Cynthia Thomason - Christmas in Key West

Huey’s eyes, as gray as the smoke around him, became slits. He tugged on the full beard that had earned him first place in the Ernest Hemingway look-alike contest four out of the past ten years. “What for? Doing my civic duty?”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Reese went around the house to retrieve the necessary reports. After he’d written the first citation, he walked back and handed a copy to Huey. “This is for burning household waste.”

Huey stared at the paper that had been thrust into his hand. “Of course I’m burning household waste. That’s exactly what that officious son of a bitch you sent out here told me to get rid of.”

“You can’t burn it, Huey. You can only set fire to lawn debris. I gave you a copy of the rules the last time I was here.”

“You did? Guess I must have burned it in this pile by mistake.”

Refusing to be goaded into making an equally sarcastic comeback, Reese studied the smoldering items in the widening circle of blackened weeds and said, “You’ve got a rubber tire in there, along with plastic and metal containers that, if I knew what they’d once held, might scare the crap out of me.” He handed Huey a second ticket. “This is for not having your fire within the appropriate setback. You’re too close to the fence line.”

Huey stared at the fence separating his property from his neighbor’s. “That damn busybody Edna Howell. The old biddy ratted me out—”

“And for not clearing an area around the pit to ensure containment,” Reese continued. He wrote the third citation. “This is for not having a shovel and hose nearby in case the fire spreads.”

He was starting a fourth ticket when Huey reached out and placed his big hand over Reese’s. “You’ve made your point. Now we both know you can write.”

Reese frowned at him. Huey was consistently the most difficult resident on the island to deal with. He held on to grudges longer than anyone Reese had ever known. And Huey had a hell of a lot of grudges to stew over, including one against Reese and his family that dated back a lot of years. “I thought I made all this clear last week when you had the previous fire,” he said. “I should have ticketed you then.”

Huey ruffled the papers in Reese’s face. “I’ll tell you what you can do with your citations, Mr. Big Shot.”

Reese struggled to hold on to his temper. “You want me to arrest you, Huey? Because I will. You’re threatening an officer of the law—”

“Phooey. I remember when you were still wet behind the ears. It wasn’t so many years ago, Reese Burkett, that you were on the other side of the law more often than not, and don’t you forget it. Many’s the night I sat on my porch and watched the cops chasing you and that Cuban gang you hung out with.”

Reese sighed, admitting to himself that Huey had a point. Reese had gotten into a lot of trouble on this island. That was why folks had been surprised he’d accepted a position with the Key West Police Department when he’d gotten out of the navy.

He started to remind Huey that both of them had episodes in their pasts that were better left buried, but his words were interrupted by a crew of firemen coming around the side of the house.

Larry Blanchard, fire captain and another Key West native, warned Huey about his reckless actions. “I should charge you for what this unnecessary call cost the citizens of this town,” he said.

“Go ahead.” Huey clasped his wrists together and held them in front of him, daring someone to slap cuffs on him. “I can’t pay it. You know what it’s like for a small, independent businessman these days. Can barely keep food on the table.”

Blanchard rolled his eyes, and it was all Reese could do not to point out that Huey hadn’t made a decent living in years. Having ruined his reputation as the local handyman by charging folks for inferior work, he now sold cheap souvenirs to tourists from a mobile vendor’s cart during the nightly sunset festivities on Mallory Square. Still, Reese found it hard to believe that Huey had trouble paying his grocery tab. The six-footer tipped the scales at well over two hundred pounds.

“You’ve got fourteen days to pay these citations,” Reese said.

Huey passed his hand over his collar-length white hair. “Don’t hold your breath. I won’t have the money in fourteen weeks. And if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you jackass bureaucrats.”

“Then I’ll be back to get you.”

“Fine. I’ll be waiting. The people of this island can provide me with a bed and three squares a day.”

Although Huey had been an eyewitness to some trouble Reese had gotten into thirteen years ago, the last thing Reese wanted was to arrest the guy. He dreaded listening to Huey’s complaints while he served time. And he certainly didn’t relish providing Huey with any more excuses for not earning a living. But mostly Reese didn’t want to haul Huey in because the Vernays had been on this island for more than a hundred and fifty years. Not all of their history here was good, but they were as much a part of Key West lore as Stephen Mallory, John Simonton or Samuel Southard, men who’d had streets named after them because of their illustrious contributions to the island. No street was named for the Vernays.

Regretfully, Reese had to accept that he was running out of options with Huey. The stubborn old guy wasn’t giving him any choice other than jail. Reese scratched his head. Except for the option he’d used as a last resort once before in similar circumstances. Maybe Loretta could talk some sense into her ex-husband this time, too.

He stopped the fire captain as he circled the contaminated pile. “How’s it look, Larry?”

“It’s out, but there could still be some hot spots. To totally decontaminate the site, we should clear the whole pile out of here.”

Reese nodded toward Huey’s rusty old truck, which sat in front of the decrepit carriage house. “Never mind,” he said loudly. “Huey’s cost the city enough for one day.” He glared at the man. “You haul this trash down to the sanitation site after it cools, or call the junk dealer to come take it away. You hear me?”

“I’m not deaf, Reese,” he snapped. “Just pissed off, and that doesn’t affect my hearing.”

“I’m just making myself clear,” Reese said. “I’m stopping back this afternoon to see that you’ve started cleaning this toxic mess up. And if it isn’t all gone in two days, I’ll slap you with another fine.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

Reese got in his cruiser and headed to the station. He’d missed breakfast, but that wasn’t the main reason he was already thinking about lunch. He’d made up his mind to go to Phil’s Pirate Shack on Caroline Street. Hopeful about talking to Loretta Vernay, he could also order a grouper sandwich to go.

EVERY TIME A CUSTOMER opened the door at Phil’s, a grease-smeared plastic pirate’s head hanging on a hook over the entrance cut loose with a squawky rendition of “Ho, Ho, Ho and a Bottle of Rum.” Reese entered the establishment at noon and glanced around at the usual crowd of locals who knew this was the place for the best seafood on the island. And unlike many of the restaurants in town, the prices were fair.

A few customers hollered at him, mostly construction workers building or remodeling ever-expanding resort hotels, or guides and charter operators from the area’s marinas. These were guys for whom the fresh-catch scent at the Pirate Shack was cologne. Reese walked over to a table where the two mechanics from Burkett’s Paradise Marina were chowing down on fish and chips. “How’s everything going?” he asked the men.

“Wouldn’t do any good to complain,” Bill MacKenzie said. He scooted a chair away from the table with the toe of his work boot, indicating Reese should join them.