out of Stock Island.”
“Shipping ’em out of there?”
“Or warehousing, repainting. I don’t know. Whatever they do.”
“Where are they hiding ’em, down in the abandoned coal mines?”
“You asked.”
He tapped a knuckle on the newspaper. “I’ve got skin and bones to worry about. Dead humans. Plastic and metal come later.”
Liska shocked me. He picked up both tabs.
9
I pedaled into a fifteen-knot north wind, stair-stepped side streets, wove my way through traffic. Working off a late breakfast—shredded beef, yellow rice, black beans, two pints of tea. I’d gained five by eating one pound of food. Disorienting scenery, sharp glare, a tint to the foliage. I tasted grit in the air, smelled exhaust fumes floating down from Fort Myers. I’d hoped that the wind might have ignored the embargo, blown the haze to Cuba.
I thought, The dirty yellow fog may be self-induced.
I’d delivered prints and film to Liska. After I invoiced Monroe County, with an extra whack for working Sunday, the Stock Island decapitate-and-drop job was over for me. Gone, behind me.
Every day in January two events coincided. The glut of today’s visitors arrived by vehicle from Miami. And the first wave of yesterday’s tourists—after shaking hangovers and recoiling at the price of gas—started back up the Overseas Highway. The two flocks crossed paths at Truman and White just after lunch hour. One beer truck turning left could jam traffic back to Bahia Honda. I stayed away. I rode Francis past the cemetery to avoid the noontime traffic jam.
I found Heidi Norquist in front of the house, sleeping in a silver Jaguar XKR convertible. The cloth top was up, thewindows down. Her pink headphones hung from the rearview mirror. A pink pastel knit shirt. Today’s gold chain a fraction wider than yesterday’s. A glistening drool at die side of her mouth informed me that she wasn’t feigning slumber.
I wasn’t going to wake her. She looked peaceful. I didn’t have the energy to deal with the flip side of her charm.
I wanted to shower, then walk to Sunbeam Market to buy the
Key West Citizen
and
Miami Herald.
The
Citizen’s
page-two Crime Report usually was worth the price of the paper. I wanted to see the front page this time, to see how they’d handled the murder on Caroline.
A subdued voice on the message machine: “Hi, this is Heidi Norquist. I’m falling asleep in my car, in case you didn’t recognize me, so this is probably the best way to reach you. First, I’d like to apologize for yesterday, but I can do that to your face, when we talk. Second, would you please wake me up? Pound on the fender, or something. Even if you don’t want to talk to me, I’ve got a two o’clock hair appointment that I don’t want to miss.”
She had a solid one-hour nap ahead of her.
Mornings tend to cool temperatures in winter months. Cold air in the outdoor shower, while invigorating, inspires quickness. It had been weeks since I’d enjoyed midday comfort in the rain locker. It made me wish I’d replaced the exterior stereo speakers that long ago had rotted. I could stand Miles Davis under the mango tree, or something more lively—Buena Vista Social Club, or Mac Rebennack’s New Orleans-style whorehouse piano. The early-afternoon sunlight gave elegant tones to limbs and fronds, shadow angles and reflections I seldom saw. The constant breeze kept it in motion. As minutes passed, the haze faded. Just as I suspected: a personal problem.
This was my second shower since taking pictures on Stock Island—I’d done a major hose-down after dining with Teresa and Marnie, but hadn’t felt as though I’d fully washed the filth. This time did the trick. I was thankful to have the mess twenty hours behind me. I’ve always saidthat I couldn’t have been a schoolteacher, a restaurateur, or a police officer. The stress on good days would eat me. No telling how I’d cope with the bad, but this was a fine sample. Years ago I had gravitated to
“Shipping ’em out of there?”
“Or warehousing, repainting. I don’t know. Whatever they do.”
“Where are they hiding ’em, down in the abandoned coal mines?”
“You asked.”
He tapped a knuckle on the newspaper. “I’ve got skin and bones to worry about. Dead humans. Plastic and metal come later.”
Liska shocked me. He picked up both tabs.
9
I pedaled into a fifteen-knot north wind, stair-stepped side streets, wove my way through traffic. Working off a late breakfast—shredded beef, yellow rice, black beans, two pints of tea. I’d gained five by eating one pound of food. Disorienting scenery, sharp glare, a tint to the foliage. I tasted grit in the air, smelled exhaust fumes floating down from Fort Myers. I’d hoped that the wind might have ignored the embargo, blown the haze to Cuba.
I thought, The dirty yellow fog may be self-induced.
I’d delivered prints and film to Liska. After I invoiced Monroe County, with an extra whack for working Sunday, the Stock Island decapitate-and-drop job was over for me. Gone, behind me.
Every day in January two events coincided. The glut of today’s visitors arrived by vehicle from Miami. And the first wave of yesterday’s tourists—after shaking hangovers and recoiling at the price of gas—started back up the Overseas Highway. The two flocks crossed paths at Truman and White just after lunch hour. One beer truck turning left could jam traffic back to Bahia Honda. I stayed away. I rode Francis past the cemetery to avoid the noontime traffic jam.
I found Heidi Norquist in front of the house, sleeping in a silver Jaguar XKR convertible. The cloth top was up, thewindows down. Her pink headphones hung from the rearview mirror. A pink pastel knit shirt. Today’s gold chain a fraction wider than yesterday’s. A glistening drool at die side of her mouth informed me that she wasn’t feigning slumber.
I wasn’t going to wake her. She looked peaceful. I didn’t have the energy to deal with the flip side of her charm.
I wanted to shower, then walk to Sunbeam Market to buy the
Key West Citizen
and
Miami Herald.
The
Citizen’s
page-two Crime Report usually was worth the price of the paper. I wanted to see the front page this time, to see how they’d handled the murder on Caroline.
A subdued voice on the message machine: “Hi, this is Heidi Norquist. I’m falling asleep in my car, in case you didn’t recognize me, so this is probably the best way to reach you. First, I’d like to apologize for yesterday, but I can do that to your face, when we talk. Second, would you please wake me up? Pound on the fender, or something. Even if you don’t want to talk to me, I’ve got a two o’clock hair appointment that I don’t want to miss.”
She had a solid one-hour nap ahead of her.
Mornings tend to cool temperatures in winter months. Cold air in the outdoor shower, while invigorating, inspires quickness. It had been weeks since I’d enjoyed midday comfort in the rain locker. It made me wish I’d replaced the exterior stereo speakers that long ago had rotted. I could stand Miles Davis under the mango tree, or something more lively—Buena Vista Social Club, or Mac Rebennack’s New Orleans-style whorehouse piano. The early-afternoon sunlight gave elegant tones to limbs and fronds, shadow angles and reflections I seldom saw. The constant breeze kept it in motion. As minutes passed, the haze faded. Just as I suspected: a personal problem.
This was my second shower since taking pictures on Stock Island—I’d done a major hose-down after dining with Teresa and Marnie, but hadn’t felt as though I’d fully washed the filth. This time did the trick. I was thankful to have the mess twenty hours behind me. I’ve always saidthat I couldn’t have been a schoolteacher, a restaurateur, or a police officer. The stress on good days would eat me. No telling how I’d cope with the bad, but this was a fine sample. Years ago I had gravitated to
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