Blue Moon - Hardcover

Leslie, John

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0671535145 ISBN 13: 9780671535148

Publisher: Pocket Books, 1998

Synopsis

Key West private investigator and part-time pianist Gideon "Bud" Lowry is hired to fill in the background of an old flame's fiance, a man with a reputation for chasing life insurance policies and shady real estate deals

About this title

About the Author

John Leslie lives in the Florida Keys. He is currently at work on his next novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1 from: Blue Moon

"Location, location, location. You've heard that before, haven't you, Bud?"

Staring above Frank Pappagallo's inquisitive gaze, I take in the framed photographs on the wall above his head -- all the transformations this establishment has undergone over the years -- and recognize them all. Welcome to the Blue Moon, Key West's only five-star restaurant.> So the menu reads.

"Don't patronize me, Frank," I say. "I wasn't born yesterday." For the price of the food, the company could be more appetizing, I think. On the other hand, I'm not paying. On still another hand, I'm too old to have to listen to such crap.

"And I don't give a damn about real estate slogans," I continue, warming a bit to my own tirade. "I've lived in this town all my life. So what if somebody wants to pay me five times what the place is worth and ten, maybe twenty times what I paid for it God knows how many years ago. It's my home. I live there. What am I going to do, move every time some new pipsqueak with a fat wallet comes to town and decides this is it? The next hot spot. Location, location, location. They might as well hang a sign outside Key West changing its name to Location. How many times have you seen this place change, anyway?"

"Don't get sore, Bud."

Bud. My high school nickname. Hardly anyone from the old days calls me Gideon any longer....

"Who's getting sore? I'm sixty years old, trying to live out my life and keep a little business going."

"I want you to do that, Bud. Everybody wants you to do that. But why in the middle of Duval Street?"

"Because it's my home, Frank. My home. Can't you understand that. I live here. I feel something for it. It's not just a place to do business. My life's here."

Frank sighs. "For half a million dollars I could take my life someplace else."

"That's the difference between you and me, Frank."

"I know it. And by the way, it isn't a new pip-squeak."

"Yeah, who the hell is it?"

"Fred Pacey's involved."

"Pacey's moving uptown? I thought he was happy making millions downtown."

I can see that Frank's smile is forced. He is uncomfortable. "Location. A higher-class neighborhood. Speaking of high-class neighborhoods, how do you like your dinner?"

"Twice-cooked pork. What's wrong, they couldn't get it right the first time?"

Now Frank looks hurt.

"I'm kidding, Frank. Seriously, I'm happy for Gaby. I've known her for a long time. When she first opened, it was rice and beans and fried plantains. Now look at the place. Starched linen. Thirty-dollar bottles of wine. And food I can't even pronounce."

"Three blocks from where you live, Bud. When she first opened, she was paying a couple hundred dollars a month rent. Now it's five thousand. You don't make that kind of money serving rice and beans. Gabriella!"

"Hi, Frank. Look who you dragged in. Bud, it's been a long time. How have you been?" Gaby is tall, slender, with minty green eyes that survey me warmly. An old friend. She is wearing a simple dark blue dress with thin straps, her dark hair curling just above her bare shoulders.

"No complaints. We were just talking about the old days, Gaby, when you first started in the restaurant business."

Gaby smiles happily, putting a hand on my shoulder. "You were a regular." Her expression is open, honest. Never anything spoiled about Gaby, just as I remember her from so many years ago when we were close. She seems unchanged.

"I could afford to be," I say. "Now I've got to wait for somebody with deep pockets like Frank here to bring me in. He's trying to get me to sell my place."

"Don't make any deals until you've had dessert. Try the crazy flan borracho. It's flavored with Cointreau. It's on me. I've got to run. Enjoy your meal."

"She's something. You used to go out with her, didn't you, Bud?"

"Briefly. A long time ago."

"You old dog. I hear she's getting married."

"Who to?"

"Don't know. She's a looker though, isn't she, Bud? How old you think she is?"

"Mid-thirties. Somewhere in there."

"Her first, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Marriage.

"As far as I know."

"She's worked hard. Nose to the grindstone the last ten years or so to put this together."

I nod idly, lost in thought about Gaby. Remembering the way her body felt when she would come over some mornings after I'd played a late club date and, fresh from a shower, slide into bed with me.

"Anyway, Bud, you'll think about it?"

"Did Pacey put you on me, Frank? Is that what this is all about?"

"Please, Bud. You know me better than that. We go back, you and me. I wouldn't do that. I'm just the messenger passing along the word I hear on the street."

"That's good of you, Frank. The word according to Fred Pacey."

"He's buying up your block, Bud."

"For what? More T-shirt shops?"

"A mall. Upscale."

"You don't say."

Frank shrugs. I know he is terribly uncomfortable, that he isn't going to push this. "Bud, how about dessert?"

"I don't drink."

Frank laughs, relieved. "Gaby's got ice cream. Plain old vanilla."

"You know my weaknesses."

"He's already got the Cuban grocery store next to you."

"What?"

"Pacey. He's buying the little groceria next door to you."

A twinge of pain stabs my side. "I'll take the vanilla ice cream," I say.

Frank smiles weakly. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's only a neighborhood. What's the price?"

"I hear three-seventy-five."

"A steal."

"You're getting the idea."

"I don't think so, Frank. Like you say, I'm an old dog. Too old for these new ideas."

"You thinking at all about retirement, Bud?"

"What's to retire from? Nobody's beating the door down to hire a private detective these days. We're a dying breed. The Edsel of occupations."

"That's funny, Bud."

"I wish I could laugh with you."

"So you're sixty years old. Not a lot of work. But you've got some money saved and a house that's a gold mine. Why not take the money, get yourself off Duval Street, move in to some quiet noncommercial neighborhood. What's the sense of hanging on there? I don't see how you sleep at night, the traffic and noise all hours.

"I sleep just fine. Nothing on my conscience."

"You're a pistol, Bud."

"Drink your dessert, Frank. I enjoyed the meal but this discussion's given me a pain in my side. You don't mind, I think I'll take a powder, walk home and get my last view of Duval Street before the sidewalks get paved with gold and I can't afford to walk on them anymore."

Copyright © 1998 by John Leslie

Edition details

• Publisher: Pocket Books
• Publication date: 1998
• ISBN 10: 0671535145
• ISBN 13: 9780671535148
• Binding: Hardcover
• Language: English
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 256