Free The Last American Martyr by Tom Winton Page B

shoulders was still black, he had the face of a man in his late seventies. I thought for sure he must be homeless.
    Oh shit , I thought , that would be just my luck. Watch this guy come right over here and try to hustle me for drinks .
    Sure as hell, he came inside, stood there a moment, gave the crowd a quick assessment then focused on me. From behind my dark glasses, I watched him out of the corner of my eye.
    Ohhh Shit, here he comes!
    Of course, he marchedright over to the vacant stool beside me. As I drained what was left in my bottle, I could feel his stare on the side of my face. I wanted to ask him what the hell his problem was but just ignored him and kept my eyes on the barmaid. When she finally came to take his order, she leaned over the bar and presented this guy with her cheek.
    He kissed it softly and said “Hello Crystal! How is my favorite girl today?”
    Then, after a quick exchange of pleasantries, he said, “Give me a scotch and soda,” then pointing at my empty bottle, “And give this gentleman another Corona.”
    I turned and looked at him and he said, “That is, if I may have the honor of having a drink with you.”
    I almost flipped backwards in my stool, not only because of the drink offer but also because of this scruffy old man’s voice. It was absolutely eloquent. He had a Mediterranean accent that added an unusual richness to his words. The way he so meticulously spaced them with his authoritative voice immediately put me to mind of Old World royalty.
    “Yeah, sure,” I said, “I’ll have another. Thank you very much.”
    He smiled, and his craggy face lit up. Then he extended his hand and said, “I am Arturo Giovanni, and I’m pleased to meet you.”
    “My name is Frank, Frank Delaney,” I lied, as we shook hands and Crystal plunked down the drinks.
    “May I call you Frank, Mister Delaney?”
    “Sure, that would be fine.”
    He saluted me with his drink, I did the same, and we both took a swallow. Then he dug into one of the pouch-like pockets of his field jacket, as if searching for what he’d say next. When he extracted a new pack of imported cigarettes, he rapped it on the bar a few times and said, “How long have you been in town…Frank?”
    “Just a few hours. I’m only staying a day or two, then I’ll probably knock around the middle Keys for a while.”
    “Have you been to Key West before?”
    I nodded my head, saying, “Yes, I’ve been here three times before…with, with my wife.”
    He nodded meditatively, as if evaluating what I’d just said then lit up a cigarette. He took a long, deep draw. Then, as he exhaled a slow steady stream of smoke toward the overhead fan, his eyes looked as if they were straining. When he turned back to me his face tightened up. A wave of deep concern washed over it, and the wrinkles on his forehead deepened. He took a slow cautious glance to both sides then said in a low voice, “I am so very sorry to hear about your wife, Mister Soles.”
    Excuse the expression, but I almost shit green. It was now my turn to look back and forth, but I did it quickly. Then, in a forceful whisper, I said, “Who the hell are you, Buddy? What are you talking about? You don’t know me. I told you, my name is Delaney.”
    “I am an artist, Mister Soles. My work is known all over the world. I spend part of my time here in Key West and part in Milan, where I have a second home. In my profession, I deal with many different shapes. As a blind man compensates by attuning his remaining senses, I have developed over the years an uncanny eye for shapes. When I first saw you from the sidewalk I knew who you are by your facial features. But don’t be overly concerned. With your mustache and beard, the glasses, and the hat, not many others would ever recognize you.”
    Looking deep into his dark eyes, I said, “I think maybe I should leave.”
    I reached for my cigarettes, and he gently laid his hand on my shoulder.
    “I am so sorry. I did not mean to upset