Read Online Key West Connection by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page A

across the slow roll of frosted night sea, then broke out the oars and rowed the remaining mile to the lee side of the reef. The cocaine boat arrived about an hour later, noiselessly, showing no running lights. I breathed in the fresh night air; the sweet south wind blowing across from Cuba. Finally, something seemed real. After three blurry, hellish days of gauzy disbelief, nauseating guilt, and, finally, awful, awful realization, this, at least, seemed real.
    I had gone through the funeral like a zombie. I spoke to no one, answered no one, refused to acknowledge condolences.
    Former film star murdered!
    It brought the newspaper ghouls on the run.
    One beefy reporter approached after the funeral. Very demanding, very pushy. He said he’d been one of Janet’s best friends before she “left the business.” I owed him a statement. Some good quotes. Was I mixed up in drug running? How was she involved? Had she been hooked on something?
    He watched me, a perplexed look on his face, when I started to smile. I reached into my pants pockets. It wasn’t there. I finally located the little tin of snuff in my coat. There were a lot of people around. Curiosity seekers. The pretty actress and her two little boys had been blown to bits. My, my, what a shame. Any celebrities around that might give an autograph? What about that big blond guy—hadn’t he starred with her in a film? No, that was the husband; the guy who had ruined her career and, finally, her life. The beefy newspaper reporter watched me slip the Copenhagen into my cheek.
    â€œWhat the hell’s the matter? Why’re ya smiling like that? Listen, I realize this is a tough time for you, buddy, but I need a story. Came all the way down here from New York—”
    I nailed him with an amber stinger—full in the right eye. He dropped his little notebook, howling.
    â€œGoddam it, you can’t treat the working press like that! You’ll be hearing from our—”
    He tried to sucker-punch me. Soft chubby roundhouse in slow motion. I brushed it away and stuck him good with a left. His nose collapsed, blood spattering the other reporters.
    And then Rigaberto was there, guiding me away.
    â€œAny of you other vultures want a story?”
    â€œDon’t bother with them, Dusky—they aren’t worth the trouble.”
    â€œHow about you, fat boy? UPI? I’ll be glad to give you a story, too.”
    The reporters scattered in the face of this madness. I called them names. Childish obscenities you might hear from teenage boys readying for a fight none of them wanted. Only, I wanted to fight. Fight them all. I was ready to kill, and someone was going to die—them, me, it didn’t matter.
    â€œThis is Dr. Robinson, Dusky. He’s going to give you something to calm you down.”
    Muscular, good-looking man in a suit. There was a needle in his hand.
    â€œHow’d you like me to stick that hypo up your ass, sawbones?”
    I never got a chance to hear his answer. Something stung my arm, and then, mercifully, there was nothing. . . .
    Oh, the killers had done a professional job, all right. Rigaberto filled me in, sitting in a chair beside my hospital bed. Someone had sent flowers. Red roses. I didn’t even bother to read the card. Outside, in the sterile hallways, nurses in white uniforms hurried back and forth while doctors so-and-so were paged softly over the telecom system.
    â€œBefore I tell you anything, Dusky, I want you to promise me something. This is a job for professional law enforcement, and I want you to promise you’ll stay out of it. Okay?”
    â€œAbsolutely, amigo . Absolutely.”
    He knew I was lying. “I mean it, Dusky. This has all been tragic enough. I don’t want to end up having to arrest you.”
    â€œWrite out an oath and I’ll sign it in blood.”
    He reached over and patted me on the forearm. “Dusky, there are just some things one man