Elizabeth smiled at her dearest friend’s enthusiasm. “Then I wish you the best. Now, I for one am starving, so let’s eat.”
They spent the next hour eating and talking, anything to kill time. The party started at eight o’clock. Marlene said they would look juvenile and desperate if they got there early. When the appropriate time arrived, they hailed a taxi and headed to the Chi Phi fraternity house.
Thurman continued, “That was where Elizabeth and I met. She was the most beautiful woman at the party. I was taken with her the moment I laid eyes on her.”
Jacob asked, “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Just listen,” Elizabeth said.
The room was overflowing with well-dressed men and women. Elizabeth looked at her secondhand dress and decided it could rival anyone else’s. While she knew this was trivial, it mattered to her. She wasn’t just the girl at the lunch counter or the waitress who served pizza and beer; nor was she just a book bender. Elizabeth was quite sophisticated in her own way. She’d never been taught any of the practiced social graces; for her, it seemed to come naturally. She decided her dress was perfect, and she planned to enjoy the evening.
Marlene got lost in the crowd in her constant search for husband material, so Elizabeth wandered throughout the downstairs, stopping when she came to a room that was filled with wall-to-wall books. She skimmed the titles, saw several of her favorite authors. She was about to remove Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, one of her all-time favorites, when a hand stopped her. She yanked her hand back, then looked up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
“No touching the books,” the man said to her, smiling, “without introducing yourself first.”
Elizabeth laughed. “And here I was thinking I was about to make a terrible faux pas. I’m Elizabeth Waldie.” She held out her hand. When he clasped it in his strong, lean hand, she was instantly smitten, knowing she’d just met a true gentleman.
“I’m Thurman Tyler.”
Elizabeth looked at their hands, still clasped together. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Tyler.”
“You’re a Hemingway fan, I see?”
He’d noticed the book she’d been about to remove from the shelf.
“I am.”
“This is one of his best,” Thurman said.
“Yes, it is, but there are those who think—”
“Thurman, Thurman, Thurman, you sly son of a bitch! It’s not like you to have a piece of tail lined up so early in the evening! You plan on sharing?”
Elizabeth was mortified, and it must have shown on her face because Thurman turned to the short stocky guy who’d been so crass and punched him squarely in the nose.
Elizabeth was sure her night was ruined. After bloodying the man’s nose, Thurman removed a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to him.
“Carlton Staggers, if I ever hear you speak this way again in front of Miss Waldie, you will live to regret it.”
The man, Carlton, mopped his bloody nose with Thurman’s handkerchief, then walked away without even bothering to apologize.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am for Carlton’s behavior. He’s obviously had too much to drink.”
Incredulous, Elizabeth asked, “You know that man?” He didn’t look like the type a man like Thurman Tyler would befriend.
“He’s been my roommate for the past two years.”
“Carlton never forgave me for busting his nose that night. Said I’d ruined his chances of meeting a decent girl. For the most part, we remained friendly, but Carlton had a chip on his shoulder. He had transferred from Harvard to Florida State after his freshman year and joined the fraternity second semester sophomore year. After graduation, he stayed on to attend law school. For the rest of our senior year, he harassed Elizabeth whenever the opportunity arose, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. After college, Elizabeth went to work in New York City, and Carlton Staggers was forgotten about. Elizabeth and I married three years later and returned to Florida, where we’d decided to make our home. When I ran for Congress in 1966, he appeared out of the blue. He asked to work on my campaign. At first I told him no, as I’d never forgiven or forgotten what he’d said about Elizabeth the first night we met. He convinced me that was nothing more than booze, and I relented. He was good at what he did, so I hired him as my campaign manager.
“I won and no longer needed him, at least not until the next election came along, but he just couldn’t let it go. He wanted to work for me, he said, telling me I was his only friend. Well, sucker that I am, I hired him in numerous positions throughout the years. He always performed, I’ll give him that much.” Thurman stopped when he saw tears streaming down his wife’s face. “If you want me to stop, I will.”
She simply shook her head. “No, just finish what you started. Jacob needs to know this.”
“When we married, I discovered I couldn’t father a child. It was tough at first, but we both decided we could always adopt, and we were so busy trying to build my career that a child would have been in the way.
“After I won my second term in Congress, we were all high on the win. Elizabeth had arranged for a huge celebration. It was the best; life couldn’t have been better for us. Later that night, Elizabeth and Carlton had words. He’d had too much to drink, as was becoming the norm for him. She asked him to leave, even going as far as to escort him to his car. She was as brash then as she is now.” Again, Thurman smiled at his wife.
“Just say it, Thurman, this has gone on too long. Get it over with,” Elizabeth insisted.
He took a deep breath and downed the last of his scotch. “Carlton attacked Elizabeth that night. And that was the night Lawrence was conceived.”
Chapter 22
In spite of all the negative factors currently at play, Tyler couldn’t stop himself from being just a little bit excited. He was going to Sloppy Joe’s tonight to meet up with Nancy Holliday. He wasn’t going to allow the son of a bitch who was blackmailing him to ruin his evening either. He knew the chances were good that his secret caller would be watching him, and Tyler hoped to hell he would recognize the son of a bitch since they’d arranged to meet there. But as far as Tyler was concerned, the entire deal was off.
It no longer mattered to him if he was fired and chased out of town with his ass between his knees. Well, to be completely honest, it mattered, but not as much as it once had. He was tired of fighting the endless battles and never winning the war. And he wasn’t going to ask his father for one red cent. He had plenty of money of his own, but half a million bucks wasn’t in his budget, and even if it were, he would not pay the jerk who had made his last few days miserable.
However, he wasn’t finished with Kate Rush and Sandra Martin. He would ruin that pair if it was the last thing he ever did. He’d virtually begged the Rush bitch to listen to him when he’d showed up at the cop’s place. He even tried to appeal to her sense of duty, or he thought he had, but she still refused to relent and listen to what he had to say. When all was said and done, he would take care of Kate Rush. And that was it.
For the rest of the evening, Lawrence Tyler was going to be Lawrence Tyler, whoever the hell that was. Right now, he was content to be the guy Nancy Holliday had met on her way to Key West.
He dressed in the soft worn denim jeans he’d purchased at the secondhand store and a white dress shirt. He left the two top buttons undone and rolled up the sleeves for a casual look. Eyeing the dirty sneakers he’d tossed in the closet, he had a change of heart. He wanted to look casual, snappy, like everyone else in Key West, so he opted for a pair of the leather flip-flops he’d purchased at that tacky tourist gift shop. He slipped the newly purchased Ray-Bans around his neck, grabbed his wallet, along with the keys to the rental car and his room key. As he was about to lock the door behind him, he remembered his cell phone. He ran back inside and grabbed it off the small dressing table. He’d keep it on vibrate. The last thing he wanted was a call from the blackmailer while
he was getting to know Nancy Holliday.
Tyler jogged downstairs and outside onto the front porch of the bed-and-breakfast. The warm evening air was a pleasant surprise. It had been so hot and humid the past two days that Tyler wondered why he’d ever considered living in Florida again. He’d hated it when he had to spend time here as a kid, especially when he was trotted out for his father’s political campaigns, and when Jellard had assigned him to the Miami office before he turned the tables and ended up switching places with Jellard, Tyler had hated it even more.
Inside the Mustang, he poked a few knobs to lower the rag top. He cranked up the engine, found an oldies station playing The McGuire Sisters singing “Teach Me Tonight.” He smiled, thinking about how fitting that song was. He cranked up the volume and drove the short distance to the other end of Duval Street. Lady Luck was with him, and he found a parking spot on the corner of Greene Street, mere feet from the famous Hemingway hangout. He didn’t bother closing up the rental. He’d taken out insurance. If anyone wanted to screw with it, so be it.
He walked the short distance to Sloppy Joe’s, where the music was so loud it could be heard several blocks away. He frowned, thinking the environment sure as hell wasn’t conducive to getting to know Nancy Holliday unless they used sign language. If she showed, maybe he could convince her to take a stroll on the beach. Later, of course. He didn’t want her to think he didn’t like the loud music and party atmosphere. He couldn’t have cared less about the racket, but he truly did want to get to know the woman better. For some reason, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head. Normally, he was with a different woman every other night. He was lucky if he remembered their names. But not this time. He checked the time on the watch he’d purchased at the drugstore—7:50.
He stood outside on the sidewalk in front of Sloppy Joe’s, hoping to spot Nancy or someone whom he would recognize as his blackmailer. He stood there for twenty-five minutes, his mood turning more sour by the second. Fuck it, he said to himself as he went inside. It was eight fifteen. Nancy wasn’t going to show, and it looked as though his blackmailer wasn’t going to either. He found a beat-up wooden barstool at the bar. The bartender, a young guy with a pierced lip and tongue and a Mohawk, wiped the bar off in front of him, slapped down a wet cardboard coaster, and said, “What ya havin’?”
Tyler rolled his eyes. “I’ll have a glass of white wine.”
The bartender smiled. “Ahhh, one of those types.” He turned his back to Tyler, reached for a wineglass on the rack above him, then stooped so low Tyler lost sight of him for a few seconds. When he popped back up, he had a bottle of white wine in one hand. He set the glass on the coaster, filled the glass. “You wanna run a tab?”
“What did you mean when you said I was ‘one of those types’?”
The bartender shook his head. “Aww nothin’, man. Most of the dudes that come in here don’t drink wine. They’re beer drinkers. You look classy, ya know?”
Tyler smiled. He’d thought the bartender might’ve thought he was gay. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Thanks, man, I guess you could say that.”
“Cool. You just raise your hand when you’re ready for a refill.”
Tyler nodded. He positioned himself so he could watch the open area that led outside. Throngs of people walked the streets. Some wore bathing suits, others wore the usual attire: shorts, flowered shirts, and flip-flops. He heard a horn honk, someone hollered, “Fuck off,” and a loud group of underage girls giggled as they passed by the open door. Key West had something for everyone, he thought as he stared out at the busy street. Except him. There was nothing here for him. Hell, the goddamn blackmailer hadn’t even bothered to show up. He turned around, raised his hand in the air so the bartender could see. The bartender waved, held up his index finger indicating to him he’d be right there.
No longer interested in the nightlife in Key West, Tyler turned his back on the open door. He’d have one more glass of wine, then head back to the guesthouse. He removed his phone from his shirt pocket, checking to make sure he hadn’t missed a call. Nothing.
A group of rowdy drunks, who’d been taking up most of the seats at the bar, apparently decided to move on to the next watering hole, leaving Tyler as the place’s only patron other than those who were seated at the few tables scattered about. There were thousands upon thousands of business cards stapled all across the walls, the ceiling; everywhere one looked, there was a business card. Wanting to leave his mark, Tyler opened his wallet in search of his official Miami District Chief Officer of the Drug Enforcement Administration card. When he located one, he deliberately left it on the bar for a few minutes, hoping the bartender would see it. He tossed the card out there, waiting for his refill; then maybe he’d have someone to converse with while he finished his drink.
The bartender mopped up the spills at the end of the bar, then tossed his towel on a counter behind him. He bent down and grabbed the bottle of white wine. “Sorry, dude, those people were drinkers. This one is on the house.”
Tyler watched him pour the vanilla-colored liquid in his glass. Frankly, he thought each drink deserved a fresh glass, but this was Key West. Normal social graces and manners probably weren’t much in evidence in places like Sloppy Joe’s. He was about to take a sip of his wine when a loud female voice caused him to wince.
“I can’t believe this shit!” Sandra Martin said, as she and Pete Kelly pulled up to the bar.
Damn! Sandra Martin and Pete Kelly.
Wanting to keep his cool, Tyler looked over to where they were sitting. “I should have known. You’ve always had a big mouth.”
“Well, you just kiss my . . . my . . . you know what, Lawrence Tyler. Aren’t you supposed to be capturing drug runners and bullying female DEA agents?” Sandy slid onto the barstool with Pete’s assistance.
“Buzz off, Martin. I came here to relax,” Tyler said as casually as he could. Inside, he was shaking like a leaf. If Sandra Martin was here, chances were good that bitch Kate Rush wasn’t far away. If, and it was a really big if, Nancy Holliday walked through the open entryway, the last person he wanted to be seen with was Kate. No doubt she’d tell the entire bar how she’d kicked his ass.
“Good, because we did, too. Right, Pete?” she asked Pete, who was standing behind her.
“We’re here to have a beer, that’s it. Nothing more,” Pete said pleasantly.
“Good. Enjoy yourselves,” Tyler said in the usual prissy tight-ass tone he reserved for people he didn’t like—lately just about everyone.
Pete nodded.
“I don’t think I can stay here, Pete. Let’s go to the newer Sloppy Joe’s. Wanna?”
“Whatever you like, Sandy,” Pete said.
“Hey, Lawrence, we’re going to the other Sloppy Joe’s. Have a nice night.” Sandy hopped off the barstool and left without another word.
Another Sloppy Joe’s? What the hell! I thought there was only one Sloppy Joe’s in Key West!
He tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and left in such a hurry he forgot to staple his card up along with the others. Screw it, he said to himself.
Once outside, he had to ask a group of young twentysomethings where the other Sloppy Joe’s was located. “It’s not really Sloppy Joe’s; it’s where the original owner started his bar, but the locals call it the other Sloppy Joe’s,” said a young guy who seemed to be the only sober one in the bunch.
“Do tourists usually know about this?” he asked before he walked away.
“Hell yeah,” one of the drunks in the group called out. “It’s right around the corner.”
Tyler didn’t bother thanking them. He ran around the corner, where he saw a small sign that read ORIGINAL SLOPPY JOE’S.
He hurried inside but was surprised when he saw that the place was empty. Shit! His luck couldn’t get any worse. He was about to make his exit when a woman of an undeterminable age poked her head out of what must have been a small office. “Hey, don’t leave, we’re just opening up for the nig
ht.”
Tyler stopped. “Sure. What time do you usually open?”
“Nine o’clock sharp.”
Not sure if he should stay or if he should hightail it around the corner to the known Sloppy Joe’s, Tyler figured what the hell. “Okay, just let me have a Coke. I have to drive a boat later tonight.” A lie, but it was a good one.
“Sure thing,” the woman said, reaching inside a large cooler for a small bottle of Coke. “You want a glass and ice?”
“Nope, this is good,” he said, and meant it. He hadn’t had a small Coke in the little pale green glass bottles in ages. He tipped the bottle up to his mouth, downing the entire bottle in one long gulp. He took another twenty from his wallet and gave it to the woman. “Here you go. That hit the spot.”
She took the money and went to an old-fashioned cash register at the end of the bar. “Keep the change, really. I wonder if you could do me a favor?” He watched her and saw the look on her face. “It’s nothing weird, trust me.”
She smiled and walked over to the small table he stood by. “Look, buddy, I’ve heard every line in the book. What some think isn’t weird is, so what is it you want?”
Tyler removed his last DEA agent card from his wallet and gave it to her. “I was supposed to meet a friend at Sloppy Joe’s at eight o’clock. I’m not sure if she’ll show up here, but if she does, tell her to call me.”
“So does this gal have a name, a description?” She picked up the card but didn’t look at it.
“Yes, sorry. Homespun type of girl, nice brown hair, tanned. Her name is Nancy Holliday.”
The woman looked at the card. “Hot damn, you’re DEA?”
That’s more like it, Tyler thought. “Yes, I’m undercover so . . . well, tonight I was taking a bit of a break. Was supposed to meet Nancy, but I think we may have gotten our wires crossed. If you see someone who resembles her, ask her if she’s Nancy Holliday and just give her my card.”
Southern Comfort Page 22
