Bone Key (9 page)
“What’s between you and Stone’s squeeze?” Russell Straight asked, as the two of them ambled past the smallish crowd gathered near Southernmost Point.
“What are you talking about?” Deal said, his eyes on the gathering. It was the ragtag steel drummers holding the crowd past sundown, he saw, a couple of breakdancing kids added to the act. With the sun down and the breeze off the water picking up, it had become a near-perfect summer’s night. Except for the hubbub, these narrow streets had the feel of a genteel Southern town, he thought. Just one more pleasant anomaly of the place as far as he was concerned.
“Don’t try to con a con,” Russell said. “Was sparks flying all over that room.”
“She’s attractive, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m surprised Stone still wants to do business with you, way you looked at his old lady.”
Deal turned to Russell. “I’m sure he’s used to it.”
“It would take some getting used to,” Russell replied.
“I think we may have exhausted this topic,” Deal said. “Don’t you?”
“Whatever you say,” Russell told him. He paused to check a street sign. “I think this is where I leave you, anyway.”
Deal glanced at him quickly, about to say something. Then he saw the expression on Russell’s face and it sunk in. “Lady from the cocktail lounge told me this was her night off,” Russell offered.
“But you and I aren’t even supposed to be here,” Deal protested. “If you hadn’t…” He broke off, then began again. “If
we
hadn’t gotten involved in that mess this morning, we’d be back in Miami right now.” There was a dull clang from above as some unseen hard-shelled bug collided with the old-fashioned metal shade of the street lamp.
Russell looked at Deal blankly. “Maybe
you
would be. I was planning on a day off, myself. I kind of like this town. Reminds me of Georgia, except with spunk.”
“And how were you planning on getting home?” Deal asked, his voice rising.
Something like a smile crossed Russell’s features. “You sound like my momma.”
Deal opened his mouth, then closed it again. What
was
he giving Russell such a hard time about, anyway? “You’re right, Russell,” he said. “Have a good time. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Russell nodded. “One thing I meant to tell you,” he said, hesitating.
“What is it, Russell?” There was a louder clang at the street lamp shade, the bug getting worked up, it sounded like, maybe ready to kamikaze itself right into the glowing bulb.
“That kid we saved from an ass-kicking,” Russell said.
“Dequarius? What about him?” Deal glanced up at the street lamp, saw nothing but a couple of soft-looking moths fluttering about.
Russell was working his tongue around in his mouth as if he were stirring a potful of possible words. “While we were cooling our heels, he told me he worked for your man Stone,” he said finally. “Grunt work. Clearing brush. Hauling junk. Stuff like that.”
Deal thought about it for a moment. “Well, maybe he does.”
“Kind of strange Stone didn’t say anything about it,” Russell persisted.
“Why should he?” Deal said. “That’s probably why the sheriff let him go without a fuss.”
Russell looked dubious.
“What are you getting at, Russell?”
There was another clang at the street lamp, then a sizzling sound, and something fell to the street with a crack. Deal saw a roundish dark knot the size of a jawbreaker rolling across the pavement. So much for that, he was thinking…but in the next moment the fallen insect had unfolded itself and was buzzing angrily up into the night air once again.
“Now that is a serious bug,” Russell offered.
“What about Dequarius?” Deal said.
Russell looked ready to forget the whole thing. He turned away, then back, then seemed to make a decision. “He said he
knew
something important, that’s all.”
Deal felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. “Something about
what
, Russell?”
Russell shrugged. “Wouldn’t say. Said that’s what he wants to talk to you about.”
“Maybe he’s looking for a new job,” Deal said.
Russell glanced at him. “Does Dequarius strike you as the worker type?”
Deal didn’t say anything.
“Besides,” Russell continued, “he was being pretty skittish about it. Like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. He wrote his number down, asked me to give it to you.” Russell had his wallet out now, was fishing around for something in its folds.
Deal sighed. So Dequarius Noyes had some dirt to dish him on Franklin Stone, that was what it was all about? Only trouble was, that would be like warning him to pack snowshoes for the Antarctic. “Thanks for the tip, Russell,” Deal said, holding up his hand, “but don’t worry about the number. I’m sure Dequarius will find me if he has to.”
Russell glanced up, then shrugged and put his wallet away. “By the way,” he said, as Deal started off, “what was Stone talking about anyway, ‘show your
man
’ some beach or whatever?”
Deal shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s topless where he’s talking about.”
Russell stared at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Man oh man,” he said, waving his hand as if Deal was the lamest prospect he could imagine. “I’ll catch
you
later.”
***
Deal watched after Russell as he disappeared down the tree-shrouded side street, then finally turned and got his bearings. Actually, he wasn’t far from Louie’s Backyard, he realized. And, as he had finally managed to remember, he’d had an outstanding piece of yellowtail snapper there the night before. The dish seemed so good in his memory, in fact, that he considered the possibility of another go-around, especially now that he was sober. But, much as he hated to admit it to himself, something else was nudging at him.
He glanced down at his watch. Not half an hour had passed since Annie had left Stone’s house. It would take him maybe fifteen minutes to get across the island to the Pier House, less if he managed to snag a taxi on the way. With any luck at all, he could be there by the time she took her first break. The hell with Louie’s, he thought. There would always be time to eat.
***
“Yo, Magnum,” he wanted to call to the bartender, realizing he still had not learned the man’s name. Deal had to wait until the guy had loaded a server’s tray with what seemed like an impossible number of drinks to wave and finally catch his attention.
“What’s with this?” he said, pointing at the stage as the mustachioed guy finally leaned across the counter.
“With what?” the bartender called. There were half a dozen dreadlocked Jamaicans on the lounge’s platform, all of them decked out in electric blue slacks and patchwork shirts, belting out a version of a Bob Marley song while most of the packed room joined in. The white-shoes-and-jacket crowd from the night before had been replaced by a decidedly younger, more casually dressed crowd, many of them with the deep tans and bleached locks that suggested they were locals.
“Where’s Annie?” Deal asked, gesturing at the stage. The bartender looked at him blankly.
“Anita Dobbins,” Deal said, raising his voice a notch. “The singer who was here last night.”
The bartender finally raised his chin in acknowledgment. “She’s off tonight,” he said. He was clapping his hand to the bar in time to the reggae beat.
Deal glanced aside, summoning his patience. There was a harried-looking waitress bearing down on the service station, a second on her heels. If he lost the guy’s attention now, he’d be doomed. “I’m sure she told me she was working. Maybe at another club?”
The bartender seemed to be thinking. Suddenly he pointed at Deal. “You must mean the play.”
Deal shook his head, the echo of Stone’s “break a leg” replaying in the recesses of his mind. “What play?”
The bartender noted the waitresses fuming at the station. “I’m a little busy here,” he said, giving Deal a meaningful look. Deal dug in his pocket, found a bill, slapped it on the bar.
The bartender palmed the bill smoothly. “The Malory Docks Theater,” he said, pointing out a bank of windows. “Right across the street. That’s what she does on the weekends.”
“Thanks,” Deal said.
The bartender clapped Deal on the shoulder. “Good luck,” he said. He was gone too quickly for Deal to ask just what he meant.
***
As Deal discovered after plopping down twenty dollars and being told to wait until a scene change to enter the small theater,
Buccaneers of Biscayne
turned out to be a musical of sorts, a song-and-dance revue that featured plenty of mediocre talent along with a house orchestra led by the piano player who’d accompanied Annie on the previous night. What passed for a plot had to do with the early days of Key West, when the principal economy relied upon the “salvage” of ships driven onto the treacherous outer reefs by hurricanes and other, less catastrophic storms.
Annie played the role of Preacher Egan’s devoted wife, whose lot was, apparently, to wring her hands and lament this man of God’s weekday enterprise: the setting up of fake lighthouses meant to lure unsuspecting ships to disaster on the rocks, then plundering their remains under the operative law of the seas. If the role was a thankless one, Annie nonetheless gave it her all, and on the occasions when she broke into song—a bluesy “What’s Wrong With My Man” being Deal’s favorite—even the distracted gaggle of tourists among whom he sat were galvanized to pay attention.
The show closed with the good squire’s conversion back to righteousness, his reward a soulful embrace from Annie. As the lights came up and the curtain call concluded, Deal hesitated, then peeled away from the departing crowd making its way out.
He turned and walked back down a side aisle, passing a pimply kid who was gathering trash from the seats. Deal half-expected the kid to ask what he was up to, but he never so much as glanced up from his task.
Deal pushed through a curtained entryway at the side of the stage, a musty odor washing over him as he entered a dimly lit hallway. As he stood for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust, two young men whom he recognized from the performance ducked out of a room ahead on his right, arm in arm. One of them, his eyes still heavy with makeup, glanced at Deal.
“Looking for someone?” he asked, in a lilting voice.
“As a matter of fact…” Deal began.
The man’s partner rolled his own mascara-ed eyes. “Don’t mind my friend,” he said. “The women’s dressing room is down the hall on your left.”
The second man gave Deal a weary smile and pulled his friend away. Deal shook his head and moved on down the hallway. Annie had called him guileless, hadn’t she? Now he could add something to his growing self-image: guileless and straight.
He found a door marked
LADIES
, and hesitated. What was he doing here, anyway? He was curious about her behavior earlier that evening, but she was clearly involved with Franklin Stone, for God’s sake, and he was a married man.
That was the word from his logical half. The other part of him was undeterred. Deal felt his hand go up, about to knock on the door, when it suddenly flew open and he found himself staring at a young woman sporting a punk hairdo, a series of stiff pink spikes scattered randomly about her scalp. It took him a moment to remember her as the demure-looking blond girl who’d had the ingenue’s role in the play.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” Deal said, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m looking for Annie…Anita Dobbins, I mean.”
The girl peered more closely at him and Deal attempted to adopt his most guileless pose. After a moment she turned, letting the door swing shut.
“Some guy wants to see you,” Deal heard, followed by a muffled reply. The way the girl said
guy
did not connote either guileless or straight, Deal was thinking. More like dorkus or asswipe.
In the next moment the door opened again. “Are you Balart?” the girl asked.
Deal shook his head. “It’s John Deal.”
The girl nodded as if she’d heard many more exciting things. “He says his name is Deal,” she called, holding the door open this time.
“It’s okay, Chelsea,” Deal heard.
The girl shrugged and pulled the door open for him, rolling her eyes as she went past him into the hallway. Deal entered the dressing room, blinking at the sudden brightness.
Annie sat at a dressing table that looked like it had been built in the Jolson era, changed now into a pair of jeans and a sleeveless cotton top. If she had looked like a diva in the green satin gown, she’d now been transformed into a college girl. Whatever she was, Deal found himself feeling light-headed.
She glanced up, giving him a smile as she finished brushing out her hair. “Welcome to Fifty-second Street,” she said. A couple of the bulbs circling the long mirror were out, he noted, and the backing had begun to flake around the corners as well. The floor of the room was bare concrete. Costumes dangled from a length of galvanized pipe fixed to the opposite wall. The air held a curious combination of dusting powder, perfume, and sweat. About as erotic a blend of scents as he could imagine.
“You were great,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said. “If I’d known you were interested, I’d have had you comped.”
Why on earth
wouldn’t
he be interested? Deal thought, but decided it wasn’t the right thing to say. “It’s okay,” he said. “It was a bargain at twice the price.” Another of his old man’s cornball sayings, he thought. What a conversationalist. Then again, she’d always liked Barton, hadn’t she? Maybe between him and his father, he could get through this.
She wrinkled her nose. “The show sucks, in fact, but I still get a kick out of it.”
“It’s apparent,” he said.
“So,” she said, smiling again. “You’ve sent Balart home and have come for me yourself.”
“That’s a great idea,” he heard himself saying. “I wish I’d thought of it.”
She glanced at her watch. “So he’s still out there waiting?”
Deal shrugged. “He wasn’t in the audience.”
She gave him a patient stare. “Give me a second, okay?”
He nodded as she checked her appearance one last time, then stood and disappeared through an inner doorway. After a moment, he heard a toilet flush, followed by the sound of water running. Then she was back, to take him by the arm. “Ready?” she asked.
