Too Much Stuff

sun. Judging by the empty bottles, they were well into their fifth round. Arguing about a football game or player, they went at each other.

“Sum bitch should have stayed a farmer. Never was NFL quality, Danny. Never was.”

“Well I say he has two year, two years to prove his mettle. You just think you know it all and-”

“I’d lay a Benjamin down on that. He’ll be gone in two.”

I signaled the barmaid, a rough-looking woman with a weathered face and her hair pulled back in a knot. She wore a stained white tank top and sported an ugly red scar running down her right cheek.

“Two beers. Yuengling.”

She stared at us sullenly and I thought immediately of Bobbie. Were all the bartenders in Islamorada surly?

We checked out the long bar and the far wall with pictures of fishermen, their catches hanging high, as we ate our fried ocean perch and french fries. Not the healthiest meal in the Keys, but the Ocean View was world famous. And that was something. World famous. It made us proud.

She set two more beers in front of us without asking, apparently signaling there was a two-drink minimum for the atmosphere.

Giving us a suspicious look, she said, “Where you from?”

“Miami,” I replied.

In the din of laughter and conversation she shouted out, “Are you here for the tournament? You don’t look like tournament types.”

“I didn’t even know there was a tournament.”

She squinted her eyes, as if she didn’t know whether to believe me or not.

“Swordfishing. They go out at night, three, four miles offshore where the water’s warm. They fish from seven till lines up.”

“Lines up?” Em asked.

“Three a.m. They pull their lines. Second night the same thing. Whoever has the most weight, wins.”

I wasn’t much of a fisherman. “How much does a swordfish weigh?”

“Hundred, hundred ten. Wouldn’t you say, Willie?” She motioned to an old leather-skinned man down the bar.

He grunted.

She put down our check, and I handed her the debit card. It’s amazing how fast a thousand dollars can slip away. A nice resort, a few good meals, oil and gas for the truck.

“If you’re not here for the tournament, what are you here for?”

“Just, you know, vacationing.”

She stared at me for a moment. “Don’t look much like vacationers either.”

Just then a cheer erupted on the other side of the bar, and a couple of men started singing off-key and loudly.

We walked out into the humid evening.

“Did you catch that, Skip?”

Walking across the deserted highway, she grabbed my arm.

“Big fish?”

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

“Then what?”

“She said lines up at three a.m., and we saw the boat at three thirty.”

“You think?”

“Timing is suspect.”

“Sure didn’t look like a fishing boat. And I don’t think you’d have thirty-five people out there. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“Seems funny they pull in their lines at about the same time you saw the boat.”

My girlfriend is right more than she’s wrong. I pondered the thought, and I was certain that was no fishing boat.

I heard the throbbing engine before I saw the headlight. A Harley-Davidson came roaring around the bend, and we both ran for the grass. I turned to look and couldn’t make out much, except the driver was helmeted. Whoever it was, was riding like the wind. That bike blew by us and disappeared down the road.

“Could have been the gold fender,” I gasped when we got to the other side.

“Could have been Maria Sanko.” Em wasn’t winded at all.

“Could have been our lives if we hadn’t picked up our speed.”

It was still early and Holiday Isle was cooking, the music and noise drifting across the water.

“Want to go?” Em was making the suggestion.

So we walked to Rumrunners and there were James and Amy, cuddling at the bar.

“Tell me, Skip, would you fool around with a married woman?” Em studied them for a moment.

“Doesn’t every situation depend on the moment?”

She put her hands on my cheeks and stared into my eyes. “I don’t know if I like that answer.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

We met up in the parking lot at two fifteen. James and I both had smiles on our faces. I only guessed at his reason.

“What we have is a committed relationship, Skip,” Em whispered. “Don’t forget that word committed. Okay?”

I nodded. Em walked in and out of our relationship at her discretion. I felt I was lucky to have what was left.

“We can only hope that our shovels are still where we left them,” James said as he pushed the pedal to the metal and hit fifty miles per hour.

We parked in a small lot a block and a half away, far enough from the vacant property, but close enough to make an immediate escape if things turned sour. And things already had a history of turning sour.

“Pray that Malhotra and O’Neill don’t show up in a boat at this hour.” Em closed her eyes as if in prayer.

Cupping my hands, I offered James the first chance to vault the fence. He cleared easily.

Em lifted me and I grabbed the top rail, awkwardly straddling, then jumping off the metal bar.

“You guys be really careful. Please.”

The moon was muted behind a thin layer of clouds as we walked softly across the dew-dampened grass.

“Over there.” James pointed to my shovel.

It was amazing that no one had checked up on our digging. They must have been used to having trespassers, those skinny dippers and the make-out artists. And apparently no one had ever done more than that-trespass. So no one was looking for trespassers who would dig the place up. It never occurred to them.

“You want to continue what you were doing yesterday morning?”

Picking up the shovel, I pushed it into the soft earth. There it was again. The sharp clink of metal on metal. It wasn’t a stone. It didn’t feel like concrete. I spaded out the sand, now digging deeper and out a little. I was about two feet into the soft sandy soil when I hit something else. This time it felt like a rock. Kneeling down, I buried my hand almost elbow deep.

“What do you have?”

“Concrete, James. It’s flat and smooth.”

“That’s what you hit? Well, at least we’ve discovered the foundation.”

“There’s something else. Just give me a minute.”

I thrust the blade into the ground and pried upward. Whatever the metal piece was, it gave just a little and I slipped the head of the shovel under an edge. Not enough to dislodge it, but it was a start.

“Got something?” He could sense it.