Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery

by Michael Haskins

  Chapter 38

  Lunch ended abruptly, a stalemate, meals half-eaten, and threats of what was to come the parting words. The agents didn’t believe me and I didn’t care. The Cold War was over, it was being taught in high school history classes, Nikita Khrushchev and Ronald Reagan were dead.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said as the three agents strutted out of the restaurant in a huff.

  “That they left you with the bill?” Norm laughed and then turned serious. “Hell, Mick, I told you to lie a little. The truth is what they want it to be, not what it is. You should’ve told your Cuban beach theory. They would’ve bought it because they could see themselves doing that.”

  “How’d we win the Cold War with people like them?” I said.

  “We won it because of people like them,” he said. “They’re methodical, cold, and determined to come out ahead. All that should worry you because they are not going away.”

  I tried a laugh that came out feebly. “Yeah, worry about Ted Williams and Jimmy Piersall, get real.”

  “Chris is the brains.” Norm continued eating his lunch. “Those two are muscle.”

  “So I assumed.”

  “Don’t underestimate her because she’s good lookin’.” He turned away and looked at the Jet skiers. I wondered what he was hiding. “She was one of the youngest agents in the agency. Her family worked with the Shah’s government in Persia. She was just a kid, really, and learned to read and write the language and used to go horseback riding with the Shah’s cavalry, their little mascot.” Norm stopped and smiled. “Iran.”

  “Yeah, I know. The Shah of Iran. Persian, not Arab. Right?”

  “Right.” He held the smile and I wondered why. “At that age, she was concerned about opium use in the city’s market place and one day showed up at the Embassy with a list of places people smoked, sometimes out in the open. She made a nuisance of herself, she came back so many times. She even had photos and showed the agent in charge how she hid the camera.”

  “And no one tried to stop her?”

  “Oh yeah, most of the embassy staff did.” Norm paused and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. “Anyway, by the time Langley knew who the new operative was, she was too good at her job to pack up and send home.”

  I laughed. “She recruited the CIA.”

  “Something like that,” Norm said giving me a hard stare. “This isn’t fun and games to them, Mick. They may have dressed silly, but their tactics are deadly serious. They’re old school, so today’s rules don’t apply.”

  “I’ve got marshals to be worried about,” I said and finished my ice tea. “I don’t need a group of over-the-hill spies on my ass. Do something, will ya? They all can’t be that stupid, talk to them.”

  “I’ll talk to the ones that will listen,” he said standing. “You’re making a mistake thinking they’re stupid. They maybe over-the-hill spies, but if they’ve lived this long it means they’re anything but stupid. Cunning is a more appropriate description.”

  “Okay,” I said, even though I couldn’t see anything cunning in the threesome. “What do we do from here?”

  “We do nothing.” He walked toward the water and stopped at the After Deck’s rail. He looked out to where the Jet Skis were buzzing. “I’ll see who I can make arrangements with and you hibernate.”

  “See if they’ll meet us at lunch or dinner,” I said. “I think we should meet them at different places and different times.”

  “Suggestions,” he said without taking his stare from the water.

  “Yeah,” I laughed quietly to myself. “Meet the French at Schooner, the Limeys at La Trat, the Israelis at Harpoon Harry’s, the German’s at the Smokin’ Tuna and the Russians at the Hog.”

  “You’ve given this some thought.” He turned to me. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I figure the French will like the cuisine at Schooner, the Limeys have to like good Italian food, so La Trat…” He didn’t let me finish.

  “Why the Hog with the Russians?” I had piqued his curiosity.

  “They’ve got vodka,” I said. After I didn’t get a reply from him, I added, “And there’s more than one way in and out.”

  “And?” He was satisfied with my answer.

  “And Bob and Burt can hide in plain sight.”

  “At least you know the Russians are the most dangerous,” he said and walked away.

  Chapter 39

  Schooner Wharf Bar on a Saturday afternoon and the place was packed with locals watching the Weather Channel for hurricane news, between drinks of course, and tourists sitting in the pea-rock patio, drenched in sunlight, with their plastic cup of rumrunners or some other alcohol-driven concoction. If they were from anywhere north of the Keys, it was probably getting cold at home, so soaking up a few rays, seeking that last sign of a tan before making that trip back seemed reasonable. The sky was dark blue with only a whisper of clouds crossing it. A warm, salty breeze sent hints of seaweed and algae through the bar reminding patrons they were on an island. No wonder everyone wanted to call Key West home.

  Michael McCloud and Carl Peachy played their mix of Key West songs, some originals from Michael—the crowd always cheered his ‘She Gotta Butt’ and ‘Tourist Town Bar’ songs—and they performed songs from a repertoire decades long. The locals knew the routine and the tourists ate it up.

  The bartenders, Vickie, Angus, and Sissy, kept busy filling orders from the servers running between tables, and the locals sitting around the four-sided bar. There were no empty seats, so I stood next to the long rail that separated the bar from a few tables facing the boardwalk. The rail was wide enough to hold your drink.

  Alexis walked by, smiled and said, “Kalik,” and kept on going to deliver drinks. A misting fan cooled the area and I had a good view of the flat-screen TV by the T-shirt shop for watching the hurricane reports.

  “Crowded,” the Professor said as he stood next to me, his notebook and drink placed on the rail. “I guess it’s Saturday afternoon.”

  “Professor,” I smiled because his silliness was more exciting than ridiculously dressed spies. “How goes the quest?”

  He drank from his cup. “It seems that my idea is not original. I’ve located texts on the subject on the Internet and that’s the bad news.”

  Alexis pushed the lime into the neck of my Kalik, handed it to me, threw me a pretend kiss, and went to take orders from others. I toasted the Professor.

  “What’s the good news?” I took a long swallow of the cold Bahamian beer.

  “I’m still doing research,” he said with more vigor. “I love research. I’ve ordered some of the books and papers online and I’ll see where they lead me.”

  “Do you still believe we’re in the netherworld and waiting?” I said. The conversation beat the hell out of my lunch talk.

  “Yes, yes I do.” He hesitated and took his pipe tobacco from his shirt pocket, and stuffed the pipe bowl with the aromatic blend. “I believe we are in a dimension other than the one we came from.” He put the tobacco back in his pocket and lit the pipe with a wooden match. “Maybe we slipped through a time warp.”

  “Please keep me informed.”

  “Oh, I will, Mick,” he said puffing white streams of smoke from the pipe and was ready to walk away. He walked up the steps toward the poolroom section of Schooner Wharf where he could sit at a table and write in his notebook, unbothered, without waiting for me to answer.

  Alexis brought another beer and I stood there listening to the music mixed with the bar conversations, and watching the summer tourists stroll along the boardwalk, slowing to gawk at the large tarpon swimming near the surface. Some bar customers tossed food scraps into the water and everyone watched the tarpons attack it.

  “You look like a fish in an empty harbor,” Pauly said standing beside me with his beer.

  I smiled at him, his bushy strawberry-blonde hair, and beard highlighting a darkly tanned, weathered face. “Look who’s talking.”

  He wa
ved at Alexis and raised two fingers, ordering a new round of beers.

  Pauly and I had been friends since I first moved to Key West, before I knew he was a drug smuggler. I learned that when I visited him in the Dominican Republic. Now he lives in the Lower Keys. He gave up smuggling when the Colombians and Mexicans began arming themselves and killing each other. He kept many of his contacts and I wasn’t sure if that was because he wanted to or they wouldn’t let him move on. Only Norm was better connected, but they belonged to two different worlds.

  “I’ve got a friend who’s an ER nurse,” he said, finished his Budweiser and stared at me. “How’s your memory?”

  “Who are you, again?” I said, wrinkling my eyebrows and squinting, trying to look puzzled.

  “Bruce Willis,” he said in a deep voice.

  “I love your movies and your disguise. I’d never have known it was you.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep for grinning.

  “You done?” He accepted our beers from Alexis, giving her his empty.

  I took the new beer. “Yeah. Can’t anyone have a secret on this island?”

  Pauly laughed. “A secret, what’s that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said and swallowed as much beer as I could. “My memory is fine. How are you doin’?”

  “Concerned about some of the things I’m hearing.” He looked worried.

  “What things?”

  “About U.S. Marshals, Boston FBI agents, a Whitey Bulger hit man…”

  I stopped him before he could add more. “What do you know or are you guessing?”

  “People in town talk, Mick, you know that.” He grinned. “I still have cops that talk to me and some ask me what I think about certain things. Who do you think grabbed you?” He finished his beer and waved at Alexis.

  “My bet is the marshals because they were cautious, they didn’t want to do anything that might kill me.”

  “Have you talked to the FBI?”

  “Nope. The marshal, Dudley Crabtree, said the FBI isn’t involved.”

  “And he wouldn’t lie,” Pauly said. “There are Boston, FBI agents in town.”

  “Nothin’ surprises me, these days,” I said. “There are old Cold War spies on the island too.”

  “Do say. What do they want?”

  “It’s all about Walsh and who he is or who he ain’t,” I said.

  “If the CIA didn’t buy your story, why bother with the others?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said and shook my head at the overall silliness of it. “How can anyone connect Walsh to a Cold War agent with contacts that he needed, not to mention his ability at disguises, to fool governments for years. Get serious.”

  “You should take the kidnapping seriously,” he said. “Hoods, back of vans and a deserted warehouse that should be taken seriously.”

  “I’m seriously pissed,” I said. “Crabtree denies it, of course, and Norm thinks I’m wrong, but who’s left? These Europeans weren’t here then.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Chapter 40

  “I can check with some sources and see what this Crabtree is capable of doing to get his man,” Pauly said and lit a cigarette. “But Norm is most likely right. He knows how the Feds work and has a better idea of who might be shady.”

  “Crabtree says there’s another player in the mix, because it wasn’t him,” I said.

  “If it wasn’t, he’s right.”

  “Who the hell else could it be?”

  “I’d be focusing on Walsh,” Pauly said exhaling smoke. “Or whatever his name is. He’s a loose cannon and apparently has a lot of people interested in him.”

  “Great,” I said. “So it could be anyone from Whitey Bulger to some Cold War spy. Just great!”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Mick,” he said and smiled. “I’ve got your back and Norm seems to be your front man, so you can relax. When’s Tita due?”

  I’d been so preoccupied with the luncheon and all this ridiculousness, that I’d let the situation with Tita slip from my mind.

  “She’s supposed to call me from Miami if she makes the six o’clock connection. If not it’ll be the nine o’clock flight,” I said and the words sounded sad, even to me because I wasn’t looking forward to the news she brought from Boston.

  “You take care of Tita and don’t worry,” he said crushing the cigarette with his foot. “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks for the beers,” I said, reminding him he bought two rounds.

  “Don’t be a smart ass, I’ll pay for them on the way out,” he said and turned.

  “You’d better,” I called after him, “because my memory isn’t that good and I might leave the tab open in your name.”

  He didn’t turn but shook his head and his mop of shaggy hair flew about. I left the empty beer bottle on the railing and walked toward the cigar kiosk thinking I’d get a fresh cigar and walk down to Smokin’ Tuna, Charlie Bauer’s bar on Charles Street.

  Three people lined up in front of the kiosk questioning the salesman about the cigars. I was getting antsy and hoped Slim, the proprietor, saw me waiting, when two burly men bumped into me. They didn’t look like tourists who’d bump into you as they meandered about because the bar was crowded. They wore garish tropical shirts trying to look like tourists, but had long pants on, and my mind quickly jumped to the two CIA men, Piersall and Williams, wearing socks with sandals and gaudy tropical shirts from Duval Street—pretend tourists.

  Without a word, each man grabbed me under an armpit, lifted me off the ground, and continued toward the boardwalk, forcing me along. I struggled and went to say something when one of them hit me quickly and hard in the stomach. I doubled over like a drunk and the men smiled. They began talking in Russian and kept smiling. No one paid attention. Three guys who had too much to drink.

  At the boardwalk, they stopped and when there was a break in the foot traffic, hurried toward the finger dock. My feet were off the ground and my breath came back slowly. We were halfway down the dock when they suddenly let go, startling me again as I landed on the concrete floating dock, stopping myself with outstretched arms. I shook my head, turned around and saw the Russians facing two others. The other two had military haircuts, guns in their hands, and whispered to the Russians.

  Bric Wahl, an old salt, Conch treasure diver, walked past the four men and helped me up.

  “A problem, Mick?” he said with a scary expression etched on his sunburned face. “Friends of yours?”

  “No,” I said and wiped my cargo shorts clean from the salt encrusted dock residue. I looked at the two Russians and they were quiet while the two men who saved me held guns on them. “What’s going on?”

  Bric motioned everyone further along the finger dock and stopped next to a go-fast boat. The military types edged the Russians along, grudgingly.

  “Not sure what’s goin’ on, Mick,” Bric said in his Conch accent, “but Pauly asked us to keep an eye on you.”

  “Russians,” the man with the blond crewcut said. “This is their boat, saw them come in on it.”

  “You want to explain yourselves?” Bric asked the Russian with the bushy mustache.

  “Go away,” he said in a thick accent.

  The two men with guns laughed.

  “You got a way with words, Ruskie,” Bric said and then followed through with a solid punch to the man’s midsection. Blond crewcut kept him from falling.

  Bric turned to the second Russian, who had a very straight nose and scruffy eyebrows. “You want to answer for your friend or do you want your nose broken?”

  “You do not know who we are,” bushy eyebrows said in his thick accent. “You need not get involved.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all.” Bric chuckled. “You’re the big, bad guys. Who the fuck are you and what do you want?” he said in a menacing voice. He walked over to the go-fast and looked onto the deck. “Nice boat,” he said. “Too bad if it sank.”

  “You are dead men,” bushy mustache m
umbled. “The man who owns that boat can buy and sell you many times over.”

  “I don’t think so, Ruskie, ‘cause we ain’t for sale, right boys?”

  The two men holding the Russians nodded.

  “But I can assure you, if we see your sorry asses in

  Key West again, or anywhere near Mick, you’re dead men,”

  Bric said within inches from bushy mustache’s sinister grin.

  “I am not afraid of you,” he said and spit in Bric’s face.

  The man holding him, hit him hard on the back of the head with his gun, but held him so he wouldn’t fall and draw attention to us.

  Bric took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. He walked up close again to the Russian and landed two blows to his midsection.

  “You should be afraid of me if I’m the one killing you,” he said and walked in tight circles on the narrow dock. “The boat I’ll take you out on isn’t as nice as this, but it’ll go to the Gulf Stream. I’ll tie an anchor around your legs. You understand this?”

  The Russian looked uninterested.

  “Where should I shoot him, boys?” He said to his two cohorts.

  “In the leg,” crewcut said.

  “Fuck him, in the head,” said the quiet baldheaded man.

  “Naw, I don’t want to kill him quick,” Bric said. “I think I’ll go for the shoulder, more blood that way. Know what I want the blood for, Ruskie?”

  Bric received no reply.

  “Sharks can smell blood in the water from miles away.” He smirked and got both Russians’ attention. “Yeah, I’d say about five, maybe ten minutes in the water, bleeding and there will be a shark frenzy.” He looked toward his friends and they both agreed.

  “See, along with the anchor on your feet…you know, to make sure you hit bottom, eventually… I’ll have a rope under your arms so I can keep you from sinking, hold you halfway in the water as you bleed. When the sharks start eating you, I’ll let go of the rope and they’ll follow you down.”

  Both Russians looked nervous for the first time.