Butterflies in Heat

COPYRIGHT 1976 BY DARWIN PORTER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First edition published in the U.S. 1976
Reprinted 1977, 1978, 1980.
First International Edition published in the U.S. 1997
Reprinted February, 1998

Library of Congress Card Catalogue No. 97-065249
ISBN No. 1-877978-95-7

Publication made possible in part by a grant from the
Florida Literary Foundation

Cover design by Scott Sosebee
Cover photography by Russell Maynor

An occasional car whizzed past. No one stopped.

Numie Chase walked alone into the night.

Mosquitoes after his blood were raising welts on his skin. No use to slap them any more. They were an army against the one of him.

How he wished he had his denim shirt back. At least that would offer some protection. But it'd been stolen the night before in that sleazy motel on the mainland. Stolen along with his thirty dollars. The hardest thirty dollars he'd ever earned at that. From a minister, no less. A man of God who'd wanted Numie to be the Devil and punish him for all his sins.

Not Numie's scene at all. But at this stage, he'd long ago forgotten what his scene was. Even if he'd ever had one.

He existed for other people. Merely a tool to satisfy them temporarily. Yet he knew he'd never really satisfied anyone in any deep and meaningful way.

Just for the moment—that was it.

For a price, anyone could have a chance to swing on him.

But the market was fading, just like the cars along this deserted stretch of road that ran by a mangrove swamp.

Trudging the highway, he found his steps quickening.

Faster and faster.If only there were a light, a neon sign, a street lamp, the headlight from an oncoming car.

Something.

Anything.

But there was nothing except the sound of frogs croaking from their secret hideaways in the swamp. The harsh symphony from the frogs was growing louder and louder the farther he walked. They knew he was there, and they were mocking him, threatening him, daring him to plunge deeper into their unfriendly terrain.

He didn't know why people wanted to live so far from the mainland anyway. So far into such inhospitable territory. Maybe the whole desolate stretch should be left to the frogs, lizards, and snakes.

He was on an island. At least he could feel the murky presence of water on both sides of him. The land was narrowing like an isthmus.

He'd lost count of the islands he'd already crossed earlier in the evening. Walking mostly, though he'd managed to hitch a ride for the first lap of the journey.

The coral islands were like a necklace dangling from the mainland, each pearl strung together by a bridge. He was going to the end of that string. To Tortuga, the point where the United States came to an abrupt halt.

From Tortuga, he'd been told, there were no more bridges. Just the open sea and the islands beyond.

In the distance, a headlight. Getting closer and closer.

The lights were on him now. Numie stood proud and tall, hoping to pass inspection.

"Please stop,"hewhispered.

The car was slowing down. Maybe he'd get a ride after all.

It came to a stop. The figure of a man loomed behind the wheel, but the lights were too bright for Numie to make out his face.

The driver kept his window shut, as he peered out into the night at Numie.

Numie stood bewildered. Finally, he smiled. "What do you want?" The driver called through the raised window.

"A ride, mister. Please."

"You're not a killer, are you?"

"No, I'm harmless."

Slowly the driver lowered the window. But
just a crack. He was quite old, maybe in his seventies. Not only old, but tired and beat up. Two teeth in front were missing. 'What's in the bag?"

"Just a few possessions."

"Lay them on the front fender," the old man commanded. "If I'm going to give you a ride, I want to make sure you're not carrying around concealed weapons."

"Okay," Numie said. Into his tattered duffel bag, he dug for his possessions. An address book filled mainly with street numbers and telephones of long-forgotten people. A pair of swimming trunks he'd found on the beach one day. Two avocados and three oranges he'd picked up when passing through farm country on the mainland. A frayed travel magazine with some beautiful color pictures of Tortuga. Finally, a leather belt with a big silver buckle he'd been trying to make for himself.

"You don't have much," the old man yelled. "What about knives? Turn your pockets inside out"

"Just a pocketknife," Numie said, emptying his pockets for inspection. He put the knife on the fender.

"I reckon you can get in," the old man called. Stuffing his possessions back into his duffel bag, Numie made his way around to the side of the battered Buick. The door was locked.

The old man waited for a long time before opening it. Finally, he leaned over and raised the lock. "Get in."

Numie got in, staying as close to the window as he could.

Even from this point, he could smell the breath of the old man. He was a wino. His clothes were as old and as tired as he was. Nervously clutching the wheel, his hands were dry and withered. The car had another peculiar odor: unfixed cats.

"Who are you boy?" The old man asked.

"Name's Numie. Thanks for giving me a ride. If someone hadn't come along soon, the mosquitoes would have me dry by now."

"I hope I don't live to regret picking you up. I'm Hadley L. Crabtree. Just last month the sheriff's boys dug up five bodies on the keys. Arrested the crazy killer. Seems this guy went around picking up boy hitchhikers. He'd drive them to a deserted spot on No Name Key where he'd tie them up. This sickie got his rocks off by cutting off the peckers of these kids."

"Thank god he didn't come along and pick me up tonight," Numie said. "I need mine."

"What are you up to heading for Tortuga this time of night?"

"I couldn't find anything on the mainland. Thought I'd try my luck."

"There's no work in Tortuga," said Crabtree. "No jobs. Nothing. Any jobs down there, the kids of the local families grab them up. Most of the people there, except for some rich queers who come down in winter, are on welfare. I grew up on the island, and I should know there's no money there. Hell, it was 1947 before anybody could afford house paint."

"That's bad. I sure was hoping to find something"

Suddenly, Crabtree slammed on the brakes. "My advice to you is to get out of this car right now. Park your ass on the other side of the road until you can hitch a ride back to the mainland."

"I can't do that. I've got to give it a try"

Crabtree started the car again. "Mark my words, boy, you'll regret the day you ever set foot in Tortuga. Besides, people there are none too friendly."

"You gave me a ride"

"I'm different. The only liberal in town. Once ran for political office just to challenge the machine. Got almost no votes, but I wanted to shake them up a bit. I was clobbered. They raised my real-estate taxes and practically drummed me out of town. Got no local business after that."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a lawyer, the only friend you beatniks have in town."

"I'm not a beatnik."

"You look like one. Come to think of it, though, you're a little old to be a real beatnik."

"Thanks."

"Some of my cases deal with possession of reefers. You young drifters down there are always going up in a cloud of smoke. Somebody's got to defend you when they throw you in jail. Actually you don't have a chance. The town is on a big campaign right now to get rid of vagrants. And after all those boy killings up on the keys, they're also after the rich queers. That's the only people who ever come to Tortuga. Decent tourists avoid the place"