Slip held the bag down in his lap. “Looks damn sure real to me.” He took a quick look inside the trap to make sure that was all before pushing it back in the water.
“Skunk, let’s be real careful, so as not to arouse any suspicion, and slowly paddle on back towards shore.”
∨ Key Lucky ∧
14
Last Resort
These days the Reverend liked to think about killing someone while he cleaned his guns, which is what he was doing on the bed of a tiny motel room in Key West. For a few million in treasure he could definitely kill someone. His current financial situation helped make this an easy decision.
Before the suspicious house fire – which the Reverend truly hoped had proved to be an agonizingly painful as well as terminal experience for the head of the Puppy Angels – the insanely jealous bulldog had used information obtained through torture to clean out the bank accounts of the Church of the Cute and Cuddly Canines. This left the Reverend broke, as well as mentally unhinged from the days of torture and Tusk throbbing over and over constantly in his brain.
The day before, after eight long hours of driving, he’d stopped at the first motel he saw in Key West. The poof at the office made it sound like he was lucky to even get a room since there was some kind of parrot convention or something in town.
Some room. Smelled funny and the bathroom was so small you had to step over the toilet to get to the shower. He thought about how much money he’d paid for the crummy room while sighting down the barrel of the Glock at the television. Had to turn that off earlier. Some cooking show had come on with little Jap fuckers cooking eels, of all things.
But, yeah, he could blow someone away for a few million. Especially someone like that pansy in the office. Snotty fucker did act a little squirrelly when he saw the photograph. Maybe he just needed a good old-fashioned pistol-whipping to help him think. Maybe later.
By the time he’d gotten the room and cleaned up a little it was late, so the Reverend had only shown the picture in a couple of bars before calling it a night. But he was rested now and ready.
One big score like this and he’d never again have to deal with spoiled, half-crazy little yapping dogs and their equally spoiled, crazy, and yapping owners. Costa Rica might be nice.
♦
“Agent Smith, FBI. I’m looking for Mr. Kahn. He around?”
The security guard at the condominium gatehouse looked at the badge the big man with the western-cut suit, black cowboy hat, and wraparound sunglasses held up. He smiled.
“Not lately. Died a couple of years ago. Stepped on a sting ray and had a heart attack.”
The Reverend checked his notebook. “I’ve got an L Kahn at this address, unit 42.”
“That would be Lucy, his widow.”
So much for Santiago’s research on the net. At least the ID seemed to work all right. Might as well try the picture. “Ever see this guy? He may have shaved the beard. Lucas Kahn.”
“Nope, sorry.”
Which is what he got from the next dozen places along the main tourist street he tried. Town sure had a lot of bars. And hotels. And oddballs. Saw some big greasy biker chugging slowly around town on a big hawg – on top of his head a little yellow parrot holding on for dear life. Some crazy old coat-puller pointing towards the water yelling about a boat on the reef and telling the tourists he’s a madman – like there was any doubt. Booth on the main tourist street where people paid to have their picture taken with a giant lizard draped across their shoulders. No wonder they called this place Key Weird.
One of the hotels had a hot young thing at the front desk who sort of reminded him of Angela, at least from the neck down. Brought out the picture and she looked at it a long time, then locked eyes with him. There was something very wrong about this young woman’s eyes. He’d learned in prison the hard way that when the little voice in his head said to run, to damn sure run. The voice had since been replaced with The Song, and when The Song started screaming, he grabbed the photo and ran. Sure were some strange fucking people in this town.
Checked the post office. Usually avoided places that had any kind of federal employees, but since he was one of them now, may as well try.
“Agent Smith, FBI. Looking for a Lucas Kahn.” Good-looking woman in a postal uniform taking a little too long with the ID, so he shoved the picture in her face. Carmen on the nametag. “He may have shaved the beard.”
“Maybe seen him in here.” Broad sure is looking at him hard. “He in trouble?”
“Lady, I’m not with Publishers Clearing House, I’m with the FBI. I think it’s safe to assume there’s trouble involved.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“We just need to ask him some questions. Is there someone else here? A supervisor?”
“Hey, you don’t have to get your panties in a bunch.” Snatched the picture out of his hands for another look. Hot Latin blood in this one. No ring, wonder if she’s ever been to Costa Rica.
“Maybe I seen him picking up packages in here before. I think he has a box. What’s the name again?”
A half hour later he’s pulling into the Last Resort Trailer Park on the next island up the Keys. Shell drive down through a collection of funky mobile homes and old travel trailers whose traveling days are long over. All the trailers parked too close together and baking in the afternoon sun.
The faded Buick fit right in with the scattering of decrepit cars and trucks. Maybe too well. Here’s some old bat standing outside the first trailer with her hair in curlers, wearing a big, floppy bathrobe, and giving him the eye. There’s a sign – Office. Roll down the window and show the badge.
“FBI looking for a Lucas Kahn, lot 12.” She glances at the badge, then starts looking at the car again. “I’m Agent Smith. Here’s a picture of the man I’m looking for.” That gets her to straighten back up and stop looking inside the car at least.
“Name’s Lucky, and he ain’t here.” The picture comes back. “You a bill collector, or what?”
“FBI, special undercover division.” Lame, but she seems to buy it. “I’m sure you have a key. I’d like to borrow it, just take a quick look inside, make sure he’s not there.”
“He’s not. Don’t you need a warrant or something?”
“Ma’am, this is an international homicide investigation. If you knew anything at all about the law you’d realize I don’t need a warrant in this instance.” Damn, that sounded good. Hope she bought it. Yep, hand down inside the pocket, here comes the keys.
It took him a few minutes to get rid of the woman so he could get a look inside the tiny trailer. Turns out the old gal had a dog in the other pocket. Looked like one of those annoying miniature Chihuahua/Poodle/Dachshund mixed breeds. Asked her if the little bundle of nerves ever had any urinary problems. And of course it did, a common problem for that breed, which is why he asked. Told her about the OTC pills you could get at any drugstore and she couldn’t leave fast enough to get some for precious little Mister Snuffles.
Looked like only one person living in the trailer. Check the kitchen first. Normal shit in the fridge. No treasure in the freezer.
Careful not to disturb anything. Place is kept neat, like someone used to living in small places.
Laptop, printer, and digital camera under the couch. Get back to that.
Bedroom has a double bed. Under the bed a wood box, pull it out. Now we’re getting somewhere. Box is full of dirty clothes. Can sometimes learn a lot about a person by their dirty clothes. Several Schooners t-shirts. Must be where he hangs out, maybe even works there. If this guy is part of the gang who hit the museum he’s got a decent cover.
Only takes a few minutes to check the rest of the bedroom. No loose panels or hidey holes inside the closet. Nothing much in the dresser drawers, but here’s something taped underneath. Pictures from the computer printer. Several shots of a naked young woman. Looks like she’s asleep, and wearing the Emerald Cross, the one he saw a picture of in the Tampa newspaper the day afte
r the heist.
“Agent Smith? Are you in there?”
Shit, she’s back. That was quick. Take one of the pictures and re-tape the rest back under the drawer.
“Agent Smith? Oh, there you are. Here, could you hold Mister Snuffles and take a look? I think that medicine is giving him diarrhea. Oops, sorry about your shirt. Let me see if I can find a tissue.”
∨ Key Lucky ∧
15
Riddles
Taco Bob looked up from his newspaper when he heard them coming down the dock. Slip and Skunk both talking and gesturing just as wildly as when he’d last seen them the day before. When the two men got to the old houseboat they spotted him sitting under the canvas top of the upper deck. Slip waved as he stepped aboard. “Morning, Captain!”
Taco Bob checked his watch and mumbled something about just barely. As they climbed up the ladder both of his guests were smiling ear to ear.
“Judging by y’all’s upbeat demeanor I’d hazard to guess you’re here to share some glad tidings.”
Slip slipped into the other chair and Skunk leaned against the rail. Both were so excited they could hardly hold still. “We’re just flat full of news, and it’s damn sure all good!”
“You’ll excuse my wariness, Skunk, but in the past similar statements from you are usually followed closely by requests for bail money, visits by the sheriff, or both.” He gave the still grinning duo a closer look. “I don’t see any obvious signs of gunshot wounds so I’m assuming you two had a stroke of common sense and decided to leave the lobster traps alone.”
“Nope! Show him, Slip.”
Both men got quiet and cagey as Slip pulled something out of his pocket. After a slow and careful check of the surrounding boats in the marina, a silver coin the size of a half dollar appeared on the chart table. Taco Bob picked it up for a look.
“Nice. I’d say number two grade at least, maybe number one.” The two fledging treasure hunters looked like kids on Christmas morning. “You get this from a trap?”
Slip took another quick check all around, even up, like maybe there was a listening device attached to a seagull flying overhead.
“Same general area Big Mike said he found his. Luckily it’s not too far from shore so we could get there in the yak. We would have shown you last night except Skunk convinced me we should have a celebratory drink or twelve.”
“I wasn’t around last night anyway. Me and Trish stepped out for a bite to eat.”
Skunk popped Slip on the shoulder. “I told you I thought I saw him last night!”
“The lady and I had dinner at Louie’s.” Taco Bob wasn’t about to mention it to these two, but lately going out to eat with Trish always turned into more of an in-depth critical analysis of the restaurant rather than a relaxing meal and casual conversation with a friend. Besides working, it seemed like going to check on the competition was the only thing she ever wanted to do. The only thing.
“I seen in the paper there’s a thousand dollar reward now for any piece of the stolen loot that gets turned in. You boys going to give that to the cops?”
Furtive glances flashed between the two treasure hunters. Slip shrugged.
“We haven’t exactly decided just yet.”
“Well, don’t wait too long to decide. They catch the gang who done the deed that reward offer might not be around.”
Both were shrugging now. Skunk took off his old straw hat and scratched his head. “We ain’t worried. Miss Agnes looked it up on the net this morning. It’s worth at least that.”
“You still staying with her? She ain’t kicked you out yet?”
“Nope. In fact, she heard some mighty interesting news earlier this morning from a friend, which is the other reason we come to grace you with our presence this here fine day.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“You see in today’s paper where the newspaper itself got a coin in the mail?”
“As a matter of fact, I was just reading about it when you two showed up.”
“Well, Miss Agnes got a friend works at the paper.” Skunk took a turn looking all around. He dropped his voice and leaned in closer, pointing at the newspaper. “There ain’t no mention of it in there, but a note came with that coin the paper got.” Skunk glanced at his partner who gave him a go-ahead nod. “The note said, ‘five wheres makes a who’. I told you those coins were part of a riddle!”
Taco Bob hadn’t seen Skunk so proud since the one and only time he’d passed a roadside sobriety test years earlier.
“We figured you being good at crossword puzzles and such, we’d get you to help us solve the riddle so we could get rich an all.”
Taco Bob didn’t particularly need to get too involved in anything to do with cops and treasure since the details of his own financial circumstances might not be looked upon in too favorable a light by certain government agencies. But he did love word games.
“I hope I’m not going to regret this some day, but let’s see what you got.”
The next hour consisted of intensive note taking, calculations, speculations, and arguing. Then Slip had an idea they all could agree on.
“How about we break for lunch?”
♦
They set up shop in a booth at the back of Governor’s, a popular local restaurant that came from the humblest of beginnings – a roadside burrito stand run by an eccentric old man claiming to be a former governor. Rumors of the ingredients of those burritos centered on the lack of roadkill seen along that particular stretch of highway.
The waitress took their orders and the cogitating and arguing resumed.
Eventually there was nothing but empty plates on the table and a handful of letters on the top page of a writing tablet. Taco Bob looked over the results of their deliberations.
“Okay, we got five places there’s been coins reported: The cemetery, the lobster traps, the hole where the electric company was digging, the newspaper, and that big yacht over on the other side of the marina.” Weary nods from his tablemates. “So, we’ve decided on C, L, H, N, and Y. Which by my reckoning – and this includes drawing upon my years of experience at word puzzles – don’t spell anything. At least the food was good.”
This turned out to be the only thing they could agree on while once again studying the writing tablet.
“You guys eat everything in the place or did you leave me something?”
Heads popped up to see Consuelo standing there with her arms folded across her chest and an uncertain smile on her pretty face. She slid in the booth next to Taco Bob and stared at the scruffy ant farmer sitting across from her.
“Who, or should I say what, is this?” She scooted a little closer to Taco Bob when Skunk lit up a big smile. Taco Bob made the intros.
“Consuelo, this is Skunk Johnson, an acquaintance of mine from Texas. He’s here looking for his cousin’s brother and, like most people in Key West lately, looking for Spanish treasure. I’d say not to worry because he don’t bite, but unfortunately he does on occasion. Skunk, this is the multi-talented lady we told you about who likes to go fishing.” Consuelo continued to watch warily as Skunk continued to show off his new teeth.
“Nice to meet you, miss.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.” She gave the little man a warning squint before turning her attention to Taco Bob. “Sara said you’d been by yesterday. You weren’t at the Sandy so I came here.”
Slip leaned forward to whisper. “Blondie, you any good at word puzzles? We’re close to finding a fortune in Spanish treasure, except we don’t quite know where it’s at, or who has it.”
Consuelo rolled her eyes and started to say something when Slip put his fist across the table and motioned for her to open her hand. He dropped the silver coin in her hand and held a finger to his lips for quiet. Consuelo’s eyes got big but she didn’t say anything. She kept the coin low and gave it a close inspection while the men held a quick vote. They decided since they were stumped it was time to take on another partner. The hotel proprietress was fi
lled in and soon put her full attention on the list of clues and letters.
“Well, if this is the way the riddle works, then you need a vowel to make a name. So at least one of these is wrong.” She studied the clues again. “It’s got to be a ‘where?’ Hmmm. Cemetery looks good, Lobster’s good, hole maybe. Newspaper I don’t like, but Yacht looks like a lock.” She chewed on the pencil. So we’ve got C, L, and Y for sure, right?” A trio of uncertain shrugs sprung up around the table. “But we still need a vowel to make a name. The coin was found in a hole? The coin was underground?”
That got some smiles as she wrote it down. “So C, L, Y, and U? We’ve got Lucy, that’s a who, but the N doesn’t work. The newspaper is screwing us here, Unless it’s Lucy N?”
Taco Bob took a turn. “You use the full name of the paper and you get Key West Citizen. Lucy K, or better yet, Lucky. Slip, didn’t you tell me something once about a shrimper named Lucky?”
“Yeah, he got stung by a scorpion fish stuck in the nets. He wasn’t so lucky though, died before they got to shore.”
“That’s right, I remember now. Maybe we could make some discreet inquiries around town, see if anyone knows a Lucky.”
Consuelo had stopped chewing on the pencil.
“Well, I do.”
∨ Key Lucky ∧
16
The Picture
“So you know this guy from the bar? How do you know where he lives?” Taco Bob sat in front next to Consuelo while she piloted the hotel’s old Keys Cruiser convertible through the streets of Key West. Slip and Skunk sat in back, hunched forward to listen in.
“I gave him a ride home once, okay?”
Taco Bob decided to let it go. He remembered being told by one of Consuelo’s sisters that the car had been down for several weeks recently waiting for a part from Detroit. It was a perfect day to ride through paradise with the top down, and Taco Bob was trying hard not to piss Consuelo off. There were certainly worst things to do than ride around Key West in a convertible with your friends.
Key Lucky Page 6