Robert Tacoma
Key Lucky
Key Weird #5
2008, EN
At the end of a long road, on a tropical island, sits a rich horde of Spanish treasure that has captivated many over the years and caused more than a few heads to be filled with illicit thoughts. But never in the long and storied history of Key West has there been a major heist of any kind. With its riches locked safely away, every year Key West throws the biggest, wildest street party south of New Orleans. Among the thousands of revelers at Fantasy Fest this year is a daring young man who plans to bring back a long forgotten pirate tradition: the tradition of stealing treasure from anyone who has it. Carefree boat bum Taco Bob and friends are soon caught up in the treasure fever sweeping through the island city. But big money draws bad people, and before long nearly everyone in Key West just wants to get Lucky.
Table of contents
1: Today’s the Day
2: The Next Day
3: Just Another Day at the Office
4: Skunk
5: Fame
6: Cemetery
7: Sisters
8: Research
9: The Reverend
10: Then the Music Started
11: Lucky
12: Mind Reading
13: Trapped
14: Last Resort
15: Riddles
16: The Picture
17: Mallory Square
18: Caution
19: Trouble
20: Dinner
21: Best Laid Plans
22: Law
23: Common Sense
24: Drive
25: Bad Ideas
26: Stakeout
27: Quiet of the Night
28: Cab
29: Thoughts
30: Company
31: Looking for Lucky
32: Frustration
33: Motel
34: FBI
35: Upset
36: Working Together
37: Boat
38: Plans
39: The Treasure
40: Sisters
41: Rain
42: Boats
43: Raincoat
44: Shock
45: Options
46: Teachers
47: Shark Hunter
48: Sara
49: Josephine
50: Slip
51: Lucky
52: Lydia
53: Skunk
54: The Reverend
55: Lucky
56: Sara
57: Slip
58: Rescue
59: Chase
60: Lydia
61: The Reverend
62: Time To Go
63: The Wilbur
64: Lucky
65: Reverend Earl W. Sharkey
66: Widower
67: Home Sweet Houseboat
68: Skunk
69: Consuelo
∨ Key Lucky ∧
1
Today’s the Day
Judging by the way he staggered, the hunchback with the terribly deformed face was obviously drunk. He swayed under the streetlights and almost fell on the concrete steps, then steadied himself, looked slowly around the nearly deserted area, and took a good long hit from a bottle of rum.
On the next street over, Fantasy Fest, the wildest nighttime parade and street party in the least inhibited city in Florida was in full swing and blaring away. This year’s theme: Pirates of the Condominium.
After giving up on getting the top back on the rum bottle, the hunchback again attempted to navigate the steps to the Key West Treasure Museum.
“Hey! You can’t come up here!” A pudgy young security guard stepped into the light by the front entrance holding his hands out to ward off the drunk. Even a block away the music and noise from the ongoing parade was loud.
The hunchback looked sideways at the guard, cupped a hand to his ear and went up the remaining three steps. “What?”
The guard kept his hands out, now shaking his head as he came closer. “The museum is closed, don’t come up here!”
The hunchback stopped at the single strand of cable stretched across the top of the steps. A small sign on the cable – CLOSED.
“Ah, come on! It’s Fantasy Fest! Have a drink!”
The drunk held out the bottle and swayed. The guard stopped a safe ten feet away.
“Look, mister, no one is - ”
The hunchback almost fell, and then did, landing on his hands and knees with one arm awkwardly across the low cable. He still clutched the bottle and groaned loudly. The guard dropped his hands and stepped closer.
“Aw, shit. Come on mister, you can’t be up here.” He leaned down and grabbed the hunchback under one arm trying to get him to his feet. As he pulled up, the drunk pressed something to his neck and 50,000 volts put an end to his career in the security business.
The guard fell hard on the concrete and went into convulsions, then passed out, wetting his pants. The hunchback dragged the young man out of the lighted area by the main entrance. From pockets came spandex gloves, and plastic cable ties to secure the guard’s hands and feet. Then nylon line for a gag before rolling him into some dark bushes.
Above the crowd noise, a rousing sea shanty written especially for the Pirates of the Condominium edition of Fantasy Fest by Jethro Tull rumbled across the island. The singer’s hoarse boasts of swimming in a sea of rum, vast treasure hordes, and low homeowner association fees could be heard bouncing between the buildings of the historic section of town.
He didn’t expect to find the key to the front door, but checked the guard’s pockets anyway. No gun, no big wad of keys, just a worn Honda key with three other keys and the usual pocket clutter. He also found a cell phone, which the hunchback turned off and slipped into his own pocket. He adjusted his fright mask and forced himself to wait and watch. All clear. Time to stay focused, and stick with the plan.
Walk calmly around the corner and across the street to the tall shrubs away from the streetlight. Not the best vantage point for watching the museum for a few hours nearly every night for the last few weeks, but a very private spot with enough room for one person and a refrigerator hand truck.
Stay in the bushes, take a few deep breaths. Calm is good. Calm and focused is better.
Pull the backpack out and strap it to the hand truck. Ready. Now, the fun part.
Another cell phone, not the guard’s. Steady, make the hand stop shaking. Phone is on, punch in the number, and wait.
It was a minute – a long minute for the hunchback who held his breath without even realizing it. Then the lights went out. All the lights in Key West went out. The music from Duval Street stopped, but the crowd noise quickly rose to panic level.
One down. With his hands starting to shake again, the hunchback pressed the other number. Even above the yelling and car horns he should have heard that one. He pulled out the penlight Velcroed inside the sleeve of his costume and tried the number again. Nothing. Ten times fast. Nothing. Mash all the numbers hard. Nothing.
Steady.
A quick scan of the area, then walk carefully in the dark. Pull the hand truck up the handicap ramp to the side door of the museum and go to work. Didn’t need to worry about the alarm since the power was still off inside the museum. So far the emergency generator hadn’t come on. Too cheap to install an automatic system. The guard’s job is what he figured. That’s what the keys were for.
Standing at the door to the museum sales showroom, his hands started shaking again. Not a particularly good thing when you’re handling explosives.
“Be cool, you know the drill. Don’t even look around, just do it.”
But his hands still shook as he pressed the plastic explosive around the edge of the door. The detonator came out of the back
pack next, just as gunshots from Duval Street echoed though the buildings, then screams and more shots.
“A diversion? Can I be so lucky?”
Arm the device for thirty seconds, set it in place, and step well to the side. Don’t forget the hand truck.
The explosion blew the door and shattered most of the windows along that side of the museum. Now time mattered. Inside, still no lights, but the big flashlight from the backpack found the safe through the smoke right where it was supposed to be, twenty feet from the side door.
Hand truck stays outside, backpack by the safe, check the door from the showroom to the museum. Explosion didn’t touch it. Pull the .45 automatic out and four quick shots touches it just fine, but way too much noise.
Through the door, left, then a right into the room with the Plexiglas display cases. The one thing he hoped for was missing from its case, but a few more strategic shots with the .45 and he had several pretties tucked away safely in his oversized pockets and two gold bars under his arms.
Back at the safe his hands were shaking again. So close now. Sweating like crazy but somehow got the rest of the explosive on the door of the safe and set the detonator. Run outside with the backpack and jump in the bushes. The plan called for taking off his jacket and getting rid of the hump at this point, but he was too pumped. There was someone out there in the dark, some fat guy with a bicycle across the street, looking his way. A couple shots with the .45 at the back tire and the guy dropped the bike and ran. Then the safe blew.
That took out all the windows and shattered the empty glass display cases. The big flashlight showed the inside of the sales area full of smoke and the floor covered with glass and twisted metal. The blast knocked the safe on its side, but the door was open.
Time for the black canvas bags from the backpack. Almost there now. Fill the bags with coins, bars, jewelry, and there it was in a clear plastic case – the Emerald Cross. A flash of what it must have been like years ago when one of the treasure divers saw it for the first time after three hundred years of lying on the ocean floor.
Hurry. More coins, a necklace? More bars. Sirens now. Get the bags on the hand truck and crunch out the door, down the handicap ramp.
Sirens are louder. Two people walking fast in the dark, didn’t look his way. Follow the plan, keep moving. Running footsteps somewhere behind him. Around the corner then peek back holding the .45. There’s the fat guy pointing with a cop beside him. Pointing at the museum’s side door, not at him. Cross the dark street and slip into the safe place in the tall bushes.
Five minutes later a pirate with a big hat and a loaded hand truck stepped calmly out of the shrubs and into history.
∨ Key Lucky ∧
2
The Next Day
“They didn’t get the guy?”
“Cops say there might have been two of ‘em. You asked me, I’d say there’s at least three done it. Hard for me to believe just one or two people could pull that off.”
Slip Hanson, local kayak fishing guide and diehard bachelor, set a copy of the Key West Citizen on the flybridge table for Taco Bob. The captain and proud owner of the old houseboat gave the paper with the screaming headlines a cursory glance.
“Looks like I missed a big night. Mind if I hold onto this? I’ll read it later.” And with that resumed his contented smile while looking across the marina at a sport fisherman motoring out the channel. Slip gave his friend a look out of the corner of his eye.
“Taco, you going to sit there on this clear, bright morning in paradise and tell me you missed Fantasy Fest? I know you’re probably tired from your honeymoon and all, but you been back for a couple of days. You aren’t getting old on me, are you?”
Taco Bob kept the smile and far off look. “I stopped by Trish’s restaurant for a while, then took in the sights a bit along Duval on my way back here. I turned in early.” He finished off the last bit of coffee in his cup. “And it wasn’t a honeymoon, just two friends enjoying nature in a natural way.”
Slip went to his best suspicious squint. “One little week with one woman out on the Wilbur and you’re still turning in early two days after you’re back? You are getting old.”
Taco Bob gave an indifferent shrug. “If you say so.”
Slip didn’t like this one bit. He’d seen this happen to men before, even strong men like Taco Bob. That eerie, far-away look in his friend’s eyes was often a sign of a life-altering ailment involving the L word. He shuddered slightly and made a mental note to closely monitor this situation.
“So you didn’t hear the explosions or all the shooting?”
“Nope, sound asleep by nine.” Taco Bob leaned back in the port chair and stretched luxuriously. “I reckon all that fresh air, sunshine, snorkeling, fish-catching, healthy eating, and chasing around with a lively young woman has about ruined me. I see it as a good problem to have.”
Slip perked up. “What kind of fish?”
“Grunts and snapper mostly. Though Trish pulled in a nice snook once over by McGee Key. I’d show you the picture, but she’s a little weird about me showing around pictures of her with no clothes on.”
Slip was about to mention that any woman with bright blue hair and a little doll in her hand doing the talking was more than a little weird. But before he could get it out a mop of white-blonde hair appeared at the top of the ladder. Both men looked – they hadn’t heard anyone come aboard.
One step at a time, the rest of the very attractive and nimble female form in t-shirt and shorts bounced up before them. Slip was pissed.
“How long you been down there, Consuelo?”
Consuelo smiled coyly leaning all toned and tanned against the rail facing the two men. She killed the can of beer in her hand, pointed with one finger, and then belched an answer. “Long enough.” She flashed up a hand towards Slip to cut him off and focused her full attention on Taco Bob for a couple of beats, then looked down and picked at some imaginary lint on her t-shirt.
“Not that anyone would care, but I took care of this old houseboat for a week.”
The trio had done some serious fishing and adventuring together in the past. A bond had formed. Taco Bob’s smile wavered, but only slightly.
“Your unselfish act of kindness and sacrifice is much appreciated, miss, and I shall do my best to fully repay the favor in the very near future.” Taco Bob bowed his head slightly. “However, I’m not going to fall for your guilt bait. I’m in too good of a mood.”
Consuelo frowned. “You’re not going to go all dreamy and philosophical on us again, are you?” The petite blonde made a face.
Taco Bob flashed a momentary annoyed look before clearing his throat. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking earlier about my former life possum ranching back in Texas. How I’d always rise to the occasion when there came the need to put in a full day of hard work. And there’d been many such occasions over the years before I found myself sucked along the rip current of life through some lean times and eventually deposited here on the warm soft sands of paradise.” He gave his words some thought and an approving nod, then pulled a notepad out of his pocket and started writing.
Consuelo rolled her eyes and gave Slip a tired look. “And to think, not that long ago he wasn’t even a writer. They grow up so fast these days.”
Slip grunted an agreement. In the time he’d been in Key West, Taco Bob had started and then abandoned several novels. Neither Slip nor Consuelo held up much hope for their friend as a novelist, but they tried to be supportive since the man tended to go after his work with the determination of a grizzly in a Koi pond.
Slip looked away from his host’s frantic scribbling and locked on Consuelo. “What you got on the excitement last night? I was down at the other end of Duval and missed all the fun. By the time I got there the cops had the whole area taped off.”
“I had the shift at the hotel, but Lydia and Josephine were at the parade. You know the President’s media spokesman, the one nobody is supposed to know has a house here?”
“Of course, everyone knows about that.”
“Well, he was in the crowd on Duval when the lights went out. Secret Service and a few thousand other people freaked. Lyd said things got out of hand when the Secret Service started shoving people to get their boy out of there. Some big, black, ex-marine dressed like Marilyn Monroe caught a bullet in the leg and one of the feds got his jaw broken.”
“Damn, would’ve liked to have seen that. Bet that’s what the helicopter with the spotlight was about.” Slip glanced over at Taco Bob who was still involved in his notes, then back at Consuelo. “I seen Fish Daddy this morning.”
“And?”
“He knows a guy works for the electric company. Said there was a blown transformer at a power station up the road. Said judging by the number of FBI that showed up, the transformer must have had some help blowing up.”
They both gave this some thought. Slip started nodding.
“Well, whoever did the museum had it down. I heard they ran off with ten thousand pounds just in silver.”
“I heard two tons of gold bars and that big safe.”
“Well, I talked to a fella in Sloppy Joe’s this morning. He said the state of Florida was probably behind it since the state’s still pissed about losing that Supreme Court case a few years ago when they tried to lay claim to the treasure. He thinks Tallahassee hired some retired Navy SEALs who made off with two full semi trucks of treasure.”
Consuelo let out a low whistle of awe. Taco Bob put away his notes.
“I hate to rain on y’all’s parade, but I find most of that highly unlikely. But it does say here in the paper the gang might have made off with the Emerald Cross.” He held up the newspaper with the picture. “I’d imagine that one piece alone must be worth millions.”
Slip hacked and spit over the side into the water. “This is making me mighty thirsty. Captain, you got a couple of cold ones we could borrow?”
Taco Bob made a motion with his hand without looking up from the paper and Slip was down the ladder headed for the beer locker in the galley of the old houseboat. Consuelo took his seat. “Did the oven on the Wilbur give you any problems?”
“No, we used the stove a few times for blackened fish, but never even tried the oven.”
Key Lucky Page 1