Daiquiri Dock Murder by Dorothy Francis Page B

He did not. Pablo does work with the combo—sometimes. We’re glad to have him, and although he’s sometimes undependable, he’s a good drummer when he’s there—an excellent musician.”
    “And you don’t miss him when he doesn’t appear for work.”
    “Of course we miss him, but he owns the trap set. When he doesn’t show up, we go to plan B and call on Dolly Jass to sub for him.”
    “Using Pablo’s drums?”
    “That’s right.”
    “With Pablo’s permission?”
    “Don’t know anyone ever asked for his permission. The trap set is there. We need a player, so we call Dolly. She’s not a trained musician, but she can keep a steady beat.”
    “And Jessie Vexton plays string bass?”
    Kane started to speak, but Jessie interrupted him.
    “I play at playing the bass,” Jessie said. “I just perform often enough to keep my fingers calloused so they won’t blister. Years ago, I strummed guitar with a garage band while attending high school. I know the one, four, five chords well enough to get by on the bass for an evening at The Frangi.”
    “And you have your own instrument? Chief Ramsey asked. “That’s the one that looks like an oversize violin, right?”
    “Right.” Jessie didn’t smile at the chief’s description but his desultory shrug showed his opinion of it. “Mama G understands about musical instruments and so does Rafa. They let the musicians cover their instruments and keep them on the combo stand between gigs. The Frangi’s in an open-air setting, and the maintenance crew keeps a plastic roof and drop-down walls in place during daytime hours. The outdoor dampness wreaks havoc on drum heads, and it’s even harder on strings and wood, so we keep our instruments covered after The Frangi closes.”
    “And you get paid for playing?” Ramsey asked Jessie.
    “Yes.” The corner of Jessie’s mouth curled downward. “A pittance. I play mostly for the fun of playing.”
    I raised an eyebrow. That was the first time I knew Jessie considered his evening’s take a pittance. Mama G and Pablo always seemed eager enough to collect their paychecks. Neither of them had asked for a raise.
    Now Ramsey looked around, gathering all of us into his gaze. “Can anyone tell me where Pablo Casterano is at the moment? Detective Lyon?”
    “I was unable to locate Mr. Casterano, Sir. I could find nobody who had seen or heard from him this morning. All leads led nowhere.”
    “Where does he live?”
    “My understanding is that he’s a homeless person,” Lyon said. “Many times he sleeps on the beach, and many times he appears at Mallory Dock’s sunset celebration, offering tourists Tarot card readings.”
    Ramsey cleared his throat. “I wanted everyone connected, even remotely connected, with the victim to appear at this meeting. That certainly includes his son. Does anyone in this room know anything concerning the whereabouts of Pablo Casterano?”
    “I haven’t seen Pablo lately,” Jessie replied. “Sometimes he hangs out with friends either at Smathers or the state park beach—the one here on Key West.”
    “Once he disappeared for almost two years,” Kane said, a frown punctuating his words. “During that time nobody saw him or heard from him. Not even Diego.”
    “Pablo doesn’t surprise us when he doesn’t show up for work,” I said. “The surprise comes when he does show up.”
    “Where did he go for two years?” Ramsey asked.
    Jessie shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. After some of us asked the question once, Pablo made it clear he didn’t want to hear it again.”
    No one else spoke up and Ramsey looked again at Kane. “Mr. Riley, you’re a writer, are you not?”
    “No, Sir. I am not. I make my living here in Key West as a commercial shrimper—and I moonlight at The Blue Mermaid as a security person—no pay.”
    “But lately I’ve seen your name on several letters to the editor—in the Citizen and sometimes in The Keynoter. Isn’t that correct?”
    “Yes. I’ve written