Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [98]
Pete nodded.
“I don’t think I can stay here, Pete. Let’s go to the newer Sloppy Joe’s. Wanna?”
“Whatever you like, Sandy,” Pete said.
“Hey, Lawrence, we’re going to the other Sloppy Joe’s. Have a nice night.” Sandy hopped off the barstool and left without another word.
Another Sloppy Joe’s? What the hell! I thought there was only one Sloppy Joe’s in Key West!
He tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and left in such a hurry he forgot to staple his card up along with the others. Screw it, he said to himself.
Once outside, he had to ask a group of young twentysomethings where the other Sloppy Joe’s was located. “It’s not really Sloppy Joe’s; it’s where the original owner started his bar, but the locals call it the other Sloppy Joe’s,” said a young guy who seemed to be the only sober one in the bunch.
“Do tourists usually know about this?” he asked before he walked away.
“Hell yeah,” one of the drunks in the group called out. “It’s right around the corner.”
Tyler didn’t bother thanking them. He ran around the corner, where he saw a small sign that read ORIGINAL SLOPPY JOE’S.
He hurried inside but was surprised when he saw that the place was empty. Shit! His luck couldn’t get any worse. He was about to make his exit when a woman of an undeterminable age poked her head out of what must have been a small office. “Hey, don’t leave, we’re just opening up for the night.”
Tyler stopped. “Sure. What time do you usually open?”
“Nine o’clock sharp.”
Not sure if he should stay or if he should hightail it around the corner to the known Sloppy Joe’s, Tyler figured what the hell. “Okay, just let me have a Coke. I have to drive a boat later tonight.” A lie, but it was a good one.
“Sure thing,” the woman said, reaching inside a large cooler for a small bottle of Coke. “You want a glass and ice?”
“Nope, this is good,” he said, and meant it. He hadn’t had a small Coke in the little pale green glass bottles in ages. He tipped the bottle up to his mouth, downing the entire bottle in one long gulp. He took another twenty from his wallet and gave it to the woman. “Here you go. That hit the spot.”
She took the money and went to an old-fashioned cash register at the end of the bar. “Keep the change, really. I wonder if you could do me a favor?” He watched her and saw the look on her face. “It’s nothing weird, trust me.”
She smiled and walked over to the small table he stood by. “Look, buddy, I’ve heard every line in the book. What some think isn’t weird is, so what is it you want?”
Tyler removed his last DEA agent card from his wallet and gave it to her. “I was supposed to meet a friend at Sloppy Joe’s at eight o’clock. I’m not sure if she’ll show up here, but if she does, tell her to call me.”
“So does this gal have a name, a description?” She picked up the card but didn’t look at it.
“Yes, sorry. Homespun type of girl, nice brown hair, tanned. Her name is Nancy Holliday.”
The woman looked at the card. “Hot damn, you’re DEA?”
That’s more like it, Tyler thought. “Yes, I’m undercover so . . . well, tonight I was taking a bit of a break. Was supposed to meet Nancy, but I think we may have gotten our wires crossed. If you see someone who resembles her, ask her if she’s Nancy Holliday and just give her my card.”
“Absolutely; I don’t want to piss off no DEA agent . . . Mr. Tyler. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
He knew that was how he should be treated all the time. Too damn bad Rush hadn’t been around to witness what respect looked like. The bitch.
“I would appreciate it,” Tyler said. “Nice talking to you.”
He left without giving her a chance to reply.
Tyler took his time walking back to his car. The street was noisy, people shouting at one another, laughter bubbling out from the various bars and restaurants. It was after nine, and the gift shops and ice-cream stands were closing their doors for the night, allowing artists, psychics, magicians, and the like a chance to make an extra buck or two at Trafalgar