“Slip tried?”
“Nope. Too big and too broad in the shoulders from all that yak paddling. Plus, he tends to not get along well with mechanical things. That’s why he’s guiding in a kayak.”
“I’d be proud to lend a hand, but I don’t want to get dirty.”
Taco Bob looked him over. “You got new clothes too. There must be a good reason, which I’m sure I’m about to hear.”
“Hooked up with this big ol’ gal named Miss Agnes. As you know, I like big women.”
“I remember. I also remember once coming back from fishing you telling me why, in detail. I’d greatly appreciate it if you didn’t tell me again.”
“I met her at Fantasy Fest. She was wearing a muumuu, and I do like a big woman in a muumuu.” Skunk shared a bawdy wink. “Anywho, we hit it off an I been staying over at her place since. She used to work over at the county records place but just started at the library. Since I’m saving a fortune on motel rooms staying with her, I figure I can afford to hang around for a while, find some of that treasure before I go back to Texas.”
“I suppose you’ve got a plan.”
“Well, I’ve been doing some research at the library on this treasure stuff.”
“Research? I’d see you as one to be taking more direct action, like sneaking into the cemetery with a shovel.”
“Well, that is mighty tempting and it has come to mind a few times. In fact, one of the first things I found out is there’s rumors out-the-ass about that being a favorite place for the ol’ pirates and such to hide treasure.”
“Yeah, I heard something like that myself. I’m surprised you’re researching this, even more surprised you can read.”
“Didn’t say I could, but Miss Agnes sure can. We done put together a scientific study of the problem and come to some mighty fine conclusions.”
Skunk gave another proud showing of his latest internet purchase. Taco Bob picked up a rag and started wiping down his tools. “Let’s hear it.”
Skunk proceeded to wax eloquent to the best of his abilities on the actual origins of the treasure. He told his friend how it was essentially blood money – plunder from slavery. And how the Spanish forced the Incas to work the mines of South America and even set up foundries and minted coins, then took the precious metals and gems back to Spain in convoys of galleons.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but weather forecasting back in the 1600s was even worse than it is now. Them ol’ wooden boats loaded down with treasure would sometimes catch hell from hurricanes and end up as shipwrecks all along the Keys.”
Taco Bob looked impressed, or at least didn’t look like he was about to interrupt, so Skunk went for the big wrap-up.
“Although money in general can be some mighty fun shit, these particular riches ain’t brought nothing but misery.”
“So, you’re saying the treasure is cursed.”
“Well, if it ain’t it’s sure wasting a perfectly good opportunity.”
Taco Bob gave that an agreeing nod. “How’d you find me just now?”
“When I was off fishing with Slip he told me some about you having the houseboat, this here cabin cruiser, and a skiff. Sounds like you’re doing all right for yourself these days.”
“I been fortunate of late.”
“Hop said you had some insurance from the ranch, but it looks like you come into some other money as well.”
“My personal finances aren’t on the table for discussion at this time.”
Skunk was getting a warning look, but in keeping with his reckless manner, chose to ignore it. “Don’t have anything to do with treasure, does it?”
Taco Bob did the tiniest double take, but didn’t say anything.
“Lucky guess, I reckon.” Skunk did one quick wink. “Anyways, you want to hear the results of my scientific study and where I figure that stolen treasure is?” Skunk didn’t wait for an answer. “I figure those coins being found where they were ain’t no accident. They’re clues, you know?”
Skunk tended to use his hands when he talked, when he got excited they flew. They were in flight now.
“Okay, so like cemetery stars with a ‘C’, right? So everybody is running around digging up Key West looking for a few million in Spanish treasure, but it ain’t even on land! It’s in the sea! Get it? C? Sea?”
Taco Bob rolled his eyes and worked at getting some grease off his hands with the rag. He gave Skunk a sideways glance. “What about the two coins they found over where the utility company’s been digging?”
“Exactly! The electric company’s the ones done the digging, right? Electric starts with a ‘E’, right? What’s the second letter in sea? Huh? Huh?”
Taco Bob just shook his head. “Skunk, I hate to veer off course here during your important voyage of discovery, but how did you get back from that mangrove island?”
“Fella happened by in a little skiff and gave me a ride back. Wasn’t his skiff, he’d borrowed it to look for his boat. Said his boat tended to drift off if he didn’t tie it to something real good before he went drinking. Kept sniffing the air. Told me when the wind was right he could find it by smell if his dog was on board. Helluva nice fella, though, my kinda folk.”
“He tell you his name?”
“Said everyone called him Shark Hunter. Dropped me off at the marina and went back looking. Here’s Slip coming now.”
Taco Bob appeared to be about to say something but held. Slip jumped aboard all excited, then noticed Skunk.
“Crabs didn’t eat you?”
“Ate my eyes out but they growed back.” Skunk gave a big wink. “Sorry about erping a little in your canoe.”
“It’s a kayak and it wasn’t a little. But I seen worse. You ain’t sore about me leaving you?”
“Nah, happens all the time. Right TB?”
The captain of the Wilbur gave a nod. “It’s kind of a tradition back in Texas. You find any of that treasure yet?”
Slip looked around, then talked real quiet. “No, but I’m about to. That fella lives next-door to me, Big Mike? Well, he came over a little while ago about to bust he was so excited. He’d been out working on one of the commercial boats early this morning and one of the traps they pulled had a plastic bag with a silver coin in it.”
Skunk about jumped out of his skin. “No shit! It’s part of the treasure?”
“I imagine. He showed me the piece and it sure looked real to me.”
Skunk was about to explode. Slip ignored him and focused on Taco Bob. “I’m fixing to take the yak out and discreetly pull a few traps. I could use a hand, thought you might be interested.”
“I got to get this float switch fixed or I’m liable to have a sunk boat one of these days. I’d say there’s a chance Mr. Johnson here might be interested. Bet he’s got a theory you might like to hear, too.”
♦
Before he went back into the bilge for another try, Taco Bob watched the two grown men walk quickly down the dock, both talking at the same time and gesturing wildly with their hands.
∨ Key Lucky ∧
9
The Reverend
“This your correct address?”
“Yes, officer.”
The Hillsborough County Sheriff’s deputy looked at the driver’s license again, then at the sole occupant of the faded Buick sedan. White male, big, raw-boned type, all elbows and knees, but with shoulders on him. Sharp features, big angular nose, and wrap-arounds below a set of wild black eyebrows.
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
“No, officer.”
“I just need to check a couple of things. It won’t take long, just routine.”
The Reverend Earl W. Sharkey watched the cop walk around to the back of the Buick. Bullshit. They both knew why he’d been pulled over. There’d been trouble on this particular road coming out of Tampa.
The cop went to his cruiser and started talking on the radio. The Reverend touched the Glock under the seat with the fingertips of his right hand one mor
e time before easing back in his seat to wait it out. His fingers tapping on the steering wheel to the music in his head.
Back when Earl Sharkey was in school in New Jersey all the kids called him Eel. Not Shark, but Eel. Like an eel, the skinny slithery thing. Like a stupid water snake. So he went through his formative years pissed off. At forty Earl was still pissed, about a lot of things. But he wasn’t stupid, nor was he particularly skinny. He had, however, become dangerously insane.
An incident at a Texas hotel had driven the man in the Buick to the brink of insanity. Since then he’d gradually gotten quite good at acting like a rational human being for short periods of time, especially if it involved making a lot of money quickly, or the police.
Another patrol car pulled in behind the first one. The reverend lifted his right leg just long enough for a reassuring touch of the .38 in the ankle holster.
Young Earl might have at least started out a little closer to normal if his father hadn’t been a card shark and hustler who taught him a few things the rare times he’d come home sober. Earl learned enough to pull off a few good scams, but not enough to know how to stay out of the penal system. Which is where he continued his lessons in life and picked up a couple of psychological conditions he didn’t already have, and at least one STD.
Here they come.
“Sir, would you mind taking off your sunglasses for me? Thanks. Could you look this way?”
Might as well get it over with.
The first officer stepped aside so they could both see the tattoo that came from his right eye to his ear. You couldn’t see it with the big sunglasses, but now the two sheriff’s deputies could plainly see the black shark that seemed to have his eye in its mouth. He squinted, which showed the jaws and teeth on his eyelid. When he blinked it looked like the shark was taking a bite.
“Jeez!” The second cop shaking his head in disbelief.
They went to the back of the car for another conference. The reverend sighed and relaxed as much as he could under the circumstances, which wasn’t a whole fucking lot.
The tattoo had seemed like a great idea at the time. He’d spent almost two years doing it himself in prison just to stay occupied so he wouldn’t get crazy and do something stupid. With a shark swimming across his face no one ever thought about calling him Eel these days.
The Reverend had been through a lot of shit in his life before ending up alongside the road, heavily armed, and waiting for some County Mounties to make up their minds. He figured that unless there was a solid witness, they didn’t have squat on him.
Not to mention there really wasn’t a law against what he did. It also wasn’t easy to do. Took some serious planning to make it work properly.
But with the right weather, at just the right time of the day, he’d have a few minutes to drive into the late afternoon sun on a busy two-lane highway. The lane coming the other way clogged with rush hour traffic – weary commuters with the bright Florida sun at their backs. He’d think about the rival cult in Texas, the one that kidnapped and tortured him. That always put him in the right state of mind: total fucking madness. Then when he slipped the oversized sunglasses up on his forehead just above those bushy black eyebrows, the people coming the other way couldn’t help but see the sun lighting up his big, insane eyes.
Saw a lot of swerving cars in his mirrors, and a few wrecks.
Here comes the first cop again. Second one hanging back watching, but not with a hand on his gun.
The Reverend checked again to make sure the bottle of eye-whiting drops he’d bought on the internet was hidden. He had his shades back on and gave the cop a smile full of big teeth.
“Everything all right, officer?”
“Your license tag is dirty, you might want to clean it the first chance you get.” The young cop reluctantly handed back the driver’s license and registration.
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
The cop just looked at him. The Reverend smiled big again, but there was a slight twitch in his right hand. The music in his head got louder. The twitch turned into a tremble as the hand slowly moved towards the Glock.
The cop’s radio squawked, he looked back at the other officer and got a nod.
“Have a good day, sir. Drive carefully.”
“You too, officer.”
Twenty minutes and a couple of phone calls later, the Reverend was headed to South Tampa to pack. He’d been thinking about cutting town anyway, and since his favorite stretch of road was pretty well fucked for a while, he decided to go for it.
He’d been keeping up with the story in Key West about the big treasure heist. Cops had some leads, but they didn’t have what he had. He had the name of one of the guys who’d pulled it off.
∨ Key Lucky ∧
10
Then the Music Started
The first thing Earl Sharkey did back when he got out of prison was fuck up and get sent right back to prison. Three years later when he got out again he was a lot more careful.
Back-to-back jolts in prison had left Earl with a strong desire to better himself and enjoy the finer things in life. Before going to prison his life could be summed up as small-time scams, twenty-dollar whores, and cheap whiskey. Once again out in the world, Earl set his sights towards new, somewhat more legal, endeavors – the fruits of which would include hundred-dollar whores and single-malt whiskey.
Fifty-seven dollars and a postage stamp made him a reverend. On the application for Doctor of Divinity from the Haiti School of Law and Auto Repair he wrote the name of his new house of worship – The Church of the Cute and Cuddly Canines.
The Church turned out to be the best scam Earl Sharkey had ever come up with. Better than insurance fraud accidents at grocery stores, even better than selling extended warranties on electronics to confused housewives.
Reverend Sharkey sighed at the pleasant memories while driving down US1 through the Keys on a picture-perfect day. He wondered why he hadn’t been down here before. Sure was pretty – a lot nicer than Tampa, and a damn sight lot nicer than Texas.
Texas did have a few things going for it though, like plenty of gullible people. He’d tapped into the vast reservoir of the easily led though newspaper ads at first. Amazing how many people would pay for spiritual healing sessions for their pets. Before long he specialized exclusively in fleecing old ladies with barfing lap dogs using the time-tested techniques of deceit, coercion, and intimidation.
Business was so good that before long he even had the beginnings of his own cult. He started training a few of the more active old girls to go out and spread the word of pet worship and bring in the love offerings.
His church became so profitable he decided to attend a few cult conventions. That’s where he first saw Angela. He immediately made a few discrete inquiries with his fellow cultists. She was rich, cultured, built like a brick shithouse, could drive a stick, and dumb as a rock. She was everything he’d ever dreamed of in a woman. And he’d done a lot of dreaming about women in prison. Angela was perfect.
Except, she was married.
Married to a sadistic little bulldog of a man who ran the Church of the Puppy Angels – a rival cult that had coincidentally been cutting into his fledging internet scams.
The Reverend waited for his opportunity. How to wait was one of the first things anyone doing time in prison learned. Finally, at a trade show in Houston he got his chance. While the bulldog was busy signing up some fresh meat at the Puppy Angel booth, Angela excused herself from her husband and the pack of old ladies clutching snarling, yapping little dust mops, and headed for the can. He caught up with her behind some potted palms.
“Lovely dress on a lovely lady on this lovely evening.”
“Why, thank you. Do I know you?”
“The Reverend Sharkey at your service, my lady. I understand you drive a stick.”
Big blue eyes gave him a quick appraisal, then glanced back in the direction of the bulldog. With one finger she pushed him into one of the palms
while her other hand rubbed his crotch.
“Yes, as I matter of fact, I just got my license.” She pushed a hotel key into his hand. “Stop by my room later and we’ll go for a ride.”
It was the best ride of Reverend Earl W. Sharkey’s life, and almost his last. He made the mistake of falling asleep in her bed.
He woke screaming from a searing pain between his legs. The bulldog was over him with a broomstick that had an electric lamp cord taped to it. The business end was bare wires and the bulldog never seemed to tire of using it on him. The ropes cut his wrists and ankles and he screamed through the gag for hours.
The horrible electric shocks finally stopped, but not before his mind had gone somewhere else to escape the pain and humiliation. Then the music started.
Alone in the dark room, blindfolded, tied to a soiled mattress and unable to move, with headphones duct-taped over his ears, he heard one song played over and over and over. The drums and bass guitar of Fleetwood Mac’s strange song Tusk surged through his body, mind and soul until it was his universe, his essence, the only thing he knew.
When a hotel maid found him two days later he was nearly dead from dehydration. While in the hospital he learned the hotel room where he’d been found was actually booked under his own name. He told the police he didn’t know who’d left him for dead, tied to the bed. After a couple more tries the police gave up on the questioning and he went home. The up-scale house he’d purchased just months earlier hadn’t changed, but he had.
His addictive personality latched onto The Song like a gorilla. At first he listened to it constantly – totally addicted, euphoric, energized, and often violently unpredictable. But eventually he learned to wean himself of the need to hear The Song enough to function in society, but he still had to avoid any kind of public place playing a Fleetwood Mac song. Usually he could just slip out of the room if a Mac came on, but his madness instantly came to full bloom anytime he heard Tusk.
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