Gust Front

CHAPTER 23

No-Name-Key, FL, United States of America, Sol III

1440 EDT October 2nd, 2004 ad

Mike was trying very hard not to get angry. «Sir, I understand that you're out of the hotel business. I can even understand you being unhappy with tourists. But I've got my wife and daughter with me and we need someplace to put our heads down.»

The man behind the counter was in his fifties, his long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. He stared down his nose at the short, massively built soldier and wrinkled his nose in distaste. «Look, buddy, you're right. I'm out of the hotel business. There ain't any tourists anymore. How the hell did you get leave when everybody else is locked up on a base or working their ass off?»

Mike threw his hands up in despair. «I pulled every string in the book. Is that what you wanted to hear?» In fact, every string in the book had been pulled behind his back. But that would take more explanation than it was worth.

The proprietor's face worked. «Look . . .»

«Harry,» said a female voice from the office at the rear. «Calm down.»

The No-Name-Key Fish Camp consisted of eight ancient, wooden bungalows bleached gray by a half century of sun, a few rickety docks surrounding a small but deep embayment, a brand new cinder-block icehouse about thirty yards long and the office, a single-story wooden building protruding over the small harbor. The buildings all surrounded an oyster-shell parking lot. The parking lot had a motley assortment of vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, parked at every angle. Most of the trucks appeared to have been abandoned where they sat, palm fronds and dirt encrusting their hoods. The racket of a large diesel generator sounded from somewhere behind the icehouse and an overwhelming scent of fish and rotting weeds was being carried away on the strong southwest wind.

The office was a «T»-shaped building that doubled as a general store. The front area was normally devoted to food and sundries while the back area was devoted to tackle and live bait. On one side of the crossbar was the cash register and an empty cooler. The other side had a door with a sign over it that said «Keep Out.» It was from beyond this door that the voice had issued.

Both areas were barren. The live bait tanks were uniformly empty and the tackle shelves were bare while the food and sundries area was nearly empty. There were a few jars of peanut butter and some quart Mason jars for sale. Other than that the store had been picked clean. For all it was nearly abandoned, it had been well cared for. The empty shelves had been covered with plastic sheets, to keep flies and their specks off, and the floor was freshly scrubbed.

The proprietor, propped beside his antique cash register, rolled his eyes and looked out the window as the source of the voice walked into the main area. The woman was fortyish and reminded O'Neal of Sergeant Bogdanovich. She had long, blonde hair tied in a ponytail which hung down her back and wore faded jeans and a peasant blouse. She had one of the darkest tans Mike had ever seen in his life and a nice smile.

«Forgive my husband, sir,» she said, sliding behind the counter and knocking that worthy aside with a casual bump of her hip. «He's best suited as a hermit.»

«I'm sorry to impose on you . . .» said Mike.

«It is not an imposition,» the proprietress said, with another smile. «Harry has a lot on his mind is all. But one of them is the condition of the cabins and about that I've got to be frank—«

«They're a wreck,» said Harry with a slight snarl. «We haven't had a visitor for nearly a year. There's only one that the roof doesn't have a leak!» He thought about the admission. «Well, two.»

«And those we offer,» stated the proprietress with a tight smile.

«We've used up most of our linens for other things!» said Harry.

«We'll improvise,» said the proprietress.

«There's no electricity!» the proprietor thundered.

«There's the generator.» The blonde smiled.

«It's for the ice!»

«These are guests,» said the proprietress, reasonably, but with a hint of teeth.

«No! We don't get a gas ration for guests!»

«We'll improvise.»

«There's no food!»

«Oh, pish. There's fish, lobster, crab . . .» She turned to Mike, who was watching the familial argument with amusement. «No one in your family is allergic to shellfish, are they?»

«No,» said Mike with a smile at the play. «Look, let me get a word in edgewise.» He started ticking things off on his fingers. «One, we don't need electricity. We came prepared to camp out, so we have our own lanterns.» He thought about the argument. «Two, we have our own sleeping bags, so we don't need linens. Having a bed, any bed, is better than the floor and a roof is better than a tent. We just want to spend a few days in the Keys and maybe get a little snorkeling and fishing in.»

Mike turned to the proprietor as he opened his mouth to argue. «Look, I understand where you're coming from. But let me say a few things. We're prepared to pay and pay handsomely. But if you don't take FedCreds, we brought stuff that people said was in short supply down here. I'm sorry to point it out, but I notice your cupboards are bare. I've got fifty– and twenty-five-pound monofilament, sling-spear rubber, five diving masks and two cases of large hooks.»

Mike raised an eyebrow as Harry's mouth closed with an audible clop. When he did not say anything Mike went on. «We've also got some other 'comfort rations.' So we'll be okay without all the usual amenities.» He looked from proprietor to proprietress. The two exchanged a look and then Harry shrugged his shoulders.

«Sir,» said the proprietress with a smile, «welcome to No-Name-Key Fish Camp.»

O'Neal smiled back. «Call me Mike.»

* * *

The cabin was small, old and smelled heavily of the mildew as common in the Keys as mosquitoes. A chameleon had broken off its pursuit of a large antlike insect as Mike opened the door. The cabin had two beds for the adults and another had been prepared for Cally. It was divided into two rooms, the side towards the parking lot being a combination living room/kitchen/dining room, while the rear side towards the bay was the bedroom and bath.

The furniture must have dated from the 1960s. The chairs, gleaming yellow in the fading light from a window, were all tube steel and cracked plastic padding. The countertops and floor were cracked linoleum, the patterns so worn as to be indecipherable. Mike glanced at the nonfunctional stove, television and refrigerator. The bedroom window showed signs of once sporting an air conditioner, but here under the spreading palms and salt-tolerant oaks the wind was relatively cool. There was ru

The icehouse turned out to be the center of the little community, as Mike found out when he left the cabin at dusk. The rising clouds of Keys mosquitoes drove him quickly across the parking lot to the knot of men gathered in the screened porch of the large building. It turned out that they were preparing the day's catch.

With the exception of the baseball caps, sputtering incandescent lantern and modern clothing, the scene could have been from any time in the last thousand years. The men and women were arranged along tables, talking and laughing quietly as they expertly processed the harvest of the seas.

How they kept up with whose was whose was a mystery to Mike as rubber tubs of fish were dumped on the communal table. The piscines would slither outward, some of them still faintly thumping, until they reached an available preparer. There they would be filleted or simply gutted.