Back in Florida, things cooled down about Alice’s “kidnaping” as we headed towards Saint Petersburg to visit family. We later hooked up with an old Army buddy at Tampa Downs. When we pooled our money to bet on six out of eight horses running in one race, and still lost, my suspicions about the truck accident being a bad omen were confirmed. What we were looking forward to most was catching the Key West sunset that had been stolen from us last year by a practical-joking tugboat captain who had towed a huge barge across the horizon just as our closest star was bleeding into the water. Everyone on the pier near Mallory Square cried “boo,” but the damage was done. This year, we were determined to witness the glorious phenomenon, but alas, and consistent with my bad omen premonition, it was not to be. What happened is another story. Meanwhile, as I mentioned earlier, I had business in Key West. You might remember the little guy in the chicken-pocketed trench coat, who I met in Hemingway’s backyard. He had sold me two expensive chickens with the famous extra toes and his cousin, Julio, was supposed to drive them up to New York where they would eventually wind up on my farm, where I’d make a fortune breeding five-toed descendants of the great writer’s flock. Julio never delivered, and I wanted to speak to “Trench Coat” to find out why. After a great meal and a good night listening to a band at Sloppy’s Joe’s, I rose early the next morning and headed for Hemingway’s house. Alice had already accompanied me to the sight several times before and chose to sleep in. It wasn’t long before the little man sprang out of the bushes wearing the same trench coat. He didn’t recognize me. By the bulges at his sides I could see that he was packing. He spread the coat and flashed two upside-down chickens protruding from the oversized pockets. I could see that both birds had the notorious extra toe. Of course, I knew about the list of people waiting to legally adopt them. “Hey, you wanna buy some Hemingway chickens?” he asked while looking in both directions. “I already have,” I said. “And you didn’t deliver.” Then, he remembered me. “Oh yeah. You’re the guy from New York.” “What happened to my chickens?” I asked. “This is the truth,” Trench Coat began. “My cousin, Julio, was on his way north with a load, but he got stopped in Georgia for speeding and was arrested because his license was suspended. The police confiscated the chickens!” “A likely story,” I said. “No, really! He was on his way! In fact, you can have these chickens. I’ll put them in your car right now!” I figured I’d test his sincerity, so we discreetly walked off the grounds and over to my car, which was parked a block away. I opened the trunk, and the little man clandestinely drew both flapping birds from his pockets like a gunfighter. He tossed them into the trunk as feathers flew and then closed the lid. “No additional charge,” he said as I could hear the leg bound birds flapping inside. I was satisfied that Trench Coat meant business, but the racket the chickens were making reminded me of my vision of Alice gagged and bound in the fleeing rental car at the airport. Also, the dilemma of how to get the illegally caught Hemingway chickens onto a plane still remained. I began to feel squeamish and asked, “Did your cousin, Julio, get his license back?” “Yes,” he answered emphatically. “Is he still making chicken runs up north?” “Yes.” “Do you still have the drop off address in Brooklyn?” I asked. “You better give it to me again.” I pulled out my note pad and began to write. “No slip ups this time!” I said. “I’ll be back next year!” “Right,” he agreed. We even shook hands. Then I opened the trunk and the little man removed the indignant prisoners. I didn’t bother to tell Alice about my meeting with Trench because we have some travel plans in the works for the spring and caring for chickens would get in the way. But, unfortunately, and again consistent with that bad omen when we first left Richfield, we got rear-ended on the road outside of Key West. When the inspector back at Alamo opened the trunk to see if it worked properly, he asked, “What’s with all the feathers?” I stole a glance at my suspicious wife and answered, “You don’t want to know!” Terry Berkson is a freelance writer from Richfield Springs.
|