While avoiding the box I noticed some photos on the back wall. Most were of a younger version of the old woman standing with various local people and some celebrities. The newest photo was of JB in his Marty Manatee outfit standing alone in front of Capt. Tony’s Bar. There were several big pins sticking in the photo.
“White devils show voodoo witch papers and say she has to leave island so devils can build castles for more devils called Yank Keys. Witch mad and put spell on island. Big hurricane come flood island – kill witch and devils all. Now these many years later they want to bring deserted island to Key West, but I tell you this – that island is still cursed!”
I wandered back over toward the box.
“Yes, mister newspaper man, that whole damn story…Yes, all true. It happen long time ago…Huh? Cash, no check…Paypal? Okay, but make it soon! I have to go to post office this afternoon, check if big shipment of pins and dolls look like newspaper men come in yet…Fine then, pleasure doing business with you.”
I just opened the box for a peek, and immediately wished I hadn’t.
“All first class genuine stuff! Fifty nine ninety-nine each, or two for a hundred. You know what they say about two heads!”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” She gave me a shrug and a look like I was missing out on one of the world’s greatest bargains.
“Uh, about the chicken sacrifices?”
“Oh, yeah. Let me think on this.”
She went back to mulling, then looked up and smiled way too big. I took an involuntary half-step towards the door.
“I know man you need to talk to! Know all kind of low-lifes do these kinds of things! Must be most evil man in Key West! Real bastard, him!” She looked around the room carefully, then motioned me closer so she could whisper. “Evil old man called Shark Hunter. You go see him at the Scorpion Pit Bar.” She reached under the counter and handed me another doll, this one black and red. “He ask you who send you, just give him this!”
She sat back on her stool and launched into cackling and coughing. As the door closed behind me I thought I heard the old woman giggle like a little girl.
∨ Key Manatee ∧
Four
“How about Floaters restaurant? They got good, cheap, stone crabs.”
“It sank.”
“Again? Hmmm. Governor’s is close and I haven’t been there in a while.”
“I heard since he opened his third place he’s so busy he’s gone to using real chicken.”
“What did he use before?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Well, it can’t be much worse than some of the stuff we used to eat on the possum ranch back in Texas. The governor, he gave me a ride once, you know.”
I think I seen Slip roll his eyes as we headed out the door to go eat. I guess I may have already told that story a time or two.
Slip ordered the Workingman’s Bean Surprise and I got the Chicken Burritos. When the food came we didn’t hesitate and got to it.
We’d both done some serious initial damage to our entrées before doing any talking. Though no slouch when it comes to putting away groceries, I tend to savor my food more than Slip. I seen him eyeing my last burrito as he was licking out the bowl his beans had come in.
“The answer is yes, I’m going to eat that. The other answer is also yes, it tastes like chicken.”
Slip pushed back in his chair and produced a big toothpick and went to work, still giving my burrito an occasional covetous glance.
“I don’t want it, Taco. I reckon I got enough surprises for one meal with the beans already. No telling about that burrito, been a lot of traffic on the highway lately, if you know what I mean.” I used my elbow to slide the burrito back out of temptations way. “Did you find the Voodoo Priestess?”
“Yep. She told me to check with a man called Shark Hunter.” The toothpick fell out of Slip’s mouth, but he didn’t move or say anything. “Thought I’d look him up later today.”
Slip didn’t move, just swallowed hard.
“I’d love to tag along, but I got a charter this afternoon. Big-time flyfisher out of Maine wants to see some bonefish.”
Slip had a good thing going taking folks out kayak fishing the backwaters. The kayak wasn’t the man’s first choice in marine transportation, but his long standing tradition of mechanical ineptitude with any sort of engine left him with few options.
“I reckon I’ll be heading over to the Scorpion Pit by myself then.”
“Best to go there early, that’s a mighty rough place at night, TB.” The man surprised me with a rare serious look. “I’m liable to be late with this charter, you go there after dark, you might want to take Consuelo.”
“I’m not about to take a girl to a place like that, Slip. I can’t believe you’d even say such a thing.” I polished off the last burrito, threw some bills on the table and headed for the door. Slip was still with the weird serious stuff.
“Taco, she ain’t what you think.”
♦
Fish Daddy is one of those Key West folks you rarely come across outside of a barroom. But just a few days earlier, I’d seen a familiar bright green parrot bopping along above the heads of the tourists on Duval Street. Upon closer inspection I could see the bird perched on a hat worn by none other than Fish himself, out in broad daylight. He was navigating one of those coolers on wheels down the sidewalk at a good clip when he saw me across the street.
“Taco! Hold on, partner! I got something for you!” Without looking, he made a beeline across Duval and a screaming tourist girl on a rental motorbike just missed the cooler – the bird screeching and holding on for all he was worth. Fish Daddy didn’t pay the close call any mind and was all smiles up shaking my hand.
“I got some fresh-caught grouper here you can smoke up for some of your famous smoked fish spread!”
Before I could say anything the man pushed two big bags of fish fillets into my chest, then scurried off down the street.
So, several days later on my way to try to find Shark Hunter, I stopped by Pirate Jim’s Bar and Grill to drop off Fish Daddy’s big bowl of smoked fish spread. Which meant I had plenty for myself too, since my fee for making the savory paté is half. The man sat at his usual place at the bar.
“Taco! You got the stuff?” He opened the paper bag with the spread and stuck his nose in for a good snort. “Man, oh, MAN, but that smells fine!” He waved the barmaid over and she came up with a box of Stoned Wheat crackers from under the bar. The old man pulled a giant folding knife out of his shorts and after slicing open the cracker box, went to lathering up crackers with the spread. He gave the bird a cracker to keep him quiet. I declined the offer of a top-heavy cracker, and so did the barmaid. The knife looked suspiciously similar to the one he used to trim his toenails most nights while sitting at the bar.
“Y’all don’t know what you’re missing!” He went to eating and mumbling his approval of the spread, then started loading up another cracker. “How’s that book you’re writing coming along?”
“How’d you hear about that?”
“Oh, hell, most of the town knows.” I got a little jab in the ribs with an elbow. “You go around asking folks about writing and it ain’t had to figure out why.”
“Well, I have got a start on a book.”
“Good for you! I’m going to write one myself if I ever get the time.” Which I imagine would be when he ever gets caught up on hanging out in bars and chasing women. “I got some advice for you on your book. Don’t forget to throw in some supernatural stuff. Folks really eat that crap up.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” I wanted to get on over to the Scorpion Pit, and was about to take the opportunity.
“Before you rush off, Taco, I got a lucid dreaming story for you. As you know, there ain’t all that many folks into lucid dreaming, so I was mighty surprised when this fella starts in telling me this weird story.”
I sat back down. A draft beer appeared on the bar in front of me. I took a long sip.
“Said he’d been trying for months to dream lucid but just couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. He’d read all the books and even bought some of those subliminal tapes and CDs. Nothing. Couldn’t wake up in his dreams. But he kept at it and then got hold of one of those mask things supposed to help you dream lucid?”
I gave a nod that I’d heard of such a thing.
“Anyway, first time he tries it he not only goes lucid, he comes up on a dreaming scout!”
From what I’d heard, nobody was quite sure just what a scout was except they seemed to be a lot more real than anything else you’re likely to come up on in lucid dreaming. Some thought you could ask the scouts questions, though few trusted the answers. The old man was really getting into it.
“So what does he do, you ask? Well, he told me old Charlie Spider said in his book you’re supposed to grab hold any scouts you see and hang on tight, so he did!” A quick break for a spread and cracker and a gulp of beer and he was back. “Said the scout started spinning like crazy trying to throw him off but he held on. Said he spun for days.”
The man went for more beer and his attention strayed when he noticed the barmaid bending over to pick something up. I wanted to hear the rest of the story.
“So what happened next? After he was spinning around?”
“That’s it. He said when he stopped spinning he found himself in a bar talking to a fella with a green parrot on his head.” A finger pointed toward the restroom. “That’s him now, the dazed-looking fella coming out of the facilities.”
I stood up to give the dreamer his seat back and headed out the door to find Shark Hunter.
∨ Key Manatee ∧
Five
I knew about the Scorpion Pit Bar, but I’d never been there. There’s plenty of stories about the place and every so often something in the paper about the health department closing it down.
The bar’s in an old fish house down by the shrimp docks not far from Jimmy Buffett’s secret recording studio. Regulars sit up on the roof deck to watch the boats and drink. There’s an intersection of narrow channels close by that prove tricky for pleasure boaters in the best of conditions. Add fog, rain, weekend traffic, alcohol, testosterone, inexperienced boaters, missing channel markers, or any combination thereof and you’re likely to get some spectacular boat wrecks. I’d heard some locals call it Key West’s answer to Nascar.
I finally found the place. An old concrete block building baking in the tropical sun behind some overgrown bougainvillea bushes. The faded sign on the door said Welcome to the Scorpion Pit. The door was locked.
I gave it a couple good tries and was about to give up when an old fella came blinking in the sunlight from around the side of the building. He stopped, gave me the eye and seemed to come to a decision.
“Around back.” He pointed with a thumb over his shoulder as he headed for the parking lot. Guess that’s how they keep the tourists thinned out.
I stood inside the door for a half minute to let my eyes adjust. A nervous young bartender wiped at the bar and the handful of locals couldn’t be bothered to glance up from their business. Except for a rough-looking couple down at the end of the bar who grinned piano teeth at me and gave quick girly-like waves and winks before going back to their private whisperings.
“What’ll you have, mister?”
“I reckon I could handle a draft. Looking for Shark Hunter.”
The young fella behind the bar jumped a little at the name. His hands were shaking as he set my beer on the bar. “Buck fifty. He ain’t here.”
“Know where I might find him?” The bartender took my money and shrugged without looking up, then beat a hasty retreat down to the other end of the bar. That’s when I seen Robert looking at me from a table in the corner. It’s not that I don’t like Robert, but the guy can be a mite depressing to be around.
“Hey, Taco Bob! Who you looking for? Shark Hunter?”
I carried my beer down toward Robert hoping for once I could just get a straight answer from the man.
“Yep, that’s who I’m looking for. You know where he’s at?”
Robert stuck a smoke in his mouth and after a few tries got a cigarette lighter shaped like a fishing lure to light. He took a big puff and motioned for me to have a seat. Sitting would just encourage him.
“Thanks, but I’m in a mighty big hurry to find the man.” Robert didn’t seem to hear me or notice me still standing and checking my watch. He just settled back in his chair, took another hit on his cigarette, and got a faraway look going.
“You know, I wanted to have a character in my next book like Shark Hunter.” So much for a straight answer. “Did I ever tell you what happened? How I got screwed over by the big publishing houses?”
“As a matter of fact, you did tell me about that. At length.” But it was too late, he was into it.
“Those bastards were too busy giving fat publishing contracts to authors writing the same book over and over. Too busy to pay any attention to someone trying to do something a little different.” The most avoided failed writer in Key West took a slow pull on his beer. “Taco, did I tell you I wrote and published three books all by myself? Didn’t even have professional editing or anything. Just some help from friends.” I hoped I could find out where Shark Hunter was before he got all emotional and started crying in his beer.
“Taco, you know, I…I could have been a contender!” Too late, tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“Robert, pull yourself together, man. I’m sure something will work out for you.” I hated to lie to the man. “Maybe some big publisher will read one of your books and give you a call.” I realized too late that was the wrong thing to say. Now he was really falling apart.
The locals at the other tables didn’t pay any attention to the grown man crying like a baby. They’d obviously seen it before. The rough couple at the end of the bar looked over though and both winked. The strangely familiar one with the unsettling dark eyes licked her lips and blew a kiss before turning back around.
“Robert. Look, I feel for you, man, but I really need to talk to Shark Hunter if you know where he is.”
After some further sniffling, the man pulled out a handkerchief and honked into it.
“He probably went to his boat. It’s over at that abandoned marina they’re going to tear down for condos. You know where I mean?”
“Yeah, just across the bridge. This end of Stock Island.” I waved at the bartender and pointed at Robert. “Thanks for your help, partner. Let me buy you a beer.”
“You’re a good man, Taco Bob. You want some free advice? You ever write a book, use a lot of adjectives, the bigger the better. That’s what a lot of those big-time writers do, and they’ve all got publishing contracts!”
Robert looked about to lose it again, so I gave him a slap on the back and told him I’d be seeing him. I handed the bartender some money and was heading for the door when Robert yelled out to me.
“Mr. Hunter’s real name isn’t Shark, you know, it’s Clarence.”
∨ Key Manatee ∧
Six
I pushed open the old chain-link gate with the big Posted No Trespassing sign and drove down the pot-holed shell road. The only place I could see to park was next to a rusty hulk on blocks that looked as though it might have been a boat at one time.
The old marina had been abandoned for quite a while. The only signs of life among the collapsing buildings, underbrush, and trash was a feral cat or two, and loud rock and roll music coming from the direction of the water. Sounded like one of Marty Manatee’s big hits.
I followed a path through chest-high weeds and stands of scrubby trees until I came to a one-plank-wide walkway that went out to the source of the music – a big, squat thing in the water that looked like a cross between an old shrimp boat and a bad car wreck. Someone had welded, wired, and duct-taped a tuna tower onto the roof of the cabin and had gotten it almost straight. Several tattered nautical flags and what appeared to be equally tattered
ladies undergarments flapped from the rigging.
The plank had a little spring to it, enough so I had to pay attention or I’d be taking a swim. Before I got far I noticed a powerful bad smell.
“Hello on board! Anybody home?” There wasn’t any answer and I didn’t look up from the plank until I was almost to the boat. A man sitting on deck reached down to a boombox and the music stopped. He set his book down, stood and stretched out like he’d been sitting a while. He was a lean and rugged-looking sort wearing an equally rugged-looking old yachting cap. The man before me was gray fuzz and dark sunglasses on top, bones and grizzle everywhere else. He was tanned almost black and naked as a newborn. I’d never seen so many scars on a human being.
“Howdy. You must be Mr. Hunter. I—”
“Hold on just a cotton-fucking minute! Before you get started on God knows whatever it is you come here for, you look sober enough to make it back to the store to buy a round.” He pushed an empty gallon jug across the table by his chair and drank off the dregs of another before handing it over as well. “You can get a couple of these and something for yourself.”
I gathered up the glass jugs while he gave me detailed directions to the store. The old fella issued an uninhibited belch and went back to the book he was reading. Looked like I had the honor of paying for the beer.
I drove through a weathered old trailer park I hadn’t seen before and down a road that hadn’t ever been troubled by paving or much traffic. Most of the area was overgrown and fenced off with government signs except for an old clapboard house with a hand-painted sign that said STORE. The store backed up to some low mangrove growing out in the shallow water and a bridge in the distance jammed with traffic. Nothing else around except a tired-looking old Pinto parked on the edge of the dusty road.
The inside was one stifling room with a of couple chickens scratching around. The chickens spooked when I came in knocking on the doorjamb, and a short, bald man came snorting awake from a couch in the middle of the room. I held the jugs up and he stood zipping his pants as a skin magazine dropped to the floor. He didn’t say anything and didn’t take his hooded eyes off me while he headed for the bank of moldy old refrigerators along the far wall. I set the jugs on the dusty counter he pointed at. Without looking away from me, the wary man poured both full from a five-gallon bucket of God-knows-what while a fly walked across his nose.
Key Manatee Page 3