Blood island mrm-3

by H. Terrell Griffin

  I backed out of the door and left in a hurry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I walked at a quick pace, not running, not wanting to attract attention, but in a hurry to put some room between me and the Sharkstooth Bar. I looked at my watch, a cheap one bought at the Wal-Mart in Bradenton. It was only a little after five. The sun hadn't really begun its descent yet. The tourists wouldn't be heading for the sunset show at Mallory Square for another couple of hours.

  I was tired. It had been a long day, and I still had a lot to do before I could claim my bed in the rooming house. I had no idea how to identify Calhoun or Crill. I didn't think asking around in the Mango Bar made a lot of sense. I decided to call Detective Paul Galis.

  I walked until I came to a church. There was a walled garden abutting the building, and a gate with a small sign announcing its availability to anyone in need of serenity. That was me. Serenity and a beer would just about revive my spirits.

  I went through the gate and found a cement bench under a bougainvillea tree. Its red flowers were etched against a blue sky and surrounded by green bushes. It reminded me of Vietnam for a moment, and then I pushed that thought back to where my dark memories and even darker fears reside.

  Laura wasn't with Peggy. I didn't know if that was a good sign or something worse. If she hadn't left Atlanta to find Peggy, where was she? Had she been taken by the same people who took Peggy? Was there a connection? I couldn't see one, and I thought that made Laura's disappearance even more menacing. Fear was slipping out of its chains, threatening me again with the sense of foreboding and loss that I felt whenever I'd thought about Laura over the past few days.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called the Monroe County Sheriff's office. I identified myself and asked to speak to Detective Galls.

  A pleasant voice came over the line carrying a faint echo of the hills of West Virginia. "David Sims said you might be getting in touch. How can I help you?"

  "Did you ever hear of anybody named Charlie Calhoun or Crill, no last name?"

  "Never heard of Calhoun, but a guy named Crill used to bartend over at Louie's Backyard. I heard he got into the booze pretty bad and fell on hard times. Crill isn't a name you hear very often. Might be him."

  "Wouldn't know where I could find him, would you?"

  "No, but I'll check around. He's hard to miss. Got a head full of red hair that he wears in spikes. Lots of gel. He has a blue birthmark that pretty much covers his right temple. How can I get ahold of you?"

  I gave him my cell number and told him to leave a message if I didn't answer. I said, "Do you know where the Mango Bar is?"

  He gave me directions, and said, "Be careful in there. That's a badass place. If we could close it down, our crime rate would drop by fifty percent."

  "I'll watch my back. I appreciate the help."

  "No sweat. Sims says you're good people." He hung up.

  I was a little surprised at Sims' recommendation, but maybe he'd been talking to Bill Lester and decided to help me. I'd take it where I could get it.

  I dialed JeffTimmons in Atlanta. I needed to know about Laura, and Jeff needed to know what I'd found out about Peggy. In the end, neither one of us was much help to the other. Jeff had no word on Laura, and the police were still not putting much effort into finding her.

  I related what I knew about Peggy, and told him to try not to worry too much. If the men chasing the girl had meant her harm, they could have shot her in the Sharkstooth Bar, and nobody would have seen a thing.

  He promised to call me as soon as he heard anything about Laura.

  The Mango Bar was a step up the pecking order from the Sharkstooth, but it was a small step. It was located near the Key West side of the bridge leading to Stock Island, in an area of town that catered to the fishermen who manned the commercial boats that worked out of the nearby marinas. The bar was housed on the first floor of an old two-story building that was not aging gracefully. The second floor seemed to be empty, with several of the windows broken out. Wide double doors were open to the sidewalk. A small parking lot was next to the building. A rusting pickup truck and a beat up Mazda sedan were parked there.

  I'd walked about two miles to get to the bar. I was sweaty and dusty and probably smelled like Bigfoot. I'd fit right in at a place like this.

  I walked through the doors into the dim space. I stood for a moment, letting my vision acclimate to the lack of sunlight. I saw Crill at the far end of the bar, sipping from a shot glass of dark liquid. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray in front of him. The spiked red hair and the birthmark were unmistakable. He was the only customer. The space was narrow, with four booths lining the wall across from the bar. A large fan sat atop a stand in the corner, barely stirring the sultry air in the room.

  I sat at the near end of the bar, ordered a Miller Lite from the bored barmaid and paid her cash. I sipped the beer slowly, catching a steely glance now and then from the bar lady, wondering, I guess, how long I was going to sit there nursing one beer.

  Crill raised his glass, and the barmaid poured him another shot from a bottle of Old Grandad. I motioned to her with my beer bottle, ordering another. I sipped some more, glancing occasionally at Crill. He seemed to be in deep contemplation, savoring his whiskey, drinking it in small swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after every taste.

  An hour went by. Grill didn't move, except to raise his glass or his cigarette and wipe his mouth. He stared into his whiskey, moving only to drink or inhale or to order another shot. I wondered what he was thinking, or even if he was thinking. He drank with the single-minded dedication of the true alcoholic. I ordered another beer.

  Another half hour elapsed. Grill jerked upright on his stool, as if he had felt an electric shock. His gaze swept the room, a look of consternation clouding his face. He stubbed out his cigarette, tipped the glass back, and gulped the remaining contents. He got off his stool and headed for the door. He was tall and rangy, with long arms and big hands. A tattoo of a dragon wound up his right arm, its tail trailing to his wrist, the snout covered by his shirtsleeve. He wore cutoffs, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. I let him get by me, and then followed. I planned to stay with him until I could get him alone.

  As I stepped out the door, I saw the Mazda leaving the parking lot. Crill was driving it. So much for my grand plan. I was on foot and had no way to follow him.

  I walked to the corner and used my cell to check for messages. Galls had called and left me an address for Crill. And a last name. McAllister.

  I pulled out the city map I'd bought at a tourist stand on Duval Street earlier in the day. The address was only about a mile from where I was standing.

  Darkness was descending on the town. Lights were winking on in the homes and businesses as I walked toward Grill's place. I was in an area of small clapboard houses. Most seemed to be of the shotgun variety; narrow with the rooms situated one behind the other. There was no grass to speak of in any of the yards. Chickens pecked at the dry earth, clucking their displeasure at the paucity of food. They were protected by city ordinance and roamed at will through the town. Every July there was a festival in honor of the stupid birds. Only in Key West.

  By the time I found the right address, full darkness had cloaked the city. The streetlights were few in the neighborhood, and they put out scant illumination. That suited me just fine.

  I was going to wring Grill dry, but I didn't look forward to it. I didn't like violence, even though I'd seen more than my share of it. Sometimes the blood lust took over, as it had at the Sharkstooth Bar. That always scared me, but it didn't happen often. I was usually in control, but sometimes I frightened the hell out of myself.

  If Crill was the right guy, and I was almost sure he was, he didn't deserve much compassion. He'd chased down a scared teenager with the tenacity of a wolf, and if I had to do him violence, I would. And I would control the blood lust. If that made me a cold bastard, so be it. I just didn't want anybody to witness the act.

  CHAPTE
R TWENTY-THREE

  The house was like every other one on the street. It sat on a narrow lot with a small front yard. The Mazda was parked at an angle to the front steps that led to a porch that ran the width of the house. The green paint was peeling, and the roof had been patched with different colored shingles. Two window air-conditioning units jutted from the side of the house. Probably the bedroom and living room. A streetlight sat at the front edge of the property, giving me enough light to see the house clearly.

  I climbed the three steps and knocked on the door. I had my. 38 in my hand.

  "Who's there?" The flinty voice of a heavy smoker.

  "Key West Fire Department, Mr. McAllister," I said. "We've got a gas leak in the area and need to check your house."

  The door flew open. Grill was standing there barefoot, shirt gone, wearing just the cutoffs. He had a beer in his hand.

  "I ain't got no gas service here," he said. Then, realizing I wasn't the fire department, "Who the fuck are you?"

  "People keep asking me that," I said, holding the pistol up so that lie could see it. "Invite me in."

  He stepped back from the door, raising his hands. "Be cool, my man."

  "Put your hands down," I said, and walked into the house.

  He backed up, keeping his eyes on me. We were in the middle of a small, sparsely furnished room. An old easy chair sat in the corner, stuffing coming out of tears in the fabric. A sofa took up one wall, a bedspread thrown haphazardly across it. A small black-and-white TV rested on a scarred table, rabbit ears drawing in a game show. The sound was turned low. The window air-conditioning unit chugged cool air into the space and made a noise like a deranged elephant.

  A door led off the living room into a hallway. I knew the layout of these houses. There would be a kitchen off one side of the hall, a bedroom on the other. At the end would be a bathroom. A door at the rear of the kitchen would lead to the back yard.

  The house was quiet, except for the noise from the air conditioner and Crill's heavy breathing.

  I waved the gun at him. "Anybody else here?"

  "No."

  "If anybody comes through one of those doors, I'll shoot you."

  "Nobody's here, man. Honest."

  "Where is Charlie Calhoun?"

  "Charlie who?"

  I raised the gun, pointing it at his face. "You can do better than that."

  "Okay, okay. I don't know where he is. I see him sometimes at a bar I go to."

  "The Mango," I said.

  "Yeah."

  "Why were you chasing Peggy Timmons yesterday?"

  "Who?"

  "Look, dickwad, either you start talking straight to me or I'm going to start shooting you in the foot" I aimed the gun at his dirty feet.

  "Okay. That the girl at the Sharkstooth?"

  "Right."

  "I don't know. I was drinking with Charlie at the Mango when he got a call on his cell. He offered me a hundred bucks to go with him to get the girl."

  "How did you know she was at the Sharkstooth?"

  "We didn't. Whoever Charlie talked to said she was walking down Benefit Street. We went over there and saw her just as she ducked into the bar."

  "What happened?"

  "She went out the back door and we caught her just down the alley. Charlie put her in his car and took off. I had to hitch a ride back to the Mango to get my car."

  "Did you hurt her?"

  "No. She scratched the shit out of Charlie's face, though."

  Good for her, I thought.

  "Did you get your hundred?" I asked.

  "He said he'd give it to me the next time he saw me."

  I put a round into the floor between his feet. The gun made a popping sound, not loud at all. I doubted anyone in this neighborhood was likely to call the police because of a random gunshot. He jumped back, yelling in surprise. "What the hell?"

  "Oops. I missed," I said, taking aim again.

  "Hold on, mister. I'm telling you the truth." His voice had taken on a plaintive quality, begging, not the big man who chased a scared teenaged girl down an alley.

  "I believe you," I said. "I'm going to ask you some more questions and if you lie to me I'll know it. I damn sure won't miss next time."

  "Okay, okay."

  "Who does Charlie work for?"

  "I don't know his name. He's got a lot of money and lives out on Blood Island. He owns a massage parlor here."

  "Where is Blood Island?"

  "Down in the Mule Keys. He owns the whole island."

  "Tell me about his massage parlor."

  "It's over off Simonton. Near the Key West Bight. It's called The Heaven Can't Wait Spa."

  "Crill, we never had this conversation. When I find Charlie, I'll know if you told him I was looking for him. If you do, I'll find you and kill you. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes."

  "Just forget about this evening and you'll have a longer life."

  "I hear you. I never saw you."

  I turned and walked out into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I had to cross the island and then head west to reach Simonton Street. Another two-mile trek. I started walking at a pace that would get me to my destination in thirty minutes. I was sweating in the evening heat, but at least I was wearing my walking shoes.

  I was on Caroline Street approaching Simonton, when I noticed three men standing on the corner. One was elderly, and he seemed to be pleading with two young men, one black and the other white, who were standing on either side of him. As I got closer, I saw that the white man was one of the guys who backed up the thug with the pool cue at the Sharkstooth earlier that afternoon.

  "What's going on?" I said.

  "None of your business," said the black guy. "Move on."

  The white guy stared at me for a moment. "Shit, that's the dude what kicked the shit out of Big Rick today. He's got a gun."

  They turned and ran. I looked more closely at the shaken victim. It was Austin Dwyer, my seatmate on the bus from Marathon.

  "Mr. Joyce," he said. "You're just in time."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yes, thank you. Another minute or two and I might not have been."

  "Glad I could help." I turned to leave.

  "Ben," Dwyer said. "I was on my way to the Seaport Boardwalk for dinner. Will you join me?"

  I looked at my watch. Nine o'clock. I hadn't eaten since Tampa Airport. Dwyer seemed anxious over his encounter with the thugs, and I decided to keep him company.

  "Sure," I said. "I could use something."

  Austin Dwyer was probably in his late seventies. He was a small man, about five eight and couldn't have weighed more than one sixty. His ruddy face reminded me of a happy leprechaun, a grin lighting up his features. His head was covered in gray hair, and I could still see strands of the brown that had been there in his youth. His accent was pure New England.

  We walked the couple of blocks back to the boardwalk along the Key West Bight, and took a table on the deck of the Turtle Kraals Bar and Grill. Dwyer told me that he had been a history professor at a small college in New Hampshire. When he retired, he moved to Key West, but when his wife died, he moved back north, to Connecticut, to be closer to family. He had taken the seniors' tour on a whim. It was sponsored by his alma mater, the University of Rhode Island, and he thought it would be entertaining as well as educational.

  When our server came, I ordered conch chowder and blackened grouper along with a Miller Lite. Dwyer asked for a salad and Chilean sea bass.

  "Did you ever hear of Blood Island?" I asked.

  "Sure. It's down in the Mule Keys."

  "Where is that?"

  "Just a few miles west of here. They're part of the Key West National Wildlife Refuge."

  "Does anybody live there?"

  "A couple of park rangers on Mule Key. That's about it."

  "I heard that somebody lives on Blood Island."

  "Maybe so. That's a private island that's not part of the refuge. I used to f
ish out that way."

  "What can you tell me about it?"

  "Back in the Teddy Roosevelt administration the government decided that all the islands between here and the Dry Tortugas would be part of a wildlife refuge. That includes the Marquesas Keys, which lie between the Mule Keys and the Dry Tortugas. But, as often happens, politics got involved. It seems that one of old Teddy's big financial supporters owned Blood Island on the western edge of the Mule Keys, out past Boca Grande Key. It's about twelve miles from here, not far.

  "A deal was struck, and the supporter was able to hold on to Blood Island. It's the only island west of here that's not part of the Refuge," Dwyer said.

  "That's an odd name for an island."

  "Like everything down here, there's a story attached to it. Do you know about the Nuestra Senora de Atocha?"

  "Sure. That's the Spanish treasure ship that Mel Fisher found."

  "Right. But he wasn't the first to find it. She went down in a hurricane in September of 1622, near the Marquesas. Of the two hundred sixty-five passengers and crew aboard, only five survived, three crewmembers and two black slaves. Another ship, the Santa Margarita, grounded on a sandbar about three miles away, and a large number of her crew and passengers were rescued. The surviving fleet returned to Havana.

  "A Spanish captain named Gaspar de Vargas found the Atocha within about three weeks of her sinking. Unfortunately for de Vargas, another hurricane hit in early October, and completely hid the wrecks of the Atocha and the Santa Margarita. He spent months looking for them and finally gave up.

  "Four years later, a Spaniard named Melian found the Santa Margarita. He and his crew salvaged a great deal of its treasure and thought they knew where the Atocha lay. They set up camp on one of the Marquesas and worked for four years on the salvage operation. They never found the Atocha.