Mile Zero (54 page)

St. Cloud was always surprised to see Rosella. He thought of her as a giant pillar supporting Justo, in reality she was short and plump. This afternoon the lines around her mouth molded into a broad smile. She reached up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

“What are you doing all alone? You must get some Cuban food.” Rosella slipped a hand around his waist.

St. Cloud tried to think of a way to buy time, make any excuse as to why he had cold feet, felt naked without Lila at his side.

“You like the band?”

“Great band.”

“Justo found them. Come, let me fix you some
Tocino del Cielo
, Bacon from Heaven.”

St. Cloud smacked his lips. “Does it go with burnt pigs from hell the waiters are dishing up?”

“You’re always kidding.” Rosella laughed. “I never know when to take you seriously. There’s something else I have which might tempt you.”

“Cuban girls?”

“You only want to look at them. They are different from other girls.”

“They sure are, they have Cuban fathers at home.”

“Didn’t mean
that
. Quit teasing and come along.” Rosella tipped up on her toes again, whispering confidentially.
“Compuesto
. Abuelo’s secret recipe.”

“Love it, but I quit drinking for Lila. You remember my girlfriend? I brought her to your house for dinner.”

“How could I forget. Isabel thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Where is she?”

“Maybe if I had a
compuesto
I could answer that question.”

“Don’t be so serious. Today is a joyous occasion, we want you with us.”

Rosella led St. Cloud from the shadows of the portico to the loud music of the ballroom, where Justo twirled Isabel to the conclusion of a dance, her white taffeta dress clouding around her, a rhinestone crown sparkling atop coiled black hair.

Justo glad-handed a path through the congratulating crowd, stopping
before an ice swan supporting a bowl of
compuesto
on its back. He spun Isabel before St. Cloud. “Isn’t she a gorgeous fifteen? And the dress, Rosella made it herself. Even if you had the money, couldn’t buy a dress like this.”

“Beautiful wife, beautiful daughter.” St. Cloud pumped Justo’s hand as he admired Rosella’s handiwork on Isabel’s slender body. The African and Latin blood racing through Isabel’s veins conspired to create a creature of unnerving queenly poise. She stretched a gloved hand toward him.

Justo pulled cigars from his tuxedo. “How about a hand-rolled Cuban, no machine-made crap.” He puffed the cigars to life, handing one to St. Cloud. A smile widened across his face, he held Isabel close.
“El sol sale para todos
. The sun comes out for all.”

“Come on, Dad.” Isabel rolled her brown eyes. “Don’t do your corny Spanish stuff.”

“Corny! St. Cloud, give me a
compuesto.”

St. Cloud clanged glasses with Justo. “To sun rising for all.” He couldn’t take his eyes off Isabel, he wondered who the lucky boy would be. He poured another
compuesto
.

“Got to watch Abuelo’s secret blend,” Justo warned. “The anisette in it will slip up when least expected. You’ll think you can walk on water. Thought you gave up drinking for Lila?”

“She left. I don’t know what went wrong.”

“Didn’t she warn you?”

“We were getting along fine.”

“I don’t mean about that.”

“What then?”

“MK … he’s headed here.”

“Brogan.” St. Cloud gulped his
compuesto
. “Must have told her MK was coming.”

“Figured you knew.”

“I knew it had to happen, but not so soon.”

“Maybe not soon enough. You know, I’ve always tried to treat a woman well, ask Rosella.” Justo looked around. “Hey, where’s my wife? Anyway, if you can’t seduce a woman with kindness she isn’t worth keeping, especially the young ones. Younger women are a foolproof way of making men fools, because the older you get, the younger they get. You’ll end up like a greyhound on the track chasing a bunny forever out of reach.”

“The younger they get,” St. Cloud mumbled, trying to steady his
shaking hand as he poured another
compuesto
. “Sounds good to me.”

“Dad.” Isabel poked Justo’s arm. “This is really boring. I want to dance.”

“Boring? You think it’s boring, men dying of broken hearts? You’re right, it is! Go on and dance, honey.”

Isabel kissed Justo’s cheek and started to leave.

“Wait.” St. Cloud set his empty glass next to the melting swan. “I’d like to dance with you.”

A violent cough came up from Justo’s chest, cigar smoke fuming from his nostrils.

Isabel patted him on the back. “Okay, Dad, it’s not like I’m a bride or something.”

Justo struggled to regain his breath, spluttering his words. “Isabel’s too old for you, St. Cloud. She just turned
fifteen.”

Isabel stroked Justo’s arm. “Don’t worry about St. Cloud, he’s so ancient.” She turned her eyes on St. Cloud. “Kind of cute though, in a weird way.”

“Look over there.” Justo pointed his cigar into the crowd. “It’s your cousin Alonzo from Key Largo. You don’t see him except at Christmas. He’s asked you to dance three times already. Take him up on it. I’ve got something to talk over with St. Cloud.”

“Why not?” Isabel smiled, gliding off.

“You and me, St. Cloud, I don’t know.” Justo puffed his cigar, trying not to choke as Isabel asked her surprised cousin to dance.

“Don’t know what about us?”

“We’re the end of something, least I might be the end.” Justo’s eyes went to his dancing daughter, his shining star of Cuba. “Aunt Oris says it takes a black bean in the yellow rice to spice things up. Could be I’m the last black bean in the pot.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Used to be simple around here. A man sat on his porch with a good cigar and honest rum, waiting for a cool breeze to blow up his
guayabera
shirt.”

Rosella appeared before Justo. “You’re not going to escape without our dancing.”

Justo slipped an arm around Rosella’s plump waist.
“Niña
, I will dance with you until I die.”

St. Cloud watched them whirl away. They had become a rare item among modern-day lovers, between them existed passion without
perversion. Maybe that’s what Justo had been trying to explain with his talk of being the last black bean.

“Hey man!” The bellhop who appreciated Lila’s dancing tapped St. Cloud on the shoulder. “Telephone call.”

“Who could know I’m here?”

“Beats me. Take it in the lobby bar.”

St. Cloud hurried to the quiet of the lobby bar, a white-jacketed bartender handed him a telephone.

“Sorry not to be there with y’all.” The words coming through the telephone line were slow as a summer day in Georgia. “Tell Rosella and Isabel congratulations.”

“Where are you?”

“Got to go.”

“I’ll come and get you.”

“Just wanted to say I’m leaving and all.”

“How far away are you?”

“My Mustang acted up. The garage sent a boy to Miami for a carburetor. Not easy to find.”

“That car’s older than you are.”

“You’re strange.”

“Lila?”

The phone went dead.

“Lila!”

Somehow there had to be a way, an answer puzzled. There were no clues in her voice, but there was a sound in the background, airplanes. St. Cloud handed the phone to the bartender. “What’s the next commercial airport up the Keys?”

“Marathon, bout an hour up.”

St. Cloud ran back to the ballroom, pushing his way into the crowd. “Justo! I’ve got to use your car.”

Justo kept dancing, Rosella’s cheek resting on his shoulder. “What for?”

“Lila. I can get her back.”

“Can’t let you use it.”

“Why not?”

“For official business only.”

“That’s bull!”

“I know.” Justo quickened his dancing to match the band’s sizzle. “You’ve had too many
compuestos.”

“What kind of friend is that?”

“The kind wants you to stay alive. Told you, those
compuestos
will have you thinking you can walk on water. You’re crazy as it is. She won’t come back.”

“You’re wrong!”

St. Cloud ran from the ballroom, pushing bellhops aside as he rushed out the hotel entrance. Maybe Evelyn would let him use her Kiss My Linda truck. Maybe? He kept running. Coming toward him was the driving force of an answered prayer, a divine wind of fortuity.

“Say-hey bubba, where you be off to in such a hurry?” Bonefish pulled his rusted station wagon to the curb and leaned his grizzled face out the window. “Not so fast. You want my waffle iron? You gonna love my waffle iron.”

“No! I want your car.”

“How bout a nice toaster? Takes four slices at a time. You could use that.”

“Your car, Bonefish. You’ve been trying to give everything away, you won’t need it anymore.”

“Huh?”

“Finito’s coming, like you been saying all along. There’s no time.”

Bonefish threw the car door open, jumping free of the automobile as if it was about to burst into flames. He grabbed St. Cloud’s shoulders, his eyes burning with redemptive fervor. “I told you, bubba! I told everyone but they wouldn’t listen. You be the first to see the truth.”

“I can see it!” St. Cloud slammed the station wagon door behind him. “No time to talk.” He squealed away from the curb on a tread of burning rubber, Bonefish running after him.

“Don’t let Mister Finito catch you on the Seven Mile Bridge. He catch you on that bridge, you gonna die like a rat!”

ST. CLOUD
sped across bridges jumping from one Key to the next, but he remained on the zigzag path he traveled since the day he walked into the bird shop and encountered Lila. He was on a final joyride aimed toward crackup or blowup. He slammed on the car brakes, skidding off blacktop to a stop. Across the highway was a familiar sign on a rusted roof:
TROPICAL MAMA’S BAR-B-Q PIT
. He played a hunch, turning the car onto a coral side road, toward the trailer-camp terrorist who brutalized his family. He stopped before the shiny hump of a trailer. Ed sat in the open doorway picking his teeth with a broken wire from the organ in his living room. Alice was
staked to a pipe between Ed’s feet, she lunged on her chain, her canines chopping air before St. Cloud.

Ed grinned. “Knew you’d be back. People get a taste of my pugs, always return for another bundle of joy.”

“Call off the Doberman!” St. Cloud shouted above the beast’s lunging roar. “I need a dog.”

Ed jerked Alice’s chain, strangling her to a whine. He winked at St. Cloud. “You’ve come to the right outpost.” He disappeared inside the trailer.

Not a sign of wife and kids anywhere. Just as St. Cloud suspected, Ed was a monster.

Ed popped through the trailer door with an armload of flat-faced puppies. He strolled to the station wagon, proud as a papa in a maternity ward. “Take your pick of the litter.”

“The litter? How could your bitch have another litter since we were last here?”

Ed continued his earnest ear-to-ear grin. “Pugs fall from the sky like coconuts. All a fella has to do is scoop em up.”

“I don’t have time to investigate miracle births.” St. Cloud opened his wallet, thinking if Justo hadn’t hustled that last court interpreting job he wouldn’t be counting out four hundred and fifty bucks.

“Five hundred.”

“Five hundred? We paid four fifty.”

“Cost of living increases.” Ed shoved a yelping pup into St. Cloud’s arms.

“First time I heard of coconuts having a cost of living increase.” St. Cloud handed over another fifty.

“Prices going up everywhere.” Ed pocketed the money. “Check the frozen food section next time you’re in the supermarket. Just ask that pretty young wife of yours about that. Costs lots to raise five boys in this day and age.”

“Yeah sure!” St. Cloud backed away from Ed’s squirming brood and lunging black mascot.

A Mercedes limousine rolled up, blocking St. Cloud’s station wagon. The driver was an attractive woman with a silk scarf knotted around her neck. Five boys bounced on leather seats around her. The smallest boy waved. St. Cloud recognized him from when he and Lila bought the first pug.

“Hi, honey,” the woman called to Ed. “Have you fed the puppies? You promised not to start without us.”

St. Cloud couldn’t get away fast enough. Something was seriously wrong. Why would Ed’s wife have a new Mercedes when they lived in a dilapidated trailer with five kids and Ed sold dogs for a living? Ed’s world was out of whack, unless he was a drug scammer, and his wife working as a nurse was an act.
Pugs fall from the sky like coconuts
. St. Cloud was going to tell Lila about what he saw, she wouldn’t believe it. He was even more convinced Ed was a wife and kid beater. He took solace in the fact that some day the law of averages was going to reach out and collar Ed, bring the scammer to heel, even way down here.

Late afternoon sun slipped toward final meltdown into mangroves as St. Cloud sped north to Marathon, counting mile-marker signposts flicking by on the side of the highway, each sign registering one more mile traveled from Key West, mile zero. In another age the length of the Keys was spotted with stone mounds thirty miles apart, the distance between mounds what an Indian could cover by canoe and overlanding during a day. Now stone mounds were replaced by tin signs emblazoned with white numerals. St. Cloud passed forty signs in as many minutes, past Ramrod Key, Big Pine Key, crossing over looming Seven Mile Bridge, above swift current of Moser Channel, separating Lower Keys from Upper Keys. He was getting close, hurling through Pigeon Key, dropping down to Knight Key at mile marker 47, into Marathon, where the roadside clogged with high-speed commerce; gas stations, neon-circled fast-food joints and convenience stores. Among it all was what he was looking for, a jutting strip of airplane runway. An auto mechanic’s shop commanded the corner of a side road leading to the airport. St. Cloud stopped before the shop’s open garage door; inside, raised on a greasy lift, was an old Mustang convertible.

St. Cloud kept his motor running. “Excuse me,” he shouted to a man in coveralls hammering a bent tire rim. “Could you tell me where the owner of that Mustang is?”