by Karl Tutt
I pulled the panties out of Sunny’s mouth. She gasped and the saliva ran down her chin. I looked at her and my mind howled. I stared at Mustapha. He gasped through clenched teeth, but there was a sickly smile on his lips. I hesitated, then fired again and put a slug in M’s guts. He hit the floor, clutching his belly and groaning like a wounded animal. I went back to Angelo. I pressed the Taurus against his temple. His eyes popped open and a violent shudder rifled through his body. I pressed harder and he began to whimper. I felt the warm sweat of my finger against the trigger. I rolled my shoulders and started to pull.
“Don’t do it, Doc. I never touched her. It was M. He made me do it. We got money. Please.” It was the whining of a child, but he was a man. And I was about to spread his brains all over the carpet.
I heard Sunny whisper. “T.K., look at me.” I turned my head. “Not pretty, I know, but I’ll heal. But you won’t if you pull that trigger. You’ll never escape the darkness. It will haunt you until hell freezes over. Call the cops. We got them. That’s all that matters.”
I wanted to kill him . . . wanted to rid the world of the ugly and diseased things he represented. But it wouldn’t work. They’d come back . . . and perhaps I’d be one of them.
I eased the barrel off his head. I stood. My eyes dared him to move. He stayed on the floor, now sobbing. I looked at him again, prostrate on the floor, helpless, defenseless, like some of his victims. I cocked my leg and kicked him in the face. I heard a snap and his beautiful nose twisted. The blood and snot flooded out of his nostrils.
I made the call. Then I took the rest of the tape off of Sunny and wrapped a blanket around her. I held her and stroked her while she wept. Frank was there in minutes.
Chapter 25
There wasn’t much of an investigation. The evidence the cops had gathered in Miami coupled with the assault on Sunny made things simple and damning. Mustapha and Angelo both recovered. They were in custody at Key West’s lovely facilities on Stock Island. No bail this time.
Frank had confiscated the Taurus as evidence, but when I asked him if I could take Sunny out of town for a week or so, he said, “Sure,” and gave me the 38 in case I needed it again.
The black was fading from Sunny’s eye and most of the cuts and bruises had begun to disappear. Her hair was growing. At first it looked like the down on a baby duck’s back. She made jokes about it, but it was soft and fluffy, sexy in a way.
We left Land’s End around 6 P.M. and rounded Fleming Key with the sun burning a brilliant orange in the western sky. We cleared the Northwest Channel by eight and were under sail in the Gulf. The wind was 10-12 knots on the beam, settling KAMALA into the groove she loves best. The swells were gentle and the rhythm soothed two sailors with ugly memories that begged to be ignored, if not forgotten. After a couple of glasses of Cabernet, Sunny yawned and vanished below. I set the autopilot and propped my feet on the bench.
I had almost killed a man, even two. The bastards deserved it. Still, I was frightened. Not of them. They would likely be in some prison until they wasted away to dust. It was me I was scared of. Was that a thing I could do again? If Sunny hadn’t spoken, would the cops have discovered me standing over their lifeless bodies with a gun in my hand? What would that have accomplished? I would be a murderer, plain and simple, a savage. There’s no other name for it.
I stepped quietly below. Sunny was deep into a peaceful sleep. I retrieved the Taurus from its hiding place and went back into the cockpit. The moon played with the silvery finish on the revolver. I held it in my hand. There was a sense of reassurance. It had saved our lives. Then I remembered Sunny’s words, “T.K. You’re a lover, not a fighter.” I wasn’t sure, but I wanted it to be true. I stood and hurled the firearm as far as I could. I heard it splash into the deep waters of the Gulf. It was gone.
We made our way on up to the Barron River and turned to starboard. In a couple of hours we were in Everglades City. With its fifties’ ambiance, it seemed like a good place to rest and tell each other the lies we needed to hear. We tied up at the famous Rod and Gun Club, where a series of presidents and other dignitaries had been regular guests. We spent a couple of days walking and talking, then it was up to Marco Island. A pleasant marina and some fine sea food.
We were back at Land’s End before the week was out. Not exactly healed, but the process had at least started.
The trials were short. I was called to testify. I told them what I knew, but it really didn’t make much difference. The jury went pale and speechless as they heard tales from several of the girls who had finally escaped the terror. No death penalty for either, but Mustapha and Angelo have seen blue sky for the last time unless they glimpsed it from the exercise yard.
Sunny went back to the Parrot. She still sells plenty of beer and the boys still love her ass. She moved onto KAMALA with me. She still talks in her sleep, cries out sometimes. I hold her and whisper into her ear. It works most of the time.
Chris is back, working at West Marine and helping hapless sailors solve the mysteries of boat maintenance. Angel is at The Strip Search. Tracy keeps an eye on her. Fritz takes his baby to AA meetings at the mission on Mondays and Thursdays. She’s doing okay.
Buffett’s Roundtable still meets once a week. The regular crowd and a few recent inductees. It’s a bit more subdued, but you’ll still know us. We’ll be the ones laughing.
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About the author:
Karl Tutt is a licensed captain, veteran cruiser, former sailing instructor, and author of sailing articles for several national publications. He lives in Florida and teaches English in a dropout prevention program.