Don Bruns - Too Much Stuff

“Hey, I found out something interesting. That motel, excuse me, those suites on the north side of the fence-”

“Yeah?”

“They belong to the orthopedic guy next to the Vein Care Center.”

“So he’s got an investment close to his office. So what?”

“Well, it’s just funny. This Doctor Malhotra owns the boat dock property and Dr. O’Neill owns the suites. And early this morning we see the boat come in and people disappearing at the suites’ side of the property.”

“I think you’re making too much of that.”

“Maybe, but you factor in that there were attack dogs for security.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“And the fact that Jan, who works there, says guests sometimes check in very late and check out late the next night. Don’t most motels and hotels have checkout by noon?”

I very seldom stayed in a hotel. I could barely afford the rat hole we lived in outside of Miami.

“That’s the group we saw. The early morning arrivals.” Em looked me in the eyes. “By the way, you’re getting pretty good at this detective business.”

“How’s that?”

“Look at all you’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours.”

“I’m no closer to the gold.”

“You’ve only been here a couple of days, boyfriend.”

I liked it when she called me that.

Standing up, she motioned to me. We walked to the beach, and she took my hand. At that very second, life couldn’t have been any better. Of course, that never lasts.

We had dinner at the Ocean View Inn and Pub. The place was on the gulf side of the Key and did not overlook the ocean. That didn’t seem to matter. It was still the Ocean View Inn.

“Are you sure you want to eat here?” Em was watching ten guys across the bar, laughing loudly, cussing a blue streak, and slamming down their beers as fast as they could.

The bar/restaurant/inn was directly across the highway from Pelican Cove. It was close, walkable, and Bobbie volunteered that the bar food here was passable and it was cheap. She also said some pro football players owned the place and it was world famous. I sensed a theme in Islamorada.

The sign out front said: OLDEST ESTABLISHED LIQUOR LICENSE IN THE KEYS. Everything seemed to revolve around the Keys and alcohol.

Sitting down, I immediately saw there was something sunken into the dark wood bar. A small plaque was embedded there as well. “Spike from Henry Flagler’s railroad,” it read.

“Em, this is cool. It’s a spike from Flagler’s folly.”

She gave me a suspicious look, then gazed up and down the bar. To her right was a guy who looked like an ex-football player. His curly hair hung in ringlets and his muscle had turned to flab.

Next to him were two older fishermen, the creases in their faces showing the effects of too many days in the sun. Judging by the empty bottles, they were well into their fifth round. Arguing about a football game or player, they went at each other.

“Sum bitch should have stayed a farmer. Never was NFL quality, Danny. Never was.”

“Well I say he has two year, two years to prove his mettle. You just think you know it all and-”

“I’d lay a Benjamin down on that. He’ll be gone in two.”

I signaled the barmaid, a rough-looking woman with a weathered face and her hair pulled back in a knot. She wore a stained white tank top and sported an ugly red scar running down her right cheek.

“Two beers. Yuengling.”

She stared at us sullenly and I thought immediately of Bobbie. Were all the bartenders in Islamorada surly?

We checked out the long bar and the far wall with pictures of fishermen, their catches hanging high, as we ate our fried ocean perch and french fries. Not the healthiest meal in the Keys, but the Ocean View was world famous. And that was something. World famous. It made us proud.

She set two more beers in front of us without asking, apparently signaling there was a two-drink minimum for the atmosphere.

Giving us a suspicious look, she said, “Where you from?”

“Miami,” I replied.

In the din of laughter and conversation she shouted out, “Are you here for the tournament? You don’t look like tournament types.”

“I didn’t even know there was a tournament.”

She squinted her eyes, as if she didn’t know whether to believe me or not.

“Swordfishing. They go out at night, three, four miles offshore where the water’s warm. They fish from seven till lines up.”

“Lines up?” Em asked.

“Three a.m. They pull their lines. Second night the same thing. Whoever has the most weight, wins.”

I wasn’t much of a fisherman. “How much does a swordfish weigh?”

“Hundred, hundred ten. Wouldn’t you say, Willie?” She motioned to an old leather-skinned man down the bar.

He grunted.

She put down our check, and I handed her the debit card. It’s amazing how fast a thousand dollars can slip away. A nice resort, a few good meals, oil and gas for the truck.

“If you’re not here for the tournament, what are you here for?”

“Just, you know, vacationing.”

She stared at me for a moment. “Don’t look much like vacationers either.”

Just then a cheer erupted on the other side of the bar, and a couple of men started singing off-key and loudly.

We walked out into the humid evening.

“Did you catch that, Skip?”

Walking across the deserted highway, she grabbed my arm.

“Big fish?”

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

“Then what?”

“She said lines up at three a.m., and we saw the boat at three thirty.”

“You think?”

“Timing is suspect.”

“Sure didn’t look like a fishing boat. And I don’t think you’d have thirty-five people out there. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“Seems funny they pull in their lines at about the same time you saw the boat.”

My girlfriend is right more than she’s wrong. I pondered the thought, and I was certain that was no fishing boat.

I heard the throbbing engine before I saw the headlight. A Harley-Davidson came roaring around the bend, and we both ran for the grass. I turned to look and couldn’t make out much, except the driver was helmeted. Whoever it was, was riding like the wind. That bike blew by us and disappeared down the road.

“Could have been the gold fender,” I gasped when we got to the other side.

“Could have been Maria Sanko.” Em wasn’t winded at all.

“Could have been our lives if we hadn’t picked up our speed.”

It was still early and Holiday Isle was cooking, the music and noise drifting across the water.

“Want to go?” Em was making the suggestion.

So we walked to Rumrunners and there were James and Amy, cuddling at the bar.

“Tell me, Skip, would you fool around with a married woman?” Em studied them for a moment.

“Doesn’t every situation depend on the moment?”

She put her hands on my cheeks and stared into my eyes. “I don’t know if I like that answer.”

We met up in the parking lot at two fifteen. James and I both had smiles on our faces. I only guessed at his reason.

“What we have is a committed relationship, Skip,” Em whispered. “Don’t forget that word committed. Okay?”

I nodded. Em walked in and out of our relationship at her discretion. I felt I was lucky to have what was left.

“We can only hope that our shovels are still where we left them,” James said as he pushed the pedal to the metal and hit fifty miles per hour.

We parked in a small lot a block and a half away, far enough from the vacant property, but close enough to make an immediate escape if things turned sour. And things already had a history of turning sour.