Gumbo Limbo by Tom Corcoran Read Free Book Online

accent.”
    “That’s what the waitress said. Maybe she’s never been to New Orleans.” Spence went pensive. “You know what’s changed in twenty years? We lived that crazy life back then. Our philosophy was, ‘If it feels good, do it.’”
    “I recall.” I’d bullheaded down that path for too many years.
    “The idea of having your place destroyed, all your belongings turned into rubble, that wasn’t a possibility.”
    “Laid-back, cop a buzz, rock and roll,” I said. “You worried that somebody might rip off your sunglasses. Worst case, a bicycle or a moped.”
    “And now, suddenly, revenge sounds good. All my time in the slam, in the noise and the stink, I fought the shitty thoughts, I talked myself out of bitterness. Now I feel like shooting the fuckers that did this to me. It might even give me the warm and fuzzies.”
    I checked my watch. How had ten minutes ticked off? No way I’d catch Duffy Lee. I’d have to get up early and deliver the film when he opened up.
    Beyond having two or three friends’ systems explained to me, I knew nothing about alarms. I didn’t know whether a momentary power cut or a phone-line failure would send a default warning
to the security company or mask an intrusion. But my impression was that alarms had built-in fail-safes, especially on Key West, where electrical power was less than dependable. I doubted that Spence’s invaders had been mere vandals. Jesse had been through enough crap. For the moment I kept my opinion to myself.
    “One of my messages was from Sam Wheeler.”
    “Don’t know him.”
    “He’s a light-tackle captain at the bight. He said it’s almost cocktail hour at Louie’s. Can I buy you one?”
    Spence looked lost. “Thanks. I’m going to stay here and make love to the rum I’ve got left.”
    I expressed my sympathies and retreated down Spence’s exterior stairs. My thoughts went back to Zack Cahill. He’d done crazy things over the years. But they’d been crazy in the sense of generating future conversation rather than risking consequences more ominous than cocktail party notoriety. Zack had been in New Orleans. Joe Blow was from New Orleans.
    Coincidence, or omen?

4
    I wove the Kawasaki through White Street’s Bodega Row traffic, the thrust of Key West’s haphazard ten-minute rush hour. At six-fifteen the sun was still hot enough to bake my head inside my helmet.
    Jesse Spence had suffered two Big Ones: the violation of space and insane vandalism. On seeing the destruction in his apartment, I’d felt moral outrage. I’d shown sympathy. But my concern over material damage compared poorly to my blasé attitude toward Omar “Joe Blow” Boudreau, the bottom feeder whose life had ceased right after lunch. Aside from my relief that it wasn’t Zack Cahill sprawled in the gutter, I’d treated the corpse like a common curio in the tourist district. I had exchanged amusing banter with Detective Liska and Marnie Dunwoody. I had surveyed the onlookers, ridiculed their attire. I’d prejudged Omar Boudreau, coldly guessing that a man of his flavor played by rules that permitted violent death. No messy details, no loved ones. A loser in a loser’s game. Then I’d gone to Spence’s place and mourned furniture while Jesse promised ugly revenge.
    Blame my skewed perspective on proximity to police cynicism. Maybe Chicken Neck could do me a favor by forcing me out of the crime-pix biz.
    Approaching the house, I felt a new dread. For the first time in hours I wanted not to find a message.

    There was one. Duffy Lee had waited at his darkroom until ten after six. He’d look for me in the morning. I’d have to apologize. He wouldn’t have called if he hadn’t been pissed.
    Foreseeing the finc chance that I would enjoy multiple drinks at Louie’s Backyard, I opted for the bicycle instead of the Kawasaki. I worked up the day’s fourth sweat pedaling across Passover and Windsor Lanes toward the Atlantic side. Jagged shadows of palms lay long on