Ron Base - Tree Callister 03 - Another Sanibel Sunset Detective by Ron Base Page B

holster before closing his suit jacket over it. Then he turned on his heel and went out the door without another word.
    ________
    Nothing came up on Google for Edgar Bunya, even after Tree added “doctor” to his search. Then he typed in “short sleeves,” and that gave him a lot of fashion stuff about short-sleeved blouses. When he added “cutting off hands,” however, that yielded a London Times story about rebels of the Revolutionary United Front in Sierra Leone. “Long sleeves” meant they cut off your arm at the elbow. With “short sleeves” they simply cut off your hands.
    Tree’s telephone rang. He peered at the number on the display and didn’t recognize it. He’d had enough unexpected trouble for one day. But then he was a detective, wasn’t he? He was supposed to be a tough guy, or at least tough enough to pick up a telephone.
    “Trembath here,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
    “Mr. Trembath,” Tree said.
    “Any news, old chap?”
    “I was hoping you might be calling with some,” Tree said.
    “No news from this end, I’m afraid. Mr. Shah has left the island for a few days. But he’s anxious to be kept in touch about any developments.”
    “What do you know about a man named Edgar Bunya?”
    There was an interesting silence before Trembath said: “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
    “How about Javor Zoran?”
    Another silence. “Why am I supposed to know these people?”
    “Their names have come up during the course of my investigation,” Tree said.
    “Mr. Shah is not interested in anything but results—quick results. I do hope you’re not going to let him down.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Tree said. “I’m off to Key West tomorrow.”
    “Key West?” Trembath sounded unexpectedly irritated. “Why would you go to Key West?”
    “Let’s just say I’m playing out a lead.”
    “I do hope you’re not wasting your time, Mr. Callister. I don’t know why Mrs. Traven would be in Key West.”
    “Then where do you suggest I look for her?”
    That produced yet another pause. “Well, that’s what we hired you for, isn’t it?”
    “Then let me go to Key West.”
    “Yes, of course, I’m not going to bloody well stop you, am I?” A forced jocularity was back in his voice. “Well, Mr. Callister, good luck and cheers.”
    Trembath hung up his phone.

10
    I met Hemingway once in Rome,” Rex Baxter was saying, leaning against the bar at the Lighthouse.
    As usual on a Fun Friday, Rex was surrounded by an array of tourist-acolytes who remembered him from his Chicago television days.
    “He came in to Harry’s Bar on the Via Veneto and then Sinatra came in and there we were standing around shooting the breeze. Frank was waiting for Ava but she never showed up that night.”
    Someone said in an awed voice, “You were drinking with Hemingway and Sinatra?”
    “Well, that was Rome in those days,” Rex said. “Everybody was there, and if you were there, you were at Harry’s. Anyway, Hemingway was Papa by then, the legend, the great white hunter with the beard and the safari jacket, the whole bit. We got to talking about movies, him and me and Sinatra. Hemingway hated Hollywood. Oh, he took their money all right, but he hated what they did to his books, and wouldn’t have anything to do with writing scripts. I admired him for that. Everyone else, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Raymond Chandler, they all sold out to Hollywood. Whatever you might think of Hemingway, he never sold out. He remained true to himself.”
    The rest of what Rex said was drowned out by the electronic piano player’s version of “Mandy.” Tree turned and leaned into Freddie’s ear and said, “Not that you’re keeping track but the count is up to three for the people looking for Elizabeth.”
    “Who’s trying to find her?”
    “There’s the Pakistani spy I told you about, Miram Shan.”
    “Okay. Who else?”
    “Javor Zoran. He’s a big Serb who wears flip-flops and doesn’t cut his