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  The waiter delivered my food, but my appetite had vanished. So had my hangover. My mind was now moving at high-speed as I imagined Gutierrez having my maps and pouch. Our showdown on the water left me with a thin scar on my forehead that now throbbed. It would not be a warm reunion if we ever met again.

  Nardi got a call on his cell phone and had to scamper as the Mohawk was readying to patrol for the museum thieves. Before he left, he handed me a gift I could have used a month ago: the coordinates for the wreck written on a piece of his Coast Guard stationary. He said that based on the chatter it didn’t seem the Cubans had the exact location, but they were getting close.

  I mounted my bike, left Pepe’s, and turned from Caroline down William Street. I’d planned to ride back by the Atocha Museum, but Nardi’s news changed the plan. At least the Cubans didn’t have the exact GPS location of the wreck. The Cuban Navy vessel never got within a half-mile of us. And if it was Gutierrez, he’d have a hard time finding his former boat.

  I blew through the intersection at Southard, where a horn and the squeal of brakes caused me to jump the curb on my bike. The driver waved a fist from his Jeep window. I stood on the sidewalk, surprised at how deeply in thought I’d been lost.

  A century-old two-story Conch house with a widow’s walk stood before me, tired and abandoned, and somehow having not been updated during the past decades of modernization. I felt a momentary kinship with the worn-out structure. It had good bones and with enough attention—and money—could one day be a masterpiece.

  With greater attention to my surroundings I pedaled across town to Blue Heaven in the heart of Bahama Village. I thought I’d find Conch Man behind the bar readying for the lunch rush but was surprised to see him at one of the tables with a couple of serious- faced men. In resort wear, they almost looked the part, but their flowered shirts were pressed, their hair was closely cropped, and black shoes and socks peeked out from below their creased khaki slacks. Trouble?

  Lenny spotted me and said something to the men, who turned to glance at me as Lenny strutted over. Tall, muscular, black as night with a million-watt smile and stellar sense of humor, Lenny naturally drew people in.

  “Police or accountants?” I said.

  He laughed. “Political consultants. Willy’s determined to get me on the ballot for the City Council in a couple months. Figured these boys out of Tallahassee could teach me a few tricks of the trade.” He paused. “Like they gonna tell me how to connect with my own people.”

  Lenny’s uncle, Pastor Willy Peebles, was well known for turning the island’s troubled youths’ lives around. Lenny was one of his top projects, and his subsequent reputation as an outspoken man of the people earned at the pulpit of the bar at Blue Heaven had won him the name Conch Man. But he was more Chris Rock than Barack Obama, so these consultants had their work cut out for them.

  “I came by hoping you could help me out. I’m going out to salvage our favorite wreck.”

  “Hell you talking about? Another one of them sunken treasure ships?”

  “Not exactly. Gutierrez’s speedboat. Seems some Cubans are searching for it and I’d like to get there first, which means I need to get out there ASAP, like today or tomorrow.”

  “Again? Boy, you never give up. We already tried to find that thing—”

  I held up Nardi’s note with the GPS coordinates.

  “Got the numbers right here, Lenny.”

  He glanced back at the men, who openly stared at us. “I’m booked with these boys for the next four days, morning and afternoon, in between breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You in a hurry, I can’t help.”

  Damn.

  One of the results of my having checked out from the mainstream world was that I’d left most of my old friends behind. The conscious decision to maintain a low profile here limited the number of friends I had made. Bottom line was I only had a short list of people I could count on, and Lenny was at the top of the list.

  “Sorry, Buck, my handlers await.” Conch Man smiled broadly, pumped his eyebrows, and returned to the mirthless consultants.

  I pitied these men if they thought they could turn Conch Man into a cookie cutter politician. His political viability was in his deep connection to Key West’s history, people, and the issues facing them, not because he’d be the slickest of Tallahassee-groomed candidates. The thought of him engaged in a political campaign made me smile. Any debates with opposing candidates would make for fine entertainment.

  But Lenny’s candidacy wasn’t going to help me with my immediate problem.

  6

  I exchanged the bike at the La Concha for my ’72 Land Rover before heading to the airport. Why would Cubans be diving on that speedboat? I couldn’t believe American authorities wouldn’t worry that Gutierrez might have left some sensitive information on board. And I couldn’t take the chance that our government might have already salvaged the boat, either.

  What if it was Gutierrez himself? What if he was after all the old maps, letters, charts, historic accounts, and summaries of missing treasures scattered around the Caribbean, South America, European, and Far Eastern waters that had been the culmination of my work at e-Antiquity? He hadn’t fled with much when he left Key West, so he must have recognized their value.

  The copies were almost as good as the originals. If someone with access to sufficient funds attained them, they’d be in a far better position to pursue those treasures than bankrupt Buck Reilly. I could sell the originals to cover my expenses for awhile, but the archaeological value represented more to me than I’d yet been able to put in clear thoughts, much less words. Maybe I wanted to prove that when the Wall Street Journal proclaimed me “King Charles” it wasn’t a flash in the pan, and that I wasn’t driven only by getting rich.

  I found Ray Floyd poring over the flight records of a Beech Baron that had been confiscated by the DEA and sold to a local businessman. He’d gotten an incredible deal, but the plane had never run right, leaving Ray challenged and perplexed by its issues.

  “Hey,” he said. “I thought you’d have been down at Treasure Salvors looking for a way to get involved.”

  “I’ve got my own problems right now, old buddy.”

  “Old buddy?” Ray’s loose smile faded. “What do you need?” he said.

  I feigned a look of hurt. “Gee, Ray.”

  I walked to the machine in the back of the hangar, bought two soft drinks, and gave one to him.

  “Okay, now I’m really worried,” he said.

  “I just need you to take a flight with me and stay inside Betty while I take a quick dive. No big deal. Should only take a half-day, max—”

  “Provided it can wait a week, sure, but I can’t take a half-day any time soon. This damn Baron’s driving me crazy, and I’ve got—”

  “Tomorrow, Ray. It can’t wait any longer.” He studied the serious look on my face. “Nothing illegal, don’t worry … not even quasi-illegal,” I said.

  “Do I need my passport?”

  “We can’t get too far and back in half a day, can we?”

  “If anyone else asked me that question, I’d say no, but with you I’ve learned—”

  “I finally got the coordinates to Gutierrez’s wreck from Nardi, okay? We can leave at dawn, that way you can get back as early as possible. What do you say?”

  He rubbed his palms on the front of his Margaritaville flowered shirt, then down across the sides of his cargo shorts.

  “Fine, I’ll do it, but the quicker the better. I promised Bobby Spottswell I’d have this thing working before next weekend, and I still can’t figure out what’s wrong with it.”

  “It’s never run right because it’s jinxed. Drug planes always are,” I said. “Spottswell’s pissing money away on that thing.”

  “A fool and his money are my best friends,” Ray said.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon renting scuba gear, stowing it inside Betty, checking tomorrow’s weather, and planning the flight and dive. Based on my charts and the coordinat
es Nardi had given me, the depth in that area was about a hundred and twenty feet. It was outside the main flow of the Gulf Stream and there hadn’t been any hurricanes since the boat had sunk, so with any luck it hadn’t been swept too far off the mark.

  If all went according to plan, I should be able to get in and out fast.

  7

  Back at the La Concha, I walked up to the front desk.

  “Hi, Bruce.”

  “Buck Reilly. You were a hoot last night, friend. How’s your head this morning?”

  “Never better. Can you get my mail?”

  As the only month-to-month resident, aside from management, what little mail I received was held at the front desk. I missed the monthly stipend from my brother, and kind of missed Ben, too. Apparently my not being a blood relative gave him an excuse to write me off once and for all because I hadn’t heard from him since Switzerland.

  Bruce returned with a couple pieces of junk mail.

  “You have a phone message, too.” He handed me a folded piece of paper. One of the downsides of living in a hotel is that the staff knows much of your business. I unfolded the paper. FBI agent T. Edward Booth. Call ASAP. A number followed.

  Bruce smiled. “Said it was urgent.”

  Perfect.

  I headed for the front elevator, which led to the rooms that faced Duval Street. I hadn’t heard from Booth since he twisted my arm into agreeing to help with the odd job every now and then in return for keeping the heat off the on-again-off-again investigation into the charges of insider trading at e-Antiquity. I imagined Detective Johnson of the KWPD followed instructions and called Booth to report my arrest for public drunkenness, but had he mentioned my being found at the front step of the Atocha Museum shortly after it was robbed?

  I glanced out the window of my sixth-floor corner suite. Duval seemed quiet. There was a light breeze rustling what foliage there was in this part of town, and I wondered whether I should make a run to the wreck site now instead of in the morning. Nah, it was pointless to go alone, and Ray had been adamant about needing to work on Spottswell’s Baron today.

  As little as I wanted to return Booth’s call, curiosity got the better of me. I dialed the number from the room phone, wondering as I often did whether the hotel operator was listening in. I’d deep-sixed my cell phone and all other non-navigational electronic devices when I came to Key West as part of my technological detox, which had been a liberating sensation. I no longer jumped at the buzz on my hip, nor did my fingers twitch to text-related jingles. If you wanted me now, you could call me at the hotel and leave a message. It had taken awhile to get used to, but damn if it wasn’t a better quality of life.

  “What took you so long to return my call?” Booth said.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Because you’re the only one who has this number, Reilly. I set it up specifically to run you from.”

  My nerve endings were not happy with this news. I could feel them twitching.

  “Why don’t I feel honored?”

  “So you and brother Ben took a little trip recently, huh? Buying chocolate and fancy watches in Geneva, maybe?”

  Before I could deliver a comeback he sailed on.

  “No, it wasn’t a shopping trip, was it, Reilly? Unless you consider removing the contents of your parents’ account at Swiss Bank shopping. Tell me, was it worth it? Is your bankruptcy going to be a distant memory? Are you planning to move from the hotel into one of those fancy Key West mansions?”

  “How the hell do you—are you monitoring my private activities, because that’s got to be a violation of my personal rights, or some laws, or—”

  “Interpol requires Swiss banks to keep them informed on accounts associated with suspected criminals or victims. You happen to be both. So, I’ll ask you again, should I alert the IRS and let them know you have some new income to declare?”

  “No such luck, Booth. Nothing but old letters and memorabilia.” Damn. To what extent did Interpol actually monitor these things?

  “Aw, that’s too bad, kid. But take this as a warning that you’re still under the microscope, not only here, but abroad, so if you’re lying to me, we’ll find out sooner or later. If you all of a sudden have a lot of cash, or buy some fancy shit, we’ll descend on you like a hailstorm of pain. You and your brother.”

  “You’ve got nothing better to do than keep me on a tight leash?”

  “Choke chain, hotshot, and don’t forget it. But that’s not why I called, or I should say, why I’m calling you into duty.”

  I rolled my eyes. Here we go …

  “I assume the coconut telegraph down there has pounded all day over the Atocha Museum being cleaned out?” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s all over—”

  “But you probably don’t know that the Sea Lion’s missing too, along with your friend Clarence Lewis, its captain.”

  Truck?

  A switch clicked in my brain. It was him I’d seen last night, with another guy, carrying a crate. No! Truck had punched me? Damn. Truck had punched me. He was part of the heist?!

  “You still there, Reilly?”

  “You called to report a missing tourist boat, Booth? Have you been demoted?”

  “I’m told the security cameras on the waterfront next to the museum show that the Sea Lion tied up in the middle of the night, just before the theft, and left just after. There’s video of Lewis schlepping boxes onto the boat, along with a number of other characters.”

  I swallowed hard. Video? What was the breadth of those cameras? Could they have captured me, too?

  “That’s got to be a mistake, Truck wouldn’t—”

  “We’re tracking multiple vessels in all directions now, but it takes time, and we can’t reach them all fast enough, which is why I’m calling you. Nothing dangerous, no front-line work, just a sightseeing charter for you to go fly around toward the Bahamas and look at boats. You call me on this number every few hours and let me know where you’ve gone, what you’ve seen, and right away if you spot the Sea Lion. Can you handle that, Reilly?”

  Double crap. A Cuban salvage team’s zeroing-in on my waterproof pouch, and Booth wants me to waste hours, maybe days, flying around looking for … I still couldn’t believe Truck would be involved with the robbery. The lump on the back of my head was still tender, though, and I did recall a vague image of his fist cocked.

  I needed an out.

  “As a matter of fact, no, Booth, I can’t help you. As you’ve already mentioned, I’m broke. I barely have enough money for rent, and I certainly can’t afford gas money to be out joy riding for you.”

  “I’ve got a credit card coming your way, Reilly, so you’re covered. Expenses only, mind you. Now get your ass out there and start looking. Call me before the day’s out.”

  He hung up on me.

  I slammed the phone down.

  “Shit! Fuck! Damn!”

  8

  How well did I really know Truck Lewis? Could he possibly be involved with the Atocha theft? He was a friend and certainly no Boy Scout, but would he do something that crazy?

  I couldn’t come up with any way to derail Booth’s demands, especially in light of his knowledge of Ben’s and my trip to Switzerland. The last thing I wanted was for him to demand to see the “letters and memorabilia” I took from my parent’s account. It could all be confiscated as well as lead to charges of fraudulent conveyance of assets, the same charge that landed my former partner in a federal penitentiary.

  Booth hadn’t mentioned anything about Detective Johnson of the Key West Police Department. Had Johnson seen the security video? Did it show Truck and his associate coming over to talk to me? Would that bite me in the ass?

  Right now the only thing that mattered was that I was Booth’s bitch on call, and my maps on the speedboat were in jeopardy of being recovered by the Cubans. Best I could do was get out searching ASAP, find the Sea Lion, and figure out what the hell had happened. But the news about Truck, and my recollection o
f seeing him—no, of his knocking me out—just didn’t make sense. I had to do some digging first.

  THE SEA LION WAS part of a full service water-sports company called Footloose Fantaseas, owned and run by Lou Fontaine. I rode my bike to his office on Greene Street, just a couple blocks from his fleet, at Key West Harbor. I’d never met Lou but I’d heard he cut corners on maintenance and that Footloose had the least dependable fleet on the island.

  Bookings were done at the dock and in various hawker-booths around town, so the office was in a small space that had been an antique shop. I walked in and was greeted by a burly woman wearing a Hog’s Breath t-shirt and what looked like a permanent scowl.

  “Mr. Fontaine available?” I said.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Buck Reilly. I’m looking into the missing Sea Lion.”

  “You look too rumpled to be a cop, unless they’re wearing flip flops and letting their hair grow these days. You some kind of reporter?”

  “Just a friend of Truck Lewis—I’m trying to find out what happened to him.”

  “Oh, geez. Listen, sonny, I’m not sure you want to be asking about Truck right now, given the situation.”

  While she talked I was watching two men in the back of the room. When I mentioned Truck’s name, one winced and the other shook his head and looked back at his computer screen.

  “But that’s exactly why—”

  One of the doors in the back swung open and a short, plump, bald man burst in.

  “Goddamn that fucking insurance—” He stopped suddenly when he saw me, the cigar clenched in his teeth lowered an inch. “Who the hell are you?”

  “This here’s Buck Reilly,” the woman said. “Friend of Truck’s looking into his disappearance.”