Dying to Retire (16 page)

“Is it still that way?”

“Good question. I’d have to give you a provisional yes. We’ve come close to being ruined by our best qualities. The tourists are rampant. The chain stores and the cruise ships have moved in. There’s a lot more glitz these days, a lot more money going into bourgeois construction, whether it’s a resort or housing. I must sound like a terrible snob, but it saddens me to see the changes. But there’s still an independent spirit. And the gay community here really supports the arts. I’ve been to more plays and concerts than I ever went to in Boston.”

“Are you artistic yourself?” I asked.

“Not in the least,” he replied. “My main talent is living well, which I have a knack for. But money has always come easily to me, with little effort on my part.”

“Pretty fancy digs, Truman,” Seth said from the doorway. “You’ve put a lot into it, I can see.”

Truman looked over his shoulder at Seth. “My inheritance at work. Come sit down, buddy, and join us. We’re talking about my love affair with Key West.”

Seth had changed into a white golf shirt and tan slacks. He looked ready to attack the links, a goal I knew he harbored. “Nice place to retire,” he said. He sank down on the sofa next to me and leaned forward to spread some cheese on a cracker.

“Retire? Who’s retired?”

“But you gave up your practice in Boston.”

“I did. My son took it over. His specialty is internal medicine. I told him he didn’t have to. There’s a wide world out there, but unlike his father, he actually wanted to stay in Boston. I moved here permanently with the intention of consulting every now and then. But little by little the practice has grown.”

“Have we interrupted your office hours?” I asked.

“Not at all. The weekends are mine. I like being lazy.”

“Ever get out on the golf course?” Seth asked.

“Not really my game. Do you play?”

“Oh, yes. Great sport. Good exercise,” Seth said, neglecting to mention that he was relatively new to the activity.

“There aren’t many courses. Land down here is at such a premium. But there’s a new private club several miles up. I can probably arrange a tee time for you, if you like. I know some people.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t impose,” Seth said, “at least not unless you’d join me.” He looked at his host hopefully.

Truman would have had a hard time missing the hint. He smiled. “If you insist.”

Seth sat back, satisfied. “What’s your handicap?”

“Don’t know. It’s been a while since anyone forced me onto a course. Are you sure you want to play with a rank novice like me? You might prefer more of a challenge. I can make some calls to see if you can make up a foursome with experienced players.”

Seth rushed to head him off. “Not necessary at all. I want to spend my visit with you. We can take our time. I’ll give you a few pointers if you get in trouble,” he said, happy in the knowledge that Truman was likely a worse golfer than he was. “Only problem is I didn’t bring my clubs.”

“I’m sure you can rent them,” Truman said. “I don’t have any of my own, either.” He turned to me. “Jessica, would you like to play?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “But please go ahead without me. I’m sure I can find lots to do while you two get your exercise.”

Truman stood. “It’s a little late for today, but let me see what I can do for us for tomorrow. I’ll give Wainscott a call and see what he can arrange.”

“Wainscott?” I said.

“Yes. He’s a real mover and shaker down here. I’m sure he’ll know someone on the board of the new golf course. Have you heard of him?”

“I have,” I said.

“He built Foreverglades, where our friend Portia lived,” Seth added.

Truman snapped his fingers. “Right. That’s what brought you to Florida in the first place. I’m sorry. I never gave you my condolences.” He shook his head. “That’s what happens when you have a poor memory. I must have forgotten to take my gingko biloba. Let me make that call before I forget again.” He ambled into the kitchen, and I followed.

“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “how do you know Wainscott?”

“Hmmm?” He was rummaging through the newspapers.

I plucked the phone out from under the pile and handed it to him.

“Ah, thank you. What was it you said?”

“Wainscott,” I repeated. “How do you know him?”

“DeWitt? He came to my office.”

“He did?”

“Yes. He’s one of my new patients.”

The crowd that gathered to view the sunset at the docks behind Mallory Square was young, cheerful, and loud. There was a carnival atmosphere to the occasion, a tradition Truman insisted we had to experience at least once or we wouldn’t be able to hold our heads up back home and say we’d
really
visited Key West.

“Fortunately, there are no cruise ships in port tonight,” he said, “so we might actually get to see the sun go down. But even if all you can see is the sky above, it’s worth the visit.”

We had walked to Mallory Square from Truman’s home, about ten blocks away, and had already experienced the “happy hour” atmosphere of Duval Street, with its myriad bars including Sloppy Joe’s, its name illuminated in neon, and reputed to be Ernest Hemingway’s favorite watering hole, and the nearby Captain Tony’s Saloon, the original location of Sloppy Joe’s in Hemingway’s day.

In front of one bar, a rapt audience assembled to watch two long-haired men taking bodybuilding poses to show off the muscles of their chests, arms, and necks. They were shirtless, perhaps the most incongruous part of their show, given that there were more T-shirts offered for sale on Duval Street than I had ever seen in one place before.

We’d made a detour to buy stone crab claws from a fisherman friend of Truman’s, whom we’d found sitting on a wooden lobster trap behind a restaurant—tubs filled with shaved ice and heavy plastic bags of fish arrayed around him—and selling his catch to the proprietor.

“How’s it going, Gabby?” Truman asked after the restaurateur disappeared with his purchase. “Got anything left for me?”

“Always save something for you, Doc,” Gabby replied, pulling out a plastic bag and lining it with fistfuls of shaved ice. He was a man of indeterminate age. The sun had tanned his hide to a burnished bronze and bleached his hair to a color somewhere between brown and gray. It stuck straight out from his head and jaw like that of a cartoon character who’d poked his finger into an electric socket.

Truman introduced us, then squatted down to inspect the claws and select the particular ones he wanted for our dinner.

Seth leaned over to watch the process. “What happened to the rest of the animal?” he asked.

“We throw ’em back,” Gabby said. “We only take one claw. Don’t want to leave the little fellers defense-less. They’ll grow a new one, and we get to eat good. Works out for everyone.” He grinned up at Seth, two gold front teeth gleaming.

“Don’t think we ever tried that in Maine.”

“Might not work with your lobsters,” Gabby said. “Florida lobsters got no claws. That’s why we catch these guys. I ate one o’ your lobsters once. Ours are sweeter.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Seth said, straightening, his home state pride ruffled.

“Didn’t mean to offend. Takes all tastes, o’ course. But you try my stone crab claws tonight and come back tomorrow and tell me what you think.”

“I’ll do that.”

Truman filled the bag with claws and dickered with Gabby on the price. “Don’t go charging me what you twist out of those fancy-pants down at Wainscott’s development,” he said.

Gabby chuckled. “You’re not so easy to hoodwink, Doc.”

“Right you are,” Truman said, patting the pockets on his shorts. “I don’t have any cash on me. Stop by the dispensary on Monday and Sunshine will pay you.”

“I’ll be there. You got any of that tonic left? Did me a world of good last time.”

“If I don’t, I’ll make some up for you.”

“Gotta keep the ladies happy,” he said, winking at me. To Truman: “I’ll leave the claws right here by the door. You can pick ’em up after the ceremony.”

The “ceremony” on the dock wasn’t so much a rite as it was a party. Enterprising saloonkeepers had set up outdoor bars and sold rainbow-colored cocktails to those of drinking age. Jugglers and tumblers, good enough to be circus acts, entertained for small change and dollar bills tossed into hats that lay on the wooden planks. Parents hoisted children onto their shoulders, and people sat on the side of the dock facing west—some in folding chairs they’d brought for the occasion—as if waiting for a parade. There was an air of excitement at the “event” to come.

“Is it always like this?” I asked Truman.

“Every night. Don’t know how it got started. It’s been a tradition for as long as I’ve been here, a real tourist attraction. But I can’t begrudge them what I get to see every day.” He smiled at me. “Wait till the sun goes down and the last color comes up,” he said. “See if it doesn’t remind you of something.”

“You certainly get a crowd down here,” Seth said, turning in a circle to take in the whole panorama of entertainment.

“Yes, and keep track of your wallet,” Truman said. “They’re all friendly, but they’re not all honest.”

We watched a young man in a top hat twist long balloons into fanciful animals, and bought ice-cream sandwiches from a tap-dancing vendor holding her wares on a wooden tray.

“They say if you come to the sunset every day, you’ll eventually meet everyone you know,” Truman said, waving at a young family eating dinner from a bag of fried chicken. “I’ve had that experience several times.” He turned to Seth. “Remember Johnson Werbel?”

“The big blond who fainted in our first autopsy lab?”

“The very same. He’s a pathologist up in St. Louis. Used to be a medical examiner, but now he confines his exposure to death to what he can see under a microscope. Came here with his third wife and three towheaded kids.”

“No kidding. Haven’t seen him since med school.”

“Yoo-hoo, Jessica.”

I heard my name and turned to see Maureen and Mort Metzger squeezing through the crowd to get to us. Maureen, a big smile on her face, had gotten into the spirit of Key West and was wearing a long paisley skirt, sandals, and a T-shirt tied at the hip. Her hair was tied back with a colorful bandanna. Mort was in matching shorts and shirt with a pattern of large yellow leaves on a turquoise background. He also wore a black fanny pack wrapped around his waist, and looked decidedly uncomfortable. I guessed he wasn’t pleased for friends to see him in his new attire.

“That’s quite the outfit,” Seth said, raising his brows.

“Maureen bought this for me,” Mort said, color rising to his cheeks, “but I told her she’ll never catch me wearing it at home.”

“Honey, you look terrific in that color,” Maureen said. “Doesn’t he look terrific, Jessica?”

“You look like you belong here,” I said to Mort.

We introduced Mort and Maureen to Truman, who promptly extended an invitation for them to join us for dinner, and it began to feel as if we’d started a party of our own on the dock.

“We were hoping to meet you down here,” Maureen said. “We’ve come for the ceremony every night.”

The “ceremony” didn’t disappoint. With the help of rolls of scudding gray clouds edged in limey yellow, the sky turned all the colors of a prism as the sun slowly melted into the horizon, the water providing a wavering reflection of its path. A drummer kept the beat while two dancers in Native American dress performed, drawing scant attention away from the real star of the moment. When only a sliver of brilliant light hovered over the water, there was a momentary hush; then, when the last beam of red slipped away, the crowd burst into applause. But the color show wasn’t over. Streaks of peach and saffron painted the sky and gradually dissolved into a vibrant violet that I’d seen before.

“That’s the color of your house,” I said to Truman.

He smiled. “I wanted to be reminded of the sunset when I don’t get down here,” he said. “I try not to get complacent about what inspired me to live in Key West in the first place.”

“It’s easy to forget to appreciate familiar blessings,” I said. “It’s when you lose them that you become most conscious of their value.”

We left to collect our dinner and walk back to Truman’s home. The party on the dock was still in full swing, with competing music, both live and recorded, rising into the air like thick smoke. During our absence, the throngs on Duval Street had increased, but there were fewer young children and more teenagers. Some of them waved to Truman, who returned their greetings.

“You’re certainly a popular fellow,” Seth said.

“Some of them are runaways I’ve treated from time to time,” Truman said. “I try to move them off drugs and into a healthier lifestyle.”

“Are you successful?” I asked.

“Only occasionally. But you’ve met one of my successes.”

“Who’s that?” Seth said, looking at me.

“Benny,” I said. “Am I right, Truman?”

“You are, Jessica. And Sunshine, who manages my dispensary and handles my mail-order business. I don’t think you’ve met her yet.”

“Was she the young woman napping on your patio this afternoon?”

“What an observant lady you are! Yes, I believe so. I have several outbuildings on the property. If one of the youngsters needs a place to crash, they know they can come to me. My only rule is no drugs unless I prescribe something. Plus, they have to work for their keep and comport themselves in an appropriate manner. Sometimes it takes them a while to figure out what that is.”

“Is Benny that fellow with all the metal sticking out of his face?” Seth asked.

Truman laughed. “Hard to look at that, isn’t it? I think he considers it part of his charm. Doesn’t seem to turn off the young ladies.”

“Do you help them reconnect with their families?” I asked.