Bad Twin by Gary Troup

Author:Gary Troup
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781401384432
Publisher: Disney Book Group

At 7:30 p.m., as instructed, Paul Artisan was back at Garrison Bight.

On board the Fish Lips, Crunch was rigging heavy-duty fishing poles, the kind used for sailfish and tarpon, and setting artificial baits on outriggers.

Trying to sound hearty, the detective said, “We gonna do some fishing?”

“Won’t be time. Doesn’t hurt to look like we are, though. Give the Marine Patrol a reason to ignore us. D’ya bring the money?”

Trying to sound firm, the detective said, “Five hundred now. The rest when we return.”

Crunch shook his head. It seemed not to want to move much on top of his massive neck. “That isn’t how it works. I got overhead. You’ll see. Payment in advance.”

Artisan thought of arguing but quickly decided not to bother. He knew that he would lose the argument. He knew that he’d lose every argument because Crunch worked by the law of the sea, and the law of the sea dictated that the guy who ran the boat always had the final say. It was harsh but it was clear, and there was relief in the clarity. There was relief, too, in surrender. The detective was putting his fate into the hands of a tattooed stranger who could shoot him with a speargun or stab him with a filleting knife and dump his body in the ocean and probably get away with it. Living life meant taking chances. He handed over the money.

Crunch made a point of not counting it, just stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. “Trust, you see? I’ll bring you back. Trust me.”

Since he had no other choice, Artisan decided that he did.

They pulled out of the slip. By the time they made it through the cut at Fleming Key and out into the main part of the harbor, one of those famous Key West sunsets was in progress. The water was orange but with each moment it tended more toward copper—the amazing copper of new roofs. In the west, puffy clouds went from pink to mauve; above them there was a swath of improbable green in the open sky, and higher than that the jewel-box blue of evening was already taking over. Sailboats meandered here and there; the last of the snorkel cruises labored back from the reef. They passed the enclave of scraggly liveaboards who moored off of Christmas Tree Island, and soon were out in open ocean.

An odd thing happened to Crunch once they’d left the land behind; he grew relaxed, expansive, almost friendly. Like a bird that was jittery and awkward on the ground but confident and graceful in the air, he dropped his guard when he was in his native element. He said to Paul Artisan, “You spent much time on the water?”

The detective admitted that he hadn’t.

“Best fuckin’ life there is, man.” He gestured out toward the boundless horizon, where the last of the daylight seemed to be riding a slow wave toward the end of the world. “Look at that. Not a fuckin’ wall, not a fuckin’ fence, no boundaries, no limits, there’s no place you can’t go.

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