by Tom Corcoran
“Abby learned that her brother was in the same jail as Tazzy Gucci. She told him to get close to him. Sure as hell, Makksy spilled his guts from what he thought was his deathbed. Richard Abbott recruited Omar Boudreau and Ray Best to help him pull the rip. They both went to work for Makksy’s limo deal. Best even married Muffin de Jour, part of the plan. Then, according to Abby, her brother decided to take it all, whatever it was.”
“So he killed Omar.”
“And Best tried to get even by shooting Abby.”
“Who shot Best?”
“Angel. She’d never told Ray about the ‘fund.’ The only way he could have known was to be in with Abbott and Omar.”
“Why did Sammy go fishing with Sam Wheeler?”
“Her idea. To keep from going stir-crazy. No other reason at all.”
A taxi pulled into the lane, stopped at the house. Not the ponytailed dude with the Greek captain’s hat.
“Ride with us to the airport, Alex?” Claire had reverted to soccer mom. Khaki shorts, an oxford-cloth shirt, little gold earrings.
We rode past Garrison Bight, out First Street. At the Flagler intersection, plastered on the old Tides Inn, Olivia Jones’s new poster for Liska’s campaign. A rectangle with a blended red-topurple broad brush check mark in a pastel-green box. The silhouette of a palm tree. The painting brought to mind the sun setting into the ocean. LISKA in pale orange across the bottom, a modern font that looked as if the type had been wrinkled, then flattened again. Eye-catching, hip, positive. Just in time for the primaries, two days away.
Claire slid to my side of the cab’s backseat. “You once said that the tree at Fleming and Frances was a big reason you bought in that neighborhood.”
“I miss that tree. It took weeks after the hurricane to clear it away. Its branches tore up three houses. After all this time, one of them still needs work.”
“I miss that tree,” she said.
No one spoke until we hugged and said good-bye at the airport. Before I got back in the cab, I dropped four quarters into a newspaper vending box.
Twin headlines: LOCAL WIFE KILLER CONFESSES, and TUCKER COVER-UP EXPOSED. Both pieces began above the fold, continued to the page base, then on to page 3. A picture of the sheriff on the right, and a pre-Rasta Little Howie to the left. Marnie Dunwoody’s byline on each. The entire page 4 was a testimonial campaign ad from Tucker headed, “I did not commit my son’s crimes!”
Right, bubba. But you “unfounded” and closed ninety percent of them.
The article about Howie Tucker having strangled Chloe to shut her up gave repeated credit to Detective Liska, to his continuing desire to leave no capital crime unsolved. I knew Keys politics. Chicken Neck’s stock had gone through the roof.
My stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast.
The cabbie waited for me to get out and pull my wallet from my pocket. Carmen Sosa and Maria Rolley strolled down Fleming, coming home from church. “I’ll spring for fish sandwiches,” I said.
“You’re a mind reader,” said Carmen. She and her daughter got into the taxi. I slid in, next to Maria. Carmen asked the driver to take us to the Margaritaville Restaurant. She said to me, “Did you look at the Citizen? Hard to believe, in a matter of weeks, we’ll have Sheriff Liska.”
“He deserves it.”
Carmen said, “Cops who break the law are like deodorants that smell funny. Don’t ask me to explain that, but how do they get the job in the first place?”
“We vote by reflex instead of thought.”
“Oh. Like your social life.”
I retreated to Maria. “How’s school this year?”
Maria scowled. “Long division.”
Duval Street was almost empty. Two people on bicycles did U-turns without risking their lives. Not a single car ran the red light in front of Fast Buck Freddie’s. The restaurant’s stereo system offered Bob Marley, the Iguanas, and an old Willis Alan Ramsey album. My bowl of conch chowder was perfect. I canceled my sandwich and ordered a second bowl of chowder. I also requested a light beer, strictly for its digestive benefits. And, eventually, a second one.
I finally took a break. “Let’s get back to this talk of long division.”
Maria turned to her mother. Her eyes pleaded: “Do we have to?”
I wanted to sound reasonable, without talking down. Maria had reached the age where patronizing turned her to frost. “I agree, long division’s a drag,” I said. “And they’re going to throw it at you from now until college. But here’s the catch. Long division is one of those rare school subjects that you might actually use in real life. You’re going to have to study a whole lot of subjects, from now until the end of college, that you’ll never use when you’re grown up. But long division, do yourself a favor. Work hard for the next few weeks, learn it better than anyone in your class, and it’ll be like riding a bike. You’ll never have to worry about it again.”
I’d made a reasonable point. I felt successful. I had given good advice, and not made it sound like a sermon.
Maria put the uniquely feminine look on her face that told me I was dumb as a rock. She stood to go to the ladies’ room, and turned to Carmen. “Does he know about calculators?”
When Maria had left, Carmen said, “You recall talking about my personal Catch-22?”
“I do.”
“You’re already part of her life.”
“Then you can’t break up with me.”
“No, it means we can never become lovers.”
“My argument has turned around and bit me on the bottom?”
“Speaking of which, where were you last night?”
Duffy Lee Hall rode his bike past the restaurant’s open window. He saw me and U-turned, stopped on the sidewalk, three feet from the table. He smiled at Carmen. He was all wound up. “You’re not going to believe,” he said. “Little guy, looking like a wino in Italian loafers, talking like Jimmy Cagney with a drawl, comes by the house. I’m inside, working. I built a temporary darkroom. The wife gets me out of the darkroom, the guy says, ‘Heard you had a fire, took a loss.’ I said I’d taken more than that. He handed me a bank envelope, said, ‘Maybe this’ll help you out.’ He went down the walkway, got in a cab and left. This goofy-assed stranger gave me twenty-one grand, in cash.”
“Great.” Tazzy, who had blabbed, had made good.
“What do I do now?”
“Stop talking about it, Duffy Lee.”
St. Martin’s Minotaur Paperbacks titles by Tom Concoran
Air Dance Iguana
The Mango Opera
Gumbo Limbo
Bone Island Mambo
Octopus Alibi
EXTRAORDINARY ACCLAIM FOR TOM CORCORAN’S DEBUT NOVEL
The Mango Opera
“Intriguing … an entertaining and enlightening book about a foreign country within our own boundaries—Key West.”
—Dallas Morning News
“A promising debut that gives a glimpse of Key West that tourists seldom see … THE MANGO OPERA brings a new and imaginative mystery writer with a unique view to the Florida fold. Alex Rudedge should be investigating Key West for years.”
—Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“THE MANGO OPERA is about as accurate a description of old Key West as there is around today.”
—Jimmy Buffett
“THE MANGO OPERA is a powerful debut novel full of juicy characters, crackling dialogue and thrill-a-minute action. Not since McGuane’s 92 IN THE SHADE has Key West been rendered so vividly and with such spare poetry. Tom Corcoran is the real thing—a novelist with a mature voice, a powerful vision and a great ear for the rhythms of human speech. This is a small, exciting novel, one not to be missed.”
—James W. Hall, author of Body Language
and Rough Draft
“THE MANGO OPERA, with its tropical setting, fruity characters and hard-boiled dialogue, is a delicious treat.”
—The St. Petersburg Times
“The genius of imagination
and the genius of realism don’t often take up housekeeping in one writer’s skull. But Tom Corcoran has combined a viciously creative plot with a perfect description of Key West as it really is, and the result is good to the bone.”
—P.J. O‘Rourke, author of Holidays in Hell,
Parliament of Whores, and Give War a Chance
“Key West is crazy, dangerous, hilarious, and exotic. Tom Corcoran’s THE MANGO OPERA captures all of this with right-on characters and escalating suspense. A true mystery and a great read.”
—Winston Groom, author of Forrest Gump
“Tom Corcoran knows the foul reaches of Key West and so do I. This (M.O.) is an evil book about an evil place. Don’t read this book if you have a tendency to wonder where your daughter is on long rainy nights.”
—Hunter S. Thompson, author of
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
“THE MANGO OPERA is a very engrossing novel. Corcoran deftly evokes the spirit and physicality of the place, the low tide jubilance and enlivening fetor of its pleasures and instinctive criminality, as if the sun and ocean had blasted all the flowers of evil into its very genes.”
—Jim Harrison, author of Dalva and Legends of the Fall
“Fast-moving and brightly written, this is a first novel that demands a second.”
—Dallas Morning News
“First time author Tom Corcoran’s MANGO OPERA is a full focus delight … You’re hooked from page one … Corcoran’s debut is a doozy. Intricate plotting, memorable characters and a solid and honest feel for his terrain put the author picture-perfect right out of the starting gate.”
—Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, MS)
“Tom Corcoran means business. This new thriller isn’t a laugh-a-minute lightweight to grin at while awaiting your next—but surely not last—rum runner. You won’t think of Key West as quite so laid-back again.”
—The Miami Herald
“With its sure feel for the Key West that resides beneath the tourist façade and a quirky, hard-edged rhythm pulsing beneath the surface calm, this debut deserves a wide and welcoming audience.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A promising new series … You can feel the salt on your tongue as Rutledge forces himself to sort through the unwashed laundry of a life lived for the substantial pleasures of the moment. Melancholy mixes nicely with nostalgia in this satisfying debut.”
—Booklist
“Anyone who reads THE MANGO OPERA will realize the quality is what counts and this novel provides that and more. An incredible debut.”
—Harriet Klausner, BookBrowser
“THE MANGO OPERA leapfrogs over many first-time novels and puts Corcoran solidly in the company of the likes of Robert Crais. In both plot and dialogue Corcoran shows a deft hand. His characters are convincing in voice and action; they are frank, spicy, and thoughtful. Readers will shout a resounding”bravo!“at the end of THE MANGO OPERA. Tom Corcoran is off to a very fast start on what is sure to be a long career as a fine mystery novelist.”
—Bookpage
“Like a tropical chef, Corcoran flavors THE MANGO OPERA with colorful characters, crisp dialogue, island history, and quite a bit of dark but highly appropriate humor. He serves it all up in tasty bites that promise to satisfy almost any mystery lover.”
—Amazon.com
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BONE ISLAND MAMBO
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FROM ST. MARTIN‘S/MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS
I recognized a Bonnie Raitt song from the seventies. Her strong voice, her slide guitar. Without moving my arms or camera, I turned my head left.
Eight feet away and closing. The self-absorbed Heidi Norquist.
Diamond earrings blazed just below the headset’s pink foam cushions. Tiny diamonds for a Sunday morning jog. The hair fell to one side, five-toned butterscotch and gold. She stopped advancing but pumped her slender legs, ran in place, paced the music. A loose black tank top, tight vermilion shorts, sculpted running shoes fresh from the box. Inch-wide neonpink wristbands. Next to the Walkman, a small belly-pack—sized, I guessed, for lip gloss, a cell phone, a fifty-dollar bill. A hint of trendy, expensive perfume. A discreet gold neck chain. A million dollars wrapped in a suntan. Or a fine approximation.
In direct sunlight, no evidence of sweat. Was it the cool January air or spontaneous evaporation?
Butler Dunwoody, the younger brother of my friend Marnie Dunwoody, had brought Heidi to town six weeks ago. The evening we’d first met, within a week of her arrival, Heidi had impressed me as a woman who’d done time at the mirror, long enough to understand her power. Her conversation at times plainly mocked Dunwoody. I recall speculating silently that she viewed the man as a brief layover on her health-conscious journey to more lofty playgrounds. Marnie had assured me that her brother worshiped the young woman’s shadow. With Heidi’s slender frame, the late morning sun almost straight up, there wasn’t much shadow to worship. I wondered if, given an alternative situation, I might act the fool equal to Butler Dunwoody.
With my wallet there would never be an alternative situation.
“What’re you shooting?” She breathed in and out, a separate aerobic exercise.
Two cars on Caroline slowed to check her out.
I waved my free arm toward the site. “Construction.” A large white sign bolted to the eight-foot fence listed architects, structural engineers, and consulting engineers. Appleby-Florida, Inc., General Contractor. A nearby sign listed four law firms, three local banks as financiers, a security outfit, and a waste management consultant. The sign did not mention Butler Dunwoody, the project developer.
“For the newspaper?” said Heidi.
I laughed. “I don’t do news.”
She pushed her hair behind one ear, fiddled to park it there. It fell when she removed her finger. Fifty yards away, in the old shrimp dock area, an offshore sportsman cranked an unmuffled V-8 marine engine, then a second one. Cubic decibels. She fiddled with the hair again, turned her attention to the waterfront.
When the noise died, Heidi faked a coy face. “You from zoning?”
She didn’t recognize me. A slap to the ego, but no surprise. I shook my head.
“Some kind of protester?” Still jogging in place. Her face going harder.
The construction site had received heavy news coverage regarding the disapproval of island residents, a call-to-arms to discover how the project had survived variance, had slid through the approval process. The public wanted to know which politicians had sold out. I said, “Nope. No protest.”
Heidi jogged to the fence. A foot-square DANGER sign loomed above her head. She said, “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”
My question, too. I stared at her without speaking, hoping her message would turn around. It did not.
With the first step of her departure sprint, she muttered, “Jerk-off.”
Some flirtation. I flat-toned: “Have a nice day.” Then, for some reason, I took a photograph of the woman’s departure.
A female voice behind me: “That should be a good shot, Alex Rutledge.”
I turned. Same flavor, better quality. Traci Hodges, lovely without undue effort, heiress to half the island, stopped gracefully on her Rollerblades. She also wore a tank top and shorts. A coral-colored elastic ribbon held her dark brown hair to a neat ponytail. My first impulse was to lift my camera, to document the tan glow on her cheeks, the sparkles in sunlit peach fuz
z.
“What was that about?” She gave me a co-conspirator’s grin.
“It’s her boyfriend’s construction project. She saw me snapping photos, she stopped to vent her curiosity. She didn’t want me here. Her suspicions outran her manners.”
“Suspicions?”
“Bad press, I suppose. Zoning pressures, typical hassles.”
“This town,” said Traci, “not exactly unknown factors.”
“Sure. For newcomers, they’re promises. Except, this case, with Marnie at the Citizen, he’s probably received a few breaks with the bad press. Public ovinion, we know about that. Zoning’s negotiable. The banks and the permit people and progress inspectors shape rules as they go.”
Traci looked northward, pondered the waterfront development area. “It’s happened to my family, too,” she said softly.
“But not recently.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“How are things at home?”
Traci shrugged. “Hasn’t been great.”
“It’s been a third of your life. Same old outlook?”
She looked me in the eye. “He still thinks you’re hot for my bod.”
She’d met David Hodges at Key West High School. They’d dated for two years, then she’d gone off to Tulane. After six years, her undergrad and post-graduate studies, she’d returned to Key West, begun dating him again. Within a year they were married. “I thought you might’ve settled that before you rang the church bell,” I said. “Or else he’d chill out, all this time.”
She turned away. “David thinks expressing jealousy is showing his love. I mean, you’re not the only one.” Her eyes returned to me. “He suspects every man on the island. I thought a long time ago about going to Atlanta, where his folks moved. But he’d have the same attitude there.”