American Tropic

Beneath the sway of palm trees the cemetery is a crowded maze of granite gravestones and cement-plastered tombs bleached by the sun to an otherworldly bone-white. Family plots are decorated with reposing stone lambs, winged angels in alabaster, and limestone Christian crosses. Tall white-feathered ibises stalk ghostlike on spindly legs across the sparse grassy turf. The birds’ long curved bills are held ready as they stare down to peck a scuttling brown roach or squirming grub. On top of a twenty-foot marble obelisk, a red-shouldered hawk is perched, alert for rodent prey among the bouquets of faded plastic flowers scattered in the weeds of unkempt graves. The hawk swivels its head and stares down from its lofty perch at Luz below, as she follows a meandering pathway through the city of the dead. Luz pushes Nina in her wheelchair; Chicken trots alongside. Luz stops and looks up at the hawk on the point of the obelisk. The hawk stares back with amber eyes and screeches a high-pitched whistle.

Nina’s thin fingers nervously fidget with the stems of the fresh bouquet of white lilies held in her lap. She gazes at the hawk and winces. “It won’t hurt us, will it, Mom?”

“Not unless you’re a mouse, honey. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, with no hair on my head, my ears look really, really big. Maybe the hawk will think I’m Minnie Mouse.”

Luz smiles at Nina’s lightheartedness. The hawk whistles shrilly again. It spreads its wings and wheels off the granite point, soaring from sight into the blur of sun-bleached sky.

Luz continues pushing Nina down a path between rows of old and neglected graves with tilted and crumbling headstones. She stops Nina’s wheelchair at a well-kept site beneath the lacy green spread of a poinciana tree in full bloom with sashes of red flowers. The names carved into the surrounding headstones all read ZAMORA. Luz kneels and makes the sign of the cross. Her eyes mist over, and her lips move reverentially in silent prayer. Nina hands Luz the bouquet of lilies. Luz places one lily before each of the Zamora headstones and turns to Nina. “Our family has been on this island for five generations. We’ll be the last Zamoras buried here. After us the cemetery will be full up—no more plots left, even for the grandchildren of Cuban heroes.”

“I know, Mom. You tell me that each time we come here. But I don’t want to think about where I’ll be buried, it’s creepy.”

“Tradition is important. Tradition makes us all part of one another, part of something bigger. I don’t want you to forget your heritage. There were slaves in Cuba. Zamoras fought against Spain to free Cuba in the 1868 rebellion. That’s the problem today.”

“What do you mean, that’s the problem today?”

“No one is willing to sacrifice. No one is—”

Luz notices Chicken sniffing aggressively, his nose pointed at a gnarly blob of a toad with bulging eyes and a milky substance foaming from its fat, warty lips. The toad squats in the grass next to a Zamora grave. Chicken stiffens, prepared to attack. Luz grabs the dog by the collar and pulls him back. “That’s a Bufo toad. He’s poisonous. One bite of him and you’re dead.”

Chicken barks, but not at the toad. He sees a dark figure outlined by the sun’s glare approaching through the gravestones. Chicken growls as the figure comes closer. It is Moxel. He stops in front of Luz, panting from the heat, the armpits of his blue uniform dampened by sweat rings. His words rush out hoarse from his dry throat. “I was just at your house. Joan told me you’d be here. The Chief wants you in his office.” Moxel glances down at Nina. “How you doing, little girl? Your mom should know better than to bring someone in your condition out in this hundred-degree heat. This sun will turn your skin blacker than charcoal.”

The toad next to a grave in the grass springs up and takes two lunging hops toward Moxel. He squints in the glaring sunlight at the toad. “What’s that ugly-ass frog?”

Luz keeps her hand tight on Chicken’s collar as the dog strains to get at the toad. “Poisonous. Don’t touch it.”

“Poisonous, no shit.” Moxel unsnaps his side holster, yanks out his revolver, and shoots, blasting the toad. Toad fragments spew into the air and splatter across the carved name ZAMORA on a headstone. Nina screams and cringes in her wheelchair. Moxel shoves his gun back into its holster and grins. “I hope I didn’t blow away an endangered species.”

Luz spins Nina’s wheelchair around so Nina can’t see her whip her Magnum from its holster. She jams the pistol’s barrel into the side of Moxel’s head. “You are an endangered species.”





Inside the Police Chief’s office, the Chief and Moxel stop their animated conversation as Luz enters. Moxel’s face reddens as he blurts at Luz: “You pulled a gun on me for shooting a frog! What the f*ck is that? I’m the one who saved your ass in the bat tower. If I hadn’t climbed up that ladder and risked my life to help you, you would have fallen to your death.” Moxel swings around to the Chief. “What kind of force is this if she’s allowed to pull a gun on another officer? You should fire her for unfit conduct. You should—”

The Chief cuts Moxel off. “Calm down. I don’t have time for fraternal squabbles.” He turns to Luz and hands her a thick folder of papers. “This forensic report just came in. The Haitian kid’s fingerprints were found all over Pat’s boat.”

Luz takes the thick folder. “I’ll read it. What about Pat’s body? Were Rimbaud’s fingerprints found on her body?”

“No, nothing. Maybe the kid was wearing gloves.”

“Rimbaud told the interpreter he saw Bizango on the boat. Did the lab find any trace of that?”

“Zip, no fingerprints, no hair, no footprints, no nothing. If Bizango was on that boat, he doesn’t just wear gloves, he must be dressed in a glove. Only prints found were from the Haitian and Pat’s boat mate. You got something on the mate?”

“Found him up the Keys at the Pink Grouper strip club in Marathon. Checked out his alibi. Says he was at the club the night of the murder.”

“Witnesses to that?”

“All six of the pole dancers who performed that night. One of them says he shoved a hundred-dollar bill beneath her panties, up her butt hole.”

“Good to know some guys are still gentlemen.”

Luz looks curiously at the report folder. “Anything in here about the hooks puncturing Pat’s lips?”

“Mustad Super Marlin J-hooks. No prints on them, but we hit a different jackpot.” The Chief picks up a black micro–digital recorder from his desk. “A recorder like this was found inside Pat’s mouth.”

Luz eyes the recorder. “Same kind found in Bill Warren’s mouth at the bat tower. There’s a Bizango recording on it?”

“Yeah, but saying something different.”

“Is it in English, like the Bill Warren recording?”

“Of course, why?”

“Because Rimbaud only speaks French. I know this for a fact. He can’t be Bizango if this recording is in English.”

Moxel snorts derisively. “Did you ever think that somebody else recorded it for him? There could be a team of Bizangos operating in Key West.”

Luz moves closer to the Chief. “Maybe we should go public with the recordings. Can’t let this grow cold. We need anything we can get.”

“No, Moxel might be correct. If there are two Bizangos, I don’t want to give the other one the advantage of knowing we are stumped. That’s what he wants—he wants these recordings to be broadcast. Besides, the public is already frightened enough about the murders, they’re all over the news.”

“But somebody in the public might have important information, a lead.”

“There’s another reason to keep a lid on these killings. Eighty thousand big spenders are headed here for the Halloween Fantasy Parade. I won’t be held responsible for destroying the island’s biggest payday of the year.”

“You could be right. Play the recording.”

The Chief turns around to Moxel. “I want only Luz to hear this recording, it’s highly sensitive. Close the door on your way out.”

Moxel doesn’t budge. “Only Luz? Why her? I’m on this investigation too. I’m the one who busted the Haitian.”

Luz looks at Moxel and nods toward the door. “You heard, go.”

Moxel stares defiantly at Luz. “I want to hear the recording. Maybe that Haitian monkey is faking it and he really does speak English. Did you ever think of that, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes?”

The Chief shouts angrily at Moxel. “You’re out of line! Leave!”

Moxel shuffles past Luz, knocking hard against her shoulder. He opens the door, and the sound of its slamming behind him fills the room.

The Chief shrugs and looks apologetically at Luz. “He’s loyal but stupid.”

“You mean he’s stupid but loyal.”

“Anyway, he’s gone.”

The Chief cocks his thumb over the micro-recorder’s play button. “Now you’ll understand why I don’t want this going public. It’s much worse than the recording found in Warren’s mouth.” He presses his thumb down forcefully on the recorder’s play button.



Noah’s trawler floats in the middle of the ocean, under a sky of high, drifting clouds. He sits in the pilothouse, in front of his jerry-rigged radio broadcast console, listening intensely to an irate caller.

“America is swamped by boat people, illegal refugees, undocumented workers, political-asylum seekers. These people are on the shit end of life’s stick. If we reach out to them, we’ll be covered in their shit.”

Noah answers in a steady voice: “I don’t agree with you. I recently saw a refugee raft from Haiti come in. People on that raft were not covered in shit, they were scorched to death by the sun in their desperate attempt to escape famine, disease, and fear.” He stops talking and picks up the rum bottle sitting on the console table. He takes a swig and continues. “The rickety raft I saw would have had a hard time making it across a hotel pool in Miami, let alone across seven hundred miles of open ocean between here and Haiti. But you know what, it’s better to swim with sharks in the sea than be eaten by menacing, pathological, corrupt politicians on land. Next caller. You’re on pirate radio.”

“Hey, hot damn, I’m on.”

“The soap box is yours, pilgrim. Go.”

“Stop squawking about dead Haitian illegals when there’s three Americans murdered recently right here in Key West. Talk about something real. Nobody’s safe in Key West.”

“I don’t talk about those murders because they’re plastered all over the newspapers and TV twenty-four/seven. What’s interesting, though, is that the first two murders were Neptune Bay partners but the third victim was a boat captain. No coherent pattern. You’re right, nobody’s safe, but when were we ever really safe? Next caller.”

A deep male voice rumbles. “Hola, Truth Dog, this is the Nam vet. Today’s the day I’m goin’ to tell you how it’s all goin’ to end. The Permian Extinction Event in the Gulf!”

The pilothouse of Noah’s trawler suddenly sways hard side to side. The cell phones on his console table slide off and hit the floor. He grips the table’s edge and holds on as the boat rocks. Outside the pilothouse window, a cruise ship steams by; its turbo diesel engines roar, creating a huge wake. The ship’s twenty-story-high bulk blocks the sun, pitching Noah’s pilothouse into darkness. He keeps his hands gripped on the edge of the console.

Sunlight floods back into the pilothouse as the trawler stops rocking. Noah regains his balance. He looks outside and sees the name of the departing cruise ship painted on its white stern, Titan Reef.

He rearranges his three fallen cell phones back on the console table and turns them on. The red lights of the phones flash with incoming calls. He reconnects the microphone wire. He slows his heavy breathing to even out his anxiety and speaks calmly into the microphone. “Listeners, you just lost me there. I was almost the hit-and-run victim of a cruise ship, the Titan Reef, headed for Key West. I was like a Chihuahua going up against King Kong. Give me a minute while I adjust my speaker volume controls.” He looks around for his rum bottle and sees it on the floor. He picks up the bottle, uncaps it, and takes a long slug. He leans back into the microphone. “The cruise ships always sail too close to the coral reefs. You’ve heard me talk about the Titan Reef before. Last year it plowed right through a Caribbean atoll. What took nature millions of years to create was destroyed in one moment. There’s no reason for these ships to wreak environmental catastrophe. The captains know their nautical coordinates. They’re just taking shortcuts to save fuel. The Titan Reef captain who buzz-sawed his ship’s massive propellers through that atoll was not fired. His company paid off some government officials. That captain is a criminal who committed willful manslaughter against nature. He should be hauled before a world tribunal, should be made to walk the plank at the sharp end of a sword. Accountability, pilgrims, brings the bastards to justice.”

All the red phone lights flash with calls. Noah punches through one of the lines. A woman’s voice singsongs with exasperation. “Those monster ships shouldn’t be sailing these waters. They weigh more than a hundred thousand tons; they’ve got tennis courts, shopping malls, bowling alleys, movie megaplexes. People aren’t satisfied building that stuff on land, they’ve got to float it out on the ocean too.”

“Right. Next caller. Show me the rage.”

From the big wooden speakers explodes an eerie, electronically altered voice.

“Truth Dog, you say you broadcast the truth!”

Noah is startled by the weird voice but snaps back: “I say I let people speak their own truth. Who is this? What’s with the audio masquerade? Use your own voice if you’re so interested in truth.”

“I’m challenging you. You keep a photograph of a woman in the drawer beneath your radio console.”

“How did you know that?”

“Open the drawer.”

Noah pulls open the wooden drawer beneath the console. In the drawer is a framed photograph of Zoe. He takes out the photograph. “So you know where I keep a photograph of my wife. When were you on my boat?”

“Turn the photograph over.”

Noah flips the framed photograph over; duct-taped to the back is a CD labeled LAST KEY DEER MANIFESTO. “What the hell? Who is this?”

“If you are not afraid of the truth, play the CD.”

Noah rips the CD from the back of the photo frame. “Is this about the endangered Key deer? I’m interested in that.”

“Play it.”

Noah flicks the disc back and forth between his fingers. The round surface glints with reflected blue and orange light. He leans into the microphone. “Listeners, for you who don’t know, the endangered Key deer live only in the Florida Keys. They are small, stand only thirty inches at their shoulders. The Overseas Highway down from Miami runs right through one of their last refuges in Big Pine Key. A sign in Big Pine updates how many Key deer have been slaughtered by speeding cars on the highway each year. The count on that sign for this year is twenty-nine. That means there are fewer than three hundred surviving deer left. Countdown to Armageddon for those little Bambis. At the rate they’re being killed, they’ll be gone from this earth in a matter of years.”

The electronically altered voice jumps with a shout.

“Play the CD!”

Noah looks again at the shards of colored light sparking off the CD held between his fingers. “I’m asking one last time, does this CD have Key-deer information? Otherwise, I’m not interested. I won’t be tricked.”

“It has the information you want.”

Noah pushes the disc into the CD player on the console and punches the volume up. He grabs his bottle of rum, takes a swallow, leans back in his chair, and listens.

An earsplitting crackling static blasts from the big speakers, filling the pilothouse. Cutting through the static is an altered recorded voice reverberating with a metallic echo as if spiraling up from the depths of a steel underground chamber.

“Hear my words, dance my tune.

I am the assassin of lies.

I am the bee in your ear

the scorpion in your bed

the rat clawing in your belly

the knife at your throat

the ax in your back

the sword through your soul

the arrow piercing your heart.

You carry the seeds of your own destruction.

When the atomic dust falls

on your pathetic parade of progress

only I will know the escape route.

I won’t let you rocket away from your plunder,

implant a new universe with decay.

You are a virus, I am the eradicating vaccine.

I put on my suit of skeletal lights,

dance into the night to exterminate you.

Are you trembling, crying with fear?

The Key deer you slaughter

on the highway do not cry.

The Key deer heroically struggle

to survive at their final mile zero.

Zero-bop, bop till you drop.

I am the great corrector. I am the ultimate judge.

I am Bizango.”

Bizango’s raging voice stops. A loud crackling static hisses from the big speakers.

Noah picks up his microphone and shouts into it: “Hey, you, caller, Bizango or whoever you are! You still out there?” Noah looks at the cell phone that the call came in on. The red light is off, the phone is dead. All the phones are dead. “Bizango, call me! I’m ready to rage right back at you!”

Noah watches the phones for an incoming call. No red lights. He continues to wait. No lights. He puts the microphone to his lips. “Bizango, you scared the shit out of everyone; people are afraid to call.” He grabs his rum bottle. The bottle is empty. He tosses it aside. “So, my loyal pilgrims, we’ve had a fun day on trusty old Noah’s Lark. First there was my near hit-and-run with a Titanic, then a weirded-out dude says he’s a dancing skeleton coming to slit our throats. I’m sort of out of words. Not that Truth Dog doesn’t have any bark and bite left in him—far from it—but sometimes only music can express what we feel. As I head back into Key West, I’ll leave you with this music from Carmina Burana, a cantata based on the fevered poetry of cloistered thirteenth-century monks. For those of you who don’t understand Latin, I’ll give you the translation as it plays.”

Noah punches out the Bizango CD from the player and pushes in a new disc. “Listen to this, Bizango. Two can play your bloody game. Your kind of evil has been hanging around the school yard of history for a long time.”

From the big wood speakers blasts the surge of a majestic soul-wrenching orchestral rhythm accompanied by the aggressive, monumental chant of a male choir. Noah chants his translation over the choir.

“Fate,

monstrous and empty

you whirling wheel!

Your malevolent

well-being is vain

and always fades

to nothing!

Shadowed and veiled

you plague me too!

Now through the game

I expose my bare back

to

your

villainy!”



Noah looks through the window of his pilothouse as he motors his trawler toward the distant island outline of Key West. He hears whirring from above. He looks up through the window. A helicopter darts from the sky and swoops in a broad circle over the trawler. On the side door of the helicopter is painted a blue-and-gold insignia: KEY WEST POLICE DEPARTMENT. Inside the copter, the pilot steers the craft, with Luz seated next to him.

Noah cuts his engine and runs from the pilothouse onto the deck. From the copter, Luz’s voice booms from a bullhorn: “You’re under arrest! Follow me into the harbor!”

Noah waves up to Luz, signaling that he does not understand what is going on. The copter swoops lower, the downward wind of its blades blowing hard against Noah, threatening to sweep him overboard. He sees Luz behind the copter’s bulbous window with a rifle gripped in her hands. He struggles against the wind, making his way back into the pilothouse. He grabs the helm and steers toward the island.

The helicopter follows the trawler into the harbor and hovers directly above as Noah pulls up to the dock. He jumps down from the trawler onto the dock and is surrounded by a wall of policemen with rifles pointed at him. The Police Chief pushes his way through the riflemen. He shouts at Noah above the clatter from the helicopter blades. “You think you’ve been damn clever! I finally got you!” He grabs Noah’s hands and handcuffs him.

Noah stares at the Chief in disbelief. “What the hell is going on? You got me for what?”

“This morning you played a Bizango recording that in fact you made. That recording is identical to the one you left in Pat’s mouth after you murdered her. No one except the police and the killer knew about that recording. Your pirate-radio charade is over!”

Noah tries to break the grip of the handcuffs binding him. The sharp edges of the cuffs cut into his wrists, drawing blood. “I’m not Bizango!”

The Chief turns to his riflemen. “Read Mr. Truth Dog his Mirandas and lock him up!”



Moonlight shines down over the island’s clapboard houses. The modest homes are dwarfed by the immensity of the docked cruise ship, Titan Reef. Inside the ship, the sprawling main cocktail lounge is decorated to resemble a big-game African safari camp, its walls crowded with mounted trophy heads of elephants, lions, gazelles, hippos, and rhinos. The amber glass eyes of the dead animals stare down at the carefree passengers sipping exotic cocktails adorned with pink parasol stir-sticks.

The chattering of the passengers stops as the ship’s captain struts in dressed in a crisp white mock admiral’s uniform with gold-braided epaulettes on the shoulders. He glad-hands the passengers as he works the room with a commanding air. He stops in the center of the room next to an oversized African drum of stretched zebra skin. He bangs on the drum with a carved ebony drumstick. The drum’s reverberating bass focuses everyone’s attention on him. “I must interrupt your after-dinner soirée. Something important is on the television news I want you to see. I know you’ve heard reports about some unfortunate murders in Key West, making you have doubts about enjoying a carefree time. This will put your minds at ease while we are berthed here.” He holds up a TV remote control and clicks on a wide-screen television spanning the length of a wall between two stuffed leopard heads.

On the TV screen, the Police Chief stands at a podium addressing a crowd of jostling reporters, photographers, and cameramen. His voice is flat and factual. “A suspected serial killer was taken into custody today. I am not at liberty to discuss details. Be assured, the streets of Key West are safe. The annual Fantasy Parade will go forward next week as planned. Those coming here for the world’s greatest Halloween party have nothing to fear.”

The captain cuts the sound of the Chief’s voice with the remote and steps in front of the television screen. “Everyone, you just heard it. Key West is safe. Let’s celebrate our good fortune!” The jubilant passengers cheer and raise their cocktail glasses. The captain puffs up to a heroic stance and salutes the crowd. A loud recording of the optimistic tropical song “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” fills the air with its upbeat lyrics.

A female passenger in a sexy cocktail dress sways seductively to the captain. She slips her arm intimately around his waist. The woman’s laughing husband rapidly fires off the flash of his cell phone in a barrage of photographs of the new couple. The captain dances away with the man’s wife.



The captain enters his luxurious suite. He tosses his mock admiral’s cap onto a velvet chair and kicks off his shoes. He pulls off his watch and checks its time, 3:30 a.m. He pours himself a Scotch and soda at the elaborate mahogany bar backed by a full-length mirror. As he stirs his drink, he sees reflected in the bar’s mirror something approaching from behind. He swings around.

The figure of a black-and-white-rubber-suited skeleton stands before the captain. Clutched in the skeleton’s rubber-gloved hands is a speargun, its taut spear in firing position.

The captain holds out his glass of Scotch and soda to the skeleton. “Have a drink, you deserve one—sure as hell fooled me in that disguise. Great costume, but Halloween isn’t until next week.”

The skeleton remains silent and doesn’t move.

The captain sips on his drink. “Let me see your face behind that mask. Must be you, my very special Mike. You’re the only one who has a key to my suite.”

The skeleton raises the speargun. Its black rubber finger moves to the aluminum trigger. The steel spear fires with a springing whoosh, rams through the captain’s chest, into his heart, out his back, and shatters the glass mirror behind in a spray of blood.

The captain falls to the floor, his mouth agape, gasping for air, the spasms of his feet kicking soundlessly into the thick carpeting.

The skeleton reaches down and pushes a black micro-recorder between the captain’s lips.



In the gray mist of predawn light, Hard Puppy walks along a fishing pier jutting into Key West Harbor. He pulls behind him on a rope a heavy bloodied burlap sack. He stops at the end of the pier and looks around to check if he is being watched. He waits a few minutes, then unties the sack and exposes the dead body of a black pit bull. The dog’s short-haired body is crisscrossed with deep bloody lacerations. Tied to the dog’s back legs is a small iron anchor. Hard dumps the dog and anchor out of the sack. The anchor clanks loudly on the concrete pier’s surface. He glances around to see if anyone heard. He looks back at the dead pit bull and studies it. He shakes his head and angrily kicks the dog with the pointed tip of his alligator shoe.

The pit bull tumbles off the end of the pier and splashes into the water, sinking under the surface. Its barrel-shaped body bobs back up. Hard’s lips pull back in a sneer. “Sink, you bastard. You lost me fifty grand in two fights. Sink, goddamn you.”

Around the pit bull’s floating body, bubbles appear in the water. The dog slowly sinks again. The iron anchor drags the animal’s dead weight down into the depths.

Hard hears screaming. He whips around to see if someone has seen him sink the dog. He spots people running toward a distant pier, where a colossal cruise ship is docked. He kicks the bloody burlap sack into the water, then walks quickly to the distant pier. He joins a crowd at the pier’s end. The people stare up the steep steel stern of the ship. The rising sun’s light shines on the ship’s name, Titan Reef. Over the name is slashed in red paint a giant X. Swinging in front of the X is the captain, his body hung from a rope tight around his neck, his white admiral’s uniform soaked through with blood.

Hard looks around at the terrified faces staring up. He breaks into a broad smile. His platinum teeth sparkle in the sun. He saunters away from the dock, snapping his fingers in time to a musical tune that he croons in the voice of an old time Dixie minstrel:

“Goin’ to run all de night.

Goin’ to run all de day.

Bet me money on a bobtailed nag.

Somebody be bettin’ de gray.

Can’t touch bottom with a ten-foot pole.

Oh! De doo-da day!”



Deep within the corridors of the massive Detention Center, in a dim isolation cell, Noah sits alone on a cot. He stares at the floor, lines of worry cut across his face. He is startled by the sudden scraping-metal sound of the thick steel cell door behind him swinging open. A shaft of light from outside probes the cell.

Luz appears in the doorway. “You’ve been freed on bail. There was a Bizango killing last night while you were locked in here.”

Noah looks up, bleary-eyed. “So they know I can’t be Bizango?”

“They are investigating if you might be his accomplice. The crime lab is getting results from the sweep of your boat and house in their search for anything incriminating. You’re still considered a suspect.”

“What about Rimbaud? They must be freeing him too?”

“No. Since he was apprehended at the scene of Pat’s murder, he’s still being held. A trial date has been set.”

Noah focuses his eyes hard on Luz. “You had a rifle aimed at me from that helicopter. Were you really going to shoot me?”

“Luckily, I didn’t have to decide.”

“You believe I’m mixed up in these murders?”

“As someone who knows you, definitely not. As a cop, I have to keep all options open.”

“I’m going to find Bizango myself. He used me to get his message out.”

“We’re dealing with a lethal killer. You’re already too involved. Back off or you might end up his next victim.” Luz reaches down and pulls Noah up from the cot. “Right now I need you to clean up, shave, and get yourself a new suit for Nina’s Quince party. My little girl is turning fifteen tomorrow. You must be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. But just one other thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Who made my bail?”

“You don’t need to know. It’s not important.”

Noah grips Luz’s shoulder. “It’s important to me.”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell you.”

“It’s not like I won’t find out anyway.”

“Okay, Joan. Your sister paid half the bail.”

“And?”

“What?”

“The other half. Who paid?”

“Zoe.”



Noah steps out from the Detention Center through the front doors. He blinks in the intense sunlight after having been locked up in a windowless cell. On the expanse of asphalt parking lot TV vans with satellite antennas atop their roofs are parked. Reporters and cameramen rush to gather around the Police Chief, recording his words.

“There is no reason for panic. We assure this community that all law-enforcement resources are being used to apprehend the perpetrator of these heinous crimes.”

A reporter shouts: “You say no reason to panic, but there have been a string of bizarre killings.”

“We had two suspects. One was let go for lack of hard evidence to hold him. We are still holding the other one.”

Another reporter yells angrily: “Those two suspects were locked up when the last murder occurred. That means there must be another killer out there. Maybe there’s even a team calling themselves Bizango.”

“Well, there’s at least one Bizango. Next question.”

“Is it true the cruise ship’s security cameras caught images of the captain’s killer?”

“It’s true. We have video of whom we believe to be the perpetrator. We also have other important information regarding this investigation that we’ll be releasing soon.”

“The Fantasy Parade? You going to cancel it now?”

“No. It would take a catastrophic category-five hurricane bearing down on this island before I would cancel the Fantasy Parade. Trust me, every precaution is being taken to keep people on this island safe. I have coordinated with the County Sheriff to put his one hundred fifty deputies on our streets to join with sixty Key West police. Florida Highway Patrol is bringing a canine unit, SWAT team, and one hundred officers. This is an unprecedented show of force.”

From behind the circle of reporters surrounding the Chief, Zoe makes her way toward the Detention Center. She walks up the front steps to where Noah is standing, and stops.

Noah leans forward to give Zoe a kiss on the cheek, rushing her with his words. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t expect you to be here when they released me.”

Zoe pulls back from Noah’s attempted kiss. She lowers the sunglasses covering her eyes and stares over the top rims. “I didn’t come here for you. There are still some bail-bond documents I must sign, formalizing the financials of your release.”

“I’ll pay the money back. Don’t worry, I won’t jump bail and leave town.”

“That’s the least I expect from you. But you should know, it’s me who’s leaving Key West.”

Noah hides his surprise and keeps his words steady. “You’re leaving? When? You can’t go before Nina’s Quince. She’ll be crushed. She still considers you her aunt.”

“I’ll be here for Nina. Then, right after the Fantasy Parade, I’m out. Our divorce will be finalized then.”

“We’re still married. You know, it’s not over until it’s over.”

Zoe gives Noah a radiant smile. “No, it’s over.”



Luz sits alone on her living-room sofa. The bamboo window shades are drawn against the intense outside tropical light. In the darkened room, her solemn gaze is fixed on a family home movie playing on a television screen. The images flickering across the screen show Luz’s living room ten years before, decorated with balloons and ribbons for Nina’s birthday party. On the screen, little Nina is a healthy five-year-old wearing a festive paper-cone hat. She leans over a birthday cake with five candles. The red letters on the white-frosted cake spell out HAPPY BIRTHDAY NINA! Nina shuts her eyes tight to make a wish. She blows out the five candles on the cake with a burst of air. She looks up with triumph. Surrounding Nina are Noah, Zoe, Joan, and Carmen, all ten years younger, wearing colorful paper party hats and singing loudly, “Happy birthday to you, dear Nina! Happy birthday to you!” Joan stops singing and speaks at the camera: “Honey, give me the camera. I want to film Nina with her proud mama.” The movie image goes out of focus, then refocuses with the image of Luz lifting Nina onto her shoulders. Mother and daughter joyously wave to the camera.

As Luz watches the television screen’s flickering images of her and Nina, the muscles of her jaw twitch. She holds back her emotion as Joan comes in and sits close to her. Luz takes Joan’s hand. They watch the screen as the five-year-old Nina excitedly opens birthday presents.

Joan’s throat tightens. She gets her words out without crying: “Seems like only yesterday. She was so healthy, so full of life.”

Luz holds Joan’s hand tighter. “Our daughter made it to today’s birthday. Every doctor said she wouldn’t.”

“Why did God do this to her?”

Luz puts her arm around Joan’s shoulders. She tries to hide the hurt in her voice. “We can’t blame God for Nina’s condition.”

“I hope we’re doing the right thing, having this Quince party.”

“We had a fancy hotel Quince for Carmen when she turned fifteen. Even if this one is in our backyard, it will mean the world to Nina.”

Joan brushes a tear from her eye. “You’re right. It’s a miracle she’s with us. We do have God to thank for that.”

“I count every day of her fifteen years as a blessing. I’ll go see how she’s holding up. The guests are coming in two hours.”

Joan gently touches Luz’s cheek. “Are you sure you are okay? Should I go with you?”

“No. I can do it. She’s waiting.”

Luz leaves Joan and walks down the hallway to Nina’s bedroom. The door is open. Inside, a frail Nina sits in her wheelchair, wearing a white Quince-party dress. On her head is a wig of cascading brown ringlets. At her feet is Chicken, curled up and snoring peacefully.

Luz steps into the bedroom. She slips a gift-wrapped box out from her guayabera shirt pocket. She holds the box behind her back as she kneels in front of Nina’s wheelchair.

Nina’s voice is weak, but her face is animated. “Mom, what’s that behind your back?”

“Something for the most special fifteen-year-old girl in the world.”

Nina’s thin lips turn up in an ironic smile. “I’m special, like the poster child for cancer.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, darling.”

“I know, Mom, I was just kidding. You always say, laughter is our secret weapon.”

“You and I, we have a lot of secret weapons.”

“So—what’s in the box? I bet it’s a wedding ring. I bet you’re going to show me the wedding ring you’re finally giving Joan after twelve years.”

“Well, that’s an interesting idea.”

“You know, you guys should just do it, tie the knot, go on an old-fashioned honeymoon to Niagara Falls.”

“You’ve got my wedding all figured out.”

“Carmen and I have it planned.”

“It’s something to look forward to, but what’s in the box is just for you.” Luz brings the box from behind her back and offers it to Nina.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t open it. My fingers aren’t working so well today. You help me with it.”

Luz peels off the gift wrapping, exposing a silk jewelry box. She snaps the box open; inside is a gleaming pearl necklace. “Happy fifteenth birthday, darling!”

Nina tries to reach for the pearl necklace, but her arms are too weak.

Luz slips the necklace around Nina’s neck and fastens it. The pearls glow in a soft pink halo against Nina’s white dress.

Nina beams with pride. “I’m the luckiest girl to have you as my mom.”

“It’s me who’s the lucky one.”

“Thank you for such a beautiful gift, and for giving me a party today.”

“Nothing could stop me from celebrating this day with you.”

Nina’s eyelids become heavy, almost closing; the light in her eyes dims. “Mom, can I lie down before the party? I’m so tired. Will you stay with me?”

“Of course—there’s time before the guests arrive.”

“Are Uncle Noah and Auntie Zoe coming?”

“They wouldn’t miss it.”

Luz lifts Nina up into her arms from the wheelchair. She lays her on the bed.

Nina’s dimming eyes look up. “My wig, Mom. Take my wig off, so it doesn’t get crushed before the party.”

Luz removes the wig, exposing Nina’s bald head. She places the wig carefully on the nightstand and sits on the bed. She caresses Nina’s bald head, her fingers stroking back and forth across the smooth skin.

Nina’s eyelids flutter. She struggles to keep her eyes open and focused on Luz. “Sing to me, Mom. Sing me your song.”

Luz sings in a haunting voice, her words drawn up from a deep well of emotion with melodious melancholy.

“The first time ever I saw your face,

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave

To the dark and the empty skies, my love.

The first time ever I kissed your cheek,

I felt the earth move in my hand

Like the trembling heart of …”

Nina’s breathing becomes slow and shallow. She sleeps.