“I was a barefoot kid,” he said, “picking spanish limes, mangoes out of my yard, everybody know everybody. Sure as hell we know nicknames, their whole family, all the kids, their jobs. Key West is going away like a bar of soap, rubbed down to dime-size.”
“I remember when you were a beat cop, Julio,” I said, “harassing hippies on Duval. I didn’t know anyone on Eaton back then, either. A lot changed, I’ll give you that. But plenty is still the same.”
“Cayo Hueso got trampled by Woodstock refugees,” said the lieutenant. “You got another opinion, I’m sure.”
“I take a bigger view of it,” I said. “The Navy ran the island when hippies were still beatniks. Tourists came after the longhairs grew up and blended in. If you take a longer look, the spongers, cigar rollers, railroad and hurricanes, it’s been constant change for two centuries.”
Alonzo said, “The hippies may think they blended in, but they ruined it.”
He hadn’t soaked up a word I’d said.
Puzzled by Alonzo’s vehemence, Watkins tried to calm him. “You heard his complaint about part-timers, Julio,” she said. “He wants our island to stay the same.”
Alonzo’s sullen eyes became slits as he glanced back through the screening. Now that Watkins had touched the topic, truck and moped sounds from Eaton Street became more persistent.
“I’m worried about our crime scene,” said Watkins. “We need to make sure it’s not being contaminated.”
I took that to mean invaded by jurisdiction poachers from county or state law enforcement. It worked as an excuse to get rid of Alonzo.
The lieutenant shoved open the door but stopped and turned. “Lady, he’s not talking about our island. I was born here and you weren’t. He’s talking about my island.”
He stepped out, let the door slam and marched off. Ten paces away he raised his voice. “You bring the car, Detective. I’ll walk around the block like we used to do.”
Beth Watkins observed a few ticks of silence then said, “From what I know, he’s got a legit complaint.”
“It’s after-the-fact whining,” I said. “The old-time Conchs have taken the money, house by house, for twenty-five years and left town with fat wallets. I’ve wondered all that time why more of them didn’t stand up for their turf, reject the profits and defend the lifestyles they bemoan in hindsight. He can bitch all he wants, but it’s like trying to hold back the wind with a sail.”
“You’ve been saving that speech for a while.”
“Maybe he’s the only one left who bemoans the changes,” I said. “Anyway, thanks.”
“For chilling him out? It didn’t work too well.”
“For not asking me to take crime scene photos.”
She hesitated, tried to decide on her wording. “Your proximity to the deceased disqualified you.”
“In what way, Beth?” I said. “A ‘person of interest’ or just a neighbor?”
She gave me an odd look. “Who dragged you away from advertising photos in the first place?”
“I still do magazine work and brochures. It’s how I make my living.”
“You know what I meant,”
she said.
“Sheriff Liska, years ago. Before he quit your desk at the city to run for office. I must have needed cash that month. Neither of us knew it was habit-forming.”
“They wouldn’t have called you back if you weren’t good at it.”
“What do you know about Bay Point?”
“That article in the paper this morning? Zip. I went to a party up there two months ago. It was dark. A year ago I observed while the county processed a crime scene… What am I saying?
You were there.”
“I’m talking yesterday,” I said.
“What’s to know? If it was county crap, I’m out of the loop. When was the last time you saw Mr. Hammond’s dog?”
I shrugged and shook my head.
“Surely there’s an answer to that one,” said Watkins.
“Can I think about it and call you in a while?”
“When was the last time you heard Manilow?”
“Saturday night, around nine p.m.”
“Four days ago.”
“Three and a half days ago,” I said. “Almost to the hour.”
Beth nodded. “There was another reason I didn’t ask you to take pictures. Are you still seeing Bobbi, your deputy?”
I almost shrugged but went the gentleman route and nodded.
“I know she pisses you off every time she calls you with a police photo gig. You deserve better treatment from a woman you’re dating.”
“How does that…”
“I didn’t want to join her club.”
“Whose do you want to join?”
She started toward the street. “Call me if you think of anything helpful.”
I had less than an hour to get to Summerland, but I wanted to make sure that Carmen, if she was at home, knew about Hammond. I also wanted to meet her houseguests and check on their job- and home-hunting progress. Plus, their goal of reacquainting themselves with Key West had sparked my curiosity. I envied their search for the island life they had missed because of their parents’ decisions. After years of watching the trickling exodus, I had lost hope of seeing many, or any, departed Conchs return to Key West.
I hiked the lane and
found the young men loading duffels, five or six Hefty Bags and several grocery sacks into their Honda. The shorter of the two hoisted a satchel while he pressed a phone to his ear.
The taller boy gave me a suspicious look then relaxed. “You must be Alex, the neighbor.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Jason Dudak.”
“You guys packing to leave already? Giving up on the old island?”
“No way,” said Jason. “That geek there is Russell, with his mama on the line. We’re having a glory moment because in the last hour and…” he checked his watch, “in the last eighty minutes we both got jobs plus a place to live.”
“Fast work,” I said.
“The jobs, we hustled a couple days. The apartment, some guy that works at Greenacres, the yard maintenance people who hired Russell, he said, ‘You dudes need to score a crib, I got bunks.’ His roommate split for the Ukraine owing him, like, sixty-five dollars.”
“You didn’t go with Greenacres?” I said.
“RPP
Construction. Pounding nails, which will work some sweat out of me and keep me outdoors, both of which are good.”
I knew the men who had started RPP years ago. It had changed hands several times, along the way earning a negative reputation. I once heard someone speculate that its initials stood for Rape, Pillage and Plunder.
“You going to live off the island?” I said.
The other boy approached, snapping shut his phone, reaching to shake hands. “I’m Russell Hernandez. Did you know me when I was little? Everyone I’ve met the past two days knew me when I was three years old.”
“I missed you that time around,” I said.
“Our new home is on Elizabeth Street,” said Jason. “Four or five of us, we’re not sure, in two rooms upstairs from the woman who owns the house.”
I had to laugh. “Sounds like the standard arrangement when I first hit town. I would’ve put up with anything, I was so happy to be here. I didn’t know why I was so content, but I sure as hell felt it.”
Russell clenched his fist in the air. “The first thing that got me was a whiff of Knights Key, like this combination of fish damp and salt and seaweed. It gave me a preview of Key West smells.”
“Okay, but before that,” said Jason, “we drove up that bridge at Tea Table Channel south of Islamorada. The road goes up and down like a dirt bike race track with green areas like city parks, bike paths snaking on either side. But seventy feet to our right and left, past that greenery, it was salt water, nothing but ocean as far west as I could see. It was the ocean with Naples one way and Havana the other.”
“I’m for smells,” said Russell Hernandez. “I wake up every morning, the air tells me that we made the right decision to come down here, to catch up with our lives. As far as looking around town, I haven’t had time.”
“Is Carmen around?” I said.
Jason opened the car door, got ready to hop in. “The princess went to school and Carmen went to work.”
“Are you all moved out? Is this it?”
Russell said, “We travel light.” He pointed to the Hefty Bags. “Our matching luggage. That’s how we roll.”
“Glad you wrapped up your deal so quickly.”
“We’re not done yet,” said Jason. “We can’t exactly relax at the beach. We’ll be working in the weather and sun, so we need clothes. These Reef sandals won’t cut it.”
“Life stays complicated, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Damn, you said it, amigo. Complicated.”
6
I approached my meeting with Catherman with sporadic nausea. I blamed it on dread and distaste, denying the wave action of my hangover. Bob wanted one thing, a search for his daughter. Copeland Cormier, with Sam out of sight and Lisa running point, claimed to need information, nothing more. I wasn’t privy to his goals. I couldn’t imagine how a missing young woman might relate to his Cuban drug transfers.
Secrecy, implied risk, and my ass on the line. Not much of a job description. I would dive in with shit for knowledge, but that was okay. Doctors with Deep Wallets, no matter their agenda, wouldn’t influence my queries. I wouldn’t have to slant my questions. I could stay focused and still cover the favor asked by the Cormiers on behalf of Sam. If I tried to connect Sam to a nineteen-year-old new to the Keys, I could drive myself nuts. It helped to believe that he hadn’t gone to the dark side. He wasn’t thumbing his nose at state and federal laws for purposes other than altruism.
Then came the money. Now that I had taken the job, I had to take the man’s cash. If I volunteered to work for free, I could ruin my credibility. If Sally turned out to be dead, from suicide, a double suicide, or murder, I would feel lame for having charged a cent. But that was how Catherman wanted to play it. Plus, why be stupid about involving myself? Given Sam’s need to hide and Cormier’s check-ins and other clandestine actions, cash in hand made sense before I started. If only for bail money and emergency room visits.
Before leaving the house I looked up Bokamp in the phone book. Two Lower Keys listings, neither for Mikey or the initial M, neither offering an address. If I could locate Sally Catherman’s carpool friend, she might have ideas to help my search. I wrote the numbers on a scrap of paper, stuck it in my wallet. I also grabbed my Canon camera. Small as a deck of cards, it fits in a front pocket of my shorts as well as the palm of my hand.
Marnie’s brother, Butler Dunwoody, gave me a 1970 Triumph several years ago after someone torched my Kawasaki while I was doing Butler a favor. It’s a classic T120R, hence the locked, custom-built mini-condo that keeps it mine and protects it from rain and salt air. It’s my sunny day ride for distances beyond bicycle range, and I often invent trips off the island to free my mind of cobwebs.
I chose it this time for low profile. Motorcycles are common in the Keys. It was less conspicuous, less memorable than my car.
I rode the Palm Avenue bridge, checked the Garrison Bight dock where flats guides keep their skiffs. Sam’s slip was empty though he would have
Fancy Fool
, on a morning like this, in the Snipes or Marquesas. Also missing was
Flats Broke
, the Maverick skippered by Sam’s friend Captain Turk. Again, normal for this time of day, this time of year. Not that I was forgetting my locale. In Key West what is normal, ever?
I drove across Stock Island with a group of lane-changers who competed for asphalt as they’d been taught for years by on-car cameras and racing analysts. The frantic pack slowed at Rockland Channel Bridge then funneled onto “Lower Shark,” as Big Coppitt residents refer to their island. It’s their parodic reference to the exclusive Shark Key enclave one island eastward.
Except for the new telephone switching boxes on raised platforms, I saw little evidence on Big Coppitt of Hurricane Wilma’s flooding of several years back. I recalled the aftermath, the green trees and shrubs damaged and killed by salt wind and water. Offshore mangrove islands turned reddish-brown. Of course I couldn’t see the waterlogged file cabinets and photo albums, the ruined dreams, displaced families. Like many storms, Wilma had put the worst hurt on those least capable of dealing with it. I’d been lucky at my place. Dredgers Lane had come within two blocks of turning into oceanfront property. In the weeks following the flood, when I wasn’t helping friends discard furniture and appliances, I built shelves for the waterproof containers that now held all my film files and office records.
At 9:32 a.m. I peeled off my helmet in the Summerland post office parking lot. Catherman climbed out of a dark gray Porsche Cayenne SUV and began to walk toward me.
Be alert to danger, I thought, even in daylight.
I averted my eyes, fiddled with the motorcycle. I said, “See you inside.”
He had the smarts to keep quiet and keep walking.
In a long room lined with post office boxes, he handed me the fat envelope. The place smelled of damp paper and shampoo, though I welcomed the cool air. No one else was in that wing. No one outside could see us. Catherman looked less disheveled than the previous morning. He wore a clean polo shirt, pressed Levi’s, clean athletic shoes, a fresh shave. Studying his eyes, I saw more aging. But weak and tired, he was still a large customer.