The Naked Detective

  Praise for Laurence Shames and The Naked Detective

  "Shames is at once literate and accessible, often hilarious, and always on the mark."

  —The Washington Times

  "Like Charles Willeford, Elmore Leonard, and Carl Hiaasen, Laurence Shames is a specialist in tales of low and high jinks in humid places."

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  "With his trademark humor, Shames adds another quirky, fast-paced mystery to his Key West collection."

  —New York Daily News

  “Shames has a gift for taking ordinary people, placing them in extraordinary situations, and creating hilarious and meaningful outcomes."

  —Library Journal

  "If you're a Shames fan, you already know what a thrill his Key West jaunts are. . . . The Naked Detective offers a full-monty mystery, slow-brewed romance and quirky characters that could only spring from the mind (and hot tub) of Larry Shames."

  —The Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, Mississippi)

  To learn more, please visit http://www.LaurenceShames.com

  The Naked Detective

  By

  Laurence Shames

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2000 Laurence Shames

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For Marilyn, with more love than I knew I had

  Who doth ambition shun,

  And loves to live in the sun

  —Shakespeare, As You Like It

  Originally published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2000 by Laurence Shames

  PART ONE

  1

  I never meant to be a private eye.

  The whole thing, in fact, was my accountant's idea. A tax dodge. Half a joke. A few years ago I made some money. Made it the modern American way: by sheer dumb luck, doing work I hated, on a silly product that only made life more trivial and more annoying. I took the dough—not a lot of dough, but enough to live on for the rest of my life if I wasn't an asshole about it—and moved full-time to Key West.

  I'd had a funky little house there for years. Wood frame, shady porch, tiny pool that took up most of a backyard choked with thatch and bougainvillea. Vacation house. Daydreaming about that place, the time I'd eventually spend there, got me through a lot of crappy afternoons in my stupid office up in Jersey. Now I wanted to really make it home.

  So I told my accountant to free up some cash. "I'm renovating. Building an addition."

  "You're putting in an office," he informed me.

  "Office? Benny, I'm retired."

  "Bullshit you're retired. What are you, forty-four?"

  "Forty-five."

  "Forty-five you don't retire. Forty-five you have a crisis and change careers."

  "There's no crisis, Benny. I'm putting in wine storage, a music room, and a hot tub."

  He raised his hands to fend off the information. "You never told me that," he said. "It's an office and it'll save you thousands. Tens of thousands. Plus your car becomes deductible."

  I made the mistake of keeping silent for a moment. Call me cheap. I shouldn't have even thought about it, but the idea of saving tens of thousands made me pause.

  "Become a Realtor," Benny suggested. "Everyone down there becomes a Realtor, right?"

  I'd dealt with Realtors in my life. "I'd rather shoot myself," I said.

  "Shoot yourself," he muttered, then started free-associating. "Tough guy. Humphrey Bogart. Hey, call yourself a private eye."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  He quickly fell in love with his idea. "Ya know," he said, "there's a lot of advantages. Private corporation. One employee: you. You get a gun—"

  "Benny, cut it out."

  "—get a license—"

  "How you get a license?"

  "Florida?" he said. "Probably swear you haven't murdered anybody in the last sixty, ninety days."

  "Benny, I don't wanna be a private eye."

  He paused, blinked, and looked somewhat surprised. "Schmuck! Did I say you have to be a private eye? I said we're calling you a private eye. You'll get some business cards, put a listing in the phone book—"

  "Commit fraud—"

  "What fraud? You're committing failure. Look, the government allows three years' worth of losses. By then we've depreciated the work on the house, the car lease has expired—"

  Well, the whole thing was preposterous—and I guess I kind of like preposterous. Having an amusing thing to say at parties, occasionally in bars. Something incongruous and intriguing. So on my tax returns, at least, I became a private eye. Pete Amsterdam, sole proprietor, doing business as Southernmost Detection, Inc.

  That was two and a half years ago. I have a license somewhere in a drawer, and a gun I've never fired rusting in a wall safe. Until very recently, thank God, I hadn't had a single client. Three, four times a year someone calls me up, usually on some sordid and depressing matrimonial thing. I lie and say I'm too busy; for some reason the potential client apologizes and quickly gets off the phone, like I'll charge him for my precious time. My only worry has been that the IRS might come snooping around to see if I was legit. This has been a sporadic but uncomfortable concern, since, for me, feeling legit has never come that easy anyway.

  But in the meantime the house improvements came out beautiful, suited me to a T. I'm divorced. I live alone. I guess I'm a little eccentric. Mainly it's that I don't pretend to care about the things that most people pretend to care about. The news. What's on television. The outside world. I have a small, tight core of things that still can hold my interest; I arrange my life as simply and neatly as I can around those things, and the rest just sort of passes me right by. I like wine. I like music. I like tennis. After that the list grows pretty short.

  Must sound meager to people who live in places where everyone is busy and engaged and avidly discusses what's in the theaters or the paper. But Key West isn't like that. Key West is a place to withdraw to, a retreat without apology or shame. And you learn things from the place where you live. One of the things Key West teaches is that disappointment and contentment can go together more easily than you would probably imagine.

  So I've been more or less content down here. Tan, reasonably fit, generally unbothered. I do what I want and, better still, I don't do what I don't want. Which includes being a private eye. In fact, two and a half years into this fraud of a vocation, I'd practically forgotten I was listed in the phone book.

  Or I had until a few weeks ago, when the client I'd been dimly dreading came marching into my unlocked house, stormed past the wine room and through the music room, out the back door and around the little pool, to catch me naked in the hot tub and to turn my whole life upside down.

  2

  My hot tub is under a poinciana tree—except for the occasional falling pod, a perfect tree to have one's hot tub under. Its branches are bare in the winter, when you want the sun. In late spring it sprouts an astonishing flat-topped canopy of bright red flowers, and in the summer it is mercifully covered with tiny leaves that cast an exquisite dappled shade. Now it was April and the milky buds were just starting to swell and ripen. I looked up at them and thought about my backhand. I'd played tennis that morning and had missed a couple of cross-court passing shots. Probably hadn't dropped my shoulder low enough. I closed my eyes and visualized the perfect
motion.

  The jets were on, pummeling my lower back. The pump made a sound somewhere between a hiss and a roar. The dreaded client was standing right next to me by the time I heard her say my name.

  "Mr. Amsterdam? Mr. Amsterdam?

  I opened my eyes. Tiny chlorinated droplets got in them and made me blink. Through the blinking I saw her. A blonde, of course; it's always a blonde, right? Tall. Green-eyed, with a little too much makeup for the daytime. Coral-colored lipstick that was a shade too orange for my taste. The top of a frilly white bra beneath a loosely buttoned lime-green blouse.

  Apologetically, the blonde pointed toward the front door of my house. "I rang the bell," she yelled. "I knocked. The door just opened. I really need to talk to someone."

  By reflex, I began to say what I always said to the rare misguided souls who tried to hire me. But it was a little hard, while sitting naked in the hot tub in the middle of what, for most people, was a working day, to claim I was too busy. So I said nothing.

  "Please," the blonde implored. "A few minutes of your time."

  I looked at her. She had a face that held attention. Not delicate but candid and determined, unflinching even in her obvious distress. I felt bad that the noise of the jets was making her yell. On the other hand, the bubbles were the closest thing I had to clothing. I hesitated then figured what the hell and switched the pump off. It was a very Key West way to hold a meeting.

  "You're a private detective?" said the blonde. Her voice hadn't quite adjusted to the quiet, and it sounded very loud.

  I tried to talk but nothing happened. My balls were half-floating like eggs in a poacher, and it's difficult to lie when naked. I wanted to tell her no, I wasn't a detective, the whole thing was a joke. Then I had an awful thought. Maybe she was from the IRS. Sent to entrap me. They do things like that, let's face it. Feeling ludicrous, I said, "I take on cases now and then."

  "But you're new," she said. "Am I right?"

  Absurdly, this made me feel defensive. What did I look like, an amateur?

  She must have seen the hurt pride in my face. "That's good," she assured me. "This is a tiny town. I need someone who isn't known."

  I didn't ask why. I just sat there in the steamy water. There was a silence, and I remember thinking: Now's when she reaches into her purse for a crumbling yellow newspaper clipping. I may not know diddle about being a detective, but I have a certain rudimentary grasp of the detective story. Doesn't everybody? We all grow up with it. It's like the thirty-two-bar jazz tune. We get it without analysis because it's heritage.

  And sure enough she reached into her bag. But the clipping she came up with wasn't yellowed, it was mildewed. That's what happens to newsprint in Key West. It sprouts small black fuzzy dots that ripen from the inside out like certain kinds of cheese. Eventually the mold digests the paper and eats the ink and your memories are reduced to wet black dust. She dangled the clipping in front of me. "Are you familiar with this story, Mr. Amsterdam?"

  My hands were soaking wet. I shook them off and took the paper.

  The headline read apparent suicide in key west harbor, and it so happened it was a story I remembered fairly well. A man had disappeared.

  His pants and shirt and wallet and sandals had been found at the water's edge down by the Fort Taylor jetty. He'd left no note. The disappearance had occurred late on a full-moon night, with a strong outgoing tide; the body had never been found. The man's name was Kenny Lukens. He hadn't been in town for long, and little was known about him. He'd lived on his sailboat, which had a broken mast and a torn-up deck and was resting in a cradle on the dry land of Redmond's Boatyard in the Bight. He'd worked as a late-shift bartender at Lefty's, on Duval Street. Seems he'd made no particular impression on his colleagues. Not friendly, not unfriendly. No crazier than most and not obviously despairing. No one knew of drug problems or romantic disappointments. Kenny Lukens just checked out.

  This had happened very soon after I'd moved full-time to Florida—which is why I remembered it at all. I'd been feeling both smug and terrified about disappearing to Key West: Was I retiring at a lucky age to paradise, or making the first, half- conscious movement toward oblivion? Kenny Lukens' story had made me wonder what else would have to happen in a person's life so that he'd need to disappear from Key West and toward that ultimate retreat.

  The blonde's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. "Some people thought the suicide was faked," she said. She said it with a hint of malice, though I couldn't figure who or what the nastiness was aimed at.

  "Faked why?"

  She looked down at her fingernails, which were the same pink-orange as her lips. Something unpleasantly playful, goading, had come into her manner. "Isn't that the kind of thing detectives figure out, Mr. Amsterdam?"

  "Ambitious detectives maybe."

  She pouted. She looked let down. I hate letting people down, which is why I don't have that much to do with people. There was a standoff. Finally I caved. "So you think Kenny Lukens is alive?"

  She kept on pouting. She was very good at it. Just gazing wistfully between lashes that were lumpy with mascara. The gaze, the sorrow, the needling hope—they all reminded me how much I didn't want to be a private eye.

  I dangled the soggy clipping in her direction. "Look, I'm sorry, but it's not the kind of thing I do."

  I thought I'd sounded pretty final saying that, but the blonde just stood there over me. This wasn't how it was supposed to play. She was supposed to take the article back, put it in her purse, bite her lip, and maybe start to cry. Except she didn't. A long moment passed. The sun moved behind a poinciana branch and threw me into shade. I made the stupid, fundamental error of getting curious. "Who are you anyway?" I asked. "Ex-wife? Girlfriend? Sister?"

  She stared at me. Something vaguely flirtatious happened at the corners of her mouth. She smoothed her skirt across her hips and waved with the muscles of her stomach. Then she reached up toward her hair. Her polished fingernails slid along her temples, made her shadowed eyes bend upward at the edges. She pried, apparently, beneath her scalp, then lifted off the wig, beneath which was some prickly fuzz not much longer than a crew cut. Tossing the ersatz coif onto a chaise, she reached into her blouse, probed past the lace top of her bra, and plucked out two perfect vinyl tits—which she placed on the damp edge of the hot tub.

  Her voice dropped three-quarters of an octave. "How rude of me," she said. "I haven't introduced myself."

  3

  "So let me tell you why I had to disappear."

  Like a traffic cop I raised a hand. "It's really better if you don't," I said, and tried to figure if I felt more ridiculous sitting naked in the hot tub with a woman I'd never met before standing over me, or a drag queen half undressed.

  Kenny Lukens told me anyway, of course. "Someone was threatening to kill me."

  I turned away, took a deep breath tart with chlorine. I knew it would come to this. I knew it! My asshole accountant. Why hadn't I just paid the fucking tax? Would I have ever missed the measly few grand?

  "Kenny, look," I said. "I know jack shit about detective work. I'm not the guy to help you."

  He went on like he hadn't heard. "Threatening to kill me, and there was nothing I could do, no one I could tell."

  "Ever heard of the police?"

  He looked down at my swimming pool, and for an instant I thought maybe he was flirting with suicide again. He would have had a tough time. My pool is four feet deep and not much wider. Without looking up, he said, "This guy owns the police. Besides, I was stealing from him."

  Great, I thought. Just great. I'm sitting here braising and this admitted crook has just come swishing through my unlocked house, probably sweeping all my quarters straight into his purse. I have no problem with guys wearing dresses but I guess I'm judgmental about thieves. The disapproval must have shown in my face.

  Seeing it, Lukens said, "Mr. Amsterdam, did you ever have a dream?"

  A heartbreaking question, asked in a cheap, heartbreaking, Judy Garland t
one. Did I ever have a dream? Shit, I've had 'em all. Grow up to be a fireman. Win Wimbledon. Do something grand while my parents were alive, while there was someone to make proud. The usual dreams, the usual unfulfillments. Clichés, in fact. Why did they still have the power to wring a person's guts?

  "I had a dream," said Kenny Lukens. He raised his face, and the reflection off the water made him look almost angelic for a moment. "I was going to sail around the world."

  I admit this surprised me more than anything so far. Call me conventional—I did not think of drag queens as being avid transoceanic yachtsmen. Those tight skirts and stiletto heels seem so impractical for scuttling across a rolling deck. "Around the world?" I echoed.

  "That goal has been my life," he said. "The only thing I've ever worked for. Work awhile, buy a boat, sail New England. Work some more, buy a bigger boat, sail the Caribbean. Luck into a berth, crew across the Atlantic, sail the Med. Everything was leading toward the big one, the circuit."

  Lukens fell silent for a moment, his green eyes far away. He was seeing the vast indigo Pacific, I imagine, while I was lounging safe and coddled in my eighty-gallon hot tub. It was humbling, I admit it. Shut me right up.

  "Finally I thought I was ready," he went on. "Found a nice ketch in Lauderdale, a Morgan forty-one. Bit of a wreck, of course, or I couldn't have afforded it. So I went back to the old pattern—tending bar to feed the boat. Buying one winch, one shackle at a time. Filling, sanding, painting ... Spent two years that way. Fiberglass all over me. Band-Aids on every finger. At last the boat was sound. I spent my last paycheck on provisions, did a shakedown cruise to Bimini, then headed out for real. Hit Hawk Channel . . . and made it as far as fucking Sugarloaf—Sugarloaf Key!—before I got dismasted. White squall, freak wind shift. Ripped the shrouds, shredded the main.

  "Devastating. One gust and I'm right back where I started. I limped into Key West and got another bar job, raising money for repairs. But the money came too slow. I needed fourteen, sixteen thousand dollars. How many more nights pouring shooters for drunk kids? That's when I started stealing."