Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery

by Michael Haskins

  “Chances are the only thing the sharks won’t eat is the anchor.” He smiled.

  “That’s a waste of a good anchor,” baldheaded guy said. “Don’t use the anchor, just tie their legs together and when the sharks attack, let ‘em go into the frenzy, bones sink.”

  “That’s an idea,” Bric said. “Now, let me tell you two stupid fucks something, pass the word to whoever it is you work for, that if you come after Mick, we’re gonna go after you, all of you and the sharks around here are gonna be well fed. You understand?’

  Neither Russian spoke, but their eyes darted between us, and they were not smiling. Bric took guns from their waistbands and nodded. The two men who saved me pushed the Russians into the water. One Russian started screaming.

  “What’s he saying?” I asked as we walked away.

  “The one crying says he can’t swim, the other one thinks the tarpons are sharks.” baldhead man laughed as we walked onto the boardwalk.

  “Look at the time,” Bric said with a glance at his wristwatch, and hurried along.

  “I’m supposed to be on stage with Michael and Carl for this set.”

  Chapter 41

  The Key West International Airport didn’t always looks like it does today. When I first flew here for a vacation, twenty some years ago, the airport building was a Quonset-style hut without air conditioning. The Conch Flyer Restaurant and Bar was at one end, ticketing in the middle and the arrival/departure lounge at the other end—a long, narrow cut in the wall held arriving luggage and a canvas flap protected it from the rain and sun.

  Today, passengers check-in at a concrete-and-glass building above the parking lot across from the arrival area, then they take an escalator down to the departure section after passing through security, and only ticketed passengers can gain entry to the old Conch Flyer.

  The hole in the wall for luggage and the canvas flap are lost to our memories. Today, the arrival area has a luggage carousel and air conditioning—the old you-have-arrived-on-a-tropical-island feel of the airport has gone the way of the unicorn.

  Tita called from Miami and said she would make her six o’clock flight. I was waiting in the arrival area with the car rental agents and half a dozen others when she arrived.

  The airlines use regional jets or large prop planes these days, so there are fewer flights, but the ones arriving are full. Tita walked across the tarmac behind fellow travelers. Some were locals I exchanged small talk with before they headed to the carousel, most passengers were tourists excited about being on the island.

  She wheeled her carry-on bag into the building. In Boston, at her brother’s house, Tita kept clothing for the New England weather and had her summer clothing in Key West. She saw no need to wait around for lost or delayed luggage, or pay extra to the airlines for a checked bag.

  Her green eyes looked tired, but she smiled thinking it would conceal her weariness. I’ve known Tita since she was a teenager and her brother Paco and I went to college together. Maybe I would never understand her—or any woman, for that matter—but I could read her looks and knew the weariness came more from the news she brought rather than her hectic schedule.

  We hugged, bumped by arriving passengers, and she held me tighter than I held her.

  “Hi,” she said, smiled, and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

  Then she kissed me on the lips and it was a strong kiss. It was not a hello-I-missed-you kiss; it was a good-bye kiss that’s given at an airport from someone expecting to be gone for a longtime.

  “I missed you too,” I said and kissed her gently.

  She grabbed my arm. “Take me home.”

  On the short ride to her Conch house by the Key West cemetery, Tita talked about her brother, his family, and how chilly it was in Boston. All small talk.

  “The leaves change color next month,” I said. “About the only thing I miss from up there.”

  “When I was young we used to press the leaves in wax paper with an iron,” she said. “It was always a project when we returned to grade school.”

  The conversation stayed light because the real topic was going to be hard—hard for her to tell me and harder for me to accept with a smile.

  “Did you remember to turn the A/C on?”

  I parked my Jeep in an open space a few houses up from her place. “It’s on, there’s fresh milk in the fridge and the other things you asked me to buy.”

  “You want arroz con pollo, right?”

  “Have I ever refused your arroz con pollo?”

  It was a joke between us. When she was a teenager she knew I liked her rice and chicken dish, so when she cooked it, she always called Paco at college to remind him to come home on the weekend for dinner. Paco would mention going home and I would tag along if he said dinner was going to be arroz con pollo. His family was my second family during those days and that was one of the reasons I avoided the braless teenager as she flaunted her beauty around the apartment. Years later, Tita told me she did all that so I would come over. She had a teenage crush on me.

  I told her I knew and we both laughed.

  I had her rum and coke waiting after she’d freshened up.

  “Thank you,” she said and took a long sip. “Be nine o’clock by the time we eat.”

  “Gives you time to tell me all about Boston,” I said.

  Tita looked at me, surprised for a second that I’d ask, and then smiled. She was saying a lot without words.

  She collected ingredients from the cupboard and fridge and began cutting up the chicken before she spoke.

  “What do you want me to say?” The words came slowly, her back to me.

  I took a beer from the fridge, my second, and sat at the kitchen table. “Tell me what they offered you.”

  She laughed softly as she cut up chicken, whacking the knife through the bones.

  “Everything. They offered me everything.”

  “I thought they’d done that last time they were here.”

  “You’re talking money,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She busied herself with the ingredients and when she finally put the pot on the stove, she turned to me. “Money was never the issue.”

  “What offer clinched the deal?” I thought by saying I knew she’d accepted the job it would be easier for her.

  She leaned against the sink and sipped her drink. “You know, Mick, I came here ignoring the law practice’s offer five years ago. I was in love with you—I still am. Your life here is a dream come true…to you, at least,” she said and finished her drink. “You sail, you drink, sometimes you get work and write for the newsmagazines, then you come back and it begins all over again. You live a very hedonistic life.” She smiled and shook her head when I offered to make her another drink. “I think you and your friends have found a way to hold off being responsible adults.”

  “Like Peter Pan?” I tried to match her smile but couldn’t.

  Tita struggled not to laugh. “Yeah, Key West is your Never-Never Land. And maybe your friends are the lost boys… I never thought of it that way.”

  “Me neither.”

  “There’s more to life,” she said and washed her hands, even though she’d washed them a few times while preparing dinner. “You live here and what do you give back for enjoying paradise?”

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with Boston?”

  “Of course you don’t.” She moved forward, leaned over, took my face in her hands and kissed me gently on the lips, and then moved away. “Your innocence is one of your charms. You’re a contradiction. War correspondent, world traveler, educated and with all that…baggage…whatever it is, you still have an innocence about you. Strange.” She checked the pot on the stove, stirred it and put the lid back on. “In the short time I’ve been here with you, people have tried to kill you…hell, they blew up the boat you were in.” She laughed, but it wasn’t because the subject was funny. “Mexican drug cartels have come here wanting you dead. To y
ou, it’s all a game.”

  “They came after me, Tita, you know that,” I said. “I didn’t chase these guys or bring them here. I left that life in California.”

  “There’s your innocence again, Mick,” she said.

  “Your life is one successful disaster or failed miracle after another and it’s brought on by decisions you made…maybe in El Salvador or Los Angeles, but you made them…and that karma, or whatever, is only steps behind you and you’ve turned a blind eye to it. Norm is your guardian angel and you should be thankful for him.”

  “I don’t understand. What does my life have to do with Boston? With your decision?” I asked again.

  She sighed. “I knew about your life and I thought love conquered all. I was wrong. I want to grow up, Mick. I want to get on with my life, to do something with it, to give back for all I have, to be responsible.”

  “Hell, you work more pro bono cases than any other lawyer on the island,” I said and finished my beer.

  “It’s not enough.” She looked at me, her eyes ready to tear. “I want to help people and there are people in Boston… Puerto Ricans, blacks, poor people…that get screwed over in the system every day and, with the law firm’s help, I can do something. I can make a difference.”

  Was she fighting back tears of joy or sadness? I would never know.

  “When do you start?” I felt nervous spasms ripple in my stomach, as I watched her. She had thrown my lifestyle at me as her excuse to leave. My failure to understand what was important to her, she pointed out, was my screw-up in the relationship. Maybe she was right.

  “In two weeks.” She rushed the words and turned to the pot on the stove that didn’t need attention.

  “What are they giving you?” I tried to keep the hurt and anger out of my voice but I am not sure I did.

  “In Boston, Jamaica Plain and Roxbury, I’ll help run law clinics that assist those who can’t afford legal advice and representation in court.” Her smile showed her excitement. “Law students will man the clinics, but as the cases move forward, lawyers from the firm will take over and, if necessary, represent the clients in court. These are well paid, experienced attorneys, Mick, not kids out of law school or the public defender’s office.” Her words carried the enthusiasm I’d seen in her smile.

  “I thought they wanted you as a trial attorney?” I said. I didn’t want to sound harsh.

  “I’ll work with two other attorneys to oversee the clinics, so there will always be one of us available,” she said. “I’ll make a difference, Mick.”

  “I know you will,” I said. “You want to save the world.”

  “You did too, once,” she said before realizing how judgmental the words sounded. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said and kissed me. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.” I frowned, because she was right. “Paco used to tell me I was out to save Boston and when I failed at that, I took on the world.”

  “Maybe you didn’t save it,” she said with a grin. “But your news stories exposed tyrants, corruption, and the brutality of war. You did something.”

  “And now you’re going to do something,” I said biting the inside of my cheek.

  “In my small way,” she said. “I’ll make a difference in a few lives…maybe for the better.”

  “You will,” I said and stood to hug her. “I know you will and I’m happy for you.” I’d never lied to her like that before.

  Chapter 42

  That night, our lovemaking had a desperation to it. It was intense but afterward, lying there listening to Tita’s shallow breathing, her head so close I could smell her scented shampoo and soap, it made me think of Kris Kristofferson’s song, Help Me Make it Through the Night. We’d helped each other make it through the night and would again each night for two weeks; I wanted to have a lifetime of memories from the hours we had left. I needed to, to keep anger and hurt at bay. The house was as quiet as the cemetery across the street, and only the ghosts overheard our passion.

  We held on to each other when we woke in the morning and, to keep from talking or thinking of how short a time two weeks is, we made love again as daybreak stirred the island but the desperation was there, hidden in our lust. I might have been interpreting Tita’s responses, but I knew how I felt.

  While I showered and dressed, she made us café con leches and egg sandwiches. I sat down and forced a ridiculous grin, thinking it might hide my true feelings.

  “I guess you missed me,” she said, and gave me a put-on smile.

  “I was thinking you missed me,” I said between sips of coffee.

  “Either way, it was nice to wake up to so much enthusiasm.”

  “Yes, it was.” I laughed to disguise what I really felt. “What does your day look like?”

  I hadn’t told her Norm was here and knew when I did she would be suspicious, because Norm either brought trouble with him or followed closely behind it.

  “Nathan and I are having lunch to discuss some cases,” she said and, to avoid looking at me, bit into her sandwich.

  “On Sunday?” We bar hopped on Sunday, hit as many of the island’s watering holes as possible; it was a ritual, but it had obviously ended and the realization wasn’t easy to accept.

  “It was the only free time he had.”

  “Can we have dinner?” I stared at her and we both smiled.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “My days this coming week are going to be busy, but my nights are yours. And next weekend is all yours.”

  “I figured it was going to be a busy week.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. I’m here if you need me. It’s just I hadn’t thought of going on Sunday rounds without you. On the weekend we’ll do something special.”

  “If Nathan had any other time, I wouldn’t have agreed on meeting him today.”

  “Hey, you’re turning cases over to a good attorney, don’t look so grim.”

  “I think he’s good. What are your plans?”

  “Meet Bob and whoever else shows up at Schooner for a beer, and then go to Charlie Bauer’s new place for lunch.”

  “Did you ever get him to tell you how that name came about?”

  “Smokin’ Tuna?” I laughed. “No, he swears it has nothing to do with the Charlie Tuna TV commercials.”

  “I want to stop by and see him before I leave.”

  “We will.”

  “I didn’t mean to ruin your Sunday,” she said.

  “Tita, you don’t have to spend the next two weeks saying you’re sorry,” I said.

  She hugged me and whispered, “Can I have one more sorry?”

  “You can have anything you want.”

  “I’m sorry about the things I said last night before dinner.” She continued to whisper. “You’ve helped a lot of people on the island without taking credit. It’s commendable, it really is. I didn’t mean to be so down on your lifestyle. I needed to reassure myself and I shouldn’t have judged you to do it.”

  “You weren’t too far off,” I said and moved her away. “And maybe this is Never-Never Land for some of us, but I doubt I have much in common with Peter Pan.” I scratched at my red-bearded chin.

  “A lot more than you think.” She stepped back to lean against the sink. “Tell me the truth?”

  “All the time,” I lied.

  “Will you come to Boston?”

  “Not to live,” I said without missing a beat. “Too cold in the winter, too humid in the summer and always too crowded.”

  “Maybe for Thanksgiving, though most of the clinic work won’t be done. Christmas too? I will take off between Christmas and New Year’s.”

  “Why not come here, then?”

  “I might get here and realize I miss the island and you and not return to Boston, so I need to stay away until everything is working smoothly,” she said. “I’m torn between my two choices and it was a lot easier making my decision in Boston.”

  “You’re following your dream and I c
an’t fault you for that.”

  “Thank you for your support, but I don’t believe you’re being sincere,” she said.

  “Will you visit me in Boston?”

  “Who is cooking el pavo?”

  “My mother, Puerto Rican style with arroz con habichuelas,” she said.

  Roast turkey with a side of rice and brown beans cooked together—morros—but the Puerto Ricans don’t use the word frijoles for beans, they use the more difficult to pronounce habichuelas.

  “How can I say no to momma’s cooking?” I wondered if I was being truthful.

  “She asks about you all time.” Tita smiled. “Wants to know why you don’t marry me.” Her smile grew. “Don’t worry, I tell her it’s my fault, I wouldn’t marry an Irishman without a good job.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence because we both avoided the marriage discussion, dancing around it like a barefoot couple on a floor of broken glass.

  “Now who’s looking glum?” she said. “Neither of us wanted it. Not your fault or mine.”

  “If I wanted it…”

  “To keep me from leaving?” She frowned.

  “No,” I said. “To make sure you come back.”

  I caught her by surprise. She looked at me without smiling and shook her head. “You come to Boston for Christmas, make a formal proposal—on your knees with a ring that is not a cigar band—and I’ll give you my answer. Deal?”

  Now, I was surprised.

  Chapter 43

  When I walked into Harpoon Harry’s, Norm sat at the counter talking to owner, Ron Leonard as if they were old friends. The place was Sunday-morning crowded, so maybe Ron was keeping Norm busy to avoid his causing trouble. Last time they were together, the place got shot up and all the glass on the French doors shattered, not to mention what happened to the espresso machine and the liquor on the shelf above it. A large con leche cup sat on the counter in front of the empty seat next to Norm, Ron removed it.

  “You two catching up on old times?” I sat down.

  Ron filled my cup, placed it on the counter and walked away.

  “Yeah,” Norm said. “Did you know the insurance company made him put Plexiglas in the doors? He thinks it’s bullet proof.”