He kibitzed roulette awhile, spent some time overlooking blackjack. Finally he worked his way back toward the little bar. At one end was a couple whose life seemed to be falling quietly apart and who clearly wanted to be left alone. At the other end was me. Mickey Veale and I made some cautious eye contact. He gestured vaguely toward the gambling floor and saved me the trouble of trying to start a conversation. "Not running lucky?" he asked.
"Haven't put it to the test," I said. "Mainly just out for a boat ride."
He gave me a nod that was full of understanding, like I was one more lonely insomniac of a kind he'd met before.
I smiled wanly and realized I was out of things to say. I paused for a breath and smelled the big man's aftershave. Clove. Nice, not too sweet. I heard myself continue: "So—I understand you came from Vegas?"
He seemed neither surprised nor suspicious that I knew this. In fact, it seemed to give him pleasure. He liked it that he was known, talked about, a character. He extended a pillowy hand and told me his name. I told him mine and we shook. Then he went on, "Getting out of Vegas— best goddamn thing I ever did."
"How come?"
"Vegas is finished." He looked down at my nearly empty glass. "Buy you a drink?"
I nodded that he could. He lifted several chins to the bartender. Two jumbos quickly appeared.
"Cheers," he said. He perched largely on a stool and slurped his drink. "Vegas, the Indians are kicking their ass. On the gaming side, I mean. They're getting murdered. So wha' does Vegas do? They go all soft and family. Disneyland with chips. Floor shows with cartoon characters. From G-strings to G ratings." He leaned a little closer and went on confidentially, "Day care. Fuckin' day care! In Vegas? It's sickening. When the hookers started doing story hour, I knew it was time to get out."
"So how'd you pick Key West?" I asked him.
He loudly chewed an ice cube before he answered. "Lemme tell ya somethin'. Key West is the best town in America. The last grown-up, raunchy, sleazy place. God bless it! Ya know when I realized this? When they had that court case about what was naked and what was not. Remember?"
It so happened that I did remember. It had to do with Fantasy Fest, two, three years ago. Some killjoys were alleging that it was illegal for people to parade naked and simulate sex acts in front of thousands of onlookers on Duval Street. Several arrests were made.
"The hearings made the news," Mickey Veale went on. "National. One woman said, 'I wasn't naked, I was wearing body paint.' Another woman said, 'I wasn't naked, I had glitter on.' And I thought, Yes! A town where painted titties count as clothes, where sparkles in the pubic hair count as underpants, this is a town for me! So I closed up shop in Vegas, and here I am." He finished off the rest of his drink in one heroic swallow and gestured for another. "And what brings you here? Vacation?"
I didn't answer right away. I was still sorting through my first impressions of Mickey Veale. So far he struck me as crude, profane, and in-your-face; which is to say I liked him pretty well. But now that it was my turn to talk, I wasn't sure how to begin. Caginess did not seem suited to the time or place; Veale's at least seeming unguardedness called for a response in kind. So I thought the hell with it and blurted, "I came to Key West because my life kind of sucked, and I came to your boat because of a couple of murders."
Mickey Veale said, "What?"
He was looking at me like I was a nut, and I wished that I could start again, could swim upward through the empty air and regain the comfort of the diving board. My throat closing down around the word, I said again, "Murders."
He squinted at me and said with certainty, "You're not a cop."
With considerably less certainty, I said, "I'm a detective."
He looked me up and down. "You don't look like a detective."
Was this getting personal? A two-bit gambling boat in a two-bit town—what was he expecting, Robert Mitchum? I shrugged and stared at him. His big face had changed and was changing some more. Gone was the shmoozing-with-customers smile. His eyes had turned cautious and he seemed beset. He might have even flinched. But of course there are a lot of different kinds of flinches. Guilty ones; affronted ones; ones that mean nothing and only have to do with gas.
After a moment, he shot a nervous look across his shoulder at the sluggish action on his gambling floor and said, "Look, I'm running a business here. Let's not have any trouble."
I put my glass down on the bar and suavely dried my hand on my shorts. "Then maybe there's someplace quiet we could talk."
23
Veale led me down the narrow flight of stairs. Even before the door to his office was fully opened, I received a very unpleasant surprise.