Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island

by H. Terrell Griffin

  The building was concrete block covered by a layer of stucco, some of it sloughing off. I could see bare blocks under the beige exterior. A glass door gave entrance to a dim recess of ugliness and body odors, tinged with the smell of fish, cigarette smoke, and stale beer. A bar took up one wall, with tables situated about a small linoleum-covered floor. Bare concrete showed in the spots where the covering had been ripped up. No sunlight penetrated this dark space. A fat man in a white T-shirt with no sleeves leaned on the bar, talking to the lone customer. It was two in the afternoon.

  I'd brought Cracker with me. He knew this world and I didn't. The regulars whispered secrets to each other that they would never divulge to an outsider.

  We walked in. The bartender gave me a bored look through hooded eyes. He saw Cracker, and his mouth turned up in what could be taken for a smile. I wasn't sure.

  "Hey, Cracker," the bartender said. "Beer?"

  "Sure," said Cracker. I'd never known Cracker to turn down a beer, no matter the time of day.

  "Fats," said Cracker, "this is a friend of mine, Matt Royal."

  "Beer?" asked Fats, looking at me. I assumed that was his idea of a pleasantry.

  "Miller Lite, if you have it."

  He bent to the cooler behind the bar and came up with a can of Budweiser for Cracker and a bottle of Miller Lite for me. He set them on the bar. No coasters.

  "Fats," said Cracker, "I'm looking for Wayne Lee. Do you know where he lives?"

  "Not exactly. He got kicked out of his trailer over at the park when he stayed drunk a few days and didn't work. The manager said he was tired of putting up with that."

  "Do you know where he went?" asked Cracker.

  "Pretty much. Why?"

  Cracker looked at me, and I nodded my head. "I think he's in some trouble, and Matt here is a lawyer. We want to help him out."

  "I know he ain't got no money for a lawyer," Fats said.

  "It's a freebie," I said. "For Nestor Cobol."

  "Nestor's still trying to take care of him, huh?" asked Fats, a sneer on his face.

  I had no idea what that was about, and I didn't want to find out. Maybe Nestor and Wayne had had a falling out, and sooner or later, Fats would mention my visit to Nestor. Well, no harm. I'd know what I needed to know by then.

  "I guess so," said Cracker.

  Fats took a swipe at the bar with a paper towel, moving a little dust around. "He'll be drinking somewhere by now," he said. "I don't know where he goes. He moved over to the Tamiami Trail area a couple of weeks ago. He's only been in here once since then. He can't get a ride, usually."

  "Do you have an address?" I asked.

  "No, but I can give you directions. I took him home the last time he was here." And he told us the block on which Wayne lived.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  There are parts of Bradenton into which one does not venture alone at night. Wayne Lee lived in one of those areas. I took Logan and my nine millimeter along for company.

  "What are we doing?" he asked. "I wouldn't even come here in the daytime."

  "We're looking for a guy."

  "What guy?"

  "Wayne Lee."

  "Who's lie."

  "Just a guy."

  "That doesn't make any sense."

  "It will," I said.

  "Why are we looking for this guy?"

  "He may know something about Peggy."

  "Okay. I give up. What?"

  "Varn used to hang out at a dive called Hutch's on Cortez Road. He was usually with a guy named Wayne Lee, a deckhand on fishing boats out of Cortez. I know Lee. The bartender at Hutch's said he lives up here. On this street. In this block. I don't know which house, but you can always count on Lee being drunk by ten and stumbling home from somewhere. Maybe we'll get lucky."

  "What if we don't?"

  "We'll come back tomorrow night."

  "Wow. I can't wait."

  The neighborhood was quiet and dark. No streetlights, although the fixtures were still present. The city had stopped replacing the lights when some bureaucrat determined that his department couldn't stay ahead of the street thugs shooting the lights out. It's easier to deal drugs in the dark.

  We sat. The street was lined with bungalows built for returning servicemen at the end of World War II. A neighborhood built on the G.I. bill. It was once a pleasant place to raise a family, but it was now a testament to urban blight; a warren of drug dealers and dope addicts, a decaying ruin that would continue to deteriorate until the city bulldozed the whole damn place.

  We watched a car approach the corner, blink its lights twice, and pull to the curb. A hooded figure darted from an alley, passed a small package through the window of the car, took a wad of cash in return, and slithered back into the darkness. The late-model Mercedes sped off.

  Over the next hour, several more cars stopped, made their buys and left. The kid in the hooded sweatshirt was doing okay.

  I saw the lone figure walking up the sidewalk, weaving a little as drunks do, staying upright by sheer will. He was not tall, about five eight, and skinny. I'd met him at Tiny's a couple of times, brought there by Nestor Cobol, a fishing boat captain who had married one of the local girls. Lee was affable, if quiet, and took his drinking seriously. His tattooed arms were ropes of muscle, his hands calloused and scarred, the result of working the nets on the fishing boats. He was missing several teeth, and his blond hair was cropped short; a buzz cut that grew out over the weeks until he could afford another haircut. He was in his early thirties and looked fifty.

  I turned in my seat. "We're going to take him when he gets to us," I said. "He's strong, so don't get careless."

  "You're the lawyer," Logan said, "but wouldn't this come under some kind of kidnapping statute?"

  "Probably. But he won't know who we are, and we'll let him go as soon as he tells us what we want to know"

  "Okay. Give the word."

  Lee was at the back bumper of the Explorer.

  "Now," I said.

  We both opened our doors. I ran around the rear of the car as Logan confronted Lee. The specter of two men jumping out of a car at him didn't seem to cause any great surprise to Lee. He stopped when he saw Logan, and then turned to face me. He must have heard me coming.

  "Matt," Lee said. "What're you doing here?"

  "So much for anonymity," said Logan.

  I stopped, stuck out my hand to shake. "Hey, Wayne. Got a minute?"

  "Sure. You got anything to drink?" he asked, shaking my hand.

  "Get in," I said, motioning to the front passenger door. "We'll find a bar."

  Logan got into the backseat, and we drove two blocks to Tamiami Trail and turned south toward Sarasota. No one spoke. It was as if Lee was used to people picking him up in the middle of the night and taking him for a beer.

  In the second block, on the right, I saw a small concrete block structure with a blinking neon sign advertising Budweiser beer. I pulled into the gravel parking lot and we entered the building.

  The air was permeated with the smell of stale beer and unclean airconditioning filters. A faint hint of urine floated out of the open restroom door. There was a bar along one side of the room with three men sitting on stools, hunched over their drinks, not talking. They all turned as we entered, and then returned to staring into their glasses.

  The bartender sat on a stool, smiling at a girlie magazine. "Help you gents?" he asked reluctantly, raising his head.

  "Beer all around," I said, making a circular motion with my index finger. We sat at one of the tables.

  Lee looked at me and smiled. "I ain't got no money, Matt."

  "Beer's on Logan," I said.

  Logan raised his head, a resigned look on his face. "What the hell. I'll uy.

  The bartender brought three bottles of Bud and placed them on coasters on the scarred tabletop. "That'll be nine bucks," he said.

  Logan dropped a ten on the table, and said, "Keep the change."

  "Wayne," I said. "Do you know a Clyde Varn?
"

  Lee chugged half his beer, set the bottle down on the coaster, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "Nope."

  I showed him the picture of Varn.

  "Sure. That's Jake Yardley. He's an old buddy."

  "From where?"

  "I don't know. Just around."

  "Around where?"

  "Around here." His voice was taking on a whiny quality. "I don't remember a lot sometimes."

  "Wayne," I said, "it's important that you remember where you first met Yardley."

  "Oh, I first met him at his house."

  "In Tampa?"

  "No. At the trailer park on Cortez Road, out near the fish houses."

  "He lived there?"

  "Yeah, with some young girls."

  "Girls? How many? How old?"

  "There was two of them. Probably twenty or so. Well developed, if you know what I mean." He held his hands in front of his chest and tried for a leer, but didn't quite make it.

  "Who were they?"

  "I don't know. He never said."

  Talking to drunks is difficult. Logan often complains about it after I've had too many.

  "How did you meet Yardley?" I asked.

  "I help out in the trailer park sometimes, raking stuff up when the boats ain't running. I was working out there one day last summer, and Jake invited me in and offered me a beer."

  "And the girls were there?"

  "Yeah, but they didn't stay long. They was gone within a couple of weeks."

  "Do you know where they went?"

  Wayne took another long swallow of his beer, shook the bottle, and held it up to the sparse light from the bar. He stared pointedly at its emptiness.

  "No. He never said. I figured they got tired of hanging out with an old man and took off."

  "I heard that you and Yardley go out drinking together a lot."

  "Yeah, when he's around. Which ain't much anymore. He moved out of the trailer park. Can I get another beer, Matt?"

  "When?"

  "Now"

  Logan stood. "I'll get it," he said, and walked toward the bar.

  "What I meant," I said, "is when did Yardley move out of the trailer park?"

  "Months ago."

  "Where'd he move to?"

  "Don't know. But he shows up sometimes and buys me beer."

  "How does he know where to find you?"

  "Don't know. He just comes into the bars where I like to go:'

  Logan returned with another beer for Lee. Mine was still untouched.

  "Who'd want to kill Yardley?" I asked.

  "Nobody. He's a nice guy."

  "Somebody killed him yesterday. Planted him in Durante Park."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope. He was shot."

  "Wow."

  "And his name's not Yardley. It's Clyde Varn."

  "Son of a bitch," Lee said, taking another long pull on his beer.

  "What else do you know about him?" I asked.

  "Nothing."

  "Did he ever say where he was from?"

  "Not really. South Florida, I think. Maybe the Keys. He used to talk about the fishing down there."

  "Did he ever say anything about the girls who were living with him?"

  "No. But they were sisters."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Because they always called each other `sister."'

  "And you don't know where they went?"

  "No," he said. "One day they just weren't there anymore."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "That's a spooky guy," said Logan.

  We were driving back to Longboat Key. It was near midnight and the streets were quiet. A rain squall had moved through the area while we were in the bar with Wayne Lee. The streets were wet, the lights reflecting off the sheen on the asphalt of Cortez Road.

  "I feel sorry for him," I said. "He's a drunk, and he's getting worse. Pretty soon, they won't let him work the boats anymore, and he's going to end up on the streets."

  "He's almost there now"

  "That's why Captain Cobol tries to take care of him. He won'tjeop- ardize his boat with a drunk, though. When Nestor won't take him out anymore, it'll be over for Wayne."

  "What do you think about what he said about Varn?" Logan asked.

  "Not much to go on. Who were the two girls living with him last summer, and where did they go?"

  "Yeah. And if Varn was hired muscle for the drug runners in Miami, what's his connection to the Keys? Maybe Wayne will remember something else and call you."

  I'd left my business card with him in case he sobered up enough to dredge more information from his booze-soaked brain.

  "I'm not counting on it," I said. "I think I'll ask our friend Debbie to see what she can find out about Varn on the Internet."

  "Debbie? From Moore's?

  "Yeah. She's been taking computer classes. She swears she can find anybody or anything. I think she's figured out how to hack into a lot of databases."

  I called Debbie at home early the next morning. She was a night owl, and I knew I'd wake her up, but I needed information. She'd forgive me. Sooner or later.

  "Deb," I said. "Matt Royal."

  "Do you know what time it is?"

  "Yeah. Almost eight."

  "Geez. This better be good, Royal."

  "Can you get on your computer and see what you can find out about a guy named Clyde Varn?"

  "Call me back this afternoon. It's way too early."

  "This is important, Deb."

  "Who is he?"

  "I think lie may have something to do with the missing girl I was telling you about yesterday."

  "Okay. I'll get back to you in an hour."

  "Bill Lester tells me Varn was convicted on a marijuana charge some years ago. The FBI files don't show anything else. Maybe that'll help you find the right guy. Check out Jake Yardley while you're at it," I said, and hung up.

  I was drinking coffee on my sunporch, reading the morning paper. The wind was up, and the bay was roiled and gray, punctuated by little white caps. The sun was shining, and in the quiet I could hear the moan of the wind as it cut through the palm trees and around the building.

  My phone rang again.

  "Matt, Bill Lester."

  "Morning, Bill."

  "Do you know Wayne Lee?"

  "Yeah. Why? Is he in trouble?"

  "He's dead."

  "What?" I was shocked. "I saw him last night."

  "Bradenton PD found your business card in his pocket. They called me. I'm calling you. Talk to me."

  I explained why Logan and I were with Wayne the night before and how we came to find him. "We left him at the bar, drinking. I gave him a twenty for more beer, and Logan and I left."

  "He just had some pocket change on him. He probably drank up die twenty."

  "How did he die?"

  "Shot through the heart. Small caliber, maybe a.38. The same caliber that killed Varn."

  "Same weapon?"

  "We don't know yet. The crime lab will compare it and let us know"

  "Where did they find him?"

  "On the street, about a block from where he lived."

  "Bill, why is it that two people I just talked to about Peggy turn up dead?"

  "That's what I'd like to know," he said, and hung up.

  I called Logan to tell him what had happened.

  "The poor bastard," Logan said.

  "We've got two dead guys that you and I are connected to. All within two days. They have to be involved somehow in Peggy's disappearance. That's the only common thread between us and them."

  "Stay safe, Matt. I don't know what we've stumbled into."

  "I'm beginning to think the shooting at Coquina Beach wasn't random. It must be connected somehow to Yardley and Lee, and to Peggy. You got your gun?"

  "Nearby at all times."

  "Mine too."

  My day was not off to a good start. I couldn't concentrate on the morning rag. No good news anyway. Curiously, there
was nothing on the missing body from the vulture pit. Sarasota PD was keeping a lid on it. I put the paper down and poured myself another cup of coffee.

  If the placement of Varn's body was supposed to be a message to me, it would be clear to the killers that I didn't get it. I had spent time with Wayne Lee. Would they be coming for me next?

  That was not a pleasant thought, but I was pretty confident I could take care of myself. I'd stayed in shape, and the Army had long ago taught me a lot about self-defense. Those lessons are drilled into the soldier with such intensity that they're not likely to be forgotten. The memory resides in the muscles, and reactions become automatic, instinctive, and violent. Plus, I knew how to use my nine millimeter.

  The phone rang. Debbie.

  "Got some stuff for you, Matt, but it's a little confusing."

  "Talk to me."

  "Clyde Varn was born in Brooksville, up just north of Tampa, graduated from high school there, got drafted, fought in Vietnam, honorable discharge, and then a string of petty-crime charges. A lot of those are in Monroe County, down in the Keys. He was convicted once in Miami on pot possession, and that's it.

  "Seven years ago, he testified against some drug runners in federal court in Miami. Then he dropped off the radar and hasn't been seen since."

  "How long ago did he disappear?"

  "Right after he testified."

  "Isn't that a little odd? Could he have been in jail somewhere?"

  "No. I would've found those records. Plus you said that Bill Lester's search of the FBI files didn't show any convictions other than the misdemeanor pot thing in Miami some years ago. And I found that one."

  "Where has he been for the past seven years?"

  "That's the interesting thing. About the time Varn dropped off the planet, Jake Yardley shows up. He gets a couple of credit cards, a Kansas driver's license, and he's living in an apartment in Topeka. He doesn't seem to have a job, so I don't know what he was living on. I can't find any history on him before he showed up in Topeka. It's like he dropped in when Varn dropped out."

  "Maybe that's what happened," I said.