Murder on Tiki Island: A Noir Paranormal Mystery In The Florida Keys (Detective Bill Riggins Mysteries)

by Christopher Pinto

  “Man, you’ve got a word or phrase for everything, don’t you.”

  “Dig it,” he said, meaning yes. Then he asked again, “So you diggin’ the tones tonight? Cuz we’re throwing around the deal of letting the bells man slip in.”

  “You cats were really smokin’,” I said, and for some reason a vision of some cartoon cats smoking cigarettes came into my head. “Got a real West Coast vibe going, adds some ice to the set. I’d go with it.”

  “Cool,” he said, and downed his second, sneakily-poured Scotch. He tipped his imaginary hat and went back to the bandstand. A real cool customer, that Rillo. He left a pack of matches on the bar; written inside was the name & address of a small-time pusher I’d been looking for. Shame I was on vacation; it wasn’t easy to get jazz musicians to squeal on drug dealers. Plus it cost me two shots of booze. I put it in my pocket anyway. I could always follow up when I got back.

  A half-hour later I stumbled back across the frozen tundra to my apartment, barely able to keep my lids from slamming shut. That’s just the way I wanted it too. I had a good seven hours of sleep ahead of me, enough to get me revved up for the trip. I put the chain on the door, turned out the lights, and fell into bed.

  At two-thirty my head started pounding, over and over again. It wouldn’t stop. I put the pillow over my ears but no dice, the hard pounding kept up. Soon it was accompanied by the muffled sound of my name in the dark. As the deep alcohol sleep slipped away, I realized the pounding was a knock on the door.

  I got up, said a nasty word and made my way to the living room. The pounding continued.

  “Knock it the hell off or I’ll shoot you through the door,” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  The muffled voice came back, “Riggins, it’s LaRue. More trouble.”

  Dammit.

  I opened the door and found LaRue standing there holding up Princeton. He’d been worked over, again.

  “What the hell happened now?”

  “This happened to him in the clink. We’ve got a bad cop on the payroll.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I said quietly and helped him into the apartment. I snapped on the table lamp, and we settled Princeton down onto the couch. “Any idea who?”

  “Yeah, we know exactly who. Now this guy’s really important. I couldn’t chance taking him to my home.”

  “You know if anyone followed you”

  “Ninety-nine percent sure only the two uniforms that came with me. I hand picked them, I know they’re trustworthy.”

  “You better hope so. I was dead asleep, you know. I gotta get up early to catch a train.”

  “You were dead asleep. He was almost dead.”

  Princeton was half unconscious when we laid him on the sofa. He woke up for minute and saw me through his swollen eyes, and started screaming.

  “No, no, calm down, I’m not going to hurt you, ya fat head. That’s finished, we’re going to protect you now, we’re going to help.” I know he didn’t believe me but he at least stopped yelling. His eyes were filled with terror. I actually felt sorry for him. Then I thought of the kids on reefer. His reefer. I didn’t feel sorry any more, but I still felt pity.

  “You, you son of a whore, you busted me up pretty good, now you say you’re going to protect me? Up yours!” he said through swelled lips, shaking, wincing, fearful that my fist would come crashing down on his face again. He wasn’t being arrogant this time, he was being honest. He honestly thought I was going to kill him.

  I thought about those kids, and that horn player. Believe me, I thought about it.

  “Johnny,” LaRue said in a soft voice, “Detective Riggins was following orders. He has nothing against you personally. Our orders have changed. We’re to make sure you stay alive now, unharmed. So far we’ve screwed up, but Riggins is willing to let you stay here until we can get you a new identity, and find you a place in another state where you can start over.” Princeton seemed to be buying LaRue’s spiel.

  “Why him, why here?” he asked, still terrified.

  “The safest place I could think of was here. You weren’t safe in the jail, so this is it. There are two uniformed officers outside – one at the door, one downstairs in the lobby. Riggins and I will both stay here with you tonight. If anyone tries to get to you, they’re dead. Ok?”

  “I guess it’ll gotta be. Just make sure this big ape doesn’t take out his grudges on me again, ok?”

  “I’m not gonna touch you, dummy,” I said. “I’m on vacation.”

  I woke up before the alarm went off at seven, coaxed out of sleep by the sound and smell of bacon frying in a pan. My first thought was to grab the .45 off the nightstand and let loose, but as I reached for it I remembered that LaRue and that crumb-bum Princeton were shacking up in my living room.

  “That’s my bacon, ya jerk,” I said to Princeton through bleary eyes and a foggy brain.

  “No kidding, I’m making it for you. Sort of a thank you for letting me land here last night. And for not icing me.”

  “I don’t buy it. You put rat poison in it or something.”

  “Nope, just bacon and eggs. See?” He proved his point by breaking off a piece of bacon and eating it. “All swell.”

  “Is there coffee?” I groaned.

  “In the pot.”

  “Where’s LaRue?” I asked, looking around.

  “I killed him in his sleep,” Princeton said, mockingly. Then real fast he said, “He’s in the can.” Good thing he said it fast.

  “You look like hell,” I said, “There’s a steak in the icebox. It’s a cheap one so thaw it out and put it on your eyeball, it’ll help the swelling.”

  “The cop giveth the black eye, the cop taketh away. Why you being nice to me now, Riggins? Because I squealed? Because I exposed a dirty cop?”

  “No Princeton. To me you’re still a piece of garbage who pushes dope on kids. But if I’m gonna keep my sanity, I gotta believe people can change. Maybe even you. You get one chance. If you make it, good for you. If you go back to being a degenerate drug pusher…well, let’s just say the next time I see you I won’t use my fists.” The smile left his face and even through the swelling and bruises I could see he was serious.

  “I want out, Riggins. Seriously, I ain’t kidding. I want to change things up. So help me God, I’m sick of the rackets. I ain’t gettin’ nowhere fast. You know what happens to young guys like me? They turn into old guys like me, and then dead guys like me. I started pushing to get a little cash flow going. Put some lettuce in my pocket. I promised myself I’d stay away from kids, ya know, keep it among the junkies, I mean, who cares about those freaks, right? Then I wanted more. Rocks on my fingers. A big, fancy Cadillac car. Broads. The best of everything. So I started pushing harder. I turned my head when peddlers would turn around and sell sticks to kids, broads, anybody. I started pushing H. Opium. Anything I could get my hands on to get more respect, more luxury. Well, I didn’t get it. Sure, I got money, but I can’t flash my cash because the minute I do the cops will know a punk like me had to be doing something bad, right? I know how you found me,” he said, cracking the eggs into the bacon grease.

  “You do? Lay it on me.”

  “It was the car. That big red convertible of mine drew way too much attention. You or one of your boys got wise that I had a car I shouldn’t have been able to afford, and that was the end of that. Am I right?”

  “You are,” I said. It was, in fact, that ’55 Caddy ragtop that originally got my attention.

  “Bingo. Well, I’m done with it. I’ve got a few bucks, and I want out. I like building things. Maybe furniture. Or maybe houses, I dunno. I know I ain’t too sharp in the brains department but I think I can handle a saw.”

  “Believe it or not kid, I think you can do it. I think if you really want to you can. That’s the only reason I’m letting you stay here, in my own joint. Just don’t let me find anything missing - ”

  He cut me off, raising his hand in a pretty gutsy way for a guy who just got the juice beat out o
f him. “I’m not a thief. A pusher, yea. A pimp, sometimes. A scumbag, probably. I ran numbers when I was a kid and delivered a few packages, but I never, never steal. That’s not my gig.”

  “I didn’t ask for a confession.”

  “It’s a matter of pride. I don’t take what ain’t mine.”

  I could have gone a few rounds with Princeton on why that statement was a load of horse manure, but LaRue came out of the john just then, poking his head into the kitchen.

  “What’s going on?”

  “The kid’s making me breakfast.”

  “Is there rat poison or something in it?”

  I was showered, shaved and in my nice suit when the clock turned eight twenty-eight. I knew Fast Freddie would be waiting, so I said my goodbyes, threw on my hat and coat, grabbed my bag and headed out. The fact that by tomorrow night I could go two weeks without the coat made me smile.

  Fast Freddie lived up to her name, weaving through mid-town rush hour traffic like a bee through a daisy patch. She made it to the station about ten minutes before the train was scheduled to leave.

  “Have a great time down there, Riggins. When you get to Key West, make sure you hit Sloppy Joe’s.”

  “What the hell is Sloppy Joe’s?”

  “Whatdya think it is? It’s a bar, goofy!”

  “Of course,” I said, and slid out of the cab.

  The interstate train was nice. I didn’t have a cabin, just a reclining chair in the observation car. I figured I’d spend most of my time in the lounge car anyway, and didn’t want to waste the extra three clams for a room. The iron horse pulled out on time at eight fifty-five, and I was on my way.

  Most of the ride proved uneventful. I did some reading (since I was going to Key West, I figured I’d bring Hemmingway’s The Old Man and the Sea along), had a nice fried chicken lunch in the dining car, had an interesting conversation with a traveling salesman who was going to meet with a big client in Miami to seal the deal on two-thousand pillow cases, and spent a good amount of time just staring out the window, watching the eastern states fly by, thinking about work, and trying not to think about work.

  At five I made my way back to the dining car and ordered the Yankee Pot Roast. It wasn’t as good as the chicken lunch, but it was still good. Afterwards I retired to the lounge car. At the far end a squeeze-box artist was quietly playing Peg O’ My Heart. I picked out a nice padded seat and settled in with a Jack and ginger.

  Seven drinks later, the clock hit ten after ten. The alcohol now made the music sound weird and the broad next to me seem interesting. She’d been sitting next to me forever, yammering on about her sister in Palm Beach, as if I cared. She couldn’t be a day under forty, and I wondered why I hadn’t the luck to get stuck next to the pretty brunette sitting across from me, or the two blonde model types that were chatting it up at the bar. Lucky me. The good thing was, by the time they brought me my eighth drink, I no longer cared about the broad, her sister, Princeton, or anything else for that matter.

  Then I heard something a little odd, and had to ask the question. I slurred, but tried my best to sound coherent. “Excuse me m’am, but did I hear you correctly?” I said through a cloud of smoke.

  “Yes, I’m sure you did,” she said, “I’ve got a cabin. If you’d like to stay there…with me…tonight.”

  “M’am, surely I’m misinterpreting your meaning,” I said shakily, not sounding anywhere near as polite or intelligent as I thought I would, “I mean no disrespect, but I am, in ff…in fact, twenty-eight years old,” I continued, hoping she’d get the point and leave. Older dames were always putting the moves on me. I was only twenty-eight, but I looked and acted a lot older, so I’ve been told.

  “How old do you think I am?” she asked, kindly, not as though she were hurt.

  “I couldn’t say, m’am, but I am qu—quite sure you are considerably older than me. Uh, than I.”

  She blew the cloud of smoke away and moved a little closer. “Are you sure about that?”

  Apparently, either I was much drunker than I’d first thought, or somewhere down the line the older woman got up and the brunette took her place. “Really, I’m only twenty-four.”

  See, now that clinched it; twenty-four year-old dolls didn’t go around hitting hard on drunk guys on trains. I must have been hallucinating. Then she said,

  “Do you have cash?” and all at once I knew the score.

  It never occurred to me a prostitute could work a train. Then, through the alcohol haze it hit me…the two model types at the bar were now separated and talking with men. The brunette was talking me up even though I was clearly drunk as a skunk. At the far end of the car near the squeeze-box player was another blonde, talking to a man twice her age. How long had this racket been going on, I wondered? Who was behind it? Was it the rail company, providing a customer service? Or did an industrious pimp figure out a way to make a few easy bucks where the cops would never think to look? All I knew was, I was three sheets to the wind, disgusted, off-duty and ready for sleep.

  “You…you’re a prostitute?” I finally said, perhaps a little more loudly than I meant to.

  “Shhh, yes, of course, what did you think? Do you have the cash or not?” she asked impatiently. Call me old fashioned, but it sickened me to see these girls make a living this way. High-class call girls or lowbrow streetwalkers, made no difference to me. A hooker’s a hooker. It wasn’t so much the moral thing, as it was how the girls were taken advantage of. Most of them were in it because they were at the end of their luck or strung out and needed the money for dope. The pimps made all the dough while they did all the work, and when they got too old or too worn out they were tossed out on the streets to die. But I wasn’t in any mood or any position to throw the book at these kids tonight.

  “Listen sister, it’s your lucky night,” I said, rising. I fell against the train’s window and steadied myself, ready to leave.

  “So you’ve got the cash?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how is it my lucky night?”

  I looked at her and smiled. “Because I’m on vacation.”

  I woke up around nine the next morning, splayed out in my reclining seat with no idea how I got there. I sort of remembered something about hookers in the lounge car, but wasn’t sure if it was real or just a dream. I instinctively went for my wallet – it was untouched. Then I double-checked the .32 caliber Berretta I had stashed in the ankle holster – safe and sound. Maybe it was a dream. I’d check it out again, in two weeks.

  The train had made great time in twenty-four hours. Now looking out the window I could see rows of palm plants, giant green fans with spiky centers, plus large, plush bushes with oversized leaves that looked like green plates. An occasional palm tree would stick out, and at crossings the countryside was flat, vast, and distinctly southern. At around eleven a.m. we began passing orange groves, and I knew we had entered the great state of Florida.

  A breakfast buffet was being served in the dining car, and I spent the next two hours chowing down and reading, until finally I took up a spot in the observation car on the east side of the train, enjoying the countryside and occasional stretch of beach. The train made short stops in Daytona Beach, Palm Beach, and Fort Lauderdale. Finally at around six p.m. Sunday evening, we pulled into the station at Miami Beach.

  The weather was warm with a nice breeze. I grabbed my bags and headed down the platform, my winter coat zipped up in the suit bag. Right at the curb sat a beautiful, brand new bright blue 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible, top down and ready to go. A young man in a uniform leaned up against the side; when I walked up he came to attention.

  “Mr. Reegins?” he asked with a thick Spanish accent.

  “That’s me.”

  “Your car,” he said, rolling his ‘R’s, and opened the driver’s door. “Please, let me take your bags. I put them in dee trunk, perhaps with your hat too, no?”

  “Si,” I said, and he smiled. I got directions to the hotel, and a few minutes later
I was roaring down Collins Avenue, heading to the Fontainebleau.

  The hotel was pure class all the way. Marble, brass, palm plants, the whole Florida works. A string quartet played classical tunes in the lobby. To the left, the lobby bar featured a small jazz combo with a sultry female singer. I valeted the car and had a bell hop bring my bags to the room; it was on the fifth floor and had a great view of the beach. I tipped the hop a buck and he lit up.

  “Anything you need sir, just call the front desk and ask for Andy. Seriously, anything.”

  “Anything?” I asked, the suspicious cop part of me awakening.

  “Sure, anything. Special cigars, show tickets, champagne, you name it, call and ask for me. I’ll get it from the concierge and bring it up personally.”

  Ok, that wasn’t anything. The kid seemed all right.

  “I’ll do that,” I said, and he left smiling.

  I stood out on the veranda in the seventy-four degree evening. A cool tropical breeze came up from the beach and brought the slightest hint of suntan oil with it. It was amazing, I thought, that a few hundred miles could mean the difference between icy cold gloom and sunny paradise. Almost made me want to give up my life in the city, get a job down here as a P.I. or something. Maybe join the Miami vice squad or something crazy like that. Eat coconuts and drink Mai Tais all day. Something like that. Then reality snapped back in, and I sat down at the phone to make a few calls.

  First I called my apartment. LaRue answered on the third ring.

  “Everything kosher?”

  “Yeah, all’s quiet on the western front. Where are you?”

  “Miami. Fontainebleau.”

  “Well ain’t we fancy-assed.”

  “I rented a big blue convertible too, a V8.”

  “Maybe I oughta beat the tar out of some kid, get me a nice vacation.”

  “You should try it,” I said. In the background I heard a faint voice say, “Not me!”

  “Everything’s money here, Riggins. Don’t worry a bit.”

  “I’m not. Just checking one last time before I become unreachable. There’s no phone service on the island I’m staying at. Only radio,” I lied.