When she spotted me, her smile lit the entry. I felt underdressed in linen pants and a silk shirt. Her outfit warranted a handmade Italian suit.
“Don’t look so shocked. What did you expect, my La Concha uniform?” Her smile was radiant and genuine.
“A Chicken Rescue League T-shirt, maybe.” She smelled of lilac, and the halogen light lit the honey streaks in her wheat-colored hair. I pulled out the chair and she slid in, after a quick glance at my feet.
Was Karen dressed to the nines for Manny or me? I bit my lip. The waiter brought me another drink and took Karen’s order for cold chardonnay.
“And you abandoned your flip flops, I’m honored,” she said. Her interest in shoes was legendary around the La Concha. I teased her about it, called it her fetish, but she refrained from naming the brand I was wearing, so I let it pass.
“How was the funeral?” she said.
“It turned into a—did I tell you I was going there?”
She laughed. “It was in the paper. Made sense you’d be going. I saw the posters with the girl’s face on them.”
Out of nowhere came one of those moments when you imagine your own funeral and wonder who would come. If I died tomorrow, I could only think of a handful of friends who’d show. Karen probably thought of me as a loner or maybe even anti-social and arrogant, but the walls I’d constructed were for survival. The equation added up to loneliness, which hadn’t bothered me much until right now.
“Are you always so observant?”
“It passes the time, studying people, things that happen,” she said.
“Speaking of time, how come I never see you around town after work?”
A look of dismay passed slowly over her face before the smile returned. “What makes you think I’m ever off work?”
“Is that the same bullshit bravado you accused me of?”
“I’m chairing a critical part of Old Island Days, and my work with the Rescue League—”
“Nights, Karen. Chickens sleep. How about Old Island nights?”
She bit her lip. It was clearly a subject she didn’t want to discuss, which only made me more curious. Maybe she was into something I didn’t—
“Okay, but I don’t want everyone to know. I’m a writer, at least trying to be.”
“Writer? Like books?”
“What, you don’t think I’m capable? That I should stick to hotel management?”
She went on to explain that she was writing a mystery-thriller, her first, and that she had a friend who was a former editor at a major publishing house reading it now to offer advice. She had originally come to Key West for inspiration and was using the town for her setting.
“The protagonist is an amateur detective. An adrenaline junkie of questionable repute.”
“But he turns out okay in the end?”
“Too soon to say.” She leaned forward. “Want to read it? I’m normally reluctant to show it to anybody since it’s not finished, but, well, if you do read it, you’ll understand.”
I leaned back in my chair. The news that she was a writer, along with her coming to Key West for inspiration, cast a new light on her. All the volunteer work showed she had a big heart, but writing added…what? Another dimension I found intriguing.
We took our time sharing appetizers, and when the plates were cleared I told the waiter not to rush the main course. We had an hour before the show, and I was in no hurry to get there. I told her about the recent chicken sacrifices, and she was shocked but mostly mad. She promised to check with her associates for ideas on possible culprits. I was tempted to tell her how my life had been turned upside down in the past forty-eight hours, but didn’t want to scare her. Plus, the way my luck had been going, she’d probably have to evict me for importing so much trouble into the hotel.
“Charter, salvage, and detective work?” she said. “You’ll have a big business before long.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Not compared to e-Antiquity maybe,” she said. “But for Key West, it’s not bad.”
“So you know about that?”
“Anybody who follows the news, past and present, knows about your former company. Besides, I had access to your social security number through the hotel. Anybody can Google the public records. But your subscription to the Wall Street Journal that you never read? And the FedEx letter you get every month, from that farm in Virginia? That’s what I’m curious about. It comes and you pay the rent the next day, in cash. Is Fox Run Farm yours?”
I was momentarily tongue-tied. “No, it’s not my farm—”
“Your ex-wife’s?”
“I don’t even get hate mail from her.”
She leaned closer. “What about the—”
“Fox Run Farm’s my brother, Ben’s place.” I held up my empty glass to the passing waiter. “How about some more rum over here?”
“And the paper?”
“I think of it as a memento mori.”
She looked puzzled.
“Consider this your first art lesson. It means a reminder of death, or that we’re all mortal. The paper reminds me of the death of my company, and how greed is the root of so many evils. It’s been a common element in several centuries of paintings, too.”
Her eyes were steady, and a little smile pressed dimples in her cheeks. “Let’s talk about how you can help me with the festival. I’ve been having trouble coming up with unique events.”
“What do you have so far?” I was relieved to discuss anything besides my past.
“Bed races down Duval, a rum runner bust at Mallory Square, a grunt fry—”
“Grunts? Not exactly haute cuisine.”
“That’s what the Conches subsisted on during the Great Depression, and given our economy these days, it might come back in vogue. But you’re right, I’m digging deep. If you can’t help me, I may resort to bungee jumping off the top of the La Concha to start the ceremonies.” We both laughed.
“What do you have in mind?” I said.
She leaned closer. “The offshore races start the same weekend as the festival. I was hoping you could fly me over the starting line to drop a checkered flag, and then we could buzz over to Duval. I could have my cell phone dialed into a P.A. system to announce the commencement—”
“There are restrictions on altitude, Karen. We can’t just buzz Duval Street.” The sag in her smile cut me short. “But, sure, if my plane gets fixed, I’ll help you.”
“I knew you would!”
“Here’s a thought for you. Manny Gutierrez is the reigning offshore champ. Maybe he could do something to help.”
Her expression turned serious. “If he wants to sell art to the hotel, there may need to be some quid pro quo.”
Poor Manny didn’t know what he was up against. Her teeth sparkled in the candlelight, and I found myself imagining us—
“What about you, the salvage business enough to hold your interest, or do you see yourself back in the corporate world someday?”
Her question stopped me cold. “I got sick of life’s routine. The alarm rings, you go to work, the clock hits six, you go home, the alarm rings, you go to work, the clock hits six, you go home. Hamsters on a wheel, that’s all we are. By twenty-eight I was eaten up and spat out by corporate America, so I checked out.”
“Your fall from grace continues to be well documented, but from all I’ve read, the last chapter hasn’t been finished.” Her eyes bore into mine. “You still have skeletons in your closet, flyboy?”
“I don’t know about a whole skeleton. A couple ribs and a femur, maybe.”
The moment passed, and my blood suddenly felt carbonated. Getting the past behind me was a liberating sensation. If she knew about the worst parts, at least she had the decency not to mention them.
Dinner was served. We exchanged bites of blackened grouper and baked yellowtail. “I’ve never flown on a sea plane.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’m really excited you’re going to help, and I promise not to make you break any rules.”
>
The rum had loosened my tongue. “There are only three things I want out of life now. An adventure to live—”
“That explains the airplane.” She held up her index finger.
“A battle to fight—”
“Your salvage missions?” She held up a second finger, and her connecting my dots made me pause. I balked on the third part, suddenly not wanting to share the last of my desires: a beauty to rescue.
“I’m still working on the last one.”
The laser focus returned. “A treasure to find, maybe?”
It dawned on me that Lenny had the same response. I didn’t take it as a compliment. “Yeah, well, used to be.”
“With e-Antiquity and your divorce, at least I understand you better now. I wasn’t sure if you were a loner or on the other team.”
My jaw fell open.
“This is Key West, after all.” She checked her watch.
“I haven’t made that many friends here,” I said. “By choice, I guess, but it suddenly feels lonely.”
She reached forward with both of her soft, French-manicured hands, stopping my heart by wrapping them around mine. She leaned over and the smell of lilac swirled between us. Her eyes were half-lidded, and I couldn’t break free of them to watch her full lips as they parted.
“You’re not alone, Buck Reilly, you’re not alone.”
27
IF KAREN’S ARM WASN’T wrapped through mine, my feet would have been floating above the ground as we walked the few short blocks to Duval Street. My heart felt lighter then it had in ages. The sidewalks were crowded, but my world had shrunk to a five-foot sphere around us. Until the familiar roar of twin in-line engines screamed over our heads.
Betty streaked past at an altitude that would get most pilots’ licenses revoked, unless they were Ray Floyd. Her engines sounded strong and in perfect cadence.
“That’s my girl,” I said.
“So much for those flight rules you were worried about.”
We watched Ray bank over the La Concha.
“What’s with the Christmas bulbs under the wings?” Karen said.
“They’re floats. The colors represent channel markers. Green’s on your right when you’re leaving port, and red’s always on your right when returning home.”
“The right one’s red, does that mean you’re home?”
“Too soon to say.”
Seeing Betty brought all my problems crashing back in an inescapable reality check. Dinner with Karen and discovering her secret passion to write was great but I’d originally planned to come to the art show for answers. Presidential politics changed that. Clinton and Bush in particular. I’d never felt so impotent, but if I wanted to stay in Key West to try and learn their identities and the whereabouts of my GPS and stash, I needed to keep a low profile.
We were nearly at the San Carlos Institute, and under different circumstances I would have felt wined and dined, emotionally charged, and on the brink of romantic discovery. But romance was just another luxury I couldn’t afford. Instead, I wondered how Manny would balance his accusations against the Santeros, since his patrons largely believed in a Cuban conspiracy.
A fight on the sidewalk bled onto Duval Street. A crowd of people had circled, but as we approached, something was missing. There was none of the typical cheering and shoving associated with the street fights of my past. The scent of beer and a cigar filled the air. The elegant façade of the San Carlos Institute rose above the melee of what turned out to be the mob of attendees jockeying for entry into the art show.
Karen scanned the crowd ahead. She stopped to check her makeup in a small mirror from her purse. “The mayor and half the city council are in line,” she said.
Local politicos, heavy hitters, and self-proclaimed big shots, as expected. Karen was drawn to them like an electron to a nucleus. She immediately stepped into her role of Old Island Days Festival promoter.
Down Duval loomed the dark windows of my corner apartment at the La Concha. The image of Betty turning a wing over The Top made me smile. Ray must have managed to avoid a total rebuild of the port engine, thank God.
“I’m Karen Parks, manager of the La Concha,” Karen said to someone in front of us. Standing behind her, I couldn’t see who it was until she stepped aside and pointed to me. “And this is—”
“Buck Reilly! What a surprise.” Rosalie Peña, the director of the San Carlos Institute gave me a bear hug and a wet kiss on the cheek. Over Rosalie’s shoulder I could see Karen’s mouth hanging open.
“My landlady here asked me for some art advice.” I didn’t wink, I didn’t smirk, I just looked at Karen. Her mouth closed.
“Come right in, Buck, and I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Karen Parks.”
Rosalie had already turned toward the door and was pulling me by the hand. I grabbed Karen’s arm, and we passed by the others waiting to get in. The lobby was packed. There was a steady flow of people moving up and down the ornate stairway, but what caught my eye were the missing missionaries’ faces emblazoned on posters hanging on the walls between the paintings. A three-piece ensemble provided a classical background to the cacophony of blended languages.
“You’ve got to meet Manny Gutierrez, the dealer putting on the show? He’s fabulous.” She lowered her voice to a gravelly hush. “And gorgeous, too.”
A big smile bent Karen’s lips. “I’m redecorating—”
“Manny has some wonderful Portocarrero’s and even a Botero, Buck,” Rosalie said. “Are you here to add to your parents’…” She paused. “Did you get their collection?”
“My brother did.”
If what Rosalie said was accurate, then Currito’s description of Manny’s material was way off. By her account, he was at the pinnacle of the Latin art scene.
Karen explained her involvement in Old Island Days to Rosalie and asked if the San Carlos might be available for an event.
“The Institute is about heritage,” Rosalie said. “Not tourism.”
I pointed to one of the posters. “There’s a lot more than art being pushed tonight. I thought Gutierrez didn’t believe that Cuba—”
There was a sudden shout for silence. Everyone turned toward the center of the room where Mingie Posada stood with his arms raised. The mayor was by his side.
“The Cuban government must not get away with murder. Again!”
A murmur of support rippled through the crowd.
“Oh, God, not that jerk,” Karen said.
“Mayor Schwartz has graciously granted the Cuban American National Coalition’s request for a demonstration tomorrow, coinciding with others in Miami, Washington, D.C, and Paramus, condemning this terrorist act against freedom!”
The murmur grew to loud applause. Uh-oh. The CANC had rallied to use this opportunity to denounce the Cuban government. I leaned into Rosalie.
“What does the CANC hope—”
The words froze in my mouth. There was a blue guayabara in the middle of… then another. A quick count found three. Could they be the blackmailers?
A loud clatter echoed through the room, and Manny Gutierrez descended the steps with the speed of a wide receiver.
“Mingie, Mingie, please,” Gutierrez said. “My guests are here for a night of festivity. I allowed the posters, but spare us the rhetoric.”
Posada smiled and took a bow to the loud applause that encircled him. Gutierrez maintained a diplomatic expression. Dressed in white linen, he looked ready for a GQ cover shoot. Every female eye in the room was focused on him, including Karen’s.
Rosalie rushed into the breech, visibly thrilled at the drama playing out at her party.
“You know Posada?” I asked.
“We’ve gone toe-to-toe a number of times,” Karen said. “The sick bastard’s notorious for butchering island chickens and serving them at his restaurant. We’ve pressed the police to raid him, but my guess is he pays them off.”
“Quite the collection of Key West big shots, isn�
�t it?”
“They have good taste, for the most part,” Karen said.
“Shoes?”
Karen puckered her lips, and then smiled. “Your friend Rosalie’s wearing Manolo Blanik, a woman over there has on Valentino.” She nodded toward a tanned man speaking with the mayor. “He has on a nice Santoni loafer, and Manny’s wearing Ferragamo’s.”
“How about Posada?”
She frowned. “Wal-Mart.”
The crowd was boisterous after Mingie’s speech. How would the CANC’s pressure play out? Would the press seize the opportunity and dial-up the paranoia-promotion? Would the president consider Cuba a logical target for their pre-emptive doctrine to get the country’s eyes off the Middle East? Regardless of the recent thaw, Cuba had been a fifty-year embarrassment to American foreign policy, so it surely could, which would be the worst case for Willy. Not to mention me finding my stash.
I snatched two glasses of champagne off a passing tuxedoed waiter’s tray, handed one to Karen, and held mine up.
“To the chickens.”
“So how do you know Key West’s top socialite?” she said.
“Old friend of the family.”
“Friend, huh? She practically licked your face.”
Rosalie was the fifty-something widow of one of the top ophthalmologists in the country, a Cuban émigré who’d dropped dead five years ago, leaving her a small fortune. She was lovely, well connected, and the queen of local entertaining. The San Carlos Institute was the perfect vehicle for her reign.
Karen rubbed lipstick off my cheek, then led me to begin touring the art. A path opened, and it took me a second to realize that everyone was staring at us—at Karen, actually. She was stunning and with her high heels not only taller than any woman in the room but half the men. She was also oblivious to admiring and envious eyes.
“This your idea of laying low?” I turned to find Willy Peebles in a tight-fitting sport jacket and tie. “Wrecker, boxer, and patron of the arts? I might have thought you some kind of New Age Renaissance man, had you not quit on me.”
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