Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery (13 page)

“I’m uncomfortable here, Chief,” Crabtree said. “This could be a career ender for a lot of us.”

“Let me straighten this out,” I said a little more angrily than I meant to. “I want nothing to do with Doyle or Bulger or you. I am here because I think your guys grabbed me and you haven’t convinced me otherwise. Find Bulger’s loot and I’ll read about it in the Globe. Come near me again and I’ll kill you. Simple as that.”

I thought Richard was going to fall out of his chair. If he could kill with a disappointed look, I’d be dead.

“Mick’s upset, considering everything, I’d be too,”

Richard said. “You’re the only logical connection to his torture because of Doyle.”

“I can see that,” Dudley said. “I wish I had another answer for you, but I don’t. I assure you no one from the marshals was involved. The only thing I can think of is someone involved with Bulger did it, but that doesn’t make much sense.” He frowned. “Remember what Sherlock Holmes said, when you’ve eliminated the probable, all that’s left, even the most improbable, is the answer.”

“I think you’re misquoting,” Richard said with a smile that didn’t make me happy.

Chapter 29

C
rabtree’s comments about not being involved in my kidnapping and torture sounded sincere, but I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to, so he could’ve broken out in a song-and-dance routine and it wouldn’t have changed my mind. I believed the marshals had a reason for what they did, but it didn’t matter. It could’ve been their being thorough in their search. To me it was humiliating.

The kidnappers had been careful not make me go into cardiac arrest with too much power in the Taser—they knew what they were doing—and they’d kept their identities hidden behind masks, even though a hood covered my head, and they used some kind of synthesizer to disguise their voices. Bad guys wouldn’t bother, but good guys trying bad guy tactics would. Or so I believed and nothing Crabtree had said changed my mind.

“It wasn’t us,” Crabtree said again. “This means whoever did this is still out there and that concerns me because they are interested in Doyle.”

I glanced at Richard and his expression was noncommittal.

“I’ve said what I wanted to say,” I turned to Crabtree. “Don’t bring this to me.”

“Yeah, I got your point,” Crabtree said with a sour tone and then a smirk appeared. “You’re a tough guy but I’ve known a lot of tough guys.”

“I’m not a tough guy,” I snapped back. “You scared me with the Taser hits, I was scared again when I woke up not knowing who I was, and I was even more frightened when my memory came back. Before I allow that to happen again, I’ll fight like my back’s to the wall.”

“You shouldn’t be scared of me.” He grinned. “But whoever is out there should scare you. When I find out who they are, you’ll know and,” his grin grew, “you can apologize.”

I tried not to react. I looked at my wristwatch. “I’m late for dinner.” I stood up. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said to Richard and walked out without another word to Crabtree.

Apologize my ass, I thought as I dialed Bob. I needed a drink to rid my mouth of the toxic taste.

Chapter 30

O
n my way to the marina, I called Bob who was with Burt and Texas Rich at the Green Parrot and ready to eat. I wanted a drink so I asked them to wait. It was a short ride to the Mango Tree Inn. I left the Jeep on the street in front of the inn and walked to the Parrot.

The Green Parrot is on Whitehead and Southard streets and a local’s hangout at that end of town. Its two claims to fame are that it’s the oldest bar in Key West and that it won a mention in Playboy magazine’s short list of its favorite bars.

The sun had almost set, so my rule of beer with the sun and Jameson at all other times kicked in. I ordered a Jameson on the rocks. Bill Blue ended his early sound-check gig. The Friday afternoon event featured the night band playing from five to seven. Other bars call it happy hour, but John, the owner, likes sound-check better.

The crowd dispersed, some choosing the restaurant next door, while others looked for places along Duval Street to eat.

“Where to?” Bob asked as I finished my second Jameson.

“Jack Flat’s?” I said as we walked along Southard toward Duval.

“I’ll see you guys later at the Hog or Tuna,” Texas Rich said and went his own way.

“Bob says I missed a lot while I was gone.” Burt lit a cigarette.

“Wish I had.” I tried to laugh. “I’ll bring you up to date while we eat.”

Jack Flat’s is on Duval, near Fleming and across from Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville. We found a table in the back of the crowded sports bar, thanks to the help of Gretchen who separated us from the waiting tourists.

While we ate, I began the saga of Dick Walsh and, with comments in-between from Bob, ended the story with Doyle Mulligan by the time Gretchen cleared our table.

“Jesus,” Burt said as we got up to leave. “I’ve got to stop leaving town.” He lit another cigarette and we walked toward the Hog’s Breath. “You really think the marshals grabbed you?”

“Yeah,” I said and lit my cigar. “Otherwise there’s another player in the mix.”

Chris Cook and Country Dave were into their last few songs of his mid-shift gig, when we walked into the crowded outdoor bar. Stephanie, Niki and Penn State Brian were behind the bar and we pushed our way to the far end but couldn’t find a seat. Texas Rich beat us there and was nursing a Miller Lite. He raised the can of beer at us and we headed toward where he stood at the back railing.

By the time Bob edged his way to the bar and got our drinks from Stephanie, Chris and Country Dave finished their last song and the duo were breaking down their equipment so the Carter Brothers Band could begin setting up. Some of the tourists finished their drinks, or took it with them in a plastic cup, and left.

None of my friends spoke about my
experience
and the absence of Tita’s name meant they were keeping their distance when it came to my personal life.

“Have you seen Padre Thomas?” Texas Rich sipped on his beer.

“Not in a few days.” I accepted my Jameson from Bob. “Why?”

“I was at Schooner a couple an hour ago and he was looking for you,” Texas Rich said. “Asked me to tell you he was there waiting.”

Usually Padre Thomas found me wherever I was. I sipped the Jameson as the Carter Brothers Band set up on the small stage and wondered why Padre Thomas was waiting for me.

What was wrong?

Chapter 31

I
finished my cigar and enjoyed the Carter Brothers Band’s first set while I sipped Jameson and talked about everything but what was on my mind. I didn’t hurry to Schooner Wharf because I was tired of Walsh, or Mulligan, or whatever name he went by, and didn’t want to deal with Padre Thomas’ concerns for him. No doubt, he was working on a way to save Walsh. After all, that’s what Padre Thomas did. Forgive and save. He had already forgiven him, now he had to save him. I wasn’t interested in doing either.

It was getting close to midnight and the band took a break. My cup was empty and, with any luck, Padre Thomas had gone home. It was time to find out.

“You going to Schooner?” Bob put his beer on the bar.

“I’ll stop on my way to the Jeep,” I said.

Bob frowned. “Lunch at El Siboney tomorrow?”

It was Bob’s way of saying I was on my own and good luck with Padre Thomas. It was late for both of us early risers.

“I’ll call you.” I said and waved good-bye to the bartenders. I walked through the crowded streets toward the waterfront. The heat of the day had dissipated into the cloudless sky, toward the twinkling stars and planets of other galaxies, and a comfortable breeze wafted through the streets bringing with it the salty sea aromas of the surrounding water. I always found these night scents intoxicating after a hot day.

Sloppy Joe’s had its seats filled with Hemingway wannabes and locals who enjoyed the club’s live entertainment. After midnight, and Duval Street was alive with a mass of people bar hopping, gawking, and enjoying themselves. People gathered outside the Tree Bar and some wandered into Rick’s or the Red Garter.

Schooner Wharf was quiet as I walked past the closed boutique shops on Lazy Way Lane the small one-way street behind the bar.

Only a handful of people sat in the patio staring at an empty stage because entertainment stopped at midnight; some were couples who took advantage of the privacy. Locals filled the bar and a few tourists whose wives and girlfriends had left them bragged about it to anyone that would listen—a good way to ruin a trip to Key West.

Vickie looked at me and pointed to her wristwatch. I smiled and nodded my head and she poured me a double shot of Jameson over ice.

“Just getting up?” She joked and handed me my drink.

“Going home,” I said and we both laughed as I left money on the bar. “Have you seen Padre Thomas?”

“Last time I saw him he was by the magic bar.” Vickie picked up the money and turned to wait on another customer.

Half a dozen stools fronted the magic bar and Padre Thomas sat alone in the shadows. He looked up as I approached and I realized I hadn’t brought him a beer because I hoped he wasn’t here.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he mumbled, his voice tired. As he lit a cigarette, the match’s flickering glow briefly shined on his weary eyes.

“Texas Rich told me,” I said. “Do you want a beer?”

“I’m tired, I want to go home.”

“What’s so important?” I regretted asking before I finished speaking. Padre Thomas’ uncanny ability—be it from talking to angels or suppositions—of knowing things he shouldn’t sometimes scare me. The scariest parts were the times I found myself believing in his angels.

His eyes stared at me and he sighed. “I couldn’t do anything,” he said and inhaled deeply on the cigarette.

“About what?” I sipped my drink.

He turned to me, still in the shadows. “What happened to you… I didn’t see it… I couldn’t call anyone…” He looked down and his sighs were annoying.

“You didn’t see what, Padre?”

“They tortured you,” he said. “I couldn’t do anything.”

“How do you know this if you didn’t have a vision?” I sucked on a piece of ice from my drink.

“The angels told me,” he whispered. “They wanted me to know you were okay.”

“That was
nice of them
.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my words. “They say anything else?”

“You’re mad,” he muttered.

“The angels tell you that or did you figure it out on your own,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I knew you’d be mad.” He whispered. “But I have news for you.” He almost smiled in the darkness but his eyes told the truth.

“Good or bad?” I said and hoped the words came out a little less harshly.

“I don’t know, that depends on you.”

“Let’s hear the news.”

“The marshals didn’t kidnap you.”

I didn’t know if it was good or bad news, but it was surprising. How did he know what I’d been accusing Crabtree of?

“If the marshals didn’t do it, who did?” I remembered Crabtree’s warning about other players being in the mix. I didn’t need that.

“I don’t know. But now you know who didn’t do it.”

“Yeah, that leaves an island full of possibilities.” It was my turn to sigh. “I was so sure.”

“Why?” He put out his cigarette and took a fresh one from the package but didn’t light it.

“Whoever grabbed me went out of their way to hide their identities,” I said. “They even disguised their voices, so it had to be people I knew or at least would know. I figured they were the marshals trying bad guy tactics. Now, everyone’s a suspect.”

“Bad guys wouldn’t care if you lived or died.”

“Bingo.” I snapped my fingers and got up to get another drink. “Do you want a beer?”

“I have something else to tell you,” Padre Thomas said.

“From the angels?” I would’ve laughed but I was feeling my drinks and the angels scared me.

“No.” He smiled and pointed toward the stage. “Norm is here and I think he has our drinks.”

My longtime friend, and sometimes nemesis, Norm Burke walked from the bar section nearest the stage, holding our drinks and showing off a wide grin. Norm and I go back to my journalist days in Central America covering guerrilla actions and when they slowed or ended, drug smuggling. This was before Mexico exploded with drug violence, but the violence was still there between the various cartels at the time.

Norm has been to Key West a few times before and each time it was due to trouble I was in and not aware of until his arrival. Padre Thomas has his angels and I have Norm Burke, though I wouldn’t call him an angel—his job often calls for him to kill people and he’s good at it. What was he doing at Schooner Wharf bar in Key West at midnight? Whatever the answer, like the angels, I knew it would scare me.

Chapter 32

N
orm is six-foot-five, a trim 200-something pounds that he carries as if he were a lightweight boxer in training; his gray eyes, with flecks of yellow, remind me of deep, cold-water wells and he wears his hair military trimmed, probably to hide the gray beginning to show at his temples. His smile lights up a room when he needs it to and his scowl makes his enemies’ hair stand on end. He’s a dedicated friend and I wouldn’t want to find out what kind of enemy he’d be.

For a nanosecond, I thought he was here because he had a fighter on the card at the Seminole Casino north of Miami. But then I knew, without the help of angels, that he was here because of Walsh and the marshals. I couldn’t see a connection, however if you could see Norm coming he wasn’t doing his job. You didn’t see him come and you didn’t see him go, usually because you were dead.

Norm put Padre Thomas’ Budweiser, my Jameson, and his Kalik on the magic bar and shook our hands, never losing the grin.

“What brings you to Paradise?” I knew Norm would rather be in Los Angeles than in Key West—go figure. Island life wasn’t for everyone.

He tapped bottles with Padre Thomas and then they both took long swallows of beer.

“Can’t a friend stop by for a visit?”