wouldn't take the form of failing to appear, but of appearing too wholeheartedly. A hell-bent candor, an in-your-face there-ness—if the woman was nuts, that's what her nuttiness was made of.
So why hadn't she arrived? Aaron began to worry after all, but only faintly. Key West was a safe place, a loony but a gentle place, a place where people survived their errors. Not a place where awful things happened.
At a quarter of nine the waiter came over, stood at Aaron's side. He tried to be kind, offered a smile he hoped didn't come across as patronizing. He said, "Perhaps you'd like to go ahead and order."
Aaron tried to smile back. He'd read the menu half a dozen times but now remembered nothing on it. "Just bring me," he said, "a plate of macaroni."
At the Eclipse Saloon around that time, Fred had eaten his burger and his fries and slaw, had washed them down with quite a few beers, and was at that stage in his race to bankruptcy when he had to pay close attention to just how many damp dollars he still had on the bar. It was better for his fragile standing in the place if he cut himself off as the last of the money was going, rather than making the barkeep do it for him.
So he was looking down, counting, concentrating, lifting the bent edges of soggy singles to make sure they weren't stuck together, when a voice above him said, "Hello there, sport"
Fred looked up, saw a guy who looked familiar, in the way that people in bars often looked like other people one had met in bars. Except that this guy's eyes looked like they'd been stained with some image of catastrophe, and he had thin lines of dried blood on one cheek. His shirt was torn on the side and his tight jeans were abraded at the knees and mottled with fine gray dust. He said to Fred, "You once bought me a beer, remember?"
Slowly it was coming back to Fred. Some evening a week, ten days ago. Pissed-off guy with a funny name. Drank a Bud and hardly talked. Fred said, "Looks like you need one even worse tonight." He gestured toward the soggy bills. "But you're outa luck, my money's about gone."
The seat next to Fred was vacant, but Lazslo didn't sit, just leaned in a little closer. "Tonight," he said, "I'm here to do something for you. Come to the john with me a minute."
Fred narrowed his eyes. The guy didn't look like a queer but not all queers did. He said, "No offense, pal, but go fuck yourself."
Lazslo fell back then leaned in again, his catastrophic eyes were pulsing. "Hey," he said, "it's nothing like that. You crazy? It's business. Wanna make a thousand dollars?"
The amount, heady and all but inconceivable, captured Fred's imagination. His reaction had less to do with greed than awe. He'd never had a thousand dollars in his life. He glanced quickly around the Eclipse's U-shaped bar, wondered if a thousand dollar bills would be enough to pave the whole entire thing.
Lazslo let the thought settle in a moment, then, limping slightly, moved off toward the men's room.
Fred sucked down some beer, allowed a discreet interval to pass, and followed.
He found Lazslo at the sink, washing his hands. He washed them a long time then lathered them again with pink soap from a dirty dispenser hanging crooked in its bracket. Still washing, he told Fred to lock the door. The lock was only a flimsy hook and eye, wood splintering where the bent screw was half pulled out.
Lazslo said, "I need someone to lose my car."
Fred leaned against the partition between the sink and the urinal, looked at Lazslo in the mirror. "Lose your car?" he said.
"Take it to the Everglades and lose it. Sink it. Ya know, in a swamp."
"Lose your car," Fred said again.
Lazslo flicked water from his fingers, reached up for a paper towel. There were no paper towels and he dried his hands on his jeans. The jeans gave back some fine gray dust and he cursed and washed his hands all over again. "Five hundred dollars now," he said. "The other five when the car is sunk and you make it back to town. I'll
So why hadn't she arrived? Aaron began to worry after all, but only faintly. Key West was a safe place, a loony but a gentle place, a place where people survived their errors. Not a place where awful things happened.
At a quarter of nine the waiter came over, stood at Aaron's side. He tried to be kind, offered a smile he hoped didn't come across as patronizing. He said, "Perhaps you'd like to go ahead and order."
Aaron tried to smile back. He'd read the menu half a dozen times but now remembered nothing on it. "Just bring me," he said, "a plate of macaroni."
At the Eclipse Saloon around that time, Fred had eaten his burger and his fries and slaw, had washed them down with quite a few beers, and was at that stage in his race to bankruptcy when he had to pay close attention to just how many damp dollars he still had on the bar. It was better for his fragile standing in the place if he cut himself off as the last of the money was going, rather than making the barkeep do it for him.
So he was looking down, counting, concentrating, lifting the bent edges of soggy singles to make sure they weren't stuck together, when a voice above him said, "Hello there, sport"
Fred looked up, saw a guy who looked familiar, in the way that people in bars often looked like other people one had met in bars. Except that this guy's eyes looked like they'd been stained with some image of catastrophe, and he had thin lines of dried blood on one cheek. His shirt was torn on the side and his tight jeans were abraded at the knees and mottled with fine gray dust. He said to Fred, "You once bought me a beer, remember?"
Slowly it was coming back to Fred. Some evening a week, ten days ago. Pissed-off guy with a funny name. Drank a Bud and hardly talked. Fred said, "Looks like you need one even worse tonight." He gestured toward the soggy bills. "But you're outa luck, my money's about gone."
The seat next to Fred was vacant, but Lazslo didn't sit, just leaned in a little closer. "Tonight," he said, "I'm here to do something for you. Come to the john with me a minute."
Fred narrowed his eyes. The guy didn't look like a queer but not all queers did. He said, "No offense, pal, but go fuck yourself."
Lazslo fell back then leaned in again, his catastrophic eyes were pulsing. "Hey," he said, "it's nothing like that. You crazy? It's business. Wanna make a thousand dollars?"
The amount, heady and all but inconceivable, captured Fred's imagination. His reaction had less to do with greed than awe. He'd never had a thousand dollars in his life. He glanced quickly around the Eclipse's U-shaped bar, wondered if a thousand dollar bills would be enough to pave the whole entire thing.
Lazslo let the thought settle in a moment, then, limping slightly, moved off toward the men's room.
Fred sucked down some beer, allowed a discreet interval to pass, and followed.
He found Lazslo at the sink, washing his hands. He washed them a long time then lathered them again with pink soap from a dirty dispenser hanging crooked in its bracket. Still washing, he told Fred to lock the door. The lock was only a flimsy hook and eye, wood splintering where the bent screw was half pulled out.
Lazslo said, "I need someone to lose my car."
Fred leaned against the partition between the sink and the urinal, looked at Lazslo in the mirror. "Lose your car?" he said.
"Take it to the Everglades and lose it. Sink it. Ya know, in a swamp."
"Lose your car," Fred said again.
Lazslo flicked water from his fingers, reached up for a paper towel. There were no paper towels and he dried his hands on his jeans. The jeans gave back some fine gray dust and he cursed and washed his hands all over again. "Five hundred dollars now," he said. "The other five when the car is sunk and you make it back to town. I'll
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