After getting the picture of Varn, I spent the rest of the morning cleaning my boat. I showered and went to Moore's Stone Crab Restaurant for lunch. I ate in the bar, talking idly with Debbie, the bartender. I hadn't been in for a while, and we were catching up about mutual friends. I also told her about Peggy.
Cracker Dix came in as I was finishing my burger and onion rings. "Hey, Matt," he said. "Heard you found that body down at Pelican Man's the other day."
"Yeah. Great way to start the day," I said.
Cracker was an expatriate Englishman who had lived on the key for many years. He was about fifty, medium height, and bald as a billiard ball. He sported a close-cropped beard, a Hawaiian shirt, beige shorts, and flipflops. A small gold stud was planted in his right earlobe, a thin gold chain around his neck. He ordered a beer and took the stool beside me.
"You catching any fish?" he asked.
"No. I haven't even been out this week. Too much wind."
Debbie was back with a glass of dark beer. She set it in front of Cracker and put her elbows on the bar, leaning into it, joining the conversation.
We were alone in the lounge, but I could hear low voices coming from the dining room, the clanging of utensils on plates punctuating the conversation. Stone crabs were in season, and the snowbirds were taking their fill of them before going home for the summer. Somewhere in the back of the restaurant, a plate fell and shattered on the tile floor.
The bay outside the large windows was rippled by the northerly wind blowing down the channel. Two sailboats were anchored in the cove, swinging gently on their anchor lines. The sun was high, still hanging in the southern sky, waiting for summer before it angled directly overhead and heated the island, bringing our annual bath of humidity.
A waitress came to the service bar and called a drink order to Debbie. She left to fill it.
"Cracker," I said, placing the picture of Varn on the bar, "you get around a lot. Did you ever see this guy?"
Cracker looked closely at it for a moment, chewing on his lower lip in concentration. "Yeah," he said, finally. "I've seen him a couple of times with Wayne Lee, over at Hutch's on Cortez Road."
I frowned. "Wayne Lee," I said. "Where do I know that name from?"
"You've met him at Tiny's. He comes in now and then. He works the boats out of Cortez when he's sober."
"Right. Comes in some with Nestor Cobol."
"That's him."
"Where can I find Lee?"
"I don't know, but Fats Monahan, the bartender at Hutch's, probably knows."
Hutch's had been there as long as I'd been coming to the key. It hunkered down next to Cortez Road, just over the bridge that spanned the Intracoastal between the mainland and Anna Maria Island. Because of its proximity to the fish houses and commercial docks, it had a rowdy reputation, fueled by the men who fished the sea for a living. I'd never visited the place.
The building was concrete block covered by a layer of stucco, some of it sloughing off. I could see bare blocks under the beige exterior. A glass door gave entrance to a dim recess of ugliness and body odors, tinged with the smell of fish, cigarette smoke, and stale beer. A bar took up one wall, with tables situated about a small linoleum-covered floor. Bare concrete showed in the spots where the covering had been ripped up. No sunlight penetrated this dark space. A fat man in a white T-shirt with no sleeves leaned on the bar, talking to the lone customer. It was two in the afternoon.
I'd brought Cracker with me. He knew this world and I didn't. The regulars whispered secrets to each other that they would never divulge to an outsider.
We walked in. The bartender gave me a bored look through hooded eyes. He saw Cracker, and his mouth turned up in what could be taken for a smile. I wasn't sure.
"Hey, Cracker," the bartender said. "Beer?"
"Sure," said Cracker. I'd never known Cracker to turn down a beer, no matter the time of day.
"Fats," said Cracker, "this is a friend of mine, Matt Royal."
"Beer?" asked Fats, looking at me. I assumed that was his idea of a pleasantry.
"Miller Lite, if you have it."
He bent to the cooler behind the bar and came up with a can of Budweiser for Cracker and a bottle of Miller Lite for me. He set them on the bar. No coasters.
"Fats," said Cracker, "I'm looking for Wayne Lee. Do you know where he lives?"
"Not exactly. He got kicked out of his trailer over at the park when he stayed drunk a few days and didn't work. The manager said he was tired of putting up with that."
"Do you know where he went?" asked Cracker.
"Pretty much. Why?"
Cracker looked at me, and I nodded my head. "I think he's in some trouble, and Matt here is a lawyer. We want to help him out."
"I know he ain't got no money for a lawyer," Fats said.
"It's a freebie," I said. "For Nestor Cobol."
"Nestor's still trying to take care of him, huh?" asked Fats, a sneer on his face.
I had no idea what that was about, and I didn't want to find out. Maybe Nestor and Wayne had had a falling out, and sooner or later, Fats would mention my visit to Nestor. Well, no harm. I'd know what I needed to know by then.
"I guess so," said Cracker.
Fats took a swipe at the bar with a paper towel, moving a little dust around. "He'll be drinking somewhere by now," he said. "I don't know where he goes. He moved over to the Tamiami Trail area a couple of weeks ago. He's only been in here once since then. He can't get a ride, usually."
"Do you have an address?" I asked.
"No, but I can give you directions. I took him home the last time he was here." And he told us the block on which Wayne lived.