Octopus Alibi by Tom Corcoran Page A

taxi.
    “Rutledge, thank God it’s you, just in time to save my ass. I can never make these things work. These damned arrows point between two buttons to push, they got language choices, and Christ! I want my money, and this bastard’s asking me how much I want to deposit.”
    “I’ve used this one a few times,” I said.
    “Here, hold this.” He handed me a plastic water bottle and glanced at my face. “Take a hit if you want.”
    I sniffed. Straight vodka. The constant cocktail before lunch.
    Randolph read me. “Every journey begins with a first stagger, Rutledge. Especially on this island.” He poked the buttons, ran the prompts one more time. The machine beeped and spit back his card.
    I said, “Let me show you…”
    “Good, good. My PIN’s four-nine-oh-five. See if you can get me a hundred bucks.”
    I wasn’t comfortable with his telling me his secret number, but what the hell. I wasn’t going to steal his debit card. I handed the plastic bottle back to him, pressed a few buttons, watched the twenties spit out. I showed him how to close out the transaction and forgo the receipt.
    He put the five twenties in his sport shirt pocket. “You’ve saved my day, Alex. Let me tell you, man, I love your fine cottage. I love that brass bell out front, your different-colored croton bushes, all that art on your walls.”
    “Thanks for saying…”
    “I mean it. It’s a great funky hideaway. You’ve got a yard for puttering, the perfect porch for rum drinks. If I wanted a treasure like that today, I’d have to shell out big money.”
    I had zoned out the fact that Randolph had picked up Teresa for dinner. I felt invaded, upset more by his being inside my home than my knowledge of his PIN.
    “Thanks,” I said. “It’s a quiet lane, and it was cheap by today’s prices. Call it a lucky pick a long time ago.”
    He looked at the damp stains on his sport shirt. “You sure sweat a lot down here, don’t you?”
    “Me, or people in general?”
    He chuckled. “Do you sweat anything? The way Teresa talks, I doubt you do. I meant people in general, but mainly me. Right now, I can’t fucking stand myself.” He looked toward Duval Street. “Buy you a beer?”
    “No thanks,” I said.
    “What’s the matter, man? I rub you wrong?”
    “Nope. It’s just that everybody’s new in town.”
    “You get a lot of beer offers?”
    “That’s not it. Once you’re here for a while, you don’t have that much time for midday drinking. You follow?”
    “Sorry if I offended you.”
    I started back to my taxi. “You caught me in a hurry and a weird mood.”
    “Are those legal in Key West?”
    “This is a place without many rules,” I said. “Don’t ask permission, and you know the rest.”
    “I like that setup. If I don’t get forgiven, what do I do, change my name?”
    “That won’t work. You’ll have to leave town.”
    He grinned but didn’t look at me. “Once you’re here for a while, that’s harder to do.”

9
    M Y TURN TO LEAVE town. Not a minute too soon.
    Years ago, five times a day, a twin-prop commuter would land, swap milk bottles for Hershey Bars, and depart. Two dozen people came and went, and foot traffic vanished, leaving the airport quiet as an empty church until the next turnaround. These days you still see pale skin inbound, sunburns outbound, but activity in the airport never stops.
    I fought the crowd to check in for my flight.
    I felt a welcome mental departure forty minutes before takeoff, a weight off my shoulders. I was going to Grand Cayman to work, but also for reasons people came to Key West: fewer reminders, better vibes. I needed to escape day-to-day crap, realign my priorities. My first moment of peace came when I told myself not to worry about having a housemate when I returned. There wasn’t much I could do about it, even if I stayed.
    I bought a Key West Citizen , but couldn’t find a wall to lean against. Too many racks of brochures, weekly papers, dining guides, real