An earsplitting crackling static blasts from the big speakers, filling the pilothouse. Cutting through the static is an altered recorded voice reverberating with a metallic echo as if spiraling up from the depths of a steel underground chamber.
“Hear my words, dance my tune.
I am the assassin of lies.
I am the bee in your ear
the scorpion in your bed
the rat clawing in your belly
the knife at your throat
the ax in your back
the sword through your soul
the arrow piercing your heart.
You carry the seeds of your own destruction.
When the atomic dust falls
on your pathetic parade of progress
only I will know the escape route.
I won’t let you rocket away from your plunder,
implant a new universe with decay.
You are a virus, I am the eradicating vaccine.
I put on my suit of skeletal lights,
dance into the night to exterminate you.
Are you trembling, crying with fear?
The Key deer you slaughter
on the highway do not cry.
The Key deer heroically struggle
to survive at their final mile zero.
Zero-bop, bop till you drop.
I am the great corrector. I am the ultimate judge.
I am Bizango.”
Bizango’s raging voice stops. A loud crackling static hisses from the big speakers.
Noah picks up his microphone and shouts into it: “Hey, you, caller, Bizango or whoever you are! You still out there?” Noah looks at the cell phone that the call came in on. The red light is off, the phone is dead. All the phones are dead. “Bizango, call me! I’m ready to rage right back at you!”
Noah watches the phones for an incoming call. No red lights. He continues to wait. No lights. He puts the microphone to his lips. “Bizango, you scared the shit out of everyone; people are afraid to call.” He grabs his rum bottle. The bottle is empty. He tosses it aside. “So, my loyal pilgrims, we’ve had a fun day on trusty old Noah’s Lark. First there was my near hit-and-run with a Titanic, then a weirded-out dude says he’s a dancing skeleton coming to slit our throats. I’m sort of out of words. Not that Truth Dog doesn’t have any bark and bite left in him—far from it—but sometimes only music can express what we feel. As I head back into Key West, I’ll leave you with this music from Carmina Burana, a cantata based on the fevered poetry of cloistered thirteenth-century monks. For those of you who don’t understand Latin, I’ll give you the translation as it plays.”
Noah punches out the Bizango CD from the player and pushes in a new disc. “Listen to this, Bizango. Two can play your bloody game. Your kind of evil has been hanging around the school yard of history for a long time.”
From the big wood speakers blasts the surge of a majestic soul-wrenching orchestral rhythm accompanied by the aggressive, monumental chant of a male choir. Noah chants his translation over the choir.
“Fate,
monstrous and empty
you whirling wheel!
Your malevolent
well-being is vain
and always fades
to nothing!
Shadowed and veiled
you plague me too!
Now through the game
I expose my bare back
to
your
villainy!”
Noah looks through the window of his pilothouse as he motors his trawler toward the distant island outline of Key West. He hears whirring from above. He looks up through the window. A helicopter darts from the sky and swoops in a broad circle over the trawler. On the side door of the helicopter is painted a blue-and-gold insignia: KEY WEST POLICE DEPARTMENT. Inside the copter, the pilot steers the craft, with Luz seated next to him.
Noah cuts his engine and runs from the pilothouse onto the deck. From the copter, Luz’s voice booms from a bullhorn: “You’re under arrest! Follow me into the harbor!”
Noah waves up to Luz, signaling that he does not understand what is going on. The copter swoops lower, the downward wind of its blades blowing hard against Noah, threatening to sweep him overboard. He sees Luz behind the copter’s bulbous window with a rifle gripped in her hands. He struggles against the wind, making his way back into the pilothouse. He grabs the helm and steers toward the island.
The helicopter follows the trawler into the harbor and hovers directly above as Noah pulls up to the dock. He jumps down from the trawler onto the dock and is surrounded by a wall of policemen with rifles pointed at him. The Police Chief pushes his way through the riflemen. He shouts at Noah above the clatter from the helicopter blades. “You think you’ve been damn clever! I finally got you!” He grabs Noah’s hands and handcuffs him.
Noah stares at the Chief in disbelief. “What the hell is going on? You got me for what?”
“This morning you played a Bizango recording that in fact you made. That recording is identical to the one you left in Pat’s mouth after you murdered her. No one except the police and the killer knew about that recording. Your pirate-radio charade is over!”
Noah tries to break the grip of the handcuffs binding him. The sharp edges of the cuffs cut into his wrists, drawing blood. “I’m not Bizango!”
The Chief turns to his riflemen. “Read Mr. Truth Dog his Mirandas and lock him up!”
Moonlight shines down over the island’s clapboard houses. The modest homes are dwarfed by the immensity of the docked cruise ship, Titan Reef. Inside the ship, the sprawling main cocktail lounge is decorated to resemble a big-game African safari camp, its walls crowded with mounted trophy heads of elephants, lions, gazelles, hippos, and rhinos. The amber glass eyes of the dead animals stare down at the carefree passengers sipping exotic cocktails adorned with pink parasol stir-sticks.
The chattering of the passengers stops as the ship’s captain struts in dressed in a crisp white mock admiral’s uniform with gold-braided epaulettes on the shoulders. He glad-hands the passengers as he works the room with a commanding air. He stops in the center of the room next to an oversized African drum of stretched zebra skin. He bangs on the drum with a carved ebony drumstick. The drum’s reverberating bass focuses everyone’s attention on him. “I must interrupt your after-dinner soirée. Something important is on the television news I want you to see. I know you’ve heard reports about some unfortunate murders in Key West, making you have doubts about enjoying a carefree time. This will put your minds at ease while we are berthed here.” He holds up a TV remote control and clicks on a wide-screen television spanning the length of a wall between two stuffed leopard heads.
On the TV screen, the Police Chief stands at a podium addressing a crowd of jostling reporters, photographers, and cameramen. His voice is flat and factual. “A suspected serial killer was taken into custody today. I am not at liberty to discuss details. Be assured, the streets of Key West are safe. The annual Fantasy Parade will go forward next week as planned. Those coming here for the world’s greatest Halloween party have nothing to fear.”
The captain cuts the sound of the Chief’s voice with the remote and steps in front of the television screen. “Everyone, you just heard it. Key West is safe. Let’s celebrate our good fortune!” The jubilant passengers cheer and raise their cocktail glasses. The captain puffs up to a heroic stance and salutes the crowd. A loud recording of the optimistic tropical song “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” fills the air with its upbeat lyrics.
A female passenger in a sexy cocktail dress sways seductively to the captain. She slips her arm intimately around his waist. The woman’s laughing husband rapidly fires off the flash of his cell phone in a barrage of photographs of the new couple. The captain dances away with the man’s wife.
The captain enters his luxurious suite. He tosses his mock admiral’s cap onto a velvet chair and kicks off his shoes. He pulls off his watch and checks its time, 3:30 a.m. He pours himself
a Scotch and soda at the elaborate mahogany bar backed by a full-length mirror. As he stirs his drink, he sees reflected in the bar’s mirror something approaching from behind. He swings around.
The figure of a black-and-white-rubber-suited skeleton stands before the captain. Clutched in the skeleton’s rubber-gloved hands is a speargun, its taut spear in firing position.
The captain holds out his glass of Scotch and soda to the skeleton. “Have a drink, you deserve one—sure as hell fooled me in that disguise. Great costume, but Halloween isn’t until next week.”
The skeleton remains silent and doesn’t move.
The captain sips on his drink. “Let me see your face behind that mask. Must be you, my very special Mike. You’re the only one who has a key to my suite.”
The skeleton raises the speargun. Its black rubber finger moves to the aluminum trigger. The steel spear fires with a springing whoosh, rams through the captain’s chest, into his heart, out his back, and shatters the glass mirror behind in a spray of blood.
The captain falls to the floor, his mouth agape, gasping for air, the spasms of his feet kicking soundlessly into the thick carpeting.
The skeleton reaches down and pushes a black micro-recorder between the captain’s lips.
In the gray mist of predawn light, Hard Puppy walks along a fishing pier jutting into Key West Harbor. He pulls behind him on a rope a heavy bloodied burlap sack. He stops at the end of the pier and looks around to check if he is being watched. He waits a few minutes, then unties the sack and exposes the dead body of a black pit bull. The dog’s short-haired body is crisscrossed with deep bloody lacerations. Tied to the dog’s back legs is a small iron anchor. Hard dumps the dog and anchor out of the sack. The anchor clanks loudly on the concrete pier’s surface. He glances around to see if anyone heard. He looks back at the dead pit bull and studies it. He shakes his head and angrily kicks the dog with the pointed tip of his alligator shoe.
The pit bull tumbles off the end of the pier and splashes into the water, sinking under the surface. Its barrel-shaped body bobs back up. Hard’s lips pull back in a sneer. “Sink, you bastard. You lost me fifty grand in two fights. Sink, goddamn you.”
Around the pit bull’s floating body, bubbles appear in the water. The dog slowly sinks again. The iron anchor drags the animal’s dead weight down into the depths.
Hard hears screaming. He whips around to see if someone has seen him sink the dog. He spots people running toward a distant pier, where a colossal cruise ship is docked. He kicks the bloody burlap sack into the water, then walks quickly to the distant pier. He joins a crowd at the pier’s end. The people stare up the steep steel stern of the ship. The rising sun’s light shines on the ship’s name, Titan Reef. Over the name is slashed in red paint a giant X. Swinging in front of the X is the captain, his body hung from a rope tight around his neck, his white admiral’s uniform soaked through with blood.
Hard looks around at the terrified faces staring up. He breaks into a broad smile. His platinum teeth sparkle in the sun. He saunters away from the dock, snapping his fingers in time to a musical tune that he croons in the voice of an old time Dixie minstrel:
“Goin’ to run all de night.
Goin’ to run all de day.
Bet me money on a bobtailed nag.
Somebody be bettin’ de gray.
Can’t touch bottom with a ten-foot pole.
Oh! De doo-da day!”
Deep within the corridors of the massive Detention Center, in a dim isolation cell, Noah sits alone on a cot. He stares at the floor, lines of worry cut across his face. He is startled by the sudden scraping-metal sound of the thick steel cell door behind him swinging open. A shaft of light from outside probes the cell.
Luz appears in the doorway. “You’ve been freed on bail. There was a Bizango killing last night while you were locked in here.”
Noah looks up, bleary-eyed. “So they know I can’t be Bizango?”
“They are investigating if you might be his accomplice. The crime lab is getting results from the sweep of your boat and house in their search for anything incriminating. You’re still considered a suspect.”
“What about Rimbaud? They must be freeing him too?”
“No. Since he was apprehended at the scene of Pat’s murder, he’s still being held. A trial date has been set.”
Noah focuses his eyes hard on Luz. “You had a rifle aimed at me from that helicopter. Were you really going to shoot me?”
“Luckily, I didn’t have to decide.”
“You believe I’m mixed up in these murders?”
“As someone who knows you, definitely not. As a cop, I have to keep all options open.”
“I’m going to find Bizango myself. He used me to get his message out.”
“We’re dealing with a lethal killer. You’re already too involved. Back off or you might end up his next victim.” Luz reaches down and pulls Noah up from the cot. “Right now I need you to clean up, shave, and get yourself a new suit for Nina’s Quince party. My little girl is turning fifteen tomorrow. You must be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. But just one other thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Who made my bail?”
“You don’t need to know. It’s not important.”
Noah grips Luz’s shoulder. “It’s important to me.”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell you.”
“It’s not like I won’t find out anyway.”
“Okay, Joan. Your sister paid half the bail.”
“And?”
“What?”
“The other half. Who paid?”
“Zoe.”
Noah steps out from the Detention Center through the front doors. He blinks in the intense sunlight after having been locked up in a windowless cell. On the expanse of asphalt parking lot TV vans with satellite antennas atop their roofs are parked. Reporters and cameramen rush to gather around the Police Chief, recording his words.
“There is no reason for panic. We assure this community that all law-enforcement resources are being used to apprehend the perpetrator of these heinous crimes.”
A reporter shouts: “You say no reason to panic, but there have been a string of bizarre killings.”
“We had two suspects. One was let go for lack of hard evidence to hold him. We are still holding the other one.”
Another reporter yells angrily: “Those two suspects were locked up when the last murder occurred. That means there must be another killer out there. Maybe there’s even a team calling themselves Bizango.”
“Well, there’s at least one Bizango. Next question.”
“Is it true the cruise ship’s security cameras caught images of the captain’s killer?”
“It’s true. We have video of whom we believe to be the perpetrator. We also have other important information regarding this investigation that we’ll be releasing soon.”
“The Fantasy Parade? You going to cancel it now?”
“No. It would take a catastrophic category-five hurricane bearing down on this island before I would cancel the Fantasy Parade. Trust me, every precaution is being taken to keep people on this island safe. I have coordinated with the County Sheriff to put his one hundred fifty deputies on our streets to join with sixty Key West police. Florida Highway Patrol is bringing a canine unit, SWAT team, and one hundred officers. This is an unprecedented show of force.”
From behind the circle of reporters surrounding the Chief, Zoe makes her way toward the Detention Center. She walks up the front steps to where Noah is standing, and stops.
Noah leans forward to give Zoe a kiss on the cheek, rushing her with his words. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t expect you to be here when they released me.”
Zoe pulls back from Noah’s attempted kiss. She lowers the sunglasses covering her eyes and stares over the top rims. “I didn’t come here for you. There are still some bail-bond documents I must sign, formalizing the financials of your release.”
“I’ll pa
y the money back. Don’t worry, I won’t jump bail and leave town.”
“That’s the least I expect from you. But you should know, it’s me who’s leaving Key West.”
Noah hides his surprise and keeps his words steady. “You’re leaving? When? You can’t go before Nina’s Quince. She’ll be crushed. She still considers you her aunt.”
“I’ll be here for Nina. Then, right after the Fantasy Parade, I’m out. Our divorce will be finalized then.”
“We’re still married. You know, it’s not over until it’s over.”
Zoe gives Noah a radiant smile. “No, it’s over.”
Luz sits alone on her living-room sofa. The bamboo window shades are drawn against the intense outside tropical light. In the darkened room, her solemn gaze is fixed on a family home movie playing on a television screen. The images flickering across the screen show Luz’s living room ten years before, decorated with balloons and ribbons for Nina’s birthday party. On the screen, little Nina is a healthy five-year-old wearing a festive paper-cone hat. She leans over a birthday cake with five candles. The red letters on the white-frosted cake spell out HAPPY BIRTHDAY NINA! Nina shuts her eyes tight to make a wish. She blows out the five candles on the cake with a burst of air. She looks up with triumph. Surrounding Nina are Noah, Zoe, Joan, and Carmen, all ten years younger, wearing colorful paper party hats and singing loudly, “Happy birthday to you, dear Nina! Happy birthday to you!” Joan stops singing and speaks at the camera: “Honey, give me the camera. I want to film Nina with her proud mama.” The movie image goes out of focus, then refocuses with the image of Luz lifting Nina onto her shoulders. Mother and daughter joyously wave to the camera.
As Luz watches the television screen’s flickering images of her and Nina, the muscles of her jaw twitch. She holds back her emotion as Joan comes in and sits close to her. Luz takes Joan’s hand. They watch the screen as the five-year-old Nina excitedly opens birthday presents.
Joan’s throat tightens. She gets her words out without crying: “Seems like only yesterday. She was so healthy, so full of life.”
American Tropic Page 10