"I'm Oscar Mendosa," he said. "I've been looking for you."
"How did you find me?"
"Cracker told me you might be using the name Ben Joyce. He also e-mailed us a picture of you." He held out a picture of me taken by Cracker on a recent fishing trip to Boca Ciega Bay.
Mendosa continued. "When you bought the diving gear this morning, Ben Joyce's name popped up in our computers. We talked to the young man at the dive shop, and he told us you were coming back this evening. I've had men here all day, and when one saw you go into the diner, he called me."
"Why were you looking for me?"
"I owe Cracker a great deal. If I can repay part of that debt by helping his friend, I'd like to do so."
"I appreciate it, Mr. Mendosa, but I don't really need any help."
"I think you do. Somebody is trying to kill you."
"Who?"
"I'm not sure. Somebody has put a bounty on you."
"A bounty? What are you talking about?"
"Pictures of you are circulating around town, and the word is that whoever calls a certain phone number with your whereabouts will get a thousand dollar reward. There are men in this town who would sell their mothers for a grand."
He held out another photo, a grainy black-and-white print. This one was taken of me at the whorehouse the evening before. I was standing in the entry hall talking to the receptionist. A security camera.
"Do you know who's behind this?" I asked.
"No. The phone number goes to an answering machine that tells the caller to leave his name and number and someone will get in touch. I left a number, and got a callback inside of ten minutes. I played dumb and hung up."
"Are you familiar with the Heaven Can't Wait Spa?"
"Oh, yes." He chuckled. "The religious whorehouse."
"Who owns it?"
"No idea. Our business does not deal in whores, so I never cared to find out. I've just heard stories about the place."
"I appreciate your bringing this to my attention, Mr. Mendosa. I'll be careful."
"I can give you some men to back you up."
"That's very kind, but I've got a lot to do in the next couple of days, and I have to do it alone."
He reached into his pocket and extracted a business card. He handed it to me. It had nothing on it but a phone number.
"This number," he said, "is answered twenty-four hours a day. Call it if you need anything."
"Thank you."
We shook hands, and I got out of the car. It glided silently into traffic and was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was mid-afternoon, and hot. The breeze off the water was negligible. Spring was beginning to turn into summer, and soon the days would all be hot and humid.
A few of the charter boats had returned from the day's fishing. A small group of tourists, a family perhaps, with too much red skin, was standing on the dock behind a moored boat. One of them, a teenaged boy, held a string of fish in his hands. The captain was taking their picture as they stood with goofy grins next to a sign advertising his services. A young man wearing only cutoffs was washing down the boat. A half dozen pelicans floated in the basin, waiting for the fish scraps they knew would be coming from the cleaning tables. Cars and trucks rumbled by on Roosevelt Avenue, leaving the smell of exhaust hovering over the docks.
I looked at the scene, picturing what the camera would catch, that instant in time when the family was together, happiness evident in their grins. The photograph would also hold the image of the boy cleaning the boat, and probably the pelicans lazing in the sun.
I wondered about that picture, about what would happen to it after it was admired and put away. Maybe one day an old man would pull it from a drawer, gaze at it, and remember when he was a teenager holding a string of fish, happy to be with his parents, now long dead. Would he wonder about the life lived by the boy washing the boat? Would he put the picture back in the drawer, never to be seen again? Life is fleeting, and when we near the end, we grab our memories and hold onto them with a ferocity that eluded us at the time of their creation.
I had a lot of time to kill. I couldn't do anything before dark, and I didn't want to go back to my room. If people were looking for me, they might have located the rooming house.
I stopped in a souvenir shop on Palm Avenue and bought a khakicolored baseball cap with a sailfish and the words "Key West" embroidered on the front. I wore it out of the shop, keeping the bill low on my eyes. My dark sunglasses would help cover my face, and I didn't think a casual observer would recognize me.
I decided to visit the cemetery where the monument to the battleship Maine was located. The fabled ship, whose demise gave an excuse for the Spanish-American War, had sailed from Key West on its fateful journey to Havana Harbor. Many of its sailors were buried in this last piece of America they experienced.
I was walking idly down Angela Street when I saw a familiar figure cross the road in the next block. It was Michelle Browne, the lady who had introduced herself in Sarasota as the Reverend Robert William Simmermon's assistant. She was wearing a beige skirt, dark blue blouse, and sensible white pumps. Her auburn hair was in a ponytail, and her bracelets glinted in the sun.
She was walking at a fast clip, as if she were on an errand. I decided to follow her. I held back a half block and ambled along, looking at the houses that lined the street, trying for inconspicuousness.
She walked the four blocks to the Key West Bight and entered a waterfront restaurant. I followed, motioning to the hostess that I would take a seat at the bar. Michelle joined a man sitting at a table by the open deck overlooking the harbor. He stood as she approached. He was about six feet tall, slender, with white hair and a red face that looked as if he had spent too much time in the sun. The Reverend Simmermon, in the flesh. He was a lot younger than I'd guessed. Early thirties, probably. The white hair made him look older, but his features were that of a younger man.
The wall behind the bar was mirrored. I could sit facing forward and have a reflected view of Michelle and her companion. I ordered a draft beer and sipped it while watching my quarry.
They were sitting at the table sipping wine, talking quietly. Occasionally, one or the other would gesture or smile. The meeting and conversation had the look of two old friends enjoying the afternoon. After about ten minutes, Michelle sat back in her chair, a look of chagrin on her face. Then she moved in close, elbows on the table, her face a mask of anger, words coming fast. Simmermon tried to take her hand, but she jerked it back. He made a placating gesture, tried a smile, reached for her again.
Michelle stood, her napkin falling off her lap onto the floor. She said something I couldn't hear and walked out the front door. Simmermon stood, dropped some bills on the table, and left the restaurant.
I followed, hoping to get him alone. He walked quickly to the dock in front of the restaurant. There was a go-fast boat, similar to the ones I had seen moored at Blood Island, tied to a piling, its big engines idling. A large man wearing shorts, a white T-shirt, and a dark tan was untying the line as the evangelist clambered down into it and sat in the passenger seat. The other man took the helm seat, touched the throttles, and the boat pulled away from the dock, heading out of the basin.
I turned and ran for the street, hoping to catch sight of Michelle. As I rounded the corner of the restaurant onto Margaret Street, I saw her turning onto Eaton Street. I followed at a fast walk, catching up to her as she turned onto Simonton, and then quickly made another turn off the main thoroughfare. I knew where she was going.