“Thanks pal. Just one more thing,” I said while finishing the last of my eggs and java. “I’m looking for a girl. A blonde, about twenty five, name is Jessica. Rutledge, I think. Supposed to live here on the Key.”
Fernando’s expression changed from his usual smile to something of curiosity mixed with fright. I don’t know what was going on in his head, but he was being careful. Too careful.
“Aye, Jessica. Why you look for here, huh?”
“I met her on the Island. Thought maybe she could answer some questions.”
“Questions,” he said quietly, as if pondering it over before answering. “Aye, questions. About the Hawthorn, no?”
“That’s right.”
He hesitated just long enough to make me suspicious something wasn’t right. Then he said, “She lives above that bar across the street. I don’t know dee number. She usually sleeps all dee day, and works dee nights, you know?”
I didn’t know. Anything.
“Across the street. Thanks, I’ll check it out.” I tipped my Panama hat and Fernando nodded, a sort of strange look still stuck on his face.
It only cost two bucks to get Jessica’s flat number from the super. Well, he wasn’t exactly a super…he owned the bar and collected the rents, that was about it. Same difference. For two dollars this guy would have beat his own grandmother with a busted beer bottle till she gave up her knitting needles. You know, that type.
I walked up a hot, rickety stairway to the second floor. There were only four apartments there; only one had a big “B” painted on the door. I knocked. No answer. I called her name softly, then a little louder. Nothing. I knocked one last time and gave up. She was either out or out of it; either way she wasn’t doing me any good.
I made my way back to the bar and got the super. He was chatty all of a sudden, probably expecting more scratch. I laid a fin on the bar and asked for a ginger ale on ice. He poured it, took the fiver and kept the change.
“Looking for info on a guy named Hawthorn. Know him?”
“Sure, everybody knows him, or knows of him. What’s the angle?”
“Not sure yet. Keep it under your hat. I hear he threw some crazy shindigs back in the day.”
The super/bartender wiped the sweat off his meaty face with a bar rag. “Yeah, that’s right. He was a real swinger back in his youth. Big society things, with a twist…since no one was around to judge the people at the parties, they could pretty much do what they wanted.”
“Yeah,” I said, “Like if you were at the party, that meant you were just as guilty of the craziness as anyone, right? So no one would squeal if something went bad.”
“Natch.”
“How bad did it get?”
“Pretty bad. I worked there, years ago, long before it became the Tiki bar. Back in the late twenties, during prohibition.”
“No kidding?” I said, “You don’t look so old.”
“Well thanks pal, it’s the Florida water, and the climate. I’m fifty-six.” He didn’t look a day over forty. “Anyways this guy Hawthorn and his old lady would swing that place like there was no tomorrow. Booze, broads, dope, gambling, you name it.”
“I heard all this before. I want to know specifics.”
“Like whats all?” he said so eloquently.
“Like rapes. Beatings…even, murder.”
The guy sunk back a little, his fat rear smacking up against the back counter. “Nah, I don’t hear nothin’ like that. Rumors, yeah. People love to make rumors. But nothin’ like that went on when I was there. Sure, there were hookers, and sometimes things got a little rough with a drunk, but Eliot had bouncers the size of Reo Speedwagons that took care of things fast.”
“So no beat-up dames, no…accidents?”
The guy looked a little nervous. More sweat, more wiping.
“No I said. Look pal, I think you drank up your fin worth of pop. Why don’t you go for a swim or something, it’ll do you good,” he said, obviously trying to get rid of me. I knew I was licked; this poor schmuck was hiding something, and I was never going to get it out of him without laying on a fat pounding. Maybe not even then.
“OK, Mack, thanks for the info. And if you see Miss Rutledge, tell her Riggins was here asking for her.
“Sure thing pal,” he said, and didn’t take his eyes off me until I was out the door.
I was two for two. I popped into two more bars and a lunch joint and asked the same questions. I got the same answers, and the same curious sort of cut-and-run attitude as the first two guys. Everybody loved to reminisce about Eliot Hawthorn’s wild parties, but as soon as you mentioned anything to do with murder they all clammed up. Coincidence? Don’t believe it.
I was walking down Duval in front of an old church pondering these thoughts when a heavy, black pain nailed me in the back of the skull and the lights went out.
+++
She escaped. Even the noise from the street and the afternoon crowds in the bar couldn’t take her away from that blackness, that warm, comfortable feeling of being shut inside a coffin with just enough air to live. This was the end result; it was breezy, wonderful, filled with hope and the happiness that can only come from her one true friend. Then the happiness turned to exhaustion, and finally the dark wall of sleep slipped over her mind. It was a half-sleep though; while her body rested her mind still clung to gray thoughts, good thoughts, happy, content thoughts mixed with dark memories. Her future stretched out before her like a long bridge, long like the Overseas Highway’s Seven Mile Bridge, long and high and on top of the world. And in that half-sleep she knew her life had meaning, had purpose. And she would not only survive, but live, and live well.
At eleven in the morning the darkness enveloped her mind completely, and she slid into full and complete sleep. Even the hard knocking at the door couldn’t rouse her. It wasn’t until after four that she awoke, and found him collapsed against her apartment door.
+++
The voices were fuzzy and blue, like after a night of too much hundred-proof whisky. Although they were just whispers, every sound thundered through my head as if Thor himself were trying to beat his way out through my temples. Then a little light came in, and that hurt more. A grainy voice said something like “Let him have it again,” and a cold, wet sensation closed out the light. A second later my eyes were half open and the light came in bright and heavy. The pounding in my head stayed steady. I tried to move and couldn’t.
“You, wake it up boy, I ain’t got all day,” came a less fuzzy voice through the cloud of white light. It was a southern voice, an unfamiliar voice. It smelled.
“Give it to him agin,” the southern, unfamiliar voice repeated, and this time I recognized the splash of cold water over my face. It snapped me out of the fog and the light began to focus.
“You awake boy? Say somthin’ if you are,” said the voice. Now it was attached to a fat man in tan shirt and cowboy-looking hat. His face was still a blur.
“I’m awaifff” I tried to say. Whoever bopped me on the skull did a great job.
“Well wake som’more. You got some things to answer to.”
“Where..am I? Wah’s going on?” I managed to croak out. I should have shut up. A big, meaty open hand came across my face, just enough to sting. “Hey, what the hell?”
“You asked enough questions boy. Now you gonna do some answerin’”
“Go ahead and ask, I ain’t got nothing to hide, pal. I’m on vacation.”
The fat man grunted in a sort of oinkish laugh. “Vacation, huh? So what’s a New York City detective doin’ snoopin’ around other people’s affairs all the way down in Key West Flori-day? Answer me that one, boy.”
So he had my wallet. He knew my name then, where I was from. I didn’t understand the cowboy hat. My brain was fuzzy and my head still pounding, hard. Then it occurred to me. He was a lawman. One of those Gaddamned redneck types I read about in interstate reports and dime novels. He no doubt hated strangers, hated black folks and hated Yankees.
> “Doing a favor for Sheriff Jackson,” I said. It was the only thing I could think of.
“Jackson? Well you listen here, dee-tective. Jackson don’t mean shit in my town, and neither does no Yankee badge. I’m Chief of Po-lice Roberts, Key West. This is my town, and I don’t appreciate no gat-damned Yorky boy askin’ disparagin’ questions about one of our most auspicious citizens, y’all here?”
Great, I though, this guy was more of a caricature than a real person. But I guess they had to get the stereotype from somewhere. I guess they used this guy to cast the mould.
“OK, Chief Roberts. This is your town and I respect that,” I said not meaning a damned word of it. I was just buying some time.
“Now that’s more like it, boy. Why don’t you tell me what all this is about.” He pulled up another chair, giving me plenty of time to survey the room. It was old, dark and damp, wood-planked on all sides. Large wooden barrels and stacks of burlap bags lined the wall. The space around a narrow wooden door and a closed window let in the only light in the room. It was a little cooler in here than it had been outside.
I was tied to a wooden armchair with medium-sized rope. My wrists were tied to the arms, my ankles to the front legs. An amateur job for sure. The chair was old and rickety.
“Well go on,” he said.
“Did you hear about the skeleton found on Tiki Island?”
“No, I did not. What skeleton?”
“The gardeners dug up a twenty-year old skeleton in the garden. No one knows who it is. Sheriff Jackson found out I was on the Island on vacation and asked me to help with his investigation. Looks like it’s probably just a body that washed up during the storm back in Thirty-five, but he didn’t want to leave any loose ends. He asked if I wanted to help him get some information, so that’s what I’m doing.”
“Why you askin’ about Mr. Hawthorn?”
“Why do you care?” I asked, fully expecting the fat hand that came across my mouth. I was ready for it though, and made it look a lot worse than it was.
“You stick to answers, boy, I’s askin’ the questions. Now, spill it all.”
“One of the locals mentioned Hawthorn had some wild parties back in the Thirties. I was just asking how wild they were, in case maybe a hooker went missing or something. Doubt anyone would care now, but it would make the Sheriff feel better to know what the story was, that’s all. It’s been more than twenty years. Even if Hawthorn himself knocked off some doll and buried her on his island, there’s no way it could be proven.”
“That’s right, there’s no way. So there’s no point in stirrin’ up any trouble, is there?” he asked, and seemed to relax just a little. That was all I needed.
“Nope, none at all.”
There’s a definite advantage to being young and from the city. At twenty-eight years old I’d had my fill of bad situations, and learned the hard way how to get out of them. One of the youngest detectives on the force, ever, but the mind of man twice my age they told me. A lethal combination. Experience mixed with the strength and the balls of youth. I tilted the chair forward on the balls of my feet and rammed the top of the chairback into the fat man’s face with as much force as I could muster. Blood burst from his ruined nose as he screamed in pain. I spun around on one foot, and planted the back leg of the chair square against his shin and ran it down to his foot. More screams. Then I heaved myself up, jumped as far high as I could and came down sideways on the chair legs. The legs folded up under me, and I was able to get up and smash the back into Roberts again. This time he saw it coming and put up his hands, but I was too fast for him. The wood split his lips wide open and more blood came.
I rammed the chair against the wall and on the third time it broke apart, freeing my hands. Roberts lay on the floor, gasping for air. I was in no mood to be merciful.
“Ok, you fat, lousy red-neck two-bit excuse for a cop,” I said, and nailed him the gut with the end of my boat shoe. Good thing I hit the soft flab; I’d forgotten I wasn’t wearing my cop shoes, and a swing like that to the ribs would have cracked a toe. I kneeled down next to him. “This,” I said as I drove my fist into his already bloody nose, “Is for whacking me in the head with a sap. This,” I said, punching his chest, “is for the two slaps, and this,” I said as I took his own six-shooter out his holster and held it to his face, “is for being a jerk-off who thinks he can get away with anything he wants.”
He screamed, he yelled No! at the top of his fat lungs. Then he wet his pants. He honestly believed I was going to shoot him. Good.
“You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer. You have the right to remain silent, and if I were you, I would.”
“You…you can’t arrest me, you’re a New York City cop!”
“And at the moment I’m assisting the Sheriff of Monroe County. And if you think that doesn’t mean shit, you’re as stupid as you look and sound.”
He considered that. He whimpered.
“What do you want, Riggins?” He knew I had him. Even if I couldn’t arrest him, he was too stupid to bring a witness along to say I had resisted arrest or something like that.
“I want you to lay the hell off. You don’t want me asking questions around town, fine, I’ll back off. But you find someone I can talk to who has the answers and who will shut up about it. Otherwise I get my boys back in the city to start digging up dirt on your stupid ass, and I have a feeling it’s gonna come up dirty, dig?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure Riggins, sure. Whatever you want. Fuck, I don’t need that shitstorm comin’ down on me.”
“Then we have an understanding?”
“Yeah. Y’all just shut up about Hawthorn around town, all right? Then you and me, we can be great pals, right? No more tearin’ each other apart. I’m gettin’ too old for this shit,” he said, and I believed him.
I helped him up, and gave him his gun back, sans bullets. He holstered it and sat on a crate. I found another and sat down.
“Why did you go after me like that, Roberts? What the hell’s so important it’s worth all this?”
“Mr. Hawthorn,” he said breathlessly, “Is a great man. He’s done a lot to make this town and all the Keys a better place to live. His cash rebuilt a lot of broken houses after that big storm, and helped to get the roads paved, and the drainage system put in. And he never asks for a cent. Sure, he had some wild parties way back. He was young and rich and that was his business. And yeah, he ran rum and hookers up from Cuba, and once in a while he even brought in some cocaine, or hash. But that was a long time ago. That all stopped after Vivian died.”
“Vivian Hawthorn?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Funny you should call her Vivian, and him Mr. Hawthorn,” I said.
“Well,” Roberts said, then paused for a long breath. “I’m almost fifty years old, Riggins. Twenty years ago or so, when I was around your age, I was a deputy sheriff here. It was my job to make sure those rum and whore boats got into the docks down there safely, and that the liquor and ladies made it to Hawthorn Island without any trouble. I worked through Vivian. I knew her for years. She was a wonderful woman, a saint, and she was like a sister to me. I got myself invited to some of those parties and let me tell you, they were as fun and as crazy as you’ve heard.”
He swallowed hard. I wondered if “sister” was the correct term for the relationship, but decided not to push it. He was still the law here and could still make trouble for me.
“So who are you protecting? Hawthorn, or Vivian’s memory?”
“Both, boy, ’cuz when you slander Mr. Hawthorn, you slander her good name too. I can tell y’all this…There ain’t never been a girl killed or even hurt bad for the five years I helped run liquor to that Island. I’da known. Those girls he brought in from Cuba, they may have been whores but they were high-class merchandise, and he paid top bucks for ’em. If anything ever happened to one of those girls, those Cuban boys woulda come up here and slit throats from Key West to Metacumbe Key. Everything was worked out
real nice, and everybody got along or stayed out of the way.”
“Just like with you and me,” I said.
“Yeah, exactly like that. Come on boy, let’s get outta this hole. I’ll turn your direction to a man who can fill you in on the details.”
We got up and left. He never knew I had the .38 on my ankle the whole time.
+++
After I left Roberts I crawled into a little side-street bar and grill, and took a seat way in the back of a covered outdoor patio dining area. Live chickens roamed the patio. Electric ceiling fans cooled the air just enough to be pleasant. I ordered a Jack and Ginger from a Latino fella, and asked him for some aspirin too. He came back a minute later with four aspirins, the drink, an extra glass of ice and a towel.
“You no look so good, friend. You can wash up in the back eef you want.”
“Thanks pal, I think I’ll take you up on that offer.” I took the aspirins and two big gulps of the booze, and followed him back through the kitchen. On the way back I asked him for a grilled cheese sandwich and chips, and re-took my roost at the back of the patio. The ice was already melting.
While I waited for the sandwich I looked over the card Roberts gave me. The name and address was written in the scrawl of a man who had seen too many rough nights and bloody days.
“Captain Reams, Tours and Charters, Sunset Docks, Islamorada, Florida” the card read. Roberts said he’d be out all day, and to try him in the evening. Figures, I thought.
The sandwich came and I tipped the boy an extra fin to let me sleep off the head-pounding. He obliged and said he’d wake me up at four. I finished the sandwich in six big bites, downed it with the last of the drink and sat back in the chair, my panama resting over my eyes. I didn’t even realize I fell asleep so fast, because what seemed like a minute later the boy was waking me, the ice was water, the sun was hanging low in the sky and my wristwatch told me it was four o’clock. I was still pretty exhausted but managed to pull myself up to Jessica’s door. I knocked. Still no answer, so I sat on the floor. That fast, I fell asleep again, right there next to the door.
Murder on Tiki Island: A Noir Paranormal Mystery In The Florida Keys (Detective Bill Riggins Mysteries) Page 12