James Hall - Off the Chart

Now each night before she put him to bed, Alexandra lectured Lawton sternly. If he wandered off from the house one more time, she would have to start padlocking the door. Lawton always listened with a deadly earnest look. Although the midnight jaunts had ceased, neither Thorn nor Alexandra was sleeping easy.

During the day Thorn looked after the old guy while Alexandra labored as a crime scene photographer for the same Miami police department Lawton had once served as a homicide detective. For the last few months she’d been making the sixty-mile journey from Key Largo to the treacherous streets of Miami, then back each evening. A commute she claimed to find restful.

They’d met a few months back when Lawton showed up on Thorn’s doorstep. The old detective was on a self-appointed mission to track a killer and Thorn had been just a quick stop on his erratic journey. Hours after Lawton disappeared, Alexandra showed up at Thorn’s searching for him. And though things had started badly between them, the clash of his flint against her steel had sparked a smoldering connection that since then had been growing ever hotter.

While Alex dabbed her napkin at a spill of Coke on her father’s lap, Thorn’s gaze drifted over to Anne Joy, who was waiting on a nearby table. He’d nearly forgotten about the woman. So much intensity at the time, but the months had fleeted by and Anne had turned to smoke and drifted almost completely from his memory.

‘Thorn?’ Alex tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to her, but she’d already tracked down the source of his attention, and her smile was tart.

‘Yeah?’

‘Dad and I are going to take another look at the pet tarpon. You want to come, or stay here and ogle?’

‘Those fish are huge,’ Lawton said. ‘Wish to hell I’d brought my pole.’

Thorn got up and took Alexandra’s hand in his. She answered his squeeze with the slightest pressure, and they walked over to the rail to join Sugarman and his girls.

Like everyone else sitting outside at the Lorelei that sunny Sunday afternoon, Anne Bonny Joy noticed the sleek black Donzi sliding up to the restaurant dock – just another flashy Miami asshole down to the Keys for brunch – and she wouldn’t have given him a second look except for the name printed in gold script on the stern of the big rumbling speedboat, the Black Swan , which happened to be the name of her mother’s all-time-favorite pirate flick.

The boat’s captain and two top-heavy blondes barely out of their teens took one of Anne’s tables, and while the girls sat reading their menus, the guy tilted his head back and closed his eyes to bask in the sun. Anne Bonny came over, placed their water glasses in front of them, and stood next to the table until the man rocked his head forward and revealed his dark blue eyes. Longer and thicker lashes than her own.

‘Take your order?’ she said.

Standing there in the Lorelei uniform, green shorts and a tight white T-shirt. The girls in bikini tops and snug shorts, the guy bare-chested, with a caramel tan. His dark hair was long and swept back like a teen idol from forty years earlier. A man too handsome for his own good, and for anyone else’s.

‘How it’s usually done,’ he said, giving her a lazy grin, ‘you’re supposed to say, “Hi, I’m Mandy; I’ll be your server.”’

The girls were both platinum blondes. They might’ve been twins. Anne looked at them as they giggled at the man’s wit; then she looked back at the man.

‘Take your order.’

‘What’s good here?’ one of the girls said. ‘Let’s have what’s good.’

‘Cheeseburger,’ the other girl said. ‘You have cheeseburgers, don’t you?’

‘It’s a fish joint, Angie,’ her double said. ‘You should order fish.’

‘I hate fish. It smells funny.’

‘Your name?’ The man was in his mid-thirties, about Anne’s age, and had a coarse black beard he hadn’t bothered with that morning, bristles glinting in the harsh sunlight.

‘It’s there on her shirt, the little tag,’ one of the girls said. ‘Anne Bonny.’

The man turned his head to the blonde.

‘I see the tag,’ he said. ‘I’d like to hear her say her name out loud.’

The blonde’s lips wrinkled into a practiced pout.

‘My name is Anne Bonny Joy. Can I take your order?’

‘That’s a weird name,’ the other girl said.

‘It’s an illustrious name,’ said the man. ‘Legendary.’

‘Never heard of it,’ the pouting girl said. ‘I think it’s stupid.’

‘Three hundred years ago,’ the man said, ‘Anne Bonny was the most famous woman in the world. Bigger than a movie star.’

‘There weren’t any movies three hundred years ago,’ the blonde said. ‘Were there?’

He was watching Anne’s face. His voice was dark and liquid and his blue eyes were fastened to hers, stealing past her usually impenetrable shield. She held her ground, her pencil poised above her pad. It was all she could manage. Seagulls squealed overhead. On the other side of the patio the reggae band started their version of ‘I Shot the Sheriff.’ The bell in the kitchen rang, another order up. Garlic and shrimp and coconut suntan oil floating on the breeze.

‘Anne Bonny was the greatest pirate of the Caribbean, ruthless and daring, the equal of any man.’

‘Big deal,’ the sulky one said.

‘My mother named me,’ Anne said. ‘It’s just a name.’

‘Whatever you say.’

The man touched a fingertip to the lip of his water glass, smiling down.

‘And your boat?’ Anne said. Irritated now, wanting to push back.

‘My boat?’

‘The Black Swan. ’

‘Oh.’ He glanced out toward the docks, then let his eyes drift back to her. ‘It’s the name of an old movie with Tyrone Power.’

‘And Maureen O’Hara,’ said Anne.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said, giving her a more careful look. ‘Who could forget Maureen O’Hara?’

‘Hey,’ said the sulky blonde. ‘Are we having lunch or what?’

In the Lorelei kitchen, Vic Joy made an offer. Seven million dollars.

And Milton Stammer, who owned the joint, said sure, sure, he’d think about it and get back to Vic real soon. Blowing Vic off.

‘What’s to think about?’ Vic said. ‘It’s two million more than the goddamn place is worth.’

Milton Stammer was a short balding man with a formidable paunch. He kept smoothing his hands across his bloated belly like a pregnant woman trying to get used to how big she’d grown.

‘Okay, so I sell you the restaurant, what am I going to do then, Vic? Move to Boca, sit in a golf cart all day, cocktails at four, early bird at five, sit around, talk about how everybody did on the back nine? I’m a blue-collar guy; I’m too freaking old to pick up golf.’

Vic glanced out the serving window and watched Thorn and his group sitting in the sun, waiting for their lunch. In his free time for the last few months, Vic had made Thorn his project. Shadowing him, asking around about the guy, trying to get a feel for what would motivate the asshole.

Today Vic had tagged along two cars back and wound up at the Lorelei, where his own sister worked. His estranged sister. Two of them hadn’t spoken in years.

When Thorn and his gang pulled into the Lorelei, Vic parked a few spaces away facing the sprawling restaurant and bar. He sat there for a moment watching Thorn and his friends walk into the place. Vic must’ve driven by the Lorelei a million times, but he’d never given it any serious real estate scrutiny. It had a nice ramshackle feel. A laidback, outdoorsy vibe. A nice fit with the rest of his holdings. Five minutes after pulling into the parking lot, he was inside the noisy kitchen, waving seven million bucks in front of the owner’s face. That’s how Vic Joy worked, relying on his creative juices. Weaving and bobbing as events took shape. He’d built a damn nice empire that way.