Charlie’s nephew told her about some gold statues that were supposed to be magic. Sara thought this might be what she’d been looking for after Charlie died, and asked the little man to tell her more, but he wanted her to do all kinds of sex things with him first. She finally relented. It was pretty awful.
When she found out about the little statues, she simply went into Carol’s room, studied the floor closely, and found the hidden box.
The diary in the box told the full story. She learned that if the two Chacmools were put by a person’s ears and the third missing Idol was placed on the eyes while that person was in lucid dreaming, the dreams would manifest themselves – they would become real. The diary told of the history of the Chacmools, revealing that the third one was probably lost hundreds of years ago when a Spanish treasure ship went down off the Florida Keys. That would explain Carol’s recent trip to Florida, but she had obviously come back without it.
Sara put everything back in the box and put it back in Carol’s room. She spent the next few days shadowing Carol whenever she was around. One day she heard the head Witchette talking on the phone and caught some names. Later she found a receipt from a private investigation agency in Carol’s papers, and put it all together. There was an investigator on the case called Saul Thorpe who was looking for a man in Florida who might have the missing Chacmool. Jeremy said he had been in Key West with Carol, so she’d start there.
After scraping together as much money as she could, Sara grabbed the idols and diary and headed for Florida. All she had to do was find this man Saul, follow him until he had something, then take it.
Once she had the third Chacmool, there was no reason to screw around. Sara was going to bring Charlie back.
∨ Key Weirder ∧
25
It’s better in the Keys
Another long road to nothing. Saul had gone from Chok across the state and south to Flamingo. What a waste. Flamingo was even smaller, and he got zip for info. Wasted several hours on that. Only saw one bike going there too. Big dresser Harley with a fucking windshield. Saul took a shot anyway, hit the windshield with a big noise. Didn’t go down.
Left Flamingo pissed. Two bicycles coming the other way. Got the lead bike, but he was only doing about forty because of the winding road. Didn’t even see if the bicycle went down. Waste of gum, those bicycles. Better to just bump ‘em with a fender.
♦
Later that afternoon, Saul’s mood improved when he got into the Keys. Figured he’d go on down to Key West, check on the rental boat, take it from there.
Bridges, lots of bridges. Saul had never gummed a bike on a bridge before. The thought made him smile.
Stopped for a beer and a sandwich and looked at the map. There was a bridge up next that was seven miles long. Saul liked the odds. He’d seen a few bikes in traffic already. Maybe after this job, make a couple extra passes over that sucker.
He waited until the traffic thinned before going up on the long bridge. Saul was pumped.
“Come on, Come on! Give me something here! This is too good! A little Jap bike, a moped for fuck’s sake! Anything!”
He was chewing a big wad and his eyes strained looking up ahead. Then he was over halfway across the bridge.
“I promise not to shoot any stray dogs for a week! Okay, how about I lay off my mom for the money she owes me? Come on here! Give me something!” Saul pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “Okay. I promise not to pick my nose in restaurants anymore!”
Up ahead in the distance, Saul could see a small black shape coming out of the bright glare of the bridge. “Please, please, oh please let it be!”
It was.
“YES!” Saul hopped up and down in his seat. “Yes, oh thank you! Yes!”
Quick check behind. Clear. No one else in front. Perfect.
Big, fat, dirty biker on a chopped Harley with no helmet.
Spit the wad in hand. Lob.
It was like hitting the sweet spot on a golf ball. Saul knew it was perfect as soon as it left his hand.
The impact flattened the gum to the size of a CD on the biker’s forehead. Saul watched the rear-view mirror with his whole being as the hands came off the handlebars and grabbed at the head. The bike veered off to the side and glanced off the guardrail. The big blob of biker came off the motorcycle and bounced once off the top of the guardrail before disappearing over the side of the bridge.
Saul immediately broke into maniacal laughter. He looked down from the mirror just as the van touched the rail, throwing a shower of sparks and putting a crease in the side. He didn’t care. He had never been more alive.
♦
The first motel in Key West had a sign boasting how many rooms it had. Should have a vacancy, didn’t look expensive. Get a room, check around a little on the boat thing, find some action.
∨ Key Weirder ∧
26
The First Motel in Key West
André, the assistant manager of the Big Pelican Happy Nice Motel, had seen it all in his relatively short career in Hotel/Motel Management. Cheapskates, drunks, cheaters, dopers, criminals, runaways, perverts, hookers, people hiding from someone, people looking for someone, rich people slumming, bums trying to move up, and every combination thereof.
He glanced up from his computer screen and regarded the big, shaved head, bull-dog looking piece of work in the tight black T-shirt and jeans with the sunglasses stuck on top of his shiny head. Another tough-guy loser asshole.
“Good afternoon sir, may I help you?”
“I need a room with a big bed and a big TV.”
“Yes sir. Let me see what we have available.” André looked at his computer screen and tapped a few keys.
“You got fuck movies on the TV here?”
“Um, we have basic cable in all our rooms, sir. There’s a special on Giant Pandas tonight on Discovery, I believe,” André said without looking up from the screen, “and the Food Channel has another of those fascinating shows on eel recipes later on.”
Saul grunted and frowned. André smiled.
“Room 325C, the Presidential Suite should be to your liking, sir. We just had the carpet cleaned this morning.”
Saul narrowed his eyes at the man behind the counter and slapped down a credit card. André swiped the card, showed where to sign, and handed over the key, smiling.
“Enjoy your stay in Key West sir!” he said to the back of the shaved head as it walked out the door. André knew that room was the furthest back in the motel, but he didn’t know if the latest carpet cleaning had gotten the vomit smell out or not.
∨ Key Weirder ∧
27
Taco Bob returns to Panama City
“Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em!”
A crisp, clear morning in St. Augustine found Pete and me still smiling about our big day fishing. We gave the high points of the previous day a good going over while we laid waste to platters of eggs, sausage, hashbrowns and toast at a place just down from the marina. Nothing like offshore fishing to put the appetite on a body.
“I shore got to catch me another of those Wahoo someday, Taco. That was some kind of run that fish put on me when he hit.” He pointed with his fork. “You going to eat that sausage?”
I gave him a look of warning.
“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m saving it for desert. But yeah, we definitely need to do this again. It don’t get much better, you know.”
Pete was giving hard looks to some pies up on a counter.
“I’m with you on that, Taco, about as close as it gets to a perfect day. Them pies are calling me.” He gave the waitress a wave and got his order in. I went with just a refill on the coffee to keep from hurting myself.
“Only strange thing all day was that other boat kept going by. That many miles of water there ought to be enough spots you don’t have to be following a charter boat all day.” While Pete ate pie, we agreed some people just weren’t raised considerate.
We settled the bill and walked o
ut looking at bluebird skies and chewing on toothpicks. After a good round of handshakes, Pete headed back towards North Carolina while I worked my way west towards the panhandle section of the state.
When I had first come to Florida from Texas, I’d stayed over by Panama City for a while at this little RV park. That was where I’d caught my first Florida trout, so I figured I might give that area another look.
♦
The RV park I’d stayed at before in Panama City was right where I’d left it. There were a few different travel trailers, but other than that it looked about the same. Only a block from the beach, the park had a tropical feel to it with all the cabbage palms, gulls squawking overhead, and the smell of salt in the breeze.
I found the lady running the place, and she was happy to see me and wanted to know what I’d been up to. Told her I planned to catch some trout and write a bestseller when I got back to Key West. This must have been good news or reminded her of something because she smiled big and laughed a little on her way outside. I followed her out of the office and she gave my truck and boat a good looking over.
“You got yourself a nice boat these days, and it looks like you’re eating regular. Something to be said for that.” A shiny blue Ferrari was just pulling out of the park onto the highway. I gave her a questioning look and she gave me back a shrug.
“Never seen it before. Your old spot over behind the washroom is open if you want it. Heard yesterday people were catching some nice fish out on the pier. Good luck.” She headed back in to answer the phone, giggling and saying something to herself about bestsellers.
Before I even got set up at the campsite a few of the folks that had been there before showed up. Turns out I’d been the talk of the park since leaving. Some new folks came by wanting to meet the fella who’d built the smoker and had the big party.
Come dark, we went on over and made up a little fire, then stood around and told stories and had a drink or two. I told the park folks about my plans to travel around the state and catch trout, and said I’d come to see if there were any left swimming around there we could invite for dinner.
♦
First thing the next morning I was knee-deep fishing at my favorite spot along the beach. Other than a few early walkers and circling sea birds, it was just me and the fish. I caught a couple nice trout on plastic grub-tail jigs before something cut my line. I had my big ice chest with me, so I decided to take care of them that would cut my line and relieve me of my fishing lure. I put on a small silver spoon and a little bit of wire leader and soon enough started dropping mackerel in on the ice.
With my ice chest on a little handcart I’d borrowed from the folks at the park, I packed up and went to check on the pier. There were several small trout and another nice one waiting for me, and the macs were thick. By early afternoon I had plenty of fish, so I wished luck to the few fisherman on the pier and pulled my cooler back to the park.
The little smoker I’d built out of scrap wood and tin was still there, all right, so I got her fired up. The smell from the fish in the smoker was the signal for everyone to break out some food for a big community dinner. We ate and drank and stood around the fire telling stories after dark till way late.
By the time I finally got to bed, I was feeling good. I realized that without any pressing financial concerns, women problems, or escaped convicts looking to shoot, strangle, stab, or blow me up, life could be mighty sweet. It was a feeling I hoped to get to know well.
Smoked Trout
Trout fillets with the skin still on (Mackerel work real good too for this. Actually, mackerel work better, but trout are pretty good too.)
Herb and Garlic Marinade (store bought is fine, Italian dressing also works)
Cajun or Creole seasoning
Hickory, pecan, or mesquite wood chips soaked in water
Put fish fillets in a plastic bag and add marinade. You don’t need a whole lot, about 6-8 ounces per gallon bag of fillets. Set this in the fridge while you get the smoker going.
As soon as the fire burns down to coals, place the fillets skin side down on the wire racks. Before you close-up the smoker, sprinkle the fish with seasoning and throw some damp wood chips on the coals. It usually takes about an hour or two for the fish to cook. Add a few more wood chips as needed. Fish should be golden brown and flake easily when done.
If you have any left over, just crumble the fish up in a bowl with some spices, pickle relish, and mayonnaise. Makes some damn good spread for crackers.
∨ Key Weirder ∧
28
Saul in KW
It was the smallest motel room Saul had ever seen. There was a big bed, a good-sized television, and nothing else in the room. Just enough space to walk to the tiny bathroom. Saul turned on the noisy air conditioner that took up the lower half of the only window and lay out on the bed just for a minute to rest his eyes.
When he woke it was dark. He turned on the lamp bolted to the wall above the bed. The room didn’t smell very good. Get a quick shower before checking out the town.
Took a look at the local titty bar. He’d seen better. This one had cheap drinks at least. Got him ready for some action.
Checked a couple of bars. No shortage of bars in this town. Started looking for the right woman. Should be sitting alone. Get close, maybe talk to her a little, hope she goes to the can. Slip a roofie in her drink, ten minutes later she’d be smashed. Bouncer in Atlanta even helped him put this cute little blonde in the van once.
“Too much to drink, got some bad news about her mother today, cancer. I better get her home.”
Had a lot of fun with that one, thought about keeping her a while. Didn’t do it though, that would be sick.
Saul didn’t get any roofie action on Duval Street, but he got pretty drunk.
Next day he checked the docks. Asked around the marina to see if any of the rocket scientists around there knew anything. Rental boat thing was a bust, but this one stoner cleaning up a charter boat said there was a guy had been looking for work. Guy stopped coming around, then showed up in a nice flats boat one day. Boat description was right. Stoner gave Saul the eye and asked what he wanted him for. Saul showed the burnout his PI badge. Said the man’s brother needed a kidney transplant. Real important he find the guy.
Stoner got helpful. Said once he saw the guy’s boat on a trailer parked in a yard over on Mango Street, the house with the brown trim next to the two-story on the corner. Saul thanked him, said he might have just saved a life.
♦
Over on Mango, it didn’t look like anyone was there.
“They’re not there.”
Neighbor. Dumpy old bag walking up behind him in a housedress, long cigarette in her hand. Probably kept an eye on the street from inside while looking at soap operas. Saul stepped back from the front door and smiled.
“Morning, ma’am. Would you happen to know when they’ll be back?”
The old bat gave him a look.
“Who wants to know?”
Saul was ready.
“Florida Lottery Prize Patrol, ma’am. Looking for a man that keeps his boat here. Real important I talk to him.”
Saul flashed his badge.
“They left this morning to go visit her brother in North Carolina. You must be looking for Taco Bob. He parks his truck and boat here sometimes, but he left a few days ago.”
A name.
“Yes ma’am. As a matter of fact, Taco Bob is the person I need to talk to. I’ve been authorized by the lottery commission to compensate anyone who can help me locate one of our win…I mean, one of the people we need to interview.”
Saul pulled out a stack of bright, flashy, multi-colored, buck-apiece, scratch-off tickets and let them unfold almost to the ground.
“My word! I don’t know where he went, Orlando maybe. Has some girlfriend there. I’m taking care of their cats while they’re gone.” The woman never took her eyes off the string of lottery cards. “Let me just look inside and see if there isn’t a num
ber or something by the phone.”
♦
For fifteen dollars worth of tickets, Saul had the phone number and address of the girlfriend in Orlando.
∨ Key Weirder ∧
29
Bandit
Three helicopters circled a huge traffic jam on Interstate 10. A truck matching the description of the now-famous Southernmost Bandit had been spotted westbound by a police helicopter. The other two choppers were news media getting footage for the evening news of the massive jam caused by the twenty-five police cars that had the wrong truck surrounded in the middle of the road.
Drivers rubber-necking in the eastbound lanes had plowed into each other and traffic was stopped for several miles in that direction too.
♦
With a big breakfast under his belt, a cooler full of sandwiches, and a remarkable evening with a surprisingly limber and athletic young woman to think about, Julian continued on his journey.
He got fuel in Valdosta and checked the truck. Of the eighteen wheels on the whole rig, a couple tires on the trailer that didn’t look very good. One had thrown the cap already, and another was about to go.
Julian decided to go back into Florida and head west on I-10 to make some time. He still hadn’t seen the news and hoped not too many people were looking for him.
Coming up on the interstate just before Chipley, he could see traffic was backed up bad. Looked like it was going to be SR 90 instead. He passed under the interstate bridge and turned around in the parking lot of a boarded up old motel. One of the rear tires on the tractor caught a sharp piece of metal that cut deep. The metal came out and hit the inside of the fender with a bang, but the tire held.
Julian pulled back on the road after a truck pulling a boat and a bright red Hummer went by. He headed north for the next westbound road. He was hearing the music softly now, thinking of Georgia, heading for home.
Key Weirder Page 6