I got back into the Saab and called Sunny. The canned voice on her cell informed me that she was unavailable. I could leave a message or a number and she would return my call as soon as possible. I figured she was in class. I left a brief account of the horrific facts and told her I’d see her at her apartment around five. I knew she’d help me dissect the entire gruesome scene over a well-deserved belt of Evan Williams.
I knocked. Sunny glanced through peep hole before she opened the door. It was an old habit from her days as the best looking bartender in Key West and the paramour of one reluctant Ghostcatcher. She threw her arms around me as soon as I entered.
“I’m sorry. T.K. I had no idea it would come to this. I knew you didn’t want to get involved, but I had to push like the demanding bitch I sometimes am. I did it for her.” She backed away for a moment, but held onto my hands. Her eyes were a little swollen. She looked like a contrite Aphrodite begging for forgiveness, but promising a redemption, and her brand of redemption was one no healthy male could forget.
“It’s not your fault,” I lied, “I’m in it for Pam and Shorty now. But you called yourself my faithful Indian companion and I need you to put your ear to the ground and help me find out who the bad guys are and which hill they’re hiding behind.”
She rolled her shoulders and took a breath to compose herself. Her head nodded and she tried a smile that only went halfway. I kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“You bettum’, Kimosabe. Sit down and I’ll get you and Silver something to drink.”
She went to the kitchen to mix me a fat double of bourbon and a few cubes of ice. Just the feminine sway in her hips and the scent of sweet perfume distracted me and lifted my spirits for a prolonged instant. It seemed blatantly irreverent, but I hoped she’d get me something else a little later in the evening.
In the past I had relied on Sunny as a listener and a sounding board. Her mind was deadly keen and she had a knack for analysis that was quick and precise. She spotted things I didn’t, made suggestions I wouldn’t have thought of, helped me plot improbable strategies . . . and even saved my ass on more than one occasion. I gave her a rundown on my bloody discovery and the things Pam had told me about Paul’s habit.
“Find Glen.’ That’s the last thing Shorty said to me as I left.”
“Okay, then that’s the first thing you should do.” She went over to a small desk and picked up her laptop. She hit the on button and typed in a few letters. I saw the screen come to life as I sat next to her on the couch.
“Damned. I got a bunch of hits. Glen Macklin. I knew he had a day job, but I didn’t know he had his own school.”
“What kind of school?” I asked. She turned the image so I could see it, then dumped the machine into my lap. There were several entries, but I settled on the Macklin School of Self Defense. There was a photo of Glen in a white robe with the black belt of distinction tied around his waist. There must have been forty trophies on the floor around him, all awarded to him personally for tournaments he had won, or for team championships earned by his Dojo. Apparently his students competed all over the East Coast. His specialty was Karate, but he had also been trained in Krav Maga a self-defense system developed by the military in Israel where the only objective is to kill. There was a host of shots of Glen and his students in different fighting poses.
He was short, and trim, but a body hard and supple lurked in the folds of his canvas karategi. The look on his face was anything but benign. For an instant I doubted it was the same man I’d seen making sweet love to his bass guitar a few nights earlier. There was a phone number listed. It was early evening and I knew HIGH FLYER wasn’t scheduled. I tried it and he answered after several rings.
“Glen, this is T.K. Fleming. I’m a friend of Pam’s.”
“I know who you are, Dr. Fleming. Shorty called me earlier with the news. He said I’d be hearing from you. Thank you for sparing them the police . . . at least for now.”
His voice was surprisingly gentle, but the sadness was unmistakable. We agreed to meet at the Dojo in the morning before his students started coming in for general workouts or private lessons.
Sunny and I talked about a few other aspects of the case and drank some more. It didn’t take long to realize I needed to leave. It just wasn’t a night for any extra-curricular activities. She offered to run me back to the boat, but I told her the walk would be good for me. It wasn’t.
The street lights were out in few places and I navigated blindly through patches of darkness. Sometimes I get the feeling something is stalking me, but it’s usually the result of an overactive imagination or just plain paranoia. I looked back and a black Mustang passed me too slowly, then eased to the curb. Two gray figures got out, on opposite sides. One was short and stocky, the other tall and lean. They approached me like a couple of feral animals sizing up their prey. I looked left and right, but there was nowhere to run. In a sliver of light, I thought I recognized them.
Lurch stepped up into my face while the fireplug circled to the left. Suddenly a fist like a sock full of nickels plunged into my gut. Then a stiff right to the jaw. I bent over gasping and a solid forearm came down on my neck. I hit the filthy concrete and tried to breathe. The fireplug approached and raised his boot. I expected a steel toe stomping my face, but Lurch grabbed his arm and spun him around.
“The Boss Lady told Leo not to go too hard on the Secret Agent Man,” he growled.
The fireplug looked sorely disappointed, but backed off and whispered, “Aw shit, I wuz jus’ startin’ to have some fun.”
“Yeah, well that comes later,” the tall one said and turned back to me. He put a silvery blade to my cheek and nicked it with the razor point. The blood came quickly. He got close to my ear. His breath stunk of stale garlic.
“Understand this is just a friendly visit. If we didn’t have strict orders, they’d be washing you off the sidewalk with a fire hose. You’re gonna get a call . . . a few questions . . . I gotta a suggestion for you. Give the right answers and sign in all of the appropriate places. I hope you got that? I ain’t gonna write it down.”
They got back into the Mustang and pulled off slowly. I pushed my finger into the cut. I didn’t think it was too deep or too long, but it hurt. I pulled out my shirt tail and pressed it hard against the wound. My gut was throbbing like a slow motion jackhammer. I got up and coughed into my hand a couple of times. Fortunately there was no blood. Then I walked.
The light through the ports on KAMALA welcomed me. I went below and checked the cut. I was right. Not too bad. Some peroxide and a small band aid would do. I grabbed four Ibuprofen and washed them down with Jameson and water. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t want them worrying, but I damned sure was. The Irish and the painkillers met in my aching gut and sleep was easier than I thought. Thank God, no dreams.