“I like your answer,” Russell said. “Maybe between the three of us we can keep Ernest safe and help you find what you’re looking for.”
“Unless of course,” Peirce said, “You think you can do a better job of keeping track of this Greeley character and the detective by yourself, in a town you don’t know.”
“I’d appreciate any help I can get,” I said.
Peirce threw a tight little smile in my direction. “Good. Now that we’ve got that settled, why don’t you tell us the rest of the story?”
I felt a sick tightening of my stomach. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out where I knew you from,” Peirce said. “As you were telling us your story, it dawned on me. I was in Miami yesterday and I happened to pick up a two day old copy of the New York Times someone left in the lobby of my hotel. Your picture was on the front page of the paper Mister Locke. According to the article, you killed a detective in New York, and it was you who killed your sister. You’ve got about three minutes to convince me I shouldn’t call the sheriff and have you arrested.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I’d been afraid this was going to happen for the last three days. My hands felt sweaty as I grabbed the edge of the table. I could tip it and buy myself a few seconds if I decided to jump up and run. I glanced over my shoulder toward the bar. The place had filled up a little since I’d sat down. I’d never make it to the door. A shout from Joe Russell would set everyone in the bar against me.
At least Peirce had kept his voice low. Nobody seemed to be paying any particular attention to us. I took a deep breath and said, “I didn’t kill my sister or the copper.”
“Why are the coppers looking for you?” Peirce asked.
The three of them stared at me, waiting for an answer. For some reason I thought I could trust them, or maybe I was just tired of keeping everything to myself.
“Boyle claimed that I killed Belcher--that was his partner. I swear I was with my lawyer at the time.”
“So why not stick around and clear yourself?” Peirce asked.
I locked my eyes on his and hoped I sounded sincere. “I laid everything out for Belcher, and he bought it all. The following day he got plugged and Boyle swore he saw me do it. The coppers were gunning for me and the D.A. wouldn’t even look at my evidence after Boyle pointed the finger at me. After that, Boyle killed a friend of mine and shot another cop. That cop lived and squealed so now Boyle’s on the run too.”
“Sounds like a tall tale to me,” Peirce said. “You’re a writer. That makes you a professional liar.” He nodded toward Hemingway and added, “I give you exhibit number one.”
I turned to Hemingway. “Why would I come down here and warn you if I were guilty?”
“He’s got a point, Waldo,” Hemingway said. “If he was hiding out, he wouldn’t come in here and draw attention to himself. I think we should at least hear him out.”
“If what he says is true, then Ernest is in danger,” Russell said. “Locke here’s the only one who knows what this killer looks like. I say we give him a little rope and see what happens.”
Waldo Peirce lifted his eyebrows and looked like he’d been sucking on a lemon. “Agreed,” he said. “If he’s screwing with us, we won’t even bother with the sheriff. We’ll cut him up and use him for bait. I told Ernest I wanted to get a hammerhead this trip.”
A shiver ran along my spine. There was no doubt in my mind the man would do exactly what he’d said. Of course being used as bait was only one of several bad options.
“Convince us.” Hemingway studied me through half lidded eyes as I related the details of Helen’s murder. I told them about the other girls and Ila Quinn. I talked about Belcher, Ed’s murder, and about Boyle trying and failing to kill the other detective.
“Why’s this copper got it in for you?” Russell asked.
“I don’t know.” I finished my beer and pushed the glass aside. “Boyle has a shady reputation. I’m guessing Greeley paid him to cover his tracks. Boyle was determined to pin my sister’s murder on me from day one. Refused to even look at the evidence I turned up.”
“If Boyle’s wanted in New York, why don’t we call the sheriff and let him know the man’s in town.”
“Because I’m wanted too. I’m not too keen on the idea of being arrested along with him.”
Joe Russell leaned his elbows on the table. “You got a plan?” he asked. “Or are you running around blind?”
I nodded to Hemingway. “I figured I’d follow you around and watch your back. If I’m right, Greeley’s going to come after you. If I can catch him alone I hope to get him to confess. I figured you’d make a good witness.”
Peirce took a fresh cigar from his breast pocket, bit off the tip, and lit a wooden match on the edge of the table. He drew on the cigar until he had an even burn going. Then he blew a vast cloud of smoke in my direction. “It doesn’t sound like much of a plan to me.”
“You got a better idea?” I asked.
“Let us call some friends and ask around. It’s a small town. Everyone knows us and they’ll tell us where he’s staying. You take him where he’s staying. He won’t be expecting trouble if he doesn’t know you’re in town.”
“I like the idea,” Russell said. “And I like Waldo’s idea of fishing with live bait.”
“I don’t,” I said.
Russell waved off my worries. “Not you. This Greeley fella. We take him when he’s not expecting it and haul him out to Pilar. Then we tie a rope around his waist, and drag him along behind the boat for a mile or so. He’ll confess.”
I couldn’t tell if the two men were serious. I shifted my attention from Peirce to Russell and then glanced at Hemingway. He nodded in agreement. These guys were spooking me out. I’d come in contact with a lot of criminals in New York. I’d even met a couple of gangsters who wouldn’t think twice about gunning down a man. But what Russell was suggesting sounded damn cold to me.
Hemingway waved for another drink and when Big ran it over Hemingway tossed it down without blinking.
“Our friend here has an unbelievable tolerance for drink,” Peirce said. But he loses his edge about this time at night. I vote for Locke following you home Ernest. Especially since we know this guy’s gunning for him.”
“Someone should go with him,” I said. “That would be the perfect time for Hank Greeley to attack him.”
“I don’t need a shadow,” Hemingway said.
Russell shook his head. “You’re stubborn as an ass, Ernest. You don’t even know what Greeley looks like.”
“I’m not going to have anyone hold my hand. Now the discussion’s over.”
For a moment it looked like Hemingway was going to get up and leave, but Russell ordered another round of drinks and Hemingway settled back in his chair.
“There is one more thing,” I said as Big set a beer in front of me.
Peirce’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders tensed. I could tell that his suspicions had once again been aroused. “What’s that?”
“When I came into town I saw the copper I told you about, Michael Boyle, and Hank Greeley sitting together drinking a beer in front of the El Anon ice cream shop. They were acting pretty chummy. I’m not sure Greeley’s going to act alone.”
Peirce shot a dark look over at Russell and asked, “You sure you want to get involved with this guy, Joe? He’s liable to get us all killed.”
“I don’t know, Waldo. Things might get interesting around here. Hell, I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
As they talked among themselves, I sipped my beer and watched the shifting crowd that wandered in and out. Sloppy Joe’s was a popular place. At times I couldn’t see across the room. Smoke floated near the ceiling like a storm cloud. The customers grew louder and more boisterous as the night wore on. Once, while doing a story about insane prisoners in New York, I’d spent a day locked in a building filled with crazy people. Sloppy Joe’s reminded me of that asylum.
At
one point I thought I caught a glimpse of Hank Greeley standing in the doorway, but he disappeared before I could point him out to my companions. I don’t think he saw me, and I never saw Boyle.
At a little after one Hemingway stood, said, “It’s time for me to go,” and started walking toward the exit. When he reached the door I jumped up. “I don’t care if he likes it or not,” I said. “I’m going to follow him.”
“Figured you might,” Russell said. “It’ll be dark out there. Do what Ernest does, follow the lighthouse light. It leads right to his house.”
I turned away from the two men and began weaving my way through the crowd. I ran my eyes around the room looking for Greeley or Boyle. Just because I didn’t see them, it didn’t mean they hadn’t seen me. When I stepped out into the hot, humid air my heart began to race.
I expected Hemingway to take Duval Street, which was still relatively busy even at this early morning hour. Instead, he turned in the opposite direction, and then made a left onto Whitehead. A partial moon lit up the night, but a cloud drifted across its face and thrust the street into darkness. The lighthouse light flashed in front of us and Hemingway quickened his step.
I let him get several houses ahead of me, and then I followed. The further we moved away from the bar, the darker the street became, and then the cloud shifted to cover the entire moon. I picked up my pace so as not to lose sight of Hemingway. If it hadn’t been for the lighthouse it would have been impossible for me to follow him even though I trailed him by only forty or fifty feet. The steady turn of the light lit up the street for a few seconds, and then the night went dark again.
Each house we passed had two or three or sometimes four rain barrels set out under the eaves to catch water. Everything about this town was so different from New York, I felt as if I’d stepped into another world. Maybe I had. Maybe this was all a dream. I wish.
We’d walked about four blocks when I noticed someone standing alongside a house halfway down the street. I felt a rush of adrenaline and between the sequential bursts of light, I ran toward the house. I counted the seconds, and when it was time for the next flash I threw myself onto the ground so I wouldn’t be seen. The next time the light flashed the street was empty. Disappointed, I picked myself up from the ground and wondered if I’d really seen anyone.
I looked around and Hemingway had disappeared too.
I thought I saw someone to my right when the light flashed. Pausing to listen, I heard cars a block away on Duval, but no footsteps. Ahead of me I caught a glimpse of Hemingway. When the light flashed I’d lost him again.
I spun around, searching for him. The flashing light had blinded me and I could barely make out the outlines of the nearby houses. I heard running footsteps behind me. Before I could react an arm grabbed me around the neck and began to squeeze. I tried to pry the arm away and wondered how I’d ended up going from hunter to hunted.
“Why are you following me?” Hemingway whispered in my ear. His breath smelled of whiskey and tobacco and I realized he wasn’t quite as drunk as I’d thought. I stopped struggling and he loosened his arm.
Gasping for breath I said, “I thought I saw Greeley at the bar so I decided to follow you home.”
“How do I know it’s not you trying to kill me?”
“I could have jumped you anywhere along the street,” I said. “I’m trying to keep you alive. I can’t help it if you refuse to take me seriously.”
Hemingway considered my words and then released me and pushed me away. My hands were shaking, and I bent over and rested them on my knees as I drew in several deep breaths of air.
“You’re not much of a street fighter, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Hell man, you let a drunk take you in the dark. If you’re so damn determined to save my life, the least you could do is get yourself a gun.”
“I’ve got one,” I said. “It’s back in my hotel room.”
“Oh that makes me feel better.” The light flashed and Hemingway pointed to a house across the street. “I live right there, so you can go back to your hotel now. I think I can cross the street by myself.”
As he started walking toward the house he called out, “Thanks for the protection, Mister Locke. I don’t know how I’d have gotten home without your help.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I spent most of Saturday closeted in my room. I didn’t want to run into Boyle or Greeley during the day. Boyle might shoot me on sight. As for Greeley, approaching him at night would work to my advantage. If Boyle showed up, I’d worry about him then.
Around three I borrowed a pair of binoculars from the front desk and went up to the rooftop. The air was thick and I rolled up my sleeves. It didn’t help. I began to sweat and my shirt was soon clinging to my back like a playful child. It made my skin itch. The roof presented me with a view of the entire downtown business district, and I scanned the length of Duval through the binoculars. I watched a young boy ride his bicycle past a gaggle of girls, then turn around and ride by again. He was showing off, riding with his hands held up above his head. I cringed when a car swerved to miss him. I examined every storefront, checking out all of the pedestrians. There was no sign of Boyle or Greeley.
Crossing to the other side of the roof I located Hemingway’s house, and explored the area surrounding it. Again, no sign of Greeley or Boyle. I lowered the glasses and wondered what I thought I was doing. I was in way over my head. I had counted on Ed being there to help me bring this nightmare that had become my life to an end. I missed him. I missed Helen. I missed Mary. Hell, I even missed New York.
I shook the dark shadows from my mind and carried the binoculars downstairs. It was time to head over to Sloppy Joe’s. As an afterthought, I turned around and ran up to my room. When I’d left the room earlier I’d made a decision not to take the gun. I loathed the idea of wearing a jacket, it was too damn hot. But Hemingway was right. A gun was useless if I didn’t have it with me. Still, I didn’t know if I was hardboiled enough to plug someone, even if they were shooting at me.
Before throwing on the jacket, I tucked the revolver into my belt and rolled down my sleeves. From the conversation around the table the previous evening, I’d learned Hemingway usually appeared at the bar sometime after four in the afternoon when he’d finished his days writing. I hoped to beat him to Sloppy Joe’s.
The black bartender Joe Russell referred to as Big Skinner was standing behind the bar. He nodded without smiling, poured me a beer, and set it on the counter. When I reached into my pocket he shook his head. “Mr. Russell says anything you want is on him.”
I picked up the glass and scanned the room. Joe Russell sat at the same table where I’d left him the previous night. He was reading a newspaper and seemed unaware of what was going on around him. Two men dressed in dirty blue jeans and work boots walked in and sat down next to where I was standing. Three men in business suits were drinking beer at a table in the farthest corner of the room. Their heads were bent forward and they seemed to be arguing about something. I suspected this was a typical afternoon in paradise.
When I walked over to Joe’s table he didn’t bother looking up. “Have a seat,” he said “You read the paper?”
“No.”
Russell folded the paper and showed me the headline as I sat down. It read, STORM WARNING. I took the paper, skimmed the article, and saw that as of press time a storm was brewing east of Long Island in the Bahamas, about four hundred miles from Key West.
“It going to hit here?” I asked.
“Good chance of it. I just got off the phone with Ernest. He seems to think it’s going to be a bad one. We’ve got until maybe noon on Monday to get ready for it. Looks like you picked a bad time to visit.”
I took out my cigarettes and offered them to Joe. He took one, tapped it on the table, and pulled a pack of matches from his shirt pocket. He struck a match and held it out for me, and after he got his started he flicked the match onto the floor.
“I�
�ve been in storms before,” I said.
“You ain’t been in a storm until you lived through a Keys hurricane,” a voice said at my elbow. For a big man Skinner moved about like a fox. He set a steaming bowl of some sort of chowder in front of Russell and the smell of whatever it was set my mouth to watering.
Russell saw me eyeing the bowl. “You ever try conch chowder, Jim?” he asked.
“No.”
“Big, bring the man a bowl.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Russell.”
Russell dipped his spoon into the bowl and smacked his lips. “The only thing tastes better than good conch chowder,” he said. “Is deep fried conch fritters. We make it through this storm and I’ll make sure you get a chance to try those too.”
“You make this storm sound like a big deal,” I said. “But you don’t seem all that worried.”
“I got a crew coming out first thing in the morning to board up the windows. We’ll have plenty of time to worry tomorrow and Monday. Tonight we eat and drink.” He nodded his head toward the bar. “Here comes your chowder.”
Waldo Peirce came in ten minutes later and by the time he sat down Skinner was working his way toward the table with another bowl of chowder.
Peirce wore a funny little smirk on his face. “Any trouble getting Ernest home last night?” he asked.
“I get the feeling this is a rhetorical question. You talked to Hemingway, didn’t you?”
Russell pushed his empty bowl into the center of the table. “We both did. It wasn’t your fault. Ernest is a hunter by nature. You just got a little too close.”
“I thought I saw someone following us.”
“Greeley?” Peirce asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “The flashing lighthouse light made it seem like I was moving through a bad dream.”
“You need a gun,” Russell said. “I’m sure the copper has one.”
The Storm Killer Page 21