by the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Jimmy Buffet, and thousands of bikini-wearing, beer-guzzling spring breakers. Key West. A long way from everything but worth the trip.
Though unable to afford such accommodations back in his younger days, Palmer had called ahead to the Pier House Resort, and was lucky enough to secure a room. It was located at the west end of town, right on the water, and adjacent to Duval Street.
Besides the ideal location the hotel featured a nice parking area, which was a rarity in the Conch Republic, but a necessity for anyone who happened to have a valuable 900-pound plus meteorite stashed in the back seat. Once inside the meteorite hunter flashed a smile at the desk clerk, gave her his name, and watched her eyes roam his less than pristine clothing. “Don’t worry,” Palmer said, “I’m going to clean up. Honest I am.”
The clerk looked skeptical as she ran Palmer’s credit card through the reader, and took the extra step of checking his driver’s license, before giving him a key card. “Have a nice stay.”
Palmer allowed the bellman to carry his duffel bag up to the second floor, gave the employee a tip and took a quick tour of his room. There was a private balcony that looked onto a courtyard crowded with tropical plants. A pool could be seen through the tangled branches. A little boy yelled something to his parents and made a big splash. It was paradise compared to Chad.
Palmer made a phone call, spoke with Ambassador Quinton’s housekeeper, and made an appointment to meet with the ex-diplomat later that evening. With that out of the way he sent an entire duffel bag load of clothes out to be washed and cleaned. Then he took a stroll along Duval Street where he bought an outfit that would get him through the evening. Still feeling the effects of jet lag Palmer returned to his room and lay down on the bed. It was three hours later when the phone rang, the hotel’s operator told him it was 6:00 p.m., and Palmer realized it was dark outside.
It took less than half an hour to shower, shave, and get dressed. The old belt he normally wore into the field looked strange with the brand new navy blue polo shirt and khaki trousers, but couldn’t be helped. A pair of well worn deck shoes sans socks completed the outfit. Palmer felt a sense of anticipation as he unlocked the van, got in, and left the lot. Ambassador Quinton’s house was only ten minutes away and, not wanting to arrive early, Palmer took his time.
The streets were dark and narrow. Most of the houses were set back off the street and protected by a fence or a high wall. Many were more than a hundred years old, had been updated over the years, and were the proud possessions of people who had invested love as well as money in them.
Other homes, some of which were equally venerable, had been a good deal less fortunate. With paint peeling, and wide antebellum porches sagging, they hung at the very edge of entropy awaiting their various fates. Few houses though, regardless of condition, had garages. That meant cars occupied any spot their owners could find for them.
Quinton’s house, which had been constructed by a sea captain and restored by the Ambassador some 20 years earlier, was the exception. It boasted both a driveway
and
a garage. Lights blazed from every window as Palmer pulled past and backed into the long narrow driveway that ran along the south side of the house. He stopped when he came level with the back porch.
Quinton’s silver-gray Mercedes was parked off to one side next to a shiny pickup truck. The one-time carriage house had been converted into a three car garage-sized work shop with a caretaker’s apartment above. Light spilled out through an open door and onto the concrete driveway.
***
Ambassador Benjamin Quinton heard the sound of the van’s engine, got up from his seat in front of a work bench, and went out to meet his visitor. The garage had been retrofitted to support a hobby that had gradually been
Though unable to afford such accommodations back in his younger days, Palmer had called ahead to the Pier House Resort, and was lucky enough to secure a room. It was located at the west end of town, right on the water, and adjacent to Duval Street.
Besides the ideal location the hotel featured a nice parking area, which was a rarity in the Conch Republic, but a necessity for anyone who happened to have a valuable 900-pound plus meteorite stashed in the back seat. Once inside the meteorite hunter flashed a smile at the desk clerk, gave her his name, and watched her eyes roam his less than pristine clothing. “Don’t worry,” Palmer said, “I’m going to clean up. Honest I am.”
The clerk looked skeptical as she ran Palmer’s credit card through the reader, and took the extra step of checking his driver’s license, before giving him a key card. “Have a nice stay.”
Palmer allowed the bellman to carry his duffel bag up to the second floor, gave the employee a tip and took a quick tour of his room. There was a private balcony that looked onto a courtyard crowded with tropical plants. A pool could be seen through the tangled branches. A little boy yelled something to his parents and made a big splash. It was paradise compared to Chad.
Palmer made a phone call, spoke with Ambassador Quinton’s housekeeper, and made an appointment to meet with the ex-diplomat later that evening. With that out of the way he sent an entire duffel bag load of clothes out to be washed and cleaned. Then he took a stroll along Duval Street where he bought an outfit that would get him through the evening. Still feeling the effects of jet lag Palmer returned to his room and lay down on the bed. It was three hours later when the phone rang, the hotel’s operator told him it was 6:00 p.m., and Palmer realized it was dark outside.
It took less than half an hour to shower, shave, and get dressed. The old belt he normally wore into the field looked strange with the brand new navy blue polo shirt and khaki trousers, but couldn’t be helped. A pair of well worn deck shoes sans socks completed the outfit. Palmer felt a sense of anticipation as he unlocked the van, got in, and left the lot. Ambassador Quinton’s house was only ten minutes away and, not wanting to arrive early, Palmer took his time.
The streets were dark and narrow. Most of the houses were set back off the street and protected by a fence or a high wall. Many were more than a hundred years old, had been updated over the years, and were the proud possessions of people who had invested love as well as money in them.
Other homes, some of which were equally venerable, had been a good deal less fortunate. With paint peeling, and wide antebellum porches sagging, they hung at the very edge of entropy awaiting their various fates. Few houses though, regardless of condition, had garages. That meant cars occupied any spot their owners could find for them.
Quinton’s house, which had been constructed by a sea captain and restored by the Ambassador some 20 years earlier, was the exception. It boasted both a driveway
and
a garage. Lights blazed from every window as Palmer pulled past and backed into the long narrow driveway that ran along the south side of the house. He stopped when he came level with the back porch.
Quinton’s silver-gray Mercedes was parked off to one side next to a shiny pickup truck. The one-time carriage house had been converted into a three car garage-sized work shop with a caretaker’s apartment above. Light spilled out through an open door and onto the concrete driveway.
***
Ambassador Benjamin Quinton heard the sound of the van’s engine, got up from his seat in front of a work bench, and went out to meet his visitor. The garage had been retrofitted to support a hobby that had gradually been
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