We sat at the bar next to the Professor, a scholarly gentleman and writer of books on the history and characters of the Florida Keys. He’s always working on his next book, but seemed to do most of his afternoon research from a barstool.
The Professor’s Ivy League outfit consisted of a Penn State T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, sandals and his pipe. He was the only person I’d ever seen in Key West smoking a pipe. I am sure he had an Oxford dress shirt and tweed jacket with elbow patches at home. Tufts of unruly gray hair sprouted above his ears, along the side of his baldhead. Bushy eyebrows did their best to hide his dark-brown eyes and sometimes he had a few days’ beard growth, as if he intended to grow one; other times he was clean-shaven. I guess he had difficulty deciding about growing a beard. An open notebook sat on the bar, along with a bottle of beer and the unlit pipe. He was right out of central casting in Hollywood, but he fit Key West perfectly, anyway.
“Professor,” I said in way of a greeting and notice his beard stubble.
He pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose, stopped reading his notes, and smiled. “Mick, how are you today?”
“Can’t complain,” I said with a smile. “And you?’
He took a swallow of beer and turned back to me. “I think I’m dead,” he said. “I think we all are.”
“I’ll get us cigars.” Bob shook his head, frowned, and walked away. He refused to suffer fools, real or imagined. “Order me a beer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, professor.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “You don’t look dead.”
“You should look in the mirror,” Joe Scott said from the next stool. “I think he’s on to something.” He turned to his whisky sour and forgot us.
“Let me explain.” The Professor turned to me. “I had a dream last night.” He reached for his pipe, and chuckled. “I was so concerned about the purpose of the dream when I left this morning I forgot my tobacco.”
I nodded and gulped beer to keep from smiling inappropriately.
“Let me explain,” he said again and pulled his notebook closer.
I nodded and smiled. He was always researching something and talking about it, but usually it had to do with little known facts or people involved in Keys history.
“When you die the first time…”
I had to interrupt. “You die more than once?”
“Yes,” he said and then went on as if this was a natural conversation. “This is a parallel world because the real Key West exists, we just exist next to it.”
“The dead?” I bit my cheek again.
“Yes. So I came here, not knowing I was dead.”
“And the rest of us?” I finished my beer and waved at Vicki.
“Just follow along and hold off judgment until I am done,” he said. “Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.” Normally, I would have found a way to beg off, but after Dick Walsh’s story of remorseless killings and Marshal Dudley Crabtree’s attitude, the Professor was a breath of fresh air—weird, but fresh.
“How do you know you are dead?” Not a smile, not a sigh, just a straightforward question.
I shook my head. He had me there. How would I know I was dead? I thought of Walsh saying the woman didn’t even know she was dead when he shot her.
“Have you ever talked to people who have had a heart attack or been in a serious accident?” He stared at me and when I didn’t answer, he went on. “They don’t remember it. It’s the brain protecting them from a frightening experience. So, you might think you’d remember the pain or the fear before death, but survivors prove that it’s not so. The same brain that protects us if we live through a tragedy transports us when we die, protecting us from the realization of something we fear.”
He took a drink. He picked up the pipe and then remembered there was no tobacco. “The brain controls everything we do, everything we think; the body can suffer a stroke but researchers say the brain continues to function even though the body has failed. You with me?”
“I’m following you.” I saw Bob by the cigar kiosk smoking and smiling at me and he had a beer.
“We’re waiting to die, again,” he said. “We’re supposed to be atoning for our past. It’s our chance for a better afterlife.”
“You’ve lost me now, Professor.”
“Confusing, isn’t it?”
“Just a tad.”
“I have a lot to work out, but I know I’m right,” he said. “I’m working on what I have to atone for. And, Mick, when I figure it all out, I will let you know but I would look at your life and see what you have to atone for.”
“I’ll do that, but I’m Catholic and have been forgiven in confession, so what do I atone for?”
“You are talking religion, this is about the afterlife,” he said, shook his head at my lack of understanding and turned back to his notes and unlit pipe.
The Professor finished tolerating this fool, so I picked up my beer, Bob’s warm one, and headed to the cigar kiosk before he smoked my cigar.
Chapter 18
Bob smiled as he took the warm beer from me and placed it on the bar. “You hungry now that you know you’re dead?”
“Sure.” I grinned and took a drink. “Here?”
“Shit. You draw crazies like a stable draws flies.”
I saw Padre Thomas on the other side of the bar and he was walking my way.
“I’m gonna look for a table and when you’re alone, join me,” Bob said, shaking his head as he walked into the patio.
I ordered Padre Thomas a Bud and handed it to him when he stopped in front of me.
“Thank you.” He drank from the beer. “You talked to him,” he whispered and it wasn’t a question and we both knew who he was asking about. “Now what?”
I finished my beer and lit the cigar Bob had bought me. “Now nothing,” I said. “I won’t help him. You may be able to forgive him, but I don’t want anything to do with him.”
“He told you everything?”
“You know what happened last night?”
“Yes.” He continued to whisper and looked around conspiratorially. “I saw you with him in a dream.”
“If he told you what he told me, how could you forgive him and give absolution?”
“Through penance.”
I laughed and it must have sounded cruel. “Penance for murder?”
“He wants forgiveness and it’s the Church’s place to grant that forgiveness if the person is repentant.”
“Padre, he’s a cold blooded, non-repentant psychopath,” I hissed. “He’s scared of death, that’s all. He’s hedging his bets, now that he’s dying. His Catholic upbringing is catching up to him, scaring him. What penance could you give him?”
Padre Thomas turned away, saw who was around us and lowered his voice. “I told him he had to consider all the evil he had done, pray daily until he understands the horror of his acts and then pray for those he killed.”
“Do you think he’s doing that?” My cigar had lost its taste.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I hope so, for his sake.”
“The only thing he’s sorry for, Padre, is that he’s dying,” I said and stumped out the cigar. “He killed the woman at his house and even if it was self-defense, he has no remorse. I won’t write his story and I hope the marshals get him and forget about witness protection.”
“What if someone is trying to kill him, doesn’t that matter?”
“Padre, I’m sure there’s been someone trying to kill him his whole life.” I waved to Vicki for another beer. “I can’t imagine it any other way.”
My cell phone chirped and the viewing screen showed Amanda from the newspaper was calling.
“Excuse me, Padre, I need to get this.” I stepped outside the bar, by the boardwalk, and answered the phone.
“Mick, I hear you know something about this guy Walsh,” she said and I sighed.
Chapter 19
Bob paid for the beers and dragged me out of Schoon
er Wharf. He wanted to eat undisturbed, so we walked the short block to B.O’s Fish Wagon for mahi sandwiches.
I called Amanda and told her where we’d be. She wanted to talk about Walsh’s grandiose Jet Ski exit and I was prepared to lie.
B.O.’s is small trailer-kitchen housed in a ramshackle building of miscellaneous wood slats with a patched wood-and-tin roof. The open-air restaurant is often written up in travel magazines as offering one of the best fish sandwiches in the Keys.
Bob ordered our sandwiches, asking for the special that got us a half order of fries free. The special is a locals’ secret, it’s not on the menu board. Bob chose a spool table that let us see through the bushes toward the parking lot and under the railing to watch foot traffic along Caroline Street. The mismatched roof kept us safe from the sun.
Amanda picked up an ice tea at the counter and walked back to us. She’s an attractive blonde-haired, hazel-eyed woman who came to the Keys after college, went to work at the local daily, and enjoys the island lifestyle.
“Did you order me a sandwich?” She grinned.
“Of course,” I said. “Why are you interested in Walsh?”
“Why do you think?” She kidded with a charming smile and sat down. “I know Hans at Walsh’s rental business,” she said after I didn’t answer and kept her journalist’s straight-face, not giving any insights away. “He called me after the police showed up and questioned him.”
“He’s your source?”
Our sandwiches came and we prepared them, each to our own liking.
“One of my sources. He gave me a great quote.” She spread the mango mustard on the sandwich bun, thinking she was being elusive. “Who are the agents after him?”
It was my turn to smile, as I looked up from adding hot sauce to my sandwich and fries. “What’s the quote?”
‘”They’re after me, the agents are after me, I gotta get out of here,’ he told Hans and then took a Jet Ski and headed out.” She looked for any reaction from me. “Agents?”
The three of us ate without talking and I hoped I hid any reaction.
“I’ve got other sources,” Amanda said with a mouthful of fries.
“Do say.” I chewed the last of my sandwich and sipped iced tea.
Amanda finished her fries. “Come on, Mick, why are we playing games? I know you were at his house. “ She looked toward Bob. “Were you with him?”
“I met Mick at Schooner, so I know nothing,” he slurred, munching fries, and sounded a lot like Sergeant Schultz from the old Hogan’s Heroes TV show.
Amanda knew I was involved and that meant she had either talked to Walsh—she hadn’t; or Dudley Crabtree—which I doubted; or someone on the police force—more likely. An attractive woman has always been able to loosen lips.
“We off the record?” I sat back.
“Do we have to be?”
She knew I found the body and wanted a quote from me. I didn’t want that out there.
“Yeah,” I grinned. “If you want what I’ve got. Later get a source to corroborate it and do what you want.”
“You know what I’m going through,” she said, grinned and batted her hazel eyes.
“I need to catch a break on this. It’s big, isn’t it?”
“Off the record?”
She avoided answering the first time, hoping I’d slip up and let it go without her agreeing. I think I learned that in Journalism 101, but it was always worth a try.
“If it’s gotta be that way.” She frowned. “Can’t hate a girl for trying.”
“Tape recorder off,” I said.
“Can I take notes?” She reached into her blouse pocket and turned the micro recorder off. She pulled a reporters pad from her purse.
“My name can’t be written down.”
“Notes for myself, honest,” she said with a bright smile. “Unless I get corroboration.”
I nodded and wished I had her smile when I covered stories. Even if I had, I doubted it would have worked as well for me. “Walsh called me last night…,” I told her the story, honestly, up until the cops came, then I lied, if by no other means than by omission.
“Did you know her?” she asked about the victim.
“No. Never seen her before?”
“Did any of the cops?”
“No.”
“Gunshot, you said.”
“I’m not an expert on gunshot wounds, but it looked that way.”
“Anything you can give me? I mean, this is great and will get me into see Chief Dowley.” She was happy to know some background concerning Walsh. “I’ll ask him to corroborate what I know.”
“Put the pad away,” I said.
Amanda looked at me and realized I was serious. She put the pad in her purse.
“Do you have any contacts in the U.S. Marshal’s office in Miami?”
“No,” she said. “Why?”
“Find someone that does and ask about Dudley
Crabtree.”
She fought back a laugh. “Really? Dudley Crabtree?”
“Really,” I said. “You know what the Marshal Service does?”
“Yeah, like in the movie, they hunt fugitives.” She pulled back and stared at me. “Walsh?”
“Walsh what?”
“He’s a fugitive?”
“Don’t know,” I lied with a grin.
“Hell.” She frowned. “I thought by agency he might’ve meant the CIA.”
“He might have.”
“Fugitive hiding here in Key West? Big time? Mafia boss on the lam?”
“Irish Mafia with the name Walsh.”
“That can’t be his real name,” she said and pulled the pad from her purse and wrote hurriedly in her notebook. “Notes to myself.”
“Knock yourself out, but don’t write my name down.”
“Or mine,” Bob said and stood.
The prickly look Amanda gave Bob exposed her Jersey Shore upbringing. “I won’t,” she said, trying to be nice.
“Your cop source should be able to help if you mention what you know.”
“I don’t have a cop source.” She lost the smile.
“Now who’s playing games?” I laughed and walked out with Bob.
Chapter 20
Amanda had a short piece in the next day’s Key West Citizen, but the Chief of Police wouldn’t be interviewed, his quote—”No comment because it is an ongoing investigation.” She ran with the quote from Walsh again, mentioned he was still missing and that rumors had agents from the U.S. Marshals Service in town working with the police. The marshals’ office in Miami had no comment about agents being in Key West. She did get someone from the Coast Guard to admit they’d sent up a helicopter to look for Walsh on Monday, routine procedure they said, but were unable to locate him or the Jet Ski. No one would speculate on what it all meant.
The next few days were uneventful. Richard didn’t return my calls, even though I left messages at his office and on his cell. He could have been busy on the case, which piqued my curiosity, or just wanted to avoid me, I wasn’t sure. I was also interested about the ID of the woman victim. Who was she? Was she really an assassin? I didn’t hear from Walsh and that was a good thing.
Padre Thomas didn’t show up anywhere and the Professor was not around during the evenings when I was.
My close friends were busy and that left me with a lot of free time. Bob picked up a carpenter job, so he was gone. Doug kept occupied preparing his marina for the end of hurricane season. Burt had an assignment delivering a boat to Fort Myers, and Texas Rich was in Austin.
I spent the time reading news magazines and books. My routine was simple, walk to Sandy’s for three large con leches and a breakfast sandwich—using my microwave to heat the coffees later. I read the paper with my first coffee, then the news magazines. I enjoyed the lazy, tropical mornings. Lunches varied, Jack Flat’s, Smokin’ Tuna, the Hog, Schooner, B.O.s, all of them a good bicycle ride. I saved the afternoons for reading in the air-conditioned main cabin of the Fenian Bas
tard. At night I bar hopped. Life was good.
Thursday morning I was hungry from doing nothing, bored with routine, so I rode my bike to Harpoon Harry’s for a full breakfast. I sat at the counter, talked with Ron and Kathy while I ate eggs, home fries, and bacon, and sipped a con leche. Locals filled the eatery by the time I biked back to the marina. The chamber of commerce could have designed the weather. No doubt, they took credit for it.
The parking lot had emptied out because people were at work. What cars and scooters were there belonged to those live-aboard residents that worked nights. I saw the old van at the end, by my pier, and thought it belonged to someone working on a boat engine or diving to clean a hull. I locked my bike in the rack and heard the van’s door slide open. I turned, thinking I might know the mechanic, and saw three men wearing ski masks like Mexican soldiers wear when they display drug lords on TV, rushing toward me.
No one spoke as the men pushed me against the bike rack and slipped a hood over my head while I tried to fight back. One of them hit me firmly in the stomach, my breath vanished, and my struggle ended as I doubled over. I couldn’t see because of the hood but someone pulled my arms back and tie-wrapped my hands together and then forced me roughly away and tossed me into the van. I heard the door slide shut. The van moved away and no one had said a word.
My breakfast came up and most of it caught in the hood and pieces of it oozed down the front of my T-shirt. I gagged on the stench and vomited again.
Chapter 21
As the sour stench of vomit gagged me, I fought back panic as best I could. I shook my head, hoping it would loosen the hood and the pungent mixture would ooze out. It did little good except to spread the regurgitated liquid across my face. It got worse, not better. I asked for help between retches and received no reply. I should have been trying to figure out what was happening and why, but the only thing I could think of was to breathe fresh air before I choked to death. Help wasn’t happening. I thrashed around like a caught mackerel.
Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery Page 7
