Bone Island Mambo (21 page)

“Make your first call.”

“Amazing.”

“Use it don’t abuse it. They never catch on.”

“How’d you . . . ?”

He swiped at his filthy clothing with the backs of his hands. “I wasn’t always like this. I was a sparkling kid, a young man. I had jobs and wives and children. I had a future. I climbed Mount Whitney. I owned a Morris Minor
and a Triumph Bonneville motorcycle. I could take that cycle apart and put it back together blindfolded. My last job was at BellSouth. I kept a token of their appreciation.”

Survival.

I paid the machine, dialed Teresa’s office. In the time it took to be routed to voice mail, I observed Fecko’s battle with gnats. They hadn’t bothered me. I realized there were no gnats, probably hadn’t been any gnats. The bugs were characters in Fecko’s continuing nervous tic. I hung up, recycled the coins, called Teresa’s condo. Got her.

“Look, I’m sorry about lunch.”

“Me too,” she said. Unpleased.

“I’ve got a huge favor to ask.” I tried to sound desperate. “I’m stranded on Stock Island, and I’ve got company.”

“I don’t want to know her name.”

“It’s a gentleman who may have info on the decapitation murder.”

“You playing detective?”

“Somebody’s got to do it. But I need to warn you. He’s running short on hygiene. Have you got access to the city’s car?”

“Your ride will arrive shortly. Wear dark glasses and change your name. I’ll explain when I see you.”

I thanked her. My next call was to the house. Three messages. The first from Marnie Dunwoody: “The car in the water? I did what you asked. I didn’t connect your name to it. Near as I can tell, no one else did, either. It was an old Nissan Maxima, showed on a hot list, stolen in Boynton Beach. Here’s the nut. It was swiped from Dexter Hayes’s ex-partner in the police department up there. The new captain of the Boynton SWAT Team. Dexter’s in a rage. I’m not sure it’s because of that. Sam says to keep your sails high and the wind on your quarter. Thanks again for supper the other night. Talk to you later.”

Another love note from Liska: “Your silence is deadly. Once a month I reevaluate my friendships. It’s part of politics. I already forgot your name.”

Finally, Mercer Holloway. “Alex, I hoped we’d pitch in
to get this done on schedule. Are you still in town, or have you run off for a week in Cuba? I’ve called a man in Tampa who’ll get me a quote by noon tomorrow. You’re still my first choice. Please contact Donovan if you wish to participate. If you choose otherwise, I would recommend you don’t cash that check.”

I called local information—what luxury, a freebie—got the number for Schooner Wharf. I called there and asked for Dubbie Tanner. It sounded as if the bartender—a woman whose voice I didn’t recognize—did not want to admit Dubbie was at the bar. I began to describe him . . .

“Hold on.” It was more of a grunt, like “Hldn.”

“Jeb Bush for President, Campaign Headquarters.”

Dubbie Tanner lived out of the trunk of his old Chevy. He badgered both tourists and locals for free beer. He lied about pirate exploits and alleged family wealth to suggest marriage and thereby seduce women from foreign countries. He picked clothing from Dumpsters in Old Town. I was probably the only person in Key West who knew that W. B. “Dubbie” Tanner, over the past fifteen years, had established himself as one of the foremost children’s book authors in the country. He was living on pennies, stashing royalties. He was expert on SEP-IRAs, small-cap, no-load growth funds, communications and biotech start-ups, and high-speed server networks.

I identified myself to him.

“Gettin’ fuckin’ chummy, callin’ on the damned phone, aren’t you? All you ever want is favors. Least you could do is venture down here to the low-rent part of town, scoot a few frosted mugs my way. But, no. You’re dialing me up on your cordless, nine-hundred megahertz, fifty-channel unit while my mouth is dry like an upside-down canoe. What’d’ya want?”

I spoke in general terms—Wiley Fecko had moved closer, was listening in. Tanner got my drift, picked up on the fact that I had an audience.

“Tell you what you do. I’ll need twenty-seven bucks for the hotel room.”

“Hotel?”

“City jail. I’ll sluice him down with bar gin, take him to Front Street, right across from the Aquarium, get him to stumble against a beat cop, breathe on him, cuss in front of a few tourists. Get him grabbed for petty vagrancy.”

“I’m not sure that’s what we need.”

“Hey, look, brother. He’ll get a ride to the city, they’ll delouse and bathe him. They’ll wash his clothes, give him a haircut and two meals. He’ll come out a new man. The twenty-seven’s for court costs, so he can stay in good standing. We can do it again in six weeks.”

These street-life boys weren’t bucking the system. They were playing it like a well-tuned fiddle.

I said, “Where can I meet you?”

“Corner of Einstein and Franklin.” Tanner hung up. The coins, for the fifth time, dropped into my palm.

A taxi cruised Fifth Avenue, looking for its fare. I handed the coins to Fecko. “Stay here and stash these,” I said.

I separated myself from Fecko, hurried away, brushing my shirt as if to unload the bad luck in which Wiley dwelled. I hailed the cabbie, gave him a thankful expression for appearing, for saving me from the bum. The driver regarded me strangely, then saw Fecko dragging his belongings, trying not to be left behind in the parking lot. The driver got the picture. He stopped. I opened the rear door of the cab and positioned myself halfway inside so he couldn’t pull away. I stalled, argued, threw a twenty over the seat back and dropped the name of Darren, the cab company’s owner. I threatened to have the whole company busted for breaking federal discrimination laws. I knew Darren when he was a teenager, driving the only airport limo in town—a van with eight seats.

Pissed, confused, the cabbie popped his trunk. He refused to help Fecko load his junk. I didn’t want Wiley to have to make two lumbering trips. But I was afraid to get all the way in and close the door so the cab could roll closer to the Rusty Anchor. At least the driver didn’t attempt a
getaway with my feet on the pavement. Finally the useless bike was hooked to the trunk-mounted bicycle rack. Fecko got in the other side of the car. He handed me the plastic bag that held the coins and key. It would be my job to restash them.

I leaned over the seat back and whispered, “If you try to drive past that deputy up there, you may as well kiss your ass adios. Take my word.”

“I recognize you.” The driver gave me the hard eye in his mirror. “Your name’s Rutledge. The city’s looking for your sorry butt. You need to toss me another sawbuck and sit low in the seat.”

“This time of year, sunset’s early.” The cabdriver spittle-sprayed his dash as he spoke. The windshield fog was turning into a science experiment If he’d showered since New Year’s, he’d omitted shampoo. I wanted to think that the seats were stained with saddle soap. He sped down Truman, clocking forty.

“Lucky you,” he said. “In darkness you can hide your face.”

Lucky was out of town.

I didn’t want this dunce to get pulled over. He’d use me as a blue chip. He could do burnouts on Front Street, screeching turns off Duval. He’d hand my ass to the city, cool the ticket, slide with a warning. I burrowed lower in my seat The taxi’s mildewed vinyl fought the good fight. But it came in second place. Fecko’s stench of malnutrition had combined with drive-thru burgers and onions I’d bought so I wouldn’t fade and Wiley wouldn’t croak on us. I was ripe as a dropping tide. Windows down didn’t help. I couldn’t blame the cabbie for wanting us out of his hack promptly. I handed him another twenty and asked for less throttle.

We passed a local writer leading a flock of intent-looking folk down the sidewalk. A walking tour of famous authors’ homes, part of the annual Key West literary seminar.
The followers wore badges in clear plastic holders, carried book bags and small notebooks. A few college students in the group, but many were mature granola types, the core of the
Harper’s
and
The New Yorker
subscription lists. Their clothing ran the gamut from punk-perforated jeans to denim shirts and tweed sport jackets. They peered into a classic house on Eaton as if expecting to see someone in there, typing on an ancient Underwood, doing final revisions to
Horn of Africa,
or
To Have and Have Not,
or
Panama.

I’d heard it for years: “The corner of Einstein and Franklin.” It was not an intersection. It was a social hub. The kind of place writers hung out, instead of being at home, facing the monitor, writing.

Wall decor in Key West bars is haphazard and irreverent. The national chain restaurants have their clean antiques, spit-and-polish relics, cornball nostalgia. A sign in the Green Parrot demands “No Whining!” Customers have filled the bar on Whitehead with donations: street signs from other towns, out-of-state license plates, placards from defunct businesses, various artworks. It’s an open-air drinker’s bar, in the top tier of the island’s survivors. The Parrot’s all-day, all-night clientele ranges from down-and-out booze-hounds to attorneys from the courthouse across the street. It’s mostly blue-collar—male and female—and shop owners. The bartenders work inside a central rectangle. At the room’s northwest corner, on adjoining walls, hang the portraits of two major intellectuals of their times.

The taxi stopped on Southard for the signal at Whitehead. I jumped out, heard Stevie Ray Vaughan’s wailing
Voodoo Chile
before my third step. Dubbie Tanner was right where he said he would be: in the Parrot, wedged between Albert Einstein and Benjamin Franklin. The beer hawk was perched on a stool. His talons clutched a can of Bud Light. Vicki Roush, the bartender, had just placed a shot glass full of copper-colored liquor next to the Bud. I snatched the shot and tossed it back—nasty, sweet Southern
Comfort—then slapped down a five. Vicki grabbed the bill, stuffed it in the tip jar. A sparkling thanks in her eye for my coaxing Tanner outside. Dubbie’s ragged T-shirt read
STILL WASTED AFTER ALL THESE YEARS
. I got him into the taxi’s backseat as the light changed, and slid him two twenties. The cab driver went right, drove toward the sunset. Fecko’s thirst for wine was about to be quenched.

I walked two blocks west to Teresa Barga’s condo. I kept to the shadows, pretended to scratch my face when cars passed.

Teresa doused her hall light, flipped on the outside sconce, edged to the door with her hand in her briefcase. She checked to make sure I was alone, then let me in. “Ooh. Would you like to take a shower?”

I deserved to be forced by pistol into cleanliness. “I’ve taken a boat ride, a wild-goose chase, and a dose of Good Samaritan. Yes, I would like to shower.”

“Good. You can stay.”

“What’s with ‘Wear dark glasses and change your name’?”

“I’m sorry. I was mocking your drama and high intrigue. After I said it, I thought this time I pushed too hard. But, please, go easy on yourself. You’re not a fugitive. Liska’s called off his dogs.”

“What about whoever tried to run us off the road? Whoever firebombed my Kawasaki two hours ago?”

“Not true.”

“It’s a cinder. My helmet looks like somebody’s brain on drugs. How do you know that Liska’s chilled out?”

“He bought me lunch at the Half Shell. I told him what happened last night. Down to the last detail.”

Liska had blown off my story at midnight. “He believed you?”

Audible tightening of the jaw. Wrong question.

“Is there anything else,” I said, “besides Liska canceling the hunt?”

She put on a stubborn face. “You’ve got something to tell me?”

“Are you in a hurry?”

“You bet,” she said. “And I want two things. What you’ve been holding back, and why you’ve been doing it.”

“How about first I tell why? Then you decide if you want more.”

“Red flag. Man patronizes woman.”

I couldn’t lose my reluctance.

She said, “Tell me about getting mugged on Sunday.”

“Dexter put you up to this?”

Huffy vibes again. “You and I live together in separate houses. We’re not a secret at the city. Nobody puts me up to anything. Especially with you.”

“Has Dexter brought up my name?”

“He’s kept it straight. He asked how to get in touch with you. I think that’s it.”

I told her about the carpet cutter’s birthmark and the blurry photo.

Slam dunk. She finally changed her expression. “So they’re connected?”

“Only through me.”

She thought it over. “You were afraid I’d feel compelled to tell Dexter?”

I shrugged, nodded.

“That was the only right answer,” she said. “Here’s the thing. I’d feel split in two directions only if I thought you’d done something wrong.”

“Somebody told him those guys jumped me.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Outside the house, you mean?”

She smiled and leaned forward. I didn’t dare hug her, but I leaned in for a fat kiss.

“Southern Comfort?” she said. “Oh, yuck.”

I took a beer to the shower. I had to drink it quickly—her hot water was about twenty degrees hotter than mine. I stayed in as long as I could stand it. Then I found a pair of Bermuda shorts and a once-worn Hawaiian-style sport
shirt that I’d left in Teresa’s closet weeks ago.

She’d put my smelly clothing in plastic, tied a knot in the bag, set it near the door. I sat in her living room and started my second beer.

She held a yellow legal pad full of notes. “Six things.” She checked her list. “Liska said the man on Stock Island, the fake Richard Engram, they strangled him before they stabbed him and before they took his head.”

Strangulation is retribution. My suspicions confirmed, at least to me. They’d killed him for both reasons: punishment, and to mask his identity.

She continued: “The real Richard Engram, Dexter got a confirming fax from the man’s high school in Jacksonville, the man’s senior picture. Engram grew up there. No one had knowledge of his being anything but a rampant heterosexual. No cross-dressing, no closet gay scene. He’d worked with Dunwoody for four years, was a cosigner on the company checking account”