Rum Runner

by Tricia Leedom

  “Yeah? So what’d you think?”

  Sophie gravitated toward him without realizing she had moved until she stood only a foot away. Heat radiated off his big body. His scent was slightly muskier from having spent the night in jail, but it still made her toes curl.

  His chin rose and their eyes met.

  “I was impressed,” she admitted.

  Something indefinable zinged between them.

  His lips quirked.

  “Why did you quit?” she asked.

  He looked away and a muscle worked in his cheek. He shook his head. “There was a period in my life I had to drown my head in booze just so I wouldn’t have to think about the choices I’d made back then. Now I focus on taking one lazy day at a time. I call it ‘island therapy,’ and in order for it to work, I don’t talk about the past.”

  “I’m starting to suspect you are anything but the lazy cat you pretend to be.”

  “Careful with the compliments, Duchess. I might think you’re starting to like me.”

  Sophie almost smiled.

  “Are you ready to go, ma’am?” Officer Gonzalez stuck her head through the doorway.

  “Nearly.” Sophie couldn’t take her eyes off Jimmy. She was suddenly gripped with an insane urge to hug him good-bye. She dug her fingernails into her leather purse and willed herself to be still. She did not hug people, at least not in the way her body was compelling her to.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  She raised her chin. “You’re welcome.”

  Impulses were funny things. Had she not given into her impulses, she would not have set off on this path in the first place. She would not have gone in search of her father and ended up almost kidnapped. She would not have spent the night in jail, and she most certainly would not have shot a man.

  And she would not have ever crossed paths with Jimmy Panama.

  Her heart lurched at the thought, and she jerked back from the sensation, putting distance between herself and the confounding man. His intoxicating scent followed her to the door weakening her knees and stealing her will to flee. She took in his broad shoulders and big, strong body one last time and forced herself to speak past her dry tongue.

  “Good-bye, Jimmy.”

  “Good-bye, darlin’.”

  She girded herself against the fierce reaction her body had to those two simple words and walked away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jimmy left the police station an hour after the Duchess strutted out of his life in her designer high heels. He didn’t have the medallion, but he’d convinced Mad Dog’s daughter to go home. One outta two wasn’t bad. As far as Jimmy was concerned, he and Mitch were square.

  Spending the night behind bars was never fun, but at least some good had come out of it this time. It had scared the Duchess into thinking straight and provided Jimmy with the added bonus of seeing the lovely but condescending woman do the jailbird walk of shame.

  When Officer Gabby escorted the Duchess past his cell early that morning, it hadn’t been a pretty sight. The wind from the boat trip had teased her hair into a rat’s nest. She had raccoon eyes from smudged makeup and impressions on the side of her face from the odd way she’d slept. The white blouse she’d still worn from the day before looked as if somebody had twisted it up and used it for a do-rag.

  He wondered if she’d get a tattoo to commemorate her time in the clink. He smiled, picturing a red rose tattooed on the apple of her prissy white ass cheek.

  Squinting against the glare of the bright Florida sunshine, Jimmy dodged a yellow Audi Spyder convertible and a trio of bicycles before he managed to cross Duval. As he passed by Sloppy Joe’s Bar, he spotted Kenny Fedder through the open barn doors. The musician was adjusting his guitar strap and getting ready to provide some afternoon entertainment for the lunchtime crowd. Wearing his trademark red and white hibiscus flower shirt, red shorts, and cheap flip-flops, he looked like a tropical Santa Claus.

  “Kenny,” Jimmy shouted, putting extra emphasis on the second syllable of the name.

  “Yo-ho, Jimmy P! When’s our next poker night?”

  “What’s the matter, your wallet getting too heavy for you?”

  “Nah, the rent’s due.” He let out a hearty chuckle.

  Jimmy waved and continued down Greene Street toward Dixie’s Bar and Grille. She wasn’t as flashy as the other buildings on the block, like the pastel-pink house next door with its peaked roof and gingerbread shutters, or the pale yellow Victorian B&B up the street with matching whitewashed porches on the first and second floors. But she had something the other properties did not—a flattop roof with a rare unobstructed view of the Gulf of Mexico.

  The squat, white-stucco building needed a good pressure-washing and a flashier sign to make it more appealing to the tourists, but customers didn’t come to Dixie’s for the atmosphere. Like Officer Gabby, they came for the food.

  Jimmy used his key to unlock the glass front door. He pushed and the rusted metal frame moved an inch and then wouldn’t budge. He pushed again, putting a little muscle into it this time. Metal grated against metal but gave a little more. Another good shove and opened it wide. He found the red brick he was looking for just inside the building and used it to prop the door open.

  A mahogany bar ran almost the length of the back wall. The sweet piece of furniture with its fluted detailing and ebony finish was a remnant of the Caribbean restaurant that had previously occupied the building. Also left behind were the fifteen sturdy matching stools that lined the bar and the two dozen four-top tables scattered about the rectangular room.

  Jimmy knew the walls could use a paint job, but he didn’t have the time or inclination to bother with repairs. He barely had time to work on the rooftop deck he’d been building more off than on over the past several months. He ignored the shaded outline on the wall left behind by the tin swordfish that once hung there and pretended not to notice the array of empty nail holes that needed patching. Above the entrance to the restrooms was a memento he’d hung in a moment of sentimentality. The old weathered Alabama license plate from his first car with the state motto “Heart of Dixie.” The only other piece of décor was the framed University of Southern Alabama football jersey in the center of the west wall that belonged to Anders Ostergaard, the famous Southern rock singer.

  The autographed jersey was a popular topic of conversation among the customers. Yet, it was a little-known fact that Anders was actually Jimmy’s big brother and co-owner of Dixie’s.

  Sue Martin was behind the bar setting up for the lunch crowd. Business was a little slow this time of year, but the regulars were loyal.

  “I got somebody coming to fix that door on Friday,” she said to Jimmy as he slid onto the stool across from her. “I had to come through the back again today. Customers are going to start thinking they aren’t welcome.”

  “Morning to you, too, Suzy-Q.”

  Born and raised two hours outside of Anchorage, Alaska, Sue Martin came to Key West to celebrate her divorce and had never left. She became the manager and head bartender for Dixie’s when it opened and married the head chef, Oscar Martin, just last March. Two decades of hard living with an abusive ex-husband in the wilds of Alaska made Sue look every one of her 38 years. She wore her long, silver-streaked brown hair in a single braid that skimmed her lower back. Her wardrobe consisted of tank tops and long floral skirts, and a well-worn pair of steel-toed combat boots she’d brought with her from her home state. She claimed she wore the boots to keep the drunks in line, but she was all talk. Sue was a pussycat and everybody knew it.

  She was about to slice into a lime when she did a double take at Jimmy. “Wow, you look worse than a muskrat at a mud convention. Must have been some night.”

  “It was.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “The KWPD invited me to a slumber party.”

  Sue dropped the lime and set the knife down. “Oh, Jimmy, you didn’t get drunk again and tell some poor tourist you banged his newlyw
ed bride in the bathroom, did you?”

  “Wasn’t my fault that guy didn’t know how to take a joke. I get any calls?”

  “As a matter of fact you did.” She went to the end of the bar and tore a sticky note off the wall next to the landline. “A guy named Florez called for you last night. He left his number.” She passed Jimmy the note. “Isn’t that Tulio’s uncle?”

  “Yeah. Hand me the phone too, would you?” When she handed him the cordless receiver, he muttered, “Thanks.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?”

  “Just a misunderstanding, is all.” He dialed Florez’s number.

  “And?”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Florez answered the phone on the second ring.

  “Hola. Como estás?” Jimmy spoke to the Colombian in his native language to keep the conversation private on his end of the line. Sue shook her head and went back to slicing the lime. Jimmy continued in rapid Spanish. “What do you want?”

  “That was a nasty trick you pulled on me yesterday.”

  “Does your head still hurt?”

  “What do you think?”

  When Jimmy chuckled, Sue looked at him quizzically and he winked at her.

  “You won’t be laughing when I make you eat my fist,” Florez growled.

  “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want. The woman.”

  “Right. Well, you can’t have her.”

  “Hand her over, or I promise you, my friend, you will not like the consequences.”

  “Buzz off, El Kabong,” Jimmy said in English before he punched End on the phone with his index finger.

  “What was that all about?” Sue carried a tray of salt-n-pepper shakers into the dining area and started distributing them on the tables.

  “Nothing important.” Jimmy tossed the receiver on the bar. He rubbed his gritty eyes with the palms of his hands. “I gave April Linus and her friend a ride home from Miami yesterday.”

  “Oh, Jimmy, tell me you did not do anything with those little girls?”

  “Thought you knew me better than that, Suzy-Q?”

  “I do, but sometimes you can be reckless and—”

  “And what? I ain’t a pervert, and I’m not exactly hard up for women.”

  “I’m just relieved you were thinking with your brain and not your—”

  “Mackerel,” Sue’s husband said as he entered from the kitchen. “The fish special today is mackerel. Oh, hey, good morning, boss.” Oscar Martin was a short, stocky dude with spiked black hair and a trimmed goatee. He slid onto the barstool next to Jimmy and said, “You look like hell.”

  “Old news.”

  “Yeah? What happened?”

  “He spent the night in jail,” Sue said, giving Jimmy a disapproving look.

  “No shit?” Oscar’s eyebrows rose. Jimmy’s brother Anders had met the chef in Nashville when he catered a birthday party for Reba McEntire. Anders was so impressed with Oscar’s cooking skills he hired him to cater his world tour and the two men became good buddies. When Anders flew Oscar down to Key West to open the bar and grille, it was supposed to be a temporary gig, but Oscar met Sue and decided to stick around.

  “The cops found my cargo and hauled me in for transporting.”

  “Oh, no,” Sue said with disappointment and Jimmy wasn’t certain it was over his incarceration or the loss of the booze.

  He shrugged. “That’s five Benjamins I’m never getting back.” As for spending the night in jail, he’d spent harder nights in worse places. “But at least the charges were dropped.”

  Captain Tom O’Shannahan entered the bar through the propped-open door. He was muttering to himself about something.

  “Captain Tom!” Jimmy shouted in greeting, mimicking the old salt’s gruff voice.

  “Panama,” he returned with a nod. Silver-haired and short of breath, he hobbled toward the bar as if he’d never quite got his land legs back after so many years spent at sea. He slid onto a stool at the far end in his usual spot and Sue placed a mug of lightly foaming Budweiser in front of him. “Oscar’s just the man I want to see.”

  “What’s up, Captain?” the chef said.

  “Did you get our tickets for the ITS yet?”

  “Yes, sir. They came in the mail yesterday. I booked our room, too.”

  “What’s the ITS?” Jimmy looked to Sue for an explanation as she placed a frosty Corona in front of him. The wedge of lime lounged on top of the open bottle like a sunbather on an inner tube. He squeezed the citrus into the hole before he took a long, satisfying swig.

  “The International Tech Show in Miami,” she explained. “The boys are going up for the weekend. They’re excited to see the invisible plane.”

  “Invisible, huh?” Jimmy leaned his elbows on the bar. “Don’t you mean to not see it?”

  She laughed and he winked at her.

  “You joke,” the captain said, “but the Mamba X-4 is one of the most technologically advanced aircraft ever invented. It’s virtually invisible in the air due to its mirrored hull. It’s undetectable on radar and quiet as a purring kitten.”

  When the captain paused to take a long gulp of beer, Oscar took over. “The US Government tried keeping it quiet, but they couldn’t cough up enough dough to prevent the inventor from going public before the sale is finalized. It’s been all over the news and web lately.”

  “So the government is buying the plane?” Sue asked as she took the captain’s empty mug to refill it on the tap.

  “Trying to,” Oscar said, “but the inventor is showing it off at the trade show first.”

  “Probably hoping to get a higher bid from a private buyer,” the Captain finished.

  Jimmy knocked back his beer, finishing it in a couple of gulps. He set the bottle on the bar with a thump and then pushed back his stool and stood up. “Looks like everything here is business as usual. I need a shower and a nap before I head over to Fat Cat Charters for the sunset cruise.”

  “Will we see you later?” Sue asked.

  “Most likely.” Jimmy gave the back of Oscar’s neck a friendly squeeze. “Save me some of that mackerel, Chef.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Jimmy waved good-bye to his friends as he stepped back out into the sunshine. The moaning whir of an aircraft passing overhead made him look up at the sky and think of the Duchess. She seemed like a smart girl. He hoped to God she hadn’t changed her mind about boarding that plane.

  His ears caught the sound of a frantic clicking in the distance. Like high heels on pavement. It grew louder as he approached the end of the building. In the land of flip-flops and boat shoes, stilettos in the afternoon were as uncommon as wool socks unless you were a hoochie momma or a drag queen. And he really didn’t think a drag queen was barreling at him full-tilt down the narrow alley behind his bar, but then again, he’d seen stranger things in this town.

  His instincts seemed to know what he would find when he looked into the alley before his brain could wrap itself around the crazy-ass notion. Dread tightened his stomach as he took the corner cautiously. His arms went up, catching the woman as she brick-walled it into his chest. He swung her in a half-circle before he could stop the momentum and set her on her feet, holding her at arm’s length. “What in the good Lord’s name are you doing here, Duchess? I thought you’d be halfway to Hogwarts by now?”

  “I—” She broke off as unintelligible male voices echoed off the buildings.

  Jimmy spun her away from the opening of the alley, pulling her closer as he scanned the street for cover. She trembled in his arms and that fancy perfume of hers that hovered around her like an invisible hands-off sign filled his nose.

  He cursed beneath his breath. “What the hell’s going on?”

  The sound of footfalls in the alley made her grip his shoulders with surprising strength. Wide-eyed and breathless, she looked up at him and gasped, “They’re after me!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Who’s aft
er you?” Jimmy didn’t budge an inch despite the fact the Duchess was shoving at his chest, urging him to move.

  “I don’t know. Two men,” she said.

  “Are they Florez’s men?”

  “How should I know? When they pointed their guns in my face, I didn’t stop to interview them.”

  Her sarcasm grated. He glared at her and didn’t move.

  Two bullets chipped the plaster off the edge of the building only inches from where they stood.

  “Have I mentioned they have guns?” she said. “Unless you’re bulletproof, I suggest we go.”

  With an exasperated sigh, he said, “Come on.”

  He grabbed her hand and together they jogged down the street toward Duval. There was relative safety in a crowd. Until he could diagnose the threat, it was the safest place to be. The Duchess tripped and stumbled, struggling to keep up with him. She needed to lose the heels.

  He stole a glance behind him and spotted two stone-faced dudes in dark suits bullying their way through a herd of tourists. A tall, pasty-faced white guy with slick-backed black hair and a short black guy sporting a retro Jheri curl, they were nothing like the tattooed punks Florez had with him in Miami. These two looked older and wiser. More efficient.

  Jimmy scanned the buildings looking for a place to hide. Souvenir shop. Souvenir shop. Café. Cigar shop. Most places didn’t have a rear exit or they emptied out into a narrow alley that would turn into a death trap if they were cornered.

  “We have to hide,” the Duchess said, tugging on his hand.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I hate guns.”

  “They won’t shoot out in the open. Too many witnesses.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “Common sense.”

  “Nothing about the last twenty-four hours makes any sense.” She stumbled again. “Lovely, I think I just broke a heel. Slow down!”

  Jimmy kept moving. “You need some practical shoes.”

  “My footwear isn’t the problem here. They’re getting closer. I think they see us.”