The Storm Killer

by Mike Jastrzebski

  Pushing open my jacket, I showed them the pistol tucked in my belt.

  “Good,” Russell said. “By the way, I found your man. He’s registered in a rooming house over on Eaton Street. He made it easy for me. Used his real name.”

  “Any idea where Boyle’s staying?” I asked.

  Russell shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll keep asking around, but I may not be able to help you there. It’s going to be crazy around here for the next couple of days.”

  I ate my chowder and leaned back in my chair. “I might as well head over there. I’d like to keep an eye on Greeley. Find out where he goes and what he does.”

  “He’s not there right now,” Russell said. “The owner’s a friend of mine. He said Greeley went out this afternoon and he’d call me when the man returns. Might as well sit and relax until the call comes through.”

  Hemingway appeared at my side. “Well if it isn’t my savior.” His voice boomed throughout the room and several customers looked our way. He grabbed the chair next to me and sat down. I figured I deserved a little ridicule. After all, I wasn’t much of a bodyguard.

  “You find your man?” Hemingway asked.

  “Joe found out where he’s staying,” I said.

  Peirce took a match from his vest pocket, struck it on the edge of the table, and lit his cigar. “If he was the guy you saw following Ernest last night, then he saw you too. He’ll be watching for you. Hell, he may find you before you find him.”

  Big walked up and began clearing the table. Russell ordered drinks around and leaned in toward Hemingway. “Not to change the subject,” he began. “But what are you going to do with Pilar, Ernest?”

  “Who’s Pilar?” I asked.

  Hemingway sat upright and beamed. “She’s the most beautiful fishing yacht ever built. I care for her like she’s my mistress, and right now I’m worried about her.”

  He turned to Russell. “I’m hoping to have her hauled out. If not I’ll pick out a good spot and tie her off. We’ll hope for the best. I can’t afford to lose her. Couldn’t replace her right now, that’s for sure.”

  “I’d offer to help,” Peirce said. “But I’m leaving town in the morning.”

  “I can help,” I said.

  “You a better sailor than you are a bodyguard?” Hemingway asked.

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  “Take him along, Ernest,” Russell said. “You can always use an extra set of hands. Plus, he’s carrying a gun now. If you run into any trouble, he’ll be there for you.”

  Hemingway curled his brow, looked me up and down, and then shrugged. “Meet me down at the Navy Yard around ten. Be ready to work your ass off.”

  Adjusting the gun in my belt, I pushed away from the table and stood. “I’m going to take a walk through town,” I said. “I can’t sit here waiting any longer.”

  I spent the next two hours walking throughout downtown Key West. Everyone was talking about the coming storm and I could feel the tension hanging in the air like a low lying storm cloud.

  When I arrived at the docks I paused to admire the boats before heading over to the rooming house where Russell said Greely was staying. I wandered in and out of half-a-dozen different bars. In each establishment I ordered a beer and let it sit untouched while I watched for Hank Greeley and Michael Boyle. They were nowhere to be found. I wondered if they’d decided to leave town before the storm hit.

  When I arrived back at Sloppy Joe’s it was like déjà vu. Hemingway, Pierce, and Russell were sitting where I’d left them, drinking and smoking.

  Big Skinner was still tending bar. If the customers hanging around weren’t the same ones from the previous night, they looked the same. When Skinner saw me he reached for a glass, filled it from the tap, and slid it across the bar when I approached.

  As I headed toward the table and my three new friends, I thought that for a town expecting a big storm, nobody seemed concerned. This left me believing it was no big deal.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I ate a breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs, and thick-sliced fried potatoes at the hotel. Three men dressed in suits came in and sat at the table across from me. They were talking about the upcoming storm and damage other storms had done to their businesses in the past; sort of a pissing contest about who’d been hit the worst. I eavesdropped on their conversation for a few minutes, then got up and left.

  I arrived at the submarine base a little after ten and found it hard to believe a storm lurked somewhere over the horizon. The sky was clear, the sun bright, and there wasn’t a breeze to be had. There was a barracks building off to the right that was in need of a paint job. It had a deserted feel about it and in my ramblings about town I’d heard mention that the navy had stopped using it several years earlier. Across from the barracks was a small rundown building. The door was open and several men in overalls were standing around the entrance. I suspected the building was the yard office, and the men day laborers looking to make a buck off the coming storm.

  I was glad I’d left my jacket in my room. Sweat dripped from my forehead and my shirt was drenched. Rolling up my sleeves I went searching for Hemingway. The basin was crawling with sailors, fishermen, and small craft owners trying to get their boats prepared for the coming storm.

  I put Greeley and Boyle out of my mind for the moment. There were too many witnesses around for them to try something in the yard. Still, I kept an eye on the docks and crowds of workers in case I was wrong.

  Hemingway found me before I found him. He strode up behind me, slapped me on the back a little harder than was necessary, and muttered something under his breath. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that his jaw was set and his eyes had a cold, calculating look to them.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I was hoping to get my boat pulled out. Now they tell me there are too many others ahead of me.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “What the hell can I do?” Hemingway kept walking and nodded toward the far end of the base. “I think that’s the safest part of the base. I’m going to move Pilar over there and tie her up as well as I can. I stopped at the chandlery and picked up a new hawser. Cost me fifty-three clams if you can believe it.”

  “What’s a hawser?” I asked.

  “It’s a thick rope to tie up the boat.”

  We stopped before a beautiful cabin cruiser. She had varnished mahogany sides, a black hull, a green roof, and was tied up against one of the tall rotted piers that had been built for battleships. “This is Pilar,” Hemingway said by way of an introduction. “She’s thirty-eight feet, and it would kill me to lose her.”

  He led me aboard. The cockpit was twelve feet wide and perhaps fifteen or sixteen feet long. The varnished deck gleamed in the sunlight and the leather-cushioned bunks on either side of the boat looked plush and comfortable. Hemingway scampered over to the bridge and started the engine. It roared to life, and he let it warm up a bit before turning to me. “Give me a hand with the lines, will you?”

  I followed him onto the dock and after we cast off the last line we jumped back on board. Hemingway took a seat behind the wheel while I stood at the rail and looked out over the calm water.

  “Grab a line,” he called down to me as we pulled up to the dock where he’d decided to tie up. “When I get close, you jump out and hold us steady.”

  He edged the nose of the boat to within inches of the dock, and I hurried onto the dock. Following his orders, I walked the boat forward and held onto the rope until Hemingway joined me. He showed me how to tie off the line, and we began to stow his fishing gear and secure the boat.

  We worked for three hours as the sun beat down on us. By the time we’d finished I felt as if I’d gone swimming with my clothes on. Tired and hungry, all I could think about was how good a cold beer would taste right then, but Hemingway was in no hurry to leave. He got down on his knees next to where I was working and began tugging and twisting the line from the boat to the dock. He grunted i
n apparent satisfaction, and then moved to the next line and went through the same routine. The heat didn’t seem to bother him, but his forehead glistened with sweat. I could see tension in his eyes and in the way he held his body.

  When he climbed off Pilar for the last time, he wiped his hands on his pant legs and waved me over to join him. “That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” he said. “Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.”

  The streets of Key West looked almost as crowded as New York at rush hour. Every person who lived in town must have been outside. Men were nailing shutters to windows while the women and children carried plants, chairs, tables and benches indoors so that they wouldn’t be swept away by the anticipated storm.

  We ate at a small diner called Willies. The storm shutters were already nailed into place, and every little sound bounced off the walls of the lighted dining room. I felt as if I were eating inside a giant barrel. Hemingway suggested the conch fritters, and to my surprise they beat the hell out of New York City hot dogs.

  When we finished eating I lit a cigarette and followed Hemingway out of the diner. The din of hammers echoed throughout the streets, and frenzied activity seemed to have increased since we’d entered the eatery.

  “You know,” Hemingway said. “If we take a direct hit, you may not do so well at the Colonial.”

  “I figured it’s the highest building around,” I said.

  “I’ve seen a lot of tall buildings come tumbling down in a hurricane. I don’t have any extra rooms in the house but I can fix you up a cot in the garage if you’d like. I think you’d be safer there. You can stop and pick up your things on our way to the house.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it. The events of the last couple of weeks were wearing me down. I felt as if the entire world was moving against me. This act of kindness was unexpected. “I’ll take you up on that.”

  When we got to my hotel, Hemingway said, “I’m going to head over to the house. I’ve got to get things ready for the hurricane. I’ll see you whenever you get there.”

  He hurried off and I went indoors. The manager saw me walk through the door and came running toward me.

  “Mister Locke, I wanted to let you know what to expect with this storm. We’ll almost certainly loose our electricity. The bellhop has put a flashlight in your room and the shutters have been nailed closed. We urge you not to leave the hotel during the hurricane.”

  “I’ve decided to ride out the storm with a friend. I won’t be checking out, but I’m going to pack a bag and take it with me.”

  The manager looked worried. “Are you sure, Mister Locke? The water level could rise twenty or thirty feet above sea level. I’m afraid the island doesn’t offer many high spots.”

  “I’ll be staying with Ernest Hemingway,” I said. “He assured me his house was the safest place on the island.”

  The worried look was replaced with a smile. “I didn’t realize you were a friend of Mr. Hemingway. His house is on some of the highest ground around.” As a matter of pride he added, “I’m sure it’s almost as safe as the hotel.”

  “I have no doubt I’d be safe right here,” I said. “But I couldn’t very well turn down his invitation.”

  “Of course not.” He turned away and I headed for the elevator.

  After packing a bag I grabbed the revolver and tucked it into my belt. I wondered if the storm had chased off Greeley and Boyle. I hadn’t seen either one in two days, and I’d kept my eyes open. It didn’t make sense that in this small town I hadn’t stumbled across either of them as I wandered about. Of course, it was possible they’d spotted me and were making an effort not to be seen. I decided to make one more round of the city. Leaving my bag at the front desk, I went outside.

  The gun rubbed against my back and I adjusted it before continuing on my way. I wanted very much to confront Greeley, but to be honest, I was a still a little bit afraid of Boyle. He had a lot more experience using a gun than I did.

  My task was made more difficult by the number of people milling about the streets. Many of the businesses were still open, but their windows were now boarded over. It would have taken all day to stop and search inside each building. I chose to wander through the most likely places, restaurants and bars.

  An hour later I was standing on Hemingway’s porch. I knocked, and a petite woman wearing dark slacks opened the door. Her hair was cut like a boys, she was deeply tanned, and wore no makeup. She smiled when she saw me.

  “You must be Mister Locke?” She held out her hand and added, "I’m Ernest’s wife, Pauline.”

  “Call me Jim,” I said. “I hope I’m not imposing.”

  “Ernest is putting you up in the garage,” she said. “You’re not the first person he’s brought home and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Why don’t you leave your bag here? We’ll get you settled in later. Ernest asked me to send you outside as soon as you arrived.”

  I followed her through the living room, past a stairway, down a hallway where a swordfish hung on the wall, through the dining room and into the kitchen. The house was filled with antique furniture, although they did have an electric stove and refrigerator in the kitchen.

  “Your house is beautiful,” I said.

  “Thank you.” Pauline threw open the outer door and pulled me to the side as Hemingway rushed in carrying a large potted plant.

  “About time you got here, Locke,” he said. “I could use your help if you don’t mind. I sent my boy, Louis, home to help his family prepare for the storm and Isabelle, our cook, is off today. I let the other servants go home to their families too.”

  “Show me what needs to be done,” I said.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon storing lawn furniture, carrying plants inside, and boarding up the windows with makeshift wooden shutters. By dinnertime the storm still hadn’t reached the island.

  However, the winds were building from the northeast and the barometer was falling. I felt like an elephant had spent the afternoon tap dancing on my back. I ached from head to toe, my knees had turned to rubber, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sweated as much as I had that day. I couldn’t even stand my own stench, and was willing to bet I smelled worse than a garbage scow.

  Pauline had carried my bag out to the garage while I’d been helping Hemingway. Once we’d moved everything portable inside, I made my way to my temporary room, washed up, and changed my clothes. Fifteen minutes later I joined Hemingway and Pauline in the kitchen where we ate ham and cheese sandwiches and drank cold beer.

  Hemingway quivered with nervous energy. He was having a hard time sitting still and eating. He wolfed down his sandwich and sprang to his feet. “I’m going down to the Navy Yard to check on Pilar.”

  I stuffed the remainder of my sandwich into my mouth, washed it down with the rest of my beer, and ran after him. He was already in the car and had the engine running by the time I got out the door. If I’d been half-a-heartbeat slower he’d have driven off without me.

  When we got to the yard Hemingway dragged a piece of canvas out of the trunk of his car and tossed it to me. He handed me a knife and we ran over to Pilar. “Cut it into squares about a foot to a side,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “Chafe guards. We’ll wrap the lines wherever it looks like they’ll rub once the surge begins.”

  We climbed on board and Hemingway looked over at the boat tied next to Pilar. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The stern lines to the fucking booze boat the Coasties tied up next to Pilar are gonna let go.”

  I looked at the boat and couldn’t see anything wrong. “How do you know?” I asked.

  “You blind, Locke? Look at those ringbolts. When they let loose, and they will, Pilar is going to take a beating. You start wrapping the canvas around the line anywhere it rubs. I’m going to have a talk with the harbormaster.”

  I watched him run off, and then I started wrapping the lines and tying the canvas into place. I
n no time my fingertips were raw from running them back and forth across the ropes and my hands were cramping up on me. Still, I managed to finish by the time Hemingway returned. He swore as he climbed on board. Ignoring me, he opened a storage locker and drew out a double barreled shotgun and a box of shells.

  “What the hell did he say?” I asked.

  “He said he doesn’t have time to worry about it. Told me I could sink her if she broke loose and looked like she was going to ram Pilar.”

  “You going to sink it now?”

  Hemingway took two shells from the box and broke open the gun. “Don’t be a dolt.” He fed the shells into the breach and snapped the barrel shut before returning it to the locker. “I’m getting it ready in case there’s a problem later. Come on. Let’s check the lines one more time.”

  Hemingway eyed my work and made a few adjustments. He grunted a “Not bad,” and led the way back to the car.

  Five minutes later we pulled up in front of his house. He locked the car and led the way up the walkway, through the house, and into the kitchen. Opening a drawer next to the sink, he fumbled around, drew out a flashlight, and switched it on and off before handing it over to me.

  “You’re going to need this when the power goes out,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I awoke to howling winds and sheets of rain pelting the garage. Long bursts of thunder rolled over the island. I felt out of place, and it took me a moment to remember I was staying in Hemingway’s garage.

  Rolling onto my stomach I pulled my pillow over my head, but someone began to pound on the door. I felt like I’d been here before as I jumped out of bed and grabbed my robe. When I opened the door Pauline was standing in the rain. She wore a raincoat but her hair was drenched. Her face looked strained and her eyes nearly as large as silver dollars.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Her voice quivered. “The power cut off and Ernest went out to the Navy Yard to check on Pilar.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago. He couldn’t get the car started so he walked. He should have been home by now.”