Key Dali Read online

  The alarm system is pretty much a joke, so I called upon my two years experience working after school and weekends at my foster father’s security system company and made a few changes. Not many people know that you can not only run a test of the entire system on a Vanguard 311 at will, but even set it to automatically test at any time of the day or night. Amazing how I can remember something like the schematics and codes of various security alarms from years ago and apply them to the updated systems, but can’t remember what I did, or where I was, last week. Working on the security made me wonder what happened to those foster parents who had eventually sold the business just before trading me for a matched set of ten-year-old Korean twins.

  After taking care of a few small problems with the ambience of the condo’s interior, I decide it will do nicely. I am smiling as I ride the elevator down, then bounce out the front door into glorious sunshine ready to do some fishing.

  ∨ Key Dali ∧

  11

  Fishing

  “Hey, Dali! You look ready to do some fishing.”

  I was hoping to see Taco Bob again sitting on the little pier, and there he is. I have a small paper bag and my Pocket Fisherman from a hiding place in some weeds near the park. I stop a few feet from my friend and before speaking, remove my hat and perform a sweeping bow all in one move.

  “And hello to you, Taco Bob! How are you this beautiful day?”

  “I reckon about as good as a man can possibly be in paradise, which ain’t bad at all. How you been?”

  I shrug as I have a seat on the old wooden bench. “I have been up, down, and up. Currently, up.”

  While carefully checking over my fishing rig I learn my friend has only recently arrived at the pier himself and hasn’t caught any fish yet. He seems to be in an even better mood than usual, and explains how his life as a recreational fisherman and semi-professional boat bum living on an old restored houseboat sometimes is a bit demanding. I’m not sure if he is putting me on or not, but he gives me a wink when he tells me he aspires to become a true professional boat bum someday. To this I can relate.

  “Yes, it is good for a man to have goals.”

  I bait up with a piece of the shrimp offered by my fellow fisherman and cast out a short distance. Which is about as far as my Pocket Fisherman can manage anyway, since it is less than a foot long, unlike Taco Bob’s rods, which are as long as a man is tall. I am happy to see he has an extra, heavier pole today. I know that sometimes he will try to catch one of the big barracuda that lurk just off from our little pier. He’s never caught one, but like all die-hard fisherman, he is eternally optimistic.

  I hold up my paper bag. “I have something for you today, my friend.”

  I hand it over and his face lights up in surprise as he takes a look at the plastic container inside. “What in the world?”

  A few minutes later the big rod is set. We don’t have to wait long until it bends over hard and the reel screams. Taco Bob is on his feet grabbing the distressed fishing pole and grinning.

  “You’re damn sure right, Dali, those are great bait! What did you call them again?”

  “Chinese Lump Eels.”

  An hour later and we’ve taken turns getting several barracudas that look like toothy torpedoes up to the pier and then released.

  After the excitement of the big fish we two settle down into some moderately serious grunt fishing, though it is such an outstandingly beautiful day, I find it hard to get too serious about anything. Talking quietly so as to not disturb any grunts in the vicinity, I tell my fishing companion about how I have learned that grunts are my spirit animal and that I will be doing catch and release from now on. We also discuss important topics like the latest crises in the Mid East, the economic pros and cons of offshore oil drilling, and the comparative value of different submarine sandwiches offered at the big grocery store. We differ on Mid East solutions, are close on offshore drilling, and heartily agree grocery store sandwiches are one of the best values in Key West.

  Taco Bob recounts a recent enjoyable day trip by ferry to the nearby old fort and beautiful beaches of the Tortugas – a part of the US even further south and west than Key West. This is followed by the kind of comfortable silence that is known only to fisherman who have reached that almost magical point of enjoying themselves so much they don’t really care if they catch anything else the rest of the day or not.

  For a while I’m perfectly content to sit quietly looking out over the gentle waves, and don’t even pay attention to the nibbling I feel on my line as grunts are surely stealing my bait.

  There’s something important I need to talk to Taco Bob about, but in the comfortable silence my mind drifts back to the recounting of the recent ferry trip to the Tortugas, which included mention of an unnamed female companion. This has me wondering if it was Consuelo. Just as I’m trying to figure out how to put this into a non-invasive question, I get my answer.

  “You know, the next time I do the ferry trip I suppose I should see if Consuelo wants to go.” My companion gives me a quick glance. “I saw her yesterday and she told me about the picture you did of her at Mallory, and the cop. Knowing her as I do I’m thinking there might have been more to the story.”

  Oh, boy. I am not sure how to answer my friend.

  “The cop, I think he was going to ask her about her clothing. I just offered to do her picture before he had a chance.”

  “Her clothing? She wasn’t going around naked with just body paint again, was she?”

  “She had on some nice shorts.”

  Taco Bob shakes his head sadly, but I see a bit of a smile. “That girl does like to show it off.”

  “She’s very attractive.”

  “Yeah, no doubt. She also has a temper, and doesn’t do well with law enforcement types. I’m thinking you might have saved her some trouble. She’s a pretty tough cookie and would likely never admit to anyone helping her out, much less thank them, but I will.” I get a slap on the back and a wink. This makes me smile. I feel like maybe I should share.

  “Consuelo’s mother told me once those sisters had a lot of special training when they were young. After school they had tutors who gave them training in practical things, like the fine art of fighting dirty. She said Consuelo was a star pupil in that one.”

  “Yeah, I heard some of that. The version I heard, those sisters didn’t know until recently that the woman who raised them wasn’t their biological mother, and those special teachers were Wiola and their father all along.”

  “They were raised in an unusual way, no doubt, but they are pretty amazing sometimes.”

  “True enough, though Consuelo can be plenty hard-headed about certain things.”

  I can see this is about to go south, so I chance an inquiry hoping to find out a couple of things.

  “How’s it going at the marina where you have your houseboat?”

  Taco Bob reels in a nice grunt. Just as he raises the fish up it flips off the hook, lands back in the water, and swims away. He smiles and shrugs.

  “Marina isn’t so good. Besides the bank trying to bury the owners with paperwork, someone has been sabotaging the place. A couple of boats that bought gas there have had engine problems lately, so we’re thinking someone put something in the underground fuel tank. There’s a big lock on it now, but they’re going to lose a lot of gas customers, not to mention they’ll probably be paying for some motor repairs. The folks who own the marina are having enough financial problems already and this sure isn’t going to help.”

  Taco Bob reels in to check his bait and casts out again.

  “Found out this morning the ice machine is down because someone took an ice pick to the compressor lines, and suddenly the toilets in the restrooms aren’t working. Plus the whole marina smells bad, like someone threw dead fish up in the weeds.”

  Indeed, this did not sound good at all.

  “I am not a fan of banks, myself. It seems to me the economy tanking was because too many people borrowed more than the
y should, and yet loans are how banks make their money. When I was coming here to Key West on the bus, the few new buildings I saw under construction were mostly banks.” We both shake our heads at this depressing fact. “I suppose the owners of the marina have tried to talk to the bank?”

  “Oh, yeah. But the local bank got bought out by one of those big banks that the government had to bail out a while back. So they probably wouldn’t cut them any slack even if the marina property wasn’t such a hot ticket right now.”

  I don’t say anything, since what can you say to that? Plus I’m getting some calls and have to give myself a really good pop to the head to disconnect. I don’t know any other way to say what I have to say, but I need advice. So I just say it.

  “I want to buy an orphanage.”

  ∨ Key Dali ∧

  12

  Duval

  I feel even better after the stimulating barracuda fishing and relaxing grunt fishing. And I also learned a few things talking business with Taco Bob out on the pier.

  After his initial surprise, he listened to my plans and came up with some good suggestions, so I was glad I’d taken him into my confidence. Everything is clear to me now: all I need is a way to save the doomed marina from the giant bank and its lawyers, and an incredible amount of money.

  I do have some cash hidden away in my secret cache, but since I’m down to less than a dollar in my pocket, I’m thinking maybe I should work on the money thing first.

  A short walk in the sunshine and here I am at the Southernmost Point in the Continental US for Making a Few Bucks Off Tourists. Just have a seat here on the bench and wait a few minutes. Ah yes, here comes a couple of happy vacationers now. First he takes a picture of her standing next to the giant concrete Southernmost Point marker, and then she is taking his picture. Now they are looking around. They see a man with a magnificent mustache, a big hat, and an orange cape.

  “Excuse me! Could you take our picture?”

  A couple of snaps and here’s a generous donation for services rendered. After all, as an artist I have an eye for such things and do take a mean photo. I thank the tourists and return to my seat.

  As thoughts about Socks and the debacle at Mallory Square are still pretty painful, I’ve been avoiding letting my mind wander off in that direction. But as I sit on the bench gazing out over the Atlantic Ocean towards Cuba – which the writing on the monument reminds everyone is a mere 90 miles away – my thoughts again drift until they bump solidly into an image of those innocent dark eyes. I decide it’s time to man up and do an updated and wholly objective situation assessment on the glass walker. After a quick pop to the head to quiet the latest ringing, I’m ready to tackle the pros and cons.

  Due to her fawning over the so-called art of the little fraud, it is unfortunately obvious the woman has no taste in art, which would have to go in the ‘con’ column. Also in that column, and of more immediate concern, is the big, shady-looking guy lurking around. This could be a problem if he’s a boyfriend, or even an ex.

  But I also let myself dwell on the good stuff. Like, the lady does have some seriously tough feet, a fine body from what I can tell, a matched set of big sad eyes that could soften the blackest heart at twenty paces, and absolutely impeccable taste in socks.

  I sigh heavily as I look out over the water, as there is no doubt that I am hopelessly smitten. But with my disastrous performance at Mallory, could she even be interested? If the next time I see her she’s with the little fraud again I may wither and die of a broken heart right then and there.

  After a couple of hours at the monument my pockets are not so empty, so that and a passing cop car full of hard looks cast my way has me deciding on a stroll. I leave the Atlantic Ocean to its gentle lapping of the seawall only a few feet from my bench and head for Duval Street.

  Duval is only a mile long, but at the other end is the Gulf of Mexico. The Atlantic end is pretty quiet, but as you walk along it gets busier and weirder as you get further into Old Town. Anyone who wonders why this place is called Key Weird only has to spend some time exploring the busy end of Duval.

  I pass by the Hemingway House before cutting over to Duval and get hit with an idea that’s so good I stagger for a moment under its impact. Even with all the great adventures and even greater books that Hemingway wrote, it seems as though he’s best known these days for the six-toed cats that are descendants of the ones he had back when he lived here. But there are actually six-toed cats all over Key West. Why not just gather up a few, maybe name them after the great man’s books, and sell them to tourists for big bucks? I make a mental note.

  I wave to a few people I know and a few I don’t. It’s always seemed to me that on the streets of Key West the visitors smile and the locals frown, unless you’re buying something from them.

  As I’m walking along the sidewalks of Duval I see a young man on a high-handlebar bicycle that’s painted all over with pink polka dots, and there’s Hooman standing by an art gallery in deep negotiations with a couple of anxious cruise-shippers over what appears to be a winged coconut. The usual mobs of tourists are walking and gawking at the t-shirt shops, or on bicycles and scooters weaving unsteadily through traffic. I hear the obligatory rumble of motorcycles in the distance and catch a whiff of pot coming from the parking lot behind a bar. Talking to the girl with the seashell cart is a weathered old dude with his beard done in braids and an iguana on each shoulder. This creeps me out no end and has me walking faster down the sidewalk, but it also reminds me to relay some iguana warnings. I approach some snobs looking down from the front porch of a chic Duval Street café. They are wearing resort casual wear that costs as much as a used car, and once again I receive compensation for not only passing along important information, but also for moving along.

  “Hey, Dali!”

  It’s Stoney coming out of an alley, his eyes looking all around while he talks. “Hey, man, could you take this package to someone for me?” He hands me a sealed manila envelope full of something soft and squishy.

  “Sure, no prob.” He points down the street and tells me which bar and what the guy looks like.

  I tell him about my idea to sell six-toed cats to tourists for big money, but he just scratches at his bushy beard while beady little eyes nervously scan the street. Stoney being good at financial matters, I give him a quick rundown of my conversation with Taco Bob. I tell him about my plans for helping the orphanage, and when I get to the marina and bank part of my story, those beady eyes lock onto mine. He slowly nods.

  “Let me make a couple of calls, see what I can do.” I get a friendly slap on the shoulder as he turns to go. “Don’t forget that package!”

  I assure him that it’s as good as delivered as I jam it into a big pocket and again join the throng on the Duval Street sidewalk.

  A group of squealing teenage girls on scooters racing down the street catches my eye, as does a kid looking away just as I notice him standing behind a bicycle rack across the street. I’m used to people staring and looking away, but just a couple of blocks back I saw this same skinny kid with jet black hair hanging in his eyes and wearing a black death-metal t-shirt.

  I consider it a good sign that the first trashcan I check has a page from a magazine with a lot of bright blue on it waiting there for me. I hold it to the sky – a perfect match – then fold it neatly and into a pocket it goes. Sure enough, the next few cans I check also have some very nice colors as well. It’s such a beautiful day I’m sure there will be a good crowd at Mallory for the sunset.

  The same cop car I’d seen at the Southernmost monument cruises along Duval with the same hard looks for moi, which is a great reminder to do that little errand for Stoney.

  Sloppy Joes is getting crowded, but I spot a guy with a red shirt and shaved head sitting at the bar. I also notice the guy who’d been lurking around Socks sitting by himself at a table in back where he can see the door. Baldy says the right things and I slip him the package, then slip out the door. I count to ten and pee
k in the side door for another look at the lurker. He’s still in the same place, but now he’s got his head down talking with the man sitting across from him – the man with the red shirt and shaved head.

  ∨ Key Dali ∧

  13

  Mallory

  I look for Hooman but don’t find him on Duval Street, so I head for Mallory. There’s a few early vendors hanging around the kiosk and Hooman with his cart off to the side, holding something up for a couple of tourists. I politely wait until he’s free, then roll up on him.

  “Hooman, I got a trade for you, man.”

  Hooman not only has the dirt on anyone and everything to do with Mallory, he’s also the consummate cash-only businessman – never a freebie. But the man has been known to barter on occasion. He gives me a suspicious eye. “What you got, Dali?”

  I tell him about my idea with the cats and propose a standard 60-40 agreement on proceeds. He digs into a bucket on his cart and holds up a small, moldy, gray thing.

  “I already got a lucky cat foot with six toes.” I take a look, but don’t touch. “It’s actually a lucky rabbit’s foot, and I just glued an extra toe on it. Hasn’t been selling for some reason.”

  He tosses the thing back in the bucket full of oddities and narrows his eyes, thinking. Hooman is even thinner than me, has wild hair sticking out in all directions, and like most locals his skin is a deep brown. He scratches contemplatively at a prominent Adam’s apple. “You might have something, though, with the live cats. I’ll give it some thought.”