They don't often have serious crime down here -- there's a rather tedious getaway afterwards up U.S.1, which is single-lane and speed-restricted for most of its 130 miles to the mainland.

Tuesday, November 6, 2001
(Key West, Florida, USA)

I work until 2:10 a.m. preparing for the Texas trip. At 2:12 am I phone 911 to report a dozen shots fired in the street outside. They last about two or three minutes, sound too loud to be fireworks, but not as heavy as a 9 mm or .38.

The 911 line is busy three times, then an officer says laconically. "Shots fired?" "Yes." "Okay, we got it."

I walk out: on the corner next to our front gate, a policeman in proper stance is pointing a gun at somebody out of sight in the street ahead, shouting, "Drop the gun." "Drop it."

Within minutes there are a dozen cops milling around in the intersection by our front gate, yellow crime-scene plastic tape, flashing lights, and two men handcuffed on the ground.

Apparently three men have had a gunfight, but nobody is seriously hit. A man comes driving purposefully up on a moped, asks if the trouble is at that house, and says, "I'm not surprised. It's a crack house."

"How would he know," sniffs one fat lady bystander as he drives off. Good point.

A dozen neighbours have come out in their long nightdresses; I look around in case there's one of Benté's age or younger who needs comforting, unfortunately there are only the obese and ugly ones, complaining about having been wakened by the gunfire. And who wouldn't.

The women all seem to know by name the men who live in the corner house concerned; one is, inevitably, called Brad. One of them tetch-tetches and says knowingly, "There's been trouble there ever since she came back."

"Really lowers the tone of this neighbourhood," snarls another female porker, stubbing out her cigarette on the sidewalk.

I give a policeman three polystyrene cups at his request, after rinsing out the dregs of Folger's and Earl Grey, to put the shell-casings in; he says he's found sixteen already. So my figure was low.

At 9:20 a.m. R. phones; he says that one of the bullets did some harm, as one man is dead. They don't often have serious crime down here -- there's a rather tedious getaway afterwards up U.S.1, which is single-lane and speed-restricted for most of its 130 miles to the mainland.

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