“For how long?”
“A week. Two weeks. Whatever it takes.”
He sensed my disinterest. “Not exciting enough for you?”
“I just got back from vacation, Norm. I don’t need another one. Why don’t you just use highflying reconnaissance planes or something?”
“We have been. And we’ll continue to do so until they either leave or we find out just what in the hell it is they’re doing. But we want someone out there, too. Look, Dusky, when you agreed to work for us you had to know it wouldn’t be all excitement; just a handy little ploy to get your revenge and keep your own ass out of jail. You have to take the good with the bad. We need a local man out there, and you happen to be the only local man we have.”
Some choice. “You’re quite a salesman, Stormin’ Norman. So what’s my cover? I rarely get twoweek charters.”
He laughed good-naturedly. “I can’t do all your thinking for you, Captain. You decide.”
So I decided. There was one cover I could use that would allow me to keep an eye on the Cubanos and maybe find out a thing or two about the disappearance of Gifford Remus, all at the same time. I went to the beer locker and got a cold one for me and another for my now off-duty friend. And then I sat down and explained how I was about to turn treasure hunter.
6
There was only one problem with my trying to pose as a treasure hunter: I don’t know a damn thing about hunting treasure.
So what do you do when you don’t know something? You go to the public library, pick up enough background information to ask sensible questions, and then you talk to the people who do know.
The public library in Key West is a stately building with an atmosphere of histrionic grace. In general, the librarians are in love with their jobs, in love with the island, and they are anxious to help anyone who shows the slightest interest in history or adventure—two subjects which seem to go hand in hand in Key West. My librarian was a blond woman in her fifties who smiled as if she knew some wonderful secret no one else could possibly know. Blue eyes, handsome aged face, and severe and maidenly clothing.
“You say you would like some information on treasure hunting in Key West? Hmm. . . .” She smiled. This was, apparently, no unusual request.
“Treasure hunting in Florida, ma’am.”
She shook her head. “No, no, you musn’t call me ‘ma’am.’ Please. It sounds so . . . so old. And librarian-like. My name is Ann. Or Mrs. Tschillard.”
“I think I’ll choose ‘Ann.’ And I’m Dusky. I’ll tell you exactly what I’m looking for, Ann. Technical data. How to hunt treasure; what equipment you’ll need. Stuff like that.”
She put a finger to pursed lips, thinking momentarily. “I really don’t know of anything we have in one volume that could help you. But we do have files on treasure and treasure hunting—much of it cross-referenced to microfilm.”
“That’s fine.”
She walked me back through the long stacks, sat me at a table, and put the promised files before me. “Happy treasure hunting, Dusky,” she whispered.
“If I strike it rich, I’ll give you ten percent.”
She winked and went back about her duties. Must be a pleasant job for the intellectual types or the romantic types. The whole world is at your fingertips; all the adventure and intrigue, complete with statistics, catalogued in a fashion as orderly as Mr. Dewey’s decimals will allow it.
So I went through the data, skimming for technical words; stuff I could use to convince the people with whom I might talk that I was indeed a serious treasure hunter. And there were plenty of data. I had no idea so much treasure had been found in Florida. There were, of course, the famous names: Kip Wagner and Mel Fisher. Together and separately they had found thousands of pounds of lost Spanish gold and silver. They had run amazingly large and complex treasure-finding organizations on a shoestring, both of them displaying remarkable ingenuity. Using makeshift equipment at first, they invented or jury-rigged the gear that wasn’t available or that they couldn’t afford. There were plenty of accounts of other treasure hunters, too—none of them as successful as Wagner and Fisher, but all as persistent. Through personal losses, deaths, and other tragedies, they pushed on. Treasure was the thing. And find it at any cost.
I spent the morning reading and taking notes. Ann stopped back by to make sure I had everything I needed. She brought me coffee, began to leave, and then hesitated.
“Dusky?”
“Yes, Ann.”
“I hope you don’t mind my prying, but I’ve always wondered just what it is that makes people so . . . so crazy about hunting treasure.” It wasn’t a rebuke. She stood by my little table, eyes quizzical. It really was something she couldn’t understand.
And I couldn’t understand it either. But in my role as treasure hunter, I had to try.
“Money is one thing. There are millions of dollars out there, just waiting to be found.”
She nodded. “Oh, yes, I know that—but there seems to be something more to it. You have no idea how many requests we get for the information you have there. Requests from all over the nation. Ohio, Iowa, Indiana—people write or visit from all over, and they all want to hunt for treasure.”
“Well, just for the record, there really aren’t that many who actually search—not seriously, anyway. According to what I’ve just read here, there are probably only forty or fifty active treasure hunters in Florida. Quite a few, I agree. But not that many when you consider the thousands who are interested. I guess for the ones who just read about it, treasure hunting offers some sort of vicarious adventure. You know, armchair thrill seekers. They’ll write for information and plan their expeditions, but nothing will ever come of it—because they don’t want anything to come of it. They probably wouldn’t admit it to themselves, but I suspect they actually invent insoluble problems—financial or other—to keep them home.”
She nodded quickly. “Oh, I know that. In fact—and it’s terribly hard to admit it—I’m rather like that myself. But what about the other ones—the people like you? The men who actually go out and search for it?”
That was a hard one. I had never really met any of the big-time treasure hunters. But I knew plenty of the small-time operators. I tried to piece what I knew of them and what I had read together. “You don’t mind a little more armchair psychoanalysis?”
She smiled. “Of course not.”
“Okay. First of all, treasure hunters—at least the ones I know—are not particularly pleasant people. They seem to be rather snobbish—no, I guess ‘exclusive’ is a better word—about what they do and what they know. Treasure hunting seems to make them feel rather intimate with history and boats and the sea; almost as if in finding treasure lost two or three hundred years ago, they can rightfully make claim to the sea itself. The hunt seems to provide them with a sense of exclusivity. But instead of making them very noble or romantic, it seems to make them very selfish instead. Does that make any sense?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes, it does—everything but hearing it from you. I’m afraid you don’t seem either snobbish or selfish.”
“Give me a chance to find something,” I said. “I expect to become the biggest jerk around as soon as I find something.”
And the nice librarian, Ann, went off chuckling after I had promised to ask for only her if I needed to do more research.
It was lunchtime in Key West. Store employees sat on street benches eating their sandwiches, and the druggies moved through the pale October sunlight in ragged pods, like leaves in slow-motion dust devils. The streets were slow and filled with light and life. Scenic Key West. Indian town, pirate town, fisherman’s town, Navy town, and now tourist town. Sometimes I wonder why I stay.
I was hungry myself, so I stopped at my favorite restaurant—El Cacique—and found I didn’t even have to order. I took my regular seat at the bar and drank the good Crystal beer, waiting for my fried snapper, black beans, and yellow rice to arrive. I saw Rigaberto Herrera sitting towar
d the rear of the crowded restaurant and caught his eye. He waved for me to join him, so I picked up my beer and took a seat.
“I thought you were on a diet, Dusky.”
“I am. But I just can’t seem to keep away from this place.”
Rigaberto had a little demitasse of espresso. He gulped half of it and went to work on his own lunch: some kind of pork cooked with onions and citrus, rice, tossed salad, and fried bananas.
He cut up his meat in neat bite-size pieces, one by one, before he started the entrée, and grabbed some more Cuban bread from the red plastic basket on the table. “Diets! How I hate diets, my friend. Luckily, I don’t have to worry anymore. I’ve become a part of the latest national fad.”
“Roller skating,” I said incredulously.
He smirked. “No, you gringo fool. Jogging. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but it’s true. My wife again. God, why did I have to marry a saint?”
He shoved huge forkfuls of food into his mouth dejectedly, his eyes a parody of resignation. “I just happened to mention to her that I wanted to get back in shape. In Cuba, amigo, I was in excellent condition—”
“Running from Castro’s forces?”
“Hah! That’s not even funny! No, I was in excellent shape because I played soccer. A fine sport—much tougher than our American football.”
“I’d like to hear you discuss that with an NFL linebacker.”
He ignored my prodding and went on. “So my wife, she says, ‘I’ve been jogging a mile or two each night. Why don’t you join me this evening?’ ”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three weeks ago! It’s terrible. The faster I get, the faster she gets.” Rigaberto banged his glass down on the restaurant table hard enough to draw the attention of nearby diners. “But I will not give up! It may take me a year, but her time will come! I will yet prove the superiority of the Cuban male. That I swear.”
My friend ignored my laughter and returned his attention to his lunch. And when my food came, I too turned my full energy to the task at hand. I don’t know how they do it, but the Cubans have a way of frying snapper that makes it a delight beyond description. And add to the snapper a helping of black beans and yellow rice, fresh Bermuda onion, and plenty of fresh lime, and you have a meal that is truly addictive. Rigaberto called for more espresso, then sat back and watched me finish my lunch.
“By the way, Dusky, I contacted the Coast Guard. I told them about Gifford Remus’s camp.”
I took a cold sip of the good Crystal beer. “Any word back?”
He shook his head. “I’ll give you a call at the marina when I hear something. But to tell you the truth, I don’t know if anyone is going to have much time to put into an investigation. It’s sad to say, but one old man’s disappearance from a small boat doesn’t constitute a top-priority crime.” He saw the look in my eye and added hastily, “Don’t get mad at me, MacMorgan. I’m just telling you the truth. This damn island has gone crazy in the last few years. First the hippies came, and breaking-and-enterings suddenly tripled. And then drug-running became million-dollar business, and murders doubled. Now we have a massive number of homosexuals moving onto the island—they think it’s a quaint place, I guess—and the local rednecks have all but declared war on them. Christ, this place is getting worse than New York City, and no small law-enforcement agency, no matter how good—and we are pretty good, I think—can take care of it all. I’m just saying that it would be a lot easier if Gifford Remus just happened to hit a coral head or something and drowned. Because I doubt if it’s going to go any farther.”
I was about to make some cutting reply when a commotion at the front part of the restaurant caught our attention. Funny how someone can raise a loud voice in laughter in a crowded bar or restaurant, and no one notices. But the softest exchange in anger silences everyone, and the emotion moves across the place in a wave. And that’s what was happening now.
There was a table of them: five clean-cut sunburned but rugged-looking tourist types. Four of them looked to be in their early twenties. Blond hair, broad shoulders, all wearing gym shorts, Topsiders, and the kind of T-shirts they sell at the tourist traps. They looked like the backfield of some Midwestern high school football team that had come to Key West to celebrate graduation. The fifth man at the table was an older carbon copy of the others—but he had bright copper-colored hair and, with his red beard and film-perfect Nordic features, looked like a Viking. They all sat with their heads slightly bent, flushed and nervous, while a sixth man—a giant of a Creole-looking guy with greasy, shoulder-length black hair, pocked face, dirty khaki pants and a brutal-looking fillet knife strapped to his waist—berated them in a low voice of rage. In the sudden silence of the restaurant I could hear snatches of their bitter conversation.
“You screwed me, man. You ain’t gonna get away with it. . . .”
“I’m sorry . . . I really am. I had no idea . . .” The man with the copper hair and red beard looked to be partly embarrassed and partly frightened by the encounter.
“Don’t give me that innocent shit, man!” The black-haired giant edged closer, his hand on his knife. He spoke with some kind of strange accent—an accent I had never heard before.
“Look, I’ll help you . . . I think we can reason this out like human beings. . . .”
The voice was still kept low, but it was harsher now. “Screw your reason. I no go to the law—this the kind of reason I’ll give you. . . .”
Rigaberto and I were already moving from the table when the huge Creole reached for his knife, pulling it from its sheath in a wide sweeping arc that almost connected with the throat of the man with the red beard. It was in my mind that the knife thrust was not intended to kill—only to intimidate—but before I had time to get to the table and stop the black-haired aggressor, red beard was already out of his chair. He caught the giant’s arm as it finished its arc, chopped down on the exposed elbow with the cutting edge of his right hand. There was a loud crack like the sound of a frozen tree limb snapping, and then red beard jerked the giant around so they stood back to back, and with one swift motion cradled the huge man’s head in a vise of forearm and bicep, twisting down and away. There was another loud crack: this one moist, hollow-sounding, lethal.
“Hold it! Police!” It was Rigaberto. He held his badge in one hand, his snub-nosed .38 in the other. Diners in the restaurant were suddenly in wild disarray: women screamed, someone dropped a tray of cups and saucers. The man with the red beard looked stunned, then horrified.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Oh my God . . .”
Strangely, the four young men, in apparent shock, had not moved from the table. They looked as if they still waited for their orders to come: mild, expectant.
Rigaberto leaned over the fallen giant, checking pulse and pupils. “Someone call an ambulance!” he yelled.
The red-haired man took a step forward. Sitting at the table, I had underestimated his own size. He was rugged-looking, all right: massive shoulders, fists like hams, and a corded wrestler’s neck. The fallen Creole had, obviously, done some underestimating of his own. “He’s not . . . not dead, is he?” The man truly looked upset, like a kid—unfamiliar with his own strength—who has crushed a baby rabbit.
“I think he’s dead,” said Rigaberto roughly, “but I’m no doctor. Did somebody get hold of the emergency squad?”
People behind the counter scrambled. “There’s one on its way now!”
Rigaberto closed the dead man’s eyes with his fingertips and stood up, shaking his head. I mouthed the letters “CPR?” After all, it wouldn’t hurt to try some first aid.
“Neck’s broken,” Rigaberto said softly. He turned to red beard, who still seemed horrified by what he had done. There are too many of them on the streets now, you know—the YMCA karate experts. They practice their deadly “hobby” once, twice, three times a week while old ladies in adjoining rooms knit or take disco lessons. They know lethal combat only as the fight scene in some old John Wayne m
ovie. Well, red beard’s lessons had suddenly paid off. He now stood as a perplexed victor over the corpse of an adversary.
“I . . . I can’t believe it. I didn’t want to kill him. . . .”
“What’s your name?” Rigaberto asked him.
“Boone,” the man said in a monotone, still looking at the body. The giant lay belly down, his head at a grotesque angle, almost facing the ceiling. “Jason Boone.”
“And where are you from, Mr. Boone?”
“What? Oh . . . Davenport, Iowa. I’m the leader of an amateur underwater archaeology club. We’ve been down here for . . .” He turned to the four young men at the table. “About three weeks?” They all nodded. “Yes, three weeks.”
Rigaberto sighed, covered his mouth, and repressed a belch. Poor cops. They can never get away from it. Bedtime, lunchtime, Christmas day, and the rest, they can never escape the wide swath of violence which moves through this nation daily. The cops are our protectors, our buffer zone from reality. And what do they get for it? Bad pay, bad hours and screams of “Brutality, brutality!” when they finally do snap under the pressure and make a mistake. “Mr. Boone, there’s no doubt you were simply acting in self-defense, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to go down to the office anyway. Just a formality. I’m going to stay here and finish up—get names of some witnesses, and so on—so perhaps Mr. MacMorgan here would walk you down to the Sheriff’s Department?”
He raised an eyebrow at me. I nodded.
“Your four friends here can go back to your motel or your boat—wherever it is you’re staying. You won’t be long.”
Jason Boone bent over the table. Their lunches were still there, half-eaten. “If my wife happens to call from Davenport,” he said, “please don’t say anything about this. All right? I want to tell her in my own way.”
The Deep Six Page 6
