A Death in Key Largo
A Novel
By
Fred Zackel
Copyright © Fred Zackel 2000, 2010
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(The names of some locations were changed to protect their privacy, their beauty, and their integrity.)
"That's a guy married to his job," Ivy Lawson told her boss's parrot. "Look how he's got his head buried in a newspaper. What a waste. If he moves his head six inches, bang, he's looking at one of the more sensational days we've had on the water this month."
Like most locals, Ivy Lawson had grown up hearing northerners gushing how beautiful the Keys was, and anyone who failed to appreciate them both irritated and puzzled her. Since she had no one else handy to voice her opinion to, except her boss who was busy seasoning an iron skillet, she talked to the restaurant's resident parrot.
"That newspaper's the dead giveaway," she told the parrot. "When you see a guy with his nose in a newspaper like that, he's used to traveling alone and eating alone. Bet he spends his whole life on business trips. He's a salesman or something. Bet he doesn't even know what state he's in now."
Her boss's parrot wasn't paying attention. He had seeds and his water dish, and he liked watching himself washing his seeds in his water dish. He knew he was such a pretty bird.
Ivy knew the guy in the back booth wasn't the type of guy usually attracted to her, but she still liked looking at him. He was almost twice her age, at least forty, six foot tall, sort of cute to look at, maybe even attractive, but not handsome or (worse) pretty. He was built big, too, like an athlete. He had huge shoulders, and his chest was muscular, like a swimmer maybe. He was carefully groomed, with a nice striped polo shirt, dark slacks, and expensive sunglasses by his water glass. But he was visiting Florida for the first time. The sports jacket on the seat beside him told her that.
Ivy knew about image. She was ...well, ordinary. She was eighteen years old, very short and very skinny, fragile-looking and naturally angelic, a mere wisp of a woman, which she hated about herself. But she was working at overcoming her body type and what she perceived as her ordinary-ness. This month, for instance, her blonde hair had been chopped short and then dyed a bright magenta. She was also considering a new tattoo, this one more visible to the customers, but she hadn’t made up her mind on what the tattoo should be.
She was the sole waitress on duty at the Pier Inn Restaurant facing the Florida Bay in Key Largo and the guy in the back booth was her last lunch customer. Though it fronted the piers and the gas dock, it was a bit out of the way, a tad off the beaten track and not flashy enough to attract the tourists, like this part of the Keys itself. Inside, the eatery had checkered curtains and no table cloths, a half-dozen tables, two booths along either side and a counter with swivel stools. Fake fishnets were hanging from the ceiling, as were two real ceiling fans and a brace of overwrought ferns.
The guy looked up from his paper as she approached. "What did the parrot say about me?"
Ivy was caught off-guard, and so she blushed, which surprised her. She hadn't seen him look over at her. "Well, you had your head buried in that newspaper," she said lamely. "I didn't think you were ready to order."
He folded the paper, set it aside, and gave her his undivided attention. "I'm ready to order now."
She was taken aback. "Okay." She was surprised that his hands were so large. The young waitress stiffened. "What would you like?"
The guy closed the menu. "I'll have a chef salad."
"What kind of dressing?"
"None."
"Anything to drink?"
"Coffee. Black."
"Anything else?"
He shook his head, gave her back the menu. When Ivy left for the kitchen, he watched her butt disappear. Once she disappeared into the kitchen, he went back to his newspaper.
Moments later, Ivy returned with his salad.
"Thanks."
He started eating, still reading his newspaper.
Ivy went behind the counter, poured herself a cup of coffee, and watched him for a while. She brought the coffee pot and filled his cup. He smiled a customer's smile, but said nothing to her, and she said nothing to him.
She came back when he was half-finished.
"How was it?" she asked.
He didn't look up. "Fine."
She didn't leave. "You always eat just a salad only?"
He noticed her for the second time. "Yeah."
"You don't look like a vegetarian."
"You live longer if you keep your weight down."
She looked at the broad-leafed salad and she knew better.
He added, "That's if you don't die from the pesticides first."
Ivy stared suspiciously at his chef's salad, then looked quizzically at the guy. "Something wrong with the salad?"
The guy knew he'd said the wrong thing. He was contrite. "There was nothing wrong with my salad. I was out of place saying what I said."
"Oh. Okay." She tried being a waitress again. "Did you enjoy your meal?"
"It was as great as the sunset."
They made eye contact, and Ivy was surprised that her eyes could meet his. Before she found herself blushing, she left for the kitchen.
She busied herself stacking plates. Her boss looked up from the wok and noticed her. "You got so much time on your hands, how 'bout orange juice for tomorrow?"
"Okay, Louie." She took a quick peek at the guy in the back booth, and went to work. The guy was back inside his newspaper; he'd be there for a while.
As she left for the kitchen, a small man entered the restaurant. He was in his late thirties, and he was already out-of-shape. He needed a shave and maybe a shower. And though his hair was receding, he wore it long and tied back in a ponytail. He wore a gaudy aloha shirt two sizes too big for him. Spindly legs poked out of his khaki shorts. Seeing the man in the back booth, he went pale as a ghost but came over to the guy with the newspaper.
Spotting Flea Nichols, Joey Serra (aka Joey Sierra) suddenly grinned. He beckoned Flea to join him. Flea Nichols reluctantly came and sat across from the other man. Flea thought his eyes seemed cold as rock and twice as hard.
Joey laughed, then slapped Flea Nichols' leg. "So tell me about it, Flea!" he said cheerily. "Tell me why I came three thousand miles to see you."
Flea's fingers trembled as he took ten one-hundred dollar bills from his wallet and passed them across the table to Joe.
Joey, cold and menacing, looked the money over. They were used and out of sequence. When he was finished, he didn't return the money.
Flea was jittery. "They're real. A guy up here gave them to me to get somebody willing to listen to a deal he wants pulled off."
When Ivy checked the tables, the good-looking guy was gone. She felt a twinge of regret. When she bussed his table, she found he had left her a twenty dollar tip. He really was a great guy, she decided. That's when Louie called her back in the kitchen to load the dishwasher. The world needed more nice guys, she decided.