“Way I heard it, he lived someplace way up north like Toronto, Canada. Everyday he drove to the same crappy job on the same road and everyday he fantasized about turning south and just driving until he ran out of road. Then one day he hauled off and did it.
“Drove all night and all day and fell asleep in his car right over there at the marina. He woke up when the big boat he’d parked next to fired up its engines at four in the morning. He wandered over and talked to the captain waiting for his crew. They never showed, so Jimbo hired on for a week of grouper fishing.”
I looked up from my pie at Consuelo who had a large lemon slice clamped in her teeth and was giving me a bright yellow grin. I took this as a compliment on my narrative and continued.
“Turns out the grouper they were after were the highly prized, though highly illegal, Square Grouper, a species that usually migrates from places like Columbia on big rusty tankers. The way Jimmy told it, the freighter was a few days late so while they sat out there offshore the captain taught him how to play guitar. They finally loaded the boat so full it was about to sink, and stoned to the gills they came easing back in. Almost made it, too.”
Consuelo had both hands in her lap, doing something.
“Got just off Sombrero Key and lost the boat in a bad squall. Jimmy and the captain washed ashore along with most of the pot and Jimmy’s share was enough to buy a boat of his own. Several trips offshore later he had enough money saved to retire in style, so instead he proceeded to set the World Land Speed Record For Pissing Away Money and in a few weeks was as broke as the day he fell asleep in his car at the marina.”
The waitress came by and started taking the plates. Consuelo showed the lady her hand.
“Could I get a clean fork? This one’s dirty.”
A fork seemed to be sticking out of her hand, complete with very realistic-looking ketchup blood dripping on the table. The waitress gave me a tired look, then retrieved the fork and carried it off with the dirty dishes. Consuelo stuck her tongue out at the departing waitress then stared at me with exaggerated attention.
“So how did Jimmy Redd get that cute little sailboat, the Herring?”
“The up side of going though that much money that quick is Jimmy made a lot of friends in every bar in town. He started playing guitar in bars, and with his luck holding, a vacationing big time record industry type seen him one night at the Hog’s Breath Saloon and signed him on the spot. Jimmy flew out to California, cut a record, and came back to Key West with a nice check. The next day the big shot was arrested in some kind of payola bust, made bail, and cut town. No one knows what happened to the guy or the record. In the meantime Jimmy bought a sailboat with the money.” I finished off my desert just in time to wrap up the story.
“These days the man’s happy as a beaver with a chainsaw. Always sitting around in the shade with a lazy smile and a drink in his hand, or strumming that guitar for some young ladies over on his boat.”
Consuelo was giving her drink straw a slow lick. “Yeah, us young ladies like a man with a big, uh, boat.”
I rolled eyes at my tablemate, then spied the waitress across the room.
“Check, please!”
♦
I had to make a run up to the marine supply store in Marathon, and on the way back got to once again experience a phenomena unique to the Keys. Since U.S. Highway 1 is the only road and a lot of it is still two lanes, any kind of serious wreck, especially on a bridge, is an automatic and often prolonged timeout for traffic in both directions. I usually keep a crossword puzzle book as well as a spinning rod and reel in my truck for just that reason.
So whenever traffic stops, everybody pretty much just shuts their vehicle off right away. Some get out and walk up and down the row of cars to visit with people they know. Small groups usually form around anyone with a CB radio trying to find out what’s going on causing the jam.
I kicked back and did a few crosswords since where I’d stopped wasn’t much of a place to fish.
A few weeks earlier I’d been in a similar situation a bit further down the road near Bahia Honda. That day it was almost dark and it looked like a long one. Since there was a dire shortage of restrooms in the vicinity, I grabbed my fishing pole and went to kill a couple of birds.
With my fishing pole under one arm I was hiding behind some mangroves adding to the tide when I heard a moan mixed in with the waves lapping the shore. I ignored the sound, figured a sea bird or such, but when I heard it again I turned on my little flashlight. I could barely see a hand sticking out of the mangrove branches. I would have called 911 right then, but I’d left my cell in the truck.
I got my feet wet fighting my way into the mangroves and the guy was a real mess. Older man, wispy gray hair and skin to match. The only color on his face a big blue crab with its claws out defending its prize. He was so tangled in branches I wasn’t about to try to get him out, but got the crab off and tried to get him to come to. All I got was more moaning.
“You hang in there, partner. I’ll go see about getting some help.” I started to straighten up and go for the phone when a hand grabbed my ankle.
“Wait!” Sounded like he gave it his all and it still came out raspy and weak. I told the old guy everything would be okay, I’d just go call the cops and be right back.
“No cops!”
For someone who looked so dead, he had a very persuasive grip on my ankle. He let go, grabbed my shirt next and pulled me down close to his face.
“You get me out of here, just you, no cops!”
My first thought was the bottle of Scope with the groceries back in my truck. My second thought was from now on I’d try fishing on the other side of the road.
He rallied a bit and talked me into dragging him out of the thicket. He came out easier after I used my folding pliers and knife tool to cut the wire holding the concrete block to his feet. His wrists had also been wired together.
After I got him laid out on a comfortable piece of sand-spur covered ground, I went to get the phone and drive my truck off to the side of the road since traffic had started to move. I brought him some water and a little food. He told me a number to call and took the phone when someone answered. I had to tell him where we were, then he told someone to come pick him up. After the old fella gave my phone back he asked if it would have that number in its memory. I checked and told him yes. He said to memorize the number and then erase it from the phone. So I did while he ate some crackers and drank some water. He had to be in a lot of pain, but seemed to revive some.
When asked, I told him I lived in Key West and aspired to be a writer. A wiry hand pulled me close.
“Sooner or later you’ll be blocked. It’ll come up when you least expect it and bite you on the ass. You have to fight back then, and do what desperate men have always done – steal!”
He grabbed my arm and looked at my watch. “You need to get out of here.” He didn’t have to say it twice. I stood to leave but he had one more thing to say. “You ever need anything, anything at all, you just call that number. I owe you big.”
We exchanged names and handshakes.
And that was how I met Anthony Cravinino, who the media dubbed Tony the Crab during the mob war that started the next week.
∨ Key Manatee ∧
Ten
It wasn’t bad as far as funerals go. JB had a lot of friends and would be missed. Despite the bluebird skies and gentle breeze, the funeral had put a pall on the day. Funerals are like that.
Consuelo dropped me at the marina then took off with Slip. To drop him at the convention hotel would be my guess.
I opened up the old houseboat and since funerals tend to make me thirsty, I headed for the beer locker. Home never looked so good since Consuelo had come down with a case of the domestics the day before and tidied the place up while I was gone to the marine supply store.
Beer in hand, I plopped on the comfy old couch and had a long, slow swallow. I looked up at the shelf where I kept the statues and they were
gone. The service for JB had brought back the memory of our rather unsettling discovery out on the water, and I’d only been about half listening to Consuelo coming back in the car. When I saw a row of books on the shelf instead of the three little idols I remembered she’d said something about putting them in a safer place. I just didn’t remember where. I changed clothes and spent the rest of the day sanding and painting an area on the upper deck.
That night I was lying in bed thinking about the rather short phone conversation I’d had earlier with Mary Ann. I was about to drop off when I felt the slightest movement on the boat. I had company.
I eased out of the big bed, slipped on some shorts, then found my heavy cop flashlight right where it was supposed to be. The club shape of the light felt reassuring in a primeval way. Peeking out a window I could just make out a dark figure on the back deck. A woman, looking undecided about knocking on the cabin door. I kept the lights off and went into the main room. My big toe sent me a sudden and very painful reminder that Consuelo had moved some furniture during her cleaning frenzy. Even though I was expecting a knock on the door, the sharp rapping came just as I was suppressing a banged-toe yelp, and startled me enough I made a sound not unlike the yip a small dog would make.
“Anyone home? Taco Bob, are you in there?” I limped over and cracked the door an inch. “Taco Bob? My name is Julie Brown, I know it’s late, but can I come in? I really need to talk to you.”
I flipped on a light and gestured toward the couch with the flashlight, which I then noticed had somehow turned into the big sex toy Slip found in the clothes locker once. I wasn’t the only one to notice.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Now she was looking at my shorts, which I realized were on backwards. I reached behind and zipped them up. “I need to ask you something important, but if you need a minute.”
I mumbled about being right back and limped into the bedroom.
While making some wardrobe adjustments and getting my bed hair under control, I made a mental note not to let Consuelo clean up anymore. I still had to find out what she’d done with my flashlight.
After I made myself a bit more presentable and did a quick toe inspection – bruised, but not broken – I went back to my late night guest. A mighty fine-looking guest I might add, still sitting on the couch and looking around the room.
“Do you have a dog? I thought I heard a dog.”
“Uh, no. That was my, uh, doorbell. What did you say your name was?” The young lady not only looked fine with dark hair down past her shoulders and big brown eyes, but she also looked familiar.
“Julie Brown, I’m JB’s sister.” Bingo. Except now she didn’t have the big hat and sunglasses, though she was still dressed in black. “You were at the funeral today.”
“Yes. I’m real sorry about your loss. I didn’t know JB, but folks around here spoke well of him.” She seemed nervous, so I went into the galley. Nothing calms like refreshments.
“I heard you’re the one who found his body.”
I set up a tray with sodas, crackers, and fish spread. I had to talk loud from the galley.
“Offshore. But it’s not something I want to go into, and I’m pretty sure it’s not something you want to hear about.” I came back into the lounge and set the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, then took a chair within easy reach.
“That’s not why I came here, Mr. Bob.” I motioned toward the refreshments and she didn’t hesitate to dive in.
“Please, call me Taco.”
“Okay, Taco.” She started smiling and making little moans of approval at the spread. She loaded up another cracker and so did I.
“This is really good! Did you make this?”
“As a matter of fact.” I unfurled my best modest smile. “So, Julie, it’s Julie, right?” She gave me a nod and a dismissive wave. We were both going at the crackers and spread. I was glad I’d decided to bring out a full pint container. At one point we both went after the spread knife, I gave her a sweeping ladies first bow and saw a quick smile, there and gone.
“So, Julie, you heard about my famous smoked fish spread and decided to stop by in the middle of the night, is that it?” We both had a good nervous laugh and she started loading up another cracker.
“Oh, no. I just wanted to tell you I think I know who killed my brother. They tried to kill me and will probably come after you next.”
♦
Ten minutes later, after we’d determined that I most likely wasn’t going to die from gagging on a spread-laden cracker, I asked her if she could perhaps elaborate.
“JB had a lot of friends, but he had some enemies too. You probably know he was planning to run for mayor next year.” I gave a nod from the floor like who didn’t know that. “Some of his campaign promises were upsetting people. One thing he wanted was more health department inspections of the bars. He also vowed to rid Key West of Voodoo, and ban shark fishing.”
I looked up from cleaning the floor of the refreshments I’d sprayed a few minutes earlier.
“I can see where that might tend to get certain folks a mite upset.” Or a lot upset.
“And he wanted to clamp down on the realtors and developers. Especially the ones planning the big project off the southern end of the island.”
This I had heard about. According to the newspaper, a big developer had found a way to overcome Key West’s biggest real estate problem – the lack of available land to build on. At one time Hong Kong had a similar problem, so they brought in a huge amount of fill dirt and built a few square miles of land for their new airport. Supposedly, the developer for the Key West project planned to do the same thing, just on a much smaller scale. Rumors had the developer buying an island in the Bahamas and barging it over to get around a loophole in the dredging laws. I couldn’t see how they’d ever get past the environmentalists with something like that though.
However, I sure could see where it would be a developers wet dream – acres of bare land in one of the most choice, not to mention expensive, places in the country.
“So you think someone killed your brother because of his upcoming political campaign?” Before she could answer, I had more. “Maybe first you should tell me about someone trying to kill you, and why you think your brother’s death wasn’t an accident. The last I heard the official cause of death was drowning, and the police didn’t have any reason to suspect foul play.”
“Well, my brother was an excellent swimmer.” Like that explained everything. She’d gone back to eating spread and crackers. “And a few days ago when I was driving here from Miami to take care of my brother’s things, a big truck almost ran me off the road as I was going up on one of the bridges. I hope you don’t mind, this stuff really is great.”
“No, you can have my share, I seem to have lost my appetite.” She was really wolfing the stuff down. “So you think your brother was murdered because he drowned and the big truck was the same people?”
“Of course! What other explanation could there be?” I could think of several right off. “And before you ask, I did tell the police about it and they said they’d get back with me. They never did.”
“And you think someone might be out to get me as well?”
She had a loaded cracker in each hand and some spread on her chin. “Well, you did find the body. I saw a movie once where the killer went after the person who found the body. It makes perfect sense.”
I looked at the clock on the wall. It was getting late. “Julie, you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately and a good night’s sleep might not be a bad idea. Get yourself some rest and things will probably look a lot better tomorrow.” I noticed she’d eaten almost the whole bowl of spread. “Where are you staying?”
“At my brother’s house, over by the Southernmost Hotel.” She gave me the sad eyes. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“No, I think you’ve probably been through a lot the last few days. Do you have a car?”
She nodded and looked about to cry as
I got out my card. “Look, here’s my phone number. Get some sleep and give me a call in the morning if you want to. I can stop by, I’ve got friends I haven’t seen in a while that work in that area. I was planning on bringing them some spread sometime in the next couple of days anyway.”
She managed to hold back the tears and came over and gave me a big hug.
“Thanks for letting me talk. I really appreciate you listening to me so late like this.”
I walked her out to her car where I got an even bigger hug and a promise she’d get some sleep then call me in the morning.
∨ Key Manatee ∧
Eleven
“I got a nice tip yesterday guiding, how about we head over to Gov’s. My treat.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I think I should stick around a while longer. I’m expecting a call.”
“You? You’re buying?” Consuelo had been working on a sulk since I’d mentioned as delicately as I could about her not cleaning up the houseboat anymore. Even changing that to at least not moving the furniture hadn’t helped, so I was glad Slip had come up with his unheralded offer. It got her thinking about something else. “Taco, whoever it is can just leave a message. We don’t dare miss out on this.” She turned a fierce look on Slip. “You really have money? This isn’t some kind of joke?”
Slip pulled a handful of bills from his shorts. My turn to get the fierce look from under blond hair.
“Consuelo, can we give it ten more minutes? If she doesn’t call by then we can try to find her place before we go eat.”
“She?” Both of them saying it at the same time.
“I had a visitor last night.”
Slip motioned for a time-out and ran down the ladder. Consuelo practiced giving me a dirty look while I tried to ignore her and look around at the comings and goings of the marina from the upper deck of my houseboat on yet another perfect postcard day in the tropics. Slip came back and generously offered me one of my own beers, then one for our frowning companion before opening one for himself.
Key Weird 04; Key Manatee Page 6
