Free Bone Island Mambo by Tom Corcoran

whipping in the wind. Teresa had called him the “Fat Cat in the Hat”
    “Naturally, his Navidad was big on borracho and lowon feliz. That’s when Sam and I decided to get out of here. We knew he wanted to make a big deal out of New Year’s Eve. In the old days he’d throw a premature drunk, two days early, and suffer all day the thirtieth with a sympathy-sucking, knuckle-dragging hangover. Then he’d go into a planning panic so New Year’s could be ‘perfect’ Our version of perfect was Jamaica.”
    “You know the odds against get-rich plans on this island,” I said.
    “I know my little brother. He’ll never be as drunk as he appears, or as tired, or as hung over. Sometime during the first few weeks he knows you, he’ll let slip his net worth. It’ll be a slurred aside to an unrelated story. Sooner or later he will embarrass Heidi by assuring everyone present that she is better in bed than all of his other lovers combined.”
    “So there’s no way,” said Teresa, “that you could have insisted he stay away from your town? Or convinced him he could lose it all?”
    Marnie shook her head, then shrugged. “I have this weird feeling he’s going to come out okay.”
    Teresa nodded. “This is Key Weird.”
    I said, “How did you wind up so bogged down by decent manners?”
    “And poor? And boring? Luck of the draw. He got my father’s genes, I got Mother’s. Maybe I’ll come out okay, too. If I don’t crumble like an old crust of Cuban bread.”
    “Your brother ever met Dex Hayes before?”
    Marnie shook her head. “That man was very strange. Mucho pissy.”
    “He got that way with the coroner’s people, too,” said Teresa. “Larry Riley got steamed.”
    Marnie chuckled. “Detective Hayes may not know it, but he picked the wrong man to piss off. Larry Riley’s parents live next door to Chief Salesberry.”
    “Small town,” I said.
    “Small island,” said Teresa. “The main problem being small people.”
    “Like Bug Thorsby,” I said.
    “Oh, shit,” said Marnie. “I forgot. Sam said you got mugged.”
    Teresa said coldly, “Yes. Carmen mentioned something . . .” Her chin receded, her lower lip stuck out A gray cloud came into her eyes.
    I said, “Two against one. I fought dirty, it’s over, I’m okay.”
    I hadn’t placated Teresa.
    Marnie said, “Sam asked me to tell you, he made a call or two. Jemison Thorsby’s working a boat out of Summerland Key. Keeps it docked at that fish house, Big Crab.”
    “Hell, I forgot to check with the hospital.”
    “No. What do you need? Can I get it for you?”
    “Thanks. I’ll just call in the morning.”
    Teresa stared at me.
    “Look,” I said, “It’s over. Compared to everything else today, it was a minor event”
    Marnie saved me: “Speaking of events . . .”
    I turned to her. “On Stock Island, one man, unidentified, found on a discarded couch in a trash heap. Naked, scrawny, decapitated. They couldn’t find die head. Dead fewer than four hours. Sheriff’s officials aren’t revealing identity if, in fact they know it The crime may have occurred elsewhere. There were no witnesses. What else you want?”
    “No dildos or feathers?”
    “No.”
    “No rope or duct tape?”
    “No.”
    “How do you expect us to sell newspapers?”
    We froze for a moment then Teresa laughed first I laughed, too, but only to acknowledge Mamie’s return to form. I had reduced a man’s death to forty words or less. Marnie would embellish it with the lingo and adjectives of her craft
    My short summary had brought back the odd chill that Shrimp Road had inspired earlier.
    Marnie addressed us both. “I’ve thought about this allevening. I can’t tell you two what to do, but I’m not telling law enforcement that I knew Richie Engram. It’s not a necessary detail. It could complicate things, my working for the news media. The
Citizen
doesn’t appreciate reporters who slip into the realm of ‘possible suspect.’ ”
    Teresa and I both