Mangrove Martini

The man with a vague European bearing stood outside one of the upscale art galleries that were scattered through Old Town like shiny pennies amongst the tawdrier T-shirt shops and leather emporiums. He held a rectangular object wrapped in construction paper and bound with twine. The gallery was not yet open, he paced nervously and smoked a Dunhill cigarette. He needed to get off the island on the ferry before this hurricane hit the Conch Republic. The ferry would depart at noon for its final run to the mainland prior to the storm's arrival. He glanced in both directions up and down the street. It was early for Key West, just after 8:30 in the morning. There was scant traffic, a few bicycles, a covey of scooters, and only a couple of pedestrians. His sense of urgency to deliver the package he held sat on him like a circus fat lady. As long as he had the package he was in danger, a few more minutes and he would be rid of it. He stepped closer to the door and peered into the darkened gallery. As he lit another cigarette and waited. He hardly noticed the uniformed man who appeared to be collecting change from the parking meters along the street as he walked toward him. Another man approached from the opposite direction carrying a newspaper. Glancing at his watch and muttered loud enough for the man with the package to hear him say, "I'm late." As the stranger walked by him, he felt a sharp sting of pain in his neck and raised his hand to feel what it was. Before his hand reached his neck, the man lost consciousness and slumped to the ground. The man with the newspaper continued to walk away while the man checking the parking meters approached the unconscious body and took the package and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.