Redemption Key (A Dani Britton Thriller) (7 page)

Oren tried to be optimistic. The presence (and smell) of Juan and Joaquin Wheeler would do nothing but hurt his business. The upside? He told himself that this time of year and this heat wave would combine to keep his business at a minimum, so losing a day like today wouldn’t kill him. He then told himself to avoid any thoughts that included things that would kill him. Wishing he’d brought a napkin so he wouldn’t have to make skin contact, he reached for the thick envelope of cash Juan had set between them.

Oren was a practical man. Cash helped.

“Well”—he rose from the chair, willing Juan to do the same—“I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Same time? No reason to stick around in this heat.”

“I like the heat.” Juan didn’t rise; he didn’t reach for his drink. Oren glanced at Joaquin, who didn’t seem to share his brother’s enthusiasm for the weather. Joaquin’s shirt clung to him, sweat soaked through every inch of it. But Oren knew that until Juan gave the sign, Joaquin would stay put. He was actually glad the tourist season was low.

Then he heard the tinny chimes of “Lady of Spain.”

Hoping it was just a sail-by, Oren leaned over the edge of the deck, looking out to the open water. He saw a ratty pontoon boat decorated with Chinese lanterns and enormous plastic parrots puttering into the inlet. Over a dozen people aboard laughed and waved, toasting Oren and Joaquin with plastic margarita glasses as the boat bumped against the dock.

“Fellas, I hate to put you out, but I’ve got customers.” When Joaquin didn’t leave his spot at the top of the stairs, Oren looked to Juan. “Would you mind? I have to make a living, and so does Casper.”

Juan stared at him for several seconds and Oren began to worry that the sadistic little thug would tell him that Jinky’s was officially off-limits for the day. It was exactly the kind of petty power trip the Wheelers were famous for. Instead, Juan shrugged and reached for his drink.

“No problem. There’s plenty of free tables. Yo, bro,” Juan kicked out a chair beside him and Joaquin hauled himself off the stair railing that he’d been squeezing himself against. “We’re just going to hang out here for a while and discuss the arrangements. You do your thing, Randolph, we’ll do ours. After all, we’re businessmen, aren’t we? Professionals, right?”

Oren didn’t trust himself to answer convincingly. He turned to wave the guests up.

The captain, Casper van Dosen, tooted the horn. Someone yelled from the far end of the inlet and Oren saw the Australians from Room Six staggering out into the heat, lured by the siren call of the
Lady of Spain
. Like Jinky’s, Casper’s party boat had a reputation among the neighboring keys and their visitors. The
Lady of Spain
smelled bad, kept an unreliable schedule, and charged far too much for its services. It was also a guaranteed, if not legendary, good time if one could hold one’s liquor. Some days it ran sunset cruises; some days it ran sunrise cruises. And on days like today when the open water was just too hot—or
Casper felt like having a plate of fried plantains—the
Lady of Spain
would dock at Jinky’s, giving Oren a captive and thirsty audience for the day.

Oren really hoped the morning party crew was already drunk because the way the temperature was rising, the Wheelers would soon smell bad enough to choke on. He headed back into the bar to give Dani a heads-up and get himself the next of what would be many drinks.

11:20am, 96° F

The third vodka helped the most. Oren felt that hard knot of tension between his shoulder blades give just a fraction. The crowd from Casper’s boat settled in around the bar and the surrounding tables, claiming the sun was just too strong. Nobody came out and said it but the presence (and smell) of the two greasy men outside played a part in bringing the party indoors. Oren didn’t care where they sat or where they drank as long as they paid. And didn’t get shot by the Wheelers. Sometimes you had to take things at their most basic level.

Dani ran the bar with her usual composure. Compared to Peg, she was downright bubbly, but Oren watched her with new eyes. What was it about her that had made Caldwell curious? He hadn’t really put much thought into who she might have been before arriving on Redemption Key. Sure, he’d seen the bullet wound and noticed that weird focus with which she did almost everything—running, fixing windows, pouring drinks. It was like she was studying everything. Or maybe it was like she was waiting for everything to explode in her hand. Or like everything was a trick she wasn’t going to fall into.

Maybe the fourth vodka was a mistake.

Too late now. Oren sucked on an ice cube and stared over the crowd. The party boat folks clustered near the bar with bandy-legged Casper and his plate of plantains performing like the master of ceremonies.
Angel Jackson showed up at some point, slipping back into the kitchen to meet with Rolly. God only knew what the cook and the black-eyed pilot were up to. An elderly couple who lived down the street from the fish camp strolled in after their morning walk, and another table was filled with guys he hadn’t seen come in. Fishermen, probably. The heat did funny things to people in Florida. You just never knew if everyone was going to go to ground or come roaring out for relief.

He watched the Australians try for the millionth time since their arrival to make small talk with Dani. One of them, Nigel or Rigel or something—Oren couldn’t make heads or tails out their impenetrable accent—flipped his nasty dreads over his shoulder and pointed to the scar peeking out from below the hem of Dani’s dress. Oren chuckled and leaned in to listen; Casper looked up from his plantains. This should be entertaining.

“ ’S quite a scar you got there,” Nigel/Rigel said.

Dani said nothing, just nodded once and garnished a gin and tonic.

Nigel/Rigel said something else unintelligible, and Dani cocked her eyebrow. “Want to try that in English?” she asked.

“I am speaking English,” he said, spinning on the stool so his similarly dreaded friends could hear him. “The problem with your culture is you think everyone ought to sound just like you. What you fail to take into account is that the rest of the world would rather hear cats having a naughty than listen to that American shit. You got it all in the nose, you know?”

Dani handed the gin and tonic to Casper, who gave her a wink. She graced him with a friendly flicker of recognition before turning back to the younger man. “Is that what you came all the way from Australia for? To tell me what’s wrong with my culture?”

“Nah, came for the good ganja. We’re just hoping to get out of here in one piece. You know, not shot to pieces like Butch and Sundance. A sight better than you, eh?”

Dani’s face revealed nothing. “What do you mean?”

He nodded toward her leg. “I been around. That there’s a gunshot wound. Pretty big one too.”

Nigel/Rigel and his friends didn’t seem to notice how quiet the bar had gotten during the exchange. “Where did you learn that?” Dani asked. “CSI: Melbourne?”

“Like I said, I been around.”

“Not enough, apparently.” Dani’s eyes flitted over the locals nonchalantly leaning in. “That’s not from a bullet.” The Australian made a disbelieving sound, and Dani poured herself a shot of tequila. She tilted her head back, telling her tale to the ceiling, which Oren knew made it easier for everyone pretending not to listen to hear her. “I was a pole-vaulter. A good one. Headed to the Olympics. I’d qualified and everything. One day at training, I was up and almost over. The pole snapped, I fell, and the jagged end went right through my leg. Hurt like a son of a bitch. And that was the end of my Olympic dreams.”

Casper let out a loud sigh. “Damn shame about the Olympics.” He raised his glass to her and Dani toasted him with her shot.

No sooner had the glasses hit the bar than Rolly leaned out the window between the bar and the kitchen and shouted, “Twenty-three!”

“Twenty-three!” the locals shouted back, high-fiving each other as Oren waved his finger in circles over his head. Dani started lining up shot glasses and pouring tequila. That was the twenty-third time someone had asked her about the scar on her leg, and that was the twenty-third original version she had answered with. The locals had never asked and only the stupidest tourists ever did and Oren had promised Casper and friends that for every original answer Dani could create, he’d buy a round for the entire bar. Excluding, of course, the askers, something that sat very badly with the Australians.

Dani slid Oren’s fifth vodka before him, the lime squeezed to death exactly the way he liked it. Whatever her story was, there was no denying that Dani Britton fit right in at Jinky’s.

12:15pm, 98° F

Dani climbed out from behind the bar with an empty bucket on her arm and a white bar towel draped over her shoulder, bright against her black knit dress. She stopped by a table of sunburned women and started collecting empty beer bottles, dumping them into the bucket. A breeze caught the hem of the short dress, raising it almost high enough to reveal the scar on her thigh, but Oren noticed she kept the bucket strategically placed. After giving the table a quick pass with her towel, she hoisted the full bucket and headed back to the bar.

“Stop back here after you take care of them,” Oren said, and Dani nodded. She delivered a half dozen beers in her bucket for the women who cheered, and came back to Oren.

“Room’s ready,” she said. “Need it tomorrow?” She banged the empty bucket against her leg, ignoring the water that dripped down onto her red flip-flop.

Oren nodded, sipping his drink. “You turned on the fan, right? I can smell Juan from here. God only knows what they’ll smell like by tomorrow.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, knowing she had taken care of everything. “Crank the AC too. This Bermingham’s a Canadian. Word is the farthest south he’s come is Miami. I can’t imagine he’ll be a fan of this heat. You don’t know Bermingham, do you? Ever heard of him? No, you wouldn’t, would you? You didn’t work in Miami, did you? No, you were in Key West, weren’t you? Not that you would know someone like him. I mean if Caldwell doesn’t know him . . .”

Oren knew he was rambling. The vodka wasn’t soothing his nerves but it was certainly loosening his tongue. Dani stood by, swinging her bucket, waiting for him to either dismiss her or ask her a question she could answer.