Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery

by Michael Haskins

  “You didn’t see what, Padre?”

  “They tortured you,” he said. “I couldn’t do anything.”

  “How do you know this if you didn’t have a vision?” I sucked on a piece of ice from my drink.

  “The angels told me,” he whispered. “They wanted me to know you were okay.”

  “That was nice of them.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my words. “They say anything else?”

  “You’re mad,” he muttered.

  “The angels tell you that or did you figure it out on your own,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “I knew you’d be mad.” He whispered. “But I have news for you.” He almost smiled in the darkness but his eyes told the truth.

  “Good or bad?” I said and hoped the words came out a little less harshly.

  “I don’t know, that depends on you.”

  “Let’s hear the news.”

  “The marshals didn’t kidnap you.”

  I didn’t know if it was good or bad news, but it was surprising. How did he know what I’d been accusing Crabtree of?

  “If the marshals didn’t do it, who did?” I remembered Crabtree’s warning about other players being in the mix. I didn’t need that.

  “I don’t know. But now you know who didn’t do it.”

  “Yeah, that leaves an island full of possibilities.” It was my turn to sigh. “I was so sure.”

  “Why?” He put out his cigarette and took a fresh one from the package but didn’t light it.

  “Whoever grabbed me went out of their way to hide their identities,” I said. “They even disguised their voices, so it had to be people I knew or at least would know. I figured they were the marshals trying bad guy tactics. Now, everyone’s a suspect.”

  “Bad guys wouldn’t care if you lived or died.”

  “Bingo.” I snapped my fingers and got up to get another drink. “Do you want a beer?”

  “I have something else to tell you,” Padre Thomas said.

  “From the angels?” I would’ve laughed but I was feeling my drinks and the angels scared me.

  “No.” He smiled and pointed toward the stage. “Norm is here and I think he has our drinks.”

  My longtime friend, and sometimes nemesis, Norm Burke walked from the bar section nearest the stage, holding our drinks and showing off a wide grin. Norm and I go back to my journalist days in Central America covering guerrilla actions and when they slowed or ended, drug smuggling. This was before Mexico exploded with drug violence, but the violence was still there between the various cartels at the time.

  Norm has been to Key West a few times before and each time it was due to trouble I was in and not aware of until his arrival. Padre Thomas has his angels and I have Norm Burke, though I wouldn’t call him an angel—his job often calls for him to kill people and he’s good at it. What was he doing at Schooner Wharf bar in Key West at midnight? Whatever the answer, like the angels, I knew it would scare me.

  Chapter 32

  Norm is six-foot-five, a trim 200-something pounds that he carries as if he were a lightweight boxer in training; his gray eyes, with flecks of yellow, remind me of deep, cold-water wells and he wears his hair military trimmed, probably to hide the gray beginning to show at his temples. His smile lights up a room when he needs it to and his scowl makes his enemies’ hair stand on end. He’s a dedicated friend and I wouldn’t want to find out what kind of enemy he’d be.

  For a nanosecond, I thought he was here because he had a fighter on the card at the Seminole Casino north of Miami. But then I knew, without the help of angels, that he was here because of Walsh and the marshals. I couldn’t see a connection, however if you could see Norm coming he wasn’t doing his job. You didn’t see him come and you didn’t see him go, usually because you were dead.

  Norm put Padre Thomas’ Budweiser, my Jameson, and his Kalik on the magic bar and shook our hands, never losing the grin.

  “What brings you to Paradise?” I knew Norm would rather be in Los Angeles than in Key West—go figure. Island life wasn’t for everyone.

  He tapped bottles with Padre Thomas and then they both took long swallows of beer.

  “Can’t a friend stop by for a visit?”

  “How’d you find me?” I sipped my Jameson and wondered if he’d continue lying.

  “If I can find your sorry ass in the warehouse district of Panama City, why are you surprised I found you on a small island?” He took another swallow of beer. “I mean, come on, how hard is it to find you in Key West?”

  “That’s what I am asking.”

  “You weren’t on the boat, the Jeep was gone,” he said between sips of beer. “John said you’d left the Parrot around seven with Bob and Burt. Gretchen said you ate and left Jack Flat’s, so I continued along Duval, ended at the Hog and there were your friends and they gave you up in a heartbeat.” He laughed.

  “And they didn’t come with you?”

  “They didn’t offer and I didn’t ask.” He finished his beer. “Another?”

  Padre Thomas nodded as he lit the cigarette he’d been holding. Norm found Vickie at the bar and ordered two more beers.

  “Did you know he was coming?” I looked at Padre Thomas as he exhaled smoke.

  He shook his head. “No idea,” he said and took a fresh beer from Norm.

  “So, to what do we owe this honor?” I sipped my drink while Norm and Padre Thomas took long pulls on their beers.

  “You don’t buy the casual visit?” Norm sounded offended.

  “Too much out of character.” I knew better, Norm didn’t do anything without a reason.

  He turned to Padre Thomas and shook his head. “He knows how to hurt a guy, Padre.”

  “What do you have to do with Walsh and the marshals?”

  “Walsh?” He looked confused, but looks are deceiving—especially his.

  “Doyle, maybe?”

  “I don’t know who they are.” He didn’t sound interested. “Should I?”

  “Why are you here?” I asked, tension woven into my words. It was late, I’d been drinking and was in no mood for more bullshit.

  “I’ve been asked to set up a meeting between you and three people I know,” he said as if it was something we always did. “I didn’t think you’d be out this late on a Friday night or I would have waited until tomorrow.”

  “This gotta be interesting,” I said. “Three friends of yours want to meet me and it has nothing to do with the marshals or Walsh. Give me a break.”

  “You’ve grown very untrusting, hoss, and I didn’t say friends,” he said with a pretend pout. “We get a free lunch if you talk to them.”

  “Nothin’ is free.” I reminded him of what he’d often said to me. “So what’s this about?”

  “I’m not going to argue with you when you’re so many drinks ahead of me.” He grinned. “We can have breakfast tomorrow and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

  I didn’t say anything. I chewed on a piece of ice from my cup.

  “They still let you into Harpoon Harry’s?” Norm asked.

  “Yeah, Ron’s insurance made him put in bullet resistant Plexi after your last visit, but he lets me in.”

  “Why don’t we meet there? Around eight?”

  “I don’t know if he’ll let me in with you. He remembers you.” I grinned.

  “Funny, hoss.”

  I turned to Padre Thomas. “Do you know what this is about?”

  “No,” he said and put his cigarette out. “Not yet.”

  “Why didn’t you just call and ask me to meet your friends at a hotel?” He had piqued my curiosity.

  “Not those kind of acquaintances and not my friends.” His words were flat and his eyes stared hard at me.

  “Who are they?” I wouldn’t let it go, and he knew what I was like when I was curious, especially after a few drinks.

  “People I wouldn’t want to leave you alone with.”

  “People from work?”

  “Not from where I work.
Let it go until breakfast.”

  It was almost one in the morning.

  “My Jeep’s parked on Southard, by the Mango Tree Inn,” I said, giving in to being tired.

  “I’ll drive you to the marina,” Norm said. “I can take a cab back to the hotel.”

  “Why not stay on the boat?”

  Norm had sailed the boat from Los Angeles to the Caribbean side of Panama to help me escape my Mexican nightmare. He had helped me find what passes as my sanity today and he’d stayed on the boat when visiting before.

  “These people need supervision to keep them in line,” he said with the grin intact.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Padre Thomas said, finished his beer, and lit a cigarette. “I’ll call first.” He shook Norm’s hand, slapped my shoulder, and walked out the back entrance to William Street. He lived a few blocks down by the cemetery.

  I finished my Jameson and we left a minute or two behind Padre Thomas.

  “You going to tell me?” We walked passed B.O.’s Fish Wagon restaurant and crossed Caroline Street—made famous by the Jimmy Buffett song.

  “There’s enough time tomorrow,” he said. “With all the Taser hits you got, maybe drinking isn’t a smart thing. Lose wiring in the head and all.”

  I stopped at Eaton Street and turned to him. “You said this wasn’t about the marshals or Walsh.”

  “It’s not,” he said. “The Taser treatment didn’t come from the marshals.”

  “How do you know?” I couldn’t withhold the anger I felt. He was playing games with answers I wanted.

  Norm started walking and I followed along.

  “Talk to these people tomorrow and you may learn more than you want to,” he said, as we got closer to Southard and my Jeep.

  “It’s not like you, Norm,” I said. “Why are you holding back? It concerns me… I’m tired of strangers scaring me, I don’t need friends doing it too.”

  “A smart man takes what scares him and tries to understand it. He looks to see if he should run and be protective or stand and challenge. A fool doesn’t’ care and charges. Which are you?”

  I gave him the keys to the Jeep and wondered what he really meant.

  “Are you smart or are you a fool?” he asked as he drove me to the marina.

  “Charge,” I yelled into the night and Norm laughed.

  Chapter 33

  I woke at six with a headache, took an over-the-counter pain medication, and went back to sleep. At eight-thirty, my cell chirped. Most of the headache had gone when I answered to hear Norm berate me for sleeping in.

  At nine-fifteen I walked into Harpoon Harry’s, fit as a Cajun fiddler, and sat next to Norm, a guilty look pasted on my face. The restaurant was busy with the Saturday morning breakfast crowd—a mixture of regulars and tourists.

  “Ron seen you?”

  “Nope,” Norm said between sips of coffee.

  I ordered a large café con leche, dark for the extra espresso, and we both ordered breakfast.

  “You going to explain yourself?” I sipped from the large cup.

  “You think your problem is the marshals?” Norm grinned. “Well, they’re only a small problem; you’ve got bigger ones on the way.”

  Great, just how I wanted to begin my weekend, with a cryptic message.

  “Can you speak English?”

  Our breakfast came and we ate without too much talking.

  After putting strawberry jam on the last piece of toast, Norm ran it through the egg yolk that remained on his plate, and ate it.

  “You started a shit storm when you found that body.” He began without any lead in. He knew I’d only found one body—at least recently—so no explanation was necessary. “Do you know who she was?”

  “No idea,” I said and held up my hands to stop him from replying. “Let me tell you right up front, I don’t want to know more than I already do. I don’t know where anyone is, including Walsh or Whitey Bulger’s fortune. If that’s what your friends want…”

  “They’re not friends,” he said. “They’re CIA, Mick.” He lowered his voice. “They ain’t interested in some outdated Boston gangster, either.”

  “CIA?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. “This about Central America?”

  “No, they’re not interested in what you did in Central America.” He laughed softly. “No one is that I know of.”

  “What do they want with me then?”

  “You wanna take a walk?” He stood up and handed me the bill.

  I paid at the counter, not seeing Ron and it wouldn’t have surprised me if he was in the kitchen waiting for someone to try shooting out the new windows—Norm leaves that impression on people.

  “Let’s go look at some boats,” he said. We headed toward the waterfront. “Somewhere quiet, without people.”

  I led him to the Tiki Bar at the Galleon Resort. Phil and Gilbert were setting up the round bar and said hi, as Norm and I leaned against the railing and watched Key West Harbor boat traffic.

  “You remember the late ‘80s, the beginning to the end of the Cold War? Berlin Wall coming down?” He looked toward Palm Tree Island and the derelict boats anchored there and not at me.

  “Yeah.” I looked toward the water and wondered where this was going. I was reporting from Central America, Mexico, and Cuba during the late ‘80s, not Europe.

  Norm told me about an operative who sold information to all sides during the Cold War—he claimed to be without politics and only desired money. He had many names and spoke several dialects, but after the Cold War was over the agencies unofficially, officially agreed the agent was one man with varying names and appearances—he was a master of disguise and accents. His information was good, eighty-to-ninety-percent accuracy and, Norm said, that was unheard of in the spy game. He sold to the Russians, Germans, English, Israelis, French, anyone who would pay, including the CIA. Everyone wanted him on their side and to know who he was, but no one ever succeeded.

  “When the Wall came down in late ‘89, he realized the game was over,” Norm said, still looking at the water. “He told each agency he was prepared to make one last sale. Of course, no one knew he contacted the others, they all thought it was an exclusive. He said he had a list of double agents and collaborators from the Stasi files and was willing to sell the list exclusively to them. The agencies paid but he vanished with the list, if it even existed.”

  Norm explained that everyone wanted the list because the rumor was that many of the collaborators were officials of foreign governments, including West Germany.

  “From what I hear, fear was widespread in the intelligence community and foreign offices.” Norm turned his back to the harbor. “It was assumed that someone met the selling price and bought the list. Since nothing came out about collaborators or double agents, it had to be the bad guys.”

  “All this involves me how?” I turned to him. “You’ve lost me.”

  “First, you found the body of Natasha Baron,” he said. “She was part of an old Cold War hit team and the CIA figures she was here working.”

  “Natasha, as in Natasha and Boris from the cartoons?”

  “You wouldn’t laugh at this Natasha if you knew her history, she’s no cartoon character and neither is her partner,” Norm said.

  “I still don’t see a connection to me.” I was concerned because Norm wouldn’t be here on a lark. “All I did was find the body, I didn’t kill her.”

  “The second problem you have is that it was a slow news day when you found her.” He sneered, ignoring my comment. “The local press reported how Walsh claimed unknown agents were after him, escaped on a Jet Ski and disappeared into the horizon. Very James Bondish,” he said. “Reuters picked up the story and it ran in most of the European papers and mentioned you, an award-winning journalist, had discovered the body.”

  Norm moved to a chair under the bar’s overhang and sat in the shade. “It seems this Dick Walsh’s description fits the Cold War agent and some retirees got to speculating
that it might be him. Right height and age.”

  “The guy’s a Boston criminal, not a Cold War spy,” I said with a laugh. “And you’re telling me the CIA thinks different?”

  “Agencies sat down in the early ‘90s and discovered each had paid in diamonds for the Stasi information. The CIA claims to have paid a million, MI6 admits to a million, also. The French to five million and the West Germans admit to three million. The Russians don’t agree on anything and the Israelis aren’t talking.”

  I whistled. “A lot of diamonds.”

  “Yeah, except what they admitted to paying and what they really paid is uncertain,” Norm said and stretched out his long legs. I saw he still wore old, worn cowboy boots. “An educated guess would be more than twenty million in diamonds was paid out and it could go as high as forty. Remember, some career diplomats’ names were probably on that list, if it existed. And you’ve got to realize these guys lie for a living and no agency would admit to being bamboozled.”

  “I still don’t see a connection.” I pulled up a chair and sat in the shade facing him.

  “You’re the last person to have seen Walsh alive,” he said. “So, everyone wants to begin at the beginning and that’s you.”

  “Kind of thin, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, very thin, but it could be the missing link that will connect them to the diamonds and even a small split of the twenty to forty million in this economy isn’t to be looked down on,” Norm said. “From what I’ve read, Walsh has been in the witness protection since the ‘90s, the mystery agent disappeared around the same time with the diamonds. I agree with you, it’s unlikely, but everyone’s gonna check it out.”

  “Who is everyone and how do you know this?”

  “At Langley they call it chatter,” he said and closed his eyes. “The spies, some retired, others still working at embassies or in freelance positions, are on the Internet asking about the missing man in Key West, checking it against old reports and news stories. Most of it’s posted on the Internet these days. Someone joked about the missing agent and diamonds and one joke led to another and then real speculation followed.”