A Gentle Rain (37 page)

"I am."

"All right. IT accept that answer, for now."

Ben strode up to us at that point, and Phil straightened. "Stop harassin' my poker partner."

Phil smiled. "I was just telling her that you're a good pilot. No need to worry."

Ben stooped inside the cargo door, stepped inside behind me then slid into the pilot's seat. "We'll follow the inland waterway a while, then hang a left to the Atlantic and follow the coast to Miami. After that it's just a hop to the Keys."

I fastened my safety harness. My hands shook. "We'll land near the beach of our hotel?"

"Yep, if it's still there. The ocean keeps tryin' to take the Keys back. The hurricanes keep tryin' to wipe away what the ocean misses."

"Nature has a way of equalizing human whims." I stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge Phil, again.

Ben looked across at him. "I appreciate the loan of the plane. You have somebody comun' to get you?"

"I always do."

"See you back here, tomorrow."

"Play to win, my friend."

"I always do."

A few moments later, Ben and I crested the marsh oaks and sailed on hot currents toward the Keys.

I tried to forget Phil knew my identity. I tried to relax.

Impossible.

Ben

I like water, but to me, the land is king. I ain't a fan of the ocean. It moves too much. But when you live in Florida, a dangling pecker of land juttin' out into the Atlantic on one side and the Gulf on the other, you gotta make peace with the fact that you're surrounded by water on three sides. Anybody who was born and bred in Florida is made of sand and saltwater. I'm part-water, whether I like it or not, so I pay attention to the water's history.

"Pirates ruled the shores up and do,,vn1 the Florida coast for over three hundred years," I yelled to Karen above the plane's engine. It was late afternoon when we flew low over the blue water and green islands of the Keys. Seventeen hundred islands-most of `em too little to live on-trail off the teat-end of Miami like tail bones on a big lizard.

"More'n forty are buildable and drivable, from Key Biscayne to Key West, hooked together by the long bridges of U.S. 1. The rest are private-owned, wild, or home to nothing but ghosts and seabirds. By the time you get to the last of those, the Dry Tortugas, you ain't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.

"Pirates loved these here Keys," I went on. "They hid amongst the islands, where they could pounce on Spanish ships sail n' up the Gulf Stream from South America, full of gold and other loot. Mostly they waited for storms to wreck the ships, then they moved in like vultures."

"The Atocha," she yelled back. "Wasn't that the famous Spanish ship found by modern treasure hunters some years ago?"

"Yeah. Millions in silver and gold. Off Key West."

"This is my first trip to Key West," she yelled. "I can sum up what I know about the island very simply." She counted on her fingers. "Gay pride, Hemingway, Jimmy Buffet, and six-toed cats."

"That hits the high points."

"We'll dock at a marina, get cleaned up at our motel, then Cap'n LaRoi's bucanneers'll pick us up by boat and take us over to his private island."

She stared at me. "Cap'n LaRoi? Buccaneerrs?"

"I'll tell you more when we can talk easier. Just remember this much: Phil says don't ever pronounce it `Cap'e LEE-roy.' And don't ask the cap'n about car parts."

She gave me a wide-eyed stare above her sunglasses. I banked the seaplane and smiled. Key West, tropical hang-out of Hemingway, interior decorators, and fake pirates named Leroy but pronouncil' it LaRoi, showed up in the distance.

Kara

"You're a sexy pirate wench, and you're here to show offyour breasts," I told myself like a football player psyching up for a game. I stared at myself in the long mirror of my beachside motel room. The room's decor was gaudy, aqua and pink; a faux bamboo headboard arched like a wooden calliope behind the king bed, the lamps had coconut-shell bases, and the television advertised triple-X adult films on its pay-per-view feature. Everything smelled of jasmine air freshener. The long shadows of a summer evening filled the room with the tawdry allure of sex and adventure.

But beyond the closed vinyl drapes of a broad window was an ethereal view of blue surf and endless horizons. The water was crystalline, the palms tall and graceful, the walkways lined with pretty conch shells. Such glorious natural beauty juxtaposed with such tacky human taste. Yet, somehow, the contrast worked. Jimmy Buffet's famous refrain echoed through my mind.

Cheeseburgers in Paradise ...

A knock came at my weather-worn, parrot-green door. I eyed Ben through the peep hole, was nearly overcome, then slowly unlocked and opened the door. I stared up at him, transfixed. El Diablo always looked great in a tux.

So did Ben.

He stared down at me, apparently afflicted it the same mariner. "Nice tattoo," he said. I felt myself blushing. He held out a hand. "Those high heels'll need some help across sand."

"You could be right."

We walked to the pier. His strong, callused hand felt so good beneath my elbow. I brushed against him and felt a hard bulge. Besides that one. I looked up at Ben with a quiet trill of arousal. "Are you carrying a gun?"

"Just a little pea-shooter."

"I hope no peas require shooting."

He nodded at my purse. "You packing the pig-sticker?"

"My pretty little knife? Yes. I never leave home without it."

He smiled.

So did I.

An elegant little speedboat came towards us from a green hummock in the distance. "That's LaRoi Key?" I asked.

"Yeah. Six acres of self-indulgent craziness. Arn Leroy inherited it along with all six hundred stores of the Leroy Auto World chain from his daddy and granddaddy. The Leroys sponsored some of the early races at Daytona. Back when it was stock cars skiddin' along the beach. Now they're one of NASCAR's biggest advertisers."

"Arn fancies himself a modern-day pirate?"

"Yeah. He paid some half-baked family-tree researcher to prove the Leroys are pirate stock."

"A dubious honor, I would think."

"Not if your sexiest claim to fame is selling discount auto parts."

"So the Leroy clan of suburban Florida is now the LaRoi pirate clan of the exotic Keys."

"Yeah, if only in Arn's mind."

We hatted at the end of the pier and watched a speedboat slide up to the pier. A beefy young man climbed out. He was dressed in black knee trousers and a white golf shirt with a small gold dagger emblem over the left breast. His hair was covered in a black do-rag, which also bore a dagger emblem. "Ahoy," he deadpanned, clearly enduring the theatrics without joy. "Be ye two of Cap'n LaRoi's guests on this scurvy voyage? Benjamin Thocco and Karen Johnson?"

"Yeah, we be," Ben deadpanned in return. "But you don't have to do the pirate routine for us. We won't tell."

The young man relaxed. "Thanks, dude."

He turned to the helm while Ben helped me into the small boat. "This is going to be very interesting," I said. "Beware, matey."

Ben smiled grimly. "Beware, wench."

Arnold Leroy, the heir to the Leroy Auto World fortune, aka Cap'n LaRoi the pirate descendent, was a portly and dapper man fond of Cuban cigars, tuxedoes with a red cummerbund, and more ornate gold rings than a rapper. "Aye, I like a redhead," he said in a faux pirate brogue when Ben and I were presented to him. "Does she have a temper?"

"I'm talon' the Fifth on that," Ben said.

"She does have a temper," I inserted coolly. "Especially when she's referred to in the third person."

Arn guffawed. He seemed to like my feisty spirit. Ben was shunted to the tables, and I was escorted upstairs. I was told to enjoy the amenities. Casa de LaRoi was a two-story, seven bedroom, stone-and-bamboo island mansion with tropical gardens, two pools, several hot tubs, a gourmet kitchen, and a full staff of waiters and bodyguards.

I found myself parked decorously among a dozen of my fellow eyecandy sisters. The number struck me as odd, because there were only seven men in the tournament. Unless some players had brought two pieces of female eye candy instead of the requisite one, we had extra breasts in the house.

Most were thirty-and-under. The `unders' included several tanned, stunning, long-legged model/stripper types, wearing barely-there sheath dresses with the tiniest of shoulder straps. They slunk around, ignoring the rest of us.

The majority offered me polite greetings then ignored me, too. They seemed to know each other and accept this nonsense as a spousal obligation. Apparently, they had been here before and were accustomed to being used as sugary props in Arn Leroy's personalized Pirates of the Caribbean fantasy. A few looked like party animals. But most looked bored.

"Is this all we're supposed to do? Look ... bodacious?" I asked a fortyish black woman in a lovely gold gmvnn. She was Bettie Riggins of Tampa. She had a Southern drawl that could lull a honeybee to sleep.

She chortled. "Yes, honey. Just wiggle, giggle, and show off your boobs. We're here to fulfill Arnie's fantasy that this gaudy island house is his pirate ship. The poker players are his hand-picked crew, and we're the booty. He gets his jollies holding these little private tournaments."

"His Jolly Rogers," I corrected dryly.

She laughed. We liked each other. She took my arm. "These games are illegal as hell. Not that the state of Florida is likely to raid them. But I guess the risk makes Arnie feel like a renegade."

I raised a martini glass. "To the renegade auto-parts entrepreneur. Cap'n of that famous ship, `The Leaky Transmission."' Bettie hooted. I glanced around. Between the gilded busts of famous pirates, the teak arm chairs strewn with frilly, blood-red pillows, and the small army of handsome, do-ragged waiters, I believed Cap'n LaRoi might be a swisbbuckler. "Are you certain the good captain's fantasies revolve around women?"

She shrugged. "I think his fantasies revolve around power and money. Come on, honey. Let's go watch."

We sauntered outdoors on a wide balcony. Below, two large poker tables were centered on a large patio of rust-red tiles. Massive timbers-as if salvaged from the latest Spanish wreck-surrounded the patio like the obelisks at Stonehenge, supporting large, flickering oil lanterns.

The last rim of a golden sunset hovered on the western horizon. It gilded a magnificent panorama of blue ocean beyond the patio's apron of palms, banyans and exotic cacti.

"This is astonishing," I whispered.

Bettie snorted. "Arn paid seven million for it and wrote it off on his corporate entertainment budget."

"I hope he has flood insurance. One category-five hurricane and it will be nothing but bamboo splinters. And at the current rate of glacial melting, I estimate the ocean will be lapping at his patio lanterns within thirty years."

"My goodness, honey, you're not from around these parts, are you? You're smarter than the average galley wench."

51 "Arrggh

We clinked our martinis together. "That's mine and Woodrow's dingy," she said, pointing to a nice cabin cruiser in the distance.

"It's an impressive boat."

"Not compared to the other monsters moored out there." Yachts, large and small, nosed up to the island's dual piers. "You have a boat, honey?"

I thought of Uncle William's enormous yacht, the one his aides kept discreetly out ofpublic sight so voters wouldn't know he cruised like a Saudi prince. "Yes, but it's in the shop. One of Cap'n LaRoi's men brought us over from our motel."

She pointed a dark, slender finger down at Ben. "Is he yours?"

I debated the accurate answer, then indulged myself "Yes. I'm proud to say."

"Everyone's heard about him. The rancher. A real-life Florida cowboy. Oh, honey, he's a keeper. Look at that black hair. That skin. Part Indian?"

"His father was Seminole, yes. You heard about him?"

"Oh, yes. All the other men here are dull of business types. The only rancher Arn usually invites is J.T. Jackson, and he's not a real rancher, he's a developer who owns ranches as an investment. But yours ... hmmm, he's the real deal."

"What do you think of J.T. Jackson? Just curious. I hear he's the force behind a big barrel-racing event in Orlando this September."

"Oh, yeah, honey, he wants to be the Donald Trump of Florida. Just between you and me, he's an asshole. And his daughter is just another skanky rich girl who can get away with acting like a crack hoochie." She took a deep sip of her martini then looked at me askance. "Honey, I'm not insulting your friends, am I?"

"Oh, hardly. I haven't socialized with any crack hoochies in years."

She smiled. "Me, neither." We hung over the rail. The martini warmed my nervous stomach. I was trying very hard not to think about the outcome of the poker tournament. "Which one's your husband?"

She pointed to a cuddly, mocha-skinned man at one of the tables. "There's my Woodrow. You can't guess it since he put on the weight, but twenty years ago he was a starting quarterback at the University of Florida." Bettie went on to tell me her husband owned Wang Accents, an import business specializing in reproduction Chinese collectibles.