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Authors: Jeff Lindsay

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BOOK: Red Tide
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I didn’t have a clue what he meant. “Okay, Nicky.”

“I mean it, mate. There will be more to this. Fair dinkum. See if there ain’t.”

 “I think you better have a nice hot cup of tea, Nicky.”

He rubbed his eyes, dwindling with each breath. “Yeah. And then a nice lie-down.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Ta, Billy.”

He closed his door and I headed home.

It wasn’t hard to realize in a general way what he was going through. He had found a corpse. He’d been expecting fireworks, commotion, wheels set in motion, shouting and wailing and gnashing of teeth. The cops hadn’t obliged, and he was realizing that they wanted this to trail off into a few forms to fill out and maybe two lines in the paper. And then, no matter how much indignation Nicky summoned, it would be over. Life would go on. The cops wouldn’t even think about it anymore.

That can be tough to accept. In a funny, finders-keepers way this was Nicky’s body, and he wanted what was best for it. And when most people encounter death they feel like it should mean something. Death is impressive, and if you don’t see it every day—the way I had when I was a cop—then it seems more significant than it really is and you want it to add up to something important, noble and meaningful.

It doesn’t. Death makes us all a little smaller and a little cheaper. There is so much of it, more of it than of anything else, and it is all that is guaranteed to us in life. You can have your nose rubbed in that a few times and get used to the idea, go on with waiting for it.

But if you’re a small Australian New Age astrologer and aromatic oil salesman, the idea takes some getting used to.

Chapter Six

Life goes on. That’s not always good news, but it’s always true. Life. Goes. On. Terrible things happen and we wonder why the sun doesn’t stop dead in the sky, but it never does. At the same time that we’re staring at the broken pieces of our life, somebody else is wondering whether to have another slice of bacon or go right for the cheesecake.

Life goes on. And a big part of my life was Nancy. Or it had been. Now I wasn’t sure, and I needed to be. Nicky would come to terms with his dead body, one way or another, without me.

I realized how sour that seemed. I knew I should feel some concern, try to talk to Nicky and get him straightened away, feeling better about what had happened. But I was so used to having him try to cheer me up, it didn’t seem right the other way around. I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, after being cooped up with him on the sailboat, I was ready for a vacation from manic energy, beer, handguns, and cries of, “EE-hah!”

I went into my house and turned on the huge, ancient, window-mounted air conditioner. The roar of it was like being on the flight line when a wing of B-25s takes off, but after a few minutes the room was cooler and I could turn the thing down to a level that didn’t threaten to rupture ear drums on Duval Street.

When I left town all I could think of was trying to call Nancy. All that had changed. I had been out of town, in the clean air and salty water, long enough for my head to clear and for my brain to organize all my thoughts. I waited for all the thoughts to look organized—it didn’t happen. All I could think about was trying to call Nancy.

So I called Nancy. There was no answer at her place, and her answering machine wasn’t turned on. That wasn’t like her.

Now I was worried. Key West was no longer the sleepy fishing village it had been when I was a kid. Bad things happened here. It could have happened to her. She could be lying on her floor, helpless, slowly dying, wondering why I didn’t come find her.

I had to do something, anything. Either that or turn into a permanent couch cover.

I went outside and looked at my car, a two-year-old Ford Explorer. I hadn’t started it since April. No, wait; I had gone to that wedding in Marathon—late June?

It wasn’t that long ago. The thing might even start. I climbed in and turned the key. The motor whined at me, complained of being tired, then finally kicked over, coughed, and started.

I idled it for a few minutes, letting the engine get used to the idea of running again. Pretty soon it sounded smoother and I put it in gear.

I drove over to Nancy’s apartment. Her car was not in its parking space. A plastic Winn-Dixie bag had blown into her space. A litter of leaves and gum wrappers sat on top of the bag. I walked around to the front. There was a small clutter of mail sticking out of her mailbox.

I drove out to the hospital on Stock Island. Nancy’s car was in the parking lot. I parked a few rows away, closer to the exit, and turned off the engine. I waited.

I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for, more than just seeing Nancy. She was inside, sooner or later she would come out. And then—

What? Force her to reason with me? Keep her from getting into her car until she admitted she still loved me? Show her my winning smile and say, “Let’s start all over”?

Confrontation didn’t seem like any kind of answer. She could either dodge it or win it too quickly. I didn’t want that.

So what did I want? I wanted her to love me, because I loved her. I couldn’t make that happen. And by confronting her I might spoil the last chance of preserving it if she did still love me.

I wanted to see her—but only if she wanted to see me. Again, if she didn’t want to, she could just get in her car and go, and probably that would kill the last chance, too. If there was one.

I knew all that. I had known it for weeks. It was why I hadn’t done this before. So why was I sitting in the hospital parking lot in the hot sun, watching Nancy’s car? Because—I had tried to call her. And there were too many times when she wasn’t home and wasn’t at work.

Where was she?

There was one very good, very simple and logical, answer. I just didn’t like it. So I sat in the car. I found a peppermint and a stick of gum in the glove compartment. I ate the peppermint. It had been in the car so long that most of it clung to the wrapper, a soft and warm mush of sweetness. The flavor was still okay.

I watched people going in and out of the hospital. None of them noticed me. Most people wouldn’t notice a UFO in a hospital parking lot. They’re too wrapped up, thinking about what might happen to their precious, irreplaceable hides, or how they’re going to get through the rest of their lives without somebody who’s slipping away inside, or how they will ever pay for it all.

I’ve always thought that hospitals must know this, know that people won’t notice anything at all beyond the clutter of tubes and shininess, the gurgle of life support machines. It’s a diving board into death, either your own or someone you love, and no one can see beyond that. The hospitals know that. That explains the decor in the waiting rooms.

It was almost dark when Nancy finally came out to her car. A guy came out with her. He was tall and slender and very dark-skinned, almost blue-black. He wore a green hospital jacket with a pocket protector and a stethoscope around his neck. He walked Nancy to her car; a good idea, since even Key West has joined the 21st century. We have crack, and we have rapes, robberies, assaults, smash-and-grabs. I was glad Nancy was being safe and having someone walk her out.

The two of them reached her car, stopped for a minute to say something I couldn’t hear, and then Nancy opened her car door. She turned back and the guy gave her a peck on the cheek. She reached behind his head and pulled his face down to hers. They stayed like that for a long moment. Then the guy took a half step back and stroked her face before he turned and walked back into the hospital.

Nancy watched him go for a minute. He turned once and waved. She smiled at him and climbed into her car.

She drove across Stock Island and I followed her. On the far side of the island from the hospital there is a series of trailer parks. Nancy drove into one of them, not the worst. She parked in front of one of the trailers, took a key from her purse and went inside.

I guess I had known it for a while. I had not admitted it, but the knowledge had been there at the edge of my thoughts, lurking the way something evil lurks under a kid’s bed. Always there, hugging the dark, the thought had just been hiding, waiting to slide out and eat me when the lights were finally all out.

Nancy had somebody else. Of course I had known that. Finding love is easy in Key West. Keeping it may be impossible, but it is always there to be found.

Nancy had found somebody else.

Somebody else. The funny thing was, I felt a sense of relief. Sure, I was hurt, mad, hollow-feeling. But I was relieved, too. Now I knew. Now I was not in doubt, wondering where the relationship was going, wondering if it was even alive anymore.

It was dead. No room for doubt. I was out, the guy in the intern’s coat was in. Ballgame over, no extra innings. Case closed. No appeal.

Somebody else.

I got home and found a bottle of peppermint schnapps somebody had left in my kitchen after a party. I poured a glass. I drank it. It was the traditional thing to do. It tasted awful. I could see why somebody had left it.

It was all I could do to drink the whole bottle.

Chapter Seven

The sun came up in the wrong place. It was supposed to be on the other wall and not so far 
up
. There was something wrong with my neck, too. I wasn’t sure, but I thought maybe it shouldn’t be at that angle. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much.

A weird-looking object squatted beside me. It seemed to be an empty bottle. I moved my head to look. My stomach roared. I had to get on my feet fast. That wasn’t easy. First I had to find them.

I was lying on the floor beside the bed. Most of me anyway. My feet were up, tangled in the sheets. I yanked them free and made it to the bathroom just in time, trailing a stream of bed linen behind me.

Half an hour of shower, hot as I could stand it, helped a little. So did coffee, toast, aspirin.

When I was done I took a little walk to clear my head. It didn’t seem to work, but at least I wasn’t nauseated anymore. I was moving in slow motion. Everything seemed to be hard-edged and far away. I had to spend a lot of time on complicated things like opening the door.

At the corner I bought a newspaper, the Key West 
Citizen
, and flipped it open.

How nice, I thought. That was a very good picture of Nicky. I didn’t know he owned a tie. It must be from his official immigration file.

I looked at the picture for a long time before my brain got the next message down the wires. Oh. Right. Why is Nicky’s picture on the front page?

I moved my eyes. They seemed to crackle when they turned. It hurt, but I focused them, tried to read the headline. 
Local Businessman Chains Self To Conch Train
, it said. Of course. That would explain it. Sure. If Nicky chained himself to the Conch Train they would almost have to put his picture in the paper.

Another slow message worked through my brain: 
This is not normal—even for Nicky
. I blinked. It felt good, so I held my eyes closed for a minute. I let the breeze move over my face. That felt good, too. This was a complicated problem, but maybe if I just stood with my eyes closed for a minute I could get it.

I opened my eyes and looked down at the newspaper. It was tough work, but I read the first few lines of the story.

Yup, that explained it. He 
couldn’t
 come tell me about it.

Nicky was in jail.

• • •

A crowd of almost five people stood outside the jail. A few held signs saying, “FREE NICKY CAMERON,” and “HAITIANS ARE HUMANS.”

“Disturbing the peace,” the on-duty sergeant told me, “Creating a nuisance, obstructing a public vehicle, and littering.”

“Littering? Nicky?”

The sergeant shrugged. “He had a couple of signs about Haitian refugees with him. The wind blew ’em off.”

I nodded. “Can I see him?”

He looked me over. The only decent thing I was wearing was my tan. And that was still a little green underneath. “You a lawyer?”

“A friend.”

He glanced through a file folder with Nicky’s name on it. “Your name Knight?”

“Mate,” Nicky said as they led him in to the visiting room. “What kept you?”

“Bad timing, Nicky.”

He peered at me a little more carefully. “Christ on a bun, look at you. Hung fucking over, eh?”

“Just a little.”

“A little, he says. Green as a gator, you are. You got completely pissed. Had yourself quite a party, eh?”

“Nothing like yours, Nicky.”

He cackled. “Too right. You missed a doozy, Billy.”

“Why did you put my name down as counsel, Nicky?”

He looked surprised. “So you’d get involved, Billy. Think I want you as my lawyer?”

I shook my head. It still hurt. Maybe it was the lingering hangover, but he wasn’t making sense. At least, I hoped he wasn’t. “The sergeant says they’ll let you out. You just have to pay a fine.”

“I don’t want out, mate. Not until I get justice.”

“That could take some time.”

“As may be.” He set his shoulders and tried to look tough and stubborn. “The fact is I made the front page and called attention to a very bad situation. While I stay here I’m making a statement they can’t ignore. Reckon I can hold out a little longer, long as I’m doing some good.”

“They’re going to put you out in a couple of weeks anyway, Nicky.”

“I can wait.”

I stood up and waved at the guard. “I already paid.”

He looked stubborn. “I won’t go.”

“As your counsel, it is my duty to advise you that the large officer standing behind you is going to commit an act of police brutality on you if you don’t get out of his jail. And there are no members of the media present.”

That seemed to be the clincher. Nicky wasn’t afraid of much—except maybe a virus that would kill hops—but he wanted attention for his Cause. If there wasn’t any to be had, why take the lumps?

The paperwork took a few more minutes. I had never realized how hard it is to bust somebody out of jail if they don’t really want to go. But I finally bullied him into signing the last of the forms and got him out the front door.

BOOK: Red Tide
4.05Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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