Gumbo Limbo by Tom Corcoran Read Free Book Online Page B

the milky-green inshore waters, scanned the Afterdeck lineup. Every barstool occupied, most faces familiar. Reggae music from behind the bar. No sign of Zack.
    I stopped on the restaurant’s narrow veranda for a calming moment. The waterfront, from the reconstructed Casa Marina Pier to the Reach Beach an eighth-mile west, and on to the Southernmost Point, appeared wind-tossed and fresh. Two sailboats on shallow-water hooks nosed to windward. A half-mile out, a beamy workboat eased into the chop, probably bound for a Stock Island wharf. The inshore oranges of late afternoon faded to purplish blue at the hazy distant horizon. Wheeler had bemoaned changes brought by the island’s popularity. He’d said, “ … what a great place this could be,” without considering that, each day, the view from the foot of Vernon was enough to energize—or, at least, neutralize—the most cynical whiner.
    No chance to call out my rum order on the Afterdeck’s lower level. Chris had seen me coming. He reached to pass me a tall Barbancourt and soda, but almost fumbled the hand-off. He was chatting up a woman two seats to my right, shouting over Toots and the Maytals, explaining the effect of Lower Keys tides on the feeding habits of fish. Ever since Chris had qualified for his captain’s license and cut his bartending back to three days a week, he’d found it easy to recruit light-tackle clients out of the bar. With ocean smells and lulling waves under the expanded posthurricane Afterdeck, all it took was an offhand pitch to hook a
customer. But this woman didn’t look like a prospective angler. Chris’s shift ended about forty minutes after sunset. He was mining social potential more than promoting a boat excursion.
    I took a strong first slug and looked over. I guessed Chris’s target was in her mid- to late thirties. The evening sunlight subtly streaked her shoulder-length auburn hair. She had the pale skin of someone who had just arrived in Key West, a small nose and pouty lips, a faint sunbather’s glow on her high cheekbones. Her side of the conversation—what I could hear—showed confidence and a capacity for amusement. A woman at ease with herself.
    Chris hurried down the bar to refill several wineglasses. The woman tilted her drink, a short rocks cocktail, for a strong hit. Her expression drifted from conviviality to concern. Perhaps she’d been camouflaging nervousness, perhaps it was the twitchiness of someone with a tightly wound mental clock. Her dark eyes glanced my way and caught me looking. She swung around on the swivel stool, relaunched her smile, and asked if I was a fisherman too. With her eyes set wide apart, her mouth more friendly than pouty from that angle, she reminded me of a television actress, though I never bother to learn their names. One of those big-framed eyeglasses types who usually portray lawyers. She didn’t have glasses but wore mid-thigh shorts and had the muscular, feminine legs of a Nautilus instructor. The way she’d chugged her drink told me that she’d seen as many late parties as workout machines. I noted worry wrinkles at the corners of her mouth.
    “I fish when there’s time to get in the boat,” I said. “If I called myself a fisherman, the whole town’d burst into laughter. Or tears.”
    “Well, you look outdoorsy. That’s why I asked.”
    “There’s no middle ground in Key West. Either you work and play outside, or you’re a hermit or a drug addict. I go stir-crazy if I’m inside too long. I start bouncing off walls.”

    Her smile returned. “Hell, I’ve been stir-crazy since sixth grade.” She stuck out her hand. “Abby Womack, I’m from Milwaukee and I’m not a fisherman.”
    As I said my name a jet-ski buzzed close to the deck and drowned out my voice. I waited for it to gain distance, then repeated myself.
    “Hey, I would’ve introduced you, Rutledge. You’re quick tonight.” Chris sounded miffed, but I knew he wasn’t. He’d been a bartender for years,