Legend in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  His body relaxed slightly. Then, by way of an answer, he yelled out barbarically and slammed the back of his head into my face. I just managed to turn my head to the side and avoid a broken nose, but the force of his thick skull slamming into my cheek still hurt like hell.

  I grunted, and my upper body lurched sideways. The angry acrobat used the brief distraction to whip his body around and pull his arm loose. I narrowed my gaze as he spun around and stared me down.

  Okay, asshole, if this is the way you want it. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  He might have been incredibly fit, an experienced performer, and a decent thief, but he was about to find out that he was in way over his head.

  He engaged me a second time, lunging toward me and gritting his teeth as he threw another punch my way. I took a step back, planted my left leg into the ground, and hit him with a strong side kick. My right heel smashed into his jaw. I heard bones crack as his head whipped sideways and his body spun, trying to keep up. He slammed hard into the pavement, his body motionless.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I stormed toward the other performers, who were still coming at me confidently. Now in fight mode, my eyes scanned over each of them in a fraction of a second. None of them were armed.

  I had my Sig Sauer P226 9mm handgun concealed in a holster under the right side of my waistband. Attached horizontally to the back of my leather belt was my razor-sharp titanium dive knife. I had options just in case things went south in a hurry but didn’t plan on utilizing anything other than my fists.

  Just as I stepped over the leader’s unconscious body, a second guy came at me in a flying Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon–type kick. I slid to the side, grabbed hold of his body, then spun around and chucked him as hard as I could. A combination of his own momentum and my throw sent his short, lean body flying. He spun wildly before colliding hard into the pole they’d set up. The force caused the women holding the colorful stabilizing ropes to lose their grips, and the log slammed to the pavement like a fallen tree. His body collided hard with the ground, spun a few times, then disappeared over the edge. His water landing was signaled moments later by a loud splash.

  Two down.

  Next came the tallest of the group. He engaged me just as I took my eyes off the guy I’d just sent swimming.

  Before I could react, he managed to strike me with a front kick, but I absorbed the blow as best I could and held his leg in place between my left arm and my chest. Gripping his thigh, I pulled him close, then jabbed my right fist square into his face. My knuckles shattered his sunglasses and cracked the fragile bones of his nose. Blood spewed out, and he gagged as I swept my right leg into his stabilizing leg. His body flew out from under him, and he nearly performed an unintentional backflip before gravity knocked him back to earth.

  After watching me immobilize his three buddies, Tarzan came at me with reckless abandon. He threw a big, sweeping punch toward me. Dropping down, I grabbed the strap of his fanny pack and jerked him forward. With his body moving toward me, I hit him with a hard left, punching him right in the gut and knocking the air from his lungs. His upper body bent forward, his eyes grew wide, and his mouth shot open.

  Releasing the strap of his fanny pack, I jammed my right hand forcefully up into his neck, crunching his trachea. He wobbled sideways, then collapsed onto the ground. He wrapped his hands around his neck and struggled for air. Wheezing and gasps filled the air. His face was pure panic as he rolled from side to side.

  I took in a breath and let it out as I rose up onto one knee.

  Looking up, I saw that the guy with the bleeding, broken nose was struggling to rise to his feet. Out of the four performers, he was the only one who seemingly hadn’t had enough.

  Before I could finish what I’d started, Ange swept in from behind me and kicked him across the face, knocking him out.

  The crowd cheered, whistled, and clapped wildly as I rose to my feet. I felt like a professional boxer who’d just dethroned the heavyweight champion and claimed myself a shiny golden belt.

  Ange turned around and placed her hands on her hips as she looked at me.

  “So much for not hogging all of the fun,” she said, shooting me a slight grin.

  The truth was, it had all happened too fast for either her or Jack to make a move. The entire confrontation had lasted only a few seconds beginning the moment I’d sent their leader to sleep.

  “Sorry,” I said with a shrug. “Guess I got a little carried away.”

  “You’re not sorry,” Ange corrected me.

  She was right. I wasn’t. Something about witnessing injustice gets my blood boiling, and I take satisfaction in putting a stop to it, whether it requires the use of force or diplomacy.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said, her tone shifting as she knelt down beside me and examined my left cheek.

  “A lucky shot,” I said, waving her off.

  There was only a little bit of blood. My jaw was sore as I slid it side to side, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken.

  Suddenly, part of the crowd shifted from cheers to shouts of anger. I turned my head to look out over the water. At the edge of the square, the guy I’d sent swimming was climbing up into view. Water dripped down from his soaked body and his face contorted with rage as he staggered to his feet and eyed me angrily.

  He took two steps toward me before a big-bellied tourist shattered a beer bottle on his head. He wobbled, then collapsed to the ground and joined his friends in their naptime.

  The crowd cheered again, and the big-bellied guy yelled out victoriously as he waved what remained of the bottle high in the air. Jack appeared at my left, and the three of us laughed as we looked at each other and the surrounding chaos.

  SEVEN

  “Alright, everybody back!” Jane Verona shouted as she appeared through the crowd in her dark blue Key West Police Department uniform.

  Jane was the temporary sheriff and had arrived just as the aftermath of the fight was beginning to get out of hand. With four unconscious thieves on the ground and a few bags of stolen goods, the highly intoxicated group surrounding us would’ve been nearly impossible for us to control.

  Two other police officers showed up, helping Jane take command of the scene. Jane gives off a strong Michelle Rodriguez vibe. She’s a tough-as-nails Hispanic woman with a pretty face and a take-control mentality. She’s only about five and a half feet tall, but she’s incredibly strong and carries herself in a way that makes her look much taller.

  As the two other officers kept the crowd at bay, she stepped toward us and looked over the scene.

  “Well, if it isn’t Key West’s very own Batman,” Jane said. She looked over at the four unconscious performers and added, “Nice to see you’re dialing down your vigilante side.”

  “You’re welcome,” I replied with a smile. “And you sound more and more like Charles every day. Gotta talk to the mayor and have him make your title official.”

  She cracked a smile. Charles Wilkes had been the island’s previous sheriff. A great lawman and a better friend, he’d been murdered by a ruthless and corrupt group of private military members six months earlier.

  After a moment she said, “So, you guys gonna keep me in suspense here, or are you gonna tell me why you decided to put a unique exclamation point on this evening?”

  We told her everything, and by the time the paramedics arrived, she was thanking us for intervening. She turned away from us only when a couple of college-aged kids grabbed hold of one of the fanny packs and started rummaging through it.

  “Drop it!” Jane yelled in a spine-chilling, hell-hath-no-fury tone.

  The young guy holding the pack froze, his face filled with terror. He wisely did as he was told, and Jane began the process of returning the stolen goods to their rightful owners.

  “Nice moves, Logan,” a familiar voice said from behind me.

  I turned around and saw a middle-aged woman dressed up as a cat. Body paint, a mask, the works.

&
nbsp; “Harper?” Ange said, raising her eyebrows.

  The cat nodded, and she lifted the mask, revealing her pale face. Harper Ridley was a reporter for the Keynoter, Key West’s local paper. She’d been working there forever and we’d become friends over the years. Not only was she a great writer, but she’d also helped us a lot in tracking down notorious serial killers who’d been killing across the Everglades.

  “I always knew you were secretly a crazy cat lady,” I said, “but I think you’re taking it a bit too far.”

  She laughed.

  “Who ever said it was a secret?” She grabbed a small notepad and pen that she always kept on her person someplace and added, “Who should I write saved the day this time? I’m running out of ideas for fake names.”

  It hadn’t exactly been my first brush with danger since I’d moved to the Keys, and I’ve never liked attention. So naturally, I’d struck a bargain with Harper not to use my name in her editions of the Keynoter.

  “Plain old good Samaritan always works,” Ange said.

  “Or you could listen to Jane and just start calling him Batman,” Jack said with a grin.

  “Already working on a custom spotlight,” Jane called out, listening in on our conversation. “I’m thinking a Dodge logo, or maybe the Navy SEAL trident.”

  I chuckled and shook my head. Never really thought of myself as heroic. If I see evil taking place, I take action. Just that simple. Once Harper was content she had enough for her story, I thanked her for her discretion, and Jane for taking over the scene.

  “Well, that was a fun little bit of danger,” Ange said as we turned to leave.

  “The only danger is gonna be getting out of here without dying of alcohol poisoning,” Jack said as a hundred rowdy people offered us drinks at the same time.

  We managed to slip through the raging crowd of party animals. By the time we reached the Conch Harbor Marina just up the waterfront, Jack was the only one having a hard time staying on his feet. The fourth-generation conch embraced the islands and all of their traditions to his core.

  We helped him onto his boat and made sure he crashed onto a bed. Then Ange and I strolled down the dock to where our forty-eight-foot Baia Flash was moored. It was a sleek, shiny blue-hulled boat that offered the perfect combination of speed and comfort. Dodging Bullets was painted in white letters on the transom.

  I heard the sound of happy paws coming from below deck as I disengaged the security system, climbed aboard, and hinged open the main hatch. My yellow Lab, Atticus, jumped topside in a flash of energetic movement. He licked us both, acting as if he hadn’t seen us in years, then I took him for a quick walk down along the wharf.

  After a late-evening snack of leftover shrimp Alfredo, we sat up on the sunbed and drank a few Paradise Sunset beers while Ange tended my cheek. Even though it was nearly midnight, the marina and the downtown streets were buzzing with activity.

  When she finished fixing me up, she grabbed two more beers from the saloon and nestled beside me. She kept her gaze drawn out over the dark, calm water of the marina.

  “Something on your mind?” I asked.

  She’d been unusually quiet, and I could tell her mind was busy at work.

  “What are we going to do about the children’s shelter?” she said.

  I nodded. Jack’s mention of it had crawled back into my mind a few times since the scuffle at the square.

  I wrapped an arm around her.

  “We’ll figure something out, Ange.”

  She paused a moment, then cracked a slight smile.

  “You know, I had fun tonight,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Me too,” I said. “I think those guys are gonna think twice before stealing again.”

  “Or they’re gonna swear revenge for the embarrassment and ass-kicking. Guess we should watch our backs.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, ’cause our list of bad guys we’ve crossed wasn’t big enough already.”

  We stayed up another hour talking, then headed to the main cabin and made passionate love before passing out to the sound of distant music and lapping water against the hull.

  EIGHT

  I woke up to the bright sun as its light shone through the overhead hatch. It was open, allowing a refreshing breeze to sweep in. Gulls flew past, and I heard occasional splashes as fish swiped bugs from the water’s surface.

  Leaning onto my side, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and saw that I’d received a message. It was from Pete. He wanted to meet with me later that morning. He said it was something important, though not an emergency.

  I stepped barefoot into the galley, greeted Atticus, then filled his food and water bowls. Climbing topside, I looked around at the quiet marina while taking in deep breaths of fresh air. Ange met me in the saloon wearing nothing but one of my tee shirts.

  I whipped up a quick mango banana smoothie and some coffee for breakfast. After showering and getting dressed, we locked up the Baia and headed for the parking lot. My black Tacoma 4x4 was backed into a first-row parking spot. The three of us climbed in, and I started up the six-cylinder engine.

  “Any idea what this is about?” Ange said.

  I shrugged. “Not a clue. You never really know with Pete.”

  She laughed as I drove us out of the lot.

  We pulled into the seashell lot in front of Salty Pete’s just after 0900. While walking to the front door, Atticus trotted over to his usual spot in the shade of a gumbo-limbo tree. But instead of doing a few quick circles and plopping down, he caught a whiff of something and took off toward the backside of the restaurant.

  “Atticus!” Ange yelled, but he’d already disappeared from view.

  “I got him,” I said, stopping Ange as she stepped toward my sometimes overly curious pooch. “Tell Pete I’ll be right in,” I added as she headed for the door, and I jogged after him.

  I rounded a large snow bush at the corner. The backyard was small, just a patch of green surrounded by trees on two sides and a shed at the back that Pete used to work on old cars. Jack’s nephew, Isaac, worked at Pete’s part-time, and he did an excellent job mowing the grass and trimming the edges.

  I spotted Atticus right away. He was playing in the middle of the yard and staring at a shirtless guy who looked like he was in his seventies and was striking a Lord of the Dance yoga pose. For a moment I thought I was seeing things, that maybe one of the jerk Cirque du Soleil wannabes had hit me a little too hard across the head.

  Then the guy spoke.

  “Easy, boy,” he said to Atticus. “Sit.”

  To my amazement, Atticus relaxed and instantly did as he was told. He usually only took orders from myself or Ange.

  “Thanks,” I said, walking toward them. “He’s still a puppy at heart.”

  “Aren’t we all,” the guy replied without looking up at me.

  I wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so I just bent down and petted my curious pooch. The guy looked even more unorthodox up close. He had a strange build. He looked strong but had a lot of loose skin. He was incredibly tan and had more scars than I could count to go along with two visible tattoos, a lighthouse on his right arm and an anchor on the other. He had thick white hair and a matching scruffy beard.

  “Come on, Atticus,” I said sternly. When he hopped back toward the front of the restaurant, I turned back to the guy, “Sorry for disturbing your workout.”

  He waved me off.

  “Just finishing up,” he said, planting his raised foot to the grass.

  “That’s a tough move.”

  He smiled. “Been doing yoga for a few years now. Back in ’87, my doctor told me that I needed to ease back on the booze and fried foods and recommended that I start doing yoga every day.” He laughed and added, “One out of three ain’t bad. Hell, that’d get me into the Hall of Fame if I was a ballplayer.”

  I laughed.

  “Well, you’re not dead, so I guess it’s working,” I said. “Never seen you around before. You friends with Pete?”


  He nodded. “Used to live here. Just visiting for a few days.”

  He turned to face me for the first time. His face was tanned and covered in sunspots, but the first thing I noticed was the impressive fresh shiner around his right eye. He also had a few cuts to his forehead and bruised cheeks.

  “Jeez, are you alright?”

  He looked at me for a moment, confused, then lifted a hand to his eye and nodded.

  “Just had a little too much fun last night, if you know what I mean.” He stepped over and extended his hand. “Walt.”

  “Logan,” I said.

  A little too much fun? More like he got hammered and lost a fight with a staircase by the looks of it.

  He had a firm grip despite his lean frame. He paused a moment as we shook hands, then raised his eyebrows.

  “Logan Dodge?”

  I nodded slowly, then narrowed my gaze and tilted my head, confused how he knew me.

  “Pete says you might be able to help us with something,” he explained.

  “Something?”

  He grabbed his shirt from the grass, wiping the sweat from his brow. Atticus barked from the side of the restaurant. I looked up and saw Ange leaning over the second-floor balcony.

  “You coming, babe?” she said.

  “Be right up.”

  I turned back to Walt and was about to ask what he and Pete needed help with when he beat me to it.

  “We’ll explain everything,” he said as he slid his blue shirt on. “See if you’re interested. Let’s go get something cold to drink.”

  Atticus plopped down in his usual spot while we headed inside. Pete’s didn’t open until noon, so the dining area was empty. We met Ange and Pete up on the balcony. It was covered with umbrella-shaded tables, with a bar on one side and, a small stage on another, and had a beautiful view of the ocean.

  “I see you two have already met,” Pete said.

  He stood from a table near the railing and patted me on the back when I reached him. Ange stayed seated and took a drink of her Key limeade.

  “Wow, are you alright?” Ange asked when she saw Walt’s face.