Fatal Reservations by Lucy Burdette

his knuckles. “The thing is, this dude went around and watched everybody. He was clever that way. And then he took what was best about each of those acts and copied it right into his own stupid routine.” He waggled his finger at the pirates. “People didn’t take kindly to that. Not only did he get the lousy space; he got the crap beat out of him one night.” Tony shook his head slowly and sadly. “The cops never did figure out what happened to him. Mr. Frontgate wondered if maybe he’d had a few pops too many and then experienced an altercation with his own bicycle.” He gurgled with laughter, dropped the butt, and ground it into the cement with his heel.
    “There’s something you have to know about this place,” he added. “And if you don’t learn it, you aren’t going to last. It looks like every man for himself. But it’s an island, man, and there’s an underlying fabric, a connection that an outsider can’t see until he’s been here awhile. But you start messing with that—you starttrying to jump ahead of people or steal their thunder—that fabric could end up smothering you or choking you if you’re not careful.” He leered at the two newcomers. “That’s your words of wisdom from Cap’n Tony. Got it, yahoos?”
    The larger pirate kicked over Tony’s beer and stomped off in the direction of the Waterfront Playhouse.

7
It is hunger that makes you crazy, whether it’s one appetite or another.
—Norman Van Aken, No Experience Necessary
    We left Tony fuming and sputtering and made our way through the crowd toward the open area where Lorenzo usually set up his card table. We walked past tables and booths hawking paintings, Key West photographs, jewelry, and T-shirts of every color, design, and size. Lorenzo, of course, was not there. I realized from my disappointed reaction that I’d been hoping he had returned to Mallory Square as if nothing was wrong. As if the cops had realized they were looking at the wrong man and that someone had let him know he could resurface into life as usual.
    A woman with pitch-black hair, circles of sparkly rouge on her cheeks, and deep blue eye shadow that almost reached her brows was sitting at a booth in his place. The sign hanging from her table indicated thatshe was a palm reader, though at the moment, she had no customers. I edged a little closer.
    “Oh my goodness,” I said in an innocent voice. “I was looking for that tarot card guy. Last time I talked with him he was so helpful. I was hoping he could tell me what’s wrong with my boyfriend. Isn’t this where he usually sits?”
    The woman’s eyes narrowed, and the glitter on her cheeks and in her hair glinted in the light from the streetlamp directly above her. “I don’t know what’s happened to him,” she said. “But I was told I could have his place.”
    “Who told you that?” I asked. “Isn’t there a committee that decides where people perform?”
    She fidgeted in her folding chair and looked away from me, then finally waved a dismissive hand. “When you commit a serious infraction, you lose your privileges.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We heard he might have had something to do with that murder.” She pressed both hands to her cheeks and blinked.
    Did she know something about what had really happened, or was she spreading vicious rumors? “Oh no, you mean he actually killed someone?” I asked, taking another step closer to her table.
    “So I hear. Everyone’s talking about the fights he had with the dead guy.” She tapped her fingers to her forehead and looked up at the sky. “God rest his soul.” She smiled as she turned those blue-rimmed eyes to me. “But I would love to do a reading for you. I use the human palm rather than cards because the hand taps into the heart in a way that a deck of cards could never do. I’m very good with relationship problems.” She grabbed my hand with one of hers and stroked it with the other.
    Goose bumps spread from my wrist