The Last Train to Key West

by Chanel Cleeton

  “That’s it?”

  He grins. “I think it’s best if it is for now. I want to make you happy in this marriage, Mirta. Just give me a chance.”

  He walks away, and I am left staring at his retreating back, torn between relief and disappointment.

  I spend the night reading Anthony’s copy of Tortilla Flat, wondering if he will return to the bedroom, worrying over where he has gone and what he’s doing.

  At some point, I fall asleep, and when I wake, the book is back on the nightstand, the bookmark moved from the spot where Anthony had marked it to where I left off, his side of the bed empty.

  Where is my husband?

  Seven

  Elizabeth

  It’s dark when we arrive at Upper Matecumbe Key, our surroundings considerably less welcome than the ones we encountered in Key West. Here the area is relatively barren, the landscape populated by an odd rickety cottage on stilts. So far I’ve counted more wild animals than people, the heavy brush home to all manner of creatures.

  After our initial attempts at conversation, Sam and I descended into silence for the rest of the journey, but despite my best efforts to ignore him, the closer we get to our final destination, the more I struggle to stay quiet, the starkness of our surroundings setting off a whole host of questions inside me.

  Perhaps it looks better in the light of day with the glittering sun to recommend it, but at the moment, I can’t see it. What would possess someone to come down here?

  “Did you fight in the Great War?” I ask Sam.

  “I did.”

  “You must have been little more than a boy at the time.”

  “I was eighteen. Marched myself down to the nearest recruiting station.”

  “When you came back—were you—”

  “Affected by what I’d seen?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could I not be?”

  “How did you move on?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think of it much, I suppose. I just did.”

  Sam navigates a turn down an even rougher road than the one we were on.

  The farther we drive, the more I begin to doubt the wisdom of coming here without a better plan.

  “Are you going to tell me more about what brought you down here from New York City?” Sam asks.

  “That’s personal.”

  He gives a sharp laugh. “As though you haven’t been trying to excavate my past for the last few hours?”

  “It’s not as though you gave me much to work with,” I retort.

  “You got more than most.” He grins, the gesture softening the harsh planes of his face, making him appear years younger. “Has anyone told you you’re pretty observant?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Well, you are. It’s a good quality; it’ll serve you well in life.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s yet to be of much use.”

  “Why did you come down here by yourself?” Sam asks. “There wasn’t a family member who could travel with you?”

  “There isn’t anyone else.”

  “If you’d like me to accompany you to the camps, I’d be happy to. There are hundreds of men working and living there. Some of them can be a little rough around the edges. It’s not the sort of place you want to be alone.”

  “I’ve spent some time in the company of men. I’m not afraid of a little rough language and crass behavior.”

  “If ‘rough language’ is the worst you’re expecting, then you haven’t spent very much time in the company of these sorts of men.”

  I frown. “‘These sorts of men’?”

  “You should be prepared. The stories coming out of those camps aren’t good. Do you even have a plan to find this man you’re looking for?”

  “I haven’t exactly come up with one. Yet.”

  “Then let me propose that we start out tomorrow morning.”

  I arch my brow. “‘We’?”

  “Yes, ‘we.’ I told you I’d help, and I meant it. You’re going to need someone who knows the area and has a vehicle. From what I understand, there are two main camps where the veterans live on Lower Matecumbe Key and another up on Windley Key. We can start with the one on Windley and work our way down. While most of the veterans live at the camps on Lower Matecumbe, the one up on Windley is where the hospital is. If the conditions are as grim as people say, the odds that he’s received medical attention at some point are high.”

  To his credit, as far as plans go, it’s certainly more than I’ve come up with.

  “How do you know so much about the veterans’ camps?” I ask.

  “I spend quite a bit of time down here. You pick up things.”

  “In your search for bootleggers, gangsters, and smugglers?”

  “You’d be surprised by how often those things overlap. But yes.”

  “Prohibition’s over.”

  “It is, but that doesn’t mean the criminal element has disappeared. It hasn’t even been two years since the law changed. A lot of people aren’t prepared to alter their ways. Just because they aren’t smuggling rum from Cuba doesn’t mean they aren’t still involved in criminal operations. Look at what the mob’s trying to do down there, the influence they hope to build. Do you think they aren’t doing the same in the Keys? There’s still money to be had, and many of them are too greedy or desperate to give up their less savory activities.”

  “How did you get involved in this kind of work?”

  “You could say it’s in my blood, I suppose. My father was a detective.”

  “It must be fascinating.”

  I think of the novels I like to read, the mysteries solved by intrepid investigators.

  “It has its moments,” he replies.

  “And the case you’re on now—how did that come about?”

  “We were part of an agency task force with other groups like the Coast Guard and the Bureau of Prohibition to crack down on the rumrunners. When Prohibition ended in ’33, we still had a list of people we knew were involved in criminal elements and part of larger organizations. We’ve been monitoring them, and given the different trade routes that intersect down here, particularly between the United States and Cuba, there are many opportunities for smuggling.”

  “It’s a whole other world,” I muse.

  “It’s not the Manhattan society set, no.”

  Surprise fills me that he so aptly identified my background. I hardly seem like a debutante at the moment. “Is it that obvious?”

  “It is if you’re paying attention.”

  “So you did notice me on the train.”

  “Of course I noticed you. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I hadn’t. A pretty girl certainly isn’t a hardship to look at.”

  “You didn’t seem that interested.”

  “I don’t mix pleasure with business.”

  A knot tightens in my stomach at the word “pleasure.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “How boring,” I tease.

  He laughs. “Whatever you want to say about my job, I’m not sure ‘boring’ is the word I’d use.”

  His hand is devoid of a ring on that all-important finger, but that means little. Still, I can’t quite envision him with a wife and family at home. There’s little softness to be found in his demeanor or his countenance.

  “Is there a woman waiting for you at home?” I ask, my curiosity getting the best of me.

  “No.”

  “It must get lonely, then, traveling the country by yourself, chasing criminals.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “This man you’re hunting down here. Is he dangerous?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Are you ever afraid?”

  “It’s hard to do this job if you’re scared all the time. There’s danger, su
re, but most of these men are bullies at heart. They want you to fear them, because fear gives them power. The trick is to treat them as though they are only men, to diminish them until their threats and boasts mean little at all.”

  “You like it—the chase.”

  “I do.”

  “Men.”

  “Like you don’t feel exactly the same way.”

  “Me? I’m hardly chasing criminals across the country.”

  Although, I can’t deny it sounds exciting.

  “I saw the way you played with that poor boy on the train, batting him around like a cat with a toy on a string.”

  I sniff. “A cat?”

  “You liked it. Liked the thrill of the hunt. It’s the same urge even if it’s conducted with a peek of your—”

  “You really have no idea how to talk to ladies, do you?”

  “I didn’t realize I was talking to a lady.”

  First I was a cat, and now I’m—

  “I figured you fancied yourself an adventuress of sorts,” he adds. “Much more interesting than a lady.”

  “How many ladies have you known?”

  “If you mean society matrons and the like, none.”

  “I’ve little use for society matrons these days,” I admit. “I’ve sort of been cast out of that world anyway.”

  “Did you shake things up too much?”

  “Something like that. Apparently, there are some rules that aren’t meant to be bent or broken.”

  “It’s their loss, then. I bet you make a very dull society that much more fun.”

  He turns down another road, glancing out the window, the roar of the ocean growing louder.

  “How much longer until we’re there?” I ask. It’s so dark out here; many of the ramshackle houses don’t appear to have electricity.

  “I’m not sure,” Sam replies. “The man at the gas station said it should be up ahead.”

  If my reputation hadn’t already been ruined, this—being alone with a strange man at this late evening hour—would likely do the trick.

  And at the same time, I don’t care. There are no judging stares out here, no whispers to fill my ears with how far my family has fallen, about the honor that has been squandered away. There is only freedom.

  If Frank has come after me, it’ll be that much harder for him to find me.

  I take a deep breath of the ocean air.

  * * *

  —

  “This is it,” Sam says as we pull into the parking lot.

  It’s too dark to judge whether the Sunrise Inn lives up to its name and offers a scenic view, but the exterior appears clean enough, and at the same time, not too expensive for my dwindling finances. The money I saved by driving up with Sam rather than taking the train will help a great deal indeed.

  I’ve been poor for so long, six years since the Great Crash that set everything in motion, that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to not worry about such things, to stay in some of the finest hotels money can buy without blinking an eye. It’s strange how quickly everything can change. How your life can be on one path, and suddenly, you’re on a completely different one with little to no warning at all, ill-prepared for the challenges ahead.

  I follow Sam into the inn after he parks the car, dragging my elegant case behind me.

  “Let me get that for you,” he offers.

  “I have it.” The least I can do is carry my own suitcase.

  Sam’s lips quirk at my reply, but he doesn’t argue the point any further.

  We’re greeted by a man who introduces himself as Matthew and secures us two rooms next to each other, offering to send up a light snack from the kitchen.

  The pie and coffee from Ruby’s were hardly filling, but I plead exhaustion over hunger, needing to conserve my funds—I’ve certainly grown used to the nagging emptiness in my belly.

  My body is stiff as I climb the stairs to my room, the hours on the train, on the ferry, and in the car taking their toll. We part ways at the entrances of our respective rooms, and I walk into the bedroom and shut the door. The room is small and sparsely decorated, but clean enough, the walls paper-thin by the sounds coming from Sam’s room, as I envision him going about the same routine I am: opening his suitcase, removing his nightclothes, stripping the travel-mussed clothes from his body.

  Once I have finished, I sink into the cool, crisp sheets, the sound of the ceiling fan whirring overhead mixing with the waves outside the inn.

  We agreed to meet tomorrow morning to head over to the veterans’ camps together. No matter how many times I said I was fine to go on my own, Sam insisted he was happy to accompany me.

  It’s enough to make a girl think a guy’s sweet on her, although in his case, it’s likely more a matter of duty than anything else, and while I enjoy preserving my independence in theory, I haven’t the luxury for my principles at the moment.

  There’s a rustle on the other side of the wall, a creak of wood, a soft thud.

  I fall asleep.

  Eight

  Helen

  It’s late in the evening by the time my shift ends, the people on the streets changing from locals going about their daily lives to tourists and troublemakers searching for a good time.

  My entire body aches as I walk out the side door of Ruby’s, my feet already protesting the trek home. My apron pocket is filled with a good amount in tips; we kept busy most of the day, the holiday weekend drawing a larger crowd than normal.

  The sky is a cloudy one, the moon nowhere to be found, the prospect of rain in the air.

  A forgotten copy of the Key West Citizen litters the ground, a storm warning on the front page. It was a popular topic of conversation in the diner this evening; hurricane predicting—guessing, more like—is its own sport around these parts. It’s the fishermen who usually know best. When you live and die by the water, you learn to read her tells. If Tom thinks the storm is going to miss us, I’m inclined to agree.

  A rustle sounds in one of the bushes, and I steel myself for whatever manner of wildlife is about to greet me. We share this island with all forms of animals—alligators, deer, snakes, and rats—and while I’ve never begrudged them the space, the dark night is hardly the time I wish to cross paths with them.

  But it isn’t an animal that greets me.

  It’s a man.

  Another rustle.

  Two men.

  I recognize them from earlier today; they lingered over their coffee and pie for longer than most, leaving behind an ashtray of stubbed-out cigarettes.

  “Evening,” the one closest to me calls out, his hat pulled low over his face, moving with the languid ease of a man with booze in his belly loosening his limbs.

  “Good evening,” I reply automatically, my gaze drifting from the first man to the second and back again.

  “There’s no need for any trouble,” the first man says. “We want the money in your pocket, and we’ll be on our way.” His gaze drifts down to my stomach and back to my face. “No need for any harm to come to you or your baby. No need for any fuss.”

  I open my mouth to scream for help, but there’s no sound, panic and fear closing up my throat, my feet rooted to the ground, my body tense.

  The smell of gin coming off him makes my stomach turn. It fairly oozes from his pores, as though he bathed in it, that sticky, sweet, sweaty scent that reminds me of Tom when he’s gone off on another bender.

  As hard as I try to make myself move, run, scream, it’s as though I’m frozen in place.

  “Did you hear me? Give us the money. Now.”

  There’s an edge to his voice, a warning in that word “now” that I recognize intimately, the threat there altogether familiar.

  We need the money, and I don’t want to think about how angry Tom will be if I come home empty-handed, but—

  Wha
t choice do I have?

  I reach into my pocket, fisting my fingers around the coins, my hand trembling as I hold the money out to the man.

  With a quick step, he’s in front of me, his skin on mine as he wrenches the change from my hand.

  I flinch at the contact. My chest tightens.

  “Is that all?” he asks.

  There’s little else to be had. My wedding ring isn’t worth anything, but I begin tugging at it, trying to force it off my swollen knuckle.

  The man in front of me takes a step back.

  A man’s voice fills the night. “Leave.”

  I turn, and my customer from earlier—my regular, John—strides forward.

  “Come on,” the attacker wheedles in response, his accomplice hanging behind him. “We’re not going to hurt her. Don’t want no trouble here.”

  “Then leave,” John says. “Give her back the money. Get out of here.”

  The attacker shifts back and forth on his feet, fiddling with the pocket of his worn pants.

  “This is your last chance,” John threatens.

  “Let’s go, Henry,” the accomplice calls, taking another step back. “Not worth it.”

  “Shut up,” Henry growls, slipping his hand into his pocket.

  John takes another step forward.

  Henry pulls his hand out of his pocket.

  Oh God, he has a knife.

  John jerks his head my way, and I realize I’ve said the words out loud.

  “Please,” I whisper, moving toward John, grabbing his forearm, trying to tug him back toward me, my body shaking.

  Even though the two men are no match for John in size alone, with their number advantage and the size of the knife, the odds have become considerably tighter.

  “It’s only money,” I plead. “It’s not worth—”

  John moves before I can finish my sentence, advancing on the closer of the two men—Henry—with quick, assured strides, likely aided by those long limbs.

  Henry slashes forward, knife in hand, aiming for John’s belly.