Hunter's Moon

by Randy Wayne White

  Instead of being confused, Wilson grew serious. “Why that passage?”

  “Because I watched you on the beach yesterday and the sonata’s first movement was all over you. Like an aura.” Tomlinson continued playing; notes reluctant, understated.

  “Knock off the baloney.”

  “For real, man. It’s what I heard. I was getting No Más ready. You walked to the point.”

  “That’s true. But why ‘Moonlight Sonata’? Out of all the songs in the world?”

  “ ’Cause I felt it, man. This sort of thing happens to me all the time, Sam. I’m like a wind tunnel. Energy blows right through me.”

  Tomlinson’s eyes were cheerfully numb. From Wilson, I expected cheerful forbearance. Instead, he became more serious. “Prove it’s true.”

  By the way he tugged at his hair, I could tell Tomlinson wanted to be done with the subject. “I can’t prove it, but I’m right. I knew if I played the sonata, you’d show up. Same with ‘Clair de Lune.’ It was there, too, with you and your wife on the beach. Debussy.”

  Chords changed; Tomlinson’s fingers slowed. Another familiar classic—fragile, inquisitive.

  I was reminding myself that Wray Wilson had been deaf from birth as the president said, “Cayo Costa. That’s where I proposed to Wray, forty-one years ago. Both songs had special meaning. But no one is aware of the significance. How do you know?”

  Tomlinson was into the music. Maybe he didn’t hear. Wilson looked at me as if to ask something. I shrugged, palms up. Started to say, Tomlinson does what he does, no one understands. But then stopped as another man entered the room. A huge man, leprechaun-shaped, with a red beard, glasses, and an Irish cap. Shy expression; a gentle-giant smile as he greeted Tomlinson, “Ready to go, Siggy?”

  Siggy, as in Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson.

  It was Tim something, who owned the music shop. He was wearing a white dinner jacket, too.

  Tomlinson stood, wobbly but grinning. He located the president, who was still in the shadows. “Sam? It’s okay. The Gnome’s cool—I told him I have two amigos who are on the run from the feds. As if dealing with outlaws is something new, huh, Gnome?”

  Gnome and Siggy. In pirate towns, nicknames are preferred.

  TOMLINSON AND TIM HAD BORROWED JACKETS FROM some waiter pals so they could crash a party.

  Not just any party.

  “There’s a convention in town,” Tomlinson said. “Broadcast journalists from all over the country!”

  Wilson appeared interested but uneasy.

  “And guess who the keynote speaker is?” Tomlinson used his index finger. Shushhhh. “It’s the guy you talked about on the boat. Like God dropped everything else just to bring you two together. Walt Danson. He’s in Key West!”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, man. I never joke about karma.”

  Danson was a network anchor. Years ago, Wilson had told us, at a Georgetown party, that the anchorman had made a crack about Wray Wilson’s speech impediment. The president had never responded publicly, but he still seethed privately.

  “Where?”

  “At the Flagler Hotel. He was in the private bar when I left.” Tomlinson’s eyes floated a question to the Gnome.

  “They moved the party down the street to Louie’s. Danson and a couple of network big shots.”

  “Can you get us in?”

  “If your buddies don’t mind serving drinks. I’ve got extra jackets in the car.”

  Wilson was saying “Don’t be absurd . . .” but the big man interrupted, concerned. “I can’t loan tuxes to just anyone, Siggy. Are your friends dependable?”

  Tomlinson made a blowing noise as he searched his pockets. “Are you kidding? Compared to these two golden boys, gravity’s a party drug. Speaking of which”—he’d found something and held it for inspection, a joint—“I think it would do us all some good to, you know, shallow up a little. What’a you say, Sammy?”

  Wilson ignored him. His tinted glasses sparked like a welder’s mask as he turned to me. “Walt Danson. I can’t believe that vindictive old lush is in town. It’s so damn tempting, but I can’t take the chance. He’s seen me too many times.”

  I told him, “Out of the question.”

  But Tomlinson was shaking his head, waving us to follow. “Guys! Unbuckle your belts a notch, let your snorkels breathe. The way Danson’s pouring down scotch, he wouldn’t recognize his own mother if she was wearing a photo ID. Isn’t that right, Gnome?”

  “He’s stinko, Siggy. Starting to turn mean when I left.”

  “Sam—seriously.” Tomlinson was following the Gnome out the door. “Think about it. When’ll you get another chance like this? Next lifetime, maybe?”

  THE FLAGLER HOTEL WAS ON REYNOLDS, BLOCKS FROM Dog Beach and Louie’s Backyard, the place where the broadcasters were now partying. It’s the only reason Wilson allowed Tomlinson to stop.

  The hotel was a 1920s mastodon, refurbished, but it still had the look of Prohibition cash and Havana politics.

  The Gnome’s car blended: a 1972 Eldorado convertible. Maybe green, maybe gray. Hard to tell under the streetlights, despite a Caribbean moon. The president and I sat in back but refused to try on waiters’ jackets. It was pleasant riding in a convertible, but he wasn’t going anywhere near a room full of reporters.

  Tomlinson kept trying. “You got to let go of the whole negative vibe thing, man.” He sounded very sure of himself, the top down, his hair like a flag, gifting cops and street people with a regal wave of the hand as he and Tim, the Gnome, passed the joint back and forth.

  Each time, I responded, “We are not going to Louie’s.” Finally, Tomlinson gave up. I told him we should call it a night and go back to the boat. He agreed—but didn’t sound happy.

  “Then we might as well drop off the jackets while we’re here.”

  Wilson told him fine, make it quick.

  Gnome used staff parking at the Flagler’s side entrance, pulling up outside the service elevator. Beyond a set of Dumpsters, I could see palms, then a vast darkness where the lights of freighters were held motionless by the Gulf Stream. They were as solitary as campfires.

  Tomlinson said, “This won’t take long. Go for a stroll on the beach, if you want.”

  Wilson said, “No, thanks. I’m afraid you’ll pull your vanishing act again.”

  The Gnome was walking around the front of the car, but we could hear him say, “Are you afraid the feds might recognize you, Sammy? Screw ’em. This is hotel property. Fuckers can’t touch you in the Conch Republic, man.”

  Wilson shook his head irritably. I empathized. It was tempting—crash a party and serve drinks to a bunch of broadcasters, including Walt Danson. Wilson had enjoyed telling the story about Andrew Jackson killing the man who had insulted his wife.

  The circumstances were so unlikely, it was unlikely anyone would have recognized him. The former president looked so different now. With his head shaved, the burn scar, and beatnik beard, Wilson looked like just another casualty of the service industry.

  It would’ve been interesting to find out.

  The night became interesting.

  Still wearing their white jackets, and each with a jacket draped over an arm, Tomlinson and the Gnome were waiting for the elevator doors to open when the Gnome turned toward the car. “Hey, guys? I forgot about the pants. They’re in a box in the trunk. You mind?”

  I leaned over the seat to pop the trunk as Wilson got out. The trunk was a Curiosity Shoppe of broken violins and guitars, but he found the box of pants, which he gave to me, plus two jackets. We were handing the uniforms to Tomlinson when the doors of the service elevator flashed open.

  The interior was illuminated with a bright, industrial light. Inside were two men and a woman, well-dressed, obviously not hotel employees, judging from their confused expressions.

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “I’m very sorry. I must’ve hit the wrong button.” She hesitated. “Do you men work here?”

  Trying to sound
ed sober, the Gnome said, “Oh, yes. This is our workplace.”

  “Good. We could use some help.”

  That was obvious.

  All three looked like they’d had a lot to drink, but one of the men was drunk. He sat on the elevator floor, legs crossed, his expression blurred and surly. The woman and her companion had been struggling to lift him to his feet when the doors opened.

  I recognized the woman as a broadcaster with a cable news network. Suzie . . . Cindi . . . Shana. A name that was similar. She had a cheerleader face, the body of a trophy bride, and the arrogance of a man who would marry one.

  I recognized the drunk, too.

  It was television icon Walt Danson.

  “MR. DANSON IS ILL,” THE SECOND MAN TOLD US. HE WAS tall, with bland features and feral eyes. “Food poisoning, we think—the kind of publicity your hotel doesn’t need. Can you help us get him to his room?”

  Danson opened his eyes for a moment, took a moment to find the man; glared. “Fuck you, Harry. You wish I was poisoned. That’d make dumping me a lot easier, wouldn’t it?”

  “Now, Walt,” the tall man said for our benefit, “is it smart to use that kind of language, old friend?”

  Danson waved his hand, dismissing him. “You don’t have any old friends—Mister Program Director.” The anchorman leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

  Harry turned to us with a stage gesture. “See what I mean? He’s feverish. We’re counting on your professionalism.”

  The Gnome straightened vaguely, as if at attention, as Tomlinson said, “We are professionals, sir.”

  The program director exchanged looks with the woman, his expression saying Simpletons. Then his eyes moved from me to Wilson, who’d turned his back to the elevator and was returning to the car. “Excuse me—sir? Don’t leave. I’m talking to you. Hey—old man!”

  Wilson froze. Thought about it for a moment before turning to face the elevator. He wore the expression of a convict who expected to be identified.

  I watched the TV people closely. No flinch of interest or recognition. Just impatience. They’d been drinking, they were tired, and they were now dealing with interchangeable objects—hotel staff.

  They didn’t notice Wilson stiffen when the program director asked, “Are you deaf? Or don’t you understand English?”

  “I understand English just fine, sir,” Wilson answered, sounding passive with his Southern accent, under control.

  “Then listen to me. We need all four of you men. We’ll pay you—but only if you can keep your mouth shut. Agreed?”

  Without waiting for an answer, the man stabbed a finger at me. “Same goes for you.” He paused. “You wait tables here?” His tone saying I didn’t look like a waiter.

  “Mostly maintenance.” I had a white jacket over my arm. “I only wear the monkey suit when there’s a convention. Either way, we don’t need you to lecture us about hotel etiquette.”

  Piss him off, maybe he’d tell us to go away.

  Instead he said, “Smart-ass, huh? Okay. You’re in charge. Make sure the two stoners and the old man don’t do anything stupid.”

  Tomlinson and Tim were already on the elevator, bracing Danson so he wouldn’t fall over. Wilson came up behind me, touched his hand to my back, and gave me a little push. He wanted to do it. When I didn’t move, he pushed again.

  I said, “After you . . . Sam,” and followed the president to the corner of the elevator, then stood in front of him.

  Harry’s cell phone began to ring as he said, “Shana, why don’t you go back to the bar? I can handle it from here.”

  The program director was checking caller ID as the woman stepped into the elevator. “Get real, Harry. Leave Walt when he needs me? The man’s been like a father.”

  Danson opened his eyes long enough to roll them. “A father, huh? I’m the only network suit you haven’t fucked, so that explains it.” Funny. He was still laughing as his head clunked against the wall.

  “Dear old Walt Danson,” the woman said fondly, touching the back of her fingers to man’s head. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think,” showing she could take it—there was something odd, though, about the way her hand lingered by Danson’s face.

  She was palming a digital camera, I realized . . . no, a tape recorder.

  Danson mumbled, “Women correspondents? Chorus girls, is more like it. Kick your legs high enough and the network hacks think you got something between your ears . . .”

  Ugly. Impossible to ignore, but not for Harry, who was on the cell phone as he pushed the button for the top floor, talking loudly.

  His words blurred as the old anchorman rambled . . . until I heard Harry say, “Repeat that. Who disappeared? WHO disappeared?” There was a long pause. “You’re shitting me!”

  I stiffened. Tomlinson started to turn toward the president but caught himself. The doors had closed. It felt as if the oxygen had been sucked from the elevator.

  The program director’s voice became strident. “Are you sure? Did he disappear or was he kidnapped? Yes . . . I know . . . I know. Jesus Christ, find out!”

  A cable clanked. The elevator began its ascent. We listened to Harry say, “Are you still there? Hello . . . Can you hear me?”

  Kept repeating it until he gave up. He’d lost reception.

  THE FLAGLER’S PENTHOUSE FLOOR WAS RESTRICTED ACCESS so there was no one in the hall as Tomlinson, the Gnome, the president, and I guided Danson to his door, then waited while the woman tried to get the plastic key to work.

  On the elevator, she’d asked Harry, “Who disappeared?”

  Harry tried redialing a couple of times before he answered, saying, “Nothing’s confirmed yet,” looking from me to Tomlinson, meaning he couldn’t talk.

  Or maybe he didn’t want her to know . . .

  The program director was first off the elevator, walking fast toward the stairs, phone to his ear, saying, “Workman? Jesus Christ, I was just talking to Bentley. Go get him!”

  The woman called, “Harry! What the hell’s going on?”

  The program director turned long enough to make a calming motion—No big deal—then pointed down the hall, mouthing the words Be right there.

  So far, though, it was just the five us, plus the drunken anchorman. Danson had been babbling most of the way as Shana patted his head, and fed leading questions.

  “Who’s the stupidest network anchor, Walt? Any of them ever accept sex for favors, Walt?”

  Danson was drunk, but he was also cagey. I noticed he began softening his replies, throwing some compliments in—his reporter’s bullshit alarm going off, maybe, sobering the receptors. Did he know what she was doing?

  “My darling girl, don’t you wish you had that beautiful little tape recorder I gave you for Christmas? Why . . . you could try to blackmail me with some of those questions.”

  Yes, he knew.

  Then, as we dumped him on the bed, Danson turned it around on the woman, saying, “Shana, you fool—you really think Harry’s coming back? We work for different networks, sweetie. New York calls a program director this late? There’s something big going on. He wants you to play nursemaid. But the son of a bitch doesn’t fool me.” Suddenly, the old anchorman was sitting, not sounding so drunk now, as he picked up the phone.

  I said, “If that’s all you need, we’d better get going,” nudging Tomlinson, then Wilson, toward the door. But Tim, the Gnome, didn’t move.

  “Hey,” he said, “what about a little something for the cause?” He put his huge hand out, palm up.

  The woman was concentrating on the anchorman, who was saying into the phone, “Yes, the Walt Danson, young lady. And if you care about your career, you’d better get Bentley on the line immediately.” Weaving, eyes glassy, he used his TV voice to mitigate the slurring—an old pro used to rallying from a whiskey haze.

  The Gnome cleared his throat. “Has the service been satisfactory, ma’am?”

  The woman ignored him until he cleared his thro
at again. “Stop that disgusting noise! What do you want?”

  Gnome said, “The mean guy promised us money,” as the anchorman snapped, “Hello . . . Baker? Yes, I know Harry’s on the other line. But I’m still managing editor, so he will take my call. Jesus . . . I’ll wait . . . but not very goddamn long!”

  The woman started to say to the Gnome, “Yeah? Well, I didn’t promise to pay you—” but then gave up, whispering That jerk as she pointed at her purse, which was on the bed near Wilson. “Hand that to me.”

  Wilson leaned to get the purse but fumbled it and the purse fell. He knelt to retrieve what spilled onto the floor.

  The woman was coming around the bed, saying “Clumsy old fool,” as I moved between her and the president, telling everyone, “Forget about the tip. We’re leaving now.”

  In the abrupt silence that followed, I realized I’d just said something that no waiter would ever say.

  The woman was oblivious. But Danson noticed. As he waited for Bentley, he put his hand over the phone and stared at me. After a moment, he said, “You work hotel maintenance?”

  Even drunk, he’d caught that.

  Before I could answer, the president replied, “Yes, sir, he does,” sounding smooth and Southern. “Personally, I’d be very happy to accept any gratuity you kind people might offer.”

  Head down, Wilson handed the purse to the woman with a slight bow—the compliant servant.

  Danson was still staring, thinking about it. Interested but drunk, having trouble focusing as he turned his attention from me to Wilson. “How long have you been in Key West?”

  “Longer than I planned to be, sir.”

  “You’re from Georgia. No . . . the Carolinas.” The anchorman stumbled over Carolinas, but he got it out.

  “You have an educated ear, sir.”

  “Your face—is that a birthmark?”

  The woman snapped, “Walt! Why the hell do you care?” as Wilson touched his cheek. “No, a fire. Not so long ago.”