Key Dali Page 12
I thank Stoney and start to go, as he seems anxious to get back to his phone conversation. He covers his phone again and tells me to be sure to stop by later.
I barely have time to begin processing this bit of disturbing information concerning Socks when I hear my name again.
“Dali! Over here!”
I stop the bike, but don’t see anyone, just rows of cars in a parking lot. Then I see a hand waving from the bushes along the edge of the lot. Approaching cautiously, I see Hooman scrunched down in the bushes.
“Hey, Dali, how’s it going?”
“Good. You okay?”
“Sure, fine. Could you do me a big one and go in the store there and buy something for me?” He holds out some money.
“Sure, Hooman. Can I assume the reason you need me to go into the store for you has something to do with why you’re hiding in the bushes?”
“Damn right. I got a disturbing phone call from someone this morning I definitely did not give my number to. Guy on the phone has some crazy story about his mom getting scratched by a cat and one of the cat’s claws coming off. I asked how he got my number and he tells me he’s a bounty hunter, like I’m supposed to be impressed. Well, I hang up on the guy and forget about it, and a half hour later a van pulls up outside my trailer. Two big, nasty-looking Cro-Magnons pile out and one of ‘em starts beating on my front door. The other one is all, ‘The man you just hung up on sent us to learn you some manners, loser. You can give us double the money for the cat right now, but if we got to hit you first it’s going to cost you triple.’ So I ran out the back door and lost them down some alleys in Old Town a few minutes ago.”
“I see. What do you need from the store?”
“Five pounds of beef jerky and a dozen cans of mosquito repellant.” Hooman shrugs. “This sort of thing happens, you know? Occupational hazard. I’ll just lay low under a bridge up the Keys for a few weeks. No big.” Hooman shrugs again and I go into the store for his supplies.
After I bid Hooman farewell and good luck, I continue on to Stock Island. I take South Roosevelt and cut through the long, wide Smathers Beach sidewalk dodging tourists and sea gulls. As I pedal along I’m trying to remember just what it was Socks and I had argued about. Strangely enough, I keep thinking it had something to do with golf.
Socks and I had gotten along so well, for days, until the beautiful blue tropical skies had turned dark and gray and ugly and rainy and cold and miserable and stayed that way for two days straight while we were cooped up in the condo. So perhaps it was the weather, or maybe that tiny faux pas I made about her thighs that set her off into a blind, uncontrollable rage with a golf club.
Yeah, that was it. Now I remember.
Here’s the bridge over the channel to Stock Island, and up ahead is the trailer where my delicate flower with the solid stance and impressive follow-through lives.
Ah, here we are, and here is the old she-wolf that my true love rents a room from, with a lit cigarette dangling from her lip and a permanent scowl on her well-lined face.
“What do you want, freakboy?”
I dismount from my trusty steed, and doffing the hat, bow deeply to the old bag.
“If you could kindly direct me to the whereabouts of the love of my life, that would do for starters. I mean, if you don’t mind.”
“The gypsy bitch? She split.”
This is not an acceptable answer, so I ask for clarification and details. However, things rapidly degenerate into name calling and threats until the crone pulls a butcher knife on me, and I elect to take the search for my love elsewhere while I am still unstabbed.
Luckily, I’m pretty good on a bike and lose the screaming, knife-welding wench after a mile or so. I make a mental note to never underestimate the stamina of the truly insane.
The frantic bike ride has opened my appetite, so I swing by the big chain grocery on my way to the marina – it’s time to splurge on a tasty submarine sandwich. I decide that since my day seems to going progressively downhill, I may want to at least face the answers to my questions on a full stomach.
I bounce into the store, my mind filled with happy thoughts of fresh-baked wheat bread and mounds of cold cuts and vegetables, and leave with only what I think is a raisin bagel from the priced-for-quick-sale rack. The deli section has turned out to be closed for remodeling and the raisins turn out to be mold.
Outside, I notice the sun has given way to a low blanket of gray clouds. I brush the dried seagull crap from the bench in front of the store and get some really good exercise for my jaw muscles by gnawing off the least-moldy parts of my tough, instant-heartburn brunch. As I sit reflecting on my search for Socks, and weathering the first waves of mean little burps, an armored car stops in front of the store so the exhaust pipe of the running truck is only a few feet away and pointed directly at the bench. While I’m holding my breath, a short, round man with a large cloth sack and a large black gun steps out of the truck and gives me a hard stare in exchange for my smile and friendly wave.
A few minutes later, and slightly nauseous from the snack and early stages of carbon monoxide poisoning, I manage to get back on the bike to continue on.
Fully aware that my day is just not going well, I am somewhat heartened by the fact that on the bike ride to the marina I am crapped on by a seagull only one time. But my luck does not hold once I arrive.
So far the only hard, recent news I have on my Socks is that Stoney saw her with Steve two nights ago. So I’m not wholly surprised by the young peanut hustler’s reply to my query.
“I don’t know, it was at night so I couldn’t see much. Just some woman, and she went with him on his boat.”
“Age, hair color, height, clothing, visible scars or tattoos?”
“Hey, like I said, it was dark. But come to think of it, from my view sitting here I did notice she had on shorts and long socks. Socks, like up to her knees.”
This bit of news, coupled with what the trailer park crone told me, forces me to come to grips with the stark reality that my Socks really is gone.
The masticated bagel, which had finally gone mostly dormant in my stomach, decides suddenly to transform itself into full-strength battery acid. I am able to postpone a purchase from the insistent nut merchant by promising to return, money in hand, after I finish chumming the fish at the end of the dock.
So on unsteady legs I’m making my way towards an open place where I wouldn’t be throwing up directly on any boats, but don’t quite make it. It doesn’t take long at all for the poison bagel to reenter the atmosphere, and then I learn the owner of the newly spotted boat is not only on board, he’s also in a bad mood. But the man is as quick with a bucket of cleansing seawater as I am with an apology. He’s also quicker with the second bucket of water than I am at running, and I suffer a wet backside while attempting to flee the immediate vicinity.
I consider giving a quick swimming lesson to the peanut salesman currently lying on his side on the dock – laughing hysterically – but decide against it at the last minute when I hear my name.
“Dali!”
It’s my friend Taco Bob waving me over from atop his houseboat. A small brown hand clamps onto my pants leg as I attempt to slip by, and the only way to get the hand to release its vise-like grip is by buying a bag of nuts. Then I head for the Sandy Bottomed Girl.
∨ Key Dali ∧
27
News
I step aboard the old houseboat and climb up the ladder. Consuelo must have been inside as she’s right behind me. I motion towards the open seat but the lady declines and gives me a look that says the seating arrangements are not up for debate, so I slip into the captain’s chair next to Taco Bob. From up here you can see the whole marina, and in the distance I notice a small rain shower leaking from the low clouds out over the water.
While Consuelo frowns against the railing, Taco Bob tries a smile.
“How’s it going, Dali?”
“Best you do not ask today, my friend.” I try a smile o
f my own. I could certainly use some good news so I venture a query. “Has Josephine learned anything about our friend down the dock?” I nod my head in that direction.
Taco Bob looks over at Consuelo and she takes over. “The good news is Josephine’s been able to get into Steve’s computer when he turns it on, just like we’d hoped. She says from the couple of e-mails he sent this morning that he doesn’t seem to suspect anyone’s been poking around in his stuff.”
Consuelo breaks eye contact and looks down for a few seconds before going on. She does not look happy.
“Steve had his computer on long enough late last night for Josephine to download most of his hard drive onto her computer, so she was up most of the night reading files and old e-mails. It looks like the man is just a common slimeball doing a lot of field research on Key West for someone Josephine thinks is probably a relative. A cousin or something.
“Besides all the pictures of the banks, Stevie Boy has also checked into every possible way to leave the island. He’s got information on speedboat rentals, car and truck rentals, the ferry to the mainland, and private and commercial airplanes. There’s intel on several of the local charter boats for an armed grab. Even scenarios for jacking a cab.”
Consuelo’s eyes are hard as ice. She gives Taco Bob a quick glance before going on.
“We’ve been talking it over and it looks like he’s most likely doing the prelim work for someone planning to knock off a bank in Key West.” There’s real disappointment in her eyes now. “But from his e-mails there isn’t anything pointing to him being the one who’s sabotaging the marina.” She gives a quick shrug. “So we’re back to square one.”
I can hardly believe what I am hearing. It has to be him! “But what about the potato bag and ice pick? And the gloves?”
Consuelo nods to Taco Bob and I turn to him. “We talked about that, too. Man doing re-con on local banks would be wanting to keep a low profile. He might hang around Mallory trying to take advantage of the women there just from habit. But actively sabotaging a marina, knowing you’re going to really upset some people,” he nods towards the frowning young woman at the railing, “is taking a big chance. Especially if you’re living in the marina.”
Consuelo moves closer and puts a hand lightly on my shoulder. “We’re not sure yet what to do with Steve, probably dime him to the local cops.” She rolls her eyes. “But he’s not our man.” The hand gives me a soft pat before leaving. “We do appreciate your help, Dali. We’ll let you know if we learn anything else.”
I fight down my disappointment and put on my best brave face. I consider telling my friends that Socks had likely been on Steve’s boat sometime before our little raid, but I don’t want to bother anyone with my problems.
Even though I’m told Slip is on his way with fresh Pompano, I turn down an invitation to stay for lunch. I shake hands with my friends and only then realize I’m still holding the peanuts, which I give to Taco Bob. I tell him my stomach is having an off day.
♦
My thoughts are not in a good place as I retrieve the bicycle, which I can’t help but notice has fresh seagull poop on the seat and a flat tire. I rescue a paper napkin from a nearby trash receptacle for the poop, but I am in such a disheartened state I take only a cursory glance through the can for art supplies.
As I walk the bike towards the gas station for air, I do a situation analysis. I know there are a few places around the island where houseboats can be moored – like in resort marinas or behind private waterfront homes and businesses – but due to county ordinances these places are few and likely quite expensive. If the marina closes, Taco Bob and the other live-aboards will be causing these moorings to become even fewer, and more than likely even more expensive. So even if I do eventually find a houseboat I can afford to put a down payment on, the chances of an affordable mooring are as small as a tear in the ocean.
My short-term solution to everything is one that I am afraid is not at all original, and in fact has been turned to by men in hopeless circumstances for ages. After my trek to the air station to feed quarters into a machine for air only denser than all the free air all around me, I head off to hole up somewhere where I can seek the age-old consolation of strong drink.
But I do have the presence of mind to visit my cache first, since previous experience has shown that due to my even more generous nature when under the influence, I am more than likely to wake up penniless as well as in a dumpster.
As always I am careful not to be observed as I approach the buried trashcan. I carefully count out enough money from my pocket to buy myself at least temporary solace, if not oblivion, before lifting the lid and finding that my day up to that point had not been nearly as bad as I’d thought.
∨ Key Dali ∧
28
Stoney
I leave my secret hiding place in a daze with the siren song of the bus station coming upon me. The ringing in my head that had slackened off considerably in recent days has also returned. I stumble along, zombie-like, in the general direction of the bus station for several blocks before I remember Stoney’s bicycle.
By the time I retrieve the bike from the bushes beside my cache, I have come to my senses enough to decide I must return the loaned bicycle before I see how many bus miles the money I have in my pocket will buy.
Since I’m still in a state of shock and too unsteady to be able to safely ride the bike, I’m walking it through Old Town on my way to Stoney’s. I’m so depressed I can’t even look up as I walk along and only notice it’s still cloudy a few seconds before I see a raindrop hit the sidewalk in front of me. I stop and look up just in time to catch a large number of the billions of cold raindrops immediately behind the first one.
I remove my trusty fedora and stand there looking up into the winter rainsquall for a full minute, which it turns out is just long enough to get thoroughly drenched. The rain brings me back enough to remember the orange poncho folded up in my pocket. I take it out, and recalling the painful memory of who gave it to me, drop it in the closest trashcan.
I push the bike in the rain down deserted Duval Street to Stoney’s and go around back. I lock the bike in its place and knock on the low door of Stoney’s crawlspace home. No answer. No one home. So I’m standing in the rain, thinking about all those years of struggling to survive in orphanages, the uncaring foster parents, working as a laboratory test case to pay for those few months of college, the hospital, and the hundreds of works of art lovingly crafted from trash, just so I could end up standing here shivering in the rain with a few wet dollars in my pocket and my future so empty I don’t even know in which direction my next step will be. Or even if it will be.
“Dali? What are you doing standing there in the rain?” I look around, then down and see Stoney kneeling in the doorway. “I thought I heard someone knock. Come on in, man. I was in the can.”
♦
My friend must sense my wretched mental state as he makes me go immediately into the bathroom. I take his advice and put my wet clothes in the electric clothes dryer and take a long, hot shower.
A quart of chowder from Pirate Jim’s warming on the stove makes the big, low room smell as good as it looks and feels to my frazzled mind, body, and spirit. Before long I am wearing warm, dry clothes, and pouring two cups of the aromatic chowder. Stoney is hunched over his laptop and I don’t want to disturb him, so I carefully crawl across the room and set one of the steaming cups next to his laptop. I have a seat nearby and lean back against the wall.
Stoney taps a few more keys, then looks up at me.
“Been having a rough day?”
“None worse in this lifetime. And yourself?”
“Interesting day. Got a minute?”
Before I answer, I take a sip of the chowder and can almost feel my body instantly begin the process down to the molecular level where the hearty fare transforms into blood and bones and brains.
“I can spare a few minutes.” I give my friend a wink, and he stretches big before
beginning his tale.
“Remember the bank? Remember I told you I’d make a couple of calls, find out what I could about the marina? Well, things have kind of snowballed here…”
I only have one thing left, and that is my freedom. Taking into consideration the way my day has gone so far, I decide my best course of action is to eat more of Pirate Jim’s gourmet chowder in case I’m soon to be finding myself taking meals in an environment where the menu is extremely limited for the next five to ten years.
Stoney takes a good sip of chowder himself before continuing.
“I think I told you we wanted to try to find out the name of the company that does the computer security for Greater Keys Bank.” I tell my friend I do remember that. “Well, we decided we didn’t want to tip our hand at what we had in mind to Mole’s hacker buddy from Starke, so we asked him to just run down the names of security companies doing work for each bank in South Florida. I mean, Mole trusts the guy, but hey, the guy is in prison after all.” I get a shrug.
“Anyway, we get the name and everything else we needed to know about the company. Which is in Miami, so now I have to figure out how to get Mole over all those bridges between here and Miami. I decide to try a simple way first, like get him drunk enough to pass out. Unfortunately, years of working on shrimp-boats and building custom crawlspaces has made our man Mole a pretty tough dude, and it took me several bottles of good rum to get him drunk enough he didn’t know what was going on. Sorry to say that by then I wasn’t much better off, and I’m still not sure how I got the man into the rental car and all the way to Miami without getting in a crash or thrown in jail or both. Actually, I may have crashed the car or put it in a canal since we woke up the next day in a Homestead motel with no car and still don’t know what happened to it.”
Another shrug.