DEATH
of the
OLD MAN
by
Karl Tutt
Copyright Karl Tutt 2014
All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Death of the Old Man
Chapter 1
It was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. A cliché, I know, but some Key West wag had done it, in fact, three of them, over easy on Duval Street. He ate a few bites and shared the rest with some stray cats and a rooster that had wandered over from one of the back streets. The tourists had mostly gone home, but there were enough crazy locals to watch and cheer or simply shake their heads. Another Key West street scene to join the pantheon of lunacy that permeated the capital of the Conch Republic. Amen, Brother.
Sunny and I were on the way back from Marathon. Steve Wilbur, an old sailing buddy, had bought half interest in the Marathon Marina on the west side of the cut that runs into Boot Key from the south. He had been bugging us all summer to see the improvements he had made. We finally decided it was time to get out of town, if only for a day. The place looked great, new docks, refurbished restrooms, and a fully air conditioned Captain’s Lounge with Wi Fi, computers, and a 60 inch LED TV. We ohhed and ahhed at all the appropriate junctures. I couldn’t help but wonder where he got the money. Last time I had seen him he was a down and out charter captain with an old Luhrs that was barely limping to and from the dock. Anyway, I was too polite to ask.
Sunny hugged Steve. I shook his hand and gave one more rave review. She and I pulled into the Seven Mile Grill on the way home. The fried grouper sandwich was succulent and a couple of frosty drafts slid down mighty easy.
We had the top down on the old Saab and the cassette was blaring Bruce Springsteen. “Tramps like us, Baby, we were born to run.” A1A was as quiet as it gets. Late August is the hump. It’s too damned hot for human beings. The kids are back in school. The natives are breathing heavy, holed up inside until the humidity eases up. The hurricane season is still in its infancy and the breezes of fall are teasing, promising to wash us back into the land of the living in a couple of months.
Clarence Clemmons was winding up his magnificent sax solo. I was pounding the beat on the dashboard and Sunny’s shoulders were swaying in time. We were just north of Stock Island on a stretch of road that isn’t lined with strip centers and souvenir stands. I saw him at a distance. Sunny has a foot that rivals any NASCAR champ. We were doing at least 75. When he staggered and almost stumbled into the sand, I reached over, touched her arm and pointed. She tapped the brakes, but we still went by in a blur. I turned down the stereo and looked back. Sunny slammed it in reverse and we wove backwards until we were beside him.
He stopped. He was trembling and trying to keep his feet. His skin was waxen, as gray as concrete and papery. It seemed to be melting on his face. Despite the fiery heat, he wasn’t sweating. His moth eaten flannel shirt waved lightly in the breeze.
“You okay?” I asked.
His eyes didn’t seem to focus, but they jumped out of his head like a giant fish that had been dying on the sun-baked dock. Glassy, pupils the size of pinpricks, no trace of life.
“Can we give you a ride? Take you home?”
He continued to shake and stare. His bloodless lips moved and whispered.
“Dey steal my shadow. Coming soon.”
“Who? Family, friends?”
“Obi Man coming.”
The dead eyes drilled into mine. Steal his shadow? Obi Man? I shook my head. I reached for the handle to open the door. With a herculean effort, he raised a bloodless palm like a stop sign and punched a spindly finger in the air, waving us down the road.
“Okay, if you’re sure?” I said. He nodded his head listlessly.
I looked at Sunny and raised my arms helplessly. She eased into the pedal and we were soon screaming toward Key West.
“Jesus, he looked like a corpse. Did you notice he wasn’t sweating? Heat stroke, maybe. But he sure wasn’t going to get in the car. I hope his Obi-man shows up soon.”
I was troubled, but if you want strange, south Florida is the place and Key West often crosses the border into bizarre. Soon Bruce was blasting again and it was all but forgotten. At least for now.
Chapter 2
We were blowing through the last few miles. Sunny handled the old Saab like Dale Earnhardt. She’d grown very quiet and the usual smile had faded.
“Something bothering you?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the old man. He looked half past dead. It just got me thinking. I’m almost 40, T.K. What have I done with my life? A bad marriage. A man I once loved bleeding at my feet. A lot of skeletons that still rattle around in my brain too damned much. A degree that seems wasted. All I seem to do is fill beer mugs and listen to drunks fantasize about screwing my eyes out. How much longer does it go on? I mean we’re happy. At least I think we are. But what happens when my tits begin to sag and the tips run out?”
The whole thing caught me off guard. I wanted to come up with some witty rejoinder that would reassure her. I moved my lips, but no words came. Sometimes nothing is the best thing to say. I didn’t know if it was one of those times, but silence was my only alternative. She stared at the ribbon of asphalt. The speedometer was pushing 80.
It was an off night for Buffett’s Roundtable, the accumulation of miscreants and escapees that we called our friends. We parked at Land’s End Marina and headed down the dock to KAMALA. My sweet and beautiful O’Day 31 was languishing in the slip, dancing on the gentle swells that rolled into the marina. The little AC unit I fitted into the companionway was humming her song and I knew it would be cool and comfortable below. I poured two generous goblets of Malbec and we settled into a quiet stupor while the cold air dried our sweating bodies.
“I hope the old man’s not lying in a ditch somewhere. He was talking in riddles,” Sunny said.
“Yeah, maybe delirious from the heat. You hungry?”
“You betum, Red Rider,” she said in her best Little Beaver voice. My Sunny was back.
I filed her comments in the ‘to return’ bin in my mind and rustled up a light meal of my famous chicken and wild rice. Fresh mushrooms, sweet onions, green peppers, a little soy sauce, a hint of sherry and all of the appropriate seasonings. Sunny wolfed it down like the barbarians were at the gate. Business as usual. A little more Malbec. Some Elmore Leonard for me. I was rereading 52 PICKUP for the umpteenth time. Raw, direct, that magical way that Elmore had with dialogue. The guy never lost his touch. Sunny crashed on the settee and was snoring like a freight train. Her wispy silken hair was arranged around her face like Botticelli’s Venus. Who would know that the angelic face and a body that rivaled Raquel Welsh in her prime had the mannerisms and habits of a longshoreman? But for now, she was mine, my crewmate, my confidante, my lover, my friend. I brushed the golden bangs away from her forehead. She never moved.
At six I was up. Sunny was still snoring. She had an early shift at the Green Parrot. The best bartender in Key West needed her sleep. I crept out
of the v berth, slipped on a pair of old cut-offs and headed down the dock for my daily fix of mayhem and madness. The headlines screamed “Slaughter in Syria, Impasse over the Budget, Florida Unemployment Soars”. Sometimes I wonder why I even read it. It never seems to change, but I’ve been a newspaper freak for thirty years. If I don’t get my fix first thing in the morning, I feel cold and naked. No matter how bad it is, I want to know. I flipped through the pages quickly, looking for something that might break the deadlock. On page four, near the bottom, was a short paragraph with a short headline. “Body Found on A1A”. Nothing particularly unusual about that, but I continued to read.
It was an elderly man, no identification, no immediate cause of death. Apparently he had been dead for at least 72 hours. A biker found the body. Anyone with information was encouraged to contact the Florida Highway Patrol or the Key West Police Department. It seemed odd. The brief description easily matched that of the old man we saw on the road, but despite the way he looked and the way he acted, he was very much alive. I saw him move, heard him speak. 72 hours? Three days? It made no sense. I dismissed it and went on to the sports page. The Marlins were way beyond bad. New stadium, nice joke on the taxpayers of Miami. Sorry, you’ve got to have some players and the Marlins don’t. They’d lost their tenth in a row and it wasn’t getting any better.
Sunny finally rolled out around ten. I gave her some hot Columbian while she was still growling. She gobbled up four stale donuts before she looked barely human. When her eyes began to open, I showed her the paragraph.
“Coincidence, maybe a misprint,” she mumbled as she tore into the last bit of chewy sweet dough, “but maybe you ought to call Frank. Gotta clean up. See you at the Parrot later.” Then she was gone. A minute more and I heard the Saab roar in the parking lot.
Frank Beamon was the star detective on the Key West Police force. He and I had become friends after working on a couple of murder cases that I never wanted to get caught up in. He was smart, tough, and fair. Key West’s own bulldog. I hadn’t seen much of him since he’d been forced to shoot an old friend in the line of duty. His buddy Bama was dead. But because of Frank, I was still alive. I didn’t forget that, and I was sure it haunted him with every breath.
He answered on the first ring.
“T.K. Good to hear from you, but this probably isn’t a social call.”
I told him about the old man on the road. We had seen him. He was alive.
“Couldn’t be the same guy,” he said, “Dr. Li is usually dead on.”
I had met Dr. Liquan Shaik in a professional capacity a couple of times. He was a Muslim, short and dark, with eyes as keen as razors and a graveyard humor that was quick and precise. Very thorough, impressive guy. I knew Frank trusted him implicitly and I surely didn’t doubt his considerable skills.
“Doc Li says the guy had been dead for at least 72 hours. Gotta be a coincidence, but come on down to the station. No autopsy report yet, but seemed to be natural causes. No signs of foul play. He did have a recent surgery, but it appeared clean. Might help us identify him. I got pictures. You can look at them if you want.”
“It just seems strange, Frank. Can’t be the same guy, but if you’ll offer me a cup of that lousy coffee, I’ll come down to the station. Can’t hurt.”
“Yeah, it’ll give us chance to catch up. I’ll be here all morning unless some nasty shit hits the fan.”
We agreed on eleven. I showered, shaved, and put on the only clean shirt I could find. Mental note: do the damned laundry.
I arrived at the station on time and went up the steps to Frank’s office. Nothing much had changed since my last visit. Kids’ photos on the desk. A picture of a stunning beauty that I knew to be his wife, and a somewhat faded certificate that named him Honorable Mention All-American guard at Florida State, a few police citations. He sat behind the desk. Until he moved, I wouldn’t know if the blown out knee was any worse. It had cost him an NBA career and several million dollars. But I still thought he liked being a cop and he was a damned good one.
The desk was covered in manila folders and notes. The bulldog was always at work, chasing the bad guys and protecting the motley collection of refugees that populated Key West.
He offered a large, firm hand across the desk and grinned.
“So how’s the Ghostcatcher these days? And Sunny?”
I smiled and nodded even though he knew how I hated the damned nickname. I’d been stuck with it since my involvement in at least two murder cases that defied simple investigation techniques. He rifled through the pile and came up with a file. He pulled the photos out and laid them on the desk in front of me. I’ve always hated any kind of death. But these I lifted gingerly, as if they held a trace of some contagious disease. Often they did. I took my time, but there was no doubt in my mind.
“It’s him, Frank. I was as close to him as I am to you. It was yesterday. I’m telling you he was alive. He said they stole his shadow and the Obi-man was coming for him.”
He looked at me and shook his head. “How the hell do you steal a shadow? The Obi Man was coming. Well, he didn’t get there. Can’t be the same guy, T.K. . . . hang on.”
He picked up the receiver and hit a few numbers. Then he switched on the speaker phone.
“Doc, I got a situation here. You remember T.K. Fleming. Says he saw the old man yesterday on the road not far from where the body was found, talked to him. I showed the prof the pics. Sunny was with him. She saw the old man, too. T.K. swears it’s the same guy. Any chance the time of death is wrong?”
He waited. Dr. Li’s voice was loud and clear.
“I have him on the table right now. He’s dead and he’s been dead. 72 hours, give or take five or six. At first, everything looked pretty normal for a guy his age, but he didn’t die of natural causes.”
“So there is some sign of foul play?”
“Well . . . yes and no.”
“So give me the yes part.”
“You know that surgical scar? The one that looked so clean? Our man had a little mishap with a scalpel-happy surgeon. Someone did a highly professional job of removing his liver.”
Frank stared at the speaker phone.
“Can a man live without a liver?”
“In a word . . . no. At least not for long. The incision even began to heal. Clean job on the stitches. Good sutures within the body. I have seen nothing like it. Still, I am standing by estimate of time of death. He could not have been moving, breathing, speaking, yesterday . . . unless he was some zombie. Professor, you must be wrong. Nevertheless, I must go back to the table. Perhaps I missed something, but I don’t think so.”
I looked at the photos again. They felt cold and clammy in my hands. I wasn’t wrong, but I was sure that Dr. Li wasn’t, either. Frank spoke.
“Nobody’s claimed the body. I’ll tell the good Dr. Li to put our boy on ice for a few days. I’ll sniff around, make a few calls. You can look at the stiff if you want to. Maybe something will turn up.”
It didn’t take long.
Chapter 3
Buffett’s Roundtable was rolling and frothing at its usual frenetic pace. Captain Sal was into her cups when she arrived. The charterers on TOUGH BROAD, her Bertram 38, had caught a marlin the size of a small skiff, not to mention eighteen nice dolphins and an assortment of table fare that could feed Key West for a week. Every time she laughed, a small earthquake erupted and one more slap on the back would send me to the emergency room.
Miss Julianne was her quietly regal, mystical self and Whipsaw, the king of the blues, was resplendent in his purple suit, pearl tie, and the ever-present fedora cocked over his left eye. He was holding court on the respective merits of Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, and Robert Johnson. Fritz, my dock mate and our resident computer wizard, was enthralled with Whip’s dissertation. Peg, the latest and the most delightful tornado on Fritz’s radar screen, was latched onto his arm, smiling like she’s just hit the lotto.
Chris was next to Peg,
sizing up the latest assortment of female tourists. His eye kept going to a flashy, sassy brunette who was loudly announcing her availability by batting eyelashes the length of bullwhips and brazenly shaking a pair of barely concealed D cups. Tracy was next to Chris. She was the young, beautiful, and reluctant owner of The Strip Search. She’d inherited it from her late Uncle Mal. It was Key West’s signature purveyor of pure smut and all of the adult accessories any respecting pervert could wish for. Her assistant manager, Maleeva St. Michel, was a recent addition. Black as night, sculpted high cheekbones, an elegant mouth with lips from a Da Vinci painting, the vision of an African goddess. Her skin shimmered and her short Afro seemed embedded with diamonds. Eyes like lumps of anthracite and a beguiling smile that promised much, but revealed little. She had appeared during the fall, from Trinidad, I think. She was charming and clever. Knew how to lure the clientele, inspire their lust, but say yes and no discreetly. The cash register was always ringing when she was on duty. Tracy respected and trusted her. She had become a valued employee, but Tracy believed her a friend.
The laughter was profuse and raucous. A couple of times, Sunny looked over from the bar. I couldn’t tell whether she was wishing she was with us or hoping we would just shut up a little.
The cold beer flowed, punctuated with the occasional shot of Cuervo Gold or a frozen Margarita. Some of the crew was a bit bleary eyed and the bodies began to thin out. Sunny wouldn’t be off until after 2 A.M. I blew her a kiss and headed back to KAMALA, staggering a little, myself. I flopped onto the settee and poured a nite cap of Jameson. I stared at the glow of the golden liquid. I knew it would cost me in the morning, but what the hell? I had earned it.
I couldn’t keep my thoughts off the old man. I replayed the scene in the car, the conversation with Frank and the results that Dr. Li had reported. The old man’s face haunted me. The papery, gray skin. The eyes without any trace of life in them. His tortured movements. And his words. “Dey stole my shadow. Obi man coming.” I echoed Frank. How do you steal a shadow? Who was the Obi man? It sounded like Black Magic.