“Don’t really know him at all,” Papa said. “Why?”

The Sergeant ordered a coffee with cream, then looked from one to the other. “There was a call at the Hemingway house last night.”

Papa did a very poor job of trying to look innocent.

“I took it myself, considering the circumstances. When I got there Lester told me some kids had shot out a window in back of the house. Sure enough, one of the back windows was busted. What I found curious, though, was the angle of the impact hole. From my reckoning, which is pretty damn good, the best place to fire that shot would’ve been from Lester’s balcony. I suppose some kid could’ve climbed up there and done it, but why? On the other hand, why would Lester do it, unless he was shooting at someone? Also, I never found the slug, and I doubt some kid would’ve had the time or sense to retrieve it.” He shook his head. “Any way you two could help me sort this out? It’s quite a puzzle. Oh, and my deepest condolences for your friend.”

Papa grunted. “You ask Lester?”

“Of course. He claims he’s as confused as I am, and was asleep when it happened, so he doesn’t really know.” He put his hands up. “Except for the strange evidence, I’ve got no reason to suspect otherwise, so I didn’t bring him in. He’s never caused trouble before.” He put his hands on the table and leaned in. “You gentlemen wouldn’t know why Lester might have any reason to cause trouble, would you?”

“Sure we do,” Papa said.

Sergeant Cohn leaned back. “Oh?”

A chicken ran by their table, tiny crooked feet crunching into the sand. All three followed it with their eyes.

“Because,” Papa said, “he’s a poor man living life for the benefit of rich folks. I’d be pissed off too. If I was caretaker, I’d have shot out the windows in that house a long time ago, and probably burned it down as well.”

“I’m not,” the Sergeant said quietly, “someone you want to jerk around.”

Papa, who on another day would have been cowed by the Sergeant’s quiet menace, said, “What’ve I got to lose by jerking you around? Maybe you’ll throw me in jail and save my life. Sergeant, I got no idea why old Lester might’ve shot out the window from his own back porch. If I did I’d tell you, believe me. Personally I think it was Jean-Paul. I think there’s something in that house he don’t want anyone else to have.”

Bumby had been listening to Papa and the Sergeant with thoughtful eyes. “I’m beginning to think that myself.”

“Jean-Paul’s no saint, but there’re one or two more things you might ought to know about Lester. His father was caretaker at the Hemingway place before he was, back when Hemingway himself was around. Back in ‘62, three days before the first anniversary of Hemingway’s death, a couple of drifters broke into the Hemingway house and helped themselves to a few things. You know what happened to those two drifters?”

Papa shrugged. “They went to jail?”

“They were murdered.”

Bumby flinched as the chicken ran back across the floor of the restaurant, this time stepping on his foot.

“Not just murdered, but butchered in some kind of ritual. They were both found strung upside down from a cross in the old church off Petronia.”

“Jesus,” Bumby muttered.

“Jesus is right. Worst unsolved murders in Key West history, though no one knows about it because they were homeless, and we kept it low profile. You want to take a stab at who one of the suspects was?”

Papa’s eyes met the detective’s, a look of disbelief on his face. “Lester?”

“Not Lester. His daddy. He had an airtight alibi, but the chief of police never liked him. Before he was caretaker he was a drifter, a bad poet and a day laborer, but then again so are half the people in Key West. He also hung out at the occult bookshop, the one that used to be down by the port, but again, so did half the crazies on the island.”

“So why was he a suspect, if he had an airtight alibi?”

“He was the last one seen with the two drifters, drinking with them at a watering hole down at the docks, and he was also seen skulking around the church on Petronia a few nights before it happened. His alibi for the murders checked out, and he said he was just out walking around the church. It’s a small island. The Hemingways themselves vouched for him, said Ernest had loved him, and that Lester Senior had always been devoted to the family. Some people said he was Hemingway’s biggest fan on the island, which is saying something. And one source,” Sergeant Cohn paused and looked at Bumby, “went on the record to say that Lester Senior was flat out in love with his boss. Said Lester Senior told him one night at the bar that he had to be with Ernest forever, and that he’d found a way to do it.”

Bumby turned away from the Sergeant’s stare. “What’d he mean by that?”

“Who knows. Old Lester died in ‘73, and his son took over at the house. Never had any trouble with him either, though he’s a bit slow, if you know what I mean.”

Sergeant Cohn took a last sip of coffee and stood. “Anyway, thought you might want to know.” His lips peeled back in a mock grin. “You two sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

Papa folded his arms and looked away, and Bumby studied his soup.

“You know, you two might want to think about going to the mainland for a while. And if I were you, I might leave during the daytime.”

The Sergeant tipped his hat and walked away.

I giggled as I watched them.

Bumby and Papa stared at the table after Sergeant Cohn left, then at each other.

“I’m still not convinced it ain’t you,” Papa said. “But I think it’s Jean-Paul more, and I think Sergeant Cohn’s covering for him. That’s what cops do for rich folk.”

“That was some strange stuff about Lester’s pop.”

“I don’t think old Lester’s got it in him, and what’s the motive? At least Ernie’s not around, God rest his soul, to talk about the Man’s ghost any more.”

“Poor Ern,” Bumby said. “He never hurt a soul.”

“He was a coward,” Papa said, because it made him feel better about his own cowardice, “but I suppose he was all right.” He looked to the side and shook his head. “Dammit, Ern,” he said softly.

“If you’re not the murderer, and I don’t think you are because someone fired that shot,” Bumby mused, “although I suppose you could be teaming up with someone. But if you’re not, then one of us is next, unless we leave or do something about it.”

“I ain’t leaving. I swore when I came here this was the last stop. I’ve been everywhere else, done everything else, and this is the end of the line for me.”

So maybe the fat fuck did have an ounce of courage.

Bumby said, “I say we take them one at a time. I don’t think it’s Lester either, but he likes to cast off the pier at dusk. I say we search his place tonight when he’s out, and see if we find anything. If we don’t, then we find a way to get into Jean-Paul’s place.”

Papa thought about if for a moment, then downed his whiskey. “I’m good with that.”

They waited in a bar down the street until they saw Lester pass by with his pole and tackle box, and an old cooler for the fish. When he disappeared at the end of the street, almost at the water, Papa and Bumby paid their tab and strolled nonchalantly down Whitehead until they passed the house. They scurried into the foliage and then crept along the high brick wall to their climbing spot.

Bumby flopped over the wall and into a pile of bushes, ripping his linen shirt in the process. Papa did the same, landing even more heavily. They both sat on the ground, grunting and panting.

“We can use the ladder to get back,” Bumby said.

“Say Bum, why’re you sticking around?”

“You heard Madame Gertrude.”

Papa’s jaw dropped. “What—you’re here to help the Man’s ghost?”

Bumby stood and brushed himself off. “Let’s go. Lester won’t be gone all night.”

They hurried across the grounds to the crumbling black wood-framed house in the corner, feeding off each other for courage.