Baiting & Fishing Read online

Chapter 12

 

  He had a great time at the Hurricanes game and an even better time exploring Miami. He spent most of his time wandering up and down the streets of South Beach. The last time he had been there, the area was virtually a depressed slum. He was thrilled to see how it now thrummed with life. The restaurants and clubs were packed with beautiful people all of whom appeared to be having a blast. Ray was tempted to join in the fun until he took a look at one of the menus posted out front and realized his expense account would not buy so much as a burger and a coke in those joints. He wandered further and ended up in a Cuban diner a couple of blocks from the beach, where he feasted on fabulous black beans and rice with Cuban coffee for under five dollars.

  There were still parts of Miami that resembled a war zone, but Miami Beach was nicer than it had been in decades.

  On Monday morning, he drove to the Keys. He had long ago quit staying in Key West. It was too expensive and too crowded. For many years, when he visited, he bunked at his dad's night manager's home. That man had died several years ago and Ray had no further human ties with Key West. He checked into a room at a motel on Marathon where he had stayed many times before. The room wouldn't be ready till 4:00 p. m. which was just about perfect timing. He pulled out onto the highway and headed southwest.

  He had traveled from Largo to Key West literally thousands of times in his life. Not once did he fail to be amazed by the beauty of the drive or to be awed by the human labor that went into the building of the bridges that made up most of the Overseas Highway. He had lived in Sarasota for more than thirty years, but Key West was still his spiritual home. When he crossed the last bridge and found himself within the borders of the Conch Republic, he felt himself to be home in a special way. He parked in the first spot he found. It was blocks and blocks from Duval Street but he didn't mind walking. He made his way to the main thoroughfare via back streets, pausing in front of houses that had been residences of people he once knew.

  He didn't intentionally decide to visit his boyhood home, but he soon ended up standing on the sidewalk in front of the house in which he grew up. The place had never been a palace, but now it was positively a dump. Looking around the neighborhood, which was rapidly gentrifying, he figured that very soon some rich person would buy it and fix it up. That thought made him a little sad, but, not quite as sad as it made him to look at the pitiful state of the home where he spent the happy years of his charmed childhood.

  He sighed and walked away. This time, he intentionally headed for the bar his dad had owned. Ray had sold it to the night manager after his dad died. That man had, in turn, had sold it to his own manager when he retired. Ray knew the business was still a going concern. He didn't realize the new owners hadn't changed a thing. He blinked back the tears as he stopped just inside the front door. He half expected to see his dad standing behind the bar, polishing glasses. He took a deep breath and walked toward the bar. He noticed it no longer smelled like stale cigarettes since Florida had outlawed smoking in establishments that served food. He rather liked that.

  He walked up to the bar and ordered a glass of draft beer. He looked around and saw most of the same old photos that had hung there when he was a kid. They were yellowed with age and some of them had deteriorated to the point the subjects were hard to make out. Over the bar was a picture of him when he was four years old, holding the first fish he ever caught. He smiled at the memory.

  The bartender noticed and said, “That picture is supposed to be the son of the original owner of this place. The bar has changed hands a few times, but the locals who keep the place going insist that we don't change anything or they say they'll stop coming. Problem is, the locals who want the place to stay the same are dying off and/or moving away because they can't afford to live here any more. I am scared the owners are going to have to turn this place into a fucking fern bar like all those god-damned tourist restaurants over on Duval street.”

  Ray nodded. For some reason he didn't tell the bartender he was the kid in the photo. He silently sipped his beer and reminisced. After the bartender walked away to wait on another customer, an old man, who had been sitting in the corner, walked over to the bar, sat at the corner stared at Ray for a long time. He said, “You're Ray, aren't you?”

  Ray nodded. He couldn't place the old guy. He replied, “And you are?”

  “You don't know me. I moved here just about the time you went off to college. I remember you breezing in and out of the bar, but I don't think we ever talked. You look a lot like your dad.”

  Ray knew that was true. He was almost the same age his father had been when he died. There were days he had trouble looking at himself in the mirror because he was such a spitting image of his old man.

  The patron patted his arm and said, “It's good to see you again. I'm one of the last of the old customers who knew your dad. I'm moving to Homestead soon because I can't afford to live here any more. Sad to say, but I think the days are numbered for this place. It's been a great place to hang out.”

  Ray shook the man's hand and thanked him. He offered to buy the man a beer. He shook his head, “Haven't touched the stuff in decades. I come in here to drink tea and hang out.”

  They walked out into the sunshine together. Ray paused on the sidewalk and said more to himself than the other man, “God, I hope the place burns down before they can turn it into a fern bar where they served goat cheese on pizza.”

  The man patted his shoulder, “If I were you, I'd make this my last trip to Key West. The city you grew up in is gone. It's buried under layers of cruise line money.”

  Ray smiled sadly, “I think I may take that advice, sir.”

  He walked up Duval Street toward Mallory Square. With the passage of every block, he became more appalled. The place had gone totally to hell!

  He laughed out loud at that thought. In reality, his home town appeared to be more prosperous than ever. When he was a kid, Key West was inhabited almost exclusively by fishermen and sailors, along with the barkeeps and prostitutes who serviced both occupations.

  Later in the Sixties the hippies discovered Key West. The locals thought it was hysterical how the hippies thought they invented drug smuggling. They were so clueless they never caught on to the fact that smuggling all sorts of things, including but not limited to drugs, had been practically a respectable profession in the Keys for generations. Smugglers and pirates (which a lot of the times were the same thing) were prominent citizens of the Keys before their images became decorations on tee-shirts. Ray was pretty sure there were still a few pirates around if one knew where to look.

  Key West was cleaner than it had ever been. Prosperous-looking businesses flourished on every corner. Tourists and shoppers jammed the streets. The changes were probably good for the economy of Monroe County, but Ray was not happy to realize that the Key West he grew up in had all but disappeared.

  Ray had had enough. He decided he didn't need to see what they'd done with Sloppy Joe's so he didn't go all the way to Mallory Square. He headed for his car and drove back to Marathon. He stopped at the fishing docks and asked after a captain whose boat he had chartered before. The captain occupying the next slip told him the other charter company had moved its operations to Belize. He told Ray he had three people lined up for the next day on a boat that would accommodate six; he offered to take Ray with that group if he was interested. Ray told him he sucked as a fisherman, but was a pretty decent back-up mate. The Cap said, “These guys are total landlubbers who will puke over the side all day. I may need the help.”

  “That sounds like a barrel of fun.”

  He picked up a fish sandwich from a local joint and took it back to his hotel where he sat by the pool, ate his sandwich, then cracked open a beer and called Marcella. They chatted for a few minutes. She asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes and no. I guess it was a bad idea for me to come here. You know that old saw about how you can't go home again. Maybe it should say you shouldn't try to go ho
me again.” He tried to change the subject, “I'm going fishing tomorrow. I'll be the odd-man out on a six-pack. Cap says the others are landlubbers. Maybe that means I'll catch something by tapping into their beginners luck.”

  There was a long silence on the phone, and then Marcella said in a rush, “Ray, go back to the marina and charter a boat for the day, just for us. There's a puddle jumper flight from Sarasota to Marathon that will get me in at 8:00 tonight. If I leave my house in the next twenty minutes, I can make it. Pick me up at the Marathon airport at 8:00.” She hung up.

  He called the boat owner back and canceled his reservation. He asked if the guy knew of any boats that might be available for charter all day. The Cap said, “Mine.”

  “I thought you had a party of three.”

  Cap said, “I run three boats. I'll let one of the other captains take out the 'lubbers from Indianapolis or wherever they're from. I'll take you. How many people?”

  “Two. And we'll pay full freight. Don't take on any additional passengers.”

  “What do you want to eat?”

  “Snacks only. We'll eat our catch when we get back.”

  “I thought you said you were a piece of shit fisherman.”

  “I totally suck. But the lady who will be with me will amaze and bedazzle you.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Mark my words.”

  He called around and found Marcella a room in a semi-decent hotel on the Atlantic side of the island. He made the reservation in his name.

  After that, he took a nap.

  She was the only passenger on the plane, which looked suspiciously like a private charter. He did not mention that. She pretended it was a commercial flight. Frankly, he was so glad to see her, he wouldn't have cared if she had hitch-hiked. She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. She held up one small overnight bag and one large fishing tackle box, with a special bag for her poles, and said, “I'm ready!”

  He laughed and said, “I'm betting you are the only rich society lady in the state of Florida who could take an overnight trip with that little luggage -- and most of it fishing equipment.”

  She nodded and grinned. He told her he had reserved her a room on the beach. She looked surprised. “Where are you staying?”

  “I'm in a motel on the Bay side. It's a dump, but it's cheap and they have a nice place to clean fish and grill them.”

  “Aren't there usually two beds in places like that?”

  For a minute, he wasn't following her, “Yeah, why?”

  “If you don't mind, I 'd just as soon stay with you. We have to get up early anyway. I promise I don't snore or anything.”

  He looked at her and sighed, “I do.”

  She said softly, “I'll deal with it.”

  He pulled into the motel parking lot and ushered her into the room which consisted of a sitting room with a kitchenette and a large bedroom with two queen sized beds. The floor was tile, the décor was early-Sixties rummage sale. It was, however, very clean.

  Marcella looked around and nodded approvingly. “This isn't what I'm used to now, but it's a hell of a lot better than the dumps my dad and I used to stay in when we took our busman's holidays to fish camps around here. God, they were so gross.”

  “Are you sure? There's a nice room awaiting you on the other side of the island.”

  She said emphatically, “Cancel it. This is fine.”

  He asked if she had eaten. She said she could make do with some snacks, pointing to the pretzels and peanut butter on the counter. He offered her a beer or a Coke. She held up the bottle of water she brought with her. She ate a few pretzels and they watched TV for a little while. She asked, “What time do we have to be at the dock?”

  “Cap said he'd be there by 6:00 a. m. We can show up whenever we're ready since we're the only passengers.”

  “What happened to the three landlubbers?”

  “They're going on a different boat. This Captain runs three boats. I chartered one for just us. I have to admit I may need you to help me out when I get the bill.”

  She put her hand on his arm and whispered, “Help you out, hell. I invited myself along on your trip and I'm the one with privacy issues. I'll pay the charter.”

  She stood up and stretched. “Right now, I'm going to bed. I think we should get an early start. I want to be out on the water before the sun comes up, if that's okay with you.”

  He smiled. “That's fine. Do we need to set the alarm?”

  “Set it for 5:00, but I usually wake up before that.”

  She went into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later wearing very demure cotton man-style pajamas. She crawled into the bed where his stuff was not piled and said, “Good-night.” She seemed to be asleep instantly.

  Ray brushed his teeth and climbed into the other bed. He hadn't brought pajamas and he started to crawl into bed with his pants on. He decided that was just stupid, so he took them off and slept in his underwear. It took him a long time to go to sleep, however. He was distracted by the soft, regular sound of Marcella's breathing only a few feet away.