Half an hour of shower, hot as I could stand it, helped a little. So did coffee, toast, aspirin.
When I was done I took a little walk to clear my head. It didn’t seem to work, but at least I wasn’t nauseated anymore. I was moving in slow motion. Everything seemed to be hard-edged and far away. I had to spend a lot o
f time on complicated things like opening the door.
At the corner I bought a newspaper, the Key West Citizen, and flipped it open.
How nice, I thought. That was a very good picture of Nicky. I didn’t know he owned a tie. It must be from his official immigration file.
I looked at the picture for a long time before my brain got the next message down the wires. Oh. Right. Why is Nicky’s picture on the front page?
I moved my eyes. They seemed to crackle when they turned. It hurt, but I focused them, tried to read the headline. Local Businessman Chains Self To Conch Train, it said. Of course. That would explain it. Sure. If Nicky chained himself to the Conch Train they would almost have to put his picture in the paper.
Another slow message worked through my brain: This is not normal—even for Nicky. I blinked. It felt good, so I held my eyes closed for a minute. I let the breeze move over my face. That felt good, too. This was a complicated problem, but maybe if I just stood with my eyes closed for a minute I could get it.
I opened my eyes and looked down at the newspaper. It was tough work, but I read the first few lines of the story.
Yup, that explained it. He couldn’t come tell me about it.
Nicky was in jail.
• • •
A crowd of almost five people stood outside the jail. A few held signs saying, “FREE NICKY CAMERON,” and “HAITIANS ARE HUMANS.”
“Disturbing the peace,” the on-duty sergeant told me, “Creating a nuisance, obstructing a public vehicle, and littering.”
“Littering? Nicky?”
The sergeant shrugged. “He had a couple of signs about Haitian refugees with him. The wind blew ’em off.”
I nodded. “Can I see him?”
He looked me over. The only decent thing I was wearing was my tan. And that was still a little green underneath. “You a lawyer?”
“A friend.”
He glanced through a file folder with Nicky’s name on it. “Your name Knight?”
“Mate,” Nicky said as they led him in to the visiting room. “What kept you?”
“Bad timing, Nicky.”
He peered at me a little more carefully. “Christ on a bun, look at you. Hung fucking over, eh?”
“Just a little.”
“A little, he says. Green as a gator, you are. You got completely pissed. Had yourself quite a party, eh?”
“Nothing like yours, Nicky.”
He cackled. “Too right. You missed a doozy, Billy.”
“Why did you put my name down as counsel, Nicky?”
He looked surprised. “So you’d get involved, Billy. Think I want you as my lawyer?”
I shook my head. It still hurt. Maybe it was the lingering hangover, but he wasn’t making sense. At least, I hoped he wasn’t. “The sergeant says they’ll let you out. You just have to pay a fine.”