Jeff Lindsay - Double Dexter

For five minutes, that s all I did. I slumped right into the national pastime of the Conch Republic and I did nothing. I just stood on the dock and watched the water, the boats, the birds. There didn t seem to be a whole lot more I could do. The boat with Cody and Astor was gone, speeding away across the ocean. It was already more than a mile away and I couldn t call it back and I couldn t run after it across the water.

So I did nothing. And it seems a little bit ironic, but apparently there is actually one place in Key West where you can t do that, and I had found it. I became aware that people were pushing past me, briskly moving coils of rope and hoses and two-wheeled carts stuffed with baggage, food and ice, and dive gear. And judging by the irritated glances they sent me, I was in their way.

Finally one of them stopped beside me, dropping the handles of a cart filled with scuba tanks and straightening up to face me. Say there, Captain, he said in a bluff and friendly voice.

Wonder if you could move off to the side a bit? We got to load the boat for a dive trip.

I turned away from the water and looked him in the face. It was a friendly and open dark brown face, and just in case I might be a potential customer, he added, Right out to the reef, it s absolutely beautiful. Oughta see it sometime, Captain.

A tiny little gleam of hope flickered deep in the dark corners of my brain. You don t go anywhere near Fort Jefferson, do you?

The man laughed. Tortugas? No, sir, you just missed the last boat down there. Next one s tomorrow morning.

Of course as always, hope was a stupid waste of time. My one small flicker hissed out and the gray fog rolled back in. And because people always insist on talking to you when you want to be alone with your quiet despair, the man went on babbling at me with his cheerful huckster s patter.

Now, Tortugas are worth seeing, too, you know. You can t believe Fort Jefferson till you see it. Maybe the best way to see it, by air? Got a brochure over here He trotted five steps to his right and rummaged in a dock locker, then came back and handed me a glossy, brightly colored pamphlet. Here ya go, he said.

My girlfriend works for them. They fly down there four times a day? Beautiful, coming in low over the fort, and then you splash down, very cool, very exciting

He thrust the brochure into my hand and I took it. It said, ALBATROSS AIRLINES! across the top and suddenly it really was exciting, the most exciting thing in the world. It s a seaplane? I said, staring at the pictures.

Sure, has to be, no landing strip down there, he said.

It would be a lot quicker than the boat, wouldn t it? I said.

Oh, yeah, absolutely. Conch Lines boat takes a good three hours, maybe a little more. This ll have you there in like forty minutes. Great trip, too.

It didn t matter to me if the trip was great. If it got me to the Dry Tortugas before Crowley got there, before he could set his Dexter-Smashing Trap, it could be the most miserable trip of all time and I would still want to hug the pilot. Thank you, I said, and I actually meant it.

Sure thing, he said. Uh, so if you wouldn t mind? He gestured to one side of the dock and raised his eyebrows to help me find my way out of his path, but I was already gone, sprinting down the dock, past the shops and restaurants and into the parking lot, where for once luck was with me and a bright pink Key West taxi was just disgorging its load of pale overweight passengers, and I jumped in as the last of them paid the driver.

Hiya, bud, the driver said. She was about fifty, with a square face that had been savaged and turned to old worn leather by the sun, and she stretched it into a brief professional smile for me. Where to?

It was a fair question, and I realized I didn t know the answer. Luckily, I was still clutching the pamphlet, so I opened it up and scanned it rapidly. Airport, I said, as I found it on the page. And as quickly as possible.

You got it, she said, and we were off, out of the parking lot, across the island, and out on the far side on Roosevelt. My phone rang; it was Rita again. I turned my phone off.

The cab rolled past Smathers Beach. A wedding party clustered on the sand, the bride and groom standing at the edge of the water under a white canopy, the kind they use in Jewish weddings a hoopoe? No, that was a bird. Something like that. I couldn t think of the word. That didn t seem as important as the fact that we were finally turning off the beachfront road into the airport.

I jumped out of the cab and flung money at the driver without counting it or waiting for change, and as I ran into the terminal I thought, Chuppah. That was the name of the Jewish wedding canopy. Remembering the word pleased me a whole lot more than it should have, and I made a mental note to think about why that mattered some other day.

I found Albatross Airlines down at the far end of the terminal. A woman in a brown uniform stood behind the counter. She was about fifty, with a leathery face that looked like my cab driver s twin. I wondered if she was the girlfriend of my new friend on the dock. For his sake, I hoped not.

Can I help you? she said in a voice like a very butch raven.

I need to get to the Dry Tortugas as fast as possible, I told her.

She nodded at the sign on the back wall. Our next flight is at noon, she cawed.

I need to get there now, I told her.

Noon, she said.

I took a very deep breath and told myself that caving in somebody s head is not always the best solution. It s an emergency, I said.

She snorted. A seaplane emergency? she said with heavy sarcasm.

Yes, I said, and she blinked in surprise.

My kids are on the boat down to the Dry Tortugas, I said.

Nice trip, she said.

They re with somebody a man who might hurt them.

She shrugged. You can use my phone, call the cops, she said. They ll call the ranger station down there.

I can t call the cops, I said, hoping she wouldn t ask me why.

Why not? she said.

I thought quickly; clearly the truth was not an option here, but that has never been much of an obstacle for me. Um, I said, waiting for something plausible to slide into the out-box.

He s he s my brother-in-law. And, you know. It s family. And if the cops get involved it would break my sister s heart. And my mother would you know. It s a family thing, and, uh, she has a heart condition.

Uh-huh, she said dubiously.

I was clearly getting nowhere with her, in spite of my wonderful creativity. But I did not despair. I had been to Key West before, and I knew how to get things done here. I reached for my wallet.

Please, I said, counting out a hundred dollars.

Isn t there something we can do?

The money vanished before I finished my sentence. I don t know, she said. Lemme ask Leroy.

There was a door on the back wall under the schedule and she went through it. A minute later she came back out, followed by a man in a pilot s uniform. He was about fifty, with hard blue eyes and a boxer s flattened nose.

What s up, Skipper? he said.

I need to get to the Tortugas as fast as possible, I said.

He nodded. Jackie said, he told me. But our next scheduled flight is in two hours, and we have to keep the schedule. Nothing I can do. Sorry.

No matter how sorry he might have been, he didn t leave, and that meant he wasn t refusing he was negotiating.

Five hundred dollars, I said.

He shook his head and leaned on the counter. Sorry, bud, I just can t do it, he said. The company has a policy.

Seven hundred, I said, and he shook his head.

It s my children; they re young and helpless, I said.

I could lose my job, he told me.

A thousand dollars, I said, and he stopped shaking his head.

Well, he said.

Those of us who are fiscally responsible look with scorn and condemnation on profligates who max out their credit cards. But the hard-eyed buccaneer behind the counter very quickly dropped me into exactly that financial hot water. It took two of my cards, but when I had finally sated his unholy lust for my money, it took only five minutes more and I was buckling myself into the passenger seat of his aircraft. Then we lumbered down the runway, gathering speed, until we finally waddled up into the sky.