Mortal Dilemma

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “Who’ll kill you?”

  “The jihadist.”

  “Here in Key West?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tariq, you’re in what we call a lose-lose situation. If you talk to me, some very bad guys will kill you. If you don’t talk to me, I’ll kill you. The jihadists can’t protect you from the law, but I can protect you from the jihadists. Think about it. Your best bet is to talk to me.”

  “Are you really a police officer?”

  I showed him my brand-new badge and ID card, pulling it back quickly so that he didn’t have time to look too closely at it in case there was some flaw that I’d missed. “Yes.”

  “And you would shoot me?”

  “In a New York minute.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “The man you took to the hospital is my brother. Somebody’s trying to kill him, as well as my girlfriend and me. I’m not going to let that happen. Now tell me how you ended up picking up my brother yesterday, or so help me God, I’ll shoot you.”

  I raised the gun again, keeping it below the table, but in a position so that Tariq could see it. I pointed it directly at him, a determined scowl on my face, and he gave it up. I could see it in his eyes before he opened his mouth.

  “I was parked on Duval Street waiting for a call for a fare yesterday morning. A man walked up and got into my cab. He spoke to me in Arabic. I told him in English that I didn’t understand. He asked me in English where I was from and I told him. He asked if I was a good Muslim. I told him I was. Then he said it didn’t matter where I came from, he had a job for me. He told me he wanted me to pick up a man who would have been shot, put something in the man’s wallet, and take him to the hospital.”

  “What were you supposed to put in his wallet?”

  “It was about the size of a business card, but I don’t think it was. The card was folded so that I could not see what was on it.”

  “You agreed to do this?”

  “No. I told him I wouldn’t. He put a pistol to my head and told me I didn’t have a choice. If I didn’t do it, he’d kill me.”

  “How did it work?”

  “I had to stay near Mugsy’s Bar where the man was drinking and wait for a call from the jihadist. He’d let me know when I was to drive the block to the bar and pick up the man. I would put the card in his wallet and take him to the hospital. That was all.”

  “What were you to do if the man didn’t pass out? How would you get the card in his wallet?”

  “I asked the jihadist that. He said for me not to worry. The man would definitely pass out as soon as he got in the car.”

  “Did you ever look at the card?”

  “No. I was very afraid.”

  “Did the jihadist give you his name?”

  “No.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Yes. I was facing him as we talked.”

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled to the pictures Dave Kendall had sent me. I showed them to Tariq. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

  At the sixth picture, he said, “That’s him.”

  “Do you recognize any of the others?”

  He took his time, scrolling slowly through the pictures. He stopped again at the last photo. “I’m pretty sure this man was with the one who got into my cab. I saw the other one standing on the sidewalk watching us.”

  I took the phone back and checked the pictures against a list of names Kendall had sent along with the photos. Picture number six was Akeem Said, and number ten, the man on the sidewalk, was Youssef al Bashar.

  “Tariq, I can provide protection for you.”

  “I think I’ll be okay as long as you don’t tell anybody about this conversation.”

  “There are some people I’m going to have to tell about this, but I promise you they won’t leak anything to anybody that would pose a danger to you. You’ve got my cell number in your phone from my call this morning. Get in touch with me if you have any reason to think you’re in danger.”

  He smiled ruefully, rose, and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1

  MUGSY’S BAR HUGGED the sidewalk in the middle of a block on Duval Street within easy walking distance from where the cruise ships docked. It was flanked by a t-shirt store advertising a two-for-one deal and a cheap souvenir shop. The door to the bar was propped open and at a few minutes after nine the place was half-full of tourists. A few of them were wearing shirts with the logo of a well-known cruise line whose ship had docked at the local pier an hour before. I went to the bartender, flashed my badge, and asked to speak to the manager.

  In a few minutes, a man wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and flipflops came from the back of the bar. “I’m Mugsy O’Brien, Detective. How can I help you on this glorious morning?” He had a friendly Black Irish face, his dark hair hanging just below his ears, his face broken by a big grin.

  “I’m investigating the incident you had in here yesterday,” I said. I was about to say more, but he interrupted.

  “What incident would that be, Detective?” he asked, grin still in place.

  “How many did you have?”

  “None.”

  “I was thinking about the one where the guy got shot and had to be taken to the hospital by a taxi. Ring any bells?”

  His face lost some of its friendliness, the grin becoming a mere smile. “That happened after the gentleman left my premises.”

  “After you kicked him out?”

  “Yes. After he fell face first into the table he was sitting at, knocked over his drink and almost fell out of his chair.”

  “Are you suggesting you might have over-served him?”

  “He’s over twenty-one.”

  “Are you aware that the law requires you to stop serving someone who’s obviously drunk?”

  Now his face was dead serious. “And how the hell am I supposed to determine when someone is, quote, obviously drunk? What do you need, Detective?”

  “I want to see your security tapes for yesterday.”

  He brightened a little, the grin returning. “Sure. Just give me a copy of your warrant.”

  “Warrant? Today’s Saturday. I won’t be able to get one before Monday, if then.”

  “Then you can come back on Monday.”

  I looked around the bar. “Got a pretty good crowd here already. Cruise ship came in this morning, I guess.”

  “Yep.” The grin was back. “And another ship will be docking before noon. On top of that, most of the Fantasy Fest people are still here. They drink a lot.”

  “Good for you. I’ll have some uniformed deputies here in about half an hour.”

  “What the hell for?” His face hardened.

  “Crowd control. And the two Department of Alcoholic Beverage agents I brought down from Miami last night are going to be here as soon as they finish their breakfast. Seems they need to do some kind of audit. Anonymous complaint. Probably keep you from selling any booze for the next several days. They’re very persnickety, you know.”

  “You can’t do this. You don’t even have jurisdiction here. This is a city case.”

  “Ah, Mugsy. How can one man be so wrong on so many issues? My jurisdiction runs county wide, and the beverage agents have statewide authority.”

  “I’m calling my lawyer.”

  “Good thinking. He can always get to court on Monday and maybe a judge will feel sorry for you. He might even take on the state attorney general, whose office will argue the case for the state Department of Alcoholic Beverages and Tobacco. With any luck, you could be back in business by next Thursday or Friday. Well, unless the state files an appeal.”

  “The video is in the office. It’s on a hard drive of my main computer. You want a flash drive copy?”

  “That’d be very nice, Mugsy, but I also want to watch your original on the hard drive.”

  * * *

  The bar’s office was small and crowded. A metal desk sat
in one corner and held a computer monitor and keyboard. Wires attached them to a computer sitting on the floor next to the desk. Stacked boxes of booze took up most of the rest of the space.

  “I’ll pull up the security video for yesterday.” O’Brien said. “There are four cameras and you can watch each of the videos separately, or see all four at once on a split screen.” He showed me how to set it up and gave me a thumb drive to make a copy of anything I needed. “I think all you’re going to find is that I run an honest business here.” He walked out.

  After fiddling with the videos for a few minutes, I got the hang of zooming, pausing, fast-forwarding, split screen and all the other marvels of modern technology. One of the cameras was set high above the bar and gave a view of the entire place. Another, next to the first one, was angled so that the bar took up most of the screen. I could clearly see the bartender pouring drinks and depositing money in the register. It didn’t look like Mugsy trusted his bartender.

  Another camera was placed in a corner and gave me a view of about half the entire place. The final camera was in the opposite corner and covered the other half. I put the split screen up so that I was looking at all four scenes. I saw Jock walk in a few minutes after the videos started. There were already several people at tables and others were coming in. Drinking never stops in Key West, and those who do get a little sleep begin again at nine when the bars open.

  I focused on Jock for a few minutes. He took a seat, ordered a drink, and sat quietly, staring at nothing. Minutes went by and he didn’t move, except to raise his glass to his lips, take a swallow, and return the glass to the table.

  I knew I had a limited amount of time with Mugsy’s computer. Sooner or later, he was going to figure out that I was probably lying to him about the deputies and the beverage agents. I didn’t want the city police busting in and arresting me for impersonating a law enforcement officer.

  I scrolled through the video until I came to noon. The time stamp told me I was at a few minutes after twelve. I focused on the one that included Jock’s table and watched closely. He was still drinking steadily, but he didn’t seem to be off balance. He sat straight in his chair and handled his glass of booze with no hand tremors that I could see. I fast-forwarded the video, using a slow speed. About every twenty minutes, a waitress would bring him a full cocktail glass and take the used one away. Jock was drinking about three drinks per hour. A lot of booze over the course of the day, but not more than I’d seen him drink in the past.

  The time stamp told me it was 2:48 when I saw Jock’s head drop to the table, his upper body following. He was sitting in the chair, bent over with his head and chest on the tabletop, his glass overturned and the booze dripping onto the floor. I watched as Mugsy came to the table, bent down, and said something. He stood back up and waved someone over. Two men wearing muscle shirts with the logo of the bar on the front came and took Jock under his arms, stood him up and dragged him out of the video frame.

  I backed the video to 2:35 and ran it forward at a speed somewhat faster than real time. I watched the waitress come to the table with a drink. Jock said something to her and smiled. She smiled back and left. He took a drink, put the glass down, took another slug, put the glass down and two minutes later passed out and fell across the table.

  I quickly copied that whole scene onto the thumb drive and went back to the video from the camera that kept tabs on the bartender. I fiddled with the screen until I had the video with the time stamp of 2:40, eight minutes before Jock passed out. I saw the bartender talking to a customer at the end of the bar. I couldn’t get a good look at the man, but watched as he handed something to the bartender. I stopped and zoomed in. The video wasn’t very high resolution and it began to pixelate as I zoomed tighter on the hand-off. I got as close as I could without completely losing the picture. It appeared to be a standard number ten envelope that the man was slipping to the bartender. It was fairly fat, as if it contained several sheets of paper, and there was a bulge at one end.

  I pulled back on the zoom and tried to get a look at the customer at the end of the bar. The angle wasn’t good, but when the man turned leave, I got a pretty good shot of his face. Unfortunately, it was not good enough to identify him.

  I watched the bartender as he opened the envelope and took a small vial out of it. He put the envelope in his pocket, pulled a cocktail glass from the shelf, and emptied the vial into the glass. He put a few cubes of ice in the glass and poured a generous dollop of bourbon over it. A minute later the waitress appeared, picked up the drink, and took it to Jock’s table.

  I copied it all onto the thumb drive, shut down the computer, and left the office. I found O’Brien at the bar talking to a customer. He saw me and came over. “Got everything you need?” he asked.

  “I think so. Who was bartending yesterday after lunch?”

  “Jimmy Stripling. He works from noon to eight at night.”

  “And the waitress who was serving the guy who got shot?”

  “That’d be Wanda.”

  “Are either of them working today?”

  “Wanda’s here. Jimmy comes in at noon.”

  “Which one is Wanda?” I asked.

  He pointed to a willowy blond standing at the service bar waiting for a drink order to be prepared. I recognized her from the video.

  “I’d like to talk to both of them,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “Just their general sense of things. There were a couple of guys at the bar that I’d like to talk to the bartender about. Maybe Wanda can tell me something about the state of mind of the man I’m looking into. Nothing serious. Just some background.”

  “Hey. What’s the big deal with the guy who passed out? Is he some kind of celebrity or something?”

  “He’s a very big deal, or the sheriff wouldn’t have me out working on Saturday trying to figure out what happened to him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Can’t tell you. But the next guys who come looking into this may be some very tightly wound feds. I’m doing you a favor by getting ahead of them.”

  “Shit,” he said. “I don’t need the hassle.”

  “Tell you what. Tell Wanda to take a break and meet me in your office. This won’t take but a couple of minutes.”

  I watched as Mugsy pointed me out to the waitress and she walked toward the office. I joined her. “Wanda,” I said when we were seated, she on the desk chair and I on a carton of Jim Beam bourbon, “I’m Detective Don Monk with the Monroe County sheriff’s office. Do you remember serving a man yesterday who was here right at opening and passed out in midafternoon?”

  “I sure do. Nice guy. He held his whiskey better than most. I was surprised when he passed out. He didn’t seem all that drunk.”

  “Did you have any conversation with him during the day?”

  “No, other than the usual. He’d order his drink and he always thanked me when I delivered it.”

  “How did he pay for the drinks?”

  “He gave me a credit card when he got the first one and told me to run a tab.”

  “I watched the surveillance video. It appeared that you served him about three drinks an hour. Does that seem about right?”

  “Yes, but we can check to be sure. His tab will still be at the register.”

  “Can you get it for me?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed her out to the bar. She told Mugsy she needed to see the tab from the passed-out man. She looked closely at the register tape and said, “This looks about right. I served him his first drink at nine twenty and then two more before ten. There were three more drinks before eleven. Then a grouper sandwich. The next drink was keyed into the register at eleven forty-five.”

  “He ate something? May I see the tape?” I’d missed his meal on the video, but I was fast-forwarding through the morning and didn’t really start watching closely until around noon. I looked at the tape again and noticed something peculiar. “Wanda, when does happy hour start in Mu
gsy’s?”

  “We don’t actually have a happy hour, if you mean a time when drinks are two-for-one or something like that.”

  “Then why does this tape show that you were charging your customer half price for the drinks he had after he ate lunch?”

  She laughed. “He had put away a lot of bourbon by the time he had the sandwich. I decided to water down his drinks. He was only getting half the whiskey he normally would for the rest of the time he was here.”

  “Do you do that often?”

  “No, but he was a nice man and he seemed to be brooding about something. And he was alone and drinking way too much.”

  “He didn’t notice that you were watering his drink?”

  “If he did, he didn’t say anything.”

  “And you charged him half price?”

  “Yes. The drinks were half-sized.”

  “And Mugsy was all right with that?”

  “I didn’t ask him. I just told the bartenders to charge half price.”

  “Did he appear drunk when you served him that last drink before he passed out?”

  “Oh, yeah. He was drunk, but not drunk enough to pass out. That’s what surprised me so much when he went down.”

  “Did it occur to you that the bartender might have doctored the drink?”

  “No. I just thought I misjudged how drunk he was.”

  “I noticed on the tape that when you served him that last drink he said something to you. Do you remember what that was?”

  “I told him that I was getting off at three and I needed to check out and would he mind paying his bill. I’d start a new tab for the girl taking my place.”

  “His response?”

  “He said he was happy to do it and that he appreciated my taking care of him and that I should add a 50 percent tip to his bill.”

  I looked at the credit card receipt. The card was in Mark Bailey’s name. “There’s no tip on this.”

  “No. He passed out before I could bring it back to him. I didn’t think it was right to add the tip under the circumstances.”

  The tab came to almost a hundred dollars. I pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my wallet and gave it to her. “Don’t worry. He’s a friend of mine. He’ll pay me back. Thanks for taking care of him yesterday. You could have taken advantage, you know.”