Larson slipped a photograph of Markowitz onto the hotel bar and left it there briefly. Larson returned the photo to his pocket and said, “The Sand Dollar then?”
“The only two I’ve seen from The Sand Dollar,” Montgomery said without missing a beat, “are city types that don’t belong here. They come and go this time of night or later. You don’t see them outside during the day. They order lunch and dinner delivered.”
“From here?”
“We’re the only game in town.”
“Two of them?”
“Yeah, but the meals are for three, so maybe it’s that guy,” he said, pointing to Larson’s jacket.
“Kid food or adult food?”
“Adult, far as I know.”
“Do you happen to cover the residences as well?”
“I’m all there is for island security, if that’s what you’re asking. So, yeah, when residents vacate a premise, they slip me a little something, and I keep an eye on it. That’s all. Vacationing teens are the biggest concern. The closest thing we get to a crime here is what we call a DWI-drunk while intoxicated.” He lifted his glass and sucked down a fair amount. “We go about ninety percent occupancy Christmas to Easter. We’re what you might call inbred. I see the occasional pissed-off spouse armed with a golf club or tennis racquet out for revenge. High crime. In my five years we’ve had a couple broken noses, unlimited in flagrante delicto, and maybe a dozen shattered egos, and that’s about it.”
“Sounds nice… for you.”
“It pays. It’s steady. They got good health care and a pension, though I won’t stay long enough to qualify. Over half the year we go down to a maintenance level of about twenty percent occupancy. It’s a ghost island with an open bar, and that’s fine with me.” He hoisted the gin again and worked to below the quickly melting ice cubes. “To absent friends,” he repeated.
“Is there a dinner order placed for tonight?”
Montgomery blinked his rheumy eyes a couple of times. Larson pushed what remained of the rum away for the bartender to clear. Despite the beauty of the place, this was exactly where he did not want to end up twenty years down the road.
“Standing order. Every lunch, every dinner. They call in to check the specials.”
“Can you check for me?”
Montgomery didn’t look pleased. But he climbed off the bar stool and disappeared through a door to the kitchen. Emerging a few minutes later, he saddled back up. “If you’re fucking around with me,” Montgomery said, “I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“I’m not.”
“The order for three dinners was cut back to two, not ten minutes ago. But I suppose you already knew that. What’s going on here, Deputy?”
Larson had not known anything of the sort but did nothing to correct the man’s opinion. “How exactly do I get to The Sand Dollar?”
“South end of the island.” He pointed. “Eye-talian family owns it, name of Valenti. But mostly it’s their guests that use it. There are a couple homes down there, all of ’em pretty much off by themselves. You didn’t answer my question,” Montgomery said, “about what he’s done. Why a U.S. marshal’s interested?”
“Deputy marshal,” Larson corrected. “And no, I didn’t tell you.”
“Hey, I can keep it to myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” Larson said. “If one of them left the island, would we have any way to know it?”
Montgomery didn’t answer, at least not outright. Instead, he signaled the bartender, who delivered a phone to him. He dialed a three-digit number and waited for an answer on the other end. “Charlie,” he said, not bothering to introduce himself, “is the Valentis’ boat in or out?” He paused and listened into the receiver, nodded his head, and said, “What? Just a couple minutes ago, am I right?” Paused again. “Thought so.” He hung up, pushed the phone away, and worked on his drink. “One of your guys took the boat out not five minutes ago.”
“Hence the changed dinner order.” Larson checked his cell phone. No reception. He made change with the bartender and used the hotel’s only pay phone to call Tommy Tomelson, but got voice mail. He tried Hope’s phone next and got a busy circuit. The recorded voice told him to try later.
When Larson returned to the bar, Montgomery was leaning back and drawing a pattern on the sweating glass with a stubby finger. Larson complained about the cell phone service on the island.
“It’s hit-and-miss over there,” Montgomery admitted. “There’s one carrier that’s better than the others, but for the life of me I don’t remember which one it is.”
“How soon are those meals being delivered?”
A tanned older woman with the stretched skin of too many face lifts eyed Larson over a clear cocktail. He wondered what it said about him when seventy-year-olds were making eyes at him. He smiled awkwardly back at her.
“Every night, seven o’clock.” He checked his watch. “You got ten minutes to kill.”
Larson didn’t appreciate the terminology. “Who’s delivering?”
“Probably Orlando tonight.”
“Don’t tell him anything about this. We want the delivery to go just as it does any other night.”
“Got it,” Montgomery said. “South end of the beach, there’s a road to your right. Follow it to the end. The Sand Dollar is second on the left. It’s marked. You want my cart?”
“I’ll walk.”
“ Orlando ’ll drive a cart down there a couple minutes before seven,” the old guy said. “Make sure he’s gone before you do anything, ’kay? He’s a good kid. He doesn’t need any trouble.”
They shook hands, and Larson was gone.