Gumbo Limbo by Tom Corcoran Read Free Book Online Page A

the pavement. I thanked Key West for short blocks. Caught behind an oil-burning lead sled, I angled down United Street. Held up a minute later by a VW bus, I cut across Alberta. Directed by thirst, caught in the rhythm of exertion, I rode the path of least resistance.
    I also rode to leeward. The east wind had clocked several points south, carrying tideline stink from Rest Beach, kicking up thin marl-flecked clouds from yards and driveways. But the ride offered quiet. Whatever had undermined my perspective, biking the island’s back streets offered a partial solution. I coasted Waddell wishing that the tailwind could launch me to solitude in the Dry Tortugas. Or straight into a rum bottle.
    More wishful thinking: Zack Cahill in his Ray-Bans basking on Louie’s Afterdeck, waiting with a tall drink, an open tab, a shitty grin, a lame excuse or, weirder, a plausible one.
    I aimed my bike into the iron rack at Vernon Street Beach. The regulars, an even count of dogs and humans—lounged on the sparse sand or played in the water, just beyond the rocks at tideline. I glanced left. Marnie Dunwoody and Sam Wheeler hurried down the restaurant’s front steps. Sam looked steamed.
    Marnie looked wind-blown, angry, two-thirds in the bag.
    “What’s up?” I said.
    “I just got beeped,” said Marnie. “Somebody called an emergency County Commission meeting. They’re back to hashing out size limitations for election campaign posters, as if this was the big meaningful event of the month …”
    I held her back from hugging my damp shirt.

    Sam said, “I’ll try to get back for that beer I promised. She doesn’t need to be driving when she’s upset.”
    I translated and knew. He didn’t want her driving drunk. “Got a minute to spare?” I said. “I got a problem or two. I need thinkers on my team.”
    She turned her watch, squinted to focus. “I’m already—”
    “We got a minute.” Sam radiated calm. “I live on this remote rock for just that reason. For minutes to spare. They’ll bullshit the first twenty minutes, anyway.”
    She downshifted, tried to retake command. “Alex, you know, don’t you? The detectives clicked on that dead man’s identity. What used to be his fingerprints.”
    “That’s part of what I need to unload.” I led them to a patch of shade under the Dog Beach palms. I described my dilemma, my suspicions. I didn’t have to hold back facts. Wheeler knew Zack and Claire Cahill from their many visits. I felt I could trust Marnie with off-the-record stuff. They listened. I got the sympathy I needed with assurances from Sam that he’d be ready to help. Marnie promised to keep me informed of anything that came across her desk.
    “What’s it like back there?” I waved my hand toward the Afterdeck.
    Sam shook his head. “You go out for drinks with no tourists in town, you realize what a great place this could be. Course, with no tourists I’d be in the breadline next week.”
    Marnie faked a cough. We all knew the truth. Sam owned a small Conch house full of atmosphere and easy chairs, and his military retirement pay could support a family of four. The money he earned on his boat was gravy. Sam was the opposite of ostentatious. Large enough to be considered a tough customer, wealthy enough to do whatever pleased him, Sam had molded his lifestyle to match his surroundings. He’d been one of the fortunate few to leave Vietnam with a minimum of baggage. His antique, lopsided, rust-eaten Ford Bronco had become an embarrassment
of funkiness. He and Marnie climbed into it and disappeared down Vernon.
    Feeling less than glamorous in my perspiration-soaked shirt, I entered the restaurant foyer, waved to lovely Kim at the inside service bar, and passed the judgmental gaze of a stick-thin maître d’ who already knew that I was not a prospective diner. I slowed at the dining room’s glass doors, checked out the buttonwood-shrouded patio. Ten people at three tables. Not a soul I knew. I squinted against