I walked, a map that I had bought in the hotel gift shop in hand. Following Duval, I passed rows of shops and restaurants with balustraded balconies that brought to mind New Orleans’s French Quarter. I passed sidewalk art displays and boutiques selling exotic plants, silks, and Perugina chocolates, then waited at a crossing to watch the bright yellow cars of the Conch Tour Train rattle by. I began to understand why Beryl Madison had not wanted to leave Key West. With each step I took, Frankie’s threatening presence began to fade. By the time I turned left on South Street, he was as remote as Richmond’s raw December weather.
Louie’s was a white-frame restaurant that had once been a house, on the corner of Vernon and Waddell. Its hardwood floors were spotless, its pale-peach linen-covered tables impeccably set and arranged with exquisite fresh flowers. I followed my host through the air-conditioned dining room, to be seated on the porch where I was dazzled by the variegated blues of water meeting sky, and palms and hanging baskets of blooming plants stirring in air perfumed by the sea. The Atlantic Ocean was nearly under my feet, a bright spattering of sailboats anchored a short swim away. Ordering a rum and tonic, I thought of Beryl’s letters and wondered if I were sitting where she had written them.
Most of the tables were occupied. I felt removed from the crowd, my table in a corner against the railing. To my left were four steps leading down to a wide deck, where a small group of young men and women were lounging in bathing suits near a chikee bar. I watched a sinewy Latin boy in a yellow bikini flick a cigarette butt into the water, then get up and languidly stretch. He padded off to buy another round of beers from the bearded bartender, who moved about with the ennui of one tired of his job and no longer young.
Long after I finished my salad and bowl of conch chowder, the group of young people finally clambered down back steps and waded noisily out into the water. Soon they were swimming in the direction of the anchored boats. I paid my bill and approached the bartender. He was leaning back in a chair beneath his thatched canopy, reading a novel.
“What will it be?” he drawled as he rose unenthusiastically to his feet and tucked the book under the bar.
“I was wondering if you sold cigarettes,” I said. “I didn’t see a machine inside.”
“That’s it,” he said, gesturing toward a limited display behind him. I made a selection.
Slapping the pack on the bar, he charged me the outrageous sum of two dollars, and wasn’t particularly gracious when I threw in another fifty cents for a tip. His eyes were a very unfriendly green, his face weathered by years of the sun, his thick, dark beard flecked with gray. He looked hostile and hardened, and I had a suspicion he had lived in Key West for quite a while.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” I said.
“Doesn’t matter because you just did, ma’am,” he answered.
I smiled. “You’re right. I just did. And now I’m going to ask you another one. How long have you worked at Louie’s?”
“Going on five years.” He reached for a towel and began polishing the bar.
“Then you must have known a young woman who went by the name Straw,” I asked, recalling from Beryl’s letters that she had not used her proper name while here.
“Straw?” he repeated, frowning as he continued to polish.
“A nickname. She was blond, slender, very pretty, and came to Louie’s almost every afternoon during this past summer. She would sit out at one of your tables and write.”
He stopped polishing and fixed those hard eyes on me. “What’s it to you? She a friend of yours?”
“She’s a patient of mine.” I said the only thing I could think of that was neither off-putting nor a bald-faced lie.
“Huh?” His thick eyebrows shot up. “A patient? What? You’re her doctor”.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, there’s not a whole lot of good you’re going to do her now, Doc, I’m sorry to tell you.”