1 Margarita Nights (9 page)

But Marley won the prize when she talked to a guy filleting fish at the gutting table that jutted out over the water. A troupe of brown pelicans were perched on the floodlights above the table waiting for him to toss out the remains of the fish for their dinner.

“The
Hollidaze
isn’t here anymore,” he said in answer to Marley’s question. “It’s berthed on the north side of the island, up past the hotel, in a private slip.” He told us all this without once stopping the filleting or taking his eyes off the flashing silver blade. I guess the thought of losing a finger and having to throw it out to the pelicans with the rest of the refuse kept him focused.

Under a rusting metal roof we found the boat slip backing onto a narrow canal out through the mangroves. There was room for six boats, three on either side of a long wooden boardwalk. Five of the slips were full. One yacht had a for sale sign and the number of the Silverton Yacht Brokerage Company on it.

But there was no
Hollidaze
. Just a nameplate over the empty berth.

And there didn’t seem to be anyone about to ask either. We yelled hello at each of the other five cruisers but no one came out to see what the racket was about. Madness. Each one of these suckers was worth well over a quarter of a million bucks and there wasn’t anyone about. The floating fortunes just bobbed gently in the wake of any passing boat, waiting for rich guys to come out to play. How hard would it be to hotwire one and be out of here?

“Hello,” I called again at each boat as we made our way back to the parking lot, sure now that Jimmy was somewhere faraway.

A Ford Explorer pulled in and parked as we stepped off the dock. A tall black man got out, dragging a box of supplies behind him.

“We’re looking for Captain Whiting and the
Hollidaze
,” I said. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Nope,” he said, basically ignoring me and starting to move along the dock.

I followed him. “Do you know where he’s gone?” Maybe it was the sound of desperation in my voice that stopped him.

He looked over his left shoulder at me. “I think they ran over to the Bahamas.”

“When?”

“This morning.” He didn’t wait for any more questions, just boarded the second yacht, the
Merriweather
, and disappeared below deck.

“You’ve got as much chance of finding Jimmy as you have of catching a fart in a hurricane,” Marley said.

“I didn’t want to be this right.” It was a Prozac moment.

“C’mon,” Marley said, poking me in the ribs.

I followed behind her, depressed and beaten. “ No one is ever going to believe me that Jimmy’s out there somewhere, are they?” “Nope.”

“Well don’t sugarcoat it, will you?”

“You need honesty, not ‘There, there, dear, it will be all right.’”

“That son of a bitch,” I said in reply.

“You’re coming to my place,” Marley stated as the car coughed to life. “I’m going to make you a good dinner.”

“Marley’s answer to every problem, more food.”

“You didn’t eat your lunch.” Her voice accused.

“That’s because you did.”

When we hit Tamiami I said to Marley, “Maybe I should just do what Jimmy did. Why don’t I drive down to Miami and catch a boat leaving for the Bahamas and just keep on going. Better yet, why don’t I head to Key West and strike out for Cuba. They can’t bring me back from Cuba, can they?”

“And here I thought I’d heard every dumb idea you had in your head.”

“Why shouldn’t I do it?”

“Let me count the ways. Never mind that you’d have to run the rest of your life, what are you going to do in Cuba?”

“Stay alive.”

“How will you get there?”

“I don’t know. Steal a boat and motor over.”

“Have you lost your friggin’ mind?”

Apparently, but running was an option I wasn’t giving up on. I’d just keep my idea to myself until I needed it. “Let’s go look where the
Suncoaster
blew up.”

“Another bad idea. You’re just full of them today, aren’t you?”

I think she was afraid of what we might see there and how I might react. “Okay, okay. Take me to Andy’s instead. I can’t get in any trouble there, can I?”

Andy lived in a bad neighborhood . . . a really bad neighborhood. Houses grew wrecked cars in the front yards instead of trees or grass, and every building looked like it was ready for demolition. Some looked like the deconstruction had already started. With night coming on, it felt like Beirut.

The Palmetto Motel wasn’t used by tourists anymore. A new road had left this place stranded between urban sprawl and industrial wasteland and now it was home to a different type of person looking for temporary lodgings. Women fleeing abusive mates, hookers, people supporting a habit, or folks just plain down on their luck, they all fell into the Palmetto with its broken screen doors, missing numbers and air conditioners leaking rust down cracked stucco, telling the resident they’ve hit the end of the line and had no future.

Marley parked in front of Andy’s unit and we stared out the windows, taking it in. Marley muttered, “What a dump.”

“I’m about one paycheck away from here.” I got out of the car and crunched across a small strip of sun-fried grass bordering the parking area.

Andy lived at number nine. The screen was missing from the outer door so I reached through the aluminum frame and knocked on the warped wooden door.

If he was in, he wasn’t answering. I pounded again, just to make sure. I moved sideways to the window, half of which was boarded up to accommodate the air conditioner, and tried to see through the bamboo blind. I couldn’t see anything.

Marley stuck her head out the car window and yelled, “He’s not here. Let’s go.”

“Wait.” I rummaged in my bag and found an old receipt for gas. I wrote, “Please call,” and signed it. I stuck it in the crack between the warped frame of the aluminum screen door and the door jamb.

A black woman, looking exhausted and hot, dragged herself towards me down the sidewalk. I gave her my biggest smile but something in my stance, or maybe I just moved too suddenly, set off alarm bells in her.

Warily, she stopped six feet from me, trying to decide what new kind of trouble I might be.

“Hello,” I sang out cheerfully. “Do you know Andy Crown?”

She shook her head in denial. She was wearing a violent purple tank top paired with faded denim shorts; both were way too tight and didn’t meet at the middle of her body. Her plump arms hung straight down by her sides, a plastic bag of groceries in each hand. I wondered just how small a movement it would take on my part to make her drop them and pelt back out to the street.

“He lives here.” I jerked my thumb at the door. “His name’s Andy. He has a little problem.”

A light went on in her eyes and she blew air out between her lips. “He got a big problem!”

“Have you seen him lately? I want to help him.”

“I ain’t seen him for days. Good riddance, I say.” She stepped around me onto the grass and walked away as Marley laid on the horn.

Somewhere about midnight, after a bucketful of margaritas, I was telling Marley yet again the story of my life, never mind that she’d been there for it, telling her what a screw-up I was. She’d been there for that too. “Why did I think I’d be any smarter than Ruth Ann? It’s as clear as our D-cups, we’re never going to find decent men. Losers and disasters, that’s all that’s in store for me.”

“Maybe you have to look in different places than where Ruth Ann finds her men.”

I shook my head in wild arcs. My head seemed to be working on a system all its own. “Nope. Just got to look at her to see what the future holds for me. Why don’t I just shoot myself right now and save myself the misery?”

“Okay, now you’re being dumb. Dumb and self-pitying.”

“Oh thank you. Thank you very much for your understanding.”

“I do understand. That’s not the problem. The problem is I’ve heard it all before and it’s gotten old.” “If I could stand, I ’d leave.”

That’s when I decided I needed a new audience.

The phone rang. I would’ve let it ring but I couldn’t bear the pain.

“Yeah.” I groaned into the receiver.

“So, how’s the margarita girl this morning?” asked Clay.

“Shithead.”

“I think I liked you better last night when you called.”

“What do you want, Clay?”

“Oh, nothing. Just to talk.”

“I can’t right now. Have to throw up.”

I pressed down on the phone rest to cut him off and dropped the receiver on the floor beside the couch. The last thing I needed was for it to ring again.

I swore off margaritas forever while kneeling before the porcelain shrine. After rinsing my mouth and taking more aspirin than was recommended, I dragged myself out to the kitchen and made some coffee.

Marley’s apartment is like her, full of color and movement, not a good place to wake with a mouth like a trash bin and a head the size of Alaska, but I gave it a shot. I sat on a chair with my elbows on the table and my head propped up in my hands while I waited for the coffee maker to work its magic and counted how many times I’d promised myself never to do this again.

On the wall over the kitchen table was a clock that looked like a black-and-white cat. Its eyes and tail moved back and forth, back and forth, in a manic motion. It was making me sick. I turned the wooden chair, painted lime green and pink with black-and-white dots, towards the sink. Lime green walls didn’t help either my head or my stomach.

The coffee maker gurgled loudly and I could smell the first faint whiffs of the beans. This wasn’t working out. I turned it off and crawled back onto the couch, pulling the blanket over my head to keep out the vicious sun and telling myself I was too old for margarita nights.

Sometime in the afternoon I resurfaced. This time I thought I might live but I still wasn’t able to handle lime green and pink so I didn’t even try for coffee.

I drove home carefully, afraid any sudden movements might disturb the precarious perch my head had on my shoulders. A huge sigh of relief escaped me when I turned into the Tropicana, but it immediately turned to a groan when I saw Detective Styles once again waiting for me. “I’ve been trying to call you,” he said.

“Why?” I managed to croak out. Even behind dark glasses I was squinting against the light, too ill to be rude or smartmouthed. Why is it that the memory of how awful I feel never stops me from doing this to myself, living proof that aversion therapy doesn’t work.

“I need an official statement from you,” said Styles. “It’s just routine.” He started to walk towards me and I took a careful step backwards.

He stopped. “I’ll drive you to the station.” The soothing tone of his voice said his intent was to reassure me. “And have you brought back.”

“Can I have a shower first?” He couldn’t help but notice I was in the same black golf outfit I’d been wearing the day before.