Jim Rose Through the Looking Glass

By Doug Pinkston

Part 1

          I don't know which part of this story provides me with the most arousing memories. The influence of time and changing perspective always seems to color different moments. I've never been one to romanticize the mundane, turn into poetry simple facts. Too often I'm drawn to the flaw in the stone and, besides, I can't rhyme a lick.
          It all started with this glass bottom boat. It was sometime ago, when I was a bit younger and bit more hearty. It hadn't been too many months since I got out of the Navy. I'd been overseas, the Vietnam thing had begun to get out of hand and, my commission being complete, I felt it a darn good time to leave it with 'em and see what life in the real world was all about. Turned out, looking back now, the advantages of hindsight with me, the real world is not so easily cornered and made to sit for a snapshot.
          Key West, in case you haven't had the exceptional good fortune to set foot upon it, is a singular island in all sorts of respects. Sitting at the last reaches of the American southland, quite certainly alone, with the deep expanse of the Atlantic to the east and the wild and gorgeous Gulf of Mexico to the west, one nevertheless feels a certain unity with the universe from herstrange viewpoint; hot enough, on some days, under a cloudless sky, to melt your thongs onto the shell-covered pavement, yet occasionally cool breezes would fill up your shirt sleeves like a sail, carrying you to the shade of the nearest palm tree for a rest in your hammock and a cold, cold beer.I had my share of long days in the sun and some rather trying circumstances, but on the whole I grew to love the island as well as the people, and next time I'm around you can be sure I'll stop in and see old Tranquillo and Alice, and Susie, and Pinky (if he's still around); maybe even take a ride on The Mad Hatter.
          Well, when I first came to the island, like I said, I was new to commerce and my only experience was with boats and the ocean. I saw an ad for a diver on a glass bottom boat and even though I hardly knew the first thing about skin-diving I went by to see if I knew enough to fool whoever ran the ad. The boat was owned by Tranquillo Rodriguez, an old Mexican fellow who had been running the boat for about seven years. I gave him my credentials, puffed up my experience about ten yards and got the job. I found out later he knew I was a fakery when he asked my flipper size and I told him 10 C (you see, they only come in small, medium and large.) Small consequence, he needed someone quick and I was the closest thing to a serious applicant he'd seen in a month. Tranquillo took me out one afternoon, showed me how to dive for coral, allowed me to fully embarass myself in the fine art of skin-diving, then he put me on show the next day. I must've looked ridiculous that Sunday, flapping around like some drunk sea elephant. I tried to pull loose a beautiful piece of brain coral, thinking I could jar it free with a few solid yanks, only to discover it had grown quite accustom to its neighborhood and was no more going to break loose than I was going to pull up the entire coral reef. The tourists undoubtedly peered down at me suspisciously, sneering aloud and wondering who the hell hired me. In time, however, even a klutz like myself learned how to maneuver a little under the water, and I came to recognize the various types of coral and the nature of the formations, which ones would come loose with a single strong grasp and which ones might need the encouragement of a chisel and hammer. I also became familiar with the beautiful varieties of tropical fish which made their home on the reefs, knew their habits: from the striped grunts which swam in schools everywhere prospecting for trouble; to the butterflyfish, brilliantly marked, pecking on the coral, always watching you from the corner of their eyes; and the blue and yellow damselfish, politely inquiring into my business while they explored crevices for tiny morsels of food. After a while I became such a common fixture of the reefs that some of the fish recognized me on sight, as I did them, and I even gave some of them a name, brought 'em little shrimps.
          It really was a great time for the most part. All that was required of me was to ride out on The Mad Hatter once in the morning and once in the afternoon, visit with my oceanic friends and act foolish. I met Pinky, Tranquillo's driver, a short, chubby guy who chewed tobacco and was proud of his collection of South American hats. He was from Missippi, a nice enough fellow except I didn't care much for his habit of spitting into the gulf in the middle of the show, or when he used the boat for a place to sleep off particularly heavy drunks. He'd been kicked out of the Navy for fighting.
          I spent my free time there getting to know Key West and the other islands in the chain, establishing a few local watering holes and saving what little money I had left over. There were a few ladies I met during my stay there, too often blond, with immaculate tans and lots of money; girls who, if they gave me the time of day, it would be the wrong time zone, and by the time my watch was re-set they'd be long gone. I did find a few local ladies who I could take sailing or deep sea fishing and show them a good time, or sometimes we'd roast oysters by the shore and I'd try to bait them up to my apartment with a bottle of champagne. Tranquillo and Alice had a daughter named Susie with whom they were always trying to fix me. She was sweet and shy, but carried a little too much extra luggage for my likes and when she had too many beers would always get the hiccups. But that's another story. <
          What happened was that Tranquillo was really more interested in the motel business than glass bottom boats. After he had saved up enough money he got his chance to buy a little run down motel and he made a down payment on a place called The Blue Marlin. He offered the boat to me at a price I could barely manage and having no better sense I took it. That's how I found myself in the glass bottom boat business. So much for my free time and peace of mind. I knew at the time even less about business than I did about skin diving. But, as in the former case, with practice and enough stupid mistakes, I learned to feel my way around the sharp edges and could sense when a barracuda entered the waters. After a while I even got used to being the boss. I put most of the money back into the business I painted half The Mad Hatter, overhauled the engine (there were several parts -- including a carburetor -- which the boat had needed for some time), and then bought some lousy radio equipment; even ried to get Pinky into some more respectable duds, but it was hopeless. Best he would agree to was a spitoon cup. It was a haphazard operation and I can't tell you we became millionaires, but at least we had style.
          There were few regular customers. The usual assemblies consisted of a collection of sunburnt tourists, half-drunk, or pre-occupied with tending to their uncontrollable children. It was natural that after a while the faces began to appear featureless, without dimension beyond their relative weightload on a lumbering seacraft. Thus, whenever a gem appeared that outshone even the glittering aqua-marine of the gulfstream, I became immediately engaged. I met her on a balmy Thursday. In time her light would possess me, and comfort me, and before the brilliance faded, envelope me in a strange and fascinating blindness. I have seen beauty take many forms, but I've always been its subject. She was a young, Latin lady with curly black hair and a face that grew more attractive each time I secretly caught a glance of her standing at the bow, enjoying the seaspray. She wore big, round dark glasses and had bright red lips and I noticed when I made a corny joke or pretended to lose my balance and fall in, she always laughed----more from kindness than humor I guessed----but a warm gesture nonetheless. Well, I naturally found myself drawn to her, not only from curiousity, but from a sensual impulse common whenever sailors set eyes on Latin women, or, for that matter, any women with a geography similar to the contours this lady possessed. Slipping beside her on the stern bow, I made small talk, looking away from her as if being congenial solely for the purpose of public relations. She was charming. To my surprise she had an easy sense of humor, a rare quality for such a lovely woman. She said she was originally form Cuba, put her hand on my arm as she spied a dolphin, mixing her cologne with the sea breeze, charging up my reflexes.
          I began to realize that this lady was much more adept at the game of love than a mere novice like myself. She pulled her shades down, revealing a pair of soft brown eyes that made my feet melt right in my sandals. And then: I could have sworn she winked at me. It was all so strange and her presence so overpowering I had trouble distinguishing the present from some distant reality. She told me she worked in New York as a hairdresser and that she had come to Key West to get away for a while. Seems she had a rich uncle from Ohio who had died and left her some money. I asked her about the uncle (you see, I used to live in Ohio), but he must not have been a close relative for she knew almost nothing about him. She thought Cincinnati was the capital. Before I could gather my wits we had reached the reef and I excused myself to dress for the next dive.
          The coral and the tropical fish glowed brilliantly that day and I know Homer and Achilles, and Helen, must have known there was something on my mind as I felt my way around the staghorn coral to some nice fingers of porites fucata and clumsily knocked it loose. I looked up and saw her face smiling down at me through the glass and nearly dropped the whole load. After I fumbled through the presentation and peddled off most of the pieces, Pinky cranked us up and swung us around for the ride back to the docks. As I headed for the dressing room, standing only in my Hawaiin shorts, she came by and pulled me aside to the railing. She hooked my arm and smiled, then asked me out for dinner, even offered to pay. What could I say? After all, good business often requires sacrifice.
          Now, for me, these kinds of things usually end up terribly; but not this night. We went to a little restaurant on Atlantic Boulevard, near George Smathers Beach. Tranquillo had introduced me to the owner some time back,so I thought I might drop a few names and make a vivid impression on my Cuban Princess. Perhaps it worked, for the service was splendid and in no time she agreed to join me on the beach for a bottle of wine and some lazy conversation. She said she had seen a nice beach at the end of Duval Street. I knew the place well. There was a small brick church up the hill and an ancient, overgrown cemetary. Perhaps there were other, more secluded beaches where we could spend the midnight hours, but I liked her selection well enough and there was no reason to push my luck.
          We must've talked until three in the morning. She told me about her childhood growing up in Cuba, in a small town near Camaguey. Her father ran a cigar warehouse and had done pretty well for himself. Semina said he had always been popular in the village and that he used to give an occasional sermon at their Catholic church or he would tell the kids stories out on their wide front porch, the smells of sugar cane and tobacco in the tropical air. The neighborhood kids would sit at his feet, excited faces held quiet by the old man's captivating Spanish tongue. They had a grand piano in their front room and her mother used to play hymns and Spanish sonatas which filled up the house like butterflies. (As Semina spoke I noticed a tear falling down her cheek.) She told me how she had learned to play a few tunes and how she and her sister would play in parts, their stubby fingers plodding through one of John Weseley's traditional hymns as they struggled to push each other off the bench. After school she would stop by her father's warehouse and dance under the hanging tobacco, rich and golden yellow, the dirt floor covered with broken leaves. They used to go for picnics on Sunday afternoons and sing Cuban folk songs until the sun grew large as a pumpkin and disappeared, her father told them, into an old Mexican volcano, where it rested awhile before beginning the next day's journey. We held hands as she talked and I saw her look off across the water, the full moon sitting peacefully over her homeland, and I watched her lick a salty tear, too proud of her heritage to forget a single moment, too full of sadness to hold back the sorrow of lost dreams and hopes long ago put to rest. There was nothing I could say. Politics and war all seem so spooky to me, the turbulence of ghosts. I passed her the bottle. She smiled, gripped my hand tightly and pulled me to her. As I kissed her her lips tasted like seawater.
          Let me say that I've always been open to the wanderings of love and jeweled women who gaze at men like me through veils. We walked to my apartment, finishing the wine on our way and then quietly we slipped into the covers. The tides rolled in, washed away the night and left me with eyes full of stars. I have never known anything like it. In the morning I left her reluctantly and headed for work. I was already a half hour late and I knew they'd be waiting for me at the docks, checking their watches and wondering who the hell sold me the boat. It was difficult to concentrate on the tasks at hand, the day so warm and the water so inviting. I decided to snorkel it that day, compete for the riches of the sea on equal terms with the inhabitants. I guess I was swelled up with infatuation (or perhaps love). I floated freely and without care. I completed the round, had lunch, then returned to the docks, hoping Semina would join us for the afternoon show. I waited, boarded the customers, stalled for time, but she never showed. Running late once more, I pushed us off, confirming in my mind my impressions about the luck of the common sailor, but not without some hope. It was a small island; a small world. Her soft eyes could not stay long concealed in any universe.
          After the show I cleaned up the boat and began combing the area. As I rode down the strip in my 64 Fairlane convertible I heard over the radio reports of a hurricane picking up steam off South America. It didn't sound pretty. It was appropriate, I was thinking, that hurricanes are given female names, being so unpredictable. I hastened my efforts to locate Semina, to at least say goodbye, to make clear the feelings she had stirred up in me. Fred Johnson, at the public pier, said he might have seen her on Duval Street, but there was no sign when I arrived. I raced through town, listening to the weather reports.
          That night I had promised to attend a party on a big house boat owned by Colonel Strickland. Somehow or another Tranquillo had gotten some invitations and he set me up to go with him and Alice; and Susie of course. At the party I witnessed the strangest of sights. I wasn't much on these types of affairs, folks in tuxedoes and dress whites, women in dresses so long they could hardly walk. I never thought my uniform fit me good enough and I had no idea what to pick when they brought around the snacks. In any case me and Susie got there after it had been going for a while and I did my level best to make small talk and not appear totally out of place. As the evening wore on the mysterious food began to taste better and the sparkling women look more beautiful. I was introduced to the Colonel and his wife, and I met Captain Newby, who was in the Naval Reserve. We found enough conversation to keep our mouths dry and the beer flowing. It was just before midnight when we suddenly heard this low-pitched drone in the sky. The Captain turned calmly to locate the source of the noise and I too turned, then crouched by reflex as I spotted the lights of a sea-plane gliding right over the boat, its engines out, propellers stopped. In another moment it exploded into the Bay View Hotel. A fireball spit out, lighting up the bay. We could see, in the fireworks, the tail of the plane, jutting out of the fourth floor, hanging by a wing and a few wires. The crowd, or course, was up in arms. A tall lady in a long black dress scampered toward safety, hit a puddle, then slipped and fell. The Captain turned to me. 'Now that was a sight, wasn't it?"
          The following day I took another look around the island for Semina, checking the usual tourist traps, quizzing the area bartenders. I stopped by to see Tranquillo and received an unwelcome proposal. He wanted me to escort Susie off the island. He slipped me a fifty and a confident handshake. Him and Alice would ride it out on the island. I knew resistance would be futile. Besides, I figured I owed the guy.
          I checked on the outboard, single-hull I purchased a few months back. Tt was a small boat and old, but it had a dandy little motor. I felt sure it could make the trip to Miami. I called a former bunkmate of mine from the Navy, Ted Mink, who was now working with the Coast Guard and had moved to Miami. He had gotten married, then, as quickly, divorced. He was gracious enough to invite me over for a few days to see what would happen with the storm. On my way back from the docks I picked up a newpaper to get some updated information on the storm. What I came across first, however, was so startling I read through it twice, then set the newspaper down, wiped the sweat off my face and read through it again. The body of a young Latin gal had washed up on the shore during the night. She'd had her hands tied behind her back. I knew at once it was Semina, an intuitive realization with the power of a lightning bolt. I considered the horrifying article, working up a way to solidly confirm or deny my beliefs. If I identified her at the police station they'd no doubt bring me in for questioning. I had to know.
          I changed my clothes, my mind suddenly frantic (I would need to get some oil, lube the steering cables), then I walked nervously to the police morgue. I told them the truth: that I had met a girl on my boat a few days back who might fit the description. They got my vital information, distant eyes looking me over from half-opened doorways, then they escorted me to the basement.
          The smell was nauseating down there. They introduced me to the examiner, who offered a clammy hand then directed me to the drawer, pulled it open and drew back the sheet. It was a hard day: all wounds released: the contrast of her face looking back at me the last time I saw her, in the sheets of my bed, the sun in her blinking eyes, yellow sleep on her face and the waxy blue of her cold still form as it lay heavily before me now, through with the storm, almost did me in, crack my composure. "No," I said, "It's not her. This girl was much younger, very thin." I stepped away, avoided the examiner's eyes and found my way up the cement stair way to the light of day, across the street into a gas station bathroom where I sat down o weep. The search was over.

Part 2

          Work to be done. Fish to feed. Surprisingly, there were enough tourists to fill The Mad Hatter on both excursions the next day. I guess these people had come to have a vacation and, by God, they were going to have one, come hell or high water. Following the afternoon show I stripped down The Mad Hatter, boarded up the windows, cabled it down with just enough slack, then headed back for my things. I piled my perishables on top of my furniture and piled my bags into the Fairlane. I offered Pinky a ride to Miami, but as I expected he'd made up his mind to ride it out on the island. He was as ornery as any southern storm and this bond promised him shelter. Susie was excited and unmanageable, waving energetically to every passing boater. I was irritable and full of melancholy. She drew my attention to a cabin cruiser disregarding the speed bouys off to our left. As I tipped my hat I suddenly took notice of a haunting form stand ing at the wheel. I pulled off my shades and took another look, picking up the round sunglasses and full lips, her voluptous shape, in every element a mirror image of Semina. The lady turned away and worked a gear as we pushed by them. I rubbed my eyes, took a deep breath, trying to calm my scrambled mind from total distraction. It was clear it would take some time to get over my fascination with Semina. I would have to concentrate on more routine functions, look at the world with quiet, un assuming eyes, a triggerfish hovering through sea-fans. We cleared the buoys at the end of the bay and, stupidly, I gave it full throttle, nearly tossing Susie off the back rail.
          Small consequence. We made our way along the eastern edge of the islands, through wakes which were beginning to show the effects of the monster still far out to sea. I could just make out the cars heading in the same direction, back to Miami on A-1A, bumper to bumper, moving at a snail's pace, and I congratulated myself on my planning. I tried to get Susie to take a turn at the wheel so I could rest a bit and eat lunch, but she didn't have any knack for it, so I guided us on, my face into the wind, taking pleasure in our race across the open sea, leaving my home and my recent memories behind me. The trip took us about four hours and by the time we arrived in the back canals of Miami dusk had set and the street lights were coming on. I docked the boat at the marina Ted had arranged for us, got it tied down and called up my bunky. It was good to see him again; it had been a good two years I know. He still looked to be in good shape, perhaps a little portlier around the mid-section but that is to be expected. His place wasn't any Miami palace or anything but it looked cozy enough for us. He said he was buying it outright, building up some equity for himself. He showed us around and we complimented him, pretending not to notice the sparse furnishings. After showing us our sleeping quarters Ted made some spaghetti and we went through some careful explanations to clear up the nature of me and Susie's relationship. fended up with the couch.
          By morning the rain had come, and with it, the first of the winds. All of us having been through hurricanes before we couldn't resist giving our meterological accounts of the storm as we picked up reports from Ted's RCA Victor. I don't know if anyone was impressed, but we enjoyed ourselves and before long were recounting old times. The hurricane (I.forget its name, something like Henrietta), came right into Miami, packing winds of about 85 miles per hour. It wasn't a real big hurricane, but it made its point quite forcefully. The sheets of rain began to pile in on us and we could see the water filling up in the streets. About ten o'clock the electricity went out, reminding me I had alot of good friends holed up on Key West, more than likely subjected to worse conditions. Ted lit a candle and pulled out the whiskey and his cigarettes.
          "So I heard you had an airplane crash," he said. "How 'bout that?" (He was fiddling with his cigarette, rolling it between his fingers and drawing on it with his usual sinister gaze.)
          "It was something," I told him, giving him the whole account. "I saw the whole thing. God's truth. I was at a party out on a boat. It came over like a shell from one of the big guns, except much slower, then: BAM! Lit up the whole sky. Jesus, Ted, people were dropping their drinks and diving for cover all over. Some night."
          Ted drew back, blowing out a long stream of smoke, then he gave Susie a quick once over. "You know what was in that plane don't ya?," he asked. I told him I reckon I didn't. "Loco-weed," he said, "Marijuana. The plane was coked to the gills, just back from May-he-co."
          It came to me as he said it that there was an odd smell. Sure enough the connection came back: the smell of hashish rolling from a Thai bath, the smell of burning rope from one of the older frigates. I remembered how the sailors, once they figured out there were hemp mooring lines on board, used to slip off with a few coils at a time until before long we barely had enough to drop anchor. You'd open a lower hatch sometimes and the smoke would nearly knock you over. The imaginary world laughing in the depths of the Navy; in the alltoo-real-world of war. A wave of rain fell on the roof with a roar. I wondered how Ted knew so much about the crash.
          "It's my business to know," he told me, "Part of my job is keeping drug smugglers from getting through to the coast. This marijuana is starting to get out of hand, washing up all over the place. It's these hippies you know." I nodded, still in the dark, but anxious for him to go on. "Yea, they ship it in from Mexico, drive it up to New York and sell it to the addicts on the streets." We heard a crash outside, like a fence breaking in two. He went 'on: "Let me tell you something. We were watching that plane, had it on our radar. Bunch of Cubans. Damn commies trying to smuggle drugs in to feed their revolution, zap the young folks backed him up, "What do you mean Cubans?" He lit another Camel, leaning down to the flickering candle, singeing a lock of hair. "Sure, we've been onto 'em for three months; a group of Cubans here in Miami worked up this ring, see. They fly it in by sea plane----the same one that took a nose dive into the Bay View----then these New York gangster types pay 'em off and smuggle it up the coast, selling it off as they go north."
          Susie's face was a foot from the candle, her mouth open, listening in like she was hearing a ghost story. Outside the wind howled with renewed fury and lightning suddenly lit up the backyard, giving us a glance at the quality of the rainfall. Key West, it crossed my mind, might be floating off. We didn't know what the stbrm was going to do----being without a radio or tv,.nothing but our spare view out the window and our blind intuition. For all we knew that night it might pick up in intensity, off shore winds come barreling into Miami at 120 miles per, taking everything above the ground into the everglades; or to Tampa. Then again, it might let up at any minute, head in some new direction, other captives to harass. And it was just as likey for it to squat on its haunches right where it was and fill up our drain spouts with Noah's judgment. Not knowing and out of qualified guesses we poured another drink, gave Susie a kiss on the cheek and retired for the night, leaving the decision with the hurricane.
          By the next morning the storm had moved on out. By the time I awakened the winds had calmed considerably and only a light rain fell. Ted had been out already, picked his way around the debris and sniffed out some news on the storm. It seems it moved northward, up the coast toward Jacksonville and apparently had started out to sea. In my cloudy mind were concerns for The Mad Hatter, my friends on the island and other affairs fueled by my conversations with Ted. I looked across the dark room where Susie lay coiled under a blanket snoring softly and I remembered, suddenly, Semina rolling over in my dark bed, then: her cold blue face. I shivered and looked away, chilling memories reaching at me.
          The streets around Miami were pretty well closed up after the storm and with the Atlantic still tossing like a soup bowl we decided to hang around Ted's place for the day, help out with a little clean up and do some more reminiscing. The people of the city seemed to take it all in stride, going about their business of clean-up like another busy day, waiting for the power to come back so they could open up shop. I guess it's an attitude. We spent the night and in the morning judged it clear enough for us to shove off. I slipped Ted a fifty in a pair of socks and Susie and I got the boat gassed up and headed back through the overflowing inlets.
          As we made our way up the coast, you could see where the hurricane had torn up the beachfront, twisting trees around each other like old folks knocked off balance, strewing trash and miscellaneous flotsam into what re mained of the foliage. I've heard it said that these types of natural calamities---- hurricanes, forest fires----are just mother nature's way of weeding out the landscape, the sculpting of some higher, more cosmic order. I sure don't know, but it'd be hard to explain it so someone whose trailer had been blown into the gulf. Probably though, the theory holds water some way. It was up in the air.
          In time we reached Key West and I guided us back into Garrison Bight slowly, cautiously, worrying about the condition of The Mad Hatter, and about Tranquillo and his motel, afraid of the recollections the island might conjour. The marina had taken quite a beating. People were at work everywhere, piecing docks together, trying to figure out what to do with the remains of their sailboats. Some of the locals I recognized; they stood up to watch me coast in and we exchanged half-salutes, solemn recognition of the sailor's common mortality. The Mad Hatter was docked in Key West Bight, west of Garrison. I got us pulled in and unloaded, then dropped Susie off on my way to check on the old tourist launch. In spite of all my efforts I was concerned Susie was starting to like me.
          On the road to the Bight down Trumbo road I noticed Campbell's Oyster Shack had been blown over and this had me worried. At the docks sailors were sifting through the wreckage, trying to match missing pieces to the proper vessel. I feared the worst, yet I found only light damages: a cracked pane and a loose girding, acceptable losses in light of how many of the others fared. I heaved a sigh of relief and drove over to see Tranquillo and Alice at The Blue Marlin.
          It didn't look good. They'd lost about half their windows and the roof sheathing had come loose. Also, Tranquillo's Volkswagen had been picked up and carried across the parking lot right into a palm tree, then, as if to complete the snooker, a coconut had fallen through the windshield, exposing the interior to the elements. Tranquillo was not amused. I felt sorry for him . . . . and his insurance agent. Alice poured me a cup of coffee and Tranquillo told me the story of the hurricane----as always----with great repetition and much fist pounding. I offered him my assistance with the repairs and he accepted. We were on the way back. So I thought.
          After leaving the Blue Marlin I returned to my apartment and began the arduous process of unpacking. As I was putting away my socks I came across an odd sight on my chest of drawers which made me shiver. My old spare keys were missing. None of them really had any practical use; they went to footlockers and old pick-ups long since put to rest, but as I dug through my drawers all sorts of wierd feelings shot through me, picking up my heartbeat. I looked around me quickly, sighting out the room. I saw my diving knife on the floor and I grabbed it up and set out to explore the apartment, slipping around corners, flipping on lights. I felt the humidity of the night wash over me and a sudden fatigue weaken my legs. I could not be certain there had been intruders (the keys were a small indication), but it nevertheless was unsettling, pulling my mental state into a greater degree of disarray. I tried to remember the specifics of the furnishings, spot some alteration, an ashtray out of place, but nothing came up. I sat down on the coffee table, put my face in my hands and tried to recollect myself. What had come over me? With all the turmoil of the past few days my capacity. for simple logic had somehow shorted-out; paranoia, it seemed, waited for me behind every corner. "Too much metaphysics," I told myself. "Too much philosophy." I needed to think on more concrete things, work with my hands, find time for a nap. That's what I needed. I thought about Americus Reef, how I used to float over the beautiful golden sea-fans, playful striped pencilfish pecking on my legs, beaugregorys swimming up to my mask for a closer look, the whole world bouyant and soft blue, full of bubbles. I moved to the couch and, with all the lights still turned up, fell asleep.

Part 3

          Over the next week there was plenty of work to be done. What with the patching up of The Blue Marlin's windows and getting the roof resheathed (a job he should've contracted out, if he had a wit of good sense), and my own repairs on The Mad Hatter, I hardly had time for lunch, let alone a nice long nap. Tranquillo was in a hurry to get the windows back in place so he could open back up and his impatience turned me into an expert with a putty knife in short order.' We drank iced tea and kept at it from morning till dusk. My respect for such craftsmen grew hour by hour and each pane I set heightened my anticipation to don the flippers. The motel, through nothing more than sheer determination, came back together. The island swept up the damage and little by little the tourists began to filter back down from the northern latitudes. By the one week anniversary of my return to the island I was back in business.
          Hard to say where my fascination with the sea began. I was not one of those kids who was thrown in the river and came up smiling. I wasn't even a particularly able swimmer as a child (though the knack did, one day, come to me). Probably, it had as much to do with the stories Grandpa Vernon used to tell us, sitting at the crooked kitchen table (it bowed in the middle so much you could pass the salt by giving it a nudge in the right direction), with Grandpa packing up his hand-carved ebony pipe and hooking a thumb in his suspenders, reminding us of dad's edict to finish our vegetables (we imagined his ghost hovering over the table, counting our leftover turnips), then Grandpa would look off, like some exotic scene was flowing into his skull and he'd suck on his pipe and pull us into a dream: "You didn't know Columbus was a cannibal, did you little scurvees?"; well, it probably had as much to do with that as anything. Hah! Another story.
          I'd have to say that time of my life was one of the few times when I've looked forward to work. Might be, I had gotten used to hamming it up for the foreigners----being on stage----and I was missing the attention. Then again, those reefs alot of times would lay down there like sunken jewels, and the fascination had become a part of me. As we boarded the passengers, I noticed Pinky in the wheelhouse, wearing some outrageous red and green sombrero, "loosening up the levers, working his thaw, and even he seemed charged-up with enthusiasm. He spit in his cup and, winking, gave me a thumbs up.
          It was a little bit spooky, actually, my first dive after the hurricane. I didn't know what the storm might have done to the reefs, what coral might have broken loose, which of the old neighbors might have moved on with the currents and what new vagaries the winds might have blown in. We dropped anchor, I gave a hurried preview, then I suited up and dropped over the side.
          Sure enough, all sorts of formations had busted off the reef, leaving groups of coral trunks, severed cleaner than a knife cut. After I had been down a while I'began to recognize some of the regulars who had weathered the storm, still snooping around, too crafty to be bothered by a mere tropical disturbance. Achilles, a queen triggerfish with a scarred flipper, suddenly appeared from nowhere, swimming in place off to my right, watching me suspisciously, as I did him. I showed him my palms and apologized for not bringing lunch.
          Gathering a collection of coral for the customers was no problem that day. It lay all over the grassy sand along the bottom edges of the reef. It was.not as neat a job as I might have done, but it was sure convenient. Anyway, I couldn't see hammering away at the reef after the ravages it had already suffered. When my bag was packed full, I tied it to my waist and worked my way to surface. At these depths there was really a very small danger of the bends, but it never hurts to be sure so I take it slow.
          There are other dangers, however, there is no way to prepare for. I was looking through the glass on my way up----nothing abnormal really----gives me a chance to spy out the faces, make some quick guesses as to who might be looking for a bargain on fresh-picked coral and, occasionally, I'll run across a face of more poetic interest. Well, I didn't see this one until I was just below the glass: she was looking at me like her face was carved and polished in wood, the features of a hand-painted mask: a grave-demon back to haunt me: Semina in every detail. The visage stopped my ascent abruptly, leaving me staring through the glass, afraid to move, thinking that at last I had lost my mind entirely, or, even more dreadful, what I was looking at was really there: Semina's soul, relinquished to the unforgiving sea, seeking me out as a witness to the sin, an unwitting associate to her moribund state. I floated in the water, sucking in air like each breath was my last. Whether madness or demonry, her enchanting brown eyes had me paralyzed.
          I have never been, really, much afraid of ghosts. Though admittedly as a child I used to hear sounds in the night that would frighten me out of my wits and as every Catholic child knows wierd dreams are often spawned from too serious a study of the Pastor's warnings, once I got out on my own for a while my imagination cooled off and it was the garrish horrors of the real world----drunk farmers pulled into a thrasher, sailors found in the engine room, hanging bug-eyed by their belts----that provided me with the most substantial tremors. I reasoned that if there were supernatural beings floating around in the other world then I would leave it with them and bide my time as best I could here in the real world. Of course (by the way, I did finally push myself to swim to the side and force myself up the ladder), like I said before, the real world ain't so quickly judged.
          As I removed my gear and laid it aside on the front deck I was hoping the apparition had somehow vanished----that she had given me her last goodbye and was on her way to the Styx boatman. No such luck. She stood in the doorway, slipping on her sunglasses, looking at me as detached as, well, as a ghostl There were two impulses tugging at me as I pulled the coral from my sack and laid it on the deck, tourists picking over it in a rush, making investment critiques like farmers at a flea market; one was an impulse to run to her and grab her up, carry her to the dressing room and ravish her, ghost-witch or no; another impulse was to turn on my heels and dive head long over the bow toward safer waters. I suppose the two impulses balanced out and instead of any rash action I began the auction, selling the coral by routine, my mind on some creepy., distant island.
          After the last group of coral had passed hands I backed up to the bow, watching the hazy figure in the shade, waiting for a change in the scene, or a change in the weather, an angel to reveal the truth. No such luck. She began approaching me cautiously, looking me over from head to toe, making me wonder if perhaps it was me that shouldn't be in this world. She came nearer. I smelled her perfume. She spoke: "Jim Rose," she said, a new voice. How stupid , I thought. "My name is Piarra. Semina was my .sister." She pulled out a cigarette. Lit it.
          The midday sun had dried the saltwater in my hair and I began to feel its heat baking my face and shoulders as if my physical senses were suddenly coming back to me. I took a deep breath, the first in some time, and heard her out.
          "I hope I didn't startle you," she said. "We're identical as you can tell. She wrote me a letter. She told me about you, said you were a friend." I nodded in mild agreement, regaining my train of thought. "I know who killed her, Mr. Rose. There are some things she may have told you. I need to find out. I need your help. Will you help me?" I looked at her, or more accurately, I looked through her, flashes of Semina in my memory, making concerted throught a painful process. Flags were flying and I was in the war zone by accident. It was too late to seek shelter. The nap would have to wait. I signaled for Pinky to pull up anchor and start us back. I folded my arms and looked around (tourists were comparing their crusty momentoes, two children were chasing each other around the rail, an old man with a golf hat sat down in the shade like it was all the effort he could summon), and I looked at Piarra, my face full of misgiving and gave her my reply: My services were hers to command.
          As The Mad Hatter made its way back to Key West Bight Piarra told me more-about her predicament and the events leading up to Semina's demise. With each sentence more of the recent baffling events found a logical corner in my mind----pieces of a black puzzle fitting into a single frame -- confirming some of my suspiscions and picking. up my fear like a westerly picks up white caps before a storm. Yet even as I heard her (she was talking about the sea plane, half a million dollars in marijuana) it seemed impossible that Semina could be involved in such a matter. Piarra spoke quickly and softly, always looking back behind us, as if afraid a spy might appear from the crowd. She asked me if Semina mentioned anything about money, anything at all to go on. Her nervousness was beginning to make me jumpy. I thought back, remembered our conversations on the beach and, painfully, her words from my bed. I came up blank. There was no reason for Semina to tell me about any money. Piarra looked to the shore, a fist over her mouth, holding back some notion, perhaps burying a-memory. She reached for my hand and leaned to me for support. "She told me alot about you, Jim Rose," she said. She was crying, and it took me by surprise. I looked down at the splashing wake, pompano racing along the bow wave and I pulled myself together.
          I knew at the time very little about the underground market in drug trafficking. The only time I'd even tried marijuana I'd coughed until I was blue. Since that time of course I have come to understand not only the appeal which those types of drugs can have but why so many people are willing to risk prison for a chance at such a big, easy buck. Any man who makes his living as a seaman as I have would have to be either blind or an ignoramous not to see what was going on. (Add to that: lacking a nose.) I can assure you if I was of a mind to, I had plenty of opportunities. No such luck. "The man's name is Carento," Piarra whispered to me. She told me more of the plan. How it was Carento's job to get the reefer further up north. Semina was to pay the pilot part of the cash and arrange for re-fueling. Piarra was to meet the plane at a lake in the everglades to make the final payment and arrange for Carento to take delivery. When the plane crashed instead, Carento was sent after Semina to get the cash back. Everyone, it seemed, was working for someone else. Piarra couldn't understand what could have happened; why Semina didn't turn over the money. Now Carento was on the island still searching for it and Piarra was looking for Carento. It didn't sound pleasant to me. Piarra wanted me to check the marinas and help her look around the island for any clues about Carento and the money. Apparently Carento was in a Thompson twin-drive inboard-outboard with brown siding. It was hardly enough to go on. But she gave me another, more helpful clue: he was Cuban, bald as an eightball and he had eyes like a weasel. We had lunch and agreed to meet back at the Bight Cafe at 9:00 that evening. So it was I entered the spy game.
          I didn't enjoy it at all. After the afternoon show I began making the rounds, starting along Wall Street and the Pier and making my way south and east in a circle around the island. It made me uneasy having to make up silly stories to get information. Not only that, but the sailors who run the marinas are a talkative lot and it was difficult to keep them from taking up the whole day with each of their latest tales. About Carento, there was nothing. I had just covered Garrison Bight, it was getting late, and I was heading west on Palm Avenue, prepared to give up for the night and perhaps start on Stock Island the next day when I passed a sign for The Blue Marlin. I remembered Tranquillo's advice about a marina owner at the end of 5th street, out on Cow Key. Tranquillo had warned me the fellow was a shady character; that he kept a blind eye on his tenants in return for cash under the table. I turned around, stopped by to see Tranquillo for some more information and some cash, then headed to Cow Key. When I found the owner, a man named Sam Hampton, he was eating crabs down on the docks. I walked under an old rotted sign titled 'Skippers Marina' and approached the owner. At first I walked by him, looking off at the beautiful sunset and a small flock of pelicans surveying the shoreline. S1owly, I eased up beside him.
          "Nice day," I said, gruffly. He snorted and continued sucking at his crabs. He had a bucket of live crabs at his feet and beside it a boiling pot. With a noose made from heavy test fishing line he would snare the crabs and cook them alive as he went. "Nothing like fresh blue crabs," I said, spitting over the edge. "Should have boiled them with garlic, though, brings out their feistiness." I took out a five dollar bill and dropped it into his bucket of crabs, for the first time getting his attention. "Woops," I said. I pulled out a couple of twenties. "I've been looking for some crabs myself," I told him. It hit me as he looked up; he smelled like a dead shark. "His name is Carento," I said, "A Cuban, bald as a dock post." I dropped a twenty into the bucket. Without a moment's hesitation Hampton reached in and grabbed it from the clutching crabs. He looked me over, his lips contorted as if biting down on an overripe persimmon. He spoke: "Eyes like a weasel?" I smiled. "You got it Papa." He sucked a claw, spoke again, pleading, "Don't drop it in the bucket, boy." I folded the bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Without looking up he gave me the rat. "Boat's at dock five, on the far side, got a French flag on the back end." He dropped his noose down, yanked a crab out, snapping like a knife, then dunked it in his pot. "Fella," he said, "watch your step." Probably, it was good advice.
          I made my way back to meet Piarra at the cafe. She was sitting in the back looking even more disheveled than earlier in the day. You could see the grief in her eyes as well as her burning passion for revenge. Both were disturbing. Over dinner I gave her my news and her eyes became more fiery with each word. It was easy to see she had unattractive plans for Mr. Carento, but I was hoping my part in her program had come to an end. Not just yet. She wanted me to meet her tommorrow night at Skipper's Marina, around midnight, just to be sure she had no trouble with Hampton or other unexpected visitors. Forcefully, I advised against whatever she had planned. I told her about my buddy in Miami, but her mind was set like fossilized sponge and somehow I was committed to be her accomplice.
          When our meal was finished she warned me to be careful and I returned the advice, offering a suggestion. I told her about The Blue Marlin, that I could arrange a room for her which would be much safer than her boat, and more comfortable as well. After a second glass of wine she agreed. We drove to The Blue Marlin up North Roosevelt, a cool breeze carrying the smells of the seafood kitchens and the ocean spray through the car and I think we felt, for a moment or two here and there, as if the world had returned to its better self: full of carefree laughter and cold champagne. I told her about Hampton's crabs and the twenty dollar bill and she smiled, her folded hands between her legs. When we arrived Tranquillo and Alice were passed out in front of the television so rather than wake them I checked the register for the best unoccupied room and grabbed the master key. At the doorway, showing her in, she turned back to me, suddenly sad -- or melancholy -- eyes on the brink of tears and, it seemed, some important comment, then she hiccupped. We laughed. She threw her head back and spoke. "You know, Jim Rose, there's safety in numbers." "I'd heard that," I said. She untied the front draw string on her blouse and reached around me to pull the door shut. They were not identical, but close enough.
          What do you make of such things? My emotional state was so discombobulated I didn't know whether I should laugh, or cry….or run for my life. Piarra and Semina in many ways were of one mind. When a sudden thought came to Piarra a look came over her face in the way that it would with Semina. When they laughed they both had the same chortle and, delightfully, their whole bodies would bounce. For me it was as if I had lost a lover and saw her come back to life. But the delusions were fleeting. Each time I found myself floating peacefully toward the sea-bottom, silversides nibbling on my "calves, a rainbow of colors filling up my mind, the fins of sharks would awake me from the dream and my heart would step up its pace, on the look-out for danger. We talked half the night and I told her more about my brief time with Semina , her fictitious uncle in Ohio, my fears when I saw Piarra looking back at me on The Mad Hatter. Tommorrow night, she said, it would all be over.
          Sleepy, but in a little better frame of mind, I slipped from bed, checked in with Tranquillo and headed for work. It was Sunday and as usual I had a fresh crop of tourists to entertain on both shows that day. We ran into some rain during the second trip out but nothing of real consequence. The shows went well even though my anxiety must have been apparent to some of the more astute visitors. In the back of my mind I kept seeing a bald weasel creeping around every crevice, rabid at the mouth, brandishing a rusty switchblade. Pinky was in a hurry to close it up (apparently he had a hot date) so I fronted him some cash, secured the boat and waited impatiently for midnight.
          It came slow. I played some pool. Went by to talk to Fred Johnson who ran the Hemmingway House (an attempt to muster machismo, I suppose), but it was no use. If anyone had told me two weeks ago that I'd be stalking a mur derer on some crickety dock on a windy Sunday night I'd have thought them mad, or punched them in the.:. nose. The whole scene was unreal: more eerie than a book: The dock was barely lit, a single chinese.lamp at the end of each pier, with the exception, of course, of dock five. In the sky was a mere crevice of moonlight. The water looked black as oil, lapping quietly at the barnacled posts, the sound of footsteps. I suppose, looking back on the night, I was a bit naive to carry with me only my diving knife, concealed under my pants leg, but after all, I weren't no spy.
          About midnight I came up the shoreline and pulled myself onto the docks, watching every shadow, listening for the whisper of Piarra's voice. The time passed and there was no sign of anyone. I can't say how long I waited, maybe an hour and a half, sweating terribly, debating my exit with each minute. Slowly, I began edging my way down the dock toward Carento's boat, listening for anything and hearing all sorts of creaks and calls, but nothing I could make out, perhaps just my own creations. Suddenly, I heard a splash by the boat, like a fish jumping. In the next moment, as I took a step to a better view, I felt the gun. The barrel stuck in my back like a dagger, cold as icewater. Then I heard his voice. "Es goode ov you to join us Mester Rose. Please don't make a sound. Just keep walking." He took me to the end of the pier. "Call to her Jim Rose." He slammed the barrel into my back, cocked the hammer. I hesitated, struggling with my tongue. Finally, he did the talking. "Piarra, come on out, your friend Jim Rose is here to see you." She appeared not ten feet away, from behind a box in Carento's boat, her gunpointed right at me. I turned by reflex and Carento grabbed me around the throat. "Drop it Piarra, or I'll kill you both now!" He put the gun to my head and she let go of the pistol. It fell through a hole in the dock. "Goode," Carento said. He reached down and pulled out my knife, like he had been watching me strap it on in my bedroom earlier that evening. "Now step into the boat. We're going for a little ride. If you make a sound, then you are dead." He pushed Piarra to the floorboard and had me start up the engine and ease us out of the marina around the coastline toward Key West Bight. The tone of the Cuban's voice made clear his resolution to get back his funds.
          No one can tell what they will do when a madman holds a gun to your head. I can tell you that trying to think logically, devising a plan for escape or looking for a chance to turn the tables is just about impossible; at least it was for me. My hands were shaking as I turned the wheel and the sweat poured off me in sheets. Carento didn't say much, but what he did say was not comforting. He kept his foot on Piarra and his gun on my neck. "Be verrry careful, Meester Rose. I know my way around ze island much better than yourself. You see that house there?" (There was an old house at the end of Bertha Street, with three bright lanterns near the water.) "That was the house of Commander Aurelios. He is now Castro's Naval Ministore, and a close friend. You understand me?" I nodded, totally confused, still unable to think clearly, see an opportunity for escape. When he told me to pull us up beside the Mad Hatter I blanched. I thought about slipping over the side, perhaps disappear beneath the docks. But I could not leave Piarra. I'd have to do better. I held the wheel tightly and tried to think, slowing us down as we passed the buoys marking the marina entrance.
          There was no one in sight when we floated in beside the glass bottom boat. Carento secured his boat, grabbed a length of rope and directed the switch from his boat to mine, warning us again of silence, slamming his gun barrel into my back in an aggravating manner. We loosed the mooring line and quietly idled out of the bight. As we entered the open waters Carento threw me the rope, ordering me to tie up Piarra's hands behind her back. It was his first mistake. While admittedly I knew nothing about outwitting criminal maniacs, one thing I thought I could do was tie a fancy knot. With a few quick jerks on the rope I had her hands tied up; almost securely. If Piarra could provide some concerted wriggling the binds would come loose in no time. Carento tugged on the work and seemed satisfied, then he sat her down on a bench up from and took me by the collar back to the wheelhouse. I'could feel the raw strength in his lean arms, the body of a farmer, a man who had grown up working in the sun. While my temper boiled within me there was little I could do. Carento was as slippery as a greased snake in mud, and his breath, to tell the truth, wasn't making it either. We watched the lights of Key West flickering behind us, fading out in dim, dangerous waves. Carento lit a cigar and began an odd lecture.
          "You know we all must know what it es we are looking for in our lives. We must have a plan. Most people don't have any plan. They go from place to place, from job to job as if the world were a checkerboard. Do you play chess Mr. Rose?" I shrugged, "A little." "Yes, you see, you are one of dos peepall who dust exest; but don't know why? And peepall like you always end up getting burned." I turned my head as if looking out to sea, trying to catch a glimpse of Piarra. She was moving, twisting her shoulders. The knot couldn't last much longer. Carento started up again. "I know you are wondering why we are going out so far. Out here no one will hear your screams. I thenk they will thenk you killed my little Piarra, and her sester too. You're not a very nice man, Meester Rose." He laughed, horribly. Somewhere along the way he had gone completely insane. Suddenly, he yelled out. "Now stop the boat!" I geared it down and turned it off. 'Come on, Piarra," I was thinking.
          He collared me back to the front of the viewing room and pushed me up against the front wall, right below my stuffed sailfish. He ran his greasy fingers under Piarra's chin, showed his crooked yellow teeth, capped with gold. "Now, Piarra, you will tell me where the money es." He turned the gun on me, drew back the hammer. I knew instantly he would kill me, a realization so terrifying my knees literally knocked together. Piarra cleared her.throat. "We don't know," she said. BOOM! The fire of the gun temporarily blinded me. I fell to my knees, then, after a moment, realized he had missed. He kicked me in the chest and jerked me back to my feet. I wished I'd had a little more meaness in me, a little more guts, but I felt myself weakening, getting sick to my stomach. He aimed the gun at my face and cocked the hammer, laughing. "Piarra, your friend will not look too good with no face." I held my breath, Carento and the whole room turning into a haze, mentally untying my stiff knots from Piarra's wrists, but she couldn't slip free. Then, incredibly, I saw the hat. It was a Panamanian Duster with a short brim and a black band. It rose from behind a bench in the rear of the room, a dark shadow in the darkness, then it disappeared. I looked at the gun, at Piarra, knew that it would soon be over, thought I'd seen an hallucination. "Wait," I said, "I know where the money is." Carento smiled. "Yes, Meester Rose, I knew you were not much good at chess." He fired again, this time splintering the wood beside my head. I stood my ground, looking him in the eye and picking up deep in the rear benches the oblong figure of Pinky raising himself up, wiping his eyes like they were full of soot. As Carento pulled his handkerchief to wipe his face and neck, Pinky stepped up the aisleway slowly, carrying his spitoon cup in his right hand, a look of extreme irritation on his face. Carento had pulled the gun back up to my face when Pinky, standing right behind him, spit into his cup. Carento's face turned white, but he reacted a second too late. Pinky drew back his powerful right arm and with a crack he caught the maniac with a right cross that I swear must've knocked out half a dozen teeth. It sent Carento down to the floor in a heap like an innertube being punctured. The gun bounced under the benches and I looked on in disbelief.
          "Holy Mother of Manassas," Pinky growled, "Rosco, gunfire don't do much for a hangover." Always in character, he turned to Piarra, "Evening Maam," and tipped his hat. Just then her cords came loose. She jumped up and, throwing the rope off her arms,she began attacking Carento like a viscious alleycat. We grabbed her off him, but not until she'd managed to get in a few sharp kicks. "Whoa, there," Pinky tried to calm her, picking her up off the ground as her legs kicked helplessly. He looked at me. I shrugged. She screamed, "Let me loose. I'm OK." I could hardly blame her, under the circumstances, but Carento was already in a mess and I could tell that the boat was gonna take some serious efforts to get cleaned up as it was. Pinky let her down. She straightened her clothes and put her arms around herself, closed her eyes and looked heavenward, perhaps a prayer. "Whose the bronco, Jimbo?" I introduced them and tried to explain the bizarre situation as we dragged Carento to the wheelhouse and covered his face with a towel. I couldn't believe one punch could do that much damage. I'd have to remember that next time I raked Pinky over the coals for showing up late or insulting one of the tourists. I inspected the damage to the boat, watching my nap skate away from me like a hermit crab on a long pier. My day off, I knew, would have to be spent on repairs and clean up.
          We started back, dazed, our heads rocking with pain. Piarra insisted we toss Carento over the side, perhaps tie him up and troll for sharks. Pinky was not much help in dissuading her, but somehow I managed to convince them of the impracticality of such a maneuver. Instead of using Carento for shark bait we tied him up, threw him on his own skiff, then towed him out to sea and let him drift with the current. I knew a few well-placed phone calls would get him into the right hands. Carento began to awake as we untied his boat. He appeared disgruntled about the whole affair and I offered him my sparse condolences as I pushed the boat free. By the time we headed back it was almost dawn and not only were we physically worn out but I think I can speak for all three of us when I say our mental functions were starting to go. I hadn't had three hours of sleep in the last two days and this you won't believe! It was Monday and I knew I had a show to do the next day and if I didn't get the boat fixed up it was liable to raise some dangerous suspiscions. I did the only reasonable thing. I bought us all breakfast and dragged the whole moaning crew back to The Mad Hatter for patch-up work. We drank about three pots of coffee, picked up some supplies from Tranquillo, a six-pack for Pinky and began the restoration. We took The Mad Hatter out a ways to conceal the coverup and gather in some cool breezes, but our hearts just weren't in it. To say I was worn out when we finally judged it finished is to miss the reality by a nautical mile---I should've been rung out to dry.
          Somehow we completed the job and made it ashore. For Piarra, it was time to go. There were people she needed to see on the mainland and, given the circumstances, she'd seen enough of the island for awhile. I saw her to the Casa Marina where her boat was docked, not too far from the City Beach, and she gave me a kiss and her thanks. Full of ambivalent emotions and too tired to do further debate about anything I let her go, offering once again my sympathies about her sister and my apologies for my weak assistance in locating the loot. With a half-smile she told me I'd helped her plenty, heaping more confusions on my already muddled brain. She disappeared into the shimmering heat of the docks, a mirage, just as she had originally appeared. I stood in the parking lot looking around but seeing nothing, awash with memories but not a single crag on which to hold and think. I turned and walked to the car like I was the only person on the island.
          It was nap time now. I went by the apartment, picked up my hammock and took it to the quiet point where Semina and I had sat by the shore and drank wine under the moonlight. I lashed it up to the two shadiest palm trees on the island, or as far as I knew, in the entire world, and stretched out to rest. As I drifted toward sleep the disjointed memories of the past couple weeks floated through my mind: Semina's soft voice, her impressions of her homeland, her laughter rolling over in my sheets; the storm and its ugly aftermath, ghosts on The Mad Hatter; Piarra like a goddess from the grave, dragging me into a madman's path, and our sheer luck in awakening Pinky passed out on the glass bottom boat. I thought about Carento, wondered what must have gone through his mind when he heard someone spitting right behind his ear. I pictured Piarra, the sun in her eyes, turning away, still holding my hand. Remembered her last words: "You've told me more than you know."
          I sighed. What could it mean? How did I tip her off? I closed my eyes, feeling the fatigue in every molecule of my body, falling toward sleep, but I kept thinking, trying to make the connection. Just then I heard a foghorn in the distance, an unusually shrill blower (in need of cleaning), and I came to, looking out across the hillside to the Point Bethel Episcopal Church, at the dark granite cross. I tried to sleep again. No luck. It was the cemetary! With a start I headed across the hill and paced off the short picket fence along the south edge of the graveyard. About halfway back I saw it, the grave of Pete 'Cincinnati' Ortega, freshly dug. Careful to avoid detection I meandered my way to it, knelt beside it as if in devotion, then reached a grubby hand into the dirt and in time came upon a small sack. The wind was picking up, perhaps the beginnings of a thunderstorm. I looked up at the dark clouds flying by above me and reached in the sack. Inside I found a note. I pulled it out and opened it, then I stopped, put the note back inside, afraid to look further. I rubbed my faced, licked the sweat off my lips. I looked around, digging my fingers deeper into the contents of the bag, thinking -- for a second -- that I was ruffling through a pile of dollar bills, then I pulled the note out again and, fumbling, read the message:

I've heard there's safety in numbers Jim Rose

Will see you. Sometime.

Love, Piarra

          In the sack: $7000. More or less. Perhaps now I would get into the motel business. No such luck. I shoved the bag under my shirt, smoothed out the grave and started back across the hillside to my hammock. As I walked purposefully toward the beach it occured to me that I should secure the money as quickly as possible; perhaps stash it in Tranquillo's safe. I mean, in those days you could buy something with that kind of jack and, as I was painfully learning, one can never be too careful. There was no telling what spirits the gulfstream might be carrying today on its endless tour. Ah, metaphysics. Work to be done. Fish to feed. I tried to think. But as I reached the bleached cotton hammock, swaying lightly now in the breeze (the dark clouds had passed, on toward other islands, still working up their punch) I spied two sandpipers picking lazily at shells by the waterline and I couldn't move another step. I tossed the sack into the grass and plopped into the hammock. I felt the breeze filling up my pant legs, heard the waves roar quietly, the crys of seagulls high overhead and the wind rustling through the palm leaves, then I closed my eyes and napped so long and deep not even a dream could disturb me.

Doug Pinkston Blog

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Learning to Play Guitar

Sunday, March 13, 2011