Hunted in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  Glancing down at my watch, I saw that it was just past five in the afternoon. A few clouds had rolled in, but most of the sky was a deep blue color. After a few minutes of enjoying the fresh air and looking out towards the end of the channel, into a narrow glimpse of open ocean beyond, the sliding glass door opened and Sam stepped out.

  “How was hunting?” she said, sitting down on the white, wicker chair beside me.

  “Good. I got a few pictures if you want to see them,” I said, handing her my phone and showing her the one of us standing next to the big python.

  “Holy crap! That’s enormous. You caught that?”

  “Yea, and it put up a good fight too,” I said, sitting up in my hammock and placing an arm around her. Glancing towards my bedroom window I added, “What’s with the bags?”

  She looked up at me from my phone, surprised by the question then said, “Oh, I’m visiting my mom again for a few days. Leaving in the morning and should be back by next weekend.”

  Sam was a professor of Marine Geology at Florida State and her mom lived less than an hour away from the campus on the outskirts of Wakulla Springs. She’d been working remotely for the past four months while finishing up her research of underwater geological abnormalities near Key West. Since we’d started living together, she’d visited her mom a few times to check up on her.

  “Sounds good. Hey, you don’t by any chance have to work tonight, do you?”

  She smiled. “What do you have in mind?”

  A few hours and a hot shower later we were out the door and climbing into my truck. The drive to Salty Pete’s Bar and Grill was only about five minutes and, it being a Thursday night in the summer, the roads were mostly empty. I pulled the truck up against a railroad tie in the small gravel lot just outside his restaurant, knowing full well that in less than an hour the place would be packed. As hard as it was to believe then, Salty Pete’s had been a run down, has been of a restaurant when I’d first moved back into town four short months earlier. The roof had missing shingles, the wooden exterior had been in dire need of a paint job and the grounds had been covered with weeds. The inside of the restaurant had been worse, with old chairs and wobbly tables and a grungy atmosphere that led almost all of the tourists who’d managed to stumble inside off the main streets to quickly change their minds and turn around.

  As we walked up the large set of stairs to the new double doors, I couldn’t help but marvel at just how fast the place had changed. Pete had been extremely helpful in the discovering of the Aztec treasure, so when I agreed to a one percent finder’s fee of the treasure, I’d given him a chunk of cash which had allowed him to turn Salty Pete’s into one of the most popular destinations in town. As soon as we opened the doors, the smell of Oz’s cooking radiated into our noses and tantalized our taste buds. Smelled like fresh grilled grouper, hogfish and of course, spiny-tailed lobster was on the menu tonight.

  The main dining area, lined with brand new booths and tables and chairs in the middle, was almost full of people. The walls were still covered with assorted knick-knacks including the same old wooden helm, a massive fishing net decorated with crabs and shells, and pictures taken over the years around the Florida Keys. While eating lunch there a week earlier, I’d noticed that one of the pictures was of Jack's dad and my dad, taken while he was stationed there for a few years when I was young. Pete told me that Jack had found it in storage and thought it would be a good tribute to our late fathers. I agreed.

  “Logan!” Mia said, walking towards us, balancing a big round tray filled with food on one hand and a small, folding stand in her other. She had her light brown hair in a ponytail as usual and wore her green Salty Pete’s tee shirt. Folding out the stand and setting the tray on top of it, she continued, “Pete’s upstairs. They’re testing the mics and are about to fire it up.”

  “That old sea devil on his best behavior?” I asked, though it was a pretty stupid question. Pete could be at church with the Pope and still be the same old guy.

  She smirked, “You might have to switch his beer with a coke now and then.”

  I laughed and, admiring the blackened grouper sandwich and the shrimp kabobs on the plates she was handing to the group sitting in the booth beside us, I asked her to bring us a few plates upstairs. She nodded and said they’d be right up as we headed for the large wooden staircase.

  The second story of Salty Pete’s had been renovated to be partly a museum and partly an extension of the seating areas. Glass cases covered the wood floors, filled with various artifacts recovered from all over the Keys, including an entire exhibit from the Intrepid, the Spanish shipwreck we’d found which had sunk carrying the Aztec treasure. The entire west wall was covered in windows and had two massive doors which were propped open with dive weights, revealing the patio. It too had been upgraded, making it big enough for a stage, ten tables and a small bar against the far side.

  We stepped out into the small crowd which had already gathered and, seeing that all of the tables were taken, headed for the bar. The Wayward Suns had their instruments and speakers set up and were saying “mic check” into each of their microphones. We found two stools near the end of the bar which, like most of the furniture outside, was made of bamboo and had a white granite countertop. After ordering a couple of drinks to start off, we swiveled our padded, bamboo barstools around to face the band. Jack had told me they were just getting back to the Keys after a tour around the Florida Coast. They were three guys; a lead guitarist, a backup, and a drummer. On the bar in front of us rested a few flyers with their pictures and band information. The lead guitarist, a skinny guy with long blonde dreadlocks and a dark bronze tan, had a name that sounded eerily familiar to me, though I couldn’t trace it in my memory.

  A newspaper slapped me on the hand as I rotated around to grab my drink. It was the Keynoter and the front page had the same picture we’d seen on the cover of the magazine earlier that morning in the Everglades.

  “You’re famous now, scallywag!” Pete shouted, patting me on the back. Pete was in his early sixties, had thin patches of gray hair covering his tanned skin and had a metal hook for a right hand. He was also short and had enough of a belly that I routinely urged him to ease back on the beer, advice he rarely took. He kind of always reminded me of that old captain from the Simpsons. “You keep navigating these waters you’re treading and one day you might not be such a mainlander anymore.”

  “Yea right!” Jack said, appearing from behind me. He was wearing a cutoff shirt, boardshorts, and flip-flops. “Logan here may not have been born in the Keys, but he’s as much of a conch as anyone in the islands.” Turning to the bartender he said, “Can I get a Corona with lime?”

  “Being a conch is a birthright,” Pete growled, “but I guess there can be an exception made.” Turning to Sam, who was sitting quietly beside me he added, “It’s good to see you out Sam. I was beginning to think you’d never leave that house.”

  “Thanks, Pete,” she said with a friendly smile. “It’s good to see you too. I’ve just been really caught up in my work lately.”

  “Well, sit back and relax tonight then. And I’m glad it isn’t me. I was beginning to think my hook here was scaring you away.” He raised it in the air. “Did I ever tell you how I lost it?”

  She laughed. “Sharks while diving Goblin’s Gull.”

  “Great White Sharks,” he added. “The biggest ones that ever lived.”

  As they continued I turned to Jack, “Seems busier around town than usual.”

  He nodded. “A cruise ship just pulled in a few hours ago. Must be trying to escape the coming storm. I’ve never understood why cruise lines bother during cane season. Just seems damn foolish to me.”

  “Coming storm?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

  “Yea. Tropical Storm Fay is swirling just south of the DR. She’s building up strength. And pretty quickly at that.”

  “She heading for Key West?”

  He shrugged. “Not projected to, but these big stor
ms have minds of their own.”

  Mia arrived a few minutes later with two plates of food and set them on the bar in front of Sam and me. Blackened grouper sandwiches with specialty sweet potato fries and a shrimp kabob over pineapple slices. I took a bite and savored the flavor as Pete walked up to the stage and introduced the band. Within seconds they were rocking the neighborhood, stringing out originals about island living in a cross between Rasta and country music, just as Jack had said. They were one of the first new bands I’d liked in a while, a band you could dance too but also listen to while just sitting on a beach chair, staring off at the ocean. Off in the distance, the sun was just starting to set over the horizon. From the patio, there was a 180-degree, almost completely unobstructed view of the ocean.

  A few hours later, after we’d finished our food and downed or share of drinks, Sam asked if we could leave. Glancing at my watch I saw that it was nearing 2200, the time the band was scheduled to play until. Reaching into my wallet I grabbed a crisp, hundred-dollar bill and set it beneath my empty glass on the bar. I’d fought with Mia enough times about her not wanting me to pay that I’d learned to just leave cash and go.

  As I followed Sam to the doors my eyes were drawn to the table closest to the stage, where four rough looking biker dudes sat drunk out of their minds. During breaks in the music they’d heckled the band a few times, starting off innocent at first, but gradually getting more profane as the night and intoxication progressed. It had caught my eye a few times, but as we moved towards the door, they were yelling over the music and I could tell that they were getting on the band’s nerves.

  “Hold on a minute,” I said to Sam as she had just stepped through the double doors. She looked at me with a confused look, then bit her lip.

  Walking back out towards me she said, “What is it?”

  “I don’t like this,” I said while staring at the four guys sitting near the stage. I had asked Pete about them and he’d said that he’d never seen them before. They were mainlanders, drifters probably, just passing through on their motorcycles and obviously looking for trouble.

  Suddenly, one of the guys threw a beer can at the lead singer Cole Daniels, causing him and the other two guys to stop playing.

  “I’m sorry folks,” Cole said. “We would love to keep entertaining you tonight, but if these guys in the front don’t cool it we’re out of here. And I’m sure Sheriff Wilkes would love to come down here and kick you boys out. So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna let us play or what?”

  The crowd cheered and clapped, but one of the guys in front yelled something back. I couldn’t hear it over the crowd, but when the noise died down I heard the end of it.

  “And if you call your sheriff,” one of the biker guys said, “we’ll kick his ass too.” Mia was walking by their table. She had an uncomfortable look on her face and before she could pass by the guy continued, “Ain’t that right, pretty lady?” Then he slapped her butt loud enough for me to hear it easily by the doors.

  That was my cue. It got all of my blood boiling in an instant and I weaved effortlessly in and out of people, chairs, and tables, heading for the seated bikers.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  I calmed my breathing as I planned out an attack. They were big guys, all four of them. And I figured, judging from my vantage point at the other end of the patio, they were all in their thirties or forties. But before I reached their table to confront them, I realized that I’d been beaten to the punch.

  The drummer, whose name I saw on the poster was Blake, had stood up. He looked to be about six and a half feet tall and probably tipped the scale at over three hundred pounds. He stepped down from the stage, stood in front of the biker’s table, pointed a finger at them and told them to fuck off. All that did was rile them up though, and in the blink of an eye, the guy sitting closest to Blake stood and, without a word, slugged him square in the nose.

  Blood gushed out as Blake took a step back. He held a hand up to his face, trying to slow the blood which was quickly soaking the top of his white undershirt.

  “Sit your ass back down and play, drummer boy!” the guy barked.

  Before Blake could reply, I moved between the biker’s table and the stage. I eyed the four guys intensely and before I spoke one of the guys took a long, hard pull then slammed his beer into the table, shattering the glass.

  “Hey, down in front, jackass!” the guy barked. He wore a leather vest, had a black headband, long frizzled hair, and a gross handlebar mustache. He eyed me angrily when I didn’t even flinch at his words.

  “You guys have two choices,” I said with my voice raised loud enough for the entire crowd to hear me. “You either apologize to this woman and apologize to the band for all your heckling, sit your asses down and be respectful for the rest of the night, or we’ll call an ambulance and have all four of you carried out of here. What’s it gonna be, jackass?”

  The guy with the headband, who I quickly realized was their leader, smirked at me and told me to go fuck myself. He quickly pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. He was a little shorter than my six foot two, but he easily had fifty pounds on me, though I was sure it was mostly excess weight.

  Before he could finish taking one step in my direction I shifted my weight to my left leg, leaned sideways and snapped my right leg, slamming my heel into the guy’s jaw. It was a powerful side kick that knocked the guy off his feet, launching him backward. His body crashed onto the table, breaking glasses and knocking plates of food onto the ground. The table wobbled a few times then collapsed under the guy’s weight, leaving him unconscious and covered in a pile of broken dishes and food.

  The three other guys knocked their chairs back and jumped to their feet. The youngest of the group, a ripped guy with black, slicked-back hair, grabbed a beer bottle and shattered the end of it on a chair. He lunged at me from my right side then stabbed the shattered end of the bottle through the air towards my face. Stepping to the side, I kicked his shin while simultaneously wrapping my arm around his back. Using his momentum against him, I hinged his body down and slammed his head into the corner of the stage. What remained of the bottle shattered onto the floor and his body went limp.

  Turning around, I was barely able to deflect a punch from a guy who looked like a Viking. He had long, blond hair, deep blue eyes, an aquiline nose and a massive frame. His fist, which had been aiming for the middle of my chest, only grazed against my left shoulder but it still hurt like hell. Focusing on his fist, I realized that he was gripping a shiny set of brass knuckles, making any landed punch do twice as much damage as ordinary bone.

  The last guy appeared out of nowhere carrying a wooden chair over his head. He was shorter than the other guys, stocky and he had a bald head and a large silver earring. He seemed even more intoxicated than the others, so as he swung the chair at me I used it against them, ducking out of the way at the last second, allowing it to slam into blondies back. The chair broke into pieces as blondie yelled out in pain then cursed out his buddy.

  Kneeling down, I snatched two of the broken chair legs, reared them back then slammed them against blondies ears, sandwiching his head between the lacquered bamboo. He fell to the ground and pressed his hands up to his damaged ears while blood started to flow out. He screamed in agony and I could tell that I’d probably punctured both of his eardrums.

  Baldy, having seen that he was the last of his buddies still on his feet, glanced over at me then reached for something on his waist. Tightening my grip on the chair leg in my right hand, I threw a fastball right into his forehead, causing his body to jerk backward. The revolver he’d been reaching for rattled to the floor as I charged him. In an instant, I slammed his head into the ground then punched him twice in the face. As I climbed off him, he was struggling to breathe and spitting out blood and saliva.

  The ordeal had felt like an eternity, but I knew that it had only been a couple of seconds. My heart rate and my adrenaline had slowed things down, but as I stood and assessed th
e damage, it started to wear off.

  “Mia, call the police,” I said, glancing at her behind the bar counter. “And have them send an ambulance.”

  “Already done, Logan,” she replied, staring at me and the four beat up troublemakers at my feet. “They’re on their way.”

  I nodded and, stepping over slicked back hair guy, I grabbed the revolver which had fallen to the floor. A moment later, Pete appeared carrying a bag of large plastic zip ties which we used to secure all four of the guy’s hands behind their backs. Not that it mattered much though, two of them were unconscious and the other two weren’t going anywhere under their own strength anytime soon. As myself, Pete and a few other guys who were on the patio moved the bikers off to the corner, Jack walked out casually from inside of the restaurant.

  “Shit, man,” he said, his eyes growing wide as he saw the four guys, “I go to the can for two minutes and I miss all of the fun.”

  Within a few minutes, the sound of police sirens filled the evening air. Red and blue lights flickered from the front of the restaurant as police cars and two ambulances arrived in the parking lot. Soon they were up on the patio, checking each of the guy’s vital signs and strapping them to stretchers. Sheriff Wilkes was there, along with a few other officers I’d never met before. As the four guys were being carried out by the paramedics on stretchers, the sheriff looked over at me, shaking his head.

  “Is this your idea of lying low?” he said. “We just talked about this today, Logan.”

  “These guys punched the drummer in the face,” I said, not bothering to hide my frustration. “And they were harassing Mia. They were all overdrinking, yelling at people, threatening and cussing them out.”

  Still aggravated, he said, “You really kicked the shit out of a few of these guys.” He motioned to the short bald guy whose face was covered in blood. “Was it all necessary? You don’t think you were at all excessive?”