Hell's Bay by James W. Hall Page A

Bougainvillea vines snaked along the eaves and framed the porch in wispy blooms. The place had the look of a plantation constructed far from any village or town, and the people were sun-hardened and squinty in the way of those who’ve labored in every kind of harsh weather Florida can provide.
    The teenage boy had smirking eyes, and his body was as thin and hard as a cypress rail. He’d thrown his arm across the shoulder of the fair-haired girl in a flowered sundress. She had wide shoulders, long slender arms. One hand was lifted up to keep her dense blond hair from blowing across her face. She was a striking girl whose large mouth and bony face gave her a sensuous though slightly mannish aura.
    As I stared at her, I heard static growing in my ears, and my throat felt as though it was splitting open. Though I had never seen the woman before, with absolute certainty I recognized her. Her eyes, cheeks, lips, and nose were nearly identical to the ones I saw every morning in my mirror as I shaved.
    â€œElizabeth Milligan Thorn,” the man said. “My sister, your mother.”

 
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CHAPTER SIX
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    â€œThat guy’s your uncle?”
    â€œSo it appears.”
    â€œWell, you’re being pretty blasé about the whole thing.”
    â€œStick around. I’m about to dance on the table.”
    Sugarman poured the rest of his beer into the tall glass and glanced again at Milligan, who stood with the others twenty yards away on the beach. We were sitting outside on the rear porch of the Green Flash Lounge at Morada Bay. Rusty’s choice. Upscale joint for her upscale clients. One last meal on land before we set off.
    Not the usual Keys tacky nautical décor of glass floats suspended in fishing nets and phony portholes bolted to the walls. The Green Flash was all dark mahogany and heavy leather chesterfield sofas, bookshelves crammed with leather volumes, and plush Oriental carpets spread on the maple floor. Behind the bar were fifty different brands of vodka and a slick bartender who could recite something fancy about each of them. Cigars from around the world were on sale from a locked glass counter. Another Keys establishment trading on the manly fairy dust of Hemingway.
    Behind Sugarman the Florida Bay spread out to the western horizon as flat and motionless as a slab of burnished silver. The red disk of sun had dissolved halfway behind the distant mangrove islands and was sending flares of green and blue into the cloudless heavens. Drinks in hand, tourists lounged in the pink-and-pastel-striped Adirondack chairs, watching the dwindling light while they dug their toes into the perfect, imported sand.
    I drew the photo from my shirt pocket and lay it in front of Sugar.
    Sugarman was my oldest buddy. Former deputy sheriff, now a private investigator working out of an office next to the HairPort up in Key Largo. As a kid, Sugar was deserted by his Jamaican father and Scandinavian mom. All they’d left him was his striking good looks. Quiet, arresting eyes, narrow lips. Most women gave him a second glance, often a lingering third. Behind the sensuous facade, there was something noble in his bearing. He was solid and uncomplicated, blue-collar to the bone, a man of such firm and well-calibrated ethics that even hard-core sinners like me could sense the sharp ping of virtue radiating from him.
    â€œDamn strong resemblance. I’d say it could be your mother, yeah.”
    I nodded. I had no doubt it was.
    â€œShe was a looker. A little countrified, but an eye-catching woman.”
    â€œI noticed.”
    â€œHe laid this on you and you didn’t ask him any questions, nothing?”
    â€œHe said he’d tracked me down. Wanted to get to know me, maybe offer me an opportunity.”
    â€œWhat kind of opportunity?”
    â€œHe didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”
    â€œYou didn’t ask?”
    â€œHe was trying to get a rise out of me. I didn’t feel