"Yeah, but that doesn't make him any less of a pipsqueak."
"He's been behaving himself."
"I'm glad to hear it." He toyed with the stem of his glass. "Sorry I lost my temper with him this afternoon. By now I ought to know to let all that guff roll off my back. All the buffs are full of it." He grinned again. "Buff guff. I think I've invented a new term."
Despite my wariness, I was warming up to him a little. He still wasn't my type and I didn't have any romantic interest in him, but he wasn't unlikeable.
The girl brought my beer in a sweat-dripping bottle. Rollie paid her for it, over my objections.
"I thought I was supposed to buy you a drink," I said when she was gone. "Wasn't that the deal?"
"The pleasure of your company is more than enough repayment for the trouble caused by that client of yours," he said. Then something across the room seemed to catch his attention. He turned his head a little, his eyes narrowed, and he muttered something I couldn't catch with the music blaring the way it was.
I leaned forward and asked, "What was that?"
"I said, speak of the devil. He's here."
"Who?"
"Your client. The pipsqueak."
I looked across the room where Rollie was looking, and sure enough, Walter Harvick was standing there at the bar, talking to a man I'd never seen before. I could only see part of the stranger's face because of the way he was turned. He had a shock of very dark hair, a tanned, weathered face, and an equally dark mustache under a nose like a hawk's beak.
"What's he doing with Clint Drake?" Rollie asked.
"Clint Drake?" I repeated. "That's the other guy's name?"
"Don't let the movie star name fool you," Rollie said. "Or the fact that he looks like Gilbert Roland."
I figured there weren't very many people in Sloppy Joe's tonight who would recognize the name Gilbert Roland. I was one of 'em, though, and I saw that Rollie was right. Clint Drake bore a distinct resemblance to the old movie actor.
"He's kind of a bad guy," Rollie went on. "Owns a charter boat and works as a fishing guide, but the rumor is that he's not too particular about the charters he takes out. If you've got the money to pay his price, Drake's your guy, no matter what you're up to."
"Are you sayin' he smuggles drugs?" I asked.
Rollie shrugged. "Drugs, guns, illegal aliens. Drake doesn't care as long as you can pay."
In a place as bright and beautiful as Key West, you'd like to think that crime doesn't even exist. Unfortunately, that isn't true. No matter where you go, there's always somebody willing to break the law if it gets them what they want. In the travel business we warn our clients of any dangers we know about, and we try to keep an eye on them as much as we can, but there's only so much we can do.
If Rollie was telling the truth – and the only reason I could think of for him to be lying to me was to make himself seem more dashing because he knew something about a shady character – then this was one of those situations where I needed to steer a client away from potential trouble.
I got to my feet. Rollie said, "Wait a minute. Where are you going? You just got here."
"If that fella Drake's as bad as you say he is, I need to get Walter away from him."
"Walter's a grown man," Rollie objected. "As much as he ever will be, anyway."
"My job is to look after my clients. That includes tryin' to keep them from getting into trouble in the first place."
Rollie muttered something again, then put his hands on the table and shoved himself to his feet.
"If you're determined to stick your nose in, I'd better go with you."
I felt a flash of anger at that comment. I didn't like being accused of sticking my nose in where it didn't belong. But at the same time I was grateful to him for volunteering to come along, although I knew there was also a chance Rollie's presence would just upset Walter.
I led the way, weaving through the crowd that eddied back and forth. Because of the constant press of people around me, sometimes I couldn't see the bar. After one of those moments, when the spot where Walter and Drake had been standing came back into view, the two of them were gone. My breath caught in my throat. What if Walter had left Sloppy Joe's with Drake? Was he in danger?
Then I spotted them again. They weren't gone yet, but they were heading for the doors.
"Walter!" I called. "Walter! Hey!"
He didn't look back. I couldn't tell if he didn't hear me because of the music and the noisy crowd, or if he was just ignoring me. But I started pushing through the throng in a more urgent manner, drawing a few complaints along the way that I ignored. I hoped Rollie was still behind me, but I didn't look back to be sure.
I caught up to them on the sidewalk right outside the door. "Walter!" I said again, and even though the music was still loud out here, I knew he had to be able to hear me.
He paused and turned halfway around. "Ms. Dickinson," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"We've been lookin' for you, Walter," I said. "Why didn't you answer your cell phone?" I kept my attention on him and tried not to look at Drake, but even from the corner of my eye I could see the scowl on the man's face. He didn't like being interrupted.
"I guess I didn't hear it with all the racket in there," Walter said. "And you said we. Who's we? Ronnie's not with you, is she?"
"No, she's back at the resort. But she's worried about you, Walter. She thought the two of you were going out together tonight."
"I didn't make any firm commitment to that. She mentioned it, but I didn't promise anything."
Yep, ass hat, I thought. But I said, "I know she'd really like to see you. A shuttle bus ought to be along any minute. Why don't we catch it and go back?"
He frowned and shook his head. "I can't. I'm busy – "
He was interrupted by Rollie, who shouldered up beside me and said, "Hello, Drake."
"Cranston," Drake said curtly.
The crazy thought that it was like a scene from a movie struck me as the two of them faced each other. I felt like the camera should zoom in on each of them in turn as they squinted at each other, while Spaghetti Western music welled up in the background.
Then Walter broke the tense mood by saying to Rollie, "You! What are you doing here?"
"Trying to keep you from making a mistake, ace," Rollie said.
Walter sneered and said, "I don't need any advice from a bumpkin who knows less about Ernest Hemingway than my pet goldfish does."
"Now, Walter," I said, moving between them, "there's no need to talk like that. Rollie's just tryin' to help – "
"So the two of you are friends now," Walter broke in. He shook his head. "I must say, I'm a little disappointed in you, Ms. Dickinson."
He sure made it hard to give a flying fig what happened to him. I just reminded myself that he was a client, though, and pressed on.
"Come on back inside and have a drink with us," I urged.
"With him?" Walter looked at Rollie and shook his head again, this time in complete, unmistakable contempt. "I don't think so."
"You should go ahead with them, sport," Clint Drake said. "I've already told you, I can't help you, and trailing after me isn't going to make a bit of difference."
That surprised me a little. I had thought that Walter and Drake were leaving Sloppy Joe's together, but now that I thought about it, I decided it was possible Walter had been following the shady charter boat captain, trying to talk him into something.
Walter must not have had enough money to hire Drake, I thought. According to Rollie, that was the only thing that would have made any difference to Drake.
Walter turned to Drake and said quickly, "But Captain – "
"Better listen to him," Rollie said. "Steering clear of him is the smartest thing you'll ever do."
"You should take your own advice, Cranston," Drake said. He moved toward us a little, squaring his shoulders.
I figured there was about to be a fistfight, but at that moment, someone called out, "Walter!"
It was Ronnie Scanlon, of course. She had just stepped down from the shuttle bus that had pulled up at the curb without me noticing. She hurried across the crowded sidewalk, bobbing and weaving around pedestrians, and threw her arms around Walter as she came up to him.
He didn't try to get away from her as she planted a big kiss on his lips.
Chapter 9
That kiss packed enough passion in it to keep Walter rooted to the spot as the seconds ticked by. When Ronnie finally pulled back, both of them were a little wide-eyed and breathless.
The effect didn't last long. Walter looked around and exclaimed, "He's gone!"
I didn't have to ask who he was talking about. It was true. While Rollie and I were watching Ronnie plant that big smacker on Walter, Clint Drake had vanished into the crowds along Duval Street.
Walter jerked his head frantically from side to side as he searched for some sign of Drake, but after a moment he had to give up. He turned toward Ronnie again and went on, "What have you done?"
Rollie drawled, "I'd say the lady has done you a big favor. I'm talking about her being willing to kiss you, of course, but in addition to that, she saved you from possibly winding up in jail . . . or worse."
"What are you talking about?" Walter demanded.
"Clint Drake. He's a criminal."
"Nonsense. He was highly recommended to me as a charter boat captain who knows the Keys better than anyone else. That's just the sort of man I need."
"Whoever told you that was probably one of Drake's crooked cronies," Rollie said. "You're better off staying as far away from the likes of him as possible."
It crossed my mind to wonder what Walter needed with a charter boat captain, but that didn't really seem important just then. I said, "Now that Ronnie's here, let's all go inside and have a drink."
I figured Walter would argue, but he sighed and said, "We might as well." He nodded toward Rollie and added, "Not with him, though."
"You're not my idea of pleasant company, either," Rollie said. "And the lady's with me."
He put his arm around my shoulders.
I didn't want to offend Rollie, but I moved out of that embrace as discreetly as I could. It wasn't discreet enough to keep a look of hurt from briefly crossing his face.
"Oh," he said. "Well, I suppose the time we spent together will have to do, Delilah. It was pleasant . . . up to a point. I suppose I was presumptuous, wasn't I?"
"Just a little," I told him. "I'm not holdin' any grudges if you aren't."
He waved a hand and grinned. "Nah. Nothing was ever going to come of it anyway, was it?"
"I'm afraid not. I'll be leavin' in a couple of days."
"Of course. Let me give you a hug."
I didn't object to that. It was actually a pretty nice hug. When it was over he lifted a hand in a little salute and turned to go back into Sloppy Joe's.
I didn't think it would be a very good idea for Walter and Ronnie to be drinking in there, so I turned to them and suggested, "Why don't we go around the corner to Captain Tony's?"
At first I didn't think Walter was going to go for it, but he said, "I suppose that's all right. I wanted to go there while I was in Key West anyway. It was the location of the original Sloppy Joe's, you know. Joe Russell, the owner of the bar, got in an argument with the landlord over the rent and moved around here to this location in 1937. Hemingway actually spent a lot more time in what's now Captain Tony's than he did in here."
I already knew that, but I didn't burst Walter's bubble by pointing it out. Instead, I motioned for Ronnie to take one of his arms and I took the other, and the three of us started off, turning at the corner to go along Greene Street.
This was probably the first time in his life Walter Harvick had a good-looking woman on each arm, I thought, then told myself it was sort of immodest of me to be thinking that, not to mention a little mean. But true anyway.
I leaned past him to say to Ronnie, "I thought you were going to spend the evening at the resort."
"Well, I was planning to," she said. "But I got so worried about Walter here."
"You were worried about me, really?" he said. "There was no need to be. I know exactly what I'm doing."
Unfortunately, just because somebody knew what they were doing didn't mean there was no reason to worry about them.
We followed a brick sidewalk along Greene. Ahead of us, a big stuffed fish hung out over the sidewalk, above a sign that proclaimed CAPT. TONY'S SALOON The First and Original Sloppy Joe's 1933 – 1937. Not surprisingly, there was also a picture of Ernest Hemingway on the sign.
Now that Walter was away from Sloppy Joe's and away from both Rollie Cranston and Clint Drake as well, I was sort of a third wheel. As we stopped at the door of Captain Tony's, I said, "Why don't the two of you go on inside and enjoy yourselves? I really ought to be gettin' back to the resort."
"I thought you were going to have a drink with us," Walter said.
"Yeah, but you have each other. You don't need me around."
Walter raised an eyebrow and said, "We're hardly alone." He gestured toward the hundreds of people along the sidewalks.
"Two people can be alone together no matter how many others are all around them," I said. I thought that was pretty romantic, and Ronnie seemed to like it.
"Come on, Walter," she said. "I really want to spend more time with you."
"I suppose that would be all right." He looked at me like he had suddenly realized something. "You're going back to Sloppy Joe's to find that . . . that imposter, aren't you?"
"No, Walter, I'm not," I told him honestly. "I'm tired, and I'm going back to the resort to go to bed."
Alone, I added to myself.
Which, for some doggone reason, made me think about Tom Bradenton, a thought that I banished from my mind as quickly as I could.
Maybe not quite quickly enough.
* * *
While I waited for the next resort shuttle to come along, I watched the tide of people flowing in and out of Sloppy Joe's. They were all ages, shapes, and sizes, and as usual, there was nothing more fascinating than people. I had told Walter the truth, though. I really was tired. So I was glad to climb on board the shuttle and make the ride back across the island to the resort.
It was plenty early enough this evening so that nobody would have to let me in. I told myself I wasn't disappointed by that. But I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't jump a little when I saw Tom Bradenton walking across the grounds toward the main house, moving in and out of patches of light and shadow caused by the electric lights in the trees.
I slowed down a little so we'd reach the verandah about the same time. He smiled at me and said, "Hello. Been out partying in Old Town?"
He was wearing jeans, canvas shoes, and a faded blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up a couple of turns. A rag in his hand was smeared with the reddish-black sheen of engine grease. I pointed toward it and said, "You're the one who looks like you've been partyin'."
He held up the rag and laughed. "Yeah, if you count wrestling with a balky old carburetor as a party. I've been working on my boat."
"I saw you sailing on a catamaran earlier, just at sunset," I said. I didn't mention how impressed I'd been by the sight. "I didn't know you had a boat with an engine, too."
"Yeah, an old fishing boat. It belonged to my great-grandfather, actually. I like to go out and putter around the Gulf in it sometimes. The engine's got a problem right now, though, and I can't seem to get it licked." He folded the rag so the grease was on the inside of it and stuck it in the hip pocket of his jeans. "Forget about that old scow. It's slow, anyway. If you're interested, I'd be glad to take you out on the cat."
Now that was an appealing idea, I thought. I'd never sailed on a catamaran before. I could just imagine gliding fast and smooth over the water with Tom beside me . . .
Then I remembered that I didn't like the water, didn't swim particularly well, and got seasick really easily. I wasn't sure how much a catamaran bounced ar
ound, but as lightweight as they were, I figured that sailing on one might be a pretty wild ride.
I gave Tom a regretful smile and said, "Sorry, I'm not much of a sailor."
"Well, I'm sure we could find something else to do."
I wasn't sure if he was flirting or just being friendly. I voted for flirting, so I said, "I'd like that."
"Right now, for instance, a walk on the beach might be nice," he suggested.
I decided I wasn't that tired after all. "Sure," I said.
We fell in step together on the coral path that curved through the trees toward the beach. As we walked I asked, "Where do you keep your boats? I haven't seen them while we've been here."
"There's a little dock off at the side of the property, beyond the stable," he said, gesturing vaguely in that direction. "They're both tied up there. I try to do a little sailing two or three times a week. I like to be out on the water by myself. Seems like that's the only place quiet and peaceful enough for my brain to really relax." He paused. "Not that I mind having company sometimes. That's always good, too."
"I'll bet it is," I said. I wondered how many women he had taken out on that catamaran.
Probably almost as many as he'd wanted to, I was willing to bet. The ones who turned down his invitation were likely few and far between.
"I used to take fishing charters out," he went on, "but that got to be too much work." Even in the shadows under the trees I saw the flash of his teeth as he grinned. "What's the point of owning a place like this if you can't be lazy when you want to?"
"I run my own business, too," I reminded him. "I know how much work goes into it. It's not a job for somebody who's lazy."
"No, that's true," he admitted. "It's been a challenge keeping this place up and running. I don't have billions of dollars of corporate money behind me like the chains do. But there are more than enough perks to make it worth doing."
"Same here," I said. And one of those perks, I added to myself, was meeting interesting people like him.
We reached the beach. At this hour it was deserted. The folks who had still been there right after sunset had drifted on back to the main house or to their cabins as night settled in.
For Whom The Funeral Bell Tolls Page 6