NINETEEN

Peering into the rearview mirror, I thought I saw a tan Acura tailing us. I nudged Punt, but the Acura zipped around us in a no-passing zone, streaking toward the Boca Chica Bridge. After another ten miles of peering over my shoulder, I relaxed. Nobody was following us, and we drove on following the car ahead of us as many wise drivers do when they travel Highway One. We went with the flow.

We’d almost reached Ramrod Key when flares lit the sky and we heard shouting.

“What’s going on over there?” I peered to our left, expecting to see a police car.

“This must be a contest night—ride the mechanical bull contest.”

“Ever tried it?”

“No.” Punt laughed. “I value my back.”

Punt slowed down as much as he could without drawing the ire of those behind us. Others must have been gawking, too. Nobody honked at us. We watched a man in a baseball cap and jeans riding on the back of the mechanical bull. Someone manipulating levers in the background controlled the speed of the ride, but we couldn’t see that person.

“Guy who sticks on longest wins a prize,” Punt said. “Don’t know what the prize is, but whatever it is, it’s probably mousemilk—not worth the bother if you want to keep your spinal disks intact.”

“Maxine said Randy won a hundred dollars one night.” I wished Punt hadn’t reminded me of the threat note. Mousemilk, indeed! I started watching over my shoulder again.

“Relax, Keely. Nobody’s tailing us. I’ m watching in the rearview mirror.”

“So, if you’re watching, you must think there’s a possibility we’re being followed.” Punt didn’t reply, but the warmth of his fingers against mine helped me relax.

After we passed the Torch Keys and entered the Niles Channel Bridge, Punt slowed to thirty-five miles per hour.

“Do you think such a radical speed limit really saves Key deer lives?”

“Nobody can prove one way or the other. Sometimes I think posting a special speed limit just makes the deer refuge workers feel needed. Sure gripes lots of drivers.”

“Wonder where the Moose Hall is?” I peered at every building we passed. Sea Center Marina. Shady Pines Court. Post office. “Punt, why not use your cell phone? We could call the Moose and ask directions.”

“We’ll find it.”

We reached the stop light—the only one between Boca Chica and Marathon—and still no Moose Hall. Punt turned left onto Key Deer Boulevard. Here the traffic moved at thirty miles per hour. I saw no deer.

Methodist church. Road prison. Watson Field. Blue Hole. We drove over eight miles. Didn’t know Big Pine covered that much land.

“There it is to our right.” Punt slowed down. Wow! What a crowd. We searched for a few moments before we found a parking place some distance away and off in a palm thicket. “You’re coming in with me, aren’t you?”

“Sure. No way am I sitting here alone. I read about the Brandt case—serial murderer. Lived right here on Big Pine before he killed his wife and his cousin, dismembered their bodies, and then hung himself up north around Orlando.”

Punt raised the top and locked the convertible before we approached the doorway of a large building. I didn’t need to tell Punt we were at the wrong place. The sign outside read LION’S CLUB. Another sign on the door said BINGO EVERY FRIDAY. We stayed only long enough for Punt to get directions to the Moose Hall.

We’d passed our intended destination on the way to the Lion’s Club without noticing it in spite of the many cars parked nearby. We found a place to leave, as in abandon, the Karmann Ghia and Punt took my hand as we stumbled over rough ground to the door. Of course Punt had no membership card, so he had to ask the doorman to page Shrimp Snerl. A kind official standing behind the doorman invited us inside to wait. The hall smelled like a dirty ashtray and smoke stung my nose and throat and made my eyes water. The high-decibel level of voices made conversation impractical.

Jeans and T-shirts were the costume du jour, and men and women majoring in having a good time shouting at each other sat at tables that ringed a main floor. People without seats huddled on the sidelines like gulls in a storm. Crowds make me nervous. There’s always the danger a crowd will turn into a mob.

These people were intent on drinking beer and eating chips and cheese on crackers. No mob activity seemed eminent. I wondered which one of the revelers might be Shrimp Snerl. I perused the crowd, trying to form a mental image of what he’d look like. I expected to see a whale of a man—someone like Gus Helmer. Wrong. The man who finally appeared to greet Punt with a slap on the back had to stand on tippy-toes to reach Punt’s shoulder. Shrimp.

Captain Snerl was a toothpick of a man—small boned, thin. Looking into his beady black eyes, I remembered an English teacher who tried to teach us to avoid clichés. Said she could string a necklace with all the beady black eyes she’d blue-lined from student essays. So I tried to think of Shrimp’s eyes as black snails, ebony snails dropped in whites so yellow they made me wonder if he had jaundice.

“Glad to meet you, Keely.” His handshake belied his fragile appearance and left me wondering how many of my fingers needed splints. And for such a little guy, he had the booming voice of a Bible-belt preacher.

“Need to talk to you, Shrimp,” Punt shouted. “Want to ask a favor.”

Shrimp eyed the crowd, then eyed Punt again. “Sure thing, man. How about a couple of beers? Soon as this drawing’s over, I’ll be with you all the way all the day.”

“No beer for us, but thanks. Mind if we wait outside? You take your time. We’ll stick around.”

“Okay, man. Be right with you.” Shrimp escorted us to the door and outside and I welcomed the clean air. Would he return for us, I wondered. We sat on the top step and waited. I counted the cars passing on Key Deer Boulevard and after a long time I reached the conclusion that two out of every ten cars are red.

When we heard the crowd inside roar and cheer, we jumped up. And just in time. The door burst open and people poured out like water gushing over a dam.

“Five hundred big ones,” one man shouted. “Butch’s always a lucky so and so.”

“Dang it,” another man said. “Been comin’ here for years and never won a cent.”

“Going to give up on raffles.” The first man tossed his ticket stub onto the graveled parking lot.

When Shrimp appeared, he invited us to sit in his pickup while we talked. The truck looked new except for the ominous bullet hole in the driver’s-side door. Shrimp saw me staring at it and laughed.

“It’s a decal, Keely. Realistic, right? Stuck it there to get a rise out of my wife.”

“And did it?” I asked.

“You bet.” He opened the passenger door and Punt helped me onto the seat where I sat between them, pressing close to Punt. Or was Punt pressing close to me?

The truck interior smelled of hemp rope and WD40. Clean smells. Smells I seldom associated with shrimp boats or shrimpers. “Good to see you again, man. We need to get together more often. I miss my old beach pals. We had us some good times, right?”

“Right,” Punt said.

“What can I do for you, man?” Shrimp asked.

“Got a friend who’s down on his luck. Thought maybe you could use him on your crew for a week or so.”

“He got any experience around shrimp boats?”

“No,” Punt admitted, “but he’s smart. He’ll catch on—guarantee you that.”

“What’s his name? Anyone I know?”

“Name’s Randy Jackson. Ever heard of him?”

“Nope. Can’t say that I have. What kind of work does he usually do?”

“He’s been out of work for a long spell, been out of the Keys for a long spell.”

“Doin’ what?”

Punt sighed. “Doin’ time. Twenty years of it. He’s been exonerated by the court, and now he needs work.” Punt told Shrimp the whole Randy Jackson story along with the fact that Randy’s mother and I had received death threats.

“The guy’s a hothead,” Punt admitted. “I want him off Key West while I’m trying to investigate that twenty-year-old murder.”

“What makes you think I need a hothead on Midnight Moon? A shrimper’s no place for a prima donna. And I don’t want to tangle with an ex-con. Randy Jackson sounds like bad news. Don’t think I want to go there.”

“Maybe we can make a deal,” Punt said. “Instead of you paying Randy, I’ll pay you to take him off my hands for a few days.”

“You sound downright desperate, man.”

“Not quite, but almost. What do you say?”

Shrimp pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a few drags before he spoke again. “Tell you what, Punt. I’ll give him a bunk for a week. You can pay me five hundred earnest money in case he decides to tear up my boat or start a mutiny. But if he turns out to be a good worker, I’ll return your five and pay him the regular shrimper’s fee.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” The men shook hands and Punt reached for his billfold and peeled off five bills. “When do you go out next?”

“Tomorrow. Two o’clock sharp. Bring him to the Key West shrimp docks a little before two. I’m having some repairs made there and once they’re done, we’ll be off.”

“Where’ll you be going?” Punt asked.

“Man, you’re asking for my trade secrets. I never talk about my route or my destination. All I do is brag about my catch once I get back.”

“Fair enough, Shrimp. I’ll have Randy at the docks on time. Don’t go without us. I’ll remind him to bring along sunscreen, too. He hasn’t seen much sunlight lately.”

“Good idea at that. But we’ll work by night, sleep by day.”

“What kind of jobs will he be doing?”

“The usual. Galley duty. Winching in the nets. And sorting out trash.”

“Trash that’s been dumped into the sea?” I asked. “Cruise ship trash?”

Shrimp laughed. “No. To a shrimper, anything that isn’t a shrimp is trash or by-catch. We sometimes pull in a lot of other fish and turtles along with the shrimp. Someone has to sort them out and pitch ’em overboard.”

“Oh.” Now I remembered reading about environmental laws forcing the shrimpers to replace their old nets with new ones that would release loggerheads and greens before the crew hauled them aboard. Those laws never made the shrimpers happy, so I avoided that subject.

“Tell him to pack light,” Shrimp said. “He’ll have only a small bunk with a storage space underneath it. I’m not running the Queen Mary, you know.”

“I’ll make that clear to him.” Punt opened the truck door, alighted, then helped me to the ground.

“See ya tomorrow, man,” Shrimp called after us as we made our way back to the Karmann Ghia.

“Good job, Punt. You talked him into it. Hope Randy comes through for you and you get your five hundred back.”

“A risk is a risk and I feel that one’s a good one. But there’s one thing we’ve forgotten. We need to give Randy the hard sell on the plan. We need to convince him that taking this job would be in his best interest. And we need to do it tonight. If he refuses to sail on Midnight Moon, there’s no way we can make him go.”

“So let’s talk to him. Tonight. He’ll need some time to get his things together.”

“I’ll drive him to the shrimp dock tomorrow if he’s willing. So let’s go see what he says right now. If he refuses this job, we’re back to square one.”