forced me to ride that boat, Alex Rutledge, I might loosen you up a bit.”
“I could stand a few hours of ocean time,” I said. “No offense, but I was hoping to be alone.”
Francie scratched her breastbone. She understood the power of jiggle. “It’s quicker and better on the buddy system.”
I checked Tanker’s reaction to her banter. His little cough-laugh told me he’d heard it all before.
Before they pulled away Tim offered me a beer from his dwindling twelve-pack. In a brotherly gesture of solidarity, I accepted it. As his Caprice started down the street, he stuck out his arm and flashed me Winston Churchill’s V sign. I wondered what kind of victory he had in mind. Victory over self-pity?
Or had it been a peace sign?
I put up the cleanser and brush, coiled the hose, and chucked all the empty bottles into Manning’s recycle bin. Then I stood under the house to sip Tim’s beer and stare again at the canal. Our exchange had been similar to re-hashes of the past, but Tim had shown a shift in thinking. He finally recognized the evil and foul luck that had grown from his bullheaded nature. He hadn’t indicted our father as much as admitted to his own demons, his desire to reshape his own destiny.
Perhaps the years had caught hold of him, and he really wanted to change. All this was one or two levels up from the days when not giving a shit was his mastered art. He’d closed it out with a vehement “Fuck it all,” but I suspected that was a remnant of his old stage routine. Perhaps my inclination to back off, to ease judgment and forgiveness, wasn’t the sucker bet it had been most of my life. Maybe it was time to let Tim start with a clean slate, no demerits, no probation. It sure would make my life more pleasant to call him a brother instead of a liability.
I heard a motorcycle zip Pirates Road and thanked myself for not being one of those testosterone-charged boys who thought that high-revving café racers possessed magical powers to fend off injury and death. Like GTOs were supposed to do a generation ago. A half-minute passed before the ketchup-red Ducati SS-800, growling like a miniature Ferrari, rolled down Keelhaul into Al Manning’s yard and stopped behind my Triumph. The rider wore tight Levi’s, Adidas sneaks, and a long-sleeved light blue shirt with a front zipper. I figured someone had the wrong address until the new Key West detective, Beth Watkins, peeled off her matching red helmet.
She pointed at the Triumph. “Alex Rutledge, you up for a ride?”
I envisioned her blasting the West Coast freeways on her European road rocket. “Your hot machine would outrun my old beast,” I said. “It’d be like a Porsche Targa playing with an Austin Healey, but I give great Lower Keys tours.”
“Let’s go.”
“I appreciate your coming by to say hello, but I’ve had a weird morning. I’m not up for much riding.”
She checked out the beer in my hand and notched down her excitement level. “I met your ex–lady friend, Teresa. She spoke highly of you.”
“I haven’t seen her in a couple of months,” I said.
“I gathered as much. She said she was dating your brother these days.”
“Quick work on both their parts,” I said. “He’s been in town all of fifty hours.”
“She also told me some more details about that day you and Detective Lewis secured the ‘officer down’ situation with gunfire involved. Again, I commend you for that.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But I guess my days with the city are done, what with your new full-time photographer.”
“We’ll see,” said Watkins. “He’s just finished his photo training. I was among those who approved his résumé.”
“He’s bound to be better than the last full-timer. Was the training forensic?”
“It covered everything, including on-the-job success. He documented and helped solve two murder cases while he was in graduate school.”
“Where was that?”
“University of Missouri,” she said. “You
“I could stand a few hours of ocean time,” I said. “No offense, but I was hoping to be alone.”
Francie scratched her breastbone. She understood the power of jiggle. “It’s quicker and better on the buddy system.”
I checked Tanker’s reaction to her banter. His little cough-laugh told me he’d heard it all before.
Before they pulled away Tim offered me a beer from his dwindling twelve-pack. In a brotherly gesture of solidarity, I accepted it. As his Caprice started down the street, he stuck out his arm and flashed me Winston Churchill’s V sign. I wondered what kind of victory he had in mind. Victory over self-pity?
Or had it been a peace sign?
I put up the cleanser and brush, coiled the hose, and chucked all the empty bottles into Manning’s recycle bin. Then I stood under the house to sip Tim’s beer and stare again at the canal. Our exchange had been similar to re-hashes of the past, but Tim had shown a shift in thinking. He finally recognized the evil and foul luck that had grown from his bullheaded nature. He hadn’t indicted our father as much as admitted to his own demons, his desire to reshape his own destiny.
Perhaps the years had caught hold of him, and he really wanted to change. All this was one or two levels up from the days when not giving a shit was his mastered art. He’d closed it out with a vehement “Fuck it all,” but I suspected that was a remnant of his old stage routine. Perhaps my inclination to back off, to ease judgment and forgiveness, wasn’t the sucker bet it had been most of my life. Maybe it was time to let Tim start with a clean slate, no demerits, no probation. It sure would make my life more pleasant to call him a brother instead of a liability.
I heard a motorcycle zip Pirates Road and thanked myself for not being one of those testosterone-charged boys who thought that high-revving café racers possessed magical powers to fend off injury and death. Like GTOs were supposed to do a generation ago. A half-minute passed before the ketchup-red Ducati SS-800, growling like a miniature Ferrari, rolled down Keelhaul into Al Manning’s yard and stopped behind my Triumph. The rider wore tight Levi’s, Adidas sneaks, and a long-sleeved light blue shirt with a front zipper. I figured someone had the wrong address until the new Key West detective, Beth Watkins, peeled off her matching red helmet.
She pointed at the Triumph. “Alex Rutledge, you up for a ride?”
I envisioned her blasting the West Coast freeways on her European road rocket. “Your hot machine would outrun my old beast,” I said. “It’d be like a Porsche Targa playing with an Austin Healey, but I give great Lower Keys tours.”
“Let’s go.”
“I appreciate your coming by to say hello, but I’ve had a weird morning. I’m not up for much riding.”
She checked out the beer in my hand and notched down her excitement level. “I met your ex–lady friend, Teresa. She spoke highly of you.”
“I haven’t seen her in a couple of months,” I said.
“I gathered as much. She said she was dating your brother these days.”
“Quick work on both their parts,” I said. “He’s been in town all of fifty hours.”
“She also told me some more details about that day you and Detective Lewis secured the ‘officer down’ situation with gunfire involved. Again, I commend you for that.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But I guess my days with the city are done, what with your new full-time photographer.”
“We’ll see,” said Watkins. “He’s just finished his photo training. I was among those who approved his résumé.”
“He’s bound to be better than the last full-timer. Was the training forensic?”
“It covered everything, including on-the-job success. He documented and helped solve two murder cases while he was in graduate school.”
“Where was that?”
“University of Missouri,” she said. “You
Similar Books
