“He was supposed get with Wizard at the Breakfast Club at Schooner Wharf. Tony said they had a few things to discuss and then he wanted to talk to me.” I turned back toward Tony and wondered what he wanted. “We were gonna meet at Schooner and go have breakfast, when he didn’t show up I walked down here and found him like this.”
“Maybe Wizard had help,” the Chief thought aloud.
“No fuss, no mess,” I looked around the neat cabin and wished I was outside.
“A patrol car is looking for him, Chief,” Luis walked in.
“Sherlock’s down below,” the Chief said and Luis went in search of him.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Go have breakfast at Harpoon Harry’s.”
“This doesn’t bother you?” He seemed surprised.
“Chief, I’ve covered drug wars, gang wars, revolutions, and riots in L.A., and I’ve learned to be grateful it ain’t my blood on the streets, and appreciate I’m still alive and capable of being hungry.”
“You’ll need to come to the station and give Luis a statement,” the Chief said as I headed toward the deck.
“You know the guy hates me.”
“Yeah, but I love you,” he smiled. “Come to the station when he calls.”
“Sure.” I walked outside, took a deep breath, and fought the urge to look at Tony one last time.
• • •
Padre Thomas Collins sat at one of Schooner Wharf’s empty thatched-roof patio tables drinking a con leche and eating an egg sandwich on Cuban bread. He wore dark cargo shorts, a faded blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, with an opened package of Camel cigarettes in the pocket, and sandals. He motioned me over and pointed to a second Styrofoam cup. I picked it up and was surprised to find it warm.
“For me?”
“I thought you might want it,” he looked up and smiled. “What do you think happened?”
Padre Thomas, as he liked to be called, grew up Irish Catholic outside of Boston. He became a missionary priest, had a parish church in Guatemala and about ten years ago walked away from his rectory. For the past eight years, he has been in Key West. Rumor is he lives on a stipend from the Church, but rumors run rampant around the island and rarely hold any grains of truth. His skin is tanned like leather from riding his bike, his only mode of transportation. He volunteers at a hospice and the Catholic soup kitchen, otherwise his time is his own.
I met Padre Thomas at Schooner Wharf a few months after he first arrived and everyone warned me that he was crazy, because he claimed to see and talk to angels. I believe he sees the angels, but I haven’t made up my mind on whether or not he’s crazy. He still considers himself a priest, but without a church.
“It’s not Wizard,” I sat down and took the lid off the con leche.
“I know,” he bit into his sandwich. “I think they’ll find him having breakfast at Harpoon’s.”
“Wizard?”
“Yes, I saw him outside there as I left.”
“The angels tell you anything about this?” I sipped from the Styrofoam cup.
He looked up with a devilish grin. “Someone is very concerned about the book.”
“Who?”
“Someone involved back then. Long before you or I ever thought we’d be in Key West.”
“Do you know who it is?”
Padre Thomas shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. “I warned Wizard yesterday. He told me he had an idea for protecting everyone and was supposed to pass it on to Tony this morning. He wouldn’t tell me more, just not to worry.”
“Tony should’ve worried.” I sipped the warm con leche.
Padre Thomas put his sandwich down and lit a cigarette. “Wizard doesn’t even know.”
“How do you know?”
“He asked me if I had seen Tony.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him no.” He inhaled deeply. “Because I hadn’t.”
“Can you help the cops?” I finished the coffee.
“You know I can’t,” his grin returned. “At first they wouldn’t believe anything I told them and then, since I’d give them information only the killer should know, they’d think I did it.”
He had a point. In the past, his knowledge of things that happened in secret or dark places had gotten him in trouble. I was one of the few people he confided in, maybe because he knew I believed him about the angels, or at least wanted to.
My cell phone chirped. “Yeah.”
“Mick, it’s Tracy at the Hog’s Breath,” the words whispered hoarsely in my ear, like Lauren Bacall talked to Bogey in the movies. “One of those old treasure guys is here looking for you.”
“Wizard?” It was too early for the Hog’s bar to be open.
“No, the one they call Lucky.”
“Where is he?”
“Downstairs.” Tracy worked in the office on the second floor. “He left you something, but he’s sitting at the bar waiting.”
“Thanks, Tracy, I’ll be there in a little while.” I closed the cell phone.
“All three of those treasure hunters are in danger,” Padre Thomas crushed out the cigarette and bit into the last of his sandwich. “Be careful, Mick.”
“Tell me something I can use, Padre.”
“They’ve scared someone from back then,” he mumbled as he chewed. “Someone who’ll kill to keep a secret.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” I got up and rode my bike down the harbor walk toward the Hog’s Breath, having learned nothing from the Chief, but Padre Thomas explained it hadn’t been Tony’s past that caught up with him, it was someone else’s.
• • •
It smelled and felt like rain, the humidity getting thick, as clouds blowing in from the south began to hide the morning sun. Key West had been getting afternoon showers every day for almost a month and they brought a summer mugginess that reminded us we lived in the tropics as well as in the southernmost city in the Continental United States.
The Hog’s Breath Saloon is a short block from the waterfront, at Duval and Front streets, but large hotels block any scenic view of the water. When cruise ships are in port, their smokestacks rise above the hotels and are visible from the Hog’s outdoor patio bar. It’s a friendly place where the bartenders remember your name and what you drink after only a few visits and, because it’s outdoors, smoking is allowed. I routinely meet friends there for cigars.
The parking lot between the bank and the Hog’s Breath had two cars in it and the outdoor bar area looked empty. As I rode in off Duval Street, I thought Lucky got tired of waiting and left. I was wrong.
I locked my bike in the bike rack and headed in.
To the right of the parking lot entrance of the Hog there is a stage, to the left a small raw bar that also served draught beer. Straight ahead was the large full-service bar with seating on all four sides.
Lucky was sitting on the ground, bar stools were turned over, and a sword, thrust through his stomach, impaled him to the bar. A small pirate flag hung from its grip. Lucky’s face showed pain and fear. Blood dripped in multiple spots down his T-shirt. I looked around, but there was no one. The con leche turned in my stomach. I walked to the side of the bar that faced the restaurant, so I wouldn’t have to see Lucky, and called the Chief.
Next, I called Tracy upstairs.
“Tracy, there’s going to be some police action downstairs,” I took a deep breath, “stay upstairs, but call Charlie and tell him someone has died at the bar …”
“Mick!” She didn’t let me finish. “Who?”
“You’re going to have enough cops upstairs in a little while, just call Charlie and prepare yourself …”
“For what?” the gravelly whisper began to sound nervous. “What’s happening?”
“Call Charlie, Tracy, and don’t mention my package, please. All you know is Lucky asked for me, so you called me, nothing else. The cops are on their way. Put the package in the safe, please,” I disconnected the
call and lit a cigar. I needed the package and I trusted Tracy to put it away and keep our secret, but knew it would cost me a lunch and twenty questions, in a day or two.
A squad car screeched into the parking lot, lights flashing, and siren wailing. The Chief pulled in a few seconds behind and had the cop turn them off. He held the uniformed officer back and walked toward me. He stopped and looked down at Lucky, then motioned me to meet him.
“You said he was Lucky,” he shook his head. “I guess he isn’t anymore.”
I chomped on the cigar, but there wasn’t the foul odor that the boat cabin had, I was just nervous.
The Chief got closer and bent down to the body. “Stab wounds,” he said, more to himself than to me.
“There’s a trail of blood from the raw bar to where you are,” I pointed to small splatters of blood on the cracked concrete floor.
“Why are you here?” he stood up. “Were you meeting him too?”
“I was having coffee with Padre Thomas and Tracy upstairs called and told me Lucky was here looking for me.”
“The crazy priest! Don’t you know any normal people?” he shook his head and watched the crime scene van drive in. “Did you touch anything? The sword?”
“You’re the most normal person I know, Chief, and no, I didn’t touch anything.”
Sherlock stopped at the entrance and looked down at Lucky. He scanned the stage and the raw bar and he saw the blood spatters. He walked to where they began and waved the Chief over. Pretending he was holding a sword, Sherlock twirled his wrist and thrust forward like Errol Flynn in an old swashbuckling movie, forcing the Chief backward.
“Tell me something,” he stabbed forward and the Chief backed up. “Tell me something, tell me something,” he repeated as he thrust forward. In four or five steps the Chief had his back against the stage railing and Sherlock turned him to the bar, “Tell me something,” he yelled and the Chief almost tripped over Lucky.
“The killer is getting messy and nervous,” Sherlock said, dropping his imaginary sword. “There was a conversation, he didn’t like what he heard, or didn’t hear and killed the guy quickly and cleanly on the boat. Here, he stabbed the vic,” he looked down at the body, “maybe six times from what I can see. He’s after something or someone and he’s getting nervous. Who’s left of the three?”
“Wizard is back at the station, so we know he didn’t do this,” the Chief looked at me. “The other old guy is Bubba?”
“Yeah,” I sat back down. “If he’s not on his boat, he’s probably at a bar.”
The Chief took Sherlock’s radio and called dispatch. He wanted Bubba picked up.
“What is it with the swords and pirate flags?” Sherlock checked behind the body.
“You know their story about finding the treasure, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard so many versions, I don’t believe any of them.”
“You’re probably right,” I took the cigar out of my mouth. “Tony was helping them write their memoirs and my guess is someone’s afraid of something in the story.”
“Why?” the Chief moved closer.
“If I knew that, I’d know who the killer is, wouldn’t I?”
“This sword looks as old as the other one,” Sherlock studied the sword handle. “There can’t be that many pirate swords on the island … maybe we’re looking for a collector.”
“Since the Pirate Soul museum opened there’s no shortage of replicas,” I said.
“Damn,” he stood up. “Two bodies, two swords, it’s gotta be the same killer,” he pointed toward the sword and pirate flag, “who is scared and that makes him more dangerous than methodical. Unless you’ve got an idea about a suspect, Chief, I think you need to call FDLE.”
“Yeah,” he sat at a barstool, his back to the body. “But let’s give our detectives a few hours on their own, maybe they’ll come up with a suspect.”
The Florida Department of Law Enforcement is like a state FBI and is used often by small municipalities in the Florida Keys when major crimes occur. Sherlock regularly uses the FDLE crime lab in his investigations.
“Someone at the marina must have seen something,” I added in support.
“You’re right there, Mick,” Sherlock answered a little too quickly, “people saw you, but no one saw anyone before you got on the boat.”
“Well, then,” I stuffed the cigar back in my mouth, “they didn’t see Tony get on, so they missed him, why not the killer?”
Two police cars pulled to a stop in the parking lot. It was time for the investigation to get going and I knew that meant talking to Tracy.
“Give your statement to the officer outside,” the Chief said. “And come to the station when Luis calls you. Any idea why Lucky was looking for you here, when the bar’s not open?”
“None,” I lied.
“You were lookin’ for the first vic and he got himself killed,” Sherlock said flatly, “you were comin’ to meet this vic, and he’s dead. Do me a favor, Mick, go home and stop lookin’ for people!”
• • •
I didn’t go home, because I needed the package Lucky had left with Tracy. A section of the sky filled with rain clouds, but to the north, the sun shined. I rode my bike to Harpoon Harry’s, knowing it would be hours before the police finished at the Hog’s Breath.
The breakfast crowd had gone and it was too early for the lunch bunch, so I grabbed a table in back and Ron, the owner, brought me a mug of black coffee and the menu. I ordered an egg and cheese sandwich on Cuban bread.
“You mind if I join you?”
Attorney Shawn Eden stood there, a warm smile spread across his freshly shaven face. I poured sugar into my con leche and pointed at the empty seat across from me.
Shawn is a big man, in size and in the community. His thick mop of hair has turned gray, but once it was as black as his attorney’s heart. His family has been in the Keys for forever and he is a Conch, the name given to local families that have lived here for generations. His dress code is colorful print shirts, creased linen pants, and expensive loafers without socks.
Ron brought him a mug of coffee and Shawn waved off the menu.
“A shame about your friend,” he said and poured four spoons of sugar into his coffee. “I talked with him recently about my backing the treasure hunters.” He couldn’t stifle a laugh. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but those guys were anything but treasure hunters.”
“You made a lot of money off their treasure, counselor,” I sipped my coffee.
“I met the three of them back in the ‘60s,” he closed his eyes. “More than forty years ago. I was fresh out of law school and I had my degree. What you see here in Key West today, that’s not what it was like when I came home.” He pointed toward the harbor and Waterfront Market, “That area there was filled with shrimp boats, PT’s was a tough country-western bar. And the shrimpers weren’t bringing in much shrimp, but they had a lot of square groupers to unload,” he laughed, again. “God, what a town this used to be.”
Square groupers are bales of marijuana. Key West businessmen backed local fishermen and they made fortunes bringing in loads of marijuana from mother ships offshore. It went on into the 1980s, but then the smugglers switched to cocaine and the rules changed. The money was better, but DEA and Custom Agents where in Key West and family men were going away to do hard time in far off jails. It stopped being a sport everyone was involved in, about that time.
“You’re right though, I made good money off their treasure,” he sipped the coffee. “I never thought I would. I saw the three of them as colorful characters and tried to help them out with money. I thought of it as a handout, they considered it an investment in their businesses.”
“Then you’re lucky they looked at it that way.”
“Well, yeah,” he smiled. “For the derelict drunkards and liars they were, or are,” he smiled again, “they turned out to be men of their words.”
“They sign anything?” I began to nibble my sandwich.
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br /> “Never, we shook hands,” he closed his eyes again. “I backed their bringing Conch in from the Bahamas and they scuttle their boat on some sandbar and ended up eating most of the Conch before the Coast Guard found them. I paid for them to get their captain’s licenses so they could use one of their boats to take tourists to the reef. Hell, Mick, there had to be a dozen other schemes. I remember the day they walked into my office with some of their treasure and wanted me to be their partner.”
“They needed money.”
“You got that right. In all, I probably put in a little more than fifty grand,” he grinned. “What a return on that investment.”
“You know Lucky was murdered too,” I watched him for a reaction. I didn’t see one, but then he’s an attorney and I am not sure they react to anything other than billing hours.
“Yeah, I got a call from the police.”
Shawn’s contacts went into all city departments and many local businesses, because he and his family owned a variety of businesses in Key West and the Upper Keys.
“Everyone knows I handle their legal affairs,” he broke off a piece of my sandwich and ate it. “I do that pro bono, too.”
“The cops have the Wizard and they’re looking for Bubba.”
“I know these guys, they couldn’t kill anyone, they might drown you by mistake,” he laughed, “but they couldn’t kill anyone.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the book?”
Shawn laughed clearly this time. “The book! Mick, it wouldn’t be a memoir it would be a work of fiction. They haven’t been in their right minds for forty years. Is that what the cops think?”
“I have no idea what the cops think.”
“Yeah, but you found both bodies.”
“I can’t argue that, counselor, and I think I’m Sherlock’s number one suspect.”
“You’re another one I’d lay money on couldn’t kill someone.”
“You know me, Shawn, I believe in running away so I can run another day.”
“A man after my own heart. Hey, I need to get to the police station and see they aren’t using a rubber hose on Wizard. I’ll see you around,” he stood up, said something to Ron and left.
I drank another cup of coffee, but still had a couple of hours before I could go back and get what Lucky had left with Tracy.
Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories Page 3