Key Dali Page 9
“Which I probably don’t want to know about.”
“Exactly.”
♦
The only other thing I need to do before I can see my Socks is let Father Murray know that he might not have Tim around for a few days. It’s a beautiful day for a man with love in his heart to take a stroll, but as it’s a very long stroll to Father Murray’s church, I instead borrow a bicycle from Stoney for the trip across the island and over the short bridge to Stock Island.
Father Murray is small, old, and decrepit, and so is his church, which is actually a singlewide in the back of a trailer park just downwind from the shrimp-boat docks. Due to zoning regulations Father Murray can’t put a sign up outside his church, but everyone knows where the Keys Church of the Sun is anyway. It’s early afternoon by the time I pedal my way down the crushed shell road through the trailer park.
Father Murray isn’t an ordained minister, nor is his church recognized by any major organized religion, but the orphans he takes care of are very real. With his background, and since he doesn’t exactly do things by the book, the good Father probably would never have gotten state authorization for an orphanage in the first place if his sister hadn’t taken out the license when she was living with him and the kids. From what Taco Bob has told me it sounds like if Father Murray had a houseboat, he could register it with a foreign country and maybe slip through a loophole or two and be immune to certain US laws, which would get a lot of the social agencies off his back that are always trying to take the license away. Not to mention that living on a houseboat in a marina environment with interesting and well-traveled live-aboards from all over the world would have to be better for the kids than what they have now.
It’s late enough for school to be out for the day and several kids are on the front porch heading shrimp and watching Sesame Street when I knock on the screen door.
The kids recognize me and one little girl scurries off to find Father Murray as I let myself in. I take the chair of the girl who ran off and start carefully pinching the heads off shrimp from one of the buckets on the floor. Cookie Monster is on and all eyes are glued to the television as several sets of small fingers and one set of big fingers clean shrimp. The thin girl I remember, named Lisa, is showing off by popping heads in both hands at once. She gives me a shy smile as Father Murray appears in the trailer’s doorway.
“Dali! How are you, my friend?” The little girl who left is back and ready for her seat, so I wash my hands off in a bucket of clean water and wipe them on my pants as I stand and shake hands with the Father.
“I am well, very well, Father. And you?”
“Oh, don’t ask. But I’m alive and kicking, so I guess it beats the alternative. Come on inside.” Father Murray is a small man with thinning gray hair combed straight back and looks a little like George Carlin. He peers into the buckets of shrimp and the two ice chests nearly filled with cleaned shrimp. “Rachel, get Lisa to help you, and get those clean shrimp in the cooler around back. And don’t lose the key.”
Rachel looks to be the oldest and rolls her eyes. “Yes, Father, I know. As soon as this is over.”
I take a seat on the old couch inside while my host goes into the kitchen for glasses of ice water. The furniture is old but clean and the trailer is filled with well-worn toys. The only church services Father Murray has are at sunrise on Sunday mornings at a small beach when the weather and his health permit. I know he brings in just enough from the donations of his motley congregation and the shrimp-cleaning contract to pay the trailer rent and buy food for the kids.
When I first met the man, he told me how kids are sometimes abandoned in Key West by their low-life parents – usually hardcore dopers on the run, not above trading their children for drugs. Abandoned kids aren’t one of the things you read about in the tourist brochures.
“Here you go, Dali. Specialty of the house.”
I take the offered glass and take a long drink of cold water.
“Thanks, Father. Just what I needed.”
“So, what brings you out here today?”
I am sure he’s hoping I have money for him. Government social service agencies don’t generally fund orphanages run by kooks, no matter how much good they are doing. From what I have seen, and from my own experience as an orphan, I know Father Murray is doing a lot of good. I also know he is a kook, but who am I to judge?
“Do you need money, Father?”
“Always.” I get a wink. “But actually we’re not doing too bad at the moment. Captain Jake paid me for the last batch of shrimp this morning and the rent isn’t due for another two weeks. So we’re in relatively tall cotton around here for a change.”
“That’s good to hear. I’ve been saving my money and may have a little surprise for you one of these days.”
“Oh?”
“But I came by to tell you about Tim.”
Father Murray leans forward. “Is he okay? You know I only sent him to keep an eye on you to give the boy something to do.”
“He’s fine, but you may not see him for a few days. He’s going to be helping with the surprise.”
The look of concern is fading into a smile. I know Father Murray trusts me, but I fill him in a little about the marina and how Tim will be the guest of the sisters for a while to learn some advanced techniques in the art of being a sneak.
“That boy is pretty sneaky already, which is what gave me the idea of having him shadow you. But I know the sisters, at least I know Lydia. I’ll give her a call later this evening.”
Father Murray fills me in on the latest with the kids and life in the trailer park. When we first met I thought Father Murray had most likely grown up an orphan himself and that was why he’d started the orphanage. But he told me it was because of Vietnam. He’d done a tour there during the war and one rainy night his platoon had fired into a shack of enemy soldiers who turned out to be several small children instead. He told me the sight of those dead and dying children haunted him for his many years as a homeless alcoholic. When he finally got cleaned up he found himself in the Keys, which is where he started the church and orphanage.
Before long it’s time to start preparing the evening meal, and I decline the offer to stick around for a bowl of the good Father’s famous shrimp-head soup. I bid him and the kids farewell, for I am a man in love, and my paramour lives in a trailer only a few blocks away.
∨ Key Dali ∧
20
Salad Days
It is well known that a man truly in love has little awareness of abstract things like the passage of time, so the next few days floated by not unlike an extended, satisfying dream.
That is, until it rained. And it rained hard like it only can in the tropics. A whole month’s worth of rain in two cold, miserable days and nights. Socks and I holed up in the condo and watched the weather on television and had our first argument, then another. Then she said she was going to feed her cat and stomped out. That was last night and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.
But the rain has stopped now. Maybe I will see her at Mallory this evening.
This thought is a comfort as I relax on a nearly dry part of the couch and flip through the several hundred channels on the condo’s giant high definition television, which I have just noticed, has another crack forming. I have to press hard on the buttons of the remote control, as it doesn’t work quite as well since the incident with the microwave. Actually, with all those sparks and flames and smoke I’m surprised it still works at all.
I’ve just settled on an Asian cooking show where happy, smiling people are crafting a delicious eel pie when I hear someone at the front door. I consider checking it out in case it is Socks, but then again it might just be the manager troll complaining about the noise or the smoke or the chickens or his car being on fire again.
But the door opens suddenly and it is Ponce’s girlfriend, minus Ponce. She looks different, like maybe she has just spent several days tent camping in one of the numerous mosquito-plagued swam
ps scattered across the Sunshine State. She has a large, mud-splattered travel bag, disheveled hair, and a horrified look on her face. But no Ponce.
I spring to my feet.
“Where is Ponce?”
Instead of answering my simple query, she looks around with the same horrified look on her face at the inside of her condo – which I notice for the first time could probably benefit from a prolonged visit from a large team of professional cleaners, carpenters, and plumbers – and shrieks, “My condo! What have you done to my beautiful condo?”
I repeat my question, slowly this time, as it has been my experience that hysterical people are sometimes difficult to communicate with.
“Where. Is. Ponce?”
She shifts her now incredulous look my way and I sense a certain hostility in her reply.
“Ponce? Fuck Ponce! I hope I never see that crazy bastard again!”
I sigh and glance at the antique wall clock on the floor. If I hurry, perhaps I can still catch the last of the outgoing tide at Grunt Pier.
The woman has suddenly rushed into the bedroom, and I hear another startled shriek. I gather my belongings, which amounts to my orange poncho I’d cleverly used earlier to cover a broken window, say goodbye to the goldfish now happily residing in a kitchen sink filled with water, and head for the door just as Ponce’s now-former girlfriend reappears. This time with a large handgun.
I’m quickly outside and un-shot, however, I’m afraid I can’t say the same for the front door of the condo.
After an invigorating jog in the fresh tropical air, I’m soon at Grunt Pier, relaxing and enjoying the warm sun and rain-freshened ocean breeze. I leisurely cast my fishing line out into the clear blue water and sigh deeply thinking back to the wonderful time the woman of my dreams and I had before the rain and cabin fever set in.
Since my love and I only work for a few hours each evening, we had plenty of time to enjoy Key West and each other. We visited the famous museum and marveled at the incredible treasure, caught a ride on a sailboat, took the Conch Train tour for the fascinating history lessons, swam at the Fort Zachery beach, and marveled at the view from the lighthouse.
We checked out the shops and bars, including the Margaritaville Café. I love the man’s music, but like all starving artists, I am appalled at his wealth. I wonder if he would like to contribute to an orphanage?
But up until the big rain the weather was perfect, and in spite of spending some money entertaining Socks, I still made enough with my art at Mallory for a couple of healthy deposits into my secret cache.
Since I had already told Socks the parts of my past I can remember, and since she didn’t seem inclined to talk about herself, we spent quality time in the evenings quietly watching movies on the giant television. We also enjoyed watching the weather reports of horrendous snow and ice storms across most of the country while camped out in a Key West condo, comparing tan lines and screwing like bunnies.
Whenever we were in the condo, Socks wore little or nothing – often only knee socks to please me – but in public she still favored the loose clothes, sunglasses, and ball cap look. When asked, she told me it was so the Bubbas would leave her alone.
I chanced asking her about Steve the benefactor. I offered that there had been some trouble at the marina and that he was a suspect. She was reluctant to talk about the man, but when pressed told me more than I cared to hear. It seems he had wanted her to repay his help in getting her set up at Mallory by taking some pictures of the inside of a couple of banks with her cell phone, as well as having sex with him and giving him money. She told me she wouldn’t do the bank pictures or give him money, and although he always had great pot, she didn’t have sex with him either, just gave him blowjobs a couple of times over at his place. I told her BJs don’t count as sex only when you’re the President. She didn’t get it and I changed the subject. Come to think of it, it wasn’t long after that we had our first big argument, the one that turned into a lot of name-calling and furniture smashing.
I reel in my line to check again that I haven’t accidentally put any bait on the hook, then decide on a stroll, since the disturbing mental picture of fiery condo-owner’s eyes and a large caliber handgun has faded somewhat. First I will go to the marina, since I have not seen my friend Taco Bob in several days and he has not appeared here for grunt fishing. Then perhaps a trip to the hotel, to see if young Tim has survived his time with the sisters while learning the fine art of spying.
∨ Key Dali ∧
21
Marina Check
Here I am again, walking the busy streets of my favorite city on yet another beautiful day in paradise. Sometimes I have to pinch myself or count my fingers to make sure I am not dreaming. The big argument with Socks would likely hamper my good mood if it were not for the strong likelihood of some world-class make-up sex in the near future.
There doesn’t seem to be anyone at home on the Sandy Bottomed Girl, or much of anyone at all around at the marina. I see someone fishing further down the dock and head that way. It’s a kid wearing an old straw hat, sitting there fishing with a hand line. As I get closer I think perhaps this is Tim? The kid looks up at me from under the hat’s brim and one of his eyes is crossed – but it is Tim, I think.
“Tim?”
The kid has a lopsided grin like there’s something wrong with one side of his face.
“You want peanuts, mister?” The kid talks slow, his speech slurred. A moment of panic washes over me. If this is Tim, then those crazy sisters likely did something really bad to him, and Father Murray is going to do something even worse to me, as he is very protective of his wards.
The kid opens a paper bag by his side, which I notice for the first time has ‘PNUTS $2’ written on it and holds up a small plastic sack of boiled peanuts.
“Only two dollars, mister.” I’m standing here looking down at what is left of poor Tim, unsure what to do. Then the kid pinches my ankle and whispers, talking fast. “Buy the damn nuts and meet me behind the office in ten minutes.”
I warily hand over two dollars and get a bag of peanuts and another disturbing grin. I try not to look over my shoulder as I walk away, my mind now full of questions.
Actually, the peanuts aren’t bad. I wander the marina docks and watch a charter boat come in with some sunburned but happy tourists. They hold up a big silver fish from the ice chest for pictures, perhaps a kingfish.
After a few more minutes and the rest of the peanuts, I make my way around to the back of the marina office, and there’s the kid’s head poking from around a rusty old dumpster nestled in some tall weeds. A small hand is waving for me to hurry over, so I do.
“Tim?”
The kid sticks some fingers in his mouth and out comes what looks like a bent plastic poker chip. The smile I get now is large and perfect, and the eyes are straight and shining. I am most relieved, but still wary. Tim has me sit so we are well hidden.
“Had you going, didn’t I, Dali?”
“Yes. The sisters taught you to do all that?”
The little devil is still smiling big. “They taught me a lot of things.” His eyebrows bounce at this. “They also taught me how to limp.” He shows me a small pebble from a worn, dirty sneaker, and then puts it back in. With the rumpled thrift store clothes and his hair now a dirty brown, the disguise is quite convincing.
“So, you got along with the sisters?”
The smile is gone, and his eyes drop. When they come back up his face is serious.
“We didn’t get along so much at first. But they are amazing, the most amazing people I have ever met.” He actually blushes, something I never would have expected from such a hard-case kid.
“Well, your disguise is good. You look like a wharf rat.” The poker chip goes back in and I get the disturbing grin and crossed eye thing again. “How do you do that with your eye?”
“It’s a secret, something Josephine taught me.” Whispering again now. “She’s a little spooky sometimes. I think maybe sh
e’s a witch.” He spits out the chip. “And this is to remind me to do the lopsided grin. Lydia showed me how to do that one.”
“I suppose they’ve got you keeping an eye on the marina. Learn anything?”
I get a wink as the boy produces a small notebook, which he waves briefly before it slips back into a pocket.
“Consuelo told me to answer your questions and fill you in if you came around.”
“Good. So what have you been up to?”
The kid stretches his head up and looks around carefully, and out comes the notebook.
“I’ve been coming over here for three days now, selling peanuts the sisters and I cooked, and fishing some. They taught me to stay out of the way, to act like I’m slow, you know?” I nod and he shrugs, but continues. “People act different to me like this, sometimes it’s kinda sad. Some of the people around here are nice to me and talk to me and buy peanuts, and some won’t even look at me, like they’re stuck up. Or else they just ignore me like I don’t exist, you know?”
I tell him I know exactly what he means. Tim opens the notebook. “The one guy they want me to pay special attention to lives on that big houseboat at J-24. The one at the end of the dock down from where Taco Bob lives.”
I interrupt briefly. “Ah, so you’ve met my friend Taco Bob?”
“Yeah, he’s nice to me and told me some stuff about fishing a couple of times.” Tim shrugs. “He’s cool. Not as cool as the sisters, but okay.”
“Go on with your report.”
“Okay, so this big guy at the end of the dock is a jerk. The first time I saw him, I sold him some peanuts and I couldn’t believe it – he pulls the old short-count change scam on me. Beat me out of ten dollars.” Tim shakes his head slowly. “What kind of turd takes advantage of a crippled kid?”