Tropical Freeze by James W. Hall Read Free Book Online Page B

into Papa John’s place some time or other.
    But something had happened. Some tilt he couldn’t quite figure out. Now just an occasional tourist might stick his head in Papa John’s place, maybe even step inside, but then he’d stop and give him a little embarrassed wave and he’d leave. Was it some smell he couldn’t smell? Fuck if he knew.
    It wasn’t the money that bothered him. He still had enough scams going down, enough cash stacking up out on his boat. No, what bothered him was the lie of it all. Here he was, the original thing. A Conch, sixty-three nonstop years on the islands. Half of that he’d spent running Papa John’s Bar in Key West, the rest of it bouncing around the Keys, making some smuggling runs, pot, rum, Uzis once, always on the lookout for a place with the fishing camp feel that Key West had lost. And then fifteen years ago he’d found it in Key Largo.
    Now Key Largo was losing it. The hot tubs and wooden decks, pastels had arrived. Fancy stores were festering along the highway, full of plastic geegaws you wouldn’t believe. Turning shit to chic. Everybody trying to snag the tourists on their way to Key West. Now the island was full of fern bars with brass railings and speakers seven feet tall. Bars with names of tropical fruits, Mangoes, Pineapples, Papayas. And the tourists dancing the night away while some guy did his Jimmy Buffet calypso imitation. All of them thinking this is the real Key Largo. Hey, let’s boogie. It bothered the fuck out of him.
    And then just this week John had heard talk that the Rotary Club was looking around for another Captain Kidd, the honorary king of Old Pirate Days. Papa John had had a lock on that for the last twelve years. He’d ride at the head of the parade, toss out gold foil-wrapped candy, while he swigged from his rum bottle.
    For a lot of the last decade Papa John had Monroe County by the balls. He’d made decisions right there on that barstool that had changed the island, shit, the whole chain of Keys forever-fucking-after. His photo had even been in the Chamber of Commerce brochure. Colorful local characters. Now look at him, at this place.
    “When I was thirty-two, I’d already done a ton of living,” John said, looking around at the photos on the walls of his bar, trying to find 1953, tickle his memory a little. He pointed his Camel toward a photo near the women’s bathroom. “There it is.”
    The photo showed Papa John standing on the docks in Key West next to Ernest Hemingway and one of Hemingway’s pals, some guy from New York, an editor or agent. Behind them, hanging from the rack, was an 388-pound blue marlin. Papa John was standing a foot to the right of the great man, holding the 40-pound rod that Hemingway had used. Papa John had led them to the spot, walked Hemingway through the whole thing, had practically swum down there and stuck the rigged ballyhoo in that marlin’s face.
    Papa John said, “You don’t kill somebody soon, you could wind up like that guy, blowing his head off with a shotgun. Guy had a lifetime hard-on to kill somebody. Kept going to war, never got a shot in. Best he ever got around to was on safari, water buffalo or some shit.”
    “Who is it?” Ozzie was using that greasy fucking rag to wipe the sweat from his forehead. John groaned to himself.
    “Who is it?” Papa John said. “Good God, boy. You made it to the what grade?”
    “Fifth,” Ozzie said, a hint of anger showing.
    “That’s Hemingway. Ernest Hemingway. The great man. The guy who made me rich, people looking to sit on the barstool where the great man farted. He was a farter, too.”
    “I know who fucking Hemingway is. I’m not stupid.” Ozzie wiped at the bar. He looked up and said, “I did kill a colored man once. But I just left him for dead, so I don’t count that.”
    John sipped his beer and dragged some more smoke in on top of the cool burn. Maybe he was wrong. He’d kept Ozzie around for the last few weeks ’cause of this