Текст книги "Hemingway's Ghost"
Автор книги: Layton Green
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Papa kicked a bottle on the street outside the police station. “Pigs,” he said. “Who do they think they are, treating their elders like common criminals?”
“We sort of are common criminals,” Ernie said.
“Shut up. And anyway, Ern, what the hell is up with that? A boxer took out two of the victims?”
“So? Am I the only ex-boxer on the Keys or something?”
“You’re sure as hell the only Hemingway who’s an ex-boxer. And what prior, Bumby?”
Bumby’s face reddened. “You know me, I couldn’t hurt a fly. It was a long time ago, I was drunk and jealous. I caught an old girlfriend with someone from my writing group.”
“So what, you stabbed them?”
“Of course not. I just waved the knife around and threatened them, someone called 911 and I was locked up for a week. Not a big deal. Writers are a jealous lot,” he muttered.
“Let’s go see Madame Gertrude,” Papa said.
Bumby and Ernie both looked at him in approval, and Bumby said, “Now that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard all day.
They left Papa’s golf cart at his gritty studio apartment that was two blocks on the wrong side of Truman Avenue. Even doctors and attorneys found Key West horribly expensive. Old Town has a long list of millionaires waiting for the old timers to die so they can buy up their wretched conch houses for two million dollars.
The three of them looked like bearded penguins as they waddled down Simonton. They cut over to Duval on Southard, then headed north a few blocks until they saw the garish little shop wedged between a Zagat-rated steakhouse and a strip club. The sign read “Readings by Madame Gertrude,” and plastic stars and zodiac symbols adorned a painted black door. There were no windows.
A bell dinged as they stepped inside, just as the first quarter-sized drops of rain started to fall. The room was small and square, and a gray-haired woman dressed head to toe in green and blue silks stepped into the room from behind a curtain. Her pale, pinched face smiled back at three of her most regular customers, the tip of her snub nose upturned in a permanent sniff.
There were already three chairs in place, further evidence of Madame Gertrude’s psychic genius, as none of them had ever seen more than one chair present, and they hadn’t announced their arrival.
Madame Gertrude always stood as she laid the cards, but she was so short that she was almost eye to eye with Papa when he sat. Because of her voluminous clothing, it was impossible to tell that Madame Gertrude was missing an arm, until she deftly shuffled and spread the Tarot Cards with her remaining hand.
She said, in a grating fake Slavic accent, “Vhat brings my favorite Hemmies to see me all at vonce today?”
“We need you, Madame,” Bumby said. He had not been superstitious until Madame Gertrude had stopped him on the street and told him that a death in his family was imminent, six hours before his cat was hit by a car. Too many other people on the island had reported similar occurrences for Bumby to dismiss Madame Gertrude as a fraud. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders,” he said, and her face clouded, “and we need some answers. We tried the police and they treated us like we were guilty.”
“And maybe one of us is,” Papa said grimly. “If that comes out today, then so be it.”
I had to admit, Papa did a good job proclaiming his innocence.
The room quieted, and Madame Gertrude’s hand hovered over the first card until all three were leaning forward in a cloud of incense. “You know,” she said, and they jumped, “I vas here last time there vas double murder on the island. Forty years ago. Did police tell you?”
Papa smirked. “They failed to mention that.”
“That’s because it involved the dark arts. Two bodies vere found hanging upside down on wooden cross in old two-story church on Petronia. You know the one?”
They all nodded.
“The pentagram vas carved on their chest, the blood drained from their bodies. I believe the paper say they had suspect, though no one vas arrested. They covered it up, and it remains our island’s darkest secret.”
“Do you know who did it?” Ernie said in a near-whisper.
“A black magician, a warlock. I sense his presence then, vhen he vas just beginning. I sense it then, I sense it over the years, I sense it now.”
Papa gave a disbelieving frown. “No offense, Madame, but what does that have to do with us?”
Bumby said, “Do you think today’s murders are connected in some way?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I vill consult bauble.” She swept up the cards, and her arm disappeared into the silk sleeve, reappearing with a glass ball filled with an opaque, foggy substance.
Her face grew graver and graver as she peered into the bauble. Ernie gripped the edge of the table. “What do you see?”
She hesitated, cocking her head as if not wanting to look fully into the glass. “He’s still here,” she said quietly. “On the island. I don’t know if it is same murderer, but he’s still here somevhere.”
“My God,” Ernie said. “Shouldn’t we go to the police?”
Papa smacked him on the chest with the back of his hand. Bumby said to Madame Gertrude, “There’s something we need to ask you. It’s why we came.”
“Yes?”
Bumby folded and unfolded his hands while his tongue moved back and forth across his teeth. “We need to know if Hemingway’s ghost is on the island.”
“We think he might be the murderer,” Ernie said.
Bumby rolled his eyes. “We absolutely do not.”
“You heard the Sergeant,” Ernie said. “It was a boxer. The Man’s tired of us pretending to be him.”
“No, Ern,” Papa said, “you’re the boxer.”
Madame Gertrude considered the issue. “That is interesting question. He vill be somewhere, although likely not here. Almost alvays suicide ghosts reside near place of death. Unfortunately, I cannot help vith that. To summon particular spirit I vould need personal effect, for example a piece of clothing. You need to have personal effect, or be at residence of spirit. Any psychic who claims othervise is lying.”
“Well that’s easy enough,” Papa said. “You can come with us to the Hemingway house tonight. If he’s not there, then we’ll know for sure.”
Madame Gertrude did not look pleased at the thought, and Bumby said, “There might be a better way.”
All eyes turned to him. He reached under his shirt and pulled out a necklace with a shriveled rabbit’s foot dangling on the end of it.
“What the hell’s that?” Papa said.
“It’s his.”
“Whose? His?”
“I bought it a decade ago, at an auction. He wore it when he went to the Spanish Civil War.”
“I’ll be damned,” Ernie said, reaching to touch it.
Bumby pulled it back. “It’s my good luck charm. Not that it’s helped me get published,” he muttered. He took it off and reverently handed it to Madame Gertrude. “But if it will help, you can use it.”
She looked doubtful. “If this is really his, it vill help.”
“It better be. It cost me my life savings.”
Papa guffawed.
“Vait,” she said.
She took the bauble and disappeared into the back room. They flinched when the lights went out, casting the room into total darkness. She returned with a single yellow candle and set it in a teacup in the middle of the table. The glow from the candle lit her lined face with soft flickers. She put the rabbit’s foot on the table, then covered it with her hand. “I must go into trance. The candle vill help light the vay for his spirit.”
Then she closed her eyes and grew very still. The three of them waited in uneasy silence, taken aback by the sudden seriousness of her demeanor. It was as if this was the first time they had seen the real Madame Gertrude.
They waited so long they thought she was asleep, and then her eyes slowly opened. “I have him,” she said softly.
Ernie’s eyes popped, and even Papa was unnerved. “You’re kidding,” Bumby said. When she didn’t reply he said, “Madame?”
“This is very strange. He’s close, I can sense him. His presence is on the island. But he’s not here with us, and I can barely hear him. I don’t know why he wouldn’t be able to come to me.”
“What’s that mean?” Ernie said.
“I don’t know, unless there’s some reason he’s tied to his location. Maybe the grief is too strong. Hold on—quiet. He’s trying to tell me something.”
They shut up. She had dropped the accent and poor grammar, and her obliviousness to her shtick lent an eerie credulity to her words. Even I was impressed.
Her face looked strained, and she was gripping the table with white knuckles. She was staring at Ernie, who was seated in the middle, although her stare went right through him. Suddenly her face collapsed, and she sat back.
“Well?” Papa said. “Did you reach him?”
She nodded once, her face taut. “Just for a moment. Then he was gone, as if he was being pulled away.”
“What’d he say?”
“I could only make out two words.” She looked around the room as if still searching for a presence, and her words issued from grim lips. “Help me.”
I didn’t like how this was going, not one damned bit.
Madame Gertrude had nothing else to say, and seemed disturbed by the whole encounter, which caused the three of them to file out of the room much more solemnly than they had entered.
The clouds had broken and the sun bored into them as they walked down Duval. Bumby squinted down the street. “Forgot my sunglasses,” he muttered.
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Ernie said. “Is he toying with us?”
Papa balled his fists. “You need to get your head out of your ass. There’s a murderer on this island killing Hemingways, killing us, and you’re getting all worked up over some old bag who went through menopause during the Cold War.”
Ernie shook his finger. “Don’t act like you don’t believe she’s a real psychic. You go there as much as any of us.”
“That’s for fun, Ern. A diversion. This is real. Maybe she knows the killer, and is protecting him.”
Bumby stared at Papa. “Madame Gertrude? You seem to be going out of your way to ignore the evidence we do have.”
Papa held his sides and opened his mouth in mock laughter. “Evidence? Evidence? Exactly what evidence are you talking about, Bumblebutt?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Would that be the Ouija Board evidence or the senile fortune teller evidence?”
“Fine. We’ll wait until tonight, and we’ll continue this conversation after we see what’s in Tolstoy’s grave.”
Papa grinned. “Sure thing.”
Later that day they decided to pay a visit to Jean-Paul, the wealthy Frenchman with the Hemingway addiction who had bought a huge house just a few doors down from the museum. Papa said the police would never touch him because he was so wealthy, and Bumby agreed, so they decided to take matters into their own hands.
Jean-Paul was a vintner, and he specialized in selling truckloads of Bordeaux to third world dictators. The rumor (true) was that the wine was a front for arms dealings, since Jean-Paul’s extravagant lifestyle surpassed his rather modest holdings in Bordeaux. But since his wine was quite good, the French didn’t really care what he did on the side. One expert had even afforded Jean-Paul’s 2009 collection a ninety-eight point rating, but two days after the report she had been seen speeding down the Autobahn in a new Bugatti.
I also happened to know that the horny old bastard had a penchant for bringing home two Nicaraguan whores on Wednesday nights, and listening to them read Proust with a Spanish accent before having a threesome in the Jacuzzi.
The Hemingways walked up the long pathway through Jean-Paul’s garden, giving the restored Victorian admiring glances as they approached. If there was one thing Jean-Paul had, it was good taste.
Papa banged on the door, and Jean-Paul opened it in a white suit, a huge cigar clamped between his teeth. He smiled broadly and ushered them in. He liked to be seen chumming with the Hemingways in town, probably because he thought it elevated his image as a connoisseur.
Papa took in the rich furnishings with a greedy gaze. Jean-Paul led them to the sitting room, where there was an entire bookshelf full of aged Hemingway titles, and Bumby stared at it with undisguised jealousy.
They all sat in plush leather chairs, and Jean-Paul blew a huge cloud of smoke. He was a short, energetic man with glasses and a cavernous bald spot. The cigar looked out of place; he was one of those unfortunate men who always looked like they were compensating.
He offered each of them a cigar, which they accepted. “What can I do for you, Messieurs?” He said, and then his face turned sympathetic. “My deepest regrets on the deaths of your noble compatriots.”
“Thank you,” Bumby said.
Papa puckered his cigar a few times, then held it between his fat fingers. Now he belonged with a cigar. “I’m gonna be blunt,” Papa said. “We’re desperate men here, so don’t give us any shit. What do you know about the letter?”
“Excuse me?”
Papa fell silent, and gave Jean-Paul a long stare. Jean-Paul’s face grew more and more perplexed, and he crossed and then uncrossed his legs.
“The letter,” Papa repeated.
Jean-Paul put up his hands. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. And why are all of you looking at me like this?”
Ernie set down his cigar, stood and approached Jean-Paul. When he was a foot away he threw a jab at Jean-Paul’s face, quick as a mamba. He stopped an inch from Jean-Paul’s nose, and held his pose while Jean-Paul scrambled in his lap for his dropped cigar.
Jean-Paul retrieved his cigar as he cringed into the chair. “What the hell’s going on here? I warn you my butler will be here any minute.”
“Nah,” Ernie said, and returned to his seat. “He’s no boxer. He woulda thrown something up.”
Jean-Paul stood, still a bit shaky from the near-punch. “I’ve always been a fan of your work, Messieurs, but I think it is time I escort you to the front door.”
Bumby stood. Jean-Paul flinched, but Bumby rested his hands gently on Jean-Paul’s shoulders. “We’re just a bit on edge, as I’m sure you can understand. We have good reason to believe the killer is also a boxer, so Ern was just testing that theory.”
Jean-Paul straightened his tie, glared at Ernie, then walked to a cabinet and took out a bottle of whiskey. He poured a tall glass and offered one to his guests. They all accepted.
“Your actions are understandable,” he said, “given the circumstances. But please believe me that the last person I would want to harm would be a Hemingway impersonator. Unless,” he mused, “they were terrible. I joke of course—and anyway the ones who have died were not terrible, but beautiful. It is a beautiful thing that you do for us, oui, bringing him to life again.”
“Yeah sure,” Papa said. “Look, you live a few doors down from the museum. You seen anything weird going on over there?”
“Weird?”
Papa waved his hands. “Yeah, people going in and out at night, strange lights, noises—”
“Hemingway’s ghost,” Ernie said.
“Shut up,” said Papa.
Jean-Paul considered the question. “Not at all. But I must say I do not have a good view of the grounds. I can see into his bedroom from my rear balcony, and no, I have seen nothing of interest.”
“What about the caretaker? You seen him acting strange lately?”
“Lester? Of course not. Although,” he tapped his mouth with a finger, “maybe I should not intervene, but he was a boxer, and I’ve heard that his father was trained by Hemingway himself.”
“What?” Papa said. “That half-wit’s father knew the Man?”
“Oui oui. The President of the Museum informed me that Lester’s father was caretaker before him.”
Ernie sat back. “The caretaker’s a boxer,” he repeated.
Bumby flashed an annoyed look. “There’ve got to be dozens of boxers on the island at any given time, and it doesn’t prove anything anyway. I think the Sergeant was just trying to rile us up. Besides, the caretaker’s at least sixty, and we’ve already discussed why he wouldn’t…” He left off and glanced at Jean-Paul.
“Now you’re ignoring evidence,” Papa said.
Jean-Paul said, “Sorry?”
“Nothing,” Bumby muttered. “Thanks for the drink, but we need to be going.”
Jean-Paul raised his glass, showcasing both a diamond-encrusted Rolex and a tattoo of a somber Hemingway on the underside of his forearm, holding a wine glass and watching them all with sad knowing eyes. “I wish you luck. Let me know if there is anything I can do.”
They were at Sloppy’s again that night. After working up their courage with a few drinks, they headed back to the house at midnight, Ernie hugging Champ’s Ouija Board to his chest, Bumby carrying a shovel, Papa carrying a concealed weapon.
The night was soft and warm as it can only be on the islands. I was sure they were enjoying the sweet smell of decaying vegetation, the sensual breeze that brushes the skin like a lover’s lips.
Ah, how I loved that place.
They stepped off Duval, and by the time they reached Whitehead the street noise had faded into silence.
After they had navigated the wall, Ernie turned towards the caretaker’s house, squatting in the back corner of the property like a dark tumor.
“Maybe it’s time we had a little talk with Lester.”
“And say what?” Bumby said. “Are you murdering Hemingways? Like we’ve said a thousand times, if he was protecting something why the hell would he let us over in the first place?”
Ernie dropped his voice to a whisper. “Maybe he saw the letter?”
“One, the letter’s not that valuable, and two, if he saw the letter, he could take it any time he wanted.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Ernie said, balling and unballing his fists. “I just don’t like coming out here all unprotected, when three of us have had our passports stamped in the last week.”
“That’s why,” Papa said, showing his teeth as he pulled out a pistol from the waistband of his trousers, “I brought this.”
Bumby almost fell backwards. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing that.”
Ernie put his hands up, and Papa sneered. “God, Ern, I’m not gonna shoot you. That is, unless you’re the killer.”
“I don’t like guns,” Ernie said. “And how do we know you’re not the one killin’ people?”
Papa grinned. “You don’t.”
“You could’ve at least brought us one.”
“You know how expensive this piece was? And besides, I don’t trust either of you. You’re a boxer, and I’m not buying Bumby’s sensitive writer act for one goddamn second.”
“I thought you said there were dozens of boxers on the island?”
“That was Bumblepants. I happen to think you’re a greedy bastard who might be the killer.”
“You’re an asshole.”
Bumby waved a hand. “Shh. We need to stick together if we have any chance of figuring this out.” He looked at Papa. “Just don’t go pointing that thing anywhere near us. The first thing we’re gonna do is dig up that cat and see what’s there, agreed?”
“Please do,” Papa said. “Make a fool of yourself so we can get on with this nonsense and find out who the killer is.”
“And if we find something, then we use the Ouija Board again.”
“Sure thing, Bumblecakes.”
They headed down the path, wading through more spider webs as they walked past the pet cemetery to the forgotten headstone hidden among the foliage.
Papa waved the gun at Ernie. “Why don’t you go over there and lookout for Lester while Bumby digs. I’ll stand guard here.”
Ernie scowled but did as Papa said. Bumby threw Papa a foul look and then drove the shovel into the earth around the headstone. “I don’t feel right about this,” he said, “but I guess it has to be done.”
After fifteen minutes of digging the shovel made a thudding noise as it hit something solid, and Bumby and Papa exchanged a look. Bumby kept digging until he had uncovered a two-foot wooden box sunk into the earth. Papa helped him lift it out, and they set it on the ground and called Ernie over.
There was a tiny lock on the lid, and all three cringed as Bumby broke it off with the shovel. They waited until the sound stopped reverberating in the stillness, and then Bumby reached for the dirt-encrusted lid.
Papa stayed his hand, pointing the gun at Ernie. “Why’d you think he wrote poems to Pauline anyway, Ern? I never heard nothing about the Man writing poems.”
“He wrote plenty of poems,” Bumby said. “Just not very good ones.”
“He was a romantic,” Ernie said.
Papa smirked. “Yeah, so romantic he had four wives.”
“He stayed with Mary until he died,” Ernie said crossly.
“He might as well’ve divorced her. She had to clean up his brains.”
Bumby raised the shovel and took a step towards Papa. “Shut up,” he said. “I’m so sick of your ignorant mouth. He was ill. He was in pain and he had a rare brain disease, and that’s why he did it.”
Papa backed up a few steps, even though he had the gun. He was looking at Bumby as if seeing him for the first time, and had the gun pointed at his chest. “Okay, okay. Cool down there, Bumbles. Let’s just finish what we came for.”
Bumby realized he was acting out of character and composed himself. He went to the coffin and lifted the lid with a trembling hand. After holding the lid open and peering inside, he screwed his face up at the smell and used the tip of one finger to move aside the tiny feline skeleton. Ernie gasped as Bumby pulled an envelope out of the box. The envelope was yellowed and serrated along the top, like they used to be.
Ernie and Papa crowded around as Bumby broke the seal, then pulled out a thin stack of typed pages. The title of the first page read To My Dearest Pauline.
Ernie stumbled backwards, and Papa’s eyes grew wide.
“I don’t get it,” Papa said as he stumped down the stairs to the cellar. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on here, but why bury that stuff with the cat in the first place? Or under the brick in the cellar, for that matter?”
Bumby shrugged. “Hemingway liked to do things like that. Said it would extend his legacy if people found little pieces of his work as time went by. Who knows what else is out there,” he said, with a hungry light in his eyes. “Maybe I was wrong, maybe there’s a whole other book somewhere.”
“Can you imagine what that’d be worth?” Papa said.
Bumby threw him a sharp look. “It’d be priceless, and go straight to a museum.”
“Like hell.”
Ernie’s face was still white as the sand on Smathers Beach. “He’s here right now, watching us, I can feel it. So can we please shut up about this? I think we should just get outta here.”
Bumby took the Ouija Board out of Ernie’s grasp and put it on the floor. “We need to find out who the murderer is. And he’s the only one who can help.”
“And what if it’s him?” Ernie said.
Bumby took a deep breath. “Then I suppose our fate lies in his hands.”
“You’re both idiots,” Papa said, and went over to the brick in the corner. He extracted the pages and tucked them into a shirt pocket.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Bumby said.
“Keeping these safe. I don’t trust nobody no more but me.”
“I thought we agreed to keep them there for now? Who gave you the right to choose?”
He held the gun up. “Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson.”
“Cretin,” Bumby muttered, and turned back to the Ouija board. “Just get over here and help us.”
Papa looked at the closed door, ran his tongue along his teeth, then shook his head and joined the others around the Ouija Board. He tucked the gun in his pants and placed his hairy paw on the planchette with the others.
They moved the plastic wedge in slow circles around the board, then paused in the middle, Papa’s slight wheeze the only sound in the room.
Bumby said, “Is anyone there?”
Nothing for a long moment, and Papa’s mouth started to break into a sneer. Then the planchette lurched to one side of the board, hovered near the edge and then darted, all three hands hovering right on top of it, to the top right corner.
-YES-
“Did you do that?” Ernie whispered.
“Not me,” Bumby said. “Papa?”
Papa swallowed his sneer. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t me.”
“Oh God, he’s here,” Ernie said. “He’s here and he’s furious.”
They stopped talking when the planchette started moving again.
-MAX-
“Max?” Ernie said. “Poor Max.”
“Max was also his editor,” Bumby said, then spoke to the board. “You want to speak to Max?”
The planchette seemed confused, hovering back and forth between Yes and No.
“Did you speak to Madame Gertrude today?” Ernie said.
The planchette started a slow glide.
-YES-
Ernie sucked in his breath, then looked around the room. “Is anyone else with you?”
-YES-
“Who?”
No answer.
“Is it Max?”
-NO-
“Pauline?”
-NO-
“One of your sons?”
-NO-
“Lovers?”
-NO-
“Then who is it?”
The planchette dropped to the middle of the board, and all six eyes were riveted on the wedge as it moved with purpose from letter to letter.
-CANT SAY-
Bumby said, “Why not?”
-CANT-
“Who gives a damn about this crap,” Papa said, then leaned in. “Hey there, listen up. Who’s killing people around here?”
The planchette stopped moving.
“Did you hear me? I asked you a question. Who’s killing people?”
Still no answer, and Bumby said, “Is it someone in this room?”
-YES-
Bumby sat back, and Ernie grew pale. Papa sneered and said, “That’s great, you fellas really cracked this case. Hey Hemmie, I got a question for you. Is Bumby a bad writer?”
-YES-
“Is Ernie a washed-up drunk?”
-YES-
“Am I going to be rich and famous?”
-NO-
“Am I Santa Claus?”
-NO-
Papa gave the board a satisfied smirk. “Who am I then?”
-DEAD MAN-
Papa’s smirk faded.
Ernie’s eyes were wild, but he kept his finger on the planchette. Bumby said, “I know you’re confused up there, or wherever you are. But we really need your help. Do you have any advice for us?”
The planchette started moving quickly around the board.
-ALL WICKED THINGS WERE ONCE INNOCENT-
Bumby grimaced, then glanced at the others before he said, “We need advice on what’s happening here. What should we do?”
-A MAN CAN BE DESTROYED BUT NOT DEFEATED-
“This is worthless,” Papa said. “One of us is just quoting the Man from our subconscious.”
“Why’d you ask Madame Gertrude for help?” Bumby said.
The planchette quivered but didn’t move.
“Are you in danger?”
-YES-
“That’s ridiculous,” Papa said. “He’s dead. The old bugger probably thinks he’s at war, or about to be caught with his pants down.”
“Let us help you,” Bumby said. “Why’re you in danger? Who’re you afraid of?”
-NOT AFRAID OF ANY MAN-
“Don’t forget who you’re talking to,” Ernie said. “Hey, are you angry with us?”
-YES-
“For what?”
-NEED HELP-
Papa threw his hands up. “I can’t take this nonsense any more.”
Bumby said, “Are you saying we need help, or you do? Who’s the murderer? Is it one of us? Someone we know? Who needs help?”
The planchette began a furious dance across the board, the three gnarled hands looking absurd jerking back and forth above it. Bumby read the words aloud as they came.
-GET HIM AWAY CANT SEE THE LIGHT HELP ME PAULINE CANT LEAVE THE HOUSE HES TOO STRONG HE WONT-
A loud crack shattered the silence, and then the sound of broken glass somewhere on the property above them. Half a second later a deafening alarm went off.
Papa lurched to his feet. “That was a gunshot! Let’s get the hell outta here!”
Bumby scrambled to get the board and they ran up the stairs in a panic. By the time they reached the door the house alarm had shut off. They sprinted for the wall, and when they passed the caretaker’s house they saw Lester standing on his narrow iron balcony with a shotgun in his hand.
“Shit,” Papa said, but he had already seen them.
“Y’all okay?” Lester called out. He was a wiry little man with a wrinkled face and a bulbous nose, and bunches of short curly hairs sprouted on his arms and out from underneath his white tank top. He had on a pair of tattered work pants and his hair and clothes were disheveled, like he’d just crawled out of bed. “Someone just shot out a window. Damn Conch kids, I swear I’ll put a slug in their skinny asses when I catch ‘em.”
Papa had the pistol hidden behind his right leg, and he slipped it into the back of his pants. “Scared the shit out of us,” he said. “You sure it was kids?”
“It’s always them kids. They get us about twice a year. Y’all might want to get over that fence before the deputy gets here. Soon as that bell sounds they’re on their way, don’t matter if I call ‘em or not. House rules, s’pose they got to tell the insurance men they checked it out.”
He didn’t need to tell them twice. The Hemingways were over the fence and running down the street as fast as their tired, stubby legs would carry them.
No one pursued them, and Ernie spoke the last words of the night, just before they reached Duval.
“The letter’s all yours, fellas. I’m gettin’ the hell off this sandbox.”
Bumby and Papa saw it on the morning news. They were back at the Croissant Palace, stuffing their fat faces with banana Nutella croissants, licking their fat impostor fingers with their fat bovine tongues.
Both of them stopped chewing when the proprietor turned up the news on the patio television. An old Ford pickup had run right off Seven Mile Bridge the night before, plunging to the water below and landing on top of a shallow reef. The driver was ruled dead on impact and identified as Ernie Pickens, and due to paint scrapes on the side of the pickup, investigators suspected that another vehicle had struck the pickup and caused it to flip over the short concrete barrier. A tagline on the bottom of the screen read Another Hemingway Impersonator Found Dead. The photo of the Ford went off the screen and a panel of experts appeared and started talking about the damage to the coral reef.
Papa set down his croissant with trembling fingers, and Bumby couldn’t stop swallowing. They looked at each other with suspicious eyes.
“Shit,” Papa said.
“Damn,” said Bumby.
They took Papa’s golf cart over to Fort Zachary where the water mirrored the pale blue of the morning sky. The tiny waves lapped against the rocks while they sat in the shade of the pines. When the sun rose higher and stole their shade, they rose, two old men weary not just of murder but of life, weary of eking out an existence as living specters of a man long dead, weary of every single tight-fisted sunburned tourist who laughed and pointed and tossed a goddamn dollar in their tip jar.
I pitied them.
They hunched over a soundless meal at Blue Heaven until Sergeant Cohn walked over to their table and asked if he could sit down.
Papa wiped the burger juice from his mouth. “It’s a free country. You might as well drink with us before you arrest us.”
The Sergeant took off his hat, pulled up a chair and rubbed at his chin before he spoke. “I’m not here to arrest either of you.”
