his cheeks, broad slashes running from his ears down to his chin. Young, under thirty, but with an old emotion chiseled on his face: hate.
He was the only black man on the crew. I tripped over a broken headstone.
J.E.A. Van Duzer
M.E. Church, South
First Missionary to the Cubans
Died
June 7, 1875
22 Years
Don’t give up the Cuban Mission
His last words.
I did a double-take and read it again. The words hit me like a kick in the shin. A moment later, Willy, who was leaving with Jo Jo’s widow, hurried back over to me.
“Can you come by Redeemer in the morning?”
“I don’t think so—”
“But make it early, I’m meeting with Jo Jo’s widow and kids at nine o’clock.”
I took a deep breath. “I can’t make it, sorry.”
“Okay, then come after lunch, I have—”
“Not at all, Willy. I’m off the case.”
His forehead wrinkled, his eyes narrowed. “Off the case? This is my daughter we’re talking about. You’re the only one who can help find the boat.”
I had the sensation of shrinking and wished I could vanish all together. Willy’s expression soured from surprise to what, disgust?
“Something’s come up…I, ah, need to lay low.”
“Lay low, huh?” He spat on the grass. “I guess Manny Gutierrez was right about you. Can’t be counted on or trusted.” He stared at me for a long second and then returned to the widow Jefferies. He put his arm around her trembling shoulders and continued down the path followed by her two young daughters.
Not one to duck a fight, capitulating to the blackmailers had me swallowing back bile. Willy’s reaction made it even worse. I’d caused my share of misery over the years, and it doesn’t feel good. But cowering to blackmailers, and destroying Willy’s hopes to find his daughter was a new low. I was on a roll.
The long-awaited date with Karen could not have fallen on a worse evening. I tried to press Redeemer’s situation into a distant recess of gray matter. E
ven though she’d only asked for some art advice, we’d been building up to something for months. There had been so much riding on the art show when I first suggested it, but now I wished I could call it off.
Van Duzer’s epitaph again flashed in my mind’s eye, its message haunting: Don’t give up the Cuban mission.
26
ASIDE FROM A COUPLE of waiters, Seven Fish was empty. I sat at a table in the corner overlooking Elizabeth Street and awaited a Captain Morgan and ginger. My thoughts turned to the assault and my flight bag cum chicken casket in my apartment. After removing my gear, I’d stuffed the flight bag into the La Concha dumpster, chicken and all. Karen would be appalled. The right-hand glove had indeed been missing from my Rover, the significance of the severed index finger was yet another mystery. If Clinton had his way, though, I was destined to be boiled, whatever that meant.
To the thieves, the value of my stash seemed secondary to forcing me off the Carnival’s scent. An unplanned bonus for them, a kick in the nuts for me. They had known enough about my past to deduce the ledger entries and also the potential of the maps and letters. But if they figured out that the key led to a Swiss bank account, it could produce worse problems. The chicken delivery, statue, and their meaning were unclear, and even though their accents sounded Cuban, because Cuba was also ground zero for Santeria, that provided no insight into their identity.
The waitress brought my drink, and I savored its sweet taste. Karen and I had never spoken much about our pasts, and her reaction to the e-Antiquity IPO memento on my bookshelf left me unsure what she knew about me. Anxiety hit, and I took another gulp. Karen had come to Key West to manage the La Concha. She worked hard at the hotel, but her volunteer work ate up days off and weekends, and at night she vanished.
A back view of a woman in a tight black miniskirt outside the window caught my attention. She was tall, with long wavy blond hair. I scanned her from the three-inch spike heels, up her tanned and perfectly formed legs, past her shapely derriere and graceful arms. Now that was a piece of art. When she turned to the restaurant’s entrance and revealed her profile, I choked on my ice. Karen.
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