Hemingway's Ghost Read Free Page A

go after we split last night?”
    Bumby’s mouth dropped. “That’s all you have to say, you Neanderthal? One of my closest friends was just murdered and you ask me where I was?”
    Papa guffawed. “Closest friends. He thought you were a lily-livered writer who didn’t know how to steer a boat.”
    “Shut up, Papa. Not now.”
    “So where were you?”
    “None of your damned business. If you don’t trust me then why don’t you go to the police?”
    Papa cocked his head as he chewed. “Maybe we all should. Together.”
    “Fine by me.”
    Ernie said, “You don’t think
he’s
doing it?”
    “Who?”
    Ernie looked nervously around the patio, which had begun to fill with patrons. He lowered his voice. “You know who. Because we disturbed him.”
    Papa stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and turned back to Bumby. “What are the possible motives for these murders? By my count we have competition-”
    “Competition?”
    “For the Head Hemingway.”
    “Then I suppose that makes you suspect numero uno.”
    Papa chuckled. “Cheap shot. If it was me I’d have done it a long time ago.”
    “Maybe you came in last place at the finals one too many times. Maybe a herd of tourists left you standing with your dick in your hand in Mallory Square and came to one of us one too many times.” Bumby leaned in. “Maybe you finally snapped, Papa. Maybe your deeds finally matched your tough words.”
    “You’re lucky I don’t pound your flabby ass right here. We’ll see how many adoring fans you get after I turn your charming red alcoholic face into a purple mess.” He tried to stare Bumby down, but Bumby wasn’t even looking at him anymore.
    “Jealousy,” Bumby said as he watched the early shoppers whisk down Duval, “is one motive, or maybe someone doesn’t want us poking around the old house. Maybe there’s something there someone doesn’t want us to find.”
    The greed dripped from Papa’s words. “Maybe there really are lost pages, or even a new book. Can you imagine? It’d be worth
millions
.”
    “Even assuming there is one, which is impossible,” Bumby said, “who would know about it and keep it secret?”
    “Maybe it’s that half-wit caretaker.”
    “He’s creepy enough, but why give us access in the first place?”
    “Yeah, it don’t make sense.” Papa snapped his fingers. “What about that wealthy douchebag from France? The one who always pays us to do his birthday?”
    “Jean-Paul? In the huge house a few doors down? He is one of the biggest donors to the museum.”
    “And,” Papa said with a flash of insight, “if there’s something valuable in there, he probably wants to keep it for himself. Probably goes in there at night and wanks it while he looks at it.”
    “Maybe he pays off the caretaker too. It could make sense—maybe he was in there the same night we were, and saw what we were doing.”
    Ernie started to weep quietly, and Bumby put his hand over Ernie’s. “God, Ernie, I’m sorry. We’ve been acting like a bunch of horses’ asses.” He pulled out a flask and three tumblers, poured everyone a shot, and held up his glass. “To Champ, a good man, a great fisherman, and an even better Hemingway. May his soul rest in peace above the waters and pages he loved so dear.”
    “Here here,” Ernie said, and even Papa felt empty.
    They clinked glasses, downed their shots and sat in silence for the rest of the morning.
    For lunch they had lobster rolls at Blue Heaven, an eclectic little spot where the Man used to referee boxing matches. They smacked their fat lips at the delicious food, had another couple of drinks to work up their courage, and piled into Papa’s rusty golf cart for the ride to the police station.
    They parked and crossed Roosevelt, the Atlantic Ocean hovering in the background, palms rustling, a rare overcast sky the only blemish. They bunched together as they walked inside the station, not wanting to be singled out, a product of living on the