Chapter Twenty-Two

The man wore the same greasy clothes he had worn Thursday night in the Green Parrot, blue swimming trunks a size too big, red tank top, both oily and soiled rags. From the deck of his boat, he watched Jankowski get out of his car. I remembered Stacy had called him Carl and I now knew he was the Carl Polk that Stash had told me about. It was an easy assumption on my part. He had recently painted Polk Salad Annie on the bow of his boat, a play on words of a song from the sixties by Tony Joe White, made famous by Elvis. His boat barely stayed afloat. A hand-painted sign hung in the cabin window that read, Cheap Charters. No shit.

Key West Harbor is a state-run marina on Stock Island. Unlike most of the marinas in Key West where all the fun happens—fast boats, cruisers, yachts, and sails—Key West Harbor is a working man's marina, shrimp boats, salvage boats, and some broken-down charters, along with a spattering of nice vessels.

I parked in between a front-end loader and a dump truck. The rest of the sandlot was crowded with boat trailers, trucks, and tractors. Anyone paying attention would notice the Mustang. Orange wasn’t exactly subtle. But I had a good feeling Jankowski didn't have his head on a swivel. He had no reason to be paranoid, yet. It had been four days since Dan’s murder. I was suspect numero uno, which meant Jankowski slept like a baby. Also, as we’d driven from Key West to Stock Island, I passed at least twelve Mustangs of the same color as mine. The rental agencies must have gotten a deal on orange convertibles.

Carl held a monkey wrench and jabbered at Peter Jankowski, who stood on the dock that ran alongside Carl's boat. Jankowski moved his arms a lot when he talked, but Carl stood still as a statue as they went back and forth. Finally, Carl waved his arms in frustration and walked back into his cabin. Jankowski boarded the boat. I watched him look around with absolute disdain. He was a man fully aware he was not where he should be. Carl wasn't exactly his class of people, which made the meeting that much more interesting to me.

Jankowski said something and waited, then said something again. I didn’t want to get closer to hear as one of them could spot me. But I did get the gist of what was going on with them. Jankowski wasn’t happy and Carl was making it worse.

Then Jankowski shouted, “Carl!”

Carl emerged from the cabin and handed Jankowski something. I couldn't get a bead on it. Carl waited nervously while Jankowski looked down at what he was holding in his hand.

Carl shook his head and Jankowski lost his mind. He shouted, “What do you mean you spent it?” Carl shrugged and Jankowski paced, flailed his arms wildly, and shook his head. He turned even redder. Finally, Jankowski shouted, “Fuck! Fuck me! Fuck you! Fuck!”

He moved quickly, and with his gut pressed Carl against the cabin's bulkhead, leaning hard on him. After a few seconds, he stood back and dropped his shoulders. Pointing at Carl, Jankowski whispered something low into his ear. Carl shoved Jankowski away and pointed right back at him. They had a brief standoff and Jankowski finally backed off. He climbed down to the dock and marched back to his Porsche.

The 911 roared alive and spit gravel as Jankowski gassed the engine. Carl Polk waved and shouted, “Eat shit!” He smiled and disappeared back inside his cabin. I put the Mustang in gear and tore ass after Jankowski.