Free Bone Key by Keith R.A. DeCandido Page A

hair, the very un-January-like warmth, and the sounds of music blaring from all around. Just by moving the half block to Duval Street, it was like they entered a whole different place. Eaton Street was quiet and mostly residential. Duval was commercial, with stores, restaurants, and bars—and people. Both the sidewalks and the streets were filled with pedestrians, some traveling in drunken groups. Cars inched down the road, making appallingly slow progress. Dean could hear half a dozen bass lines vying for his attention, not to mention the occasional wail of someone crooning along to a karaoke machine.
    “God , I missed this place,” Dean said, looking over at Sam.
    “Why am I not surprised?” Sam said with mild distaste.
    Dean shook his head. “College was wasted on you, dude.”
    They walked across Duval and at the corner of Caroline Street came upon the Bull—which was the downstairs part. Upstairs was the Whistle, which 84 SUPERNATURAL
    had a pool table and a jukebox and people out on the balcony. The Bull was downstairs and had a small stage where music acts played. Like most of the places on Duval, the Bull was open-air, with huge windows open on both the Duval side and the Caroline side. Through those windows, Dean could see two guys with acoustic guitars playing, and the tables full of people sipping drinks. As they got closer, he could make out the strains of The Who’s
    “Pinball Wizard” from the two guys on the stage. Much as he wanted to go in and listen to them for a while, they had business, especially since, as promised, their quarry was sitting on the Caroline Street sidewalk. Dean had been hoping he wouldn’t be there, so they’d have an excuse to walk farther down Duval to the Hog’s Breath, passing even more bars on the way. But it was not to be. Yaphet the Poet looked exactly the same as he did four years earlier: long gray hair that started with a sharp widow’s peak at his forehead and hung loosely around his shoulders at the other end; a thick gray beard that went down to his chest; round glasses with no lenses that he still wore even though they did nothing to correct his vision; rheumy brown eyes; a tie-dyed shirt that had several holes and looked like it hadn’t been laundered since the last time Dean saw him; cutoff denim shorts that covered bony, hairy legs; and bare feet that were covered in calluses and sores. Bone
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    He was seated on the sidewalk, back up against the wall of the Bull. Next to him, also leaning against the wall, was a large piece of battered corkboard. Brightly colored pushpins kept several sheets of paper attached to it, each of which contained a poem written in flowery-yet-legible handwriting, as well as a sign on top that said yaphet’s poems, $1 each. In front of the corkboard was a small bowl with flowers painted on it, and several dollar bills and coins inside it.
    At the brothers’ approach, Yaphet’s head tilted up. “Dean! Wow, man, it really is you!”
    “Toldja we’d be down, Yaphet. This is my brother, Sam.”
    “Totally groovy to meet you, Sam.”
    “Uh, likewise.”
    Dean chuckled. “So, we’ve already seen our first ghost.”
    “Wow, and you, like, just got here, man. That’s cool. Who was it?”
    Quickly, Dean filled Yaphet in on their encounter with Captain Naylor.
    “Far out, man. Lookie, there’s more than just those three people who croaked. We got us a celebrity spook, too. Papa’s at the Hemingway pad.”
    Sam’s eyes went wide. “ Ernest Hemingway?”
    “Right on, brother. Papa, he went and scared off all the kitty-cats, and some’a the turistas, too. Nobody croaked yet, but a whole lotta bruisin’.”
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    Dean looked at Sam. “We’ll have to check it out.”
    “Easy enough,” Yaphet said. “Papa’s pad is still open for business.”
    “You’re kidding,” Sam said. “Even after people were injured?”
    Yaphet shrugged. “Don’t look at me, man, I just live here.”
    Sam said, “We should