American Tropic - By Thomas Sanchez Page 0,25
didn’t do anything wrong!”
Luz stays silent. She marches the teenager to the Charger, shoves her into the back, and slams the door. In the front seat, Chicken turns around and puts his front paws on the seat separating him from the teenager. He cocks his one ear, wanting to lick her hello with his tongue. Luz jumps into the car next to Chicken. She looks into the rearview mirror at the teenager in the back.
The handcuffed girl stares defiantly. “This is illegal. You can’t do this. My dad’s brother is a big-time lawyer in Miami. Manny Munoz—you ever heard of him? He’ll sue you!”
“Let him sue.”
“And he’ll sue you for having this mangy mutt in a cop car. I bet that’s against cop rules. Hey, but this isn’t a cop car! What’s going on?”
“I’m not a cop. I’m a plainclothes detective.”
Luz starts the Charger and drives off. She hears the teenager crying in the back seat. Luz weaves through dark back streets until she arrives before the twelve-foot-high bullet-shaped concrete monument lit up in the car’s headlights. Bold black-painted words declare SOUTHERNMOST POINT CONTINENTAL U.S.A.—90 MILES TO CUBA.
Luz drives behind the monument, where the street abruptly ends and the Atlantic Ocean begins. She turns off the car’s engine and rolls down her side window. The ocean’s surface ahead is a black mirror in the night. A rush of salt-scented air fills the car. She looks in the rearview mirror at the crying teenager. “You smell that?”
The teenager sniffles. “Please don’t tell my parents about my boyfriend. I beg you. He’s thirty-two. They’ll kill me.”
“Take a deep breath. Smell the air.”
“It’s salty.”
“It’s the air of Cuba blowing in from across the Florida Strait.”
“I beg you not to tell my parents.”
“That’s the air of your great-grandparents. People who immigrated to Key West in the eighteen hundreds with nothing and built a life. Hardworking people who had pride and morals. People who brought those qualities with them.”
“I’ll just die if you tell my parents.”
“The problem now is, no pride, no morals.”
“Listen, lady, we’re friends, right? I remember you at my Quince. You were there with your girlfriend.”
“Not girlfriend. Life partner. Love of my life.”
“Whatever.”
Luz turns on the car radio. She switches through the stations, playing rock, country, and Latin music. She stops on the voice of Noah coming in. She glances at the girl in the rearview mirror. “Do you know who this is?”
“Isn’t he that pirate guy?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody I know cares about him.”
“You should care. He’s about saving what counts. He’s fighting for what good is left in this world for your generation.” Luz faces the girl. “Listen to Noah, then I’ll let you go.”
“You won’t tell my parents about what happened?”
“I won’t tell them if you learn something here tonight.”
Luz turns up the volume on Noah’s voice.
The girl slumps in the back corner of the car. Her face turns sullen as Noah’s words crackle from the radio.
You’ve got to work with me tonight, pilgrims, or ol’ Truth Dog is going to sail away back home. We’ve got four endangered turtle species here in the Florida Keys: the leatherback, the loggerhead, the hawksbill, and the green. Why can’t we stop the slaughter? I’m waiting for your answer. Okay, here’s a pilgrim. Talk me some sense.”
A woman’s shaky voice answers. “I never called before. I’m so nervous.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“You know, uh, there’s been, uh, extensive scientific research into cancer. They’ve scrutinized Neanderthal fossils and found no evidence of cancer. Cancer only shows up two hundred years ago. It’s modern times that have surrounded us with cancer and …”
“Don’t stop. I’m here for you.”
The nervous woman’s voice becomes emboldened. “Remember when you said the dumping of toxic stuff by the military around the Keys might have poisoned the water?”
“Military’s been here since the Civil War. Ships, submarines, fighter jets, you name it. Toxic dumping is our legacy.”
“Now we have abnormally high rates of cancer.”
“I always say, you want the true picture, you’ve got to connect the right dots.”
“The picture is,” the woman says, sobbing, “everything is being poisoned. People, coral reefs, sea life, everything is going to die of man-made cancer.”
“You’re right. It’s all connected. Next caller, you’re up. Connect the dots.”
A squeaky male voice begins excitedly: “What’s that ditzy dame talking about? She’s got cancer on the brain. Everybody wants to cure cancer, but it’s the witty bitty we should worry about.”
“Witty bitty?”
“The Key Largo cotton mouse. It’s on the official endangered list. It’s being wiped out by runaway cats from trailer camps.” The