I chuckled. 'You know about that, huh?'
'Sure. But it's a clean operation, and I've never heard of any trouble there. No complaints from the citizens. We'll leave it alone unless somebody starts raising hell about it.'
'Do you know who owns it?'
'Some corporation based in the Bahamas is all I know. God knows who owns the corporation.'
'Did you know that Blood Island is also owned by a Bahamian corporation?'
'No, but I'm not surprised. There've always been a lot of Bahamians in and out of Key West. They're bound to own some property.'
I told him about Clyde Varn and that the same corporation that owned Blood Island also owned Varn's Tampa condo. I explained all the connections that seemed to converge on Key West; the shooter at Hutch's, Varn, the phone call from the Sharkstooth Bar to Jeff Timmons.
'That's a lot of coincidences,' he said.
'I don't put much faith in coincidences.'
'Nah. Neither do I.'
'Have you ever heard of an evangelist named Robert William Simmermon?'
'No. Who is he?'
'I'm not sure. Clyde Varn told me he left Peggy and her friends at an arena in Sarasota. Simmermon was preaching there at the time. Later, he came to Key West.'
'One more coincidence,' Galls said.
'Let me show you something.' I picked up a pencil from the detective's desk and drew a reasonably accurate picture of the cross in the circle of flowers I'd seen on Sister Amy's breast and at the front door of the spa. I passed it over to him. 'Does this mean anything to you?'
He looked at it for a moment. 'No, I don't think I've ever seen it. What is it?'
I told him where I'd seen it.
'You mean,' he said, 'that you just went into that whorehouse and asked the first girl you came to if she knew Peggy?'
'Yeah. It wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done. But, I wanted to see if I'd get a reaction.'
'And did you?'
'Oh, yeah.' I told him what had happened, but left out the part about my shooting one of my pursuers. I didn't think he'd like that I was shooting up his town and stealing kids' bicycles.
'I outran them,' I said.
'This is a strange town in many ways, Matt. We've got a lot of odd people, and some of them are just bone- deep bad. But most of the people who live here are decent law-abiding folks. My job is keeping the bad guys from taking over from the good guys. I need to know which you are. Good guy or bad guy?'
'I'm on your side, Paul. But if I get pushed, I push back. Like they taught us at Bragg.'
'They taught us about war, Matt. Key West isn't a war zone. Not yet, anyway.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Galls offered me lunch and a ride back to Old Town. I declined both. I didn't want anybody to see me eating with a cop or getting out of a police cruiser. He called a cab, and I had it drop me a couple of blocks from the yacht basin at Garrison Bight. I didn't think anybody was looking for me, but I wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible.
It was almost two in the afternoon, and I was hungry. I found a diner on Roosevelt Avenue that seemed to cater to the captains and crews of Charter Boat Row. I sat at the counter and ate a burger and fries. I finished, paid my tab, and walked out onto the street.
A black Lincoln Town Car sat idling at the curb. As I left the building, a large man in a dark suit got out of the front seat and approached me. I stopped. Wary, not expecting this.
'Mr. Royal,' the man said. 'Please come with me.' He motioned to the car.
It took a moment for me to realize I'd been called by my real name. As far as I knew, no one in Key West, except Paul Galls, knew who I was. I started to deny that my name was Royal, when he opened his coat to show me a holstered pistol.
My gun was still in my pocket, but I couldn't imagine a shootout on a sunny street across from a busy marina. There were people all around, and someone would get hit. Galls was right. Key West shouldn't be a war zone.
The man smiled. 'Cracker Dix sent me,' he said.
Relief spread through me as my body relaxed. The adrenaline rush was subsiding, the bunched muscles loosening.
The man opened the back door and I slid into the car. An older man with receding gray hair was sitting on the other side of the back seat. His face showed the scars of a long-ago battle with acne. He was swarthy, and had a mouth full of large white teeth. He was dressed casually. He held out his hand. I took it.
'I'm Oscar Mendosa,' he said. 'I've been looking for you.'
'How did you find me?'
'Cracker told me you might be using the name Ben Joyce. He also e-mailed us a picture of you.' He held out a picture of me taken by Cracker on a recent fishing trip to Boca Ciega Bay.
Mendosa continued. 'When you bought the diving gear this morning, Ben Joyce's name popped up in our computers. We talked to the young man at the dive shop, and he told us you were coming back this evening. I've had men here all day, and when one saw you go into the diner, he called me.'
'Why were you looking for me?'
'I owe Cracker a great deal. If I can repay part of that debt by helping his friend, I'd like to do so.'
'I appreciate it, Mr. Mendosa, but I don't really need any help.'
'I think you do. Somebody is trying to kill you.'
'Who?'
'I'm not sure. Somebody has put a bounty on you.'
'A bounty? What are you talking about?'
'Pictures of you are circulating around town, and the word is that whoever calls a certain phone number with your whereabouts will get a thousand dollar reward. There are men in this town who would sell their mothers for a grand.'
He held out another photo, a grainy black-and-white print. This one was taken of me at the whorehouse the evening before. I was standing in the entry hall talking to the receptionist. A security camera.
'Do you know who's behind this?' I asked.
'No. The phone number goes to an answering machine that tells the caller to leave his name and number and someone will get in touch. I left a number, and got a callback inside of ten minutes. I played dumb and hung up.'
'Are you familiar with the Heaven Can't Wait Spa?'
'Oh, yes.' He chuckled. 'The religious whorehouse.'
'Who owns it?'
'No idea. Our business does not deal in whores, so I never cared to find out. I've just heard stories about the place.'
'I appreciate your bringing this to my attention, Mr. Mendosa. I'll be careful.'
'I can give you some men to back you up.'
'That's very kind, but I've got a lot to do in the next couple of days, and I have to do it alone.'
He reached into his pocket and extracted a business card. He handed it to me. It had nothing on it but a phone number.
'This number,' he said, 'is answered twenty-four hours a day. Call it if you need anything.'
'Thank you.'
We shook hands, and I got out of the car. It glided silently into traffic and was gone.
