Fatal Reservations (9 page)

“It’s all about the schtick, man,” said Tony. “It’s all about how you sell your story. And Frontgate had a smooth patter.” He lifted his cowboy hat and swept his fingers through his oily curls. “And who you know—that matters in this backwater. Don’t you imagine that it doesn’t.”

He sucked in a big drag of smoke, which made the skin around his lips pucker into a sea of wrinkles. Then he blew it out and said, “There was a new guy showed up here last year from California. I don’t remember where, exactly—Santa Barbara, maybe? He thought he was the cat’s pajamas.”

He sucked on the cigarette again and I watched the ash burn red hot, almost singeing his knuckles. “The thing is, this dude went around and watched everybody. He was clever that way. And then he took what was best about each of those acts and copied it right into his own stupid routine.” He waggled his finger at the pirates. “People didn’t take kindly to that. Not only did he get the lousy space; he got the crap beat out of him one night.” Tony shook his head slowly and sadly. “The cops never did figure out what happened to him. Mr. Frontgate wondered if maybe he’d had a few pops too many and then experienced an altercation with his own bicycle.” He gurgled with laughter, dropped the butt, and ground it into the cement with his heel.

“There’s something you have to know about this place,” he added. “And if you don’t learn it, you aren’t going to last. It looks like every man for himself. But it’s an island, man, and there’s an underlying fabric, a connection that an outsider can’t see until he’s been here awhile. But you start messing with that—you start
trying to jump ahead of people or steal their thunder—that fabric could end up smothering you or choking you if you’re not careful.” He leered at the two newcomers. “That’s your words of wisdom from Cap’n Tony. Got it, yahoos?”

The larger pirate kicked over Tony’s beer and stomped off in the direction of the Waterfront Playhouse.

7

It is hunger that makes you crazy, whether it’s one appetite or another.

—Norman Van Aken,
No Experience Necessary

We left Tony fuming and sputtering and made our way through the crowd toward the open area where Lorenzo usually set up his card table. We walked past tables and booths hawking paintings, Key West photographs, jewelry, and T-shirts of every color, design, and size. Lorenzo, of course, was not there. I realized from my disappointed reaction that I’d been hoping he had returned to Mallory Square as if nothing was wrong. As if the cops had realized they were looking at the wrong man and that someone had let him know he could resurface into life as usual.

A woman with pitch-black hair, circles of sparkly rouge on her cheeks, and deep blue eye shadow that almost reached her brows was sitting at a booth in his place. The sign hanging from her table indicated that
she was a palm reader, though at the moment, she had no customers. I edged a little closer.

“Oh my goodness,” I said in an innocent voice. “I was looking for that tarot card guy. Last time I talked with him he was so helpful. I was hoping he could tell me what’s wrong with my boyfriend. Isn’t this where he usually sits?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and the glitter on her cheeks and in her hair glinted in the light from the streetlamp directly above her. “I don’t know what’s happened to him,” she said. “But I was told I could have his place.”

“Who told you that?” I asked. “Isn’t there a committee that decides where people perform?”

She fidgeted in her folding chair and looked away from me, then finally waved a dismissive hand. “When you commit a serious infraction, you lose your privileges.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We heard he might have had something to do with that murder.” She pressed both hands to her cheeks and blinked.

Did she know something about what had really happened, or was she spreading vicious rumors? “Oh no, you mean he actually killed someone?” I asked, taking another step closer to her table.

“So I hear. Everyone’s talking about the fights he had with the dead guy.” She tapped her fingers to her forehead and looked up at the sky. “God rest his soul.” She smiled as she turned those blue-rimmed eyes to me. “But I would love to do a reading for you. I use the human palm rather than cards because the hand taps into the heart in a way that a deck of cards could never do. I’m very good with relationship problems.” She grabbed my hand with one of hers and stroked it with the other.

Goose bumps spread from my wrist all the way to my neck.

“Already,” she said, her eyes fluttering shut, “I feel some unrest. Perhaps there is a troubled engagement? Come sit with me and let’s puzzle this out together.”

“Lordy, lordy,” muttered Miss Gloria under her breath. “We’d better get out of here before she eats us alive.”

I extracted my fingers from the palm reader’s and assured her I’d return another time. Miss Gloria doused my hands with a little spray bottle of hand sanitizer and I rubbed them together. Then we headed for the alley in between the Cuban restaurant and the Waterfront Playhouse, which would funnel us out of the square, pausing for a minute to admire the antics of Snorkel the Pig.

“Not for nothing,” said Miss Gloria, “but if you have an adorable animal in your act, you really need have no talent at all.” She laughed and then turned to look at me straight on. “Is it possible that Lorenzo really did kill a man? I admire your loyalty and all, and I love him, too, but if everyone says the same thing . . .”

“All that tells us is the place is thick with mean gossip.” I pinched my lips together until they quivered.

She patted my arm. “You’re right. Do you mind waiting a minute while I use the restroom?”

“Of course not,” I said. I wouldn’t be caught dead in the public bathroom, but at eighty, if she had to go, she had to go. I moved to the side of the alley and leaned against the wall to wait. Across from me, a dark-skinned man piped out new age music from what looked like a homemade reed instrument into a microphone. How many CDs could he possibly sell in a night? Enough, I supposed, since he’d been here every
time I’d walked by. To my left, two more homeless men were watching a couple of stray cats squabble with loose chickens over kibbles.

“Did the damn cops hassle you again this morning?” asked one man of the other.

“They were all over me like fleas on dog-park dogs,” the second man grumbled. “Get used to it—they won’t back off until that GD murder is solved.”

“I thought it was that fortune-teller. That’s what Louis told me.”

“Louis told you? You might as well read the local rag as listen to that fool. He makes crap up just to hear himself talk. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit to hear he was the one stabbed poor Frontgate.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him joust and feint with an imaginary sword. Fork, I supposed, was more accurate.

“Why would he do that?”

“Just for the pure mean fun of it,” said the second.

Miss Gloria emerged from the bathroom, wiping her hands dry on her slacks. “Ready to roll.”

By the time we’d tromped the blocks back to my scooter on Southard Street, we were exhausted (Miss Gloria) and starving (me). We stopped at the Kojin Noodle Bar takeout window and ordered a Saigon salad and a big bowl of sesame noodles with shrimp.

With the food strapped to my basket, we zipped back to the houseboat. Miss Gloria fed the cats while I dished out our dinner. Then we sat out on the deck, watching the twilight fade into night, watching the pinks go to gray. When we’d inhaled every bite of the crispy vegetables with tofu and the spicy noodles, Miss Gloria retreated to the living room to catch her nightly dose of
Jeopardy!
and I stayed outside, thinking.

First, I reviewed what Tony had told the new pirate performers about the guy who’d been beaten up for stealing from other people’s acts. I’d seen this undercurrent many times before on this island: Competition was fierce among restaurants, among shops, among bars, among artists, among writers. Each vendor scrambled to get attention from the tourists and thereby make a living selling whatever they had to offer. The murdered man, Bart, had been in Key West a lifetime in street-performer terms. What if he had insisted on his grandfathered right to the best spot on Mallory Square? What if he’d jumped what other performers might have considered a firm line? Would this be enough to get him killed? Clearly, as I had learned from the conflict I witnessed in the city commission meeting, performance at Sunset was a serious business.

I got out my computer, fired it up, and noticed I’d missed a Skype call from my mother. I dialed her number.

Her face appeared on my screen, looking haggard and tired. “Oh good, it’s you,” she said. “We are so sick of staring at each other—we were hoping you would call.” She adjusted the position of her iPad so that Sam came into view. He, too, looked pale, his face drawn as though he’d suffered, which he probably had—in more ways than one.

“Tell us what you’ve been up to—we’re sure it’s more interesting than what we have to tell you,” Mom said.

“Miss Gloria and I took a spin around Mallory Square right before Sunset, remember?” We’d talked about this only a couple of hours earlier—could be the strain of caregiving was turning her brains to mush.

“Oh, I love Sunset,” Mom broke in with a mournful wail.

Sam patted her knee and forced a smile. “You’ll be back soon, I promise. I could always hire a visiting nurse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother snapped. “All they’d do is take your vital signs. They won’t actually take care of you. Besides, I want to be here, with you, until you’re all squared away. Or at least until there’s only one of us left standing.” She kissed him on the ear.

“Back to Sunset,” I said, gritting my teeth. It was still a little challenging to watch my mother’s newish relationship unfold on the screen in front of me. “Of course, Lorenzo wasn’t there. We chatted with Tony, who was giving advice to some new performers who didn’t seem so thrilled to receive it.” I shrugged and described the conversation, hoping to divert them from their problems. “Maybe you two can help me. I’ve been thinking a lot about competition among the players at Sunset. I mean, how do you even make a living?”

“They’re not paid to perform there, right?” Sam asked. “It’s all based on tips?”

“I think that’s right,” I said. “So position is everything. And the quality of your act, too. I wonder if there’s ever been a case of copyright infringement between jugglers?” I laughed. “Sam, I’m certain this is not exactly your area of the law, but maybe—”

“He’d love to delve into something like that,” Mom said. “What can I do?”

“How about some research on Bart Frontgate?” I suggested. “Who was he before he became a juggler and where did he come from?”

“Done!” said my mother, looking more cheerful already. “What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?”

I stiffened. “Nothing. When is it?”

“This weekend,” Mom said. “Tomorrow. If you don’t have a reservation by now, you probably won’t get one. But wait, aren’t you going to that new place?”

I groaned. “I don’t have a date.”

The words “I’ll loan you mine” slipped out of Sam’s mouth so quickly it stunned us all. Then we started to laugh.

Lorenzo’s little white cat crept out from the shadows and I patted my lap, inviting her up. After several reassuring clucks, she made the leap. And launched her rough little kitten purr almost as soon as she’d landed.

“This is Lola,” I told Mom and Sam, holding my computer so the cat appeared on the screen. “Lorenzo’s new kitten. I’m worried sick about him. Lorenzo, not the cat. He doesn’t have a murderous bone in his body, so why would he run?”

“He’s panicked about something,” Mom said. “We’ll figure it out.”

Once we’d hung up, I e-mailed Wally. Texting was too blunt of an instrument to do this delicate job.

How’s it looking for the weekend? Could you possibly get here tomorrow for floating restaurant? Palamina made a reservation for four. I was thinking of asking Connie and Ray. Then back here for dessert?

I pressed
send
and then began to surf the Internet, looking for information about Lorenzo. It was a serious disadvantage not remembering his real last name. I finally found an old article in
National Geographic
about the charm of the Key West Sunset Celebration. One of the photos illustrating the piece showed Lorenzo at his
table. This was back in his turban-and-makeup days, which he’d had to abandon several years ago because of the way the crowds reacted. He felt like a sideshow, he’d told me once—people interrupting the readings he was giving to ask him to pose for photos. No privacy for his customers at all.

Generally, the article was a puff piece about the Sunset as Key West icon, and did not contribute much to solving my mystery. Although it reminded me that Lorenzo’s real name was Marvin Smith. There were probably hundreds of men by that name in this country. Then, even though I’d assigned the job to my mother, I Googled Bart Frontgate. He’d made several appearances in the crime column in the
Key West Citizen
—two drunk and disorderly arrests and a petty theft. I imagined that might be fairly typical fare for a street performer, living on the margins of the island’s society.

I tried to focus on figuring out a pattern in this history, but the question of whether Wally would come for the weekend kept surfacing in my brain. And if he did, what cake should I serve for dessert? I gave up thinking and called Connie. She’d been my roommate in college and she’d taken me in on her houseboat soon after I’d arrived in Key West and had been summarily dumped by Chad Lutz. She and Ray would be the perfect dinner partners. They knew Wally and liked him. And, it being almost a year since their wedding, their newlywed status had worn off enough that Wally and I wouldn’t feel pressured about being out to dinner on Valentine’s Day. I spilled all that out in an anxious rush of words when Connie answered the phone.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, “I thought you and Wally were doing so well.”