Death of the Innocent

by Karl Tutt

  I wove my way through the crowd and sat down next to her. It was futile to attempt any conversation. This was the primal force of the blues as only the Whip could brew it. A half an hour later he was exhorting his acolytes to order another round. In a voice that sounded like truck tires on gravel he reminded them to be generous with the bar staff and to “hang out for some more hot lead” in just a few short minutes. It was a given that Whip’s gigs sold more beer than any other band in Key West.

  I had an icy bottle waiting for him when he sat down.

  “Evening Perfessor. I see you have come to testify to the exhiliratin’ power of the blues on this blessed night.”

  “It’s nice and tight, Whip. The boys are in a good place.”

  “Thank you, Perfessor. High compliments. I had a feelin’ we might be seein’ you sometime soon. Miss Julianne got a little flash. Didn’t you, Darlin’?”

  She smiled and nodded. The Whip went on.

  “Billy sayin’ it to everybody. You the Ghostcatcher. You gonna get the hoodoo on the voodoo. That right?”

  “I’m no Ghostcatcher, Whip. I don’t know that there’s anything I can do. But I was hoping you and Miss Julianne might help me with a little information. What’s happening on the local scene? Who’s involved? The lowdown on any people actually practicing voodoo in the Keys?”

  “I know you, Perfessor. Can’t resist a good rescue mission. Miss Julianne, talk sweet to Mister T.K.”

  “They’re here. Not a lot of them, but they’re strong believers, very active. You remember the guy at the funeral, older gentleman with the white brocade shirt. He’s their man.”

  “You’re talking about Marcuse Durant. You said he was Tonton Macoute. A sort of traveling magician.”

  “That’s not the half of it. Tremendous power. Those guys can scare their devotees into anything. Some believe the Tonton can fly, dematerialize, and conjure all kinds of spirits, both good and horribly evil. Durant’s been in and out of Key West for several years. Always travels with a woman named Laverne. She is his “placee”, a kind of common law wife. I get the word she is dying. They don’t know why. She has been up to Miami for some mysterious treatment at least twice in the last six months. No luck. She only gets worse. There is rumbling among his followers. They say if his magic is as strong as he claims, he should be able to drive the demons out of her.”

  She stopped for a moment to sip from her sweaty glass. My mind was tumbling at full tilt, but with no concrete direction. I said nothing. Whip watched me, then spoke.

  “That ain’t the whole cake, Perfessor. Billy never had much time for religion. Boat stuff, Sunday charters every week. He gets his juice from the sun, the wind, and the big fish. Not so with Monique. Good Catholic girl. Lots of confession and Mass. But here’s the hammer. Her momma was hot into the spirits, a good-time “bousin.” Voodoo prostitute. She used them potions to keep the boys comin’ back for more of that love honey. She dead now, but Marcuse was her brother. Makes Monique his niece and gives him a tight connection to Alexis. Monique pretty much kept that chile away from Durant. That’s all I know right now. But it makes for some interesting permutations, don’t it, Perfessor?”

  Whip smiled like a tomcat with a goldfish in his paws. Then he took the bottle off the table and headed back to the stage. The Wreckers were re-tuning. I looked over at Miss Julianne.

  “So what do you think?”

  She avoided my eyes for a second, then looked at me darkly. Her face was gray and heavy like a stone.

  “I think this is ugly and evil. You must not go. I know of your torment. Your powers are under a cloud. ”

  I waited for more words, but they didn’t come. I had tried to hard to hide my haunting, but she knew. I placed my hand on hers, then slid my chair back and headed for KAMALA.

  While I waited to cross the street, a 1962 pink Cadillac convertible eased by. A half-dozen guys clad in snowy suits studded with rhinestones were sitting in the back waving at the admiring crowds. Thick silver-framed sunglasses, long black sideburns, and hair in the inevitable ebony ducktail. It was Key West’s own contingent of Elvises gracing the tourists with a tour of the town. I realized I was smiling. It felt good.

  Chapter 13

  It was quiet on the dock. I wasn’t sure I could sleep, but I lay down on the settee and closed my eyes. I thought about Miss Julianne’s warning. “Powers under a cloud.” She was telling me to mind my own business. I wanted to, but there were things pushing me and I wasn’t sure I could resist. I began to drift. Then I heard it.

  At first, I thought it was just the wind humming in the rigging. Then it became human. I didn’t know if there were words. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was there. The other sound settled into my ear. The pages of a book fluttered in the cockpit. I went to the companionway.

  She was a specter, shimmering, hovering, her form obscured by the mist. She was over the water. Again she wore nothing. She seemed to beckon as though she wanted me to follow. Wisps of dark hair danced in the breeze. Her smile was small and sad. The bloodless wound still screamed at her throat. I started towards her. I reached out to pull her to me. I barely heard her, but she whispered. I strained and she came closer. I felt her cold hand settle on my chest.

  “T.K. Wake up.”

  I gave my head a violent turn and clawed my eyes open. Sunny was sitting next to me. She looked puzzled, even frightened, but at the same time relieved that she had brought me back from whatever hellish place I’d been.

  “Nightmares? What was it this time?”

  “Yes, nightmares. That’s all. Nothing important. Just a bad dream. It’s over.”

  But now I knew it wasn’t.

  I made a couple of cups of instant coffee and bolstered each with a generous shot of Jameson’s good Irish whiskey. I told her about Billy, Whipsaw, and the other things that had happened since I’d seen her last night. She watched me closely, didn’t say much. I’d seen her do that before, wait, weigh the information, then come up with a razor-sharp analysis of a situation she knew nothing about until a few minutes before.

  “I think it’s great T.K., trying to help Billy and all that. But you need to be careful. Listen to Miss Julianne. I don’t know about her “second sight”, but I do know that she seems to be in touch with things the rest of us can hardly imagine. You told me about that business last year. You couldn’t have prevented Martin’s death. The woman who disappeared. You didn’t control that. It’s done, but not gone. It’s still lurking in your subconscious fighting to get out in some way. The guilt pummels you. Now this. Alexis. It’s murder. You don’t know what or who you’re dealing with, but we do know the kid is dead. Think about it. You’re no cop and there is a killer out there.”

  “I understand, Sunny. I’m not going to do anything foolish, but I owe it to Billy and to myself to be useful. I won’t get in Beamon’s way. I’ll just poke around a bit, ask a few questions. Maybe get some answers. Nothing dangerous in that. Nobody gets hurt.”

  Her soft blue eyes got larger. She rolled them and shook her head.

  “Yeah. Sure. Nobody gets hurt. Alexis did. I know you, Cap. Just don’t get mad if I sound like your mother.”

  “Hey, my mother is a damned good thing to sound like,” I told her.

  She tried to laugh. “Do you want me to stay?”

  I nodded and she moved toward the v-berth leaving jeans, panties, bra, and t-shirt in her wake. I stripped off my clothes and crawled in beside her. She smelled faintly of beer and cigarettes. There was a salty taste on my tongue when I kissed her forehead. She cradled her head on my chest and slung one long leg over my thighs. She seemed to be holding me a little tighter than usual.

  Chapter 14

  When I woke the next morning, Sunny was gone. There was a note on the table.

  To my favorite Ghostcatcher,

  Working the early shift. Be home by six. Dinner at my place. Saw Captain Harry last night. Drinks on the HAT at eight. Hope that’s okay.

  Lov
e you. Sunny

  The day was quiet. No visits from the cops. No voodoo dolls with pins sticking out of them. No requests to look into murder cases. I tried to work on an article about shipwrecks on reefs in the Keys, but I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept drifting back to the dream. There were two now. There would be more. I could see Billy’s face in agony, “she come to you.” Maybe she had.

  I grabbed a sheet of paper and made a list of the info I had accumulated yesterday. It was like watching an old T.V. set with the vertical hold out of adjustment. I had to know more to stop the screen from spinning. I wasn’t sure I could. I looked over my list.

  I wanted to know what Beamon knew.

  I needed more info about the voodoo scene in Key West.

  I wanted to investigate the connection between Marcuse Durant and Monique.

  I was also curious about the real father of Alexis. Who was he and why did he disappear? If he really did.

  I remembered the text Fritz had run for me. When the body was invaded by evil spirits, it was the work of a witch, often a neighbor or relative. Miss Julianne was convinced Durant was a Tonton Macoute and at least, his followers believed it. The Tonton could use his powers to discover the creature, then use black magic to drive out the demons. In the book, there was no mention of the witch being sacrificed or harmed in any way. Still, I figured anything was possible when this kind of blasphemy had reared its head. And I wasn’t ready to dismiss the idea that someone had tried to exorcise the evil spirits and simply screwed up.

  I wondered about the old man’s wife, Laverne. She’d been to Miami. Lots of diagnoses, but from medical doctors or some demented shaman? Suppose Marcuse, the revered voodoo magician, decided it was simple demonic possession. Alexis was his grand-niece. Could he possibly think that the child was a witch? Would he sacrifice her to drive the beasts from his wife? It seemed too far out, but I knew that my connection to the child was clouding my judgment. Besides, I had my own wounds that continued to bleed. I didn’t know that I could be entirely rational.

  My mind went back to Miss Julianne and the second-sight thing. I knew some very intelligent people that paid handsomely for readings or advice on things that baffled them. I had seen her work. She was no charlatan. But the natural skeptic in me kept screaming, “Don’t be just another sucker”. I told it to shut up, but it wouldn’t go away. I had no doubt Miss Julianne was extremely intuitive, way beyond the normal person. But when someone tells me to accept it all on pure faith, little bells go off in my head and red lights start flashing. I check to make sure my wallet is still in my pocket.

  I also had a feeling about last night. She knew something she was holding back. I had no idea what it was, but she’d decided I wasn’t ready. Until she thought I was, it wasn’t going to happen. I felt like a rat in a maze scurrying from one dead end to another. I didn’t even have any good guesses.

  Sunny was right. I wasn’t a cop. This was murder. I did need to be careful. Not many people would miss one more burned out college professor. The smartest thing to do was leave it to the professionals. Beamon was good. There was no disagreement on that. I was sure he didn’t want or need my help, but I was involved whether I liked it or not. Billy and Alexis had seen to that. My “good sense” sat on my shoulder and told me to let it go. I told him to shut up.

  Sometimes when you’re totally confused, you find the answer in action. It was time to do something even if it was wrong. I would try to see Marcuse Durant the next day. I felt a little better and I hoped dinner at Sunny’s and drinks with Harry on the HAT would continue the process.

  Chapter 15

  Sunny was running around the kitchen like Julia Child on speed. She pointed at the Cabernet and slapped a glass down on the counter. The cholesterol hung in the air like wood smoke. Chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes loaded with whole milk and butter, green beans in bacon grease, and homemade biscuits with honey-butter. It looked delicious and believe me, it was. But with every bite, my arteries screamed while they bulged like Batman’s biceps. After dinner we talked over cherry cobbler and a pony of crème de menthe. Then we headed to Harry’s for drinks on the HAT.

  Sunny and I wandered into the Galleon Marina amid the towers of floating fiberglass, an easy hundred million dollars of opulent floating toys. Harry’s silver Jag was parked in his designated space just off the bow of the massive yacht.

  I knocked the hull and the latest in a long line of Harry’s “nieces” welcomed us aboard. I hoped she was at least twenty, but I wouldn’t take the odds. She wore a long, wrap-around island skirt with the split strategically placed to offer a nice thigh shot every time she moved. The matching top was brimming over with tanned flesh and I didn’t think it was helped by a wonder bra.

  Her hair was honey brown with a blond streak bleached just above her forehead. It hung just below the shoulders. Deep brown eyes sparkled and seemed to be saying “Screw the hungry children. This is where it’s at.” She introduced herself as Tracy. No last name, but that’s not unusual. No one under thirty uses them anymore.

  We stepped off the dock onto the metal folding stairs and went into the aft salon. Harry was right. The HAT was a beauty. It was a large Florida room, smoked lexan on three sides. To starboard, a cream colored leather sofa ran the length of the room. Vibrant silk pillows in green and coral were arranged casually on the corners. There was a hand-carved teak coffee table with inlaid mother of pearl shimmering in the subdued light. In the aft corner was a matching chest of even more ornate design. A wrought iron table with a milky marble top and matching chairs sat in front of it. There was a dried arrangement in a tall porcelain vase in the center.

  The wet bar commanded the aft section complete with a full liquor cabinet and a small refrigerator. There were enough plants to populate a small rain forest.

  Harry came up from the captain’s stateroom. He smiled and stuck out his hand, then gave Sunny a gentlemanly peck on the cheek.

  “So I finally got you guys on board. Welcome to the HAT TRICK. You already met Tracy. What do you think? She’s doll, isn’t she? Believe me, you’re going to love her.”

  He put his arm around her waist and hugged her. Then he grinned like an overweight , aging rock star with his latest pubescent groupie draped over him. It was almost comical. Good old Uncle Harry gloating over his favorite “Niece.” Only she wasn’t his niece and I guessed she was doing things no self-respecting uncle would want his niece to do. I tried to fight the cynicism, but I figured that if Harry was a bagboy at the local Publix, Tracy might be on the huge Davis in the next slip trick-or-treating, maybe without the costume. Okay, I apologize. Mind in the gutter and all that.

  “What do you say, T.K.? I know you boys from south of the Mason-Dixon Line like your sour mash. Maker’s okay, or you prefer Jack Black or Dickel? Ladies, some Chablis or shall I break out the Dom?”

  Tracy served the drinks in monogramed crystal. Then Harry dragged me off to see the rest of the boat. I stopped in front of the bulkhead. There were several photos of Harry hoisting magnificent trophy fish and some fabulous sunsets. The main attraction was at the center, a beautiful sailfish, maybe seven feet from head to tail. It hung like a dead man on the gallows, the sun reflecting the beads of water like a thousand diamonds. Harry was beaming like a kid who just met Snow White.

  “Damned, Harry. That must have been some fight. Great photo,” I said.

  “You can believe it,” he said, “but between Cy and me, we got the best of him. That Cy, great man with a rod and knife. But I know you, Buddy. You want to see the engine room.

  He dragged me off to see the twin 892 Diesels. 737 horsepower each. A comfortable cruising speed of 23 knots. The engine room was cleaner than most people’s kitchens. I was too polite to ask about his fuel bills.

  Then it was on to the fly bridge. There was a set of thousand dollar Steiners resting in a teak binocular case beside the wheel. GPS chart plotter, SATNAV, radar, single sideband radio, weatherfax, and every other expensive el
ectronic toy in the catalogue. They adorned the steering station like ornaments on a Christmas tree. I ran a quick mental list of the equipment, knowing I hadn’t seen everything yet. Figuring the base cost of the boat, probably somewhere north of five million.

  “It is truly gorgeous, Harry. Everyone ought to have an uncle like yours.”

  He tried looking sad and made a clicking sound with his tongue.

  “I hadn’t seen him in years, T.K. Made a fortune selling stainless washers to GM, Chrysler, Ford in Detroit. Big hockey fan. Season tickets for years right behind the Red Wings bench. Knew the coach and every player, first names and all that shit. I used to go to the game with him when I was up there. He never forgot it. That’s where I got the name for the boat. HAT TRICK, to honor Uncle Mort. I think he’d be proud, don’t you?”

  I nodded solemnly. But as soon as we turned, I stifled a good horse laugh and turned it into a half-smile. He showed me the rest of the boat. King-sized walk around bed in the master stateroom, built-in his and hers dressers, walk–in closets, a 42 inch plasma T.V. More terrific photography graced the bulkheads. Private head with a full size tub and shower stall.

  The galley was equipped to suit the ultimate tastes of any gourmet. Stainless steel refrigerator and stove, microwave. He even had a washer and dryer tucked in a tight little alcove. It was a lot nicer than most of the homes I’d ever been in and a lot more comfortable.

  We joined the ladies in the salon for another drink and some light hors d’oeuvres. Black beluga caviar and pate, of course. Tracy and Sunny were jabbering like old friends by the time we got back.

  I sank into the sofa and watched Sunny watch me watch Tracy. I thought she was going to slap my hand and tell me no, but it didn’t happen. I was pleasantly surprised that Cy wasn’t skulking about somewhere.

  I could tell that Sunny was running out of polite conversation and my supply of cordial has its limits. We promised to come back soon and headed down the dock. It had begun to cloud up, but Sunny wanted to walk. We started up Front Street and turned left at the Pier House onto Duval.