The Book of Fate

63

Welcome to Key West,” the pilot called out, brushing his wispy blond hair back on his head.

Following him out of the seaplane door and down the scaffolding to the white pontoon floats that gave the orange and red plane its buoyancy, O’Shea and Micah barely waited for the plane to be tied to the dock.

“How long you gonna be?” the pilot asked.

“Not long,” O’Shea said, careful to time his jump just right. Waiting for the seaport’s light waves to sink, then swell, he hopped from the edge of the pontoon float and landed square on the dock. “Just make sure—”

“Don’t stress so much,” the pilot called back. “I know every dockmaster working this place. Soon as I tie us up, I’ll take care of it — no one’ll ever know we were here.”

“We should call Wes’s office again,” Micah said, only a few steps behind. “Maybe he checked in.”

“He didn’t check in.”

Tracing the maze of wooden planks past dozens of sailboats and charter boats that swayed against the docks, O’Shea didn’t stop until he reached the end of William Street. As Micah skidded to a stop next to him, the sound of acoustic folk rock drifted in from the bar on their far right. O’Shea narrowed his eyes, searching through the crowds of tourists clogging the shops along the docks. From the side streets, a steady stream of cars and cabs circled the block, replenishing the tourist supply.

“What’re you—?”

“All the cabs are pink,” O’Shea blurted. “Taxi!”

On their right, a bright pink cab shrieked and stopped. Opening the back door, O’Shea slid inside. “You have radios in these cars?”

The skinny African-American cabbie glanced over his shoulder at O’Shea’s dark blue suit, then over at Micah, whose tie dangled downward as he leaned in through the open door. “Let me guess — lost your wallet in a pink cab.”

“Actually, I lost my friend.” O’Shea laughed, playing nice. “He’s pretty unforgettable, though — huge mess of scars on the side of his face. Plus the redhead he’s running around with. So whattya say,” he added, lowering a twenty-dollar bill onto the armrest of the front seat. “Think you can help me track him down?”

The cabbie grinned. “Damn, man, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”

One quick description later, a slow, easy voice squawked through the radio’s receiver. “Yeah, I seen ’em, Rogers. Kid with the scars… Dropped ’em twenty minutes ago. Three twenty-seven William Street.”

“That far from here?” O’Shea asked as the cabbie looked at him in the rearview.

“You can walk if you want.”

Micah hopped inside, tugging the door shut.

“We’ll drive,” O’Shea said as he tossed another twenty onto the armrest. “Fast as you can.”

“Like your life depended on it,” Micah added.