“No sweat. You have a good time. Ciao.”
“Later kid.” He hung up, and so did I. Next I called Fast Freddie, but didn’t get an answer. I called Jerry, but he was in the thick of a Sunday night crowd and couldn’t talk. No worries, I’d get Fast Freddie later and make sure she had a plan to check on my house in Weehawken a couple of times a week.
Since I was only in town for a night, I didn’t bother to unpack. What I wanted was to see the town, maybe take a walk on the beach, possibly take in a floorshow somewhere. I made my way down to the lobby, and into the men’s store where I picked up an uncharacteristic floral shirt, a nice Hawaiian job with sailboats and tropical flowers on a black background. I also splurged on a really nice Panama hat. Hey, when in Rome…
They let me change into the shirt there and had my old shirt laundered and sent up to the room. Class joint, I thought. I wandered out into the warm evening as it was just getting dark, and found my way down to A-1-A. The beach was pretty, small waves hit the shore and sparkled in the waning light. Jazz and Rock ’n’ Roll seeped out of nightclub doorways, South American and Cuban music could be heard in the distance. I heard the distinctive sound of a big band bellowing out of one of the large hotels, and found that Harry James’ orchestra was playing. I slipped in and had a seat at the bar and enjoyed the music.
The house drink was a Cuba Libre, and again I figured when in Rome… I liked the taste of the dark rum they used, and thought to myself hey, maybe I should add a fifth of this stuff to the home bar. After the second drink, I was convinced.
James was soaring away with Cirribiribean when I spotted a very pretty chick sitting alone at the other end of the bar. I figured what the hell, and sat down beside her.
“Big Harry James fan?” I asked casually. She looked at me, knowing where this was going.
“Yes, matter of fact I follow him all over the country.”
“No kidding,” I said. This was good, I wanted to see where it led.
“Nope, every show, every state.”
“You must really dig the trumpet,” I said, leading her on.
“Not really. I’m more of a saxophone kind of gal,” she said, holding up her left hand and pointing to her wedding ring.
“I’m hip,” I said. “Tell your husband I love his work.” She smiled, and I went back to my original perch. Just my luck, again.
Andy was at my room’s door bright and early at nine a.m., just like I asked. He brought the bags down and had the valet bring the car around at nine-thirty, just as I was finishing up the Continental Breakfast. I tipped him three bills and thought he’d have a heart attack. Apparently tipping in Florida was really, really rare, and really, really appreciated.
The morning was bright as hell, cloudless and already in the seventies. I stowed the Panama under the seat so it wouldn’t blow away, rolled down the four windows and hit the electric switch to let down the top. It was weird; I’d never ridden in a convertible with an electric top before. It was like the roof was being peeled off by a giant can opener.
A minute later I was motorvating down US Highway Number One with a full tank of gas and smile on my face.
Late August, 1935
Over one hundred guests had been invited to the island for the Great Party of Labor Day Weekend. By Friday the caterers had been hired, the tents set up, the bars fully stocked; hundreds of pounds of cubed ice had been brought in and stored in anticipation of three days of drinking and carousing on Eliot & Vivian Hawthorn’s private island. But the plans were as useless as the booze without bodies to drink it. A storm was ripping towards the upper keys, gaining strength as it twisted its way through the Atlantic.
It was already being called “The Storm of the Century”, with ships reporting gusts in excess of one hundred and fifty miles per hour. No one was sure yet where it would make landfall, but most experts agreed it would slam into the Florida Keys sometime in the next seventy-two hours. Whether it would hit Key West and spare the island or miss the lower Keys completely and hit the middle and upper keys head-on remained to be seen, but the guests weren’t taking any chances. Most hadn’t bothered to come to the island, fearing they would be stranded as the only means off would be by boat. The few who showed up early left by Friday evening, planning to head to the mainland for safety, far north of the Keys. Only Eliot and Vivian stayed, along with Eliot’s close friend Gregor; he had a forty-foot boat with plenty of space to store valuables, and agreed to help Hawthorn pack and remove family photos, heirlooms, clothes and art in anticipation of the island’s probable flooding.
Hoping for the best, Eliot Hawthorn insisted on staying on-island until the authorities were absolutely certain of the storm’s progress. To be safe, he booked passage for three on the Monday morning train from Metacumbe Key, the fastest and most practical means to get to Homestead and their mainland home in Miami Beach. Leaving too early would leave the island wide open for thieves to rummage the house. Leaving too late, however, could mean death for him, his wife and his best friend. But he was in charge, he always was and always would be; his friend and wife looked to him for leadership as they always had, not because he was a great leader but because he signed the checks. Eliot had been born rich, had made it through the Great Depression getting even richer, and made lots of friends by spreading his green around. He knew it, knew that was how he was able to land such a beautiful, well-bred yet impoverished wife, knew how he was able to keep friends like Gregor who counted on him for loans when times were tough. He was a somewhat shy and quiet man, Eliot Hawthorn, but he let his money do the talking and that helped him get people around him. And he needed people around him for some oddball reason, because loneliness for Hawthorn was a fate worse than hell…or death by storm.
Saturday came and went; the skies were mostly clear but now darkness could be seen on the eastern horizon. The wind picked up slightly and the waves of the Gulf began to pitch a little more sharply than usual. Being on the Gulf side of the Keys and buffered by the larger Keys to the east, Eliot hoped beyond reason that the storm would not affect his private little island too badly. But he knew this was a bum hope. If the storm hit the middle Keys with one hundred and fifty mile an hour blasts, it was a sure bet there wouldn’t be anything left of his mansion…or the island itself, possibly…when it was all over.
+++
Other than a quick stop in a little town called Florida City (the last town before getting on the Overseas Highway) to top off the gas and use the facilities, I was able to make great time on a straight run all the way down to the end of the world. I must admit, it was a little spooky traversing those narrow, two-lane bridges, especially the one dubbed “The Seven Mile Bridge” that seemed to just go on and on over the water with no end in sight. But it was a pleasant drive, with the beautiful, clear-blue Gulf of Mexico on the right and the majestic Atlantic Ocean on the left. Little roadside stands advertising fresh catch of the day, coconuts and oranges dotted the highway. A few signs for resort hotels peaked out from the foliage, and when I got near Key West I was greeted by a string of signs welcoming tourists to the Southernmost Point of the United States. Once I crossed the last bridge onto the Key, just for fun I drove all the way down to the end of US 1 to Mile Marker 0.
“So this is the end of the U.S.A.,” I said to the beachhead. “Hmmph. Smaller than I imagined.”
Following the directions Jerry gave me, I motored the Chevy to a marina on the Gulf side of the island. I parked the car and followed the ramp to a little shack with sponges, cork and fishnets hanging off of it like cobwebs. Inside, an old man in shorts and a polo shirt looked up.
“My name is Riggins. Pal named Jerry should have called ahead for a boat to..uh..” I looked at the name of the resort for the first time. “Tiki Island?” I said to myself, then to him, “Yeah, Tiki Island, the Resort.”
“Yep, it’s a resort,” he said, his accent half southern, half pirate. “Only place ’round here goes by the name of Tiki Island, I suppose,”
“Y
eah, so what time does the boat leave?”
“Well, Mr. Riggins, that depends on what time you want to go. The big boat leaves the dock at eight a.m., three p.m. and six p.m., but the small boat is for custom charters, at an extra price, of course.”
“Well it’s already after three, so I guess I’ll take the six. I want to check out the Key a little first, anyway.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Say, uh, when I go to Tiki Island, can I leave the jalopy here?”
“Sure can. Fifty cents a day, and I’ll even keep a keen eye on her.”
“Sounds great,” I said. Yeah, great…nickel and dime me to death already.
I took the car down to Duval Street, the main drag in town. Even for a Sunday evening it was crowded; throngs of people of all kinds moved up and down the sidewalks, hopping from bar to bar, or heading to the beaches. Most of the women were wearing light sundresses over swimsuits, and the men were in either tank tops and shorts or Hawaiian shirts. But in addition to the tourists, there were some pretty strange locals mingling with the crowds. A man in a pink tuxedo shirt had a dog, with a cat sitting on the dog’s back and a mouse sitting on the cat’s head. A sidewalk musician, a sax player, with a bouquet of tropical flowers sticking out of the bell of the horn. An old woman wearing about fifty necklaces of varying styles. Another guy with a real peg leg, walking back and forth in front of a seafood joint, talking like a pirate...and he wasn’t on the payroll.
Funny enough, I didn’t feel out of place with my little sailboats and Panama hat.
I parked in front of a men’s clothing store, and proceeded to pick out a half-dozen more shirts, plus two pairs of white and two pairs of beige linen pants. I never wore linen before, but the Key West heat was already turning my black wool slacks into water bags. They let me change into the white pants in the fitting room, so I threw the rest in the trunk and took a walk down Duval.
It wasn’t anything like I expected. I was figuring on a sleepy beach town with a hotel or two, something like in Key Largo but without the storm. Instead, it was a bustling city, though on a really, really small scale. The buildings were as old as the hills, mostly made of wood or stucco. The stores and bars were open air, half outside and half inside. On the corner was a giant bar with the name “Sloppy Joe’s” painted across the front. That’s the place Fast Freddie clued me into, so I went there.
A Rock-a-billie band was playing up on the bandstand, cranking out Elvis and Bill Haley tunes. I asked the bartender for a Cuba Libre, and he looked at me funny. “One rum and coke coming up,” he said. I guess they ain’t as fancy in Key West as they are in Miami. They apparently aren’t too keen on mixing Cuba Libres either. The light rum he used was oily and not nearly as good as the dark stuff. When I ordered again, it was a double Jack on the rocks. He smiled with a “that’s more like it” kind of grin.
I wasted a half hour there, listening to the band. Just as I was getting ready to leave a local character sat down beside me and started rapping. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I rapped back.
“My name ees Fernando,” he said with an educated accent, “I’m from Cuba, (he pronounced it “Koo-bah”) but live here now. You’re not from here, are you…lemme guess, New York Ceety?”
“Close enough, what gave me away?”
“Ah, the black shoes, señor.” Yep, that would do it. White pants, tropical shirt, black leather cop shoes.
“You have a good eye.”
“Thank you, señor. For years I called the horse races in Havana. I had to have an eye for the detail, no?”
“I’m sure you did.” The friendly banter went on for a while; I thought he was going to try to weasel a drink out of me, which I would have gladly bought him, but he didn’t. Just conversation, a friendly guy looking to shoot the sugar with someone new and interesting, I guess.
“Where are you staying, señor?” he asked, sipping a rum and soda with a piece of mint sticking out of it.
“A place called Tiki Island, heard of it?”
He got a strange look on his face, and backed up an inch or two. “Oh, señor,” he said with a touch of dark drama, “I know the place, she ees haunted, they say.”
I laughed. Loudly. “Haunted? Oh come on, it’s just a hotel.”
“Sí, a hotel but where many strange things happen. They say the ghost of a young woman comes to people in the night and jumps into their beds!” he said, jumping at me as he raised his voice. It gave me a good jump, and got a great laugh out of the crowd around the bar.
“Ha ha, you goofball, almost made me spill my drink.”
“Aye, I’m sorry señor, but seriously, I’ve heard some strange things about that place. And I think it is fascinating, too. So, you come back to Sloppy Joe and find me, after you stay, you tell me if you see anything strange, no?”
“Sure I will,” I laughed, “But don’t hold your breath. I’ve never seen a ghost and I don’t believe I ever will.”
“Aye we’ll see, señor, we’ll see.”
At quarter to six I parked the Chevy at the marina, raised the top, rolled up the windows and grabbed my bags out of the back. A rather large boat, probably a fifty-five footer, sat next to the dock with a gangplank leading to the open back. “Tiki Island Express” was painted in bamboo-style lettering across the side of the bow, and the cabin was festooned with thatch, Tiki masks and palm fronds. On the back deck two bamboo Tiki torches burned, their crimson flames dancing in the evening breeze.
I handed the car keys and a five dollar bill to the old man in the shack. “This should cover the first week on the parking, and then some. It’s rented so please don’t let anything happen to it.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Riggins,” the man said, and locked the keys in the desk. I almost hated leaving the car there; it was a beauty, had a great ride. Without doubt it was the nicest car I ever drove.
I hopped on the boat and found there were already several people seated inside and out, waiting to shove off. A man came down from the bridge and took my bags.
“Sir, do you have sneakers? Or boating shoes?”
“Yeah, in the bag,” I said.
“Would you mind changing into them please? We don’t allow black-soled shoes on-deck.”
“No problem,” I said. How was I to know? The last time I was on a boat was at Kiddieland in Wildwood.
Sunday, August 30th, 1935
Sunday was as calm and non-threatening as Saturday had been, with the exception of that evil, eerie darkness lingering in the east and an occasional gust of wind blowing through the tops of the palms. There was no doubt now; the weather service issued a hurricane warning for all of the Florida Keys, yet it was still not clear where the eye would make landfall. All indications were that it would hit the upper Keys or possibly even the tip of the Florida peninsula, but no one could be sure. After speaking with his wife and Gregor, Eliot decided to change their train reservations to take them to Key West where they could ride out the storm in safety. Gregor would leave Sunday evening with his boat and meet them in Key West. Neither he nor Vivian questioned Eliot’s judgment; neither dared to ask why they didn’t all leave together by boat, why they didn’t head north to Miami or Lauderdale. He had a plan, and they would stick to it. After all, it was his island, his boats (yes, even Gregor’s boat was actually bought by Eliot) and his money. He knew how to best protect it.
Sunday afternoon drudged by. At around two o’clock, Gregor prepared his boat for the one-hour voyage to the southern-most key. He would leave the dock by three; by five, the vessel would be safely moored at Hawthorn’s private slip in Key West.
+++
I stood on the back deck of the The Tiki Island Express and soaked in the atmosphere while getting soaked from the evening’s humidity. The boat was a beaut, all teak wood with brass fittings and chrome railings. The whole back was open but a cabin area took up nearly two thirds of the middle deck. Inside the cabin were padded benches along each side with a long bar in the center. A young, tan-skinned girl in a sar
ong served the drinks. She had long dark hair, the kind you only see in the tropics, and wore a tropical flower above one ear. Nice. And this was just the ride over.
I ordered a Jack and coke but she didn’t have any Jack. “Only rum drinks are served on the cruise, Mr. Riggins. But don’t worry, there’s a full bar on the Island.”
“That’s good to hear.” Wow, she knew my name. There’s a neat trick.
“Would you like to try a Mojito?”
“What’s a Mosquito?”
“A Mojito. It’s a rum and mint drink.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I snarked, and she smiled. I took a sip; it wasn’t half bad, so I stuck with those for a while.
As the boat shoved off, the first mate introduced himself (a young kid named Roger from the Bahamas), and proceeded to give some info on the local flavor. He had a nice demeanor, and his sing-song island accent helped make the time go by.
“Aloha, ladies and gentleman, and welcome to our little boat. We are traveling due north-east of Key West, at approximated twenty-tree knots. The seas are calm and de weather clear, so we should reach Tiki Island, our destination in a little over an hour.”
An hour? Holy cats, I thought the place was closer than that. Better easy up on the booze, buddy boy. Might not make it to the shore in one piece, I thought to myself.
“Tiki Island is approximately twenty miles from Key West. However, we are only a few miles from, and in hawk’s eye view of Sugarloaf Key, incase anyone needs to get to the main islands quickly for any reason. But you will probably not, as Tiki Island has every accommodation you could want for, from exquisite cuisine to fabulous tropical drinks, from music and dancing to quiet, torch-lit beaches.”
Now the kid sounded like he was reciting the guidebook.
Murder on Tiki Island: A Noir Paranormal Mystery In The Florida Keys (Detective Bill Riggins Mysteries) Page 5