side railing. The banner proclaims NO TURTLE EXCLUDERS ON SHRIMP NETS! Some in the crowd break into an eruption of cheers at the sight of the banner. Pat shouts defiantly: “Listen, all of you! My family fished turtles for generations off of Key West. No eco-Gestapo can dictate to me. I’ll net turtles, harpoon turtles, hook turtles, kill turtles with my bare hands if I want. The ocean is the last free frontier, the final home of the brave.”
More cheers burst from the crowd, followed by loud boos from others. Men angrily wave their fists and shove one another, their reddened faces inches apart. Women jostle each other, screaming vulgar insults. The priest frantically waves his gold crucifix in the air, but he is ignored.
The band strikes up a sudden rhythmic dance tune. Noah breaks away from Hogfish and makes his way to Zoe. He slips his arm around her waist and spins her in a dance to the band’s beat. Some in the crowd stand back, giving Noah and Zoe room; others join in the dancing. Luz lifts Nina up from the wheelchair and sways her in her arms to the joyous rhythm.
Zoe stops dancing and pushes Noah away. “If I want to dance with you, I’ll make the choice.” She pulls out the white rose tucked behind her ear and hands it to him. “You didn’t know you were in a garden of roses when you had it.”
Noah holds the rose up and plucks off a petal. “She loves me.” He plucks off another petal with a brave grin. “She loves me not.”
“You can pluck every petal off that rose, but it won’t bring me back. Marriage is not a one-way street just going your way. The street goes both ways.” She turns and walks off, leaving Noah alone with his rose.
Along the entire length of the concrete pier, the diesel engines of shrimping boats roar to life. The crowd rushes to the pier’s edge, waving good-bye to the boats motoring away. The lights of the fleet become distant on the sea’s horizon.
Long after the fleet has disappeared and the crowd has left the pier, Noah and Luz stand alone in the night in front of Noah’s trawler. A stiff breeze off the ocean blows in, tugging at Luz’s white guayabera shirt. She looks impatiently at Noah. “It’s late; I need to get home to my family. Why did you ask me to stay behind with you?”
“I need your help with something. I didn’t want to mention it in front of Joan.”
“I don’t keep secrets from Joan. What’s so important that can’t be talked about in front of your sister?”
“I’ll show you.” Noah leads the way onto his trawler. They walk across the deck into the dark pilothouse. Noah switches on the overhead light and calls out in French, “It’s safe! No need to hide!” He waits for an answer—silence—calls out again: “This woman I brought can help.” He moves to the storage closet in the corner, pushes back its canvas curtain, and looks inside. “Damn, the boy is gone.”
“What boy?” Luz walks to the closet and peers in. “Who’s supposed to be in here?”
Noah doesn’t answer. He picks up a half-finished bottle of rum from the broadcasting table and uncorks it. He takes a swig as he stares through the pilothouse window at the ocean. “Makes no difference now who he is. He’s vanished.”
Luz steers her white Charger down the main drag of Duval Street. The flanking sidewalks are crowded with gawking tourists passing gaudy trinket shops, boisterous open-air bars crowded with long-haired motorcycle bikers, tattoo parlors filled with glassy-eyed stoned teenagers, and chattering people at outdoor restaurant tables beneath towering banyan trees. Luz keeps a vigilant eye for lowlife crack dealers, skinhead punks pimping young runaway girls from the North, and tweaked meth-heads looking to start a fight with someone, or with themselves, or with a plate-glass window.
Sitting next to Luz in the passenger seat is Chicken, the one-eared scarred pit bull. Chicken licks his chops as she takes a deep-fried conch fritter from a bag wedged between her thighs. She munches on the fritter as she continues to drive with one hand on the steering wheel. She glances over at the dog, sitting patiently on his haunches, waiting for a handout. “Chicken, you want a fritter?” The dog whines with pitiful expectation. She plucks a fritter from the bag and holds up the greasy ball to Chicken’s mouth. “Careful, don’t bite my fingers off.” The