Too Much Stuff (12 page)

“Look at all you’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours.”

“I’m no closer to the gold.”

“You’ve only been here a couple of days, boyfriend.”

I liked it when she called me that.

Standing up, she motioned to me. We walked to the beach, and she took my hand. At that very second, life couldn’t have been any better. Of course, that never lasts.

We had dinner at the Ocean View Inn and Pub. The place was on the gulf side of the Key and did not overlook the ocean. That didn’t seem to matter. It was still the Ocean View Inn.

“Are you sure you want to eat here?” Em was watching ten guys across the bar, laughing loudly, cussing a blue streak, and slamming down their beers as fast as they could.

The bar/restaurant/inn was directly across the highway from Pelican Cove. It was close, walkable, and Bobbie volunteered that the bar food here was passable and it was cheap. She also said some pro football players owned the place and it was world famous. I sensed a theme in Islamorada.

The sign out front said: O
LDEST
E
STABLISHED
L
IQUOR
L
ICENSE IN THE
K
EYS
. Everything seemed to revolve around the Keys and alcohol.

Sitting down, I immediately saw there was something sunken into the dark wood bar. A small plaque was embedded there as well. “Spike from Henry Flagler’s railroad,” it read.

“Em, this is cool. It’s a spike from Flagler’s folly.”

She gave me a suspicious look, then gazed up and down the bar. To her right was a guy who looked like an ex-football player. His curly hair hung in ringlets and his muscle had turned to flab.

Next to him were two older fishermen, the creases in their faces showing the effects of too many days in the sun. Judging by the empty bottles, they were well into their fifth round. Arguing about a football game or player, they went at each other.

“Sum bitch should have stayed a farmer. Never was NFL quality, Danny. Never was.”

“Well I say he has two year, two years to prove his mettle. You just think you know it all and—”

“I’d lay a Benjamin down on that. He’ll be gone in two.”

I signaled the barmaid, a rough-looking woman with a weathered face and her hair pulled back in a knot. She wore a stained white tank top and sported an ugly red scar running down her right cheek.

“Two beers. Yuengling.”

She stared at us sullenly and I thought immediately of Bobbie. Were all the bartenders in Islamorada surly?

We checked out the long bar and the far wall with pictures of fishermen, their catches hanging high, as we ate our fried ocean perch and french fries. Not the healthiest meal in the Keys, but the Ocean View was world famous. And that was something. World famous. It made us proud.

She set two more beers in front of us without asking, apparently signaling there was a two-drink minimum for the atmosphere.

Giving us a suspicious look, she said, “Where you from?”

“Miami,” I replied.

In the din of laughter and conversation she shouted out, “Are you here for the tournament? You don’t look like tournament types.”

“I didn’t even know there was a tournament.”

She squinted her eyes, as if she didn’t know whether to believe me or not.

“Swordfishing. They go out at night, three, four miles offshore where the water’s warm. They fish from seven till lines up.”

“Lines up?” Em asked.

“Three a.m. They pull their lines. Second night the same thing. Whoever has the most weight, wins.”

I wasn’t much of a fisherman. “How much does a swordfish weigh?”

“Hundred, hundred ten. Wouldn’t you say, Willie?” She motioned to an old leather-skinned man down the bar.

He grunted.

She put down our check, and I handed her the debit card. It’s amazing how fast a thousand dollars can slip away. A nice resort, a few good meals, oil and gas for the truck.

“If you’re not here for the tournament, what are you here for?”

“Just, you know, vacationing.”

She stared at me for a moment. “Don’t look much like vacationers either.”

Just then a cheer erupted on the other side of the bar, and a couple of men started singing off-key and loudly.

We walked out into the humid evening.

“Did you catch that, Skip?”

Walking across the deserted highway, she grabbed my arm.

“Big fish?”

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

“Then what?”

“She said lines up at three a.m., and we saw the boat at three thirty.”

“You think?”

“Timing is suspect.”

“Sure didn’t look like a fishing boat. And I don’t think you’d have thirty-five people out there. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“Seems funny they pull in their lines at about the same time you saw the boat.”

My girlfriend is right more than she’s wrong. I pondered the thought, and I was certain that was no fishing boat.

I heard the throbbing engine before I saw the headlight. A Harley-Davidson came roaring around the bend, and we both ran for the grass. I turned to look and couldn’t make out much, except the driver was helmeted. Whoever it was, was riding like the wind. That bike blew by us and disappeared down the road.

“Could have been the gold fender,” I gasped when we got to the other side.

“Could have been Maria Sanko.” Em wasn’t winded at all.

“Could have been our lives if we hadn’t picked up our speed.”

It was still early and Holiday Isle was cooking, the music and noise drifting across the water.

“Want to go?” Em was making the suggestion.

So we walked to Rumrunners and there were James and Amy, cuddling at the bar.

“Tell me, Skip, would you fool around with a married woman?” Em studied them for a moment.

“Doesn’t every situation depend on the moment?”

She put her hands on my cheeks and stared into my eyes. “I don’t know if I like that answer.”

We met up in the parking lot at two fifteen. James and I both had smiles on our faces. I only guessed at
his
reason.

“What we have is a committed relationship, Skip,” Em whispered. “Don’t forget that word committed. Okay?”

I nodded. Em walked in and out of our relationship at her discretion. I felt I was lucky to have what was left.

“We can only hope that our shovels are still where we left them,” James said as he pushed the pedal to the metal and hit fifty miles per hour.

We parked in a small lot a block and a half away, far enough from the vacant property, but close enough to make an immediate escape if things turned sour. And things already had a history of turning sour.

“Pray that Malhotra and O’Neill don’t show up in a boat at this hour.” Em closed her eyes as if in prayer.

Cupping my hands, I offered James the first chance to vault the fence. He cleared easily.

Em lifted me and I grabbed the top rail, awkwardly straddling, then jumping off the metal bar.

“You guys be really careful. Please.”

The moon was muted behind a thin layer of clouds as we walked softly across the dew-dampened grass.

“Over there.” James pointed to my shovel.

It was amazing that no one had checked up on our digging. They must have been used to having trespassers, those skinny dippers and the make-out artists. And apparently no one had ever done more than that—trespass. So no one was looking for trespassers who would dig the place up. It never occurred to them.

“You want to continue what you were doing yesterday morning?”

Picking up the shovel, I pushed it into the soft earth. There it was again. The sharp clink of metal on metal. It wasn’t a stone. It didn’t feel like concrete. I spaded out the sand, now digging deeper and out a little. I was about two feet into the soft sandy soil when I hit something else. This time it felt like a rock. Kneeling down, I buried my hand almost elbow deep.

“What do you have?”

“Concrete, James. It’s flat and smooth.”

“That’s what you hit? Well, at least we’ve discovered the foundation.”

“There’s something else. Just give me a minute.”

I thrust the blade into the ground and pried upward. Whatever the metal piece was, it gave just a little and I slipped the head of the shovel under an edge. Not enough to dislodge it, but it was a start.

“Got something?” He could sense it.

“Just hold tight.”

Prying, I felt it give a little more, still covered with too much earth.

“No sign of any boats, pard. And we haven’t heard a peep from our lookout. Keep digging.”

Shifting my position, I started wedging the shovel around
the piece of metal. I could see it was small, maybe five by eight inches, and I pried again. It moved, and I was able to slip more of the shovel under the piece, carefully lifting it. Cradling it in the curved blade, I eased it out of the hole.

“A box. An old metal box.” James removed it from its steel bed, brushing away at the dirt that covered the top.

I tugged hard on the top of the box, but it was either locked or corroded shut. Maybe both.

“Is this it? The information?” I studied the object.

“We could dig some more. Personally, I think we’re damned lucky to have found anything, you know?”

I knew. It was a big area.

“Let’s kick some of this sand back in the hole.”

We smoothed over what we could in the dim light, then tossed the shovels up and over the fence on the south side. James started walking toward the fence that fronted the main street, on the west side.

“James,” I shouted in a throaty whisper. “Over here.”

Walking toward the Ocean Air Suites, I tried to visualize the exact path the boat passengers had taken.

“Trying to find the passage?”

“There’s got to be a gate here. It’s as simple as that.”

We ran our hands across the metal framework, and James found it first.

“It’s right here. No secret how they got out.”

A heavy metal padlock hung from the outside latch.

“May as well go over here.” He put the box under his arm as I boosted him and he jumped. Then I clawed my way up the fence, dropping onto the sandy beach below on the other side.

And there was James.

Between the guy with the diamond earring, and a third man dressed in a white shirt and gray slacks.

“I think I told you before that you were trespassing.” I saw the gun hanging by his side.

I was speechless. We were caught red-handed. We’d been here less than three days and already James had been taken to the sheriff’s office and it appeared that I would be next.

“I was—we were—looking for something that—” I had no story.

James stood there, his arms by his sides. No box.

Tell them the truth. It’s the best I could do.

“We were looking for the foundation of the old Coral Belle Hotel. It was on this property and we—”

“I know where it was.”

“Well, we were—”

The earring dude pushed his pistol into James’s side and shoved him toward the first building.

“Are you calling the cops on us because we were walking on your sand? Really? That’s it?”

As we moved, the guy in the white shirt and slacks finally spoke. “There aren’t going to be any cops involved. We’re taking care of this ourselves.”

That’s when we heard the motorcycle, the throbbing roar of a Harley engine, and saw the shadowy machine and its helmeted rider as they screeched into the parking lot of the Ocean Air Suites.

As the two men turned their heads in unison to see who had entered their space, I chopped at the gunman’s wrist. I don’t know why. I’m not a brave guy, but I sensed he wasn’t focused and I hit him hard on the wrist, my hand throbbing for the rest of the night.

He jerked and the gun went flying as he spun around, looking at me in confusion. James turned to him, and with the palm of his hand caught the guy under his chin, snapping his head
back. He fell hard on the shell parking lot as his partner reached for my neck.

Hearing someone running behind me, I assumed the worst. I swung wide and hit the man who was choking me right in the middle of his face. Even in the dim early-morning light I could see the blood from his nose as it spattered his white shirt.

The footsteps stopped and I heard a voice that I recognized.

“Don’t anybody move. I’ve got the gun.”

Em stepped out of the shadows and leveled the gun at the gentleman in the now red-and-white shirt.

I let out a deep breath and backed away. She looked like she knew what she was doing, but you never knew.

“What the hell is going on?”

I turned and there was Maria.

“What are you doing here?”

Glancing at all of the players, she finally focused on me.

“Uh, you were checking on the old hotel, right? I couldn’t sleep so—”

“You came down to check on us,” I said.

“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly why I’m here.”

Em kept the gun trained on the guy with the bloody nose.

“Who are you?”

He scowled.

“No, I want an answer.”

“I’m Doctor James O’Neill.” A very frosty attitude. The guy wasn’t happy with us, that much was clear. “I own this property,
and, young lady, you and your friends here are in a lot of trouble. When we call the police—”

Feeling slightly braver, I stepped up to him.

“You were the guy who said ‘no cops.’ You were going to handle this yourself.”

He wiped at his face, smearing the blood.

“So?”

“So it’s obvious you don’t want the cops involved. Maybe you’re doing something here you’d rather not have them look into.”

It was a shot in the dark, but he reacted by stepping back and raising one of his hands as if to say, “Stop.”

“What do you think you know, son?”

“I don’t know anything.” I didn’t want this guy coming after me ever again. “Look, Doctor O’Neill. All we did was walk on your property and you threatened us with a pistol. I think that any court of law would say that you were a little excessive with your proposed punishment. What were you thinking of doing? Shooting us? Pistol-whipping us?” I threw up my hands, emboldened by Em’s power of the gun.