Key Weirder

  Robert Tacoma

  Key Weirder

  Key Weird #2

  2005, EN

  No man can take too much of a good thing, not even in tropical Key West. When beach-connoisseur Taco Bob decides on a road trip, he leaves the Conch Republic in search of the beautiful woman who broke his heart, and the ultimate trout recipe. But soon after he leaves town, the entire state is in an uproar when a young man on a mission from Texas makes off with the most prized souvenir in Key West. Meanwhile, a sexy but twisted cult leader shows up, determined to find some magical gold idols so she can rule the world, or at least the world of lingerie fashion. But first she has to deal with a renegade bounty hunter, a nearly invisible rival from her past, and the untold thousands of people cramming into Key West for the biggest outdoor concert in the state’s history. Taco Bob is going to have plenty of surprises waiting when he returns to the southernmost city in the US. At least it was the southernmost city when he left.

  Table of contents

  1: The Good Life for Taco Bob

  2: Julian

  3: On the Road Again With Taco Bob

  4: Plotting and Planning

  5: Mary Ann and Taco Bob

  6: Carol

  7: Saul

  8: Julian

  9: Keep on Truckin’

  10: Indian River Trout for Taco Bob

  11: The Road

  12: TV News for Taco Bob

  13: Task Force

  14: A Near Miss for Taco Bob

  15: A Cop

  16: Julian

  17: Saul

  18: One Eyed Pete and Taco Bob

  19: Chokoloskee

  20: Governor

  21: Georgia Peach

  22: Back in LA

  23: The Last Chance Trailer Park

  24: Sara

  25: It’s better in the Keys

  26: The First Motel in Key West

  27: Taco Bob returns to Panama City

  28: Saul in KW

  29: Bandit

  30: Taco Bob and the Big Bend in the Road

  31: Sara

  32: Taco Bob in Cedar Key

  33: Southernmost

  34: The Governor of Florida

  35: Marty

  36: Saul

  37: Idols

  38: Carol

  39: Paradise Revisited

  40: Sara

  41: Taco Bob Visits the West Coast

  42: Saul

  43: Sara on the water

  44: Carol and Jeremy

  45: Swamp

  46: Parade

  47: Cabin

  48: Chacmools

  49: Carol

  50: The Boys

  51: Taco Bob the Chef

  52: Taco Bob Goes Back to the Swamp

  53: Sara

  54: Taco Bob Returns to the Cabin

  55: Taco Bob and His Spot

  56: Key West

  57: Getting Ready

  58: Saul

  59: Film at eleven

  60: Taco Bob Goes Home to Key West

  61: Jeremy

  62: Saul

  63: Jeremy

  64: Saul

  65: Jeremy

  66: Saul

  67: Sara

  68: The Benefit Concert

  69: Sara

  70: Marty the Manatee

  71: Sara

  72: Saul

  73: Carol and Jeremy

  74: Taco Bob’s New Home

  ∨ Key Weirder ∧

  1

  The Good Life for Taco Bob

  “Maybe even a little too good.”

  There always seemed to be a bar upwind, no matter where I sat on the beach. This time it was Calypso music and the smell of shrimp cooking that came my way courtesy of a warm sea breeze. I tried a sip off a cold Corona, leaned back in my chair, dug my toes a little deeper into the Key West sand, and took a quick count of the fingers on my right hand. When I looked up there was sixteen-year old Willie, wearing two baggy pairs of swim trucks and two ball caps, standing in front of me in the bright sunshine. His ebony face looked painfully bored, as usual.

  “Wassup, Taco Dude? How come yer always looking at yer hand anyway?”

  “Just checking on my fingers to make sure I got the right amount. It’s just kind of an exercise thing I do to help me learn better dreaming.”

  Willie, of Two Willies Seashells, plopped himself down on the sand next to my chair.

  “Uh huh, whatever.”

  Young Willie’s attention had been momentarily diverted by a couple of teenage girls walking along the beach.

  “My grandfather says for you to come by this evening for dinner. He’s got some steaks or something going on.”

  “Tell your grandfather wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  “’kay. See ya.”

  Without another word Willie was on his feet and shyly following the girls down the beach at a safe distance.

  ♦

  I didn’t always spend my afternoons lazing around on a beach. In fact, at one time I was your typical hardworking cowboy, running a possum ranch in Armadillo, Texas.

  But life has a way of throwing changes at you about the time you least expect it. A few more than the usual amount of tornados, floods and prairie fires coupled with some misunderstandings with the law a while back had me leaving my contented life in the Texas badlands. I headed south, looking for a change in scenery and luck.

  By the time I got to Key West I was not only out of road, but out of money too. Since the place seemed to have ample quantities of outstanding weather, world-class fishing, funky bars, great food, and fine-looking women, I decided it might be worth staying put and trying to make a go of it in the Conch Republic.

  I found Key West to be everything I’d hoped for and more. Thanks to an insurance windfall from the possum ranch, most days I could be found either fishing for grunts or relaxing on the beach.

  The beach being an excellent place for perfecting the kind of tropical lifestyle I’d been told required watching sunsets over sparkling blue-green water as much as possible. I was up for the challenge.

  Life was good. Almost too good.

  ♦

  I took a quick swim and got cleaned up a little before I went by Willie’s to see about that dinner invite. The elder Willie was sitting on the front porch with a bottle of spiced rum and two glasses. I’m usually not one to do much liquor drinking before dinnertime, but my host insisted and I decided a good snort just might hit the spot.

  Mr. Willie is an old black feller who spent most of his life on the water around the Bahamas and Florida Keys before he settled into his current entrepreneurial situation as Key West’s seashell man. He saved his money for years and finally bought a nice little house in town. He’d recently been breaking his young grandson Willie into the business.

  A world-class grunt fisherman, Mr. Willie had taught me more about the tasty hand-sized fish than I would have ever thought there was to know.

  I hadn’t really had a good sit-down with the old man since coming back from a trip to the Ten Thousand Islands and Everglades National Park area. So I was looking forward to a pleasant evening in the company of a fine storyteller and friend. We sat there on his porch with the breeze rattling the palms, and had us a drink while we waited for the charcoal on the grill to burn down.

  “Taco mon, I see you catching them grunt today out on the little pier. You good. You got the patience like a old man since you come back to Key West.”

  I took a sip of that spicy rum and worked up a little smile.

  “I did have me some further training in fishing techniques while I was out there in the swamp. I ain’t told nobody else, but I met a ol’ feller that was living out there in the swamp, and he let me stay with him for a while.”

 
; This got Mr. Willie’s attention. He leaned forward in his rocking chair and looked me in the eye. “No shit? They somebody still living out there in the park in this day? I thought them rangers run all them squatters out from there years ago! What that man’s name? What he be looking like?”

  I sipped rum and told the story of Mr. Henry Small, a mysterious old man living in a little cabin way up one of the creeks in the most remote part of the Everglades National Park. I told how I had gotten sick and Mr. Small, who didn’t look a day under 100, had brought me to his cabin and got me fixed up. Mr. Small had taught me some things about fishing and living in the swamp while I was staying there with him. Man even had a little boat made out of a log like the Indians used to have around there.

  I was about to tell Old Willie about the intensely vivid fever dreams I’d had while I was sick, but he jumped in the next time I went for a sip.

  “Now that is some evermore crazy shit! They used to be a mon like what you talking about there, but he the old mon back when I was on the water them many years ago! Can not be the same one!”

  Mr. Willie started to go off into some hard thinking, but a blast of really loud music coming from inside the house had him on his feet.

  “Willie! You turn that damn devil music down NOW, boy! I tell you every time that music hurts the walls of this old house!”

  The music volume decreased dramatically and the old man sat back down.

  “That boy watch too much of that MTV! That shit going to rot the brain right from his head, I know!”

  I tried not to laugh, but a little bit slipped out. Old Willie gave me a look like was I crazy, and then he got a grin going and we were both laughing as we headed around back to check on the charcoal.

  ♦

  Besides being an expert on seashells, sea stories, and grunts, Mr. Willie’s a damn fine cook too. The man got those steaks grilled to perfection and served up with peas ‘n rice, lobster salad, Johnnycakes, and bread pudding for desert.

  After we’d polished off that fine meal, we adjourned back to the front porch to have a short one before I carried it on home. Home being the little wooden camper on the back of my pickup truck, parked at a friend’s house.

  “What you got going on for yourself now, Taco mon? You going to be the Grunt Fisher of Key West? Or maybe sit there on the beach doing them crossword puzzles so much roots grow out you ass like a tree?”

  The old man was smiling, but I knew he was serious too.

  “I been giving it some thought Mr. Willie, but I ain’t really come up with a definite plan just yet. Not hurting for money bad or anything, since I still got most of the insurance money from my ranch out West.”

  About then young Willie appeared on the porch and snapped to attention, saluted, and announced that the dishes were washed. There followed another short one-sided debate concerning the volume of the TV, and then it was quiet again. Mr. Willie looked at me and made a motion with his hands for me to proceed.

  “So, I been thinking of going to Orlando and maybe seeing Mary Ann sometime. Maybe drive on up to North Carolina and do a little fishing with Pete. Other than that, I ain’t come up with much.”

  The old man leaned back in his chair and got to rocking. “You don’t act like that going to do it for you though. You need something else going on or you already be gone doing that.”

  He was right, of course. I didn’t really know what to do with myself. A man can take only so much of a good thing. Even grunt fishing and hanging around Key West could get old after a while. I’d been seeing that as a good problem to have, but lately I’d been a bit restless.

  It was my turn to give him the thing with the hands to go on. He did.

  “You all the time reading them books about Florida, you can just write one too! Only about half the people living in Key West writers, plenty room for one more!” He laughed and gave me a full showing of teeth with a lot of gold before going on with what he had in mind. “I sometimes think I write a book with my recipes, but it’s not happening. I tell you what, mon. You write about you going fishing around, and I give you some recipes for you to put in the book too!”

  The old man had my attention. It took a couple more snorts of rum to get the details worked out, but it was the start of a plan. When I went to get up to leave, the old man put a solid grip on my shoulder.

  “You go, you just be careful, mon. There plenty enough crazy shit out there on the road these days. Them Daltons you tell me about once, them’s the kind of thing I mean.”

  I told him I wasn’t too worried about the Daltons, since they’d been taking their meals inside lately, part of a long-term arrangement with the Department of Corrections. However, I didn’t mention that escape was on the boys’ long list of talents that were frowned upon by the criminal justice system.

  ♦

  The next day I did some light grunt fishing and some heavy thinking. I had a fishing spot next to the park with one scraggly ol’ leaner palm for shade. Other than having to move every so often to stay in the shade, it was a mighty fine place for catching dinner and contemplating life. The old man’s suggestion about traveling around and writing a book still sounded like a good idea. Not the best idea, mind you, but it was leading the pack at that point.

  I got out my map and got ready to take action. Figured maybe just ease on around the state and do some fishing and cooking. Make some notes as I went, then come back and write a bestseller. How hard could it be?

  I decided I needed to stick with trying to catch one kind of fish wherever I went. Since grunts were mostly a South Florida thing for inshore fishing, I figured I’d go with the statewide favorite: trout. Trout Fishing in Florida sounded like a good title for my bestseller even.

  There was another reason to go, something I hadn’t mentioned to Willie Sr. Just before I’d left the swamp to head back to Key West, the strange old man in the little cabin had vanished on me. I hadn’t been that worried about it at the time, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like something just wasn’t right.

  ∨ Key Weirder ∧

  2

  Julian

  Not far from where Taco Bob was fishing for grunts and making plans, a young man sat down on a rock. It was late afternoon and Julian Espejo had just gotten into town. Julian sat in awe, seeing the marker for the first time. He had seen pictures, but pictures could not do justice to the magnificent concrete marker that stood just a few feet before him, with the turquoise waters of the Atlantic in the background. It was a gaudy red, black and yellow, with the words Conch Republic – Southernmost Point Continental USA Key West Fl painted on the inland side.

  Julian was spellbound. The monument was nearly ten feet tall and six feet wide, and it looked like it must weigh tons.

  Faintly at first, but then louder by the minute, he could hear the music from the soundtrack to one of those old Clint Eastwood westerns in his head. As a boy he had watched the videos of those westerns over and over. The throbbing music made him think of his town, his friends, his family, and his quest. When he’d left for Key West, the whole town had gathered on the dusty streets to see him off. The men and boys in their best suits, the women and young girls in their long dresses. They gave him baskets of food for his journey and sang the traditional songs of the region. He clearly remembered the emotion-choked words of his father outside the bus station as he waved good-bye.

  “Julian my son, I know you have go to, it is your time, your destiny awaits. When you return, bring us something nice, okay?”

  As he stood now transfixed before the monument, pride swelled in his chest and tears came to his eyes. The music in his head became louder and louder until it was like a runaway locomotive. Then something shook him and he heard a voice, a high-pitched, whiney voice.

  “Excuse me. EXCUSE ME!”

  The music ran off the tracks and crashed. Julian wiped the tears away and stared at the portly middle-aged woman who had a sweaty grip on his arm.

  “Excuse me, young man, but could
you take our picture?”

  The woman was sunburn pink and wearing a bright red Hawaiian shirt.

  “Just look through here, and when you see the blue dot at the top you press this, got it?”

  She waddled over to the marker and stood next to a round man wearing an identical shirt, and they both smiled big.

  “Look for the blue dot!”

  Julian had a little trouble with the camera, but after some further coaching by the woman, he finally got a few shots that seemed to satisfy her.

  After they left he tried to get the music going in his head again, but he could only come up with the song “Tequila Breakfast”. Someone sitting behind him on the bus had played the classic Marty the Manatee song on their CD player over and over all the way from Miami. The song had brought former Key West resident Marty fame and fortune, and for years since had brought hordes of young people to the Keys to party. Julian couldn’t get the song out of his head – he had lost the moment.

  Julian’s thoughts drifted again to his beloved hometown and its people. Brownspot was small, its people fiercely proud. It didn’t even show up on most maps, down below Brownsville in the bottom of Texas – southernmost Texas – on the border with Mexico. The town hadn’t changed in years. Its people still made their living the time-honored way, as their forefathers had, by smuggling drugs and illegal aliens.

  But the people of Brownspot were tired of the quiet, small-town life and hungered for the money, excitement, noise, pollution, crime, and overcrowding that could come to their community if only they had something that would literally put them on the map.

  Always shy and quiet, Julian had recently turned 21 and wanted to prove himself to his family and his town. He planned to see that Brownspot got the recognition it deserved as the true Southernmost Point in the Continental USA.

  Julian looked hard at the giant hunk of concrete. He hadn’t come for a silly picture, he had come for much more. He had come to steal the marker.

  ∨ Key Weirder ∧

  3

  On the Road Again With Taco Bob

  “Trying to keep my mind on trout.”