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and all but one beer into the refrigerator, turned on the stereo—Christine McVie’s solo CD from the mid-eighties, a personal favorite—opened windows, and spun my fans. I had twenty minutes to shower before sundown mosquitoes and no-see-ums would turn me into a blood feast.
    Praying for an out-of-state job offer, I called my message-retrieval number.
    First up was Teresa Barga, the city’s media liaison. We had been lovers for a year, until the grass turned greener and her falsehoods grew legs. I still felt burned by her betrayal, and word had come back that Teresa now referred to me as her “recent unpleasantness.” How do you fight that crap without turning into a sleaze? It’s a gentleman’s task not to talk after a breakup; how do you avoid being branded the bad guy?
    In chipper voice Teresa let me know that the city had hired a full-time police photographer. The young man possessed skills, but he was not a prince. “The operative word,” said Teresa, “is butthole. Apparently he’s aware of your reputation. He asked for your phone number, which I told him I lost. I just wanted to warn you, let you know. That’s it from the city.”
    Sometimes even I failed to keep the city and county in their separate slots. Key West was in Monroe County. The county encompassed the Florida Keys and a small chunk of the Everglades. The county seat was Key West. So, while each entity had its own government, politics, and law-enforcement units, the overlap of jurisdictions confused even judges and lawyers. When people referred to “the city” or “the county,” they usually meant the official entirety rather than a specific location. Once in a while they brought geography into it.
    The next call came from my close friend Sam Wheeler, canceling our lunch date for next Wednesday. Two days ago he had borrowed a fellow fishing guide’s van and helped me move my stuff—including my ’66 Shelby—to Al Manning’s place in one trip. The most important box carried my “read-these-soon” books, new novels by Gautreaux, Rankin, Furst, and Rozan. “Hope you got squared away in Little Torch,” said Sam. “I kept the van for ten days and now it’s next stop Weeks Bay, Alabama. I needed some time in my cabin, and Marnie started her book, so she won’t miss me.”
    Sam’s housemate, Marnie Dunwoody, worked for the Key West Citizen. Last year she felt inspired to write a series about island changes from the Depression bust to the current boom days. Six weeks ago a New York editor with a home in Key West called to praise her series. He suggested that Marnie find an agent so he could buy an expanded version of the series as a book. Marnie faced daunting research. Aside from old newspapers, several weak novels, and the fine pictorial books by the Langleys, little had been written about the period.
    Her voice came up next. “I assume you were up the Keys. My boss at the Citizen asked me to write for page 1. Please call. I’ll be here at the house. I also need to borrow your copy of A Key West Companion, the Christopher Cox book.”
    Next came Sheriff Liska: “I need your written report faxed or e-mailed to me by eight-thirty A.M. Don’t get your jock in a wad. You can whip out two hundred words no problem, something I can show the county prosecutor. Compare the scenes, tell me what those dead men said to you. And ask your darkroom tech to get me some Marathon-scene photos ASAP.”
    Liska was followed by a familiar voice from a Naples ad agency. “Hi, Alex, Connie here. We have an open shoot, four days at our inflated rates, plus rental car and one twenty-five per diem. It’s a pinewood furniture catalog for a shop in Blairsville, Georgia. You fly to Atlanta Thursday noon and drive two hours into the mountains. We see a fine weather window for the duration. We like you for this, but we have to know by Monday.”
    An out-of-state job offer. If I had known my prayer might work, I would’ve gone for an extended fashion shoot in