by Karl Tutt
Chapter 13
The rising sun shone a deep orange on the water. !0-12 knots out of the southeast. High 70’s. They don’t make better days for sailors. We rounded the south end of the key. Sombrero Light was pasted against the sky. Sunny took the helm. Fritz hoisted the main while I unfurled the genoa. We trimmed the canvas and KAMALA settled in at a steady 5-6 knots. Hawk Channel was covered in a soft chop just aft of the beam. There wasn’t much conversation, just satisfied sighs and hot coffee.
The rest of the day was pretty much like the beginning. Nothing but the rustle of the wind in the canvas and the bow gently carving her way through the water. We talked about dropping the hook on the north side of Boot Key not too far from Marathon. But the wind held and the night was clear. We decided to make an overnighter and stop in No Name Harbor the next morning. Steaks on the grill. Boat potatoes and some bag salad with a homemade vinaigrette. A nice Cabernet for Sunny and me. Diet Coke and several Marlboros for Fritz.
He had said little all day. The furrows in his brow got deeper and his jaw twitched from time to time. He brought the Sig up on deck and caressed it like some sort of Holy Grail. I watched and cringed. He slammed the clip in and out a few times, checked the chamber, and fingered the trigger.
After dinner, Fritz pled exhaustion and went below promising to take the graveyard watch. He lay on the settee, tossed for a minute, then settled into a snore that whirred like a chainsaw.
There were stars, but little ambient light in the basin. I could her Sunny breathing next to me. She topped off our glasses and crossed to the other side of the cockpit.
“I don’t want you to talk until I finish. No questions. I’ll tell you what you want to know, but for now you just listen. Promise?”
I nodded.
“I told you there were skeletons. I have my share and then some. I was a kid, barely nineteen. I guess that’s my excuse. I was pregnant. Robert wasn’t much older, and he said he loved me. Mom and Dad were married for over 40 years. It seemed like the thing to do. Make me an honest woman, make a home for the kid and all that stuff. So we went to the courthouse. He was nice enough when he was sober, but that wasn’t often. I think the marriage and the baby scared him. He got worse. Started drinking on the job. That didn’t last too long. Got fired. He hit me too hard one night. I fell down the steps in the basement. Started bleeding. A few hours later I miscarried in the bathroom. Flushed a part of me down the toilet. I couldn’t stop crying. He slapped me, told me to shut up and mix him a drink.”
She stopped and looked toward the shore. A sprinkling of lights flickered in the darkness. I could see the tears. She took a sip of the ruby liquid and went on.
“We needed money and I couldn’t ask Dad. I was working part time in a drugstore, but that didn’t even cover the groceries, much less the vodka. When I saw an ad in the classifieds for a model, I made the call. It didn’t say “clothing not required” and it didn’t mention the creeps that sat at the bar leering and grabbing your ass. Still the money was good and Robert seemed a little better. One night one of the goons followed me home from the club. Turned out he knew Robert. They had made a deal. I just didn’t know it. A threesome. It was a quick hundred, but I told Robert not again.”
‘You’ll do what I tell you to, Bitch.’ That was the way he put it.”
“I wanted to kill him. Thought about it. He kept a loaded Smith and Wesson in a drawer beside the bed. I wanted to shove it up his ass and pull the trigger. I didn’t. Suddenly he started to come home with cash. Not fifty or sixty dollars. Wads of hundreds. He kept it in a shoebox in the closet and dared me to touch it. Then one night I got home from the club and he and a buddy were doing lines on the kitchen table. It scared the hell out of me. I locked myself in the bedroom. A few nights later it happened.”
“He was lying on the bed. The sheets and blanket were soaked in blood and bits of his brain were scattered on the wall. The hundreds were everywhere, covering his body, on the floor, five or six stuffed in his mouth. I gathered up the bills that weren’t bloody, threw a few things in a suitcase and started the car. I didn’t stop until I was outside of D.C. It seemed like a big enough place to get lost. A month or so later I got word from one of my girlfriends that it had been ruled a suicide. No one was looking for me.”
My God. I thought. This can’t be my Sunny, a woman I loved. A woman that said she loved me. But it was. Beautiful, wise, and damaged. Maybe beyond repair. I watched as the phosphorous played in the wake of the bow. It glittered and flowed like some magical dust washing away toward some undefined eternity. I moved over next to her. She sobbed softly. I put my arm around her shoulder and whispered, “I love you.” She buried her head in my chest and heaved silently. My shirt soaked up the tears.
I heard Fritz shuffling below. He stuck his head up and growled, “You guys get some sleep. It’s my watch.”
We made our way to the v berth. She put her arms around my waist and pulled her naked body into my back. Her hands were cold. She held me a little tighter than usual.
Chapter 14
Sunny slept through the night. I tossed for a while and finally joined Fritz in the cockpit. There was a little chill in the breeze, but it washed me. Still I wasn’t clean. I thought about Sunny, but it was Brandy that haunted me. The red hair, the mangled flesh in her face, the malevolent mark on her forearm. The guilt built inside me and clung like the smell of stale sweat.
We glided past the lights of Key Largo, sitting quietly, each keeping our own counsel, or tending our own demons. The sun began to creep over the horizon and paint the swells in a brilliant gold. The day was new, but we were as old as Satan, covered in the crimson stains of evil and uncertainty.
At ten, I spotted the marks that led off to starboard and announced our arrival at No Name Harbor. It’s part of Bill Baggs State Park on the southern tip of Key Biscayne. On the weekends, this place was a madhouse of massive yachts and small runabouts, drunken boaters, kids yelling and laughing as they bobbed on anything that would float. Today it was quiet, a few day trippers on power boats and some cruisers relaxing before their departure to the Bimini, the southern gateway to the Bahamas. We found an open spot in the basin fifty yards away from the mangroves and dropped the hook. Sunny was up. She backed down on the anchor and Fritz let out enough scope to give us a 7-1 ratio. We were in. Coffee and Jameson for me. I was planning a nap in the cockpit. Fritz had burned his final Marlboro for the morning and retreated to the settee.
“One more thing before you crash, T.K. I told you I knew someone. I do. I’m going to make a couple of calls this morning. See if I can set up a meeting. I’ll fill you in after you get some rest. And thanks. I guess I have to admit it. I don’t want to, but I need you. And I think I’m in love.”
I had never heard those words from Sunny. I don’t know that they fit. But I slept in a peace that was denied to me many times since the deaths with no solace and only pitiful excuses.
We bobbed at anchor for the rest of the day. A few naps, some sun, and a nice walk around the pathway to the point and back. At seven we dinghied over to the Boater’s Grill. Enrique gave us his best Cuban smile and seated us at the rail overlooking the anchorage. The sun was setting and the breeze washed us. We ordered drinks. Soon an entire sea bass, head and tail, stared up at us with one glassy eye. It was deep fried to perfection. The white, flaky flesh fell off the bone. Fritz and Sunny went at it like the barbarians were at the gate. I washed mine down with a couple of sweating bottles of icy Presidente, a great Dominican beer. Hot brown rice and beans topped off the meal.
“Day after tomorrow.” Sunny said. “He’ll send a car to pick us up around seven. Dinner and drinks and hopefully some useful information.”
I didn’t know what she was talking about, but it didn’t matter. I figured I’d find out when I needed to know.
The next morning we left No Name around ten and motored north to Government cut. We headed off to starboard. I called the Miami Beach Marina on th
e VHF. I thought I heard a chuckle in his voice when I announced we were 31 feet, but he assigned us a slip. It was all here. KAMALA looked like a dinghy compared to the massive sport fisherman and long range motor yachts. There were three over 100 feet on the face docks. A runabout larger than KAMALA sat on the aft deck of a massive Bennetti next to a shiny black Escalade. Sixty footers were the cheap seats. Hey, it was Miami Beach and we were here. The dock master was polite, but obviously amused. I went up to the office to register. The slip prices matched the neighborhood. We had just settled in when I heard the sound of an outboard off the stern. I turned to see an old Avon inflatable closing on us. The driver was waving like a madman and hollering “KAMALA. FOXES’ LAIR.”
It was Chris. I watched him approach and thought about all of the years we’d been friends. He had mysteriously bailed out of Key West after being accused of the murder of Alexis, the child whom Voodoo had claimed. I figured I had lost him, hadn’t seen him or heard from him in months. I had cursed myself many times for thinking he might have been guilty. I should have known better.
He tied off at the stern and came aboard. He hugged Sunny, shook hands with Fritz and embraced me.
“I’ve missed you, Buddy,” I said.
“I just couldn’t take it. I wouldn’t have hurt Alexis for anything. It kind of worked on me that anyone would believe I could. Had to get away from the evil eyes. I’ve been anchored up near the Venetian Causeway for a couple of months. Even got a job. I’m doing the MacGyver thing at one of the local chandleries. A lot of guys know where they want to go; they just don’t know how to get there. They come to me and I give them some suggestions, even some solutions.”
Chris was good at that, maybe even brilliant. ‘Think outside the box’ was probably tattooed on the inside of his skull. Sunny handed him a cold beer.
“Well, Darlin’, you still know the way to a wandering sailor’s heart. So what the hell are you guys doing up here?”
Fritz took over. Chris had known Angel since she was a child. They had that special thing that Chris always had with kids. He hugs them and he makes them laugh. He got quiet when Fritz got into the details.
“So when she gets to town, we’re going to snatch her. Take her home. Try the rehab again. I don’t know. Maybe it will work this time. Anyway, she’s going home with her Dad.” The tone in Fritz’s voice set off something in all of us that screamed and slashed.
Well, it damned sure sounds crazy, but I’m in,” Chris said quietly. “You just tell me what you want me to do. I’m in.”
“Come on, Chris. This might be dangerous. Two murders that we know of. Could be more. We don’t want to put anyone at risk.”
“Fuck you, T.K. You think I’m going to turn my back on Angel just because it’s the safe thing to do. I held that kid every time she stubbed her toe on the dock. Anyway, it won’t be the first time we stepped into the shit. Tell him, Fritz . . . I’m in.”
Fritz lit another Marlboro. He looked at me, stared at Chris for a moment, then nodded.
Chapter 15
We spent the afternoon walking on Ocean Boulevard at South Beach. Nothing had changed. The restaurants and hotels were resplendent in their best Art Deco attire. Pinks and greens, music, and a parade of the beautiful people, both straight and gay. Tall raven haired women in heels, tight slacks and rainbow tops, hands fluttering, feverishly conversing in Spanish, Portuguese, French, and occasionally, English. The dandies strutted in their white loafers, shirts open to the belly and gold chains dangling and chattering around their necks. We stopped at the News Café for a fat bold Reuben and a Kalik. The food was delightful, but the people were the real treat. We laughed and gawked. Then it was back to KAMALA for a well earned nap. I was still astounded by the array of power yachts at the marina. Floating palaces with uniformed crews cleaning and polishing, refinishing the bright work, each with a yes sir or yes ma’am ready on their lips.
We all caught showers and put on our best finery. Sunny looked absolutely stunning. White canvas slacks tight enough to be painted on her butt. No bra, a burgundy top that hung loosely about her shoulders, showing off the glory that God gave her. No boat shoes, not tonight. White sling back heels, thank you very much. Her hair was rich and golden in the sunset. I didn’t know who we were meeting, but he was going to like it. The car arrived at the gate precisely at seven. A black Mercedes limo. Freshly waxed and immaculate inside.
“I am Raoul,” the driver said in perfect English. “I will deliver you to the home of Mr. Litton forthwith.” He held the door for all of us, but his eyes were fixed on Sunny’s ass. I can’t say I blamed him.
We went back over Ocean Boulevard to Collins Avenue. The houses were like small hotels. Imposing gates fronted each one. To keep the tourists on the outside, I guessed. Nevertheless the pervading theme was warm and inviting, all lit up like the private tributes they were. There were several guards at varying degrees of attention. I suspected the guest lists were severely limited. We pulled up in front of a magnificent Mediterranean that looked more like a Moorish castle. Raoul hit an unseen button and the black spiked wrought iron swung open slowly.
A short, stocky man in a white silk jacket stood on the tile steps to the entrance. He was shaking like a jitterbug and his smile occupied most of the front portico.
“Sunny,” he bellowed as Raoul opened the door for her. She rushed into his arms and kissed him enthusiastically on the cheek.
“Guys, this is Bingo Litton, my friend and my savior.” He made an “aw shucks” gesture.
Bingo actually reminded me of a ferret. His eyes were dark and fiery, too close together. His snowy teeth protruded and his nose was too large for his face. I immediately got a hint of clever, but behind the guile was a kindness and generosity that shone in his genuine delight over Sunny. Nothing sexual in his hug, just the affection of a father or an eccentric, but very dear uncle. His handshake was firm and dry. He was stronger than he looked and I bet he could use it if he needed to. He and Fritz were the perfect contrast, both short and solid, but Bingo was groomed like a model from GENTLEMEN’S QUARTERLY, while Fritz looked like a small gorilla that had cleaned up as best he could. Chris was observing the scene like a character from LAW AND ORDER.
“Hey, I got drinks,” Bingo said. He led us into a foyer with a twenty foot ceiling. It was emblazoned with a colorful mosaic of Daniel and the Lion. The floor was polished Spanish tile. He laughed as I looked up.
“That’s me,” he said, “always in the lion’s den.”
We followed him through the house onto a deck surrounded with marble columns and statuary. I recognized the three classic Davids’. Donatello, Michelangelo, and Bernini, each with their take of the boy hero who, against all odds, slew the Philistine giant, Goliath. I couldn’t help but feel humble in that kind of company. The wet bar was nearly as impressive. Raoul stood behind it, waiting to mix any expensive concoction we could imagine. I opted for a double of Woodford Reserve over ice with a whisper of water. Sunny had a Margarita with salt. Chris followed my lead. Raoul raised his eyebrow when Fritz said resolutely, “Diet Coke”.
There was a pool to our left. The light from the underwater spots danced on the surface as the turquoise liquid flowed from the mouths of polished brass dolphins.
“I know you guys want to hear the story,” Sunny said somewhat reluctantly. Bingo just grinned and settled back into a leather chaise. Sunny took a long sip of the lime froth and sighed. It was going to be difficult and I wondered what parts she’d leave out. I figured the murder was the big one.
“My luck had gone cold. I was in D.C. I was alone, afraid and ready to do whatever it took to make a buck. I went to the only thing I knew. Dancing. Bingo hired me before I had taken the first step. He owns a string of places from Philadelphia to Miami. All what we politely call gentlemen’s clubs. I knew he was going to hit on me, make me stage a ‘private performance’ to keep my job. I waited. It didn’t happen. He never touched me until one night when everyone
else had left. We sat in his office and talked for hours. Then he reached over and put his hand on my arm.
“Honey,” he said, “you ought to go back to school. You’re too good for this place. Every time I see one of those creeps reach for your ass, I want to kill ‘em. I got some friends. Gonna send you up to UVA. You got the brains for it and you got the class. Don’t worry about the money. It’s all covered, no strings attached. At first I thought it was a con, but then I received a letter of acceptance on official stationery.”
I was on the Dean’s List for four semesters. When it came time for grad school, Bingo just said “Make me proud.”
“And I am. Sunny’s the best thing I ever did. She’s a light. I never had any kids, so I guess she’s it.” There was a note of sadness in his voice, but he was still beaming.
We were all silent. Finally Sunny wiped a tear and laughed. The ice was broken.
“I have a daughter,” Fritz said. He took the lead and told the ferret what we knew. Bingo shook his head.
“I got you. These girls, sometimes I’m the best bet they can make. They got nobody who cares. No dope, no hooking out of Bingo’s establishments. They come and they go. Every once in a while, I hear from one of them. They’re married, got kids, respectable jobs. I guess the bottom line is I try to protect them. Let them make a few bucks while they can and move on to something better. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but I don’t have any trouble sleeping at night. Sunny is my star. The best of them. Gorgeous, smart and with a heart as big as Chicago. I’ll help you guys any way I can.”
“Angel is one of M’s girls. She has a tattoo on her forearm . . .” He interrupted.
“I know the mark. I don’t work M’s girls. He keeps them under tight control. There’s a circuit. They travel from one club to another up and down the east coast. Uses them as headliners. He has them doing things. Stuff I don’t want my girls to do. Sometimes flies them to Vegas for ‘special parties’ with the A listers. Maybe the NBA Championship, the Super Bowl, Nassau. If you pay, you play. And believe me, you play in style. He pays them damned good money, get them hooked on that and this blue shit. Some kind of weirdo stuff you drink. Keeps them high and happy. When they’re in town, he puts them up at his mansion on Ocean Boulevard not too far from the old Versace place. Big iron gates, armed security. They don’t leave except to go to work. I hear one of them disappears every now and then. Maybe they know too much or maybe he’s just used them up.”