by Stuart Woods
“I get the picture.”
“I hope you do, because there’s no room for a homophobe on this force. If you hold those views, my advice is to keep them to yourself, even with your brother officers, because some of them are gay.”
“I have no problems with gays, sir.”
“You should also know that, generally speaking, a record number of arrests is not something I look at with admiration. I like to think of my force as problem-solvers as well as enforcers. My policy is, if you can deal fairly with a situation, defuse it instead of busting somebody, that’s better than an arrest. The exception to that rule is anything involving violence. I won’t have it on my streets, and if you come across something as simple as a fistfight, haul in the perpetrator, if you can figure out who he is, and both of them if you can’t. We’ll sort it out later.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Something else to keep in mind is that although our population is less than thirty thousand, we have two million tourists a year in this town. They’re our lifeblood, and we do everything we can to treat them well. Again, violence is the exception to leniency.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
“You’ll get the hang of the paperwork in a hurry; it’s standard stuff, probably not much different from what you had in New York. Oh, and I have a partner for you.” He looked up through the glass door of his office. “And here he comes now.”
Tommy turned to see what he took to be a kid of about seventeen-skinny, longish hair, and pimples-walk into the office.
“Tommy, this is Daryl Haynes,” the chief said. “Daryl, this is the detective I told you about.”
The two shook hands.
“How you doin’, Daryl?” Tommy asked, appalled.
“Okay,” Daryl replied, then looked at his feet.
“This is Daryl’s first day as a detective,” the chief said. “He’s had two years on the street.”
On whose side? Tommy thought. “Oh, yeah, good.”
“I reckon you can teach Daryl a lot about investigation,” the chief said, “and Daryl can show you a few things about Key West. He grew up here.”
Grew up? Tommy thought. When?
“Daryl, why don’t you start by giving Tommy a tour of the town?”
“Right, Chief,” Daryl said. He tossed his head in the direction of the door. “Ready when you are, Detective.”
Tommy shook hands with the chief and followed the pimply new detective.
“Tommy?” the chief called.
Tommy stuck his head back through the door. “Yes, Chief?”
“He’s smarter than he looks,” the chief said.
“Right, Chief.” He’d have to be.
Daryl was already gunning the engine when Tommy got into the car. The second the door closed, he whipped out of the police parking lot and down the street.
“Pull over here a minute,” Tommy said quietly.
“What for?” Daryl asked.
“My underwear is twisted. Just pull over.”
Daryl pulled over.
“Okay, Daryl, the first thing is, a detective doesn’t drive a car like he just stole it. You notice that there’s no markings on the doors?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s because we’re supposed to be inconspicuous. You want people to notice you, you wear a uniform and drive a black-and-white. You get the picture?”
“Right, Detective.”
“You can call me Tommy.”
“Right, Tommy.”
“Now, I want you to start practicing driving like you were, say, fifty years old and had a heart condition.”
Daryl sighed and drove on.
“What’s this street?” Tommy asked as they turned a corner.
“This is Duval Street, the main drag. It’s where most of the bars and a lot of the restaurants are. We get a call a night about a drunk who wouldn’t pay his bill or decked the bouncer, you know?”
“I know. What’s the worst time of year for us?”
“That’s easy, spring break. We get a few thousand college punks down here; they get drunk and drive around with thirteen people in a convertible. The chief has a policy of, when they do something, putting them to cleaning up the streets. Then he makes sure their picture gets in the paper, so the rest of them will know about it. That pretty much keeps them in line.”
They continued the tour. They saw the shady streets and neat Conch houses of Old Town, they saw Roosevelt Boulevard, the strip with the car dealerships and the fast food restaurants. They saw the hotels and the schools, then drove up to the next key, Stock Island, and had a look at the new jail. They stopped for some lunch at McDonald’s and ate in the car. As they were finishing their burgers Tommy looked up to see the white-haired man he had seen at Louie’s on the night of the exploding yacht.
“There,” Tommy said. “What do you make of that guy?”
Daryl watched as the man got into a large Mercedes and drove away. “I don’t know; rich, I guess.”
“You’re a wizard, Daryl,” Tommy said, scribbling down the car’s license number. “Here, run this tag, and let’s see who he is.”
Daryl called in the tag number.
“Name is Harry Carras,” the radio operator conveyed, “of an address on Dey Street, Old Town.”
“Harry Carras,” Tommy said aloud to himself. “I’ll give you two to one, Daryl, that’s not his real name.”
“Why do you think that?” Daryl asked. “He just looks like a rich guy in a Mercedes. Come to think of it, there’s not even a Mercedes dealer in Key West. You’d have to go halfway up the Keys to Marathon to find one.”
“That tell you anything, Daryl? A Mercedes 600S, a twelve-cylinder car in a town where the fastest traffic is the rented motor scooters?”
“Tells me he must be really rich,” Daryl said.
“That’s what you call conspicuous consumption,” Tommy said, “and I’ll bet the folks in this town don’t go for conspicuous consumption-of that type, anyway.”
“You’re right, they don’t.”
“So that means that Mr. Carras don’t give a shit what the neighbors say, right?”
“Right, but so what?”
“Let’s test out your local knowledge, Daryl; the chief said you’re good at that. Do you know somebody who would run a credit report on our conspicuous consumer?”
Daryl thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said.
The two policemen sat in the tiny office in a corner of a used car lot on Roosevelt. They watched as the fax machine slowly spat out its paper. The salesman ripped it off the machine.
“Weird,” he said.
“What’s weird?” Daryl asked.
“Three credit bureaus never heard of a Harry Carras on Dey Street.”
Daryl looked at Tommy.
Tommy beamed.
7
Harry’s going to Miami on Sunday,” she said. “Are you free Sunday night?” “Sure,” Chuck replied.
“All Sunday night?”
“I’m teaching until five, but anytime after that, and I’m off Monday.”
“Good. I want you to meet me up the Keys a ways.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“What I had in mind was, you drive up U.S. 1 just past the twenty-eight-mile marker, then you turn right into a marina parking lot. Allowing forty-five minutes for the drive, I’ll meet you at six-fifteen sharp, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Bring your toothbrush and something nice to wear at dinner. And I mean six-fifteen sharp,” she reiterated. “If you’re late, you’ll miss the boat.”
He laughed. “I’ll miss the boat?”
“In more ways than one,” she replied, then hung up.
Sunday was busy and there was a shortage of advanced players, so Chuck had to take a pair of Victor’s duffers.
“I’m Tommy,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “This is Rosie.”
They were both on the short side and firmly built. “Good to meet y
ou, Tommy, Rosie,” Chuck said, managing a winning smile. “How much tennis have you played?”
“She’s played maybe twice, and I’ve never walked on a court before,” Tommy replied.
Swell, Chuck thought. Rank beginners. “Okay,” Chuck said, “let’s start with the grip. Shake hands with the racquet, Tommy; you too, Rosie.”
The lesson went more smoothly than Chuck would have believed. Tommy was a pretty good natural athlete, and Rosie concentrated so much that she made up for her lack of natural talent. By the end of their hour, Chuck had them both hitting a decent forehand and backhand. Maybe it was easier to teach a raw beginner with some talent than to try and correct a more experienced player’s years of bad habits. They were just walking off the court when Harry and Clare Carras drove up in the Mercedes.
Chuck felt a pang of disappointment. Harry was supposed to be in Miami. Still, he thought, glancing at his watch, it was early.
“Ain’t that something?” Tommy asked.
“What?” Chuck replied.
“That lady,” Tommy said. Rosie had gone into the pro shop. “Ain’t she something?” He nodded in the direction of Clare.
“Not bad,” Chuck said.
“Not bad?” Tommy said. “You must run with a different crowd than me. Where I come from, that’s downright fucking spectacular.”
“I guess she is, at that,” Chuck agreed.
“Who are those people?” Tommy asked.
“Harry Carras and his wife, Clare.”
“She don’t look like nobody’s wife to me,” Tommy said.
Chuck laughed. “I guess not.”
“Who is Carras? What does he do?”
“Retired businessman, I think,” Chuck replied. “I’ve played with them a couple of times and I’ve given her a lesson or two, but I don’t really know that much about them.”
“Uh-huh,” Tommy said, and Chuck somehow thought the man didn’t believe him. It was time to change the subject. “Where are you from, Tommy?” he asked.
“New York, originally,” Tommy said. “Brooklyn. But we moved down here recently.”
“Retired?”
“Yes and no,” Tommy replied. “I retired from the New York Police Department, and I just joined the Key West PD.”
“First cop I ever had for a student,” Chuck said.
“You’d told me a month ago I’d be on a tennis court I’d have laughed my ass off,” Tommy said. “But Rosie got at me; she said if we’re moving to a new place we ought to do some new things.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Amazingly enough, I did. I want to do it some more.”
“Victor and I could make a pretty good club player out of you this winter,” Chuck said. “What you want to do is set up a regular lesson, say twice, three times a week.”
“I’d just as soon stick with you,” Tommy said.
“Our deal here is that Victor works with the beginners, and I handle the seasoned players,” Chuck said. “But when Victor’s jammed up, as he was today, then I’d be happy to teach you.”
“I guess that’s okay,” Tommy said.
“You’ll like Victor. Check with Merk in the shop and set up a schedule for you and Rosie.”
Tommy shook his hand and headed for the pro shop.
“Hey, Chuck!”
Chuck turned and looked toward the next court.
“Want to hit some with us?” Harry Carras called out.
“Thanks, Harry, but I’ve got another lesson scheduled,” Chuck replied. “Maybe later, if you’re going to be around.”
“Nah, I’m leaving town in a couple of hours.”
“Good,” Chuck said under his breath. “Good.”
Chuck was five minutes early at his destination, and there was no sign of Clare. Six-fifteen came and went, and still she didn’t show. Had he somehow missed the boat?
At 6:25 the Mercedes pulled into the lot, and she got out. “Come on!” she called, trotting toward a canal cut into the island, toting an overnight case.
Chuck grabbed his bag, put the top up on the Porsche, and ran after her. She was getting aboard a boat, along with half a dozen other people. He caught up, stepped aboard, and took a seat next to her. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“Stick around and find out,” she said.
The boat backed down the canal, turned around, and headed out into a stretch of open water, picking up speed. A row of houses on the water to their right fell behind them. To the west a lurid sunset was developing, and to the east, a full moon was rising. The effect was spectacular.
“The sunset’s part of the surprise,” she said.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled up at a small dock and disembarked. Clare led him into a thatched building, open at the sides, and they were met by a young woman who led them down a path to a palm-thatched cottage. She showed them into an attractive suite, accepted a tip from Chuck, and left them alone.
Chuck snaked an arm around Clare’s waist and kissed her. “What a nice surprise,” he said.
“Not now, baby,” she replied. “We’re booked for the first sitting at dinner. Get changed; we don’t want to miss the rest of the sunset.”
They missed nothing. They sat at a table at the water’s edge and sipped their first drink as the sun sank into the sea.
“Where the hell are we?” Chuck asked.
“Little Palm Island,” she replied. “I read about it in a magazine; isn’t it something?”
“It is,” Chuck said, “and so are you for bringing me. I’ve never been to a more romantic place.”
They ordered from a long menu-seafood with a French accent-and Chuck chose a bottle from a fine wine list.
“By the way,” she said, “this is on me. I hope you don’t have any qualms about accepting the hospitality of a woman.”
“None whatever,” Chuck said, tasting the wine and nodding his approval to the waitress. “That would be rude of me.”
After dinner they walked slowly back along the path toward their cottage.
“Look!” she whispered, stopping and pointing.
Two tiny deer were emerging from the water; they walked up the beach toward the dining area.
“They’re Key deer,” he said. “I’d heard about them, but I’d never seen one until now.”
“They must have swum over from the next island,” she said, pointing. “And look, they’re begging from the diners.”
They made love before they paused long enough to talk.
“It’s good being here, where nobody knows us, isn’t it?” Clare said.
“It certainly is,” Chuck agreed. “And I don’t have to worry about Harry coming home unexpectedly. When is he coming back?”
“Tomorrow night. We can make a day of it, if you want.”
“I want. What does Harry do in Miami? I thought he was retired.”
“Oh, Harry will never retire completely. He keeps his hand in, and you ought to be grateful! How could we do this if he didn’t go away on business?”
“Do what?” he asked.
“This,” she said, and showed him.
8
Tommy sat in the unmarked patrol car, his head resting against the back of the seat, and half dozed.
Daryl glanced over at him. “You look a little bushed,” he said.
“You’re not going to believe this, Daryl, but I played tennis on Sunday.”
“You don’t seem like the type to me,” Daryl said. They were driving past Smathers Beach, the island’s largest, then past the airport.
“I don’t look like the type to me, either,” Tommy agreed, “but I’m now the owner of a racquet and a pair of white shorts. Also, I’m sore as hell; it’s been a while since I exerted myself like that.”
“Good for you,” Daryl said. “Do you good.”
The radio came alive. “Traffic accident east end of the island, near U.S. 1,” the operator said. “Any units nearby?”
Daryl was reaching for the microphone when a black-and-white took
the call. “We’re headed that way anyway,” Daryl said. “Take a look?”
“At a traffic accident?” Tommy asked, incredulous. “That’s a waste of my talents.”
“Whatever you say,” Daryl replied and continued past the airport.
They drove on for a couple of miles, then Daryl pointed ahead. “There it is,” he said. “Looks like that…”
“That Mercedes,” Tommy said. “Pull up over there.”
The black-and-white had its lights going, and Daryl steered the car into the lane ahead of it.
Tommy got out. They were at a point where a number of houseboats were moored in the channel that separated Key West from Stock Island. The Mercedes had crashed through a wooden barrier and come to rest balanced neatly on the edge of the highway. Another foot or two and it would have gone into the channel. Harry Carras was leaning against the black-and-white, looking shaken, giving a statement to a uniformed cop.
Tommy hung back until their talk was over, then approached, flashing his badge. “Afternoon, sir,” he said to Carras. “You all right?”
“I think so,” Carras replied.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, exactly,” Carras said. “I was just driving along, and I braked for the curve and nothing happened. The pedal went right to the floor. The barrier stopped me, I guess.”
“You were lucky,” Tommy said. “A little further and we would have been diving for you.”
“I guess I am at that,” Carras said. “Is my car drivable, do you think?”
“Not without brakes,” Tommy replied. “Officer, will you give the gentleman a ride home, and we’ll wait for the tow truck.”
“Sure,” the cop said. “Mr. Carras, do you want to go to the emergency room and have them take a look at you?”
“No, no, I’m all right,” Carras said. “The airbag worked.” He got into the patrol car and was driven away.
Tommy looked at the car and smiled.
The tow truck unhitched the Mercedes just as Daryl approached with a mechanic in tow. “Tommy, this is Mark, who does all our work. Mark, Tommy.”
Tommy shook the man’s hand. “Mark, the brakes on this car went, and it nearly ended up in the drink. Could you give it a quick once-over and see if you can figure out what went wrong?”