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 [Time to Check Out cover]

An Excerpt From Chapter Three
Time to Check Out

The bartender was a cowboy lover's dream, with a ruddy rugged face, sun-bleached eyebrows and mustache, and puppy brown eyes. He was wearing a high, wide-brimmed Stetson, and he greeted me with a welcoming smile, said hello as though he'd been expecting me all morning, even patted his big hand on an empty place at the end of the bar, a gesture that said, Sit right here, pardner. I had to obey. His eyes followed me to the barstool, along with that wide-open grin.

"You look like you need a martini," he said.

"How dry can you make it?" I asked.

"How tight can you pucker?"

"Depends on which lips."

The man sitting next to me overheard our exchange and said to the bartender, "Sounds like you got yourself some work, Ross."

"Nah," said the bartender. "We're just joshing." Then he set his big brown eyes back onto me and said in earnest, "Aren't we?"

"Sure," I said. Romance, sex, bah! Those parts of my life were in remission. I was in Key West to recover, to learn to grow beyond my emotions. Love too, bah!

Ross the bartender said, "You like your 'tinis dirty?"

"There's not much I like dirty," I said.

My next-door neighbor grumbled, "That's too bad."

I turned to him. "I meant literally."

"So did I," said the guy. Then he got up and moved to another place further down the bar. Maybe it was dirtier there. The stool he had vacated had two big damp spots where his butt had been spread over it.

Ross glanced at me from where he was setting up my drink.

"Don't pay him no heed. He's been alone too long."

"I can see why." I said.

Then Ross said to me, "Olive or twist?"

Instinctively I replied, "Who was a Dickens hero?"

"Huh?" said Ross

"Jeopardy!" I said cheerily

Ross looked perplexed, but on the other side of the bar a big barrel-chested guy with a gray goatee and matching ponytail had overheard me, and he allowed a tiny smile. Turned out he was the one creating the spicy air with his clove cigarettes.

"Twist," I said flatly to Ross. Game shows were apparently not the way to test the waters in Key West.

Ross strained half the elixir into a small glass cruet nested in a bowl of crushed ice. The remainder he strained into a chilled martini glass. He twisted the lemon peel directly over the drink, not into the air as many bartenders mistakenly do. Then he placed the filled glass and the cruet in front of me.

"One 'tini up, double, clean, with a twist." He gave his slender hips one seductive gyration, then threw his arms upward and gave a sharp squeal, like a Vegas chorus girl. Exactly my kind of machismo.

Then he said huskily, "Go 'head," once again the cowboy dude. "You gotta put it in your mouth to taste it."

I took a sip.

"Good job," I said. In truth, I was in the hands of a master.

Ross grinned back. "Takes a 'tini lover to make 'em right."

Some faceless drinker at the bar muttered, "But you're not teeny, are you Ross?"

"As if you would know!" Ross spat back at him, but he also seemed proud that his manhood was headline news. He turned back to me and said, "Where you from, anyway?"

"Boston," I said.

"No wonder you're dressed like that," he said. "Well, you just missed Poker Week."

"I don't play cards," I said.

"Not cards," said Ross. "Pokers! Hogs and chicks and that kind of stuff."

"Like a county fair?"

"Harleys!" said Ross. "Motorcycles, Vroom-vroom. You know? Real men and their babes."

From the other side of the bar came a penetrating woman's voice.

"Speaking of babes, Rossina, do you think we could get a little service over here, please?"

We both looked that way. A tall Junoesque woman with a massive pile of bleached-blonde hair stood with arms akimbo, looking impatient. She glared at us from behind jewel-crusted wrap-around sunglasses that resembled a grotesque party mask. Her figure was exaggerated too, but it sagged just enough to be real. She looked like a real woman impersonating some eminent drag queen.

"Cozy!" said Ross. "When did you come in?"

"I could say half an hour ago, for all you noticed." She proclaimed everything she said. "Who's the new heartthrob?"

Was she referring to me?

Ross said, "This is...uh..." He turned to me. "What is your name, darlin'?"

"Stan," I said. "Stan Kraychik."

"We'll stick with Stan," said Ross. Then he called out to the woman, "This here is Stan, Cozy. Stan-the-Man from Boston. Stan, meet Miss Cozy Dinette. She's a singer, the best damn singer in town."

Miss Cozy Dinette took that as an invitation to join us. She came to our side of the bar and eased herself onto the barstool next to me. She was a voluptuous woman, full of sensual energy that seemed to snap, crackle, and pop from every part of her body. She slid her sunglasses up off her eyes and nested them into her high-fashion do. Her eyes were blue -- a cool, clever diamond blue. Riotous makeup provided a first defense against the impending skirmish with middle age. She took my hand and squeezed it firmly.

"I can tell we're going to be best friends," she said, "You have what it takes to be a best friend of mine."

Ross gave me a dubious glance, then said to Cozy, "The usual?"

"Not today," said Cozy. "I need something extra strong and powerful. I just heard the most awful news." She raised her voice to force everyone in the bar to listen, which they did. "You all know Augusta, who runs the Crows Nest?" she said.

Various grumblings traveled around the bar. "Killer crab." "Granny conch." "Tourist poison."

"That's her," said Cozy. "Well, she was murdered this morning."

Another wave of commentary swept around the bar. "Hallelujah." "A mercy killing." "Tell it to God, Augusta."

I said, "I guess she wasn't exactly the homecoming queen."

"Huh?" said Cozy.

Ross explained to her, "He's from Boston."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Cozy with true sadness in her eyes. "That explains all those clothes you have on. Aren't you hot?"

Ross interrupted, "Just the dish on August, girl. You're the reporter."

"Once," said Cozy. "I was once. Just like Brenda Starr. But my property advisor told me this morning -- "

"Your what?" I said.

"My property advisor," said Cozy.

"What's that?"

"Don't you own real estate?" said Cozy.

"No," I said.

"Neither do I," said Cozy, "but you still need a property advisor. You never know when you might get some real estate."

"Amen," sang various mixed voices around the bar, led by Ross.

"Anyway" said Cozy, "my property advisor has a client who found the body."

"Who?" I said.

"Some guy named Hitler," said Cozy.

"You mean Dobermann," I said. "Adolf Dobermann."

"That's it," said Cozy. "Dobermann, Hitler. What's the difference? But how do you know? This is hot off the press."

"I know because I'm the one who discovered the body, not Herr Dobermann."

"Oh, right. Sure," said Cozy. "Well, if you're so smart, Mr. Boston, how did she die?"

"She choked," I said.



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