Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3)

weather called for clear skies and light winds. Perfect.
That done, I packed shorts, flip-flops, and t-shirts into my duffel. I pondered whether to take any fishing or snorkel gear and decided against it. My stash of old maps, letters, and clues to lost treasures was nestled in the new compartment built below the Beast’s left seat, newly equipped with a lock, but I didn’t expect to have time to sniff out old prospects. Crystal’s charter sounded active, shuttling people to and from wherever her event was being held. Still in survival mode, just trying to keep up with the bills, I couldn’t afford the luxury of treasure hunting.
I set out to the airport to stow my gear and give the Beast a quick once-over before my dinner with Crystal Thedford. Our flight time would come early tomorrow and I wanted everything ready for a quick departure.
But I had to make another stop first.
I was exiting the elevator into the La Concha’s lobby when I heard my name called in a deep southern accent—Frank, the concierge, with a smile on his lips and a cocktail in his hand. Well connected around town, and I don’t think I’d ever seen him when he wasn’t smiling.
“Buck, I’m glad I bumped into you.”
“New uniform, Frank? Shorts, polo and Jack Daniels? What’s up?”
“Off the clock, Bubba.” Smile. “Been busier than a raccoon on trash night. Family of four staying here at the hotel want to go on a tour of the outer islands around Fort Jefferson, said they like adventure. That being the case, I suggested you for a full-day charter.” Big smile. “They’re available day after tomorrow—”
“Sorry, Frank, I’m headed out on a week-long gig.” I patted his shoulder. “But I sure appreciate you thinking of me.”
“Sure, Buck. Next time.” Smile.
My old Rover took me down Whitehead and I parked on Thomas, near Petronia. I walked along the fenced area at the back of Blue Heaven, entered the gate and walked through the half-full outdoor dining area. Ahead was a crowd around the bar, which meant Conch Man was on duty. Ever since word got out that he was going to run for the Town Council, his daily pontification at the bar had attracted an increasingly larger audience. Best thing about Lenny, though, was that he wasn’t playing to the crowd. He’d always espoused his opinions on what had gone wrong in Key West and what he’d do to fix it. When his uncle, Pastor Willy Peebles, finally rounded Lenny’s rough edges and got him on the ballot, Lenny’s homegrown rants gained immediate traction.
I made my way back to the rear corner of the bar.
“Yo, Buck, Barbancourt on the rocks?” Lenny said.
“No, I’m on my way to meet someone.” Not wanting to yell over the backs of his patrons, I pointed toward the back corner of the bar. He nodded and met me there a second later.
“What’s up man?”
“Change in plans. I booked a charter to the Virgin Islands.”
“Sweet, brother! Wish I could join you.” His bright smile was a relief.
“I’ll miss your coming out party—”
“Poor choice of words in these parts.” He grinned. “Yeah, guess you’ll miss the ass-kicking I’m going to lay on those crackers Tuesday night.” He laughed, a vision of total confidence.
“You worried?” I said.
“You crazy?”
“Fletcher’s been on the Council eight years, Lenny. He has a pretty strong—”
“Shit, boy, he won’t know what hit him. Be like that time Bruiser knocked your ass out here.” Lenny nodded to where the occasional boxing ring had been set up since the days Hemingway had boxed here.
I had to laugh. Conch Man had always been the epitome of cockiness, unless he was in my plane, where he shook like a leaf and prayed like a monk. Pastor Willy and the political consultants he’d hired had really focused him. He was primed and chomping at the bit to launch his new political career.
“Just don’t drop too many f-bombs while you’re going after those boys,” I said. “That won’t have mass appeal.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I’m not fucking stupid.” Lenny put on a serious expression. “Why yes, Mr. Reilly, excellent point, but allow me to counter your observation with what I’ve learned from eight generations of Conchs, family members who’ve lived here since the earliest history of Key West.” He burst out with a laugh. “I’m gonna kick their asses, Buck, shame you’ll miss it.”
I gave him a high-five, wished him well, and made my way back to the Rover. I was sorry I was going to miss it too. Lenny set loose on career politicians would be fine entertainment.
I drove down past the Southernmost Point, where even in the dark, cameras flashed to illuminate the old red, yellow, and black marker that proclaimed Key West’s location ninety miles from Cuba. I turned left and continued along to Reynolds, past the Casa Marina, where Crystal was staying, and down past Higgs Beach and White Street Pier. Atlantis House was on the left. I longed for a piece of Kayla’s Key Lime pie, or to go fishing with her husband Steve. More luxuries I could no longer afford.
The airport was quiet, the recent arrivals already armed with rental cars, carried away by the Five-Sixes, or received by friends and loved ones. Ray Floyd was seated in a folding chair outside the private aviation terminal holding a conch shell. When he spotted me, his eyes lit up.
“What’s with the shell, Ray?”
“I’ve realized the conch shell is a metaphor for the human experience.”
“Island existentialism?”
“The bottom of the shell flares in a cone-shaped angle up to where the bold protrusions jut out, which is like birth up to the teenage years. Those juts are like stress spikes, most dramatic in early adulthood.” Ray rolled the shell over in his hands and rubbed each section. “Where the spikes begin to taper off—as life settles—the cone tapers back to the point, and while more frequent, the spikes are smaller, more rounded and subtle as life winds down toward death.”
Classic Ray Floyd.
“What about