A Second Chance in Paradise (7 page)

“
Oh, I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Thinking of his lost friend now, Pa suddenly lost his kind, even-tempered demeanor. In just a flash the sadness in his old eyes turned to anger.

“Godamned developers down in the Saddlebunch Keys
killed
him, just like they kill everything else –  for the quick money. Ole Doyle was waitin’ to pull out onto U.S. 1, out front of my store, when a flatbed flies by. This guy’s haulin’ three big sable palms to some new condo down on Saddlebunch, and he loses one, wasn’t tied down snug. It landed smack on top of the hood of Doyle’s old pickup ... rolled with such force that it smashed into the windshield and crushed him. He was killed instantly.”  Shaking his head in disgust now, his eyelids beginning to tremble, Pa said, “Them useless Chamber of Commerce types ... politicians, developers, investors, all of ’em. They’re more venomous than a pissed-off cottonmouth, when it comes to money. No matter how much they got, it ain’t never enough. They got no respect for nothin’ or nobody!”

Seeing him this enraged made me a little nervous. It was obvious
his resentment towards the developers and their cronies had been festering for a long, long time.

“
Anyway,” Pa continued, trying to compose himself now, “the firemen cut the cab open and the EMTs carted Doyle off to the morgue down in Key West. To them developers, he wasn’t nothin’ more than a road kill. Just some old nobody, with no family anywhere to sue ’em.”

“
I’m really sorry, Mr. Bell.”

There was
a moment of uncomfortable silence before he finally asked, “You want to rent it month to month ... the trailer?”

“Sure.
That would be fine.”

“H
unert-and-fifty a month, plus electric and water.”

“
Sounds fair to me,” I said, knowing better than to offer to pay up front.

“
No fishing from the dock.”

“
Mister. Bell, I love to fish, but I’m a sportsman. I think you and I share a common respect for wildlife.”

Looking directly into my eyes, Pa nodded slowly then. Knowing now that deal was done, I waited just a moment before saying, “
I’ve got to get going now. I want to pick up some groceries over at the store.”

“Sure. Okay.
Tell Sissy I said to give you twenty percent off like I do all the others in the park.” Then his wise eyes narrowed as if they were being pinched together and he said in a slightly deeper tone, “Be nice to Julie, now. She’s one hell of a gal. It was plain to see last night that she’s takin’ a liking to you. I ain’t never seen her act that interested in any man.”

Just what I
didn’t
need to hear. I did not need any additional pressure right then, but I knew Pa hadn’t intended to tax my emotions. After all, he couldn’t have known I went into Julie’s trailer with her the night before. Or could he? Did he?  Something in those alert, knowing eyes of his made me wonder.

Chapter 7

Most of us have a secret closet where we store all kinds of different masks. Depending on the people we encounter or the situations we find ourselves in, we can change our disguises in an instant. For that reason it can sometimes be harder to read people than to decipher ancient literature. But that wasn’t the way it was with Sissy when I went to Pa’s store to buy groceries that morning.

From the moment I stepped onto that worn
, wooden floor, I knew something was up with her. She acted differently to the first time I was in there. Immediately, I could tell she was giving me the silent treatment. She must have somehow figured out what happened between me and her close friend, either that or Julie told her. No matter what, I did not like it. Just minutes earlier Pa had made me feel uncomfortable enough telling me to treat Julie right, now here was Sissy copping an attitude. With nobody else in the store as I perused the shelves, I tried twice to start a lighthearted conversation. I still got nothing. That was it. I didn’t say another word. Not even when I went to pay Sissy. I was so angry that I didn’t even mention the discount Pa told me to ask for.

After lugging a twelve-pack of beer and four bags of groceries to the trailer – kicking dust up in front of me most of the way, I decided I
had
to get all the clutter out of my head. I
needed
to go fishing. So after taking a quick shower in the phone-booth-size stall, loading my tackle box, bait bucket, and two rods into the van, I headed up to Big Pine Key to get some bait.

It was a good decision. In no time at all my negative thoughts simply vanished. How could they not? As I motored
north there was a magnificent expanse of ocean on either side of me. On the right, way, way out in the Atlantic, I could see the dark blue waters of the Gulfstream. In closer, the shoals were a beautiful shade of turquoise and, closer yet, the water became a soothing mint green, mottled with dark patches where the shallow was coated with eel grass. Shimmering beneath an endless blue sky, this was a vision that could never be duplicated on any picture postcard.

As soon as I came off the bridge
over Pine Channel onto Big Pine Key, I saw for the first time a diminutive Key deer. Driving through here last Friday, on my way south, I had seen numerous caution signs along the road advising to watch for the endangered deer, but I hadn’t see any. Now, coming out of the sun-blanched palmettos alongside the road, there was a fully grown doe, maybe 30 inches high, and her tiny fawn. With no cars close behind me I slowed considerably, admiring the beauty of the docile animals. When I went by them they popped their heads up from the grass they were foraging and studied me with their shiny black Bambi eyes.

About a
mile later I came upon a small block building with a huge red and white sign on its roof that screamed “BAIT”. After swinging into the small parking area I pulled alongside a Chevy blazer with a “Save the reef” sticker on its rear bumper; killed the ignition and walked to the front door. Right in front of my nose there was a “Help Wanted” sign taped to the glass. “Hmmm,” I muttered to myself as I leaned on the door and stepped inside.

The damp
air in the store was laden with the smell of sea water from a shrimp tank and a touch of fresh mullet – one of the world’s most exciting fragrances to a salty angler. Two men were talking in the rear of the well-stocked shop, almost surely about fishing. One was a tall, husky, bearded guy with a green “Penn” cap atop his blocky head, the other, about half his size, was rail-thin and sported the kind of dangerously dark suntan you can only get from too  many hours on the water. The little guy sitting behind a glass display counter crammed full of reels was wearing khaki shorts and a khaki shirt – the unofficial uniform of Florida Keys charter boat captains. As I got closer I could read the “Cap Forest” embroidered over his breast pocket. Both men were gulping coffee from foam cups and smoking cigarettes. Neither looked my way so I figured they either hadn’t noticed me or simply didn’t give a damn. I couldn’t help feeling like a no-count intruder as I walked around picking up some sinkers, hooks swivels and a bait bucket. It was only when I set my selections on top of the glass display case that they seemed to notice me.

“L
o,” Cap Forest finally looked up and said. His deep-set eyes resembled road maps with all the red lines in them going north, east, south, and west.  

“
How’re you doing?” I came back. “I need two dozen shrimp also.”

“
Help yourself to some coffee,” Cap said, nodding at the Mr. Coffee machine on the end of the on counter.

“I t
hink I will. Let me have three or four fresh mullet too, if you have them.”

As
I poured the steamy-hot brew into a cup the bigger man with the graying beard asked, “Where ya gonna fish?”

“Oh
... I’m just going over to the Wrecker’s Hey Bridge to see if I can get a few snapper for dinner.”

“
You new here, or just on vacation?” he asked glancing out the front window at my New York plates.

“I’m
planning
on staying awhile. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask about the job.”

“
What job?”

“
Well, I saw the sign on the door when I came in.”

“
Oh yeahhh,” he said, turning toward the captain as he returned with my bucket of shrimp and four good sized mullet wrapped in newspaper.

“
This here feller wants to know about the job, Cap.”

I didn’t think
Forest had noticed my license plates but was pretty sure he did notice my accent. Knowing all too well that most people beyond the George Washington Bridge have no great love for New Yorkers, I figured he’d quickly blow me off.

“
Where do ya live?”

“
Bell’s Trailer Park. Down on Wreckers Key.”

“
How long you been there?”

“As
I was just telling this fella, I’ve only been here a few days. But I plan on staying,”

“
Sorry, but I’m really lookin’ for somebody who’s been here awhile ... someone who knows about fishin’ these parts.”

“I realize that
I’d have a lot to learn about your methods and fish, but I’m a quick learner. Up in Long Island, I’ve fished offshore for Mako shark, trolled, surf fished, and bottom fished too. I can rig baits, wrap rods, fix reels – the whole nine yards.”

I could feel my
sales instincts kicking in. I was selling myself the same way I’d sold hundreds of sofas in the past, and it seemed I might be turning things around now. Cap extracted another Doral cigarette from his pocket and tapped the unfiltered end over and over on the counter, as if he were considering me. Knowing that timing means everything in sales, I moved in for the close.

“
I was going to look for work in Key West, but I’d love to work in a more relaxed atmosphere. I like things quiet.”

Cap Forest ran
a twitching hand back through his oily black hair one time then eyeballed me for a few seconds.

“You know what? You s
eem like a pretty sharp guy. I just might be able to give you a shot. But the job’s only gonna pay eight an hour ... under the table.”

I knew it would pay peanuts. But that was okay, I didn’t know how long I was going to last in the Keys. There was a good chance I’d end up going back to New York. For the time being I could get by on the ridiculous salary, especially with the sweet deal Pa was giving me on the trailer. If things became tight, I could always take a few dollars from the money I’d brought with me.

“That’s okay,” I said, feeling my mouth pull into a small smile, “a guy’s got to start somewhere, right?”

“Okay, I’ll
give you a try. I’ll need you to work Saturdays to Tuesdays, seven till five. That’s only four days, but it’ll come out to 40 hours. My wife, Maggie, she works the other days and the three evenings we stay open. You can start day after tomorrow. I’ll work with you for two days, but after that I’ve got charters the rest of the week. You’ll be on your own.” 

He extended
his hand then and when I reached for it I couldn’t help noticing all the fresh thin cuts on the heel of it, and on the outside of his pinky. I knew he’d gotten them from breaking monofilament.

“
Name’s Forest, but everyone calls me Cap,” he said as we shook.

“
Sonny, Sonny Raines.”

Cap
then looked at the other man and said, “This here’s Dalton Judge. You’ll be seein’ him around here plenty. Can’t seem ta keep him the hell away. Who knows? Maybe you can,” Cap actually smiled for the first time.

“
Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Thanks! Thanks a lot. I’ll see you in the A.M. I’ve got to go put a hurting on some of those snapper now.”

After I paid for the fishing tackle and was making my way toward the door, Cap said from behind me, “
Say hello ta Pa Bell for me. Haven’t seen him in a month a Sundays.”

I promised I would and when I reached to door Dalton Judge blurted in his husky voice, “
Fish the fourth set of pilings on the south end of the bridge ... on the bay side.”

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll give it
a try.”

I did fish that fourth set of pilings. And even though the tide was running out, I managed to get a few nice mangrove snappers for the pan. Content with my catch, I was walking off the bridge when a white pickup truck with a Monroe County logo on its door pulled behind my van
where I’d parked on the Flagler’s Key side. Then a black Mercedes 560SL with dark shaded windows parked behind the truck. Just before the luxury car became obscured by the pickup though, I’d caught a glimpse of the vanity plate on its front bumper. It said WATERFRONT.

Two county workers in drab uniforms got out of the truck, and a tall, lean, middle-aged man, wearing what appeared to be a tailor-made white linen suit, got out of the Benz as if he were a conqueror climbing out of his chariot. As he strode alongside the road toward the pickup truck, I saw him looking at me. Once he reached the front of the truck he shifted his eyes to the New York pl
ate on my old van, and he took one last glance my way. Probably thinking I was just another nickel-and-dime tourist, he then joined the two workers who were huddled over a sheet of paper one was holding. Quickly, as if the whole procedure were being timed by a stopwatch, one yanked a sign out of the back of the truck, and the three then double-timed it down a steep incline to the water. By the time I approached my van the workers were digging a hole by the shoreline – right smack in front of a dense group of mangrove trees – federally protected mangrove trees. The suit, who watched them closely, was holding the sign now.

I stole a few more peeks a
s I slowly loaded my fishing rods into the back of the van. The sign was yellow with black print that proclaimed, “Notice of Zone Change Request – There will be a hearing at the Monroe County Courthouse in Key West, Florida on Monday, August 19th to consider a zoning change. Request filed by L. Topper.” From where I was standing I could make out the words – but just barely. There was no way in hell anybody driving by would be able too. And the whole purpose of the public announcement was supposed to be so that anybody wanting to challenge the zoning change could go to the courthouse and do so. But where these guys were planting the thing, behind the bridge abutment, it would be well-hidde
n
.

I’d seen enough. Smelling the stench of trouble in the sultry
tropical air, I cranked up the van and drove over the bridge to the Wrecker’s Key side.

Back at the trailer
I almost cut my thumb as I hurriedly filleted my catch. I wanted to get back over to Pa Bell’s place to tell him what I’d seen. I’d have gone directly there after fishing, but I didn’t knowing how long I might be there and didn’t want the fish to go bad. After cleaning the last fish, my wet hands up in front of me, I stepped over to the front window and looked out across the channel. It was too far away to see the sign they’d planted on Flagler’s Key, but I could well see that clump of mangroves growing out of the water along the shoreline. Of course that truck and car were long gone by then. Returning to the sink, I rinsed the fish well, placed them in a bowl, covered it with tinfoil and put it into the refrigerator. With that done, I left to go to Pa’s.

After stepping outside I dropped a bag full of
snapper skeletons and entrails into a plastic trash standing next to the entrance. Then I walked around to the other side of the trailer and glanced over at Julie’s place.

Damn! She would be out on the porch right now
.
This is going to be awkward as hell ... living here with her right next door
.

Dressed in
short cutoff jeans and a white tee, Julie was on her toes watering one of her many hanging plants. As I stepped over to the van, I couldn’t help but to watch. With her back to me, she stretched way up high – flexing her luscious calves and all-female thighs. Then she reached a little higher yet. The back of her shirt lifted out of her shorts, exposing her narrow lower back. At the bottom of her shorts, a peek of her two bare cheeks suddenly made an appearance as well.
Whoosh
, I thought, shaking my head. But I didn’t want her to catch me gawking at her – for the second time that day. Forcing my eyes away, I climbed into the van.

When I closed the door she turned my way, and I leaned toward the windshield, giving her a weak little wave. She did the same thing then immediately turned right back around to her plants. As much as my gesture had been an acknowledgment of her presence, it was also an apologetic gesture. I rolled out of that driveway feeling like hell – even slimier than the fish I’d just cleaned.

Chapter 8

Pa wasn’t home when I went to his place so I stopped into
Barnacle Bell’s later that afternoon. When I plopped down on a torn, red upholstered stool, there were only a handful of customers at the bar. It was quiet and with the front door wedged open it was a bit lighter inside than usual. Pa was breaking open rolls of coins and putting them in his old cash register. Without looking up, he asked, “What can I get ya Sonny?”

“
Can of Miller Lite would work.”

He
set a cold, damp can on a bar coaster and said, “Saw you out on the bridge before. Any Luck?”

“I got a few snapper before the tide ran out. I also
jumped a good-sized tarpon on a heavier outfit. Man, was he something.”             

“
Yep,” Pa said, “with that new moon the tides are at their lowest now. Anyway, if you got some snapper you musta found that rock pile at the edge of the channel.”