Low Tide

An eighteen-wheeler barreled along the dark, Florida highway. On its way by, the driver honked twice at two women standing on the edge of a heat-cracked parking lot spotted with oil puddles. Locks of long, brown hair lifted off the brunette's neck in the wake of the truck. She smoked her third cigarette since taking off on the miniature road trip. She hadn't so much fallen off the wagon as been dragged off by the prospect of an hour in the redhead's company. Southern Florida was lucky she wasn't nursing a bottle of hard liquor while she drove.

So much for new car smell.

Rhiannon scraped her boot on the pavement, trying to free a pebble that was stuck in the tread. "Before you ask, no, we're not here for guns." It would've been a fair question, since she had pulled the black car alongside Big Al's Army Navy Surplus. "But you do need something they've got, and you're not gonna find it in the Red Chandelier Boutique."

( Plain, Non-label Cotton )

The Ocean Key hotel, a white and blue fortress near Mallory Square, played host to some of Key West's wealthiest visitors. With a liquid lounge, spa and fitness center, restaurant featuring tropical cuisine, and access to the Sunset Pier, the resort spared no expense in providing a vacation experience for its clients to remember.

Luckily, they weren't big on privacy.

Rhiannon walked up to the receptionist, asked for a guest by name, and bingo: 451... apparently a corner suite with balcony overlooking the water. The Ocean Key was the third hotel she tried, simply because of all the windows. One would think pulling all those curtains would be a pain in the ass. Guess not.

( Looking for a Redhead )

Since 1937, Sloppy Joe's Bar occupied the corner spot at Duval and Greene Streets. The rustic interior and attached 'mercantile' made it feel genuine, like an honest-to-god hang-out instead of the chain establishment it had become. Ultimately, its fame made it a must-see for sunbaked tourists. Most of them were mellow, simply searching for a comfortable place to have an overpriced beer and buy a souvenir tee shirt. But every bar also hosted a man who talked too loud, wore layered polo shirts with upright collars, and whose tan looked suspiciously storebought. He wrested the center of attention away from its rightful owner, the girl at the bar who'd been blindsided by a wall of testosterone and Axe body spray.

John's interest in the man, whose name was Jim, was based not so much on admiration as ardent disbelief. He sat with his back to the wooden wall, using it to scratch an itch between his shoulders. His teeth worked a toothpick. So that was the modern day 'catch'... A man of rehearsed pick-up lines, Corona pale lagers, and eyes that wandered to the plasma screens when a woman spoke about herself. John wondered if he had cracked a book since freshman year literature at whatever state-funded school he attended. When Jim declared his intention to 'take a leak', John finished his beer and followed him down a hallway, past a payphone (practically a relic) and a stack of plastic drink trays.

Once inside the bathroom, Jim realized someone was behind him and turned around, looking suitably homophobic and pissed off. The question -- What the fuck do you want? -- never left his mouth, because John slammed his head into a paper towel dispenser. He hoisted the semi-conscious man's arm over his shoulders and walked him into the hallway and out the emergency exit.

( Taking Control )

The tent at the corner of Greene and Elizabeth Streets was enormous, like a real circus tent. A sign made an arch out front: Holiday Cayo Carnival. Underneath, a local band played rock versions of Christmas carols and other cover songs. That's because nobody knew theirs well enough to sing drunkenly along. There was seafood and beer. A man breathed fire, a woman barked like an auctioneer to sell tickets to a skeeball game. The 'carnies' were actually members of the Harbor Branch Oceanographic Institution, and they held the event every year to benefit the coral reefs.

Hannah had a plate of fried jumbo shrimp and lemon wedges. She sat at a picnic table, squinting and leaning away as she pinched a piece of the fruit. Squirting lemon juice in her eye would be bad. Once finished, she licked her fingertips and ate a piece of shrimp. She washed it down with beer out of a red cup.

The blonde was alone. Kind-of a habit. Hannah was a "people person", but her life was full of strangers, a never-ending parade of faces who spoke to the friendly girl at the craft stand and left. A few exceptions existed, like Mallory, and the odd date here and there, just because men made her feel like a natural woman. But most of the time, Hannah was an island. She had her reasons.

( And the juggler's act was danced upon the crown you once wore )

Four a.m. in Key West. Barflies tipped off their stools. Vacationers trudged back to their hotel rooms to sleep off a tequila haze. The buzzing of streetlamps was audible, now that the island music had drifted away. Time for a dreamless sleep.

Rhiannon's shoes scuffed along the pavement. Closing time was a good time to patrol, just in case a vamp got the bright idea to munch on a bleary-eyed tourist. The paper landed on her doorstep every morning. Mysterious deaths increasing. Strange neck injuries. Yeah. Right. It was Searchlight all over again. The difference was, Key West had an inexhaustible supply of necks.

She read the storefronts. 24 kt. gold! Tanzanite! Diamonds! Kites for toys and sport! Key lime pie! A beer bottle rolled in the gutter next to Captain Tony's Saloon. Duval Street was a weird part of town, she thought. The brightly painted shops looked like Candyland and smelled like a mixture of suntan lotion, beer, and seafood. Behind the famous street, a narrow alley was strewn with garbage. Palm trees, not tall buildings, blocked out the light. Roosters and rats scuttled in the garbage looking for scraps. A homeless man barged into her shoulder and kept going, mumbling under his breath. Because he didn't ask her for change, Rhiannon knew something had scared him. She stood at the mouth of the alley for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. A breeze blew a strand of hair into her eyes.

( The Alley )

( Can you? )