Pier Pressure (20 page)

The clerk fumbled through several drawers, then he went to the file cabinets and fumbled through envelopes of paper. At last he
made a decision and placed our original in the copy machine and his chosen reprint paper in its tray. Lights flashed as the machine pulsed to life, and in a few moments we held both the original and the enlargement.

“That help you any?” the clerk asked, then without waiting for our reply, he added, “That'll be two-fifty. Cash.”

Punt paid and we took the enlarged photo to the car to study it again in private.

“The likeness of Consuela's clear enough,” I said, “and the guy's a bit easier to identify. You ever seen him around?”

“He looks vaguely familiar, but I can't quite place him.”

“So let's take both pictures back to Two Friends. Maybe Bernie can identify him in this blow-up.”

Bernie stood wiping the bar with a grimy rag when we arrived. The band had started setting up stands and lights. A short guy, pony-tailed and barefoot, blew a glissando on his sax while a stringbean of a drummer rat-a-tatted on his snare, eager to begin the first set. Someone had claimed our seats at the bar, but Bernie approached us, reaching for the original photo.

“Recognize this guy?” Punt flashed the enlargement.

Bernie squinted at the picture for a few seconds. “Don't know him by name, but I think he's a shrimper. You might ask around at the shrimp docks. Someone there might recognize him, know him by name.”

“Let's go.” Punt grabbed my hand. “It's late, but someone may still be at the docks.”

“Tonight? It's a smelly place. We've had a long day. Let's wait…”

“No point in waiting, but if you don't feel up to going now, I'll drive you home and check out the docks by myself.”

“You're not going without me.”

We drove to Land's End Village
where throngs of tourists crowded the streets, the tiny tourist-trap shops, the bars. At a parking lot where a crude sign on the gate said FULL, Punt called to the gatekeeper. “Hey, Slim. You owe me one.”

Slim ambled toward us, drinking something from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper sack. “Full up, buddy.”

“Find us a place. We're in a hurry. Only be here a few minutes.”

Slim shrugged and made no move to open the gate. “Full up, I tell you, but I know a spot that's empty behind The Raw Bar.
My pal just left it. Little slot, but you can wedge this car in it. Anybody give you lip, tell 'em to come talk to me.”

We inched the car toward The Raw Bar,
sometimes brushing against tourists walking in the street. The area behind the bar was black as the inside of a cat, but we found the empty slot and Punt eased the car into it. He raised the top although the weather was clear and warm, then he locked up, double-checking each door. As we walked toward the street, he kept glancing over his shoulder as if he'd like to slip the Karmann Ghia into his pocket and take it with us.

“Now what?” I dropped the photo into my shoulder bag. “Looks like most of the boats are out tonight. Probably won't come in until morning. So what else is new? You know that night-fishing drill.”

Punt led the way to the dock. “There may be someone hanging around. A watchman, probably. These shrimpers all know each other.”

Moonlight silvered the dock, making it look more attractive at night than it did in the daylight when the sun glinted on rust-encrusted hulls and silhouetted spindly riggings against the sky like bony fingers. The shrimp docks were my least favorite spot in Key West, yet they were one cut above the Turtle Kraals.
A museum now stood at the Kraals,
marking the place where butchers used to kill and clean green turtles for the entertainment of a bloodthirsty crowd. The whole area reeked of dead shrimp and decay.

We walked onto the dock and saw some furtive movement at the far end. Cautiously we approached a person half-hidden by a weather-beaten shrimp shack.

“Can we talk to you for a minute, buddy?” Punt called.

“About what?” a deep voice asked.

“We got a picture we'd like to show you. Need some identification. Hope you can help us out.”

I pulled the photo from my shoulder bag, knowing nobody could identify anything in this gloomy spot. A barefoot man wearing a hooded sweatshirt approached us, eyeing us as warily as we eyed him. Punt took the photo from me and held it toward him.

“We may need to step to a spot with more light,” Punt said.

The stranger pulled out a flashlight from his sweatshirt and shone it onto the photo. Before we could say anything else, the man spoke. “Consuela. That's who she be.” He chuckled. “Know her well.”

“We know Consuela,” Punt said. “It's the man we need to identify. Recognize him?”

“No. Looks familiar. Can't put a name to him, though.”

The man snapped off his flashlight, handed the photo back to Punt, and slunk into the shadows.

“So much for that one.” I slipped the picture back into my bag and we left the dock. I squelched the urge to keep looking over my shoulder. “Now what? That guy seems to be the only one around.”

“Let's step into this souvenir shop and talk to someone in there.” Punt led the way and I followed, approaching the nearest clerk and presenting the photo.

“We're trying to locate the man in this picture,” I said. “Would you happen to know him or have seen him around here?”

The woman studied the photo until a customer vied for her attention. “Miss. Miss. Wait on me, please. I have a taxi outside with the meter running.”

“Excuse me, please.” The clerk wrapped a pink conch shell, rang up the sale on her cash register. I wondered if the customer knew that conchs were a protected species in the Keys and that her souvenir probably came from the Bahamas. Maybe she didn't care. Nor did I, but I came to full attention when the clerk gave us her attention again as she studied the photo.

“The woman is Consuela somebody-or-other. Don't know her last name.”

“The man?” Punt pointed as if she might be unable to distinguish Consuela from a man. “He's the one whose name we need.”

At last the clerk shook her head. “Sorry, but I can't help you. Have you asked at The Raw Bar? Someone there might recognize the guy.”

We thanked her and left the shop. I eyed The Raw Bar,
guessing that if I entered it, I'd be the only woman present. “Do we have to go in there tonight?”

“Would you rather wait in the car? I can go in alone. Probably only take a minute or two.”

I led the way toward the entrance. Once inside, Punt kept close to me as an eerie silence hushed the crowd. I felt unnerved by the scrutiny of dozens of eyes. A man sitting to my left continued slurping raw oysters. He salted each one, added a bit of pepper, then tipping his head back and chewing only slightly, he let the slimy morsel slip down his throat. My stomach churned and I looked away. A poster at the side of the cash register announced Hank Culpepper as the winner of that day's oyster-eating contest, having consumed two dozen at one sitting at two o'clock that afternoon. I didn't even want to think about what the prize might have been.

Taking the photo from me, Punt strode to the man at the cash register. Had he worn a headband and a patch over his eye, he could have passed for Blackbeard. Punt thrust the picture toward him.

“We're trying to identify the man in this picture. Can you help us out?”

Blackbeard looked at the photo briefly and shook his head. “Want me to pass it around?” He nodded to his customers. “Most of these guys are locals. Someone may know your friend.”

Punt nodded consent and Blackbeard handed the picture to the guys at a nearby table. Finally one of them smiled up at us.

“That's Gus Helmer. Know him well.” He licked his lips and kissed his forefinger as he ran it over the likeness of Consuela.

“Know where we could find him?” Punt asked. “Tonight?”

“Might try at Shorty's Dry Dock.
Think Gus planned to take his boat in for repair. He may not be around there tonight, though.” He handed the photo back and we headed for the door. “If he is around, he might be aboard his boat—
The
Pink Gold,”
the man called after us.

“Thanks, fella.” Punt ordered the man a plate of oysters, paid, and we left the bar.

“Never say I don't take you anywhere.” Punt reached for my hand as we stepped outside, and this time I didn't pull away. “The dry dock may be even more glamorous than The Raw Bar.
I think it's down this way and to our left. I've taken my boats there for repair a few times.”

We stepped carefully over beer bottles and fast food containers as we made our way to the dry dock where boats in various stages of repair or disrepair either hung from davits or rested on sturdy foam pads. A dim bulb above a doorway glinted on black letters: SHORTY'S DRY DOCK. We threaded our way through the maze of sailboats, runabouts, and shrimpers, checking names on the sterns. Usually that's one of my favorite pastimes. Tonight wasn't one of those times.

“There it is.” Punt pointed and stepped closer to a shrimper that looked as if rust might be the only thing holding it together.
“The Pink Gold.”

“Do we knock to announce our presence or just shout to anyone who might be near?”

“Let's try this.” Punt pulled on a salt-encrusted cord and a brass bell clanged into the silence. No response. Punt jerked the cord again, but nobody answered the summons.

I squelched a sigh in relief. “Guess we'll have to come back tomorrow, right?”

“Suppose so. If Gus isn't home, he's not home, but first thing in the morning we'll…”

We were turning to leave when a guttural voice called out. “What you up to? Speak out or I'll have the cops on you like white on rice.”

Nineteen

PUNT AND I both turned to face the short bulldog of a man who had appeared from nowhere, holding his right hand hidden in the pocket of a fisherman's vest.

“We were just leaving,” Punt said. “Looking for Shorty. Hoping he could identify the guy in a picture for us.”

“Let's see the picture. Don't believe you for a minute. Somebody's always poking around the dry docks looking to snitch a few spare parts. Well, that won't happen tonight as long as I'm on duty.”

I handed over the picture, and Bulldog beamed a flashlight into our eyes before he aimed it at the picture. I blinked and squinted and blinked again.

“Consuela,” Bulldog said. “Ha. Everyone knows Consuela. She in some sort of trouble? She hate the dead broad—Margaux Ashford. Heard her say so myself. I'd not testify to that in court, though. Consuela's my friend. She treats me well.”

“Consuela's our friend,” Punt said. “We needed the identity of her companion here, and we know the man's Gus Helmer and that
The Pink Gold
's
his boat. We need to talk to him and we thought he might be aboard.”

“Helmer's not here, so be away with you and don't come nosing around these parts again.”

“We were just leaving,” Punt said again in an ultra-polite voice. “Pardon us for disturbing you. Rest assured, it won't happen again.”

Bulldog's flashlight went out and Punt grabbed my wrist as we headed back for our car. I couldn't wait to get out of there, but Punt held me back. We moved slowly enough to let the Bulldog know we weren't running from him, yet fast enough to get us out of there without more delay. I had visions of home. A hot shower. A soft bed.

The Karmann'll be there, I told myself. Punt locked it. Nobody'd dare take it, would they? Of course not. It'll be there.

Right. Nobody'd stolen the car, but when we tried the doors, we found them unlocked, and the lid to the glove compartment hung out like a hound's panting tongue. Someone had entered the car. I shuddered. “Anything missing?” I asked.

Punt snapped on the overhead light. “Registration. Flashlight. Owner's manual. Junk. Guess everything's here.” He closed the glove compartment then circled the car, kicking tires. No slashes. I checked the small area behind front seat. Nobody waiting there to attack us. So why were my hands shaking and my heart pounding?

“At least they didn't hot wire it and take off.” Punt helped me into the passenger seat then slid behind the wheel and sat leaning a bit to one side as he inserted the ignition key. A low voice at the driver's window startled both of us. I gasped and almost choked on saliva that slid down the wrong way.

“Give me the keys.” A male voice dripped with menace, and his beery breath filled the car.

“Who are you?” Punt demanded. “This's my car.”

“This's my fist.” The man raised his clenched hand. “Give. I want your keys.”

“Do it,” I whispered. “Just do it.”

Punt jangled the keys for a moment before dropping them into the stranger's outstretched hand. “What do you want from us? You could have taken the car. Why didn't you take it and go?”

“Don't want your car. Piece of junk. I want you. Both of you. Get out and follow me. Move it along.”

“May I lock my car again? I don't want it stolen.”

“I didn't steal it. I'm no thief.”

“Someone else might be. May I lock it?”

“Lock it.” The man laughed. “It's a rattletrap. Don't know who'd want it.”

If the guy was asking for a rebuttal, he didn't get it. Punt took his time locking the car, checking the top, checking the trunk. Then he turned toward our captor.

“Now lead the way,” the man said. “Head toward the dry dock.”

“Who are you?” Punt asked.

“Call me Gus. Gus Helmer.”

“The guy in the photo,” I said.

“Right. I'm your guy and we need to talk. Keep walking straight ahead.”

“We've already been to the dry dock,” Punt said. “A guy there asked us to leave. We didn't touch a thing. Rang the bell at
The Pink Gold.
Nobody answered and we made no attempt to board.”