1 Red Right Return

by John H. Cunningham

  “We went to Cuba on a religious mission,” I said. “We didn’t know jack about any operation, we didn’t even know Rodney was murdered until we got there, and I certainly didn’t expect to get my ass pummeled by Cuban state security, or to find the Carnival.”

  The door flew open and Willy filled the frame. His face was taut. Gutierrez peered over his shoulder.

  “Not a word about the boat, any of you.” Booth’s voice was a low hiss.

  Huh?

  Willy pushed his way past the two KWPD patrolmen. “These are my people, damnit, my mission.” The officers let him in but closed the door in Manny’s face.

  “Mission?” Booth laughed before turning serious. “Is that it, Reilly? Guilty conscience turned you from an inside trader and suspected murderer to an evangelist?”

  Every eye turned my way.

  “That’s libel, Booth, I could—”

  “The Swiss authorities don’t think so, their case is still open.”

  “They’ve never once tried to—”

  “Murder?” Willy said.

  “It’s bullshit—”

  “Buck and his partners cooked their books and went bankrupt. There’s no solid evidence, yet, but he’s also a suspect for murder. His partner’s doing time for insider trading and fraudulent conveyance of assets.”

  “What’s that got to do—” Willy’s forehead bunched together.

  “Did you know his parents cashed-out with millions, just before e-Antiquity crashed? They bolted to Europe on an extended holiday, which turned permanent.”

  All the depositions, interrogatories, and accusations flooded back. I had taken the fifth but was forced to testify against Jack Dodson, my partner. A year of my life, all my money, and worse, because of—

  “Mom and Dad never got to enjoy their fortune, though” Booth continued. “They were killed in a car wreck outside Geneva, just after Bucky’s bankruptcy case was finalized. But that didn’t work out so well, did it? You make the money for your family, and they left it all to your brother. That’s the basis of the Swiss case. Did your parents think you were still a fat cat, or had they cut you off when you iced them?”

  I clenched my fists. “The judge—”

  “I’ve got your judge.” Booth patted the bulge under his jacket and took a step toward me. Truck jumped up and Lieutenant Killelea dove in between us. My body was battered, I hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours, and instead of being welcomed home with what should have been an earth-shattering revelation, this bureaucrat with slicked-back hair finished the hatchet job Gutierrez started in front of Willy days ago.

  “All right, that’s it for now, gentlemen,” Killelea said. “I’m sure we’ll have more questions for you, and maybe some pictures to look at in the next few days.”

  Booth’s eyes burned holes in mine. “I don’t want to hear one word about your escapades. Not in the Key West Citizen, not in The Miami Herald, not in Sloppy stinking Joe’s. Nowhere, got it? This is a national security issue of the highest priority. You, hotshot, can crawl back in your hole. Don’t leave town, any of you.”

  Booth stormed out of the restaurant. Lieutenant Killelea shrugged then followed. Still numb, I considered climbing back inside Betty and finding a cozy banana republic to call home. Costa Rica, Belize, just get lost once and for all. Forget my stash, forget the gold, forget everything. Only problem was, I was broke.

  Willy glared at us while rocking back and forth on the toes of his Nikes.

  “Congratulations, boys. You managed to ruin our chance to learn anything in Cuba. Now all hell’s breaking loose.”

  “Wait a minute, Willy, these guys—”

  He spun on me. “None of this would have happened if you’d come home when I told you to! My people have been murdered, and my own daughter’s missing!”

  “Hold on, pastor,” Truck said.

  Willy jammed his finger in Truck’s chest. “Zip it, Clarence.”

  Clarence?

  “I made him keep going,” Truck said.

  “You should have known better, Buck. I knew how these boys would react to the news about Rodney. I was counting on you to be the cool head. I was counting on you to turn your plane around and bring ‘em back until we could regroup. But after all that?” He waved toward the door. “Even Redeemer can’t help you.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Arrested and expelled from the country, and for what? Spying?” Willy’s eyes bore into Truck’s, Jimbo’s, then mine.

  “Silence? All I get’s silence? Every television network in the country has a news team holed up here pushing this ‘War on Cuba’ crap like it’s a done deal.” He lowered his voice. “We buried Rodney today, and I should be with his family right now, but I had to find out what in God’s name happened. And all I get’s silence?”

  “Booth told us not to talk about it,” I said.

  “Fine, let’s go, you three. We’ll see about not talking about it when we get back to Redeemer.” He took a fast step toward the door.

  “Hold on, Willy, let me tell you—”

  He spun back to face me. “That money I gave you better cover your cost, ‘cause we’re done.”

  Chucky and Jimbo followed Willy out the door. Truck put his big paw on my back. I winced, the black hose treatment still fresh.

  “Guess we both had reasons to be out of town, huh?”

  My mind reeled from the escalating deterioration of an already fragile existence. Truck thumped me again on the back and left me alone in the Conch Flyer. First the FBI, now Willy Peebles. Hell, that didn’t even include the blackmailers or the goons in Cuba. Why was Booth so familiar with my background? A banana republic would be the ticket, if I could only scrounge up gas money to get there.

  So much for confronting Willy about Shaniqua’s interest in Santeria, or her role at Treasure Salvors.

  47

  THE SOUND OF A commuter airline’s Dash-8 roaring down the runway couldn’t shake me out of the funk. My days as a Conch Republic recluse were over, but too much was riding on this mess to bail-out now, Willy firing me or not.

  Ray Floyd was washing Betty down. “That dead dove was bad luck.”

  “I’m starting to think a dead dove is my astrological sign.”

  “And you’re back in the news. Maybe that will boost Last Resort’s business.”

  “Right. Charters, salvage, piracy and espionage. Unique niche.”

  “Been like D-Day around here. Bay of Pigs II is coming down the pike.” Our conversations had turned from sunken ships, airplanes, and philosophy to the bizarre war playing out at the Last Resort.

  I reached into the brown bag Dumbas had stuck inside my duffle and pulled out one of the two bottles. “Havana Club, siete años rum. Thousand bucks a bottle.”

  Ray’s nose curled up after he took a shot. “I can’t believe Betty made it back in one piece. I figured I’d seen the last of her.”

  The carved wood plane with red and green wheels on Salvo’s altar came to mind. “Do me a favor? Check her out, will you? She felt fine coming back, but make sure nobody swiped anything.”

  With that I gathered my gear, locked Betty, and walked out to my old Rover. The La Concha appeared like Mecca ahead on Duval. Tourists lined both sides of the street, and the sound of steel drums emanated from Margaritaville.

  A block down was a van with a satellite dish on its roof, parked illegally in front of the hotel. There was another one behind it, and then another. Three television vans straddled the curb, their occupants milling around outside, holding lights and microphones.

  Here to pick up where CNN left off? The exiled spy from Cuba? No way the blackmailers would miss this.

  Roger Dixon, the assistant manager, was outside speaking to them and pointing toward the door.

  I parked out back, and half-expected federal agents to jump out of the croton bushes. There was no sign of the press back here. Zeke waved from the moped rental stand where a line of dangerous-looking newbies stood ready to assault the street
s on single-cylinder knee breakers. I shouldered my bags and braced myself for the onslaught of press and the inevitable face-to-face with Karen.

  The lobby was crowded but miraculously clear of news teams. God bless Roger Dixon. Something intangible felt different. Bruce, the concierge, was handing out fun-tickets to smiling tourists, but Karen was missing behind the counter.

  “Hey, Buck,” Josh Bentley said. “You see the welcoming committee?”

  “Anybody sticks a mike in my face, you better call an emergency proctologist.”

  “That’s why we kicked them out.”

  “Karen back there?” I pointed my chin toward the small office.

  “Took the day off.”

  “That’s a first.”

  “Old Island Days has her running crazy. You okay?”

  “Every day’s a holiday, every meal’s a feast.”

  At the elevator I realized what was different. New paintings of decidedly Cuban subjects hung in place of the former fruit-juice-colored canvasses of local scenes. I stepped back and surveyed the large room. Eight new paintings adorned the walls.

  Karen obviously hadn’t needed my advice.

  The ride up the elevator may have been my loneliest minute ever.

  The apartment felt empty, or I did in it. The bruises on my biceps, thighs, and back were already yellow and purple, my only souvenirs from Cuba except for the bottle of Havana Club rum. The pictures on my camera had been erased. The shots from Hemingway’s Finca Vigia I hoped to use to crack my father’s code, and find the Esmeralda were gone forever.

  After a hot shower, I sat on the couch with a sandwich and a cold beer, only to find my book on Latin art still on the table. Tempted to throw it through the window, I paged through it instead. I wondered if Gutierrez had sold Karen anything of value. But I was more curious about whether Manny had enjoyed any other success with Karen.

  The Cuban art sparked an idea. From my duffel I removed the book on codes. One way or the other, I had to find my stash.

  Bingo! In the index there were several mentions of Thomas Jefferson—who as it turned out, was heavily into ciphers. I read on and learned that he required them from his diplomatic corps. Jefferson could easily have been my father’s role model.

  The last couple of days had produced a number of ideas. Given today’s events, the need for answers urged my aching body off the couch. Would the press still be hovering? Worse, would Clinton and Bush be readying their retribution?

  I pulled on my FEAR NADA T-shirt, flush with skull and crossbones, jumped into my flip-flops, and took the stairs down two at a time. I rushed outside and took a couple deep breaths. . The air had cooled, and the storms that were on the horizon during my approach into Key West had stalled in the Gulf. There was still an hour of light left in what had been one of the longest days of my life.

  48

  AT FIRST STIFF, I found that riding my bike gradually helped loosen my limbs. At the end of Whitehead was the Treasure Salvor’s museum and gift shop. Inside were select artifacts on display, a fraction of the thousands of emeralds, gold and silver bars, countless gold doubloons, silver pieces of four and eight like the one around my neck— all from the Spanish wreck of the Atocha that sank off the coast of Key West on September 5, 1620. She was the holy grail of shipwrecks, with a bounty approaching a half-billion dollars. Although the Wall Street Journal deemed me to be the heir apparent, the find had made Mel Fisher the king of all treasure hunters. Treasure Salvors continued to harvest the wreck today, some twenty years after its discovery…and I live in a hotel.

  If Treasure Salvors discovered the letter Hemingway wrote to his editor about the nine-foot gold chain that came up with the Pilar’s anchor off Fort Jefferson, or if they had my chart, their capabilities to pursue that wreck would far exceed mine.

  I entered the gift shop and asked for Danny Pogue, the manager and former e-Antiquity client who had previously expressed curiosity about my low-budget salvage efforts. Danny’s eyes got big when he saw me.

  “Buck, here to trade up for that gold doubloon you always wanted?”

  “Still plan on finding my own.” I said. “What did Shaniqua Peebles do here?”

  “She’s one of our top sales people. So damn pretty, people can never say no. Sure hope the Coast Guard finds her.” His expression was sincere. “I heard you flew her out.”

  “Thanks to the Citizen.”

  “No, she called me, Buck. Must have been right after you dropped her off. Said you had a chart of the Dry Tortugas all marked up that I should talk to you about.” His candor caught me off guard. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “I didn’t realize she worked for you.”

  Danny had a solid reputation, but treasure hunters inherently break rules in pursuit of gold and glory.

  “I heard you were hunting treasure, and I’ve wanted to talk to you about it, but not if it’s in Park waters. Life’s too short to go to jail.”

  Acid reflux bubbled in my throat. “Is anyone around here into Santeria?” I said.

  Danny laughed. A mid-western boy, pale and pudgy, he never looked the part of a treasure hunter, much less the follower of an occult religion.

  “Not far as I know. Why you ask?”

  “Someone broke into my plane after I found that dead missionary, stole some stuff, and left some Santeria crap behind.”

  “I don’t know nothing about witches or voodoo.” He licked his lips. “They take the map she called about?”

  “You think I’m stupid enough to leave valuables on my plane, Danny?”

  He reiterated Treasure Salvors’ interest in helping with my efforts—for the lion’s share, of course, and provided the site was in open waters. Yet another warning about jail, but the maps and GPS were gone, anyway. He also wanted to stay abreast of any news about Shaniqua. My gut said he didn’t know anything, but she had called him. The question was did she call anyone else?

  Back on my bike, I rode past the cemetery and wondered where Rodney had been buried. Had there been more placards? Rodney’s face along with Shaniqua’s? The irony hit me that the poster girl might still be alive. Was she being used to advance the goals of others, or in pursuit of her own?

  49

  I STOPPED AT JOSÉ’S CANTINA. José and Abuela had some explaining to do about dear Ivan, but their door was locked. It was Monday, their night off. Was there something more in Abuela’s letter to Ivan than cash? A description of what was happening in Key West? Could she have known I was taking Willy’s investigators to Havana? Had Ivan turned me in or just jumped on the bandwagon when I was grabbed?

  A flyer written both in Spanish and English was taped to the door. It was for a missing dog. There was a picture of the cute mutt, black with a white circle around one of its eyes. A reward was offered. I made the mental note to avoid Chinese restaurants for a few days.

  I rode past Seven Fish. Karen’s and my table was empty.

  My hands were numb on the handlebars. I’d spilled my guts, prattled on about my failed marriage and business, but I’d also discovered her secret ambition to write and some ways in which we were really alike. Plus I had the feel of my hands in hers, her saying I wasn’t alone, and the halo of lilac still etched in my mind.

  And, damnit, her strikingly familiar protagonist. The ruthless salvage hunter.

  I pushed off the curb and continued down Elizabeth, feeling worse than when I’d set out. My stomach screamed for attention, so Blue Heaven became my default location. Lenny would fill me in on Rodney, Gutierrez, the latest on Santeria aggression, the political reaction to the media coverage, and the pulse of Willy Peebles.

  The glass and charred timbers around MG International Gallery’s front doors were already repaired, and the black land shark was gone. Enrique Jiminez was the name Gutierrez had mentioned as the Stock Island Sancho. Considering everything else that had happened, that put him next on my list. After checking with Lenny.

  I found Truman bumper to bumper, so I pedaled down side streets
and stopped at a red light on Simonton. I could hear the steady rhythmic beat of Cuban salsa before the source came into sight, and when the black Mercedes appeared before me, top down and turning my way, a raindrop would have knocked me from the bike. Manny Gutierrez, with his hair slicked back, his eyes hidden by gold-framed dark glasses, and Karen seated next to him with a restrained smile on her face.

  I sat frozen as they whizzed past. Did she notice me sitting there with my heart dripping off my sleeve? He flew down the street and swerved rather than braked as a kid came out of a driveway on a scooter. Manny Gutierrez had been the beneficiary of Karen’s rare day off from work. Why him?

  “You’re not alone, Karen Parks, you’re not alone.”

  The rest of my ride was a blur. Karen with Gutierrez was the proverbial straw that broke my resolve. I found myself at Blue Heaven thirsting for a belly full of rum.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s finally showing his face.”

  Shit. The Gargoyles.

  “Couple days late there, Bubba. Chickened out, huh?”

  “Damn lucky, son. I’d of hated to see Bruiser whoop yo’ ass.”

  I stood and took their abuse, trying to conjure a worthy reply. The past few days had taken their toll, but the past ten minutes was the coup de grâce.

  “This isn’t Saturday night?” I said. “And I was ready to go. Son-of-a bitch.”

  “Heh! Listen to that fool!”

  The Gargoyles were now armed for an evening of laughter at my expense, but I didn’t care any more. I had hit bottom, again. I found my corner of the bar amidst Lenny’s usual disciples gathered to hear him expound on the future of Key West. He brought over a tall Barbancourt on the rocks.

  “Welcome home.”

  “No two words could feel less appropriate.”

  “Heard you had your hands full, man.” He plucked at his chin.