Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery

by Michael Haskins

  I took another swallow of beer and laughed quietly. “You ever going to stop disliking Padre Thomas?”

  “He’s growing on me, but I’m doing what I can to fight it,” Bob said. “I wish I could explain it. I’ve seen too many phonies try to take advantage of people in these bars.”

  “He wants me to help Dick Walsh.” I knew Bob didn’t want to hear it.

  “Of course he does,” he said. “How are you supposed to do that? Your buddy Luis would love to catch you involved in doing something to help Walsh get away.”

  “He didn’t ask for that kind of help. Padre Thomas assured me the solution to helping Walsh would find me, I didn’t have to look for it,” I said and Bob laughed. “He says Walsh is innocent.”

  “Hocus-pocus,” Bob barked. “Like a fortuneteller, telling you just enough generic shit to fool you into thinking they know what they’re talking about.”

  “He’s got a track record with me,” I said as our food came. “He’s saved my life twice. No hocus-pocus there.”

  “There’s that,” he said and shook hot sauce inside the taco. “I don’t have to like it, though.” He laughed when he realized how it sounded. “I like he saved your life, don’t get me wrong, I just don’t like to have to deal with him. It’s personal.”

  When Bob grew up, somewhere between Oklahoma and Texas, Catholics were mostly Mexicans and, like blacks and Jews, not too popular. I am not sure it’s any better today for the unholy trinity, but Bob is working through it.

  Schooner’s dolphin tacos are good, but not spicy, so I splashed hot sauce onto the fish and mixed catsup and hot sauce with my fries. We ate without talking. Frustration fed my hunger.

  “You want another beer?” Bob pushed his empty plate aside.

  “No.” I ate the last of the fries. “Richard said he’d call to have me come in and talk to the marshals.”

  “That should be fun.” He smirked. “Walk down and see who’s at the Hog?”

  “Why not.” We stopped at the cigar kiosk, bought two and smoked them as we walked off the tacos and beers.

  September is the peak of hurricane season for the Keys, but the late afternoon streets were crowded with tourists who didn’t care. The closer we got to Duval Street the thicker the crowds became, window-shopping with drinks in plastic cups balanced in their hands, along with shopping bags full of Jimmy Buffett T-shirts.

  Heat hung in the still air and a bright sun moved slowly toward the Gulf of Mexico. September did not bring fall weather with it as it does in many other parts of the country. Even muggy New Orleans was beginning to experience cooler evenings. It was still summer in Key West and would be for at least another six weeks.

  The Hog’s Breath Saloon is a long block from Mallory Square’s famous sunset celebration. In early September the sun sets close to eight, so those waiting to cross the street and watch for that famous green flash at the water’s edge sat happily at the bar drinking.

  No doors, no windows, the Hog is open on two sides.

  The large, outdoor bar sits in the middle of a worn and a slightly lopsided concrete floor. Bare feet to cowboy boots, and everything in-between, beat the floor mercilessly every day.

  A solid roof covers the bar and framed, stretched canvas panels hang overhead to protect the small stage and patrons from the elements. A large tree grows in over the stage, and roosters and hens use it to escape to the roof when the bar is crowded, sometimes stopping halfway to listen to the music. Always a photo op of Key Weird, proof you were no longer in Kansas, or wherever home was.

  Another old tree grows next to the bar and its branches reach high over the roof. Three Internet-streaming video cams are easy to find at the Hog because tourists stand in front of them with drinks in hand, talking to people at home on cell phones, and waving. Why not? They’re on vacation in Key West enjoying themselves while people watching are at home or work.

  There is an inside, air-conditioned dining room and bar, but the live entertainment is outside, provided by musicians and sometimes roosters.

  A small raw bar is opposite the stage and serves draft beer, oysters and shrimp.

  Bruce Isaacson played solo on the stage, replacing Joel Nelson, the early afternoon entertainer.

  We found a space away from the stage, by the Front Street exit, where we could smoke and sometimes hear ourselves talk. The bartenders, Niki and Julie, brought us Mexican beers before we could protest.

  “So,” Bob said, “are we hiding out here?”

  “Hiding out?” I took a sip of the dark beer. “And what do you mean we, white man?”

  “Hiding from whatever Padre Thomas has sent you looking for.” He laughed and dragged on his cigar.

  “I don’t think a solution needs to search for us,” I said and took another sip of beer. “I think it will materialize out of nowhere.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s possible, if the marshals take charge.”

  “I’m not sure they can protect him from a murder charge.”

  “They’ve protected him for what, almost twenty years?” he said facing me. “That’s a long time and I assume they either need him for something or owe him big.”

  “Assume begins with ass,” I said. “You shouldn’t do it. Maybe we’ll find out, maybe we won’t. What’s the range on a Jet Ski with a full tank?”

  “No idea,” he said and blew smoke into the dusk. “Why?”

  Before I could answer, my cell phone chirped. I didn’t recognize the number, but thought it could be someone from the police station calling on a personal phone.

  “I gotta answer this.” I stood up and walked to Front Street to escape the noise. “Hello,” I said.

  “Mick?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Are you alone?” The voice spoke in a hushed tone.

  “Who’s this?”

  There was a moment of silence. I couldn’t hear any background noise.

  “Dick Walsh,” he said with a muffled voice. “Did you go to the house?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “And I spent about six hours with the cops, too. They want to know why you called me.”

  “They think I did it?” He continued to whisper.

  “Yeah. What are they supposed to think? Why’d you call me so many times, Dick?”

  “Will you meet me?” He avoided my question.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Where and for what?”

  “I need you to come alone. Sail toward Sand Key. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Was he calling from the Jet Ski? Sand Key is the popular reef destination for snorkel boats and local sailors, about ten miles off Key West. He couldn’t hide among the boats on a Jet Ski.

  “Dick, don’t take this wrong, but I don’t feel comfortable meeting you out by Sand Key,” I said. “There’s a dead woman in your house and you’re on the lam driving a Jet Ski…”

  “I only want to talk, I don’t need your fuckin’ boat, and I’ll answer your questions,” he said with a little anger in his voice. “I need to explain the situation to you, I need someone to fuckin’ know, that’s all.”

  “The marshals are here, why don’t you call them?”

  Chapter 10

  I explained Dick Walsh’s phone call to Bob, on the walk to where we’d parked. He had a few questions and was unyielding about my not going alone. I had been counting on him to back me up.

  “Mick, he’s a guy we’ve had a few drinks with, not someone we’re close to, someone you can count on,” he said, involving himself in the predicament. “You gotta think the worst case scenario to be safe.”

  “And that is?” We passed B.O.’s Fish Wagon outdoor restaurant on Caroline Street.

  “Figure he’s guilty as sin,” Bob said. “You like the guy, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a killer and you’re an easy mark. Think the best but prepare for the worst.”

  “So what do we do?” I knew what I wanted him to say and waited as we stopped at my Jeep. I wanted, but hoped I wouldn’t need his Navy SEAL exp
erience.

  “I’ll meet you in a half hour and we’ll sail together,” he said. “Don’t go without me.” There was concern and a warning in his tone. “If Walsh doesn’t like my being onboard there’s a reason and let’s hope we don’t have to find out what it is.”

  “It could be paranoia like the cops said.” I started the Jeep as he stood waiting. “We’ll motor so the sail covers can stay on and you won’t have to get dirty,” I said because Bob, being the taller of us, always took the sail covers off and got dirty doing it. He laughed as I drove away.

  Bob showed up in less than a half hour carrying his rifle case and handed it to me as he climbed onboard.

  I had the engine running and all but the bowline was untied. Bob tossed the line onto the dock and I backed the Fenian Bastard out of the slip. She doesn’t have thrusters to control how the bow turns when backing up. Because of the slip’s location, it doesn’t matter where the tide pushed the stern, once out of the slip I have a good shot at the cut that leads to the harbor.

  I motored out through the access cut to the Gulf of Mexico, between the military housing and Hilton Haven, a small inlet of expensive, private houses.

  From Garrison Bight to Key West Harbor the channel is manmade, narrow and shallow. The sun had set and the gray of early darkness settled in as we motored along Fleming Key, the Navy and Special Forces training site, watching the depth finder. On our starboard side was Rat Key, a small island circled by mangroves, and the city’s mooring field.

  We’d been on this sail a thousand times, day and night, good weather and bad, but I still paid attention to make sure the boat stayed within the narrow channel. The tide was coming in, so we moved against it. Motoring to the harbor would take close to an hour and then another two before we reached Sand Key Lighthouse, if we went that far.

  Bob was in the cabin when I heard the unmistakable metallic racking of a shotgun, a sound that is an attention grabber. If you hear it on a dark street, you want to run the other way. He came up the companionway holding a nickel-plated Remington 807, twelve-gauge shotgun.

  “Expecting sea monsters?” I held the wheel steady as we approached the turn at the tip of Fleming Key. It was tricky maneuvering and I stayed within the boundaries of the half-dozen red and green channel markers. At low tide, outside the channel was shallow enough for birds to stand and stare at boaters and a minor mistake in steerage would result with a boat running aground.

  “I am prepared for any kind of monster,” Bob said and sat across from me. “Where’s the Glock?”

  “Under my shirt.” I said. “I was a Boy Scout. Be prepared was our motto.”

  “We’re not helping an old lady cross the street,

  Mick.” He wisecracked, looking at the shallow bottom.

  Once we came out on the other side of Fleming Key, the channel became wider and deeper. We passed the Coast Guard Base on our left and Palm Tree Island on our right. Almost fifty boats anchored off the uninhabited island, just beyond the city’s jurisdiction. Though the county sheriffs, Coast Guard and the state’s marine patrol did sweeps of the anchorage, nothing seemed to come of it. Few had anchor lights lit, a nautical requirement, and even less had holding tanks and just pumped waste overboard.

  From the Galleon’s Sunset Tiki Bar we heard the songs played by Clint Bullard, its entertainer. The Pier House dining room was lit up and people still hung out on the Ocean Key Resort’s Sunset Pier listening to the entertainers. Stragglers moved slowly around Mallory Square. Conch Key lit up like its own galaxy, with its million-dollar homes, restaurant and hotel bungalows, on our starboard side.

  I set the autopilot toward a compass reading of 208-degrees and let the wheel go.

  “When did you get that?” I took the shotgun from him.

  “I got it as a gift.” He grinned. “Stainless steel, so it’s a good shotgun for a boater.”

  “How do you want to handle this?” I gave him back the shotgun.

  “At least it’s not too dark,” he said and looked around the water. “If he’s not alone, we’ll know.”

  “He’s running, on a Jet Ski, you don’t think he’s alone?”

  “I hope he is.”

  “Preparing?” I nodded toward the shotgun.

  “Mick, even on a Jet Ski he can overtake the Bastard,” Bob said. “If something goes wrong, the only way we make it is kill him, we can’t out run him or out maneuver him, and if he’s with others, we need to kill ‘em all.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Me too.”

  The Fenian Bastard cruised at six-knots, her hull speed, and we could hear the waves splash against the hull and the sail covers snap against the wind. We would have been under sail, but slowing down was a lot more difficult with the sails up, so I chose to motor. I had more control of her, even if we couldn’t out-run a Jet Ski.

  “Jet Ski calling Fenian Bastard, over.” The words sounded garbled on channel 16 of the radio.

  I picked up the mike, “Fenian Bastard here, over.”

  “Drop anchor, I see you, over.” That was all he said.

  I tried to reach him again, but he didn’t answer.

  “Has to be somewhere in those mangrove islands,” Bob said as he scanned the water to our west. “Another thing to consider, Mick.”

  “Yeah?” I grabbed my binoculars and searched the water for a Jet Ski.

  “Jet Skis don’t come with radios,” he snarled. “He’s in a boat.”

  Which also meant he could come from any direction.

  “Shit.” I made sure my Glock had a round in the chamber.

  I didn’t drop the anchor, I put the engine in neutral instead. The tide was still coming in, so we moved backward. We listened for the droning of an engine heading our way.

  Chapter 11

  The whine of the Jet Ski’s engine carried on the water. Even with the impending darkness we were able to watch Dick Walsh approach from the mangrove islands that separated us from the Northwest Channel, the water route to Florida’s West Coast. People have the misconception that if you go north from Key West you’ll get to Miami. Wrong. Go due north from the island in a boat and the first place you’ll come to is Naples on the West Coast of Florida.

  “He’s alone,” I said, following Walsh with binoculars.

  Bob did a scan of the water and murmured a reply that I guessed meant no one else was approaching. “He’s got a boat in the mangroves.”

  “Let’s talk first,” I said because Bob cradled the shotgun.

  Walsh slowed down and did a quick ride around the Fenian Bastard, keeping his stare on Bob. With one hand, he tossed me a line tied to the double-seated Jet Ski’s steering wheel and I attached it to a cleat. He sat there and looked like he was considering what to do next, his baseball cap on backward. If he had a weapon it was under his loose shirt.

  His appearance surprised me. He didn’t look like he had been on a Jet Ski for a long time. His fisherman’s shirt, with its many pockets, was dry. So were his shorts. He was barefoot.

  “Coming aboard, Dick?” I said to break the stalemate.

  “Why’s Bob got a fuckin’ shotgun?” He continued to sit.

  “Well, Dick, you gotta understand my predicament.” I figured honesty might be the best policy in this situation, honesty not being my strong point, usually. “The cops think you murdered that woman in your kitchen and they make a strong case for it. You ran away and now you want to meet with me. I am not comfortable with any of it.”

  I turned to Bob and nodded. He placed the shotgun on the cabin roof.

  “I did shoot the bitch,” Walsh muttered and climbed off the Jet Ski onto the Fenian Bastard. “But it wasn’t murder.”

  He was almost six-feet tall, and had a small paunch from eating and drinking too much, and a sunburned face.

  Bob gave me a sharp look and moved a step closer to the shotgun.

  “What was it?” I gave him a hand at the rail.

  “I want to talk to you about it and why…and my
whole damn life,” he said and sounded confused, but kept glancing toward Bob. “I need to trust you…and Bob, I guess…can I?”

  He stood there, looking tired, and moved his stare between Bob and me.

  “We’re here, Dick, but we’re being cautious,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said with a nervous smile and sat down. “I killed the broad at the house, but it was self-defense, honest.”

  “Answer a couple of questions and we’ll see how honest you are.” I sat across from him, watching where his hands went. “You called me for almost six hours, why me? Why not Padre Thomas who knew your background?”

  “Why didn’t you answer my fuckin’ calls?” He turned an angry gaze toward me, ignoring my question and I could hear his paranoia.

  I explained about the comedy club I’d been to. He didn’t look as if he believed me.

  “So, why me?” I asked again and received an accusing stare.

  “How much do you know?” He asked his sour expression a little anxious.

  “Dick, the cops had me for hours and think I’m involved. They told me what they know and that’s very little. Seems your history is only a few years old. About as long as you’ve been hiding from the marshals.”

  “You know anything else?” He looked edgy. “Do the fuckin’ marshals know you’re meeting me?”

  “The cops told me the marshals are on their way and want to talk to me, too,” I said. “No one knows we’re meeting.”

  Walsh squirmed. “Christ,” he moaned, bent forward and held his head in his hands. I expected him to cry. He didn’t. He laughed quietly. “They’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

  “Why does everyone want to kill you?” I needed to hear his reply, even if he was paranoid.

  “It seems that way, don’t it?” He frowned and looked behind us at the island of Key West.

  Did he expect the marshals to come swooping in? Bob and I looked at each other and waited.

  “You talked to Padre Thomas?” His attention was back on us.

  “Yes.”

  He waited for me to say more and when I didn’t he said, “He didn’t tell you?”