Red Tide (Billy Knight Thrillers 2)

He nodded at the woman. “Bet that hurts.”

I looked back at the gymnast. Her back was to me as she began another complicated series of moves. It was a good back; slim and sleek.

I must have watched her a little too long. When I looked up, Nicky was staring at me with his gigantic, gleaming eyes.

“What,” I said.

“Nothin’, mate. Ab-so-toodly nothin’.”

Somewhere between irritation and embarrassment, I turned away and shoved through the crowd, down to the far end of the dock where they sell a pretty good conch fritter. I bought some and munched grumpily, staring out over the water at the idiots on the sunset cruise boats. Probably thought they were having fun. Bah. Humbug.

After a few minutes Nicky joined me. He went through three or four of the fritters with the same whacked-out recklessness, making chunks fly in all directions, completely unaware that he was attracting stares.

“You should put down a hat,” I told him. “Make people think you’re trying to do that.”

He shoved in the last chunk of fritter. I waited for applause, but the sun was gone and the crowds were thinning now. And as the last glow of the sun faded from the water and the circus trickled away, Nicky dragged me from Mallory Square and over to a battered old conch house near the cemetery in Old Town.

The house was owned by a woman who worked publicity for one of the big hotels. Like most local parties this one ignored class lines; there were cleaning crews from the hotel, writers, waiters and bartenders, hotel executives, even lawyers—every level of local society mixed together in a crazy swirl.

There were a lot of sarongs showing, most of them on women. I had a beer and ate some bad sushi. I listened to a man lecture me about the bond market before excusing himself to throw up in the back yard. A large woman in a floor-length muumuu explained to me that musical theatre was America’s one great contribution to world culture and I really should see Cats next time I was in New York.

I had a few more beers. So this is fun, I thought. I edged towards the door.

“Billy! Mate!” came the small foghorn voice. I turned, cornered.

Nicky chugged at me with a beer in one hand and towing a beautiful woman with the other. I felt a strange churning somewhere inside; it was the gymnast from Mallory Square. She wore white overalls and an expression of patient embarrassment. “Billy, this is Anna.”

Our eyes met. There was a sort of electric thump at the back of my head and then she looked away, blushing. “How do you do,” she said. She had an accent I could not place, something middle European that sounded harsh and musical at the same time.

“Hello,” I replied, still trying to figure out what I was feeling.

“Anna’s new in town, Billy. Chat ’er up a bit, eh?” Nicky said, squeezing my elbow. Then he cackled and vanished into the crowd.

Anna looked embarrassed. I would have, too, except I was busy being c

onfused, and mad at Nicky. He was ruining a perfectly good sulk.

“My name is Billy Knight,” I said, sounding stiff to my own ears.

She looked me over and our eyes met. She looked away. “Yes,” she said. “Anna Kovacic.” She said it ko-va-CHEECH.

“I saw you at Mallory Square, doing your act.”

There was a challenge in her blue eyes, the bluest I had ever seen. “This is no act,” she said. “It is to do this, or to clean in hotel rooms.”

“Where are you from?” I asked her. Not brilliant, but I wasn’t expecting the reaction I got. Her head snapped back to me and her eyes were suddenly burning.

“Ukraine,” she said.

“Oh.” There didn’t seem to be a whole lot to say to that. “How long have you been in Key West?”

Her face didn’t change, but she wasn’t seeing me anymore. “Since they are killing all my family there.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yes.” She looked away again.

And that really should have been the end of it. There is really and truly nothing to say when someone tells you they have recently moved to Key West because their whole family was killed. This is where normal people scramble for an even half-graceful exit. This is where I should have run for the cover of a cold beer and another bowl of peanuts.