Mile Zero (45 page)

“No,” Justo pulled his own gun. “We’ll go in together in case there’s a surprise. They make a break and we lose em, tough, better to play it safe.”

“Chickenshit way to do it, but you got seniority.” Rod scurried off into darkness along the side of the shack.

Justo waited until the electricity was cut and the alarm died. Muffled parade sounds floated from the far distance. He noticed the houses surrounding the shack were dark behind closed shutters. He crouched low, carefully making his way along the wall of the shack. He heard
Rod smash the lock of the back door and stomp inside without waiting. From the other side of the iron-grated window where Justo stood Rod’s flashlight flared with brightness, exposing Justo in perfect target outline. He dropped quickly to the ground, crawling on his stomach, the barrel of his revolver pointing the way as he slipped through the back doorway. Rod’s flashlight beam found him, sweeping over his body.

“Turn the damn light off,” Justo whispered.

The beam flicked off, Rod slid up next to Justo. “Just wanted to make sure it was you.”

“Who did you expect? That’s the second time you’ve jacklighted me like a deer.”

“Shhhh,” Rod’s hand touched Justo’s shoulder. “There it is again, hear it?”

Justo heard nothing, at forty his hearing was not what it once was, too many guns had gone off next to his head. Sometimes he couldn’t hear Rosella, whispering something special into his ear. The last thing he wanted was for the Southern blister breathing heavily into his face to find out he was hard of hearing. “Sure I hear it.”

“Somebody up front by the
buche
steamer. Thought I heard em when I came in, put the light up there but couldn’t see nobody.”

“Maybe hiding behind the counter.”

“Let’s rush em.”

“Hold on. Could be a kid or something, let’s find out.”

“Might be armed. Can’t afford to take chances,” Rod’s breath puffed in Justo’s face.

“We take the chance. If they were going to open up they would have done it when you barged in the door.”

“I say don’t wait for more backup, rush em now.”

“Dammit no.” Justo had trouble keeping his angry voice down. There were many ways he had imagined himself dying, but being shot in a Cuban sandwich shop on Halloween night was not one of them. “I said wait.”

“I’m not going to lie here on my gut forever. Who knows if we’ll get backup on a night like this?”

“Okay, you slide over against the wall so we both don’t get nailed when I shout our ID.”

“That’s more like it.” Rod nudged Justo’s ribs with the barrel tip of his revolver, then slid away.

Justo waited until his uneasy breathing steadied, then blurted, “Key West Police! Throw out your weapons and stand with your hands up. You will not be hurt!”

All was quiet at the other end of the dark aisle. In the stillness Justo’s heavy breathing came back, blood thumping in his eardrums. He decided to sit tight, time was on his side, time is the ally of the pursuer. A shuffling sound came from behind the counter at the front of the shop, it was the last thing Justo heard before five shots fired from Rod’s gun, thundering together in deafening clap.

Rod’s flashlight clicked on, its beam piercing the dark aisle, illuminating a wooden counter splintered by bullet holes. The beam climbed to the top of the counter, exposing the chrome-handled gleam of an ancient
buche
machine. Shelved above the steamer were cans of condensed milk, two of them blown open, the wall behind splattered white. The light clicked off.

“Justo?”
Rod’s husky whisper came through darkness from the far side of the room. “You think I got em?”

“Why the Christ did you
shoot
?”

“Heard em making a move on us.”

“Told you to wait it out.” Justo flicked on his flashlight, shooting the beam up the aisle.

Rod’s light came back on, its beam crossing Justo’s. “Looks like I got em, huh? But there ain’t no blood anywhere, just milk.”

Justo stood cautiously, keeping the light beam and his .38 aimed at the counter. “Go see what you bagged. I’ll cover.”

The shadow of Rod’s bulk rose from across the room, he stalked up the aisle, Justo’s light beam stabbing into his back.

Justo mumbled impatiently beneath his breath. Rod was embarked on another ignorant move, placing himself in the line of fire in the event someone came up shooting from behind the counter.

Rod stopped and peered over the bullet-riddled counter, holding his gun at the ready. “Well, kiss my ass good-bye!”

“What is it?” Justo moved quickly up the aisle. Maybe Rod had shot a kid attempting to steal the cigar box of money old Garcia kept hidden. Justo pushed Rod aside and leaned over the counter, shining his flashlight down. In a puddle of milk dripping from exploded cans above was the largest Cuban Death’s Head bug Justo ever laid eyes on, big as a rat, its antennae trembling with confusion. Iridescent eyes gleamed from the insect’s hoary head, beneath its twelve legs scuddling through creamy ooze was a wire lead, one end connected to an alarm
bell on the wall, the other attached to a cigar box stuffed with money under the counter. The bug had tripped the alarm wire on its way to raiding a bag of sugar near the cigar box. “Congratulations,” Justo shined his flashlight into Rod’s perplexed face. “You almost blew away a prize-winning bug.”

“Don’t patronize me, porch monkey.” Rod waved his gun. “It’s a mistake anyone could have made.” He aimed the gun down and fired, blasting a fist-size hole in the floor, obliterating the bug.

Through ear-splitting reverberation triggered by the gunshot Justo shouted, “What did you call me?”

“You heard it,” Rod screamed in Justo’s face.

Justo was aware of how close Rod’s big body was to his, how they were both the same size, black and white versions glaring at one another. He felt the muscles in his right arm twitch, preparing to slam his flashlight’s metal butt into Rod’s sun-blistered face. He hesitated. He sensed a painful hole opening in his stomach, a hole like the one created by the bullet just fired through the floor. Overwhelming rage welled up from the hole, he knew he was going to kill Rod. He had to outthink himself before it was too late. He spun around and walked down the dark aisle, out the door, away from raging instinct, not stopping until he reached the lighthouse. He stood trembling beneath the tower which no longer guided misguided mariners, but still lorded it over streets of modest shotgun houses, the neighborhood where Aunt Oris lived and chickens pecked in backyards planted with tropical fruit trees, a place marked on early Key West maps as Africa Town. A place still called Nigger Town, Black Town, Tan Town, or home, depending on the color of one’s skin. A place where for generations there were churches, schools and movie theaters
for Coloreds only
, a far cry from the distant world a few blocks away across Duval Street. As a boy Justo journeyed to Aunt Oris’ shack from the other side of Duval, where he lived, because his people were considered Cuban, not Colored. In those days the ice-cream man still called to children in the street before Aunt Oris’ shack, men gathered up at the corner grocery store, and women watched over all from porches behind picket fences. It was a time when the lighthouse lantern still burned, its bright beacon passing over all on the island equally, but not passing over equals. The steady light glossed over obvious separations, vicious hates, and institutionalized fear. Now even that light was darkened to nothing, but reality was illuminated for Justo. He wanted to hurl Rod’s white carcass into
dark sea, but there are times when a man must choose his own life above others, save himself from himself. At such times a man must look within for guiding light, steer his ship from harm’s way. Justo forced himself to walk toward the babble of distant Duval. The shadow of fear was filling with evil and there was a long way to go before the witching hour struck. He had to find St. Cloud before the light went out for everyone.

E
VERYONE
is selling false goods, guilt is the currency of fools, Evelyn reminded St. Cloud of this many times. He was mystified as to why he should be thinking of this as he stood in a crowd cheering the brassy blast of a passing Bahamian band, even the blood buzz of rum in his veins couldn’t blot the thought. His mind was the mainspring of a clock undone, he was out of sorts, a cuckoo in a cockroach body, a scorpion in a burning palm tree. Even Bubba-Bob had not recognized him earlier, but that may have been because this was the first time he had come down from his barstool to join the Duval Street frolic on Halloween night. Usually St. Cloud let the party come to him. Tonight he donned an appropriate disguise, dealt himself in with the hordes of masked merrymakers surging through city streets. Bubba-Bob may also have not recognized him because his arm was around Scarlett O’Hara. The ruffled top of Scarlett’s scooped dress revealed curvacious breasts uplifted by a corsetted waist. She was a five-alarm item stopping every male in her path, but the flutter of her lashes above cool green eyes dispatched foolhardy drunks and misguided adventurers back into the costumed crowd. Bubba-Bob had not paused to bray macho compliments only because he was on the singleminded prowl for St. Cloud. It never occurred to Bubba-Bob, passing by in his white cowboy hat, that Rhett Butler, with his arm cinched around Scarlett’s waist, was St. Cloud. Like nearly everyone else in town Bubba-Bob had never seen St. Cloud wearing anything other than rumpled pants, ratty seersucker sports jacket, and a sweat-stained sailing cap. Bubba-Bob had passed Rhett and Scarlett by without so much as a knowing wink or outraged hoot, but
Bonefish stopped dead in his tracks. Bonefish deduced here was a real Southern gentleman and his lady, who must have dire need of an air-conditioner in their antebellum mansion. He had air-conditioners to spare, was willing to oblige the needy, even if they already were rich.

“El Finito be on his way,” Bonefish hopped from one foot to the other with great urgency before Rhett and Scarlett. “Be here by midnight,” he turned his bent nose heavenward, nostrils twitching at night sky. “You feels the weather creepin up your backs? Oppressive weather. Weather what’s hot and calculatin. Wants to explode in your face. Wants to be done with you. Maybe you need an extra aircondishner? How bout a brand-new toaster still in the box? Got me electric blankets and car tires too. You be havin these things cause this tired ol fish be too smart to outrun Mister Finito. You try drive off this island cross the bridges, Mister Finito he go chase you. He go chase you, an he go get you.”

Lila nudged St. Cloud, she wanted him to make Bonefish go away, his rantings frightened her, his bone-sharp body pushing too close.

Bonefish dug into bulging jacket pockets and pulled out glistening green avocados, holding them to the sky in outstretched arms. “Take these gator pears,” Bonefish’s mouth opened in a sly smile. “You need meat to survive.”

Lila nudged St. Cloud harder, but realized he was not concerned with Bonefish’s raving, was even amused by it. She wanted to walk away, but the press of the crowd prevented her. Too many strange things had been happening to her and St. Cloud lately. Things she knew not the design of seemed to be closing in.

“I’ll take one of those pears.” St. Cloud placed the open palm of his hand before Bonefish in order to receive the blessing of fruit.

“Take two!” Bonefish thrust both avocados at St. Cloud, startled someone finally heeded his warning about oncoming disaster. “Those gator pears be savin you.” He backed into the crowd, pointing a finger at the sky. “Smell the air. Always before Finito comin the air be filled with the stink of dead turtles.”

St. Cloud shoved the fruit into frayed pockets of the long-tailed tuxedo jacket he wore. Like a proper Southern gentleman, he sipped his libation from a flask, a not so small canteen sloshing with rum. “Hey, come back here!” He called to Bonefish, whose thin body was being buffeted in the opposite direction by the current of the crowd.
“I could use that air-conditioner. Never had one, just sweat it out every year. Come on back!”

“No time! Smell the turtles. Save yourselves.” Bonefish disappeared behind a wall of secretaries from Miami dressed in pink pig outfits, fighting their way closer to the muscular black men of the Bahamian band strutting their musical stuff up Duval Street.

St. Cloud looked to the night sky. He couldn’t smell anything. All he saw were overhanging balconies weighted with merrymakers hurling water balloons, firecrackers and confetti bombs. He sensed no hint of boisterous weather lurking offshore. The usual murky humidity prevailed, fuzzing the outlines of near and far images, decomposing distinctions, in a rush to replace old rot with fresh-born. No dead turtles were spinning from the sky, only costumed inebriates stirred the pot of mayhem from above. St. Cloud smiled, Bonefish was probably the only one on the island not trying to peddle false goods. Bonefish wasn’t trying to sell anything, he was trying to give it all away. He was dead right about one thing, sooner or later the Mister Finito he talked about was going to come blowing hard out of Africa to take the island back down to its lowest common organic currency, reinstate a natural order. No more Fantasy Fests then, just conchs cooing in sea moss, manatees mooing in mangroves, flamingos flaming through cloudless sky above an island wiped clean of all commerce other than whiptail lizards dividing delicious fire ants with flocks of chirpy palm warblers. Such sights St. Cloud hoped to see, but when the end came no one would survive to tell the tale of what happened after the two-hundred-mile-an-hour west-moving mass of rising hot air hit town. No one except maybe Bonefish could survive that, and he certainly would have no use for people then, no guilt would burden him. A simple string of pearl perfect islands would be left, stretching from the Dry Tortugas to Miami’s Key Biscayne, naked as the day Ponce de León sighted them in spring of 1513, afloat in timelessness, exactly where St. Cloud wanted to be, on a newborn land with Lila. It takes a fool to love like a fool. After the hurricane St. Cloud could slip from beneath the rock of self-contempt, swim to surface illumination where Lila beckoned. Temptation was on the rise, St. Cloud was prepared to cash in his fool’s gold, set aside despairing over his failed past in order to risk defeat anew. He was dueling against the omnipresent shadow of MK for Lila, but the main adversary was Lila herself. She had the instinct of youth to remain
free, this instinct was his most formidable foe. To accomplish his own salvation he had to destroy Lila’s independence. Her unsullied female wholeness he now risked despoiling. Within the sea-green depths of her eyes the true stakes of the game were reflected. The battle was to secure her trust in order to dominate her soul. Lila was not about to surrender without fighting off all comers, her instinct to remain free was a tenacious rope which might prove impossible for any man to cut. No matter how complicated and unjustified St. Cloud’s pursuit of Lila became, he was compelled to continue until they were bound forever, or severed forever. Like any intelligent man engaged in combat against beguiling female weaponry wielded with intuitive force, he understood he was the lesser of the two warriors, but he was determined to prevail, and was not above employing any low-down trick to accomplish his exalted male purpose. He eagerly exploited every opportunity which highlighted his weakness, demonstrating he was the least strong of the two of them, throwing himself upon the threshold of self-pity, debasing himself in order to win over his opponent’s maternal instinct for nurturing the weaker of the species. When this obvious trick failed to suffice he marched off in search of an arcane arsenal which she would never suspect, called in spooks, spirits and saints of both black and white magic, which is why he allowed Justo some months earlier to present him to his Aunt Oris.