“Feed me first,” Dino said, pointing at a sign that said raw bar.
“Okay, but keep an eye peeled for Keating.”
“I only saw his back,” Dino said, “but if I see a familiar back, I’ll let you know.”
“What would I do without you?” Stone asked.
7
STONE AND DINO walked into the Raw Bar, a large, opensided barn of a place, which was rapidly filling for lunch. They were given the last free table along the waterfront, overlooking the marina area. As they sat down, Dino looked over the railing into the water and pointed.
“Hey, look at that,” he said.
Stone peered into the water and saw half a dozen large fi sh measuring about four feet each, swimming among a lot of smaller ones.
“I guess they know where to go for lunch,” he said. Dino was perusing the menu. “I want conch something,” he said.
“What have they got?”
“How about conch fritters?”
“Sounds okay to me.”
A fetching girl—all the waitresses were fetching—took their order and brought them glasses of iced tea.
“How long have we got to find this guy and get him to sign?”
Dino asked.
“A week, give or take.”
“So we’re down to six days?”
“I guess. I mean, it can’t be that hard. When he hears how much money is coming to him, he’ll be glad to see me.”
“You’d think.” Dino got out his cell phone, made a call and got up. “Signal’s not too good; excuse me a minute.” He walked a few feet away and seemed happier.
Stone sipped his tea and looked around at his fellow diners. They all looked like tourists, but in Key West everybody was dressed like a tourist.
Dino came back and sat down. “I talked to Tommy again; I wanted to know the circumstances of the arrest. Seems his people were following a guy named Charley Boggs, who they suspected of being an importer/dealer. They tailed him around for a while, then he parked in the parking lot of a municipal building on Simonton Street. He sits in the car for five minutes, then Evan Keating and Gigi Jones pull up in a convertible and park next to Charley Boggs, who’s in a van. Some words are exchanged between the two cars, and then Tommy’s people move in and arrest everybody.
“There are traces of cocaine in the van, but Evan’s car is clean. They fi gure Boggs’s stash is near, and Evan is there to buy, so they haul everybody in. Evan’s story is he’s having dinner at a restaurant called Antonia’s, on Duval Street, and he’s just parking there. There’s a walkway from that parking lot to Duval. Tommy checks Antonia’s, and sure enough, Evan has a reservation there.
“Asked about what words were exchanged between Evan and Boggs, Evan says he was just asking the time, since he forgot to put his wristwatch on after showering.”
“So Tommy cuts Evan and Gigi loose.”
“Right. Charley Boggs, too.”
“Did you ask where we could fi nd Boggs?”
“He lives on a houseboat in Garrison Bight. You got that map?”
Stone produced the map, but their conch fritters arrived.
“Eat ’em while they’re hot,” the waitress said.
Stone dipped a fritter into some red sauce and took a bite. “Hey, good!”
Dino was trying one, too. “Kinda chewy, the bits of conch, but lots of fl avor.”
They finished the fritters and ordered key lime pie, then Stone spread out the map. “Here’s Garrison Bight,” he said.
“That’s where the yacht club is, too, Tommy says. We’re meeting him there at seven.”
They ate the key lime pie.
“I could get used to this,” Dino said.
Stone waved for the check. “Let’s go rent that boat.”
THE BOAT WAS an 18-foot Boston Whaler, a fl at-bottomed fi berglass craft, with a 40-horsepower outboard attached.
“You know how to handle this?” the renter asked, handing Stone the keys.
“Yep.” Stone stepped into the boat, checked the fuel tank and started the engine. “How do we get to Garrison Bight?” he asked. The renter spread out a chart. “You go out into the harbor and keep to your right, past the old submarine base over there. You go under a bridge and straight ahead, past some Navy family houses, and your first right turn is into Garrison Bight.”
He handed Dino the chart and pushed them off. Stone got under way slowly. “Let’s stop at the fuel dock,” he said.
“All the boaters end up there sooner or later.”
“Whatever you say,” Dino said, settling into the seat ahead of the steering pedestal. They were sheltered from the sun by a Bimini canvas top.
Stone pulled up to the dock, showed the photo of Keating to the man and got a negative response. They pushed off again, then spent an hour motoring from boat to boat, hoping to get lucky.
“No luck,” Dino said finally. “Let’s go see Garrison Bight.”
Stone took one more look at the chart, then motored past the breakwater. “Before we do, let’s go take a look at the boats at anchor.”
There were dozens of boats of every type anchored outside Key West Bight, and their search of those yielded nothing. “All right,” Stone said, “Garrison Bight it is.”
They followed the boat renter’s instructions and slowed for a no wake sign along the row of houses, then turned through a narrow channel into the bight. The houseboats lay dead ahead. Stone throttled back to idle speed as they drove slowly along the row of moored boats. They were pretty, most of them, with window boxes and potted palms on the decks. A man of about thirty with a full, dark beard sat on the rear deck of one, fi shing. Stone cut the engine and drifted. “Good morning,” he said to the man.
“If you say so.”
“You know a guy named Charley Boggs?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Barrington; I just want to talk to him.”
“You a cop?”
“Nope, just looking for some information.”
“What kind of information?”
“You’re Charley, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m looking for a guy named Evan Keating.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Funny, you were arrested with him the other night in the municipal parking lot.”
“Was that his name? I didn’t know the guy.”
“You sure about that?”
“You sure about not being a cop?”
“I’m sure.”
