Mike Jastrzebski - Key Lime Blues

In June of the previous year, Myron Stewart, of the Stewart department store chain, hired us to install a new, state-of-the-art security system for his house to replace the inadequate one installed when the house was built. Before we could complete the job, his daughter was kidnapped.

Two days before our crew was scheduled to install the system, we’d received a frantic call from Stewart demanding to see one of our investigators. I took the call.

Stewart lived in Farmington Hills in a six thousand square foot house. Twenty years earlier, when the house was built, it was considered a showpiece. When I got there, it was still damn impressive.

Myron Stewart answered the door himself. He was dressed in a pair of pressed khaki slacks, a white silk shirt left open at the collar, and a green Christian Dior tie he’d loosened to allow his massive neck a little room. Myron wasn’t fat, just short with a barrel chest and thick, vein-lined arms.

Stewart led me down a long hallway and into a library. He sat down at a large antique oak desk and pointed to a leather sofa across the room. I listened while he told me how his daughter had failed to return home from school, and how he’d received a call telling him she was a prisoner. The kidnapper was demanding a five-hundred-thousand dollar ransom.

“Did you call the police?” I asked.

“They told me they’d kill her if I called the police,” he said. “She’s all I have. My wife died three years ago and I can’t lose Celine too.”

While he spoke, Stewart began to play with his tie. He tightened it, then stuck his finger behind the knot and tugged it loose before tightening it again. His face was red and while I sat there watching him his hands began to shake and he refused to look me in the eyes. I couldn’t imagine what he was going through, but I felt I needed to tell him the truth.

“Our agency isn’t equipped to deal with this,” I said. “You need to call the police.”

Stewart slammed his fist on the desk and jumped up. “I can’t risk it. She’s all I have.”

We stood face-to-face while I made my point. “Kidnappers watch movies. They know they’re supposed to say don’t call the police. They know they’re going to scare you. But it’s your best bet. I promise. I have a friend with the Detroit office of the F.B.I. who I can call if you’d like.”

We argued back and forth for about fifteen minutes before Stewart collapsed into his chair and agreed. I called my friend at the Bureau and when they arrived, I left.

Three days later, the ransom drop took place. The kidnapper turned out to be the gardener. Somehow, he spotted a tail. A rookie agent got a little too anxious, gunfire was exchanged, and the gardener was killed. They never found Celine or her body, and to this day Myron Stewart blames me. Of course, I can’t find fault with his reasoning.

“You’ve got to get over it.” My mother broke my reverie.

I took a deep breath and tried to shake off the darkness threatening to engulf me. “When are you getting into Key West?” I asked.

“My flight gets in at six this evening,” she said. “We can discuss all this when I get there.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Like hell there isn’t. You can’t spend the rest of your life running away. This is what you know and you’re good at it. I need you even more now, what with Nick gone.”

“Not interested,” I said.

“I wasn’t interested when I took over either. Growing up means we have to take responsibility for our actions. You can’t make a decent living tending bar.”

“I’ve got the money Grandpa left me,” I said. “Along with what I make at the bar, I have more than enough to live on.”

“Maybe you can get by for now. But what about your future? If you’ll take the time to think about it, you’ll know I’m right, Wes.”

I stood, ran down the steps, and over to the gate. “I’ve thought about it plenty, mother. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to go live in Key West, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. In fact, it seems exactly like something you would do on the spur of the moment. If you’d thought about it, you would have realized it’s a fantasy. It can’t last.”

“Goodbye mother, I’ll meet your plane at six,” I said, disconnecting the phone before she could drag me back into an argument. I’d decided to wait to tell her about the money. Otherwise, I’d have been on the phone with her for another hour. Right now, it was about time I met Elvis.

I set off walking at a fast clip. I was pretty sure Bob, his brother, Willie, and Frankie were out looking for me. Key West is small enough that if they chose a corner to stand on, I might walk right on by them. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, and it’s why I paid careful attention to every passing car, and every pedestrian who walked by me.

As usual, Duval Street was a mass of people, bikes, cars and music. I believe there may be more restaurants, bikini shops and t-shirt stores along Duval than any other street in America. Despite the crowds, I still couldn’t understand how they all managed to stay in business.

Jimmy Buffet blared from the speakers at his Margaritaville restaurant. All along Duval, bars fight for the tourists’ dollars with live bands pounding out Irish folk songs, country classics and sixties era rock. This goes on from morning to night, and I suspect many of the people working there get tired of it; I sure as hell would have.

The air was heavy with the oily scent of fried food, perspiration, and a hundred different perfumes. People were dressed in suits and shorts and wild shirts and bikinis. Basket weavers, jugglers, and bums looking for a handout were everywhere. The only things that appeared to be missing to complete the circus atmosphere were elephants and a Ferris wheel.

Tanya had given me directions to Elvis’s home on Eaton Street and his storefront located on Duval, two doors from Petronia Street. I stopped at the store first, where a sign on the front of the building read: Let nationally renowned psychic Elvis solve those daunting personal problems. Walk-ins welcome.

I’ve always had mixed feelings about people who go to psychics. There’s a part of me that feels they get exactly what they deserve for the money they spend-nothing. On the other hand, I’ve investigated several psychics for clients. In each case the client visited the psychic after a personal catastrophe took place in their lives. I reviewed the evidence with an open mind and concluded that every one of the psychics had taken advantage of my client’s vulnerability. As far as I was concerned, there should be laws against them. I shook my head and entered.

The storefront was not very big, perhaps ten by twenty feet, and smelled of burning incense. Next to the door, a metal bookrack held an array of titles like Understanding Tarot and Astrology Made Easy.

Hundreds of quartz crystals hung from the ceiling and cast funky rainbows upon the walls. In the back corner, a dozen crystal balls of various sizes were backlit with red, violet and blue lights for effect. There was a door in the back, and the sign above it read: phone room-quiet please.

In the center of the store a poker table was set up and a young girl sat behind it playing with a deck of tarot cards. She looked up when I entered, nodded in my direction, and went back to dealing her cards.

“Can I help you?” she asked with a hint of an accent, Polish or maybe Russian. Her inch long nails were painted black, and she was dressed in a black Sloppy Joe’s t-shirt and a black ankle-length skirt. Her shoulder length hair was dyed black, and she wore it pulled back so tightly her forehead appeared stretched and smooth, like an over filled balloon. She would have been cute if she weren’t trying so hard not to be.