Key Manatee Read online

  “That’ll be fifteen dollars, mister!”

  I pointed to some cans of beer in the open fridge.

  “One of those.”

  He seemed unsure of the math, so I offered him a ten and two fives. The man held the money up and counted slowly giving me a good show of grimy hands and black fingernails. He kept giving me suspicious glances while checking the bills like he must get a lot of big-time counterfeiters passing through.

  The first notes of the soundtrack from Deliverance came from the couch. As he answered the cellphone I heard some banging coming from the backyard.

  “Yeah, them boys are here now. I want my money like you promised!” The man wiped his nose with his hand and pulled some crumpled bills from his pocket.

  I decided to bail on the change and beat a hasty retreat. I put the can of beer in my pocket and carried a jug in each hand. I took a peek out back before I left and seen two men working out of a blue pickup putting up a big sign facing the highway bridge. Looked like a political sign, and a perfect place for it.

  When I got back to the boat my host was in his chair reading and had thankfully pulled on a stained pair of baggy shorts he likely donned for social occasions. I noticed the smell was even stronger and seemed to come from a large pile of fur clumps and mud on the deck next to the table. The fur clumps started a low growl which caused a cloud of low circling flies to fan out.

  “Don’t mind ol’ Queequeg there, he ain’t bit nobody in days. Ain’t that right, boy?” The dog started wagging his tail, further scattering the flies. Dog was one of those breeds that’s all head and teeth. Looked more like a short-tailed alligator with fur.

  “Nice dog. That is a dog, right?”

  “African Dung Dog. Cross between a dog and a hyena.” He gave the dog a loving pat, then opened one of the jugs of beer and drank off a couple inches. He set the bottle down while shaking his head in short, violent bursts like he was trying to shake a spider off his nose. Then he went into a mild sneezing fit before lighting up a big smile. “That fella sure can brew up some fine stuff! You ought to try it sometime.” He went back to his book and seemed to forget me. I wiped my can of beer off real good before opening it, then leaned against the gunnels upwind from the dog.

  “Mr. Hunter, I—”

  “Reach that line behind you there going up on that piling!” He was on his feet heading for the pilothouse.

  “This one?”

  He didn’t look.

  “Yeah. Cast it off!”

  I did just as he hit the key and the motor exploded into life and we were moving and leaving a trail of black smoke from the engine exhaust. The dog disappeared into the cabin as I came over to the pilothouse doorway. The man looked back at me and flipped up his sunglasses. He had the usual raccoon look from wearing sunglasses all the time and some unusual eyes. One unblinking eye stared straight at me while the other gave me a good looking over, head to toe. The sunglasses were the kind you see baseball outfielders wear. I was glad when he flipped them back down.

  “You come here to see about making a movie about the famous Shark Hunter?” He was still looking me over. I was about to say something about steering when the boat bumped a channel marker and veered back into the middle of the waterway on its own. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “No sir, actually I—”

  “A book then? Must be you’re here because you’re writing a book!”

  “Well, I am kinda writing a book, but—”

  “I knew it! I knew I didn’t get all dressed up for somebody just wanting to bother me about some kinda nonsense.” He had the grin going again and gave the waistband of his shorts a quick adjustment before plopping into the captain’s chair and grabbing the wheel just in time to miss the next channel marker. “I bet you’re wanting to hear some hair-raising stories about sharks! Am I right, or am I right?” He reached back with a bony finger and jabbed me a couple good ones in the ribs.

  “Well, actually—”

  “Okay, how about this? A couple years ago I was out with some clients just down from Orlando. Been to Rat World there and decided they wanted to see the real Florida. Lucky devils found out about me and booked my Lost Lunch Shark Adventure Special.” There was an old GPS unit on the instrument panel he kept looking at and tapping every once in a while. “So we’re out there at my secret shark hole, got us a big chum slick going like it’s a mile-long welcome mat. It’s hot and we ain’t catching shit except some small blacktips. This one boy’s a big fella and he’s got a smart mouth, so I told him not to hold those sharks by the tail, knowing he would. He’s all full of himself since he’s been to college playing football and wants to show off for his girlfriend and two buddies. So we catch another one and he grabs it by the tail to hold up for a picture. The shark ain’t but about three feet long, and it flips up and takes a tiny bite clean out of this big bruiser’s forearm. He goes to squealing like he was going to die. Got blood all over the little girlfriend and two buddies before we could get him patched up.” The old man eased back on the throttle and gave the GPS a good whack.

  “Next, one of the buddies brings in another little shark. Big boy knows all there is about sharks now, so he grabs this one by the head and gets tail-slapped in the face and neck.” The man cut the engine to idle, then came past me out on the deck and grabbed a long pole with a hook on the end. He looked down in the water and then at me. “Sharks got skin like sandpaper and those tail-slaps can hurt like a worst-ever case of sunburn. That big fella went to whining and crying all over again so bad I was afraid he would scare the sharks.” Mr. Hunter’s attention followed the end of the pole with the hook on it and up came a lobster trap with no buoy. I helped him drag it on deck and he pulled out lobsters and re-baited while going on with his story.

  “Big’un took a break from whining about his boo boos long enough to start in about not seeing any big sharks. That was when the wind and waves went to kicking up and a big thunderstorm started forming right on top of us. I told them folks it was time to head for the hill, but Mr. Macho wanted to stay and sure enough we seen a big fin coming up the chum line through the waves. Big man grabs a whole bucket of chum and dumps it over with the boat rocking and the lighting cracking around us. I didn’t have a good boat like this back then, just a old scow with twin ocean-runner outboards.” After a careful look at the bottom and the GPS, the unmarked lobster trap went back over the side and three nice lobsters went in the fishbox.

  “Must have been all that chum and one of the seasick buddies hanging over the side barfing got that shark excited. About the time I yelled to get the buddy back, here come the shark with a head the size of a oil drum taking a snap at the buddy like he’d done it before. Then while the boat lurched around in the big waves and the storm got serious, the giant shark went to smashing into the boat trying to get at the snacks he’d just seen all screaming their lungs out while they were thinking maybe standing in the rollercoaster line in Orlando wasn’t so bad after all.” My host and storyteller sat back in the captain’s chair. When he buckled himself up with a seatbelt I looked for something to hold onto.

  “The boat was pitching around in the storm too bad to try to harpoon the shark, so I was about to bait up my biggest fishing pole when the shark stuck his head up and tried to eat one of the outboards. I couldn’t see anything good coming of that, and didn’t get no argument from my clients about calling it a day and heading in. By then they’d lost interest in fishing anyway and were all huddled in the cabin busy finding religion in their lives.

  “The top of the outboard must not have tasted right, so that big mean bastard went to gnawing on the bottom part next. I figured he was about to chew off a prop anyway, so I fired up both two hundred and fifty horsepower engines and did some serious dental work on that shark.”

  Mr. Hunter hit full throttle which seemed to signify the end of the story. The old boat shuddered a second or two before roaring up the channel. He threw off the seatbelt and motioned for me to steer the boat. While I d
id my best to keep from running into anything important, the old fella pulled the hatch cover off the big inboard engine which then sounded like about a million angry bees in a blender. He gave something a couple good bangs with a wrench and closed the hatch. I was happy to give back the wheel.

  “‘Bout never thought I’d get this damn motor running right again. Some fool offered to help me change out the turbo charger and he must have screwed with something while I wasn’t looking. You ever run into somebody calls himself Slip, don’t let him near no boat motors.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll definitely keep that in mind.” He cut the throttle some as we came back toward the old marina. “What I wanted to ask you about is somebody’s been leaving dead chickens outside one of the restaurants in Old Town. Wondered if you’d have any idea who might be doing something like that.”

  He leaned back in the captain’s chair, flipped his sunglasses, and gave me a good two-count squinty look. This time with both eyes locked on me. “What makes you think I’d know anything about such nonsense as that? Somebody send you here?”

  “I’m trying to find out for the lady who owns the restaurant. I been doing some asking around and your name came up. Oh, and one of the people who told me about you said to give you this.” I took the little black and red voodoo doll out and tried to hand it to Shark Hunter who jumped straight back, turned, and dove through the open window into the water.

  Which, after the shock of seeing someone do such a quick and graceful exit, left me holding the doll and steering the boat again. I threw the engine out of gear and ran to the side looking. He was treading water about fifty feet behind the boat, swimming the other way toward open water.

  “Hold on, Mr. Hunter! I got you!” I spun the wheel and eased up after him. I wasn’t used to the way the boat handled so I went slow so as not to run the man over. He seemed upset enough as it was.

  “I’ll throw you a line!” I cut the engine so the boat would come up just a few feet from him on the starboard side. He looked back and started swimming away from the boat again. “Mr. Hunter! I’m trying to help you here! You got to swim this way, over toward the boat!”

  He stopped swimming. The sunglasses came up and those eyes were hard as granite.

  “You want to help me? Fine. If you got a gun on you, you can go ahead and shoot yourself in the head a few times, save me the trouble when I get back on board!”

  I’d been about to throw a life jacket on a line to the man, but set it back on the deck while I thought this through. A couple of minutes later he looked like he might be getting a bit tired of treading water. He cupped his hands around his mouth so he could give me a good yell.

  “I’ll tell you what, throw that damn doll off the back, as far as you can throw it, and I promise not to shoot you at all in the head.”

  This sounded like his final offer, so I tossed the doll, then eased the boat closer.

  I got the man back aboard and he seemed to have calmed down some. He still had his cap and sunglasses but was again naked from the glasses down. He didn’t say a word, went straight into the pilothouse and reached behind the seat. I thought about the gun and eased toward the side of the boat in case I deemed it prudent to take a quick dip myself. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized he was putting his shorts back on. The sight of the little doll had literally scared him out of his britches.

  He flipped up his sunglasses. “My ex-wife say anything else about me when she gave you that damn voodoo doll?”

  “The woman at that store is your ex?” I’m guessing my face registered surprise.

  He gave me a quick eye roll. “Of course, she’s my ex. You don’t think a grown man would react to a voodoo doll from anyone else that way, do you?” Before I could sort that out, he continued. “What did she say about me and chickens? She didn’t say anything about me having sex with ‘em or anything did she? Woman always was crazy jealous about the damnest things.”

  “Uh, no. She said she didn’t know who’d been killing the chickens, but said you might know someone who’d do something like that.”

  He gave this some thought. “Well, I don’t know for nothing about nobody killing no chickens. Or having sex with them for that matter.” He gave me a look that was obviously meant to be sincere. “She didn’t say anything about having sex with sharks, did she?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Good. Only people I ever heard of doing that is some crazy cult out there in California. Sex with sharks! Who ever heard of such nonsense?” The old fella got the boat going towards the dock again and looked out of the corner of his eye like he was seeing how believable that one sounded.

  “So I guess you don’t know about anything strange going on with the Blue Parrot restaurant.”

  He gave me a little boy shrug and smile intended to convey total innocence and ignorance. By then we were back to the narrow plank dock so I helped tie the boat off before I left.

  “Thanks for your time. I reckon I’ll be going then.”

  “You write that book, be sure to put plenty of sex in it. And surprises, keep ‘em guessing, that’s the ticket.”

  I thanked him again for the help and literary guidance and started up the plank.

  “Hey, did you say the Blue Parrot? Man used to crew for me years ago, I think he was working there some, singing and playing guitar.” The dog had reappeared and was retching violently on the deck. “Got himself dead a few days ago. That JB had the sweetest voice, used to sing to the sharks when we went out.”

  I left the old shark fisherman with his dog and his memories. I was anxious to try out a long, hot shower.

  ∨ Key Manatee ∧

  Seven

  Prior to investigating chicken murders, my life’s work experience had been limited mostly to possum ranching. Though riding the possum pastures of Texas can be one of your more satisfying professions, I can’t say I much minded stumbling into the fortuitous circumstances that lead me to being financially independent in Key West. Between fishing, smoking fish, and doing favors for people, I managed to keep busy and mostly stay out of trouble.

  ♦

  “Trish, I think we may be in trouble.”

  It was hard to stay focused on the trouble thing while sitting across from a beautiful woman in a picturesque restaurant on a perfect day in Key West while finishing off a plate of Jerk Chicken with one hand. My client, Ms. Trish Everything, had deftly slipped a gentle hand on top of my other just as I finished filling her in on my extensive investigation and total lack of leads. The doll in her other hand faced me and seemed to speak.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Maybe try another approach?” She pointed the doll toward a passing waitress. “June?” You really had to look hard to see her lips move. The doll faced me again. “Pie?”

  “Uh, no thanks. I’m so full I could-”

  “June, dear. Would you bring our guest a large slice from one of those Key Lime pies that just came out of the oven?”

  I wasn’t too sure about the pie. The minute I walked in the restaurant I’d been seated at the best outside table and Trish herself brought two steaming platters of food which I polished off while going over the case. Investigative work can put a real appetite on you. Obviously she thought talking about it could too, and I sure didn’t want to risk offending anyone by turning down food.

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I reckon I’ll try a slice.”

  That got me an eye roll from those bright blue eyes. I noticed the doll had blue eyes too. Luckily, they didn’t roll.

  “About the bloody chickens!”

  “Oh. Uh…” I leaned in closer. “Actually, I am thinking of another approach – a stakeout. Hide somewhere tonight and see if I can catch the person who’s putting dead chickens on your doorstep.”

  My host and her doll leaned in close as well. “You’re bloody well going to shoot the bugger, right?” She held the doll up close to my head with her index finger and thumb shooting me between the eyes. “I bl
oody well hope you got a big gun! Blow that bugger to bits!”

  I hadn’t really given much thought to what I’d do if I caught someone in the act. The only other time I’d done a similar favor on my own was looking for the missing husband of a woman who worked at the marina. Turned out he’d just run off a few miles to Marathon. Had himself a job there at a bookstore and, as I found out in a rather disturbing way, was shacked up with a goat. That bit of news wasn’t too well received by the wife. She picked up a hatchet and stomped off in the general direction of Marathon. She never came back to the marina and I never saw anything in the paper, so I assumed it all worked out.

  I was still getting a lethal stare from Trish and still getting shot by the doll, so I put my free hand up to ward off any further finger bullets.

  “I don’t know how you do things back in England, but possession of a dead chicken isn’t exactly a shooting offense in the US. Not even in Key West.”

  “England? What the bloody hell makes you think I’m from England?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The way you talk? The punk hairdo? The British flag on that wall over there?”

  “Oh, shit. It’s a long story, that.” She leaned back in her chair but her free hand stayed delicately on top of mine while I ate pie and she told me about herself.

  “I was four, living with me mum over on Caroline Street when I got sick really bad. The doctor didn’t think I’d make it. My mum gave me Dolly here, all porcelain from the 1800s, she is. Said she came from a British ship what wrecked out on the reef back a hundred and fifty years ago.” A finger lifted the doll’s dress. “As you can see, Dolly lost her knickers in the wreck.” I got a rather odd wink. “I didn’t die, but I didn’t talk for two years, and when I did, Dolly did it for me.” Like this explained everything. In the meantime, I’d about finished that generous piece of pie.