31

I PULLED UP IN FRONT of the porch at the Blue Palmetto and was about to bring a donut in to Greenleaf when the note on the seat caught my eye. Mr. D. Weeks seemed to see everything that goes on in that parking lot. I wondered if he ever noticed a bicyclist with an inked bullet hole on his leg. I started the truck and ate two more donuts as I drove back to the village.

A huge white 4-wheel drive was pulling out of a spot shaded by a tree draped in Spanish moss in the center strip of the Village Plaza parking lot. The guy behind the wheel was trying to back out while holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other. I waited patiently. The laid-back Georgia lifestyle must be taking the edge off of my attitude. Back in the northeast, I would have called him a jerk or worse and given him the finger. Maxine would be proud of my new-found self-restraint. When he left, I took the parking space.

I spotted the parking attendant’s florescent vest. He was by the bicycle rack, discreetly watching to see if I was going to go into one of the shops or if I was going to leave the plaza.

“Mr. Weeks?”

A glimmer of recognition crossed his face for a second. Then he set his jaw. “I know. The note; it’s my job.”

“Forget it. It’s good to see someone who takes their job seriously.”

He visibly relaxed his shoulders as he allowed a faint smile to appear.

“Forget the Mr. Weeks business. It’s Demarco all the way.”

“Al. Blue Palmetto Detective Agency,” I said. “I’m trying to find someone. I’m hoping you can help.”

He actually looked impressed. Most people don’t realize what a boring job being a PI is.

“If I can.”

“I’m looking for a cyclist.”

Demarco gave a little laugh and waved his hand in an arc around the village.

“Take your pick. With the limited parking situation in the village, a lot of the tourists rent bicycles.”

“I’m pretty sure this guy is a local.” I gestured toward the bike rack. “So I think the chances are pretty good he’s come here to go to the Post Office or whatever. He’s a young white guy. He’s inked on his leg with a bullet hole and exit wound. And if you got a close look at him, he has one eye that’s brown and the other that’s blue. Sound familiar?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen someone like that. But he doesn’t ride a bike. At least not a regular one. He drives a pedicab.”

A pedicab. Why didn’t I think of that?

“The bike cab company is a few blocks down from the plaza,” Demarco said. “Why don’t you go ask them?”

I looked from the parking lot to Ocean Boulevard, the main street through the village was jammed. Driving through the village can be an exercise in patience with the number of cars, scooters, and bicycles on the streets. I turned back to my new-found friend Demarco.

“Do you suppose I could leave my truck here for a few minutes while I run down to check out the cab company?”

Demarco smiled. “No can do. As it is, you parked without going into one of the shops.”

“Right.” I wasn’t happy, but good for him, I thought. You don’t find too many people who are serious about their jobs like that.