[Fred Zackel]

(The names of some locations in this book, yes, were changed to protect their privacy, their beauty, and their integrity.)

"That's a guy married to his job," Ivy Lawson told her boss's parrot. "Look how he's got his head buried in a newspaper. What a waste. If he moves his head six inches, bang, he's looking at one of the more sensational days we've had on the water this month."

Like most locals, Ivy Lawson had grown up hearing northerners gushing how beautiful the Keys was, and anyone who failed to appreciate them both irritated and puzzled her. Since she had no one else handy to voice her opinion to, except her boss who was busy seasoning an iron skillet, she talked to the restaurant's resident parrot.

"That newspaper's the dead giveaway," she told the parrot. "When you see a guy with his nose in a newspaper like that, he's used to traveling alone and eating alone. Bet he spends his whole life on business trips. He's a salesman or something. Bet he doesn't even know what state he's in now."

Her boss's parrot wasn't paying attention. He had seeds and his water dish, and he liked watching himself washing his seeds in his water dish. He knew he was such a pretty bird.

Ivy knew the guy in the back booth wasn't the type of guy usually attracted to her, but she still liked looking at him. He was almost twice her age, at least forty, six foot tall, sort of cute to look at, maybe even attractive, but not handsome or (worse) pretty. He was built big, too, like an athlete. He had huge shoulders, and his chest was muscular, like a swimmer maybe. He was carefully groomed, with a nice striped polo shirt, dark slacks, and expensive sunglasses by his water glass. But he was visiting Florida for the first time. The sports jacket on the seat beside him told her that.

Ivy knew about image. She was ...well, ordinary. She was eighteen years old, very short and very skinny, fragile-looking and naturally angelic, a mere wisp of a woman, which she hated about herself. But she was working at overcoming her body type and what she perceived as her ordinary-ness. This month, for instance, her blonde hair had been chopped short and then dyed a bright magenta. She was also considering a new tattoo, this one more visible to the customers, but she hadn’t made up her mind on what the tattoo should be.

She was the sole waitress on duty at the Pier Inn Restaurant facing the Florida Bay in Key Largo and the guy in the back booth was her last lunch customer. Though it fronted the piers and the gas dock, it was a bit out of the way, a tad off the beaten track and not flashy enough to attract the tourists, like this part of the Keys itself. Inside, the eatery had checkered curtains and no table cloths, a half-dozen tables, two booths along either side and a counter with swivel stools. Fake fishnets were hanging from the ceiling, as were two real ceiling fans and a brace of overwrought ferns.

The guy looked up from his paper as she approached. "What did the parrot say about me?"

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(Read fine fiction in the privacy of your own canoe tonight.)

Best wishes,

Fred Zackel

author of ...
COCAINE & BLUE EYES
CINDERELLA AFTER MIDNIGHT
CREEPIER THAN A WHOREHOUSE KISS
A DEATH IN KEY LARGO
TOUGH TOWN COLD CITY
&
MURDER IN WAIKIKI

All (and more) are available on Kindle and smashwords