an island with a shack. Slow Poke turns to Ollie and says, “I want to check on the cistern.”
“Aye-aye, Cap!” Ollie says, and drops anchor close to the little island. The men row the dinghy to shore. I follow Slow Poke to the shack.
“Does someone live here?” I ask, peeking inside. It’s tiny and smells like something died in it.
“Spongers leave their sponges here to cure sometimes. There’s a cistern out back that catches rainwater that we use, too. Want to help me check on it, Terry?”
“Sure, Pat,” I say.
Slow Poke lifts the lid off the big barrel, and I see a dead rat floating in the water.
“This is why we check it,” he tells me.
“I hate rats,” I say.
He empties out the cistern and sets it up again. Then he says, “Speaking of
Terry and the Pirates
, there’s something you might like to see.”
He leads me over to a big rock near the water’s edge. There’s an iron spike in it.
“Do you know what this is?”
“An old spike in a rock?”
His voice goes low. “It’s a genuine pirate death trap. Pirates would shackle rivals to this rock and let them drown in the incoming tide. That spike held the iron shackles.”
I look down at the rock and back up at Slow Poke.
“You’re pulling my leg,” I say.
“You got me,” he says with an admiring laugh. “Not much gets past you.”
“I’m smart,” I say.
“But there were pirates around here a long time ago,” he says.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. See those keys?” he asks, pointing at the little islands in the distance. “There’s hundreds of them. That’s where pirates used to hide their ships, and their loot.”
“Anyone ever find any treasure?” I ask.
“Everybody’s always looking for Black Caesar’s treasure. Especially after Old Ropes up and disappeared.”
“Who’s Black Caesar? Who’s Old Ropes?Why’s everybody got such funny nicknames around here, anyway?”
Slow Poke laughs. “It’s just the Key West way,
Turtle
.”
“Humph,” I say.
He looks out at the water. “Black Caesar was a ruthless pirate who buried his treasure here in the Keys.”
“And Old Ropes?”
“An old-time sponger. People said Old Ropes spent so much time on the water that he had webbed feet.”
I laugh at the image.
“One day Old Ropes came back from a sponging trip. He had a drink at the bar, and the next morning he was gone. Nobody ever heard from him again. Left his house full of furniture, food in the icebox. Even left his cat.”
“How could he leave his cat?” I ask.
“Rumors started going round that he’d found one of Black Caesar’s stashes and was living rich as a hog somewhere in South America. After that, everyone and their mother started crawling over this key looking for gold.”
“Do you think he found treasure?” I ask him.
“I think he found trouble. Old Ropes likedto gamble. I suspect he owed someone money and he had to get out of town fast.” He looks up at the darkening sky. “Speaking of which, we better start back now, or your aunt will run me out of town.”
“How’d you get the name Slow Poke, anyhow?” I ask.
“Guess you could say I’ve always taken my own sweet time doing things. My mother said I was late for my own birth.”
“Just as long as you don’t take your time paying me,” I say, and I hold out my hand.
He shakes his head and digs into his pocket.
8
A Big, Happy Family
Maybe it’s because it’s only ever been Mama and me, but I don’t understand what’s so wonderful about having a big family. Someone’s always fighting, or not talking to someone else, or scrounging around trying to borrow money. Far as I can tell, relations are nothing but trouble.
The Diaper Gang’s got Pudding today, and Buddy, too, because Aunt Minnie has to do Mrs. Winkler’s washing. She takes in laundry to make money. Kermit’s right—Buddy’s more trouble than a baby. He’s spent the entire morning complaining. He’s hot. He’s tired. He’s bored.
Learning to Kill: Stories