Randy White - Hunter's moon

Wilson and I entered the shop unnoticed to listen. It was like stepping into a musician’s attic: a cramped space, no airconditioning but cool, instruments overhead, violins, guitars, swaying with ceiling fans like the pendulum of an antique clock. There were reading chairs, a chess set, a workbench of disassembled artistry. Red-shaded lamps melded shadows with the reticent lighting of a Chinatown whorehouse. If Sherlock Holmes lived in Key West, it would’ve been here.

When Tomlinson finished, Wilson and I waited for the last note to end before I said, “Ten years I’ve known you and I’ve never heard you play.”

Tomlinson looked, threw his hair back, and focused. Said, “Marion?,” as if coming out of a trance while his brain relocated. “You’ve never heard me because I don’t play anymore. Pianos disowned me when I moved to a sailboat. Can you blame them?”

“Because…?”

“No room, man. It was a form of infidelity. Pianos demand space and I chose not to provide it. Occasionally, I’ll find a very forgiving instrument”-he touched the ebony wood with affection-“that’ll play me. This is one of the few who accepts my fingers. This piano is saturated with sea air, I think. We’re both sailors.” Tomlinson’s eyes drifted until they found the president, then brightened. “Sam! I’ve been trying to contact you! That’s why the piano.” His fingers moved over the keys. “Like the Pied Piper. I knew you’d show up if I played.”

“I don’t get it.”

“For the music, of course.” Once again, Tomlinson began “Moonlight Sonata”-left hand rolling the repetitive bass notes, right hand coaxing a reluctant melody.

Instead of being confused, Wilson grew serious. “Why that passage?”

“Because I watched you on the beach yesterday and the sonata’s first movement was all over you. Like an aura.” Tomlinson continued playing; notes reluctant, understated.

“Knock off the baloney.”

“For real, man. It’s what I heard. I was getting No Mas ready. You walked to the point.”

“That’s true. But why ‘Moonlight Sonata’? Out of all the songs in the world?”

“ ’Cause I felt it, man. This sort of thing happens to me all the time, Sam. I’m like a wind tunnel. Energy blows right through me.”

Tomlinson’s eyes were cheerfully numb. From Wilson, I expected cheerful forbearance. Instead, he became more serious. “ Prove it’s true.”

By the way he tugged at his hair, I could tell Tomlinson wanted to be done with the subject. “I can’t prove it, but I’m right. I knew if I played the sonata, you’d show up. Same with ‘Clair de Lune.’ It was there, too, with you and your wife on the beach. Debussy.”

Chords changed; Tomlinson’s fingers slowed. Another familiar classic-fragile, inquisitive.

I was reminding myself that Wray Wilson had been deaf from birth as the president said, “Cayo Costa. That’s where I proposed to Wray, forty-one years ago. Both songs had special meaning. But no one is aware of the significance. How do you know? ”

Tomlinson was into the music. Maybe he didn’t hear. Wilson looked at me as if to ask something. I shrugged, palms up. Started to say, Tomlinson does what he does, no one understands. But then stopped as another man entered the room. A huge man, leprechaun-shaped, with a red beard, glasses, and an Irish cap. Shy expression; a gentle-giant smile as he greeted Tomlinson, “Ready to go, Siggy?”

Siggy, as in Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson.

It was Tim something, who owned the music shop. He was wearing a white dinner jacket, too.

Tomlinson stood, wobbly but grinning. He located the president, who was still in the shadows. “Sam? It’s okay. The Gnome’s cool-I told him I have two amigos who are on the run from the feds. As if dealing with outlaws is something new, huh, Gnome?”

Gnome and Siggy. In pirate towns, nicknames are preferred.

Tomlinson and Tim had borrowed jackets from some waiter pals so they could crash a party.

Not just any party.

“There’s a convention in town,” Tomlinson said. “Broadcast journalists from all over the country!”

Wilson appeared interested but uneasy.

“And guess who the keynote speaker is?” Tomlinson used his index finger. Shushhhh. “It’s the guy you talked about on the boat. Like God dropped everything else just to bring you two together. Walt Danson. He’s in Key West!”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, man. I never joke about karma.”

Danson was a network anchor. Years ago, Wilson had told us, at a Georgetown party, that the anchorman had made a crack about Wray Wilson’s speech impediment. The president had never responded publicly, but he still seethed privately.

“Where?”

“At the Flagler Hotel. He was in the private bar when I left.” Tomlinson’s eyes floated a question to the Gnome.

“They moved the party down the street to Louie’s. Danson and a couple of network big shots.”

“Can you get us in?”

“If your buddies don’t mind serving drinks. I’ve got extra jackets in the car.”

Wilson was saying “Don’t be absurd…” but the big man interrupted, concerned. “I can’t loan tuxes to just anyone, Siggy. Are your friends dependable?”

Tomlinson made a blowing noise as he searched his pockets. “Are you kidding? Compared to these two golden boys, gravity’s a party drug. Speaking of which”-he’d found something and held it for inspection, a joint-“I think it would do us all some good to, you know, shallow up a little. What’a you say, Sammy?”

Wilson ignored him. His tinted glasses sparked like a welder’s mask as he turned to me. “Walt Danson. I can’t believe that vindictive old lush is in town. It’s so damn tempting, but I can’t take the chance. He’s seen me too many times.”

I told him, “Out of the question.”

But Tomlinson was shaking his head, waving us to follow. “Guys! Unbuckle your belts a notch, let your snorkels breathe. The way Danson’s pouring down scotch, he wouldn’t recognize his own mother if she was wearing a photo ID. Isn’t that right, Gnome?”

“He’s stinko, Siggy. Starting to turn mean when I left.”

“Sam- seriously. ” Tomlinson was following the Gnome out the door. “ Think about it. When’ll you get another chance like this? Next lifetime, maybe?”

The Flagler Hotel was on Reynolds, blocks from Dog Beach and Louie’s Backyard, the place where the broadcasters were now partying. It’s the only reason Wilson allowed Tomlinson to stop.

The hotel was a 1920s mastodon, refurbished, but it still had the look of Prohibition cash and Havana politics.

The Gnome’s car blended: a 1972 Eldorado convertible. Maybe green, maybe gray. Hard to tell under the streetlights, despite a Caribbean moon. The president and I sat in back but refused to try on waiters’ jackets. It was pleasant riding in a convertible, but he wasn’t going anywhere near a room full of reporters.

Tomlinson kept trying. “You got to let go of the whole negative vibe thing, man.” He sounded very sure of himself, the top down, his hair like a flag, gifting cops and street people with a regal wave of the hand as he and Tim, the Gnome, passed the joint back and forth.

Each time, I responded, “We are not going to Louie’s.” Finally, Tomlinson gave up. I told him we should call it a night and go back to the boat. He agreed-but didn’t sound happy.

“Then we might as well drop off the jackets while we’re here.”

Wilson told him fine, make it quick.

Gnome used staff parking at the Flagler’s side entrance, pulling up outside the service elevator. Beyond a set of Dumpsters, I could see palms, then a vast darkness where the lights of freighters were held motionless by the Gulf Stream. They were as solitary as campfires.