Danny shut himself up with a puff of laughter. His brain was a freaking nonsense factory once it got going. Remember that time he thought Tunny was going to drive him to a swamp somewhere and shoot him? Then there was that day he opened the Post and saw the headline Police Seek Two Missing Teens, and, for a second, when he looked at their pictures, he thought, Hey, those are the guys from the park. But, of course, they weren't. He could barely remember the attackers’ faces anymore, but he was almost sure they weren't the same guys.
He shook his head and laughed at himself again.
Then there was Spinker taking off for St. Louis like that...
The door buzzer sounded. Danny checked his watch. After ten. Puzzled, he went to the intercom. Ellis.
* * * *
Ellis was a big, broad-shouldered, blond, good-looking guy. Track and field at Stanford. Girls galore. Not the Great Brain of the Age or anything, but a sure feel for the markets and an expert way of befriending clients and intimidating them at the same time.
When he stepped into Danny's apartment, though, he looked unsteady—not his usual shambling, cheerful self—gray, uncertain. Danny gave him a bottle of beer and he knocked back half of it in one swig. He plunked himself on the sofa and looked at everything in the room except Danny. Danny watched him from his desk chair.
"Look,” Ellis said. “I think I screwed up. Gina and me—that never made sense. She should be with you, man. We both know it."
"What are you talking about?” said Danny—all at once, he was a chaos of emotions. Confusion, dark thoughts, his heart soaring with unexpected hope. “You always wanted Gina. We talked about it a million times."
"Yeah, but you know me: I want everything in skirts that's not a Scotsman. And that's the other thing. Let's face it: Gina's a mommy waiting to happen. I'm not ready to go there. That's always been more your thing than mine."
Danny had to admit that was true. Ellis was the lover-boy, he was more the family-man type. “So—what?—you're dumping her?"
"Already did,” said Ellis—and he drained half of the half of his beer that was left. “I told her right out, too. ‘Danny's the one who's right for you.’ I said it to her just like that, those words."
"Hey, if Gina wanted me, she'd...” But Danny glanced at his friend halfway through the sentence and the sentence died on his lips. What was that look on Ellis's face? That sickly look, his eyes all eager, his mouth all quirked up like that—what was that?
"I mean, this is good, right?” Ellis said. “I mean, this is what you want. We're good here—blood brothers like always—right?"
"Well ... sure,” Danny said. He was trying to keep his imagination from going haywire with all these nutso dark thoughts of his. Still, he couldn't help asking, “Hey, did anyone, like ... say anything to you? About me—or Gina? You know what I mean? Did anyone, you know—give you a hard time about it or anything?"
It seemed to Danny there was a pause then, a strange beat of silence during which Ellis, with his wild stare and his twitching mouth, was about to burst out with some unbelievable news. But he didn't burst out with anything. He laughed his cynical Ellis laugh. He looked down at the tabletop. He said, “Don't be an idiot. I'm telling you, I screwed up. It happens. We're good, right? I mean, we're good, Danny. Aren't we?"
* * * *
Gina had a studio on the West Side. Her parents helped her pay for it so she wouldn't have to live in a bad neighborhood. The next day, Saturday, Danny set out, meaning to walk over there. Somehow, though, he drifted north. Before he even knew it, he found himself up near the museum. He found himself outside the elegant stone townhouse where Mary lived with her parents and with Tunny.
He passed by slowly, looking up at the large windows. He could see the chandelier in there, burning above the foyer. When he reached the corner, he went around the block and passed by the townhouse again.
He didn't know what to think anymore, what to believe. He did know, and then he didn't. He did believe and then he told himself it was ridiculous. After a while, he couldn't think straight about it. He went around the block yet again, passed the townhouse yet again. As he walked, he slipped into a daydream. In his daydream, he charged angrily up to the front door. He rang the bell firmly. Inside, he looked Tunny right in his smirking face and demanded to see Mary's father. When Mary's father came down the sweeping staircase—wearing one of those fine, silvery suits Danny had seen crime bosses wear on TV—Danny stepped up to him and looked him in the eye.
He did not imagine himself yelling at the man or pointing his finger or talking tough in any way. That was too unrealistic even to daydream. Instead, he was reasonable. He said, “Look, sir, I want to be clear with you. Please—don't do anything for me, okay? I did you a good turn. Now you can do me a good turn by leaving me alone, leaving my friends alone and the people I work with."
"Sure, kid, sure,” the older man said in his daydream. “Whatever you say."
"No offense or anything,” Danny told him. “I helped your daughter because it was right and—it's all ruined if something wrong comes out of it. I don't want to scare anyone or hurt anyone. I just want to live my life and do what's right. That's all."
By the time Danny reached this point in his daydream, he had moved away from the townhouse. He was still working the daydream over, refining it, as he crossed the park towards Gina's place.
* * * *
They sat on her sofa side by side, close but not touching, shy in spite of all the time they'd spent together, all the working and the jokes.
"I feel pretty stupid,” Gina said. She said it with a laugh, but her eyes grew watery.
"No, no,” said Danny. “Ellis is a nice guy, he just..."
"...figured I'd make a good one-night stand. Or one-week stand or whatever."
"No, no. He likes you. He really does. He's told me that a million times. He's just ... not ready to make a commitment yet, that's all. It's not you, Gina. Really."
She turned her face to him, her pert, pretty face. She gave him a crooked smile. "You're a nice guy, Danny. Really. You are."
The thing about Gina's eyes was you could see through them right into her. You could see how tender-hearted she was and vulnerable. She didn't try to hide it. Danny could fashion whole imagined lifetimes out of that look she was giving him right now. He imagined how he would protect her and keep her from the harsh things of the world so that she wouldn't become harsh herself and would be able to give him that look forever, even when they were old.
"All right, pity party's over,” she said suddenly. She reached over and clapped her hand down on top of his. “Let's talk about how well you're doing. Division Manager. At your age. I mean, how awesome is that? I'm so glad for you, Danny. Things are going so well for you."
Danny turned his hand so that he could take hold of Gina's. Their fingers intertwined. Her hand was warm and the warmth seemed to travel from her up his arm and all through him.
"And they're just going to get better and better,” she said, with her tender eyes on him and her warm hand squeezing his. “I can feel it."
Danny looked at her with all his love. “I can feel it too,” he said.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Andrew Klavan
[Back to Table of Contents]
MURDER IN KEY WEST by Michael Haskins
A former reporter living on Key West, and now the public information officer for that city, Michael Haskins launches his fiction career with a vivid story set in Key West. EQMM has just learned that some characters in this story also appear in the novel Mr. Haskins recently completed. The book has won the Florida Noir Seminar's novel contest.
Tony Whyte's once spar-kling blue eyes were lifeless and stared into oblivion; his frozen expression suggested no fear or pain, not even surprise, and his Key West tan had turned ashen. Both hands clutched an old sword blade that had been forced through his chest and impaled him to the boat chair where he died. A small pirate flag hung from its handle.
A puddle of congealed blood sloshe
d like Jell-O under the chair as the luxurious fifty-foot trawler rocked in its slip. The teak-paneled main cabin appeared neat, only Tony looked out of place, while the sweet stickiness of blood, mixed with the sourness of death, fouled the cabin's air.
I searched for a pulse in his neck, but knew I wouldn't find one. Tony was as cold as granite from a Quincy quarry and almost as hard.
Classical music played from the trawler's satellite radio. I looked at the radio's screen and Bach, Cello Suite No. 6 in D Major by Pablo Casals scrolled across it. The music was counterpoint to the cacophony of sounds coming from the Key West Old Town marina outside Schooner Wharf Bar: a mixture of bar patrons’ happiness, captains barking orders to crews, tourists shrieking excitement, boat engines revving, and traffic.
I walked outside to breathe the salty air. Too many people had seen me on the boat, so I couldn't walk away. Not that I wanted to. Tony was a guy I had worked with years ago on a newspaper in Puerto Rico. We had taken different roads in life, but two months ago, our paths crossed again in Key West, Florida, my home.
Tony had been sober four years and was writing again. He was happy and talked freely of his alcoholism, of waking confused and scared from his blackouts, and how long it had taken him to hit bottom. His journalism career crashed and burned, while mine flourished. Slowly, and sober, Tony had been writing his way back, one day at a time.
I looked inside the cabin and thought again about how neat it was. Tony had been a barfly, a scrapper who knew how to survive, but this time he hadn't. He knew who killed him, but hadn't seen it coming.
I sat in a deck chair and felt the morning sun on my face. Clouds moved across the pale sky and the air smelled of salt water, humidity, and seaweed. Tarpon broke the surface; their splashing echoed around the marina. It smelled a lot better than inside. Lines holding boats in place moaned from stress, and birds cried in protest as the first reef-bound catamarans, filled with tourists waiting to sunburn, left for a day of snorkeling.
The sounds of life vibrated from the marina and harbor walk, while the silence of murder sat quietly in the boat's cabin.
I used my cell phone to call Richard Dowley, the chief of police. Had someone or something from Tony's alcohol-hazy past found him? Or had a murderer with a pirate fetish surfaced in paradise? Murder was almost unheard of in Key West. We were more than a hundred miles from Miami and a million miles from its violence.
* * * *
The chief, dressed in creased blue slacks and a blue polo shirt with a police logo on its breast, stood with a Styrofoam cup of café con leche, a mixture of strong Cuban coffee with hot milk and lots of sugar, sunglasses perched on his large nose, looking at Tony's body.
Sherlock Corcoran, the crime scene investigator, and Detective Luis Morales, both wearing surgical gloves, looked cautiously around the room. They had turned the boat's air conditioning to high, but the room still held the stench of violent death. Few knew Sherlock's real first name, but the nickname came with his job.
Their business casual conflicted with my cutoff jeans, sleeveless buttoned-down collared shirt, faded pre-World Series Boston Red Sox baseball cap, and flip-flops. I had three good cigars in my pocket and wanted to light one, to help kill the foul air.
"Who was he?” The chief sipped his con leche. “And how do you know him?"
"Tony Whyte.” I turned away and looked outside. “Whyte with a Y. Years ago we worked on the same paper in San Juan."
"What's he doing on Wizard's boat?"
"He was helping Wizard and his two partners write their memoirs on discovering the Spanish treasure.” It was the truth, but not the whole truth.
When I mentioned the Spanish treasure, Sherlock and Luis stopped and stared at me. The three boat bums—Wizard, Lucky, and Bubba—discovering millions in Spanish treasure in the ‘70s was a Key West legend with little if any truth told with the story. When the new multimillionaires were sober they had varying stories about the discovery and they told other versions when they were drunk, which was often. Their only consistency was their inconsistency.
"Wizard do this?” The chief took a long swallow and finished his con leche.
"No, I don't think so."
"Why?” He took a cigar from my pocket, sniffed it, and smiled.
"Wizard's too frail and this guy is twice his size,” Luis said. “He didn't do it. Whoever did it had enough strength to push the sword through a man's ribs."
The chief looked at me and I nodded. Wizard was in his late seventies and had always been a beanpole. In his prime, he had difficulty with a scuba tank until he was in the water.
"Let's talk to him anyway,” he said to Luis and handed the cigar back. “Have a car check the bars.” He looked at his watch. “There are only a few open this early."
Luis went outside to tell the uniformed officers.
"Awfully neat for a murder.” Sherlock opened a cabinet and looked inside. “This the way you found it, Mick?"
"Exactly. I checked Tony for a pulse and then called the chief."
"You couldn't tell he was dead?” Sherlock tried to hide a smile. “I'm going below."
Sherlock walked the narrow steps to the lower section of the trawler.
"You want to tell me anything?” The chief put his empty cup down. “If he's writing the memoir, what are you doing here?"
"He was supposed to get with Wizard at the Breakfast Club at Schooner Wharf. Tony said they had a few things to discuss and then he wanted to talk to me.” I turned back toward Tony and wondered what he wanted. “We were gonna meet at Schooner and go have breakfast. When he didn't show up I walked down here and found him like this."
"Maybe Wizard had help,” the chief thought aloud.
"No fuss, no mess.” I looked around the neat cabin and wished I was outside.
Luis walked in. “A patrol car is looking for him, Chief."
"Sherlock's down below,” the chief said and Luis went in search of him.
"What are you going to do now?"
"Go have breakfast at Harpoon Harry's."
"This doesn't bother you?” He seemed surprised.
"Chief, I've covered drug wars, gang wars, revolutions, and riots in L.A., and I've learned to be grateful it ain't my blood on the streets, and appreciate that I'm still alive and capable of being hungry."
"You'll need to come to the station and give Luis a statement,” the chief said as I headed toward the deck.
"You know the guy hates me."
"Yeah, but I love you.” He smiled. “Come to the station when he calls."
"Sure.” I walked outside, took a deep breath, and fought the urge to look at Tony one last time.
* * * *
Padre Thomas Collins sat at one of Schooner Wharf's empty thatched-roof patio tables drinking a con leche and eating an egg sandwich on Cuban bread. He wore dark cargo shorts, a faded blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, with an opened package of Camel cigarettes in the pocket, and sandals. He motioned me over and pointed to a second Styrofoam cup. I picked it up and was surprised to find it warm.
"For me?"
"I thought you might want it.” He looked up and smiled. “What do you think happened?"
Padre Thomas, as he liked to be called, grew up Irish Catholic outside of Boston. He became a missionary priest, had a parish church in Guatemala, and about ten years ago walked away from his rectory. For the past eight years, he has been in Key West. Rumor is he lives on a stipend from the Church, but rumors run rampant around the island and rarely hold any grains of truth. His skin is tanned like leather from riding his bike, his only mode of transportation. He volunteers at a hospice and the Catholic soup kitchen; otherwise his time is his own.
I met Padre Thomas at Schooner Wharf a few months after he first arrived and everyone warned me that he was crazy, because he claimed to see and talk to angels. I believe he sees the angels, but I haven't made up my mind on whether or not he's crazy. He still considers himself a priest, but without a church.
> "It's not Wizard.” I sat down and took the lid off the con leche.
"I know.” He bit into his sandwich. “I think they'll find him having breakfast at Harpoon's."
"Wizard?"
"Yes, I saw him outside there as I left."
"The angels tell you anything about this?” I sipped from the Styrofoam cup.
He looked up with a devilish grin. “Someone is very concerned about the book."
"Who?"
"Someone involved back then. Long before you or I ever thought we'd be in Key West."
"Do you know who it is?"
Padre Thomas shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. “I warned Wizard yesterday. He told me he had an idea for protecting everyone and was supposed to pass it on to Tony this morning. He wouldn't tell me more, just not to worry."
"Tony should've worried.” I sipped the warm con leche.
Padre Thomas put his sandwich down and lit a cigarette. “Wizard doesn't even know."
"How do you know?"
"He asked me if I had seen Tony."
"What did you say?"
"I told him no.” He inhaled deeply. “Because I hadn't."
"Can you help the cops?” I finished the coffee.
"You know I can't.” His grin returned. “At first they wouldn't believe anything I told them and then, since I'd give them information only the killer should know, they'd think I did it."
He had a point. In the past, his knowledge of things that happened in secret or dark places had gotten him in trouble. I was one of the few people he confided in, maybe because he knew I believed him about the angels, or at least wanted to.
My cell phone chirped. “Yeah."
"Mick, it's Tracy at the Hog's Breath.” The words whispered hoarsely in my ear, like Lauren Bacall talking to Bogey in the movies. “One of those old treasure guys is here looking for you."
"Wizard?” It was too early for the Hog's bar to be open.
"No, the one they call Lucky."
EQMM, March-April 2007 Page 21
