Two police cars pulled to a stop in front of the shack. The tender leaned out the door and stabbed a shaking finger toward us.
Nick felt his jaw and started to say something. Somehow he looked smaller. "I'm going be all right," he said. "I'll be okay."
There was bile in my throat and I told myself that my eyes stung from the wind. "Who gives a shit?" I said.
Two big uniformed Miami cops took their sweet time getting out of their cars and walked toward us. They blocked traffic in both directions.
"I can cut a deal with the feds," Nick said. "I know all the major dealers in the southeast and who supplies them. I know staging areas and which ships haul which shit. I'll be in the witness protection program in two weeks."
"Great, Nick. You'll have every drug thug in two hemispheres looking for you."
"I'll be okay."
"Sure you will. Just keep your ass down. Maybe it won't get shot off."
Charlie Riggs was opening the drawer to the smoker, painting the snook with some butter and sprinkling it with salt. Heavy gray thunderheads moved over Shark Valley, heading toward the city. Farther west, above Onion Bay and Big Lostman's Key, the squall had already begun. Overhead, the first bolt of lightning creased the sky, followed a five-count later by a boom of thunder. Fat drops of cool rain pelted us, but we didn't move. Charlie shot a sheepish glance at me.
An unusual sorrowful look, maybe thinking it was his job to bring me out of my despair and he didn't know how.
But it wasn't his job. All of us live with our own demons, do penance in our private ways. We need our friends for support and advice, but we draw our strength from within. In the end we are alone.
Charlie's eyes were wishing me better times. Now I was depressing him, and Charlie has always been irrepressibly chipper.
Okay, Lassiter, stop wallowing in it. Stop telling yourself you really must be a great guy to be broken up over your loss. Wait. What loss? Pam Maxson had said it: You can't lose what you don't have. And while you're at it, obliterate the guilt. Self-flagellation is an insufferable ego trip all its own; undeserved guilt is just another form of indulgent self-pity.
A flash of lightning backlit the low, dark clouds that scudded overhead, and a burst of thunder filled the sky. A couple of scrub lizards, brown with blue patches, scurried into the bushes. Cold water dripped down my neck. "Charlie, have I ever told you how much you mean to me?"
He looked up skeptically from under his soggy canvas hat. "Gracious no, and don't start now."
"Okay, it's up to you. I was just going to tell you that you'd have made somebody a fine father. Now, let's get out of the rain. Do you still keep cold Dutch beer in that cabin of yours?"
He nodded a yes.
"You have any stories to tell I haven't heard for a while?"
He smiled. "Have I told you about the carnival dummy that turned out to be the mummified body of a homicide victim?"
"Don't remember that one," I said.
We started up the muddy path to his cabin. A bright green tree frog with white pinstripes studied me a moment, concluded I wasn't a spider, and hopped away.
"Well, it's quite a story. The dummy was in the haunted house, hanging by the neck from a rope, covered with phosphorescent paint. In the dark it would glow purple when an ultraviolet light was switched on. Of course, the idea was to give the customers an old-fashioned funhouse scare. One day this college boy wants to show off for his girlfriend, so as they're going by he yanks on the dummy's shoe, tearing its leg off, and lo and behold, he's left holding the stub of a real tibia."
"Got his money's worth," I said, scraping my muddy shoes on Charlie's steps and holding the screen door for him. Inside, it was dark but dry.
Charlie was getting into it now, tales of murder and mayhem lifting his spirits. "Well, the authorities were intrigued, as you can well imagine. So many unanswered questions. How did the man die? Who was he? How did the body get into a carnival?" He paused to tamp some tobacco into his pipe. The matches were soggy and it took three tries to light up. He looked at me apologetically. "Jake, I'm afraid this story will take a while. It involves an Oklahoma train robber, a shoot-out with the police, embalming with arsenic, and it all starts back in-"
"Take your time," I told my old friend. "I got nowhere to go."