by Chris Niles
“Well, I’m glad you two found each other. How old is he?”
“He was five when he retired, and it’s been two years, so he’s seven now. He’s starting to feel it a little in his hips, but he’s got a lot of spunk in him for an old dog.”
“Yeah, our two cockapoos are fourteen and they still play like little puppies. When they’re not sleeping, of course.” Susan laughed and raised her beer. “To the dogs.”
“To the dogs. Cheers.”
The three clinked their beer bottles together then drank to man’s — and woman’s — best friend.
Chapter Twelve
Thousands of tiny bulbs twinkled in the twilight like stars — the only kind Tina would see, since the glow of the boiling city across Biscayne Bay blocked the real ones from view. Delicate strains of classical music from a string quartet drifted on the breeze, mingled with the sound of salt water lapping against the seawall. Guests seeking to escape the crowd on the broad patio meandered in twos and threes around the sweeping lawn.
Behind a tall hedge, beside a droning air conditioning unit, Tina Ransom passed a tray of half-empty glasses and half-full plates to a husky young man wearing a blank stare. “Take those straight back to the kitchen and don’t drop any of them this time!”
“Mama, I know. I’m not a idiot.”
“Did you know when I handed you the last tray, Lucas?”
The boy nodded.
“But you dropped the last tray. And the one before it. Drop this one, and you’ll get fired. And I’ll get fired for bringing you along. And then both of us walk outta here with nothin’. You want that, boy?”
Lucas shook his head. “No, Mama. I do not.” He slowly turned then squeezed between the thick hedge and the air conditioner to the kitchen’s service door.
Tina straightened her narrow black tie, heaved a tray of freshly-filled champagne glasses onto her left forearm, then floated back onto the lawn. She scanned the crowd. Instead of looking for nearly empty glasses, she looked for Rolexes and bluster. She’d never had a dry spell last this long, and she intended to change her luck tonight, if for no other reason than she wanted to never have to risk her reputation again by bringing along a worthless lump of a son. But rent money was rent money, and the end of the month was closing in.
She made her way through the crowd, weaving and pausing between clusters of aging women — the lucky few who enjoyed the temporary upgrade from mistress to wife. Of course, a new mistress would eventually unseat each one, but they’d all walk away with settlements big enough to buy a small Caribbean island. Tina both loathed and envied them.
“I couldn’t believe the nerve. The little trash at Hermès refused to show me a Birkin. Stupid little whore treated me like—”
“Oh, you mean that fat one with the straw hair and the spray tan? What’s she, like a size six?”
“At least. She might be an eight. I don’t know why they don’t fire her.”
Tina smoothed her polyester slacks down her hips and moved on, trading full glasses for empties, taking orders for cocktails, and, if the price was right, discreetly directing a guest or three to the second-floor restroom where they might happen to stumble across a line of cocaine that someone might have accidentally left on a tray behind a large silk flower arrangement.
She drifted past a cluster of men holding glasses of clear amber scotch.
“Can always tell a novice. They love Macallen 12. It’s worth the price to just see their faces when they get their first taste of lowland peat.”
She moved on, remembering there might be a little Jose Cuervo left in the bottle on top of her refrigerator, as long as Lucas hadn’t gotten to it first. The conversations were all the same.
“…had a four handicap, and almost drove the cart into that water hazard on fourteen…”
“…hired a Dominican batting coach, if you can believe…”
“…next project should be opening to investors by November. I’m closing a great deal on Shark Key in a couple weeks…”
Tina stopped short and almost toppled all the glasses on her tray. Grandma Gigi’s gravelly voice echoed in her head. Shark Key, my shriveled ass.
She leaned in toward the clump of men. The one speaking was dressed in a white dinner jacket, black slacks, and a black bow tie. Had a receding hairline, narrow nose. “…closest undeveloped island east of Key West. It’s a little over sixty acres, and all that’s on it right now is a rundown campground, marina, and local dive bar. The owner is a schlub named Miller. Been in his family for generations. I’m on the board of the bank that’s holding the note, and he’s about to default. I’m getting it for a song. If you come in on it now, there’s no way you can lose…”
Miller. Shark Key. Tina shoved the last four glasses of champagne from her tray into the first empty hands she saw then scurried back behind the hedge. She pulled a soft pack of Marlboro reds from her pants pocket, and had to press the side of her palm against the cement block wall to steady her lighter.
Mama said Grandma Gigi’s stories were nothing more than the lies of a crazy, washed up dancing girl. But they all started in Prohibition-era Chicago with Al Capone and ended at Shark Key — colorful tales of secret vaults and stolen trucks and a mad road trip covering most of the eastern part of the country with her first husband, a guy named Tommy Miller.
Tina leaned her back flat against the concrete wall and sucked another drag off her cigarette. If Tommy Miller and Shark Key were real, then so was the loot they took from Capone’s vault. And if Grandma Gigi had risked her life to steal it, then Tina had every right to her share of it.
She stomped out the cigarette, left the butt in the sandy soil. Sweeping down the hedgerow, she caught Lucas coming out of the kitchen, grabbed him by the collar, then pulled him into the parking lot.
“We’ve got a new gig, kiddo. Ever been to Key West?”
Chapter Thirteen
Kate took a deep breath and stretched. The moon hung high over the calm little cove at Shark Key by the time Steve and Susan climbed down the ladder and dropped their bottles in the blue recycling bin at the edge of Chuck’s parking lot. She watched their car creep between the seagrapes through the campground then down the gravel lane toward the highway.
Shark Key was exactly the paradise Kate had needed when she fled to the Keys after Danny died.
She drew in the heavy humid air. The distinctive low-tide smell of saltwater with hints of sweet gardenia and dead fish comforted her. Her rundown boat tucked into this tiny cove should have been the perfect space to escape her bad memories.
But the nightmares had followed her.
She’d spent the last two years learning to live for herself. These Conchs were a friendly bunch. There was always someone happy to share a beer or watch a sunset. Babette was always behind the bar and good for a laugh. Either Chuck or Steve could usually be counted on to help lift anything heavy. And she could turn to Susan whenever her computer or phone needed an upgrade.
But none of them knew what was inside her head. They didn’t know what she saw when she closed her eyes — the blood clumping in strands of cream-colored shag carpet, Danny’s glassy eyes staring at the hall ceiling.
Kate shook off the memory and used the tail of her light flannel shirt to open the last bottle of Yuengling. She imagined a spark of light igniting in her chest, watched it gently expand into an invisible dome surrounding her. Surrounding Serenity. Let it push out across the parking lot until it burst with a loud scream.
Whiskey jumped to his feet.
Kate slipped the bottle into the cupholder of her lounge chair then stood to get a clearer view over the hedge. Two figures struggled in the light streaming from the restaurant’s kitchen doorway.
“Whiskey, go ahead!”
The dog stayed rooted on the roof deck.
Crap.
Kate slid down the ladder then launched up the dock. She crouched low and crept between the cars dotting the gravel lot, finally taking cover behind a dark sedan a few
spaces down from the back of the kitchen.
“No one has to get hurt.”
“Take my purse. Just let me go.”
Kate froze at the sound of Babette’s plea.
“I don’t want your purse. I need you to pass along a message since your boss isn’t here.”
The growled demand came from a familiar voice — the man she’d had chased off earlier. Bastard was nothing if not dedicated to his job. Kate peeked around the rear bumper. The thug had his left arm around Babette’s neck, dangling her body against his chest. Her feet kicked at his shins.
“Put me down!”
“You need to tell him two things. One, get rid of the bitch and the dog tomorrow. And two, sign the deal with Mr. Baumann. He comes through, and we’ll make sure he’s got enough left to get a little place on the mainland and live out his days in peace. He doesn’t, and all hell will rain down on him.”
Babette kicked her heel backward between his legs, but only caught the back of his thigh.
“Don’t.”
He shifted to balance against Babette’s thrashing. As he turned, light glinted off a chef’s knife pressed against Babette’s belly.
Kate reached into her pocket for the KA-BAR she’d taken off of him a couple hours earlier. She slipped it out, snapped the blade into place. Crept closer in the shadow of the hedge.
“Let me—”
Kate froze. Babette’s shout abruptly changed to a gurgling moan.
“Dumb bitch.” There was a heavy thunk as the man dropped the woman’s body to the dirt. He leapt into his car, fired up the engine. His tires sprayed tiny bits of coral as he spun out of the lot.
Kate dropped the knife and ran to Babette. The woman lay curled on her side, her arms wrapped around her belly. A pool of blood soaked into the sandy dirt beneath her. Kate pulled her friend into her lap. She tore her flannel off and pressed it against Babette’s gushing gut.
Chuck came running out his back door, phone in his hand. “I called 911.” He slid to the gravel beside Babette then pulled her close, taking over the pressure on her abdominal wound.
Kate jumped to her feet.
“Don’t—”
Kate sprinted to her car, dropped the keys from the visor, then whipped the little car down the winding lane. A cloud of dust still hung above the drive, and she followed it, speeding around the curves, the Civic drifting each corner like a sprint car on a dirt track. As she whipped to the right onto the final straightaway through the mangroves, she realized she was too late. Vehicles sped past in both directions on the Overseas Highway, and she had no idea which way the attacker’s car had turned.
She looked hard down the highway in both directions, hoping to see a car driving erratically, but all she spotted was the ambulance, its lights and sirens blaring. Kate turned around, waited for it to make the turn, then followed it up the mile-long island road.
Moments later, the ambulance skidded to a stop beside Chuck and Babette. Within minutes, the parking lot was filled with emergency vehicles and flashing lights.
Kate dropped onto a concrete parking bumper beside Chuck and tugged at her blood-soaked tank top. He wrapped his arm around her bare, shivering shoulders.
“Why do they want this place so bad?” She leaned on his shoulder, her head bobbing when Chuck shrugged.
“Money. There’s not much open space left around here, and there’s millions to be made off of rich tourists.”
“Then why don’t you sell?”
“Because this is home. Not just my home. It’s your home. It’s home to the people who dock here for a day or a month or stay here forever. It’s home to the old couples who drive their motorhomes down for the winter and to the newlyweds who can only afford to stay in a tent for their honeymoon. It’s home to the single moms who can’t afford the rent in town. I don’t need to be rich. I need to be here.”
“This guy.” She tipped her chin toward Babette to indicate her attacker. “He was waiting on my boat when I got home from dinner. He came at me and Whiskey. Said he had a message from the guy who was in your office earlier. I thought I’d gotten rid of him, but clearly, I underestimated him. Seems like no matter where I go, people get hurt.”
“Babette said he was looking for me. Said to tell me to back off. You know me, Kate. I’m pretty laid back. Live and let live. But the only way to stop a bully is to stand up to him. I have to find Gramps’s money and end this for good. I’m sorry you’ve gotten so involved. If you want to go, I’d understand. I know a guy with a tug who owes me a favor. He can give you a tow, and I’ll talk to some friends who might have slips further up the Keys if that’s what you want.”
Kate stared into the seagrapes, counting leaves.
“Kate?”
She pulled away from Chuck and watched across the parking lot as the paramedics loaded Babette into the back of the ambulance.
“No. I’m done running. Let’s shut this bastard down.”
Chapter Fourteen
Vince’s lungs ached in the thick pre-dawn mist. Clutching a steaming coffee in one hand, he pulled a cigarette from the pack with his lips then flicked a flame from his lighter. His face throbbed with each drag. Skinny little blonde had caught him off guard, and that’d never happen again. His nose was black and blue, but on the bright side, she hadn’t been strong enough to break it.
He started across the empty highway, looking down as he crossed the dotted white line between lanes. This time of morning, the only people on the road were the locals who worked the flesh from their fingers to create a vacation paradise for people with enough money to forget about the real world for a few days or weeks at a time.
His feet hit the sidewalk on the north side of the highway and carried him toward the sound of lapping water to his right. A layer of dew clung to the waxy leaves of hedge insulating the lush golf course and tidy little townhomes from the Overseas Highway’s constant traffic and the shantytown trailer parks of Maloney Avenue beyond. Vince imagined scheduling tee times and slowly walking the course. Buying cold beer off the back of a golf cart from a busty girl. Berating his caddy for recommending the wrong club. He was ready to be on the other side of the transaction.
He passed a gas station on the corner, its sign still shredded from the previous year’s hurricane, and made his way around a low stucco wall. A barren construction site sprawled before him. He slowly paced to the end of a long dock stretching out into the sound beside the first empty lot. Vince had been watching the sunrise from this dock as long as he’d lived on Stock Island. Long before Baumann had even bought the land he sat on. By next summer, it would be torn out and replaced by one more wealthy snow-bird’s brand-new boat lift. Maybe flanked by a set of matching his-and-hers jet-skis or a stand-up paddle board for the wife and her dog.
Yes, Vince was tired of being jealous.
As he sat at the end of the dock watching the sun peek over the horizon, Vince replayed the worst bits of the night. His orders were to keep Miller from catching up on his payments, so he’d planned to rough him up and tell him to get rid of the broad before going home to watch the Packers and Falcons. Should have stuck with the plan. But he got greedy and impatient, and now he was paying for it. He didn’t expect the little broad to bust his nose up. And the fat one had caught him by surprise.
Vince crumpled his foam cup then tossed it into the water below him. His legs ached as they lifted his body back up off the dock. A seagull who’d landed on a piling beside him startled and flapped away.
“I’m getting too old for this crap.” Not quite forty, his body felt like it belonged to the plaid-pants golfers twice his age. Life as Baumann’s errand boy wasn’t conducive to one’s health, and it was a job with a limited lifespan. He needed to find a way out. And as crazy as Miller sounded about Al Capone’s empty vault, wouldn’t it be even crazier to miss out on a chance to take it all right out from under him?
The sky brightened as the sun climbed higher. Traffic on the highway across the water picked up during Vinc
e’s quiet time at dawn. His thoughts drifted to life somewhere — anywhere — else, financed by Chuck Miller’s grandfather. He just needed to stay close, keep Baumann at bay, and wait for Miller to find the loot. Then he’d swoop in and take what he wanted.
But he had an errand to run first. He glanced at his watch. The property appraiser’s office opened soon, and he would be there when they unlocked the doors.
Less than an hour later, Vince leaned across a bouquet of fresh flowers resting on the dull yellow Formica counter, his hair slicked back and his most charming smile spread across his face. Bess had been in Baumann’s pocket for years, so favors were expected. But Vince suspected she lived with six cats in a studio apartment over someone’s garage, and over time, he’d learned she was far more cooperative when he dripped honey. And flowers.
“Shark Key … Shark Key …” She muttered as she thumbed through worn folders with faded labels. “Here we go. Looks like the computer was right. I only have one transfer for that parcel. Looks like it was from the estate of Thomas Miller to a Charles Miller in 1986.”
“Anything on when the old guy picked it up? Who had it before him”
“I’m sorry, sugar. Looks like he probably had it most of a lifetime. Anything older than the winter of 1941 was lost in a hurricane. I got nothing before that as far back as our records here go.”
“I just need to know when he came south and who was with him. Baumann is trying to make sure no one’s gonna crawl out from under a rock and tank this deal.”
“Maybe you’d have better luck at the historical society? They have the best collection of information about the early days down here, way back before Flagler built the railroad.”
Vince fought the heartburn climbing from his belly up through his chest. This should have been simple. But it was beginning to feel like fitting a harness on a wild iguana. He put on his best syrupy tone, thanked Bess, then stomped out into the humidity.