Read Online Cuba Straits by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page A

Heaven, the outdoor seating fragrant with frangipani and scrawny, scratching chickens. In response to the hungry look Figgy awarded the fattest hen, their server warned, “Don’t you dare—they’re protected.” That hastened them on to Margaritaville and another frosty pitcher in tribute to a generous man. By then, a fourth Cerci had hinted she was seducible—this one from the Wolverine State, a stunning Ph.D. candidate who played rugby and had the scars to prove it. “I’ve got a room at the La Concha,” she said into Tomlinson’s ear. “Just me. Bring the Krauts, if you want, but no more than two, and no less than three.”
    Talk about cryptic. On a napkin was her room number, and an addendum: “Love the name Cerci. Much cooler than the name I’ve been using.”
    Hmm. Tomlinson was aware that women journeyed to Key West eager to try what was unthinkable back home, yet he fretted for the coed’s innocence, and all the innocents who had run amok on the rocks of Bone Key. What to do?
    He thought back. Long ago, he had earned his doctorate with a dissertation that became an international best seller:
One Fathom Above Sea Level
. A “fathom” being six feet—the distance between earth and one man’s eyes. A line he’d written offered guidance:
When torn between doing what is morally right
or the chance for a few hours of fun, never decide until morning
.
    After that, the streets of Key West assumed their normal spatial focus, which is to say fuzzy . . . not unlike embedding marbles in one’s eye sockets and watching the babysitter swim naked at nap time.
    Cerci, the one from Berlin, had listened patiently to this tale of boyhood emergence, but Cerci, the Wolverine Ph.D., had bigger adventures in mind. “Eat this,” she said.
    Tomlinson considered the pill she squeezed into his palm. “Mescaline?”
    “Think of it as a time capsule.” A sharp, perceptive smile while she continued: “I
knew
it was you. I’ve read your book at least ten times, and the last chapter still makes me cry.” A slight sniffle, then a brighter smile. “Mind if I snap a selfie to send a few friends?”
    Her phone was on the nightstand, two topless fräuleins away.
    Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash-Flash.
Blinding, but the strobe helped the mescaline unfurl gently throughout Tomlinson’s brain. Time to show some real American know-how and put his back into the task at hand.
    He did.
    Yes . . . this corn-fed Cerci was the real McCoy, a true spellbinder. Yet, some passage of time later, on Duval Street, Tomlinson experienced a disturbing moment of clarity when a bear-sized man shouldered him off the sidewalk and muttered what sounded like a threat in Russian. Then again, at the corner of Southard and Margaret, when Figgy, standing shirtless, briefcase in hand, froze as he stared into the darkness of trees, where there were tiny columned mansions and row after row of stones.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Brother, we being followed. You see him?”
    Tomlinson mustered his motor control and did a slow turn. “Hey . . . where’d our Cercis go? I’ve become very fond of that spunky little Wolverine.”
    “It because of him, brother. The witches, they all ran.”
    “What? That damn trollop . . . she used me like a hood ornament.
Shit . . .
” He searched his pockets, shorts still wet for some reason—oh yeah, they’d crashed Pier House Beach for a swim, but his dripping billfold had survived. His iPhone present, too, but iffy. “Well, she’s no thief. I’ll give her that much.”
    “Shhhh!” The Cuban clutched his Santería beads and stood motionless like a dog flagging a snake. Then gestured with his chin. “Outside the wall by the tree. See? I hope it’s not him.”
    “Him
who
?”
    “A
Santero
from my village, but an asshole. ’Cause of him, I got sent to the crazy prison for murder.”
    “Gad, Figgy. You killed someone?”
    “Or could be that Russian who called you a pussy.”
    Sobering, to hear