Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery (18 page)

“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

T
hat 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 can’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

W
hen 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.”

“You didn’t tell him… “

“No,” Norm interrupted me. “He seems happy, so I let it go.” He finished his coffee. “You had breakfast with Tita?”

“Yeah.” I added three sugars to my
con leche
and took a sip.

“Should I ask?”

“She took the job in Boston.”

“You knew that before she left.”

“There’s knowing and then there’s knowing.”

“Wishing isn’t knowing,” he said and stood up. “You should’ve married that girl when you had the chance.”

“We’re gonna talk about that in December.” I left money for the bill on the counter.

Norm smiled as we left the restaurant. “’Bout time, hoss.”

“What are we doing?” We walked slowly along

Caroline Street, the Sunday morning traffic crawling by as if it had a hangover.

“We need to talk in private.”

The Coffee Plantation had customers inside drinking iced coffees and teas as we sat on the steps, watching tourists stroll along sun-swept Margaret and Caroline streets. Tourists rambled the streets without a care.

“Talk,” I said.

“We have lunch today with the French.”

“Good. At Schooner, right?”

“Yeah. There’s a few things you need to know and I suggest you listen this time.”

“When haven’t I listened to you?”

“With the CIA people, for one,” he said. “And when were you going to tell me about the Russians trying to grab you?”

“They didn’t succeed.”

“But they tried and you should take that seriously.”

“I do. Now, what about the French?”

He kept the frown and shook his head. “Okay, there are three of ‘em. Frenchy, is the most pro-American. So, work with that. He’s always wanted to be recruited by the CIA and likes anything American, even French fries.”

“The other two?”

“I need to tell you again, if you look on these men as jokes, old washed-up agents, you’re making a mistake. The fact that they’re old should tell you that they’re also successful. Not many get to retire in their business.”

“The other two successes?”

“Cold, methodical and won’t believe anything you say. They know how to kill someone slowly and if the rumors over the years are only slightly true, they enjoy their work.”

“They responsible for the diamonds?”

“They were involved,” he said. “They took it the hardest because France was struggling during the Cold War and the country had just got back on its feet when this happened.”

“Should I go with the Cuban story?”

“I’d tell them the truth about what you think and then suggest if it were you, you’d be on a beach in Cuba,” he said. “That might convince them you’re telling some truth.”

“So, tell them a lie to convince them I’m telling the truth.”

“Works for me,” he said with a smirk. “Now, stick to the plan and don’t be an asshole.”

“I’ll try my best,” I said. “Tell me something. How do you know them? I thought you were a Latin American guy.”

He got a laugh out of that. “Look it, a long time ago, when I was a young, I spent time in Europe. Seems being fluent in Spanish qualified me for an assignment in Germany. I knew these guys when I was that raw recruit, but it’s a small fraternity and some of them passed through Central and South America.”

“Cuba?”

“I would guess that they’ve all been assigned to Cuba, at one time or another,” he said. “Are you getting my drift, Mick?”

“Stop playing around and be serious,” I said.

“Yeah, and remember this, as long as you’re an asset, they won’t kill you.”

Chapter 44

T
he city commission recently voted to repeal the city’s Blue Law that kept liquor from being sold before noon on Sunday but even so people sat around the bar at Schooner Wharf anxious as grey hounds waiting for the release of the electronic rabbit.

I pointed to one of the large thatch-roofed tables in the pea-rock patio. We would be meeting the French halfway between the stage and boardwalk, and on the path the wait staff used to pick up food orders. It would be loud, with music, noisy tourists and busy servers.

“Is there a reason you chose this table?” Norm looked around as he shook his head.

“I like this one, close to everything.”

“And I am sure there’s a reason you wanna be close to everything.” He sat down.

“Yeah.” I sat across from him. “The French have a rep for being food snobs, so these Frenchmen I want uncomfortable.”

“Mick, you don’t know
these
Frenchmen,” Norm said, emphasizing these, and moved his seat so he had a good view between the boardwalk and Lazy Way. “Frenchy will love it, but the other two won’t.”