Free Hemingway's Ghost by Layton Green

HEMINGWAY’S GHOST
     
    T hey gathered at Sloppy Joe’s, each more pathetic than the last, living another man’s life. When the police reported that the second body had washed ashore, ten yards from the waterlogged Panama hat, they knew something was terribly wrong.
    Ernie’s hand shook as he reached for his whiskey, and he had to shout to be heard over the din of the crowded bar. “That’s two in one week. Someone’s got it in for us.”
    “No shit,” Papa said, his bulk straining against his short-sleeved beige safari shirt. All four of them were wearing short-sleeved beige safari shirts. And trimmed white beards. And white shorts with black belts.
    All four also had ruddy broad faces, small eyes, and high foreheads. The only difference was their size. Papa was the largest. He was too fat and never won the contests, but he bullied the others into doing what he wanted, so in a sense he was the best of the lot.
    Ernie was the smallest, and Champ and Bumby were in the middle, closest in actual girth to the Man himself. Bumby won the most contests and the rest were jealous.
    “You’d think the police would do more about it,” Champ said, mashing the mint leaves in his Mojito without his usual vigor. “We bring dollars to this sand trap. We’re the best in the world. How’d all these tourists like it if their precious Hemingways just up and moved to Paris, or Cuba, or God forbid to Ketchum?”
    “Idiot,” Papa said, the whiff of fear behind his bravado typical of the town bully. Papa pretended he was an ex-con, but he had only been in jail for two DUIs and an assault—not even a proper battery—against his ex-wife. After his last business venture failed, a combination pawn shop and tanning salon in Daytona Beach, he declared bankruptcy and moved to a shack in Key Largo. After months of hearing how much he looked like the Man, he decided to turn pro in Key West. “You think there aren’t hundreds of fat old bastards waiting to grow their beards and claim our turf?”
    “Is that right? And how’re they gonna to do
this
?” Ernie’s posture shifted so that he was a mirror image of the Man slouched at a bar, his voice hitting just the right grandiose tone as he waved at the bartender. “Bill! Another round here, why don’t ya?”
    The tourists that were already staring at them from the next table began to laugh and point and take out their cameras.
    “Shhh,” Bumby hissed, the only one at the table with any sense or class. He was a failed writer and a waiter at a four-star restaurant. “You know what he would’ve said to that? You’ll be replaced in one of two ways, gents: gradually or suddenly.”
    “Bumby’s right,” Champ said. “We’re fearing for our lives here. We need to keep a low profile until we find out what’s going on.”
    Papa almost fell out of his seat. “A low profile? We’re
Hemingway
impersonators, living in
Key West
.”
    “All of you need to shut up and think,” Bumby said. “This all started the night after it happened. We know what we have to do, and we’re sitting around here getting schnockered because we’re all afraid to do it.”
    Ernie licked his lips, and Champ muttered into his whiskey.
    “I ain’t afraid of shit,” Papa said. “And this is ridiculous. Hemingway’s ghost isn’t talking to us through a Ouija board in his basement.”
    “No?” Bumby said quietly. “Then how do you explain the letter?”
    Papa’s mouth opened and then closed, and he returned to his whiskey.
    “That’s what I thought.” Bumby slapped money on the table and stood. “Who’s with me?”
    Ernie and Champ jumped out of their seats, jowls and bellies quivering with anxiety. Papa folded his massive arms and pursed his lips, regarding Bumby with eyes that were small and mean, but not unintelligent. His head began a slow nod, and then he knocked back his whiskey and grabbed his hat. “Fine. We’ll put this stupid idea to rest.”
    The four of them shuffled into the balmy