Death
of
the
Desperate
by
Karl Tutt
Copyright Karl Tutt 2017
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 the 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. Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.
Prologue
The small girl gasped for breath, but the violent swells and the spray were relentless. The warm blood was draining from her limbs, and she was cold, the numbness that had begun in her bare feet creeping upward. She turned her head, the thick black hair clinging to her shoulders growing heavy and adding more resistance. She knew she was fading, both physically and mentally. She was so close. She could make out the ambient glow of a city on the shoreline. If she could just hold out a little longer . . . swim another few strokes. He was waiting for her . . . to take her in his arms and tell her it would all be all right. But she knew instinctively that it wasn’t.
There were others. When the lightning struck, they bobbed and ducked back down into the void. Most of them were already dead. She knew that, but through the incessant howling she could hear a few faint cries. There was no horizon above the frothing gray crests . . . just an icy black that seemed to swallow anything living. It was swallowing her.
Chapter One
The lights are halting through the haze. Even the ceiling fans can’t seem to cut it. It’s hot. The cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a plague. The day was low nineties and the humidity is like misty steam. It clings to my skin, damp and clammy, like a spidery thing crawling with a life of its own. That’s the bad news, but what the hell? It’s Florida in July, Key West at that . . . and I’m not moving to Alaska. Sure they have sailboats up there, but they’re frozen in the harbors, or on the icy ground in their cradles for more than half the year.
Sunny is back at her old job, running the bar at the Green Parrot. A lot of people are glad. Somehow the title of professor at the college in Norfolk never really suited her, despite her M.A. in psychology from UVA and the articles she’s published in some highly respected professional journals. At least she’d tried it, and actually been quite successful. The students loved her and the male faculty was mesmerized by ample body. But it just wasn’t her. Sometimes I’m not sure what is . . . but now she’s reassumed her title as the Best Bartender in the Keys. I think she likes it a lot.
The move back was her idea. So was my “therapy”. Sure . . . I’d been a little reticent, some might say even reclusive, not much laughter bursting from me. I knew my smile was often missing . . . even around Buffett’s Roundtable. She told me I seemed a bit “joyless” --- that was the word she used --- even when we were out on the water, drifting in KAMALA, my O’Day 31. Sometimes it was the Atlantic, sometimes the Gulf, flying all the canvas we could muster and chasing whatever puff or ripple we could find on the water. Even the cold beer and the inspiring sight of Sunny in a bikini --- or out of it --- didn’t help. It had been almost a year, but I knew inside I still wasn’t over the death of Chris . . . my blood, my long-time drinking buddy, cruising companion, and sometimes savior. Somehow, even at our weekly meeting of the Roundtable at the Green Parrot, even when we were at full strength . . . Fritz, Tracy, Louis, Captain Sal, Whipsaw, his long-time lady-friend, the mysterious Miss Julianne, and the rest of the boat miscreants that gathered for frosty libation and lots of bodacious lies . . . it just wasn’t the same. I couldn’t talk about it to anyone, but Chris’s flickering image sat in the chair at the head of the table like the bloody ghost of Banquo in Shakespeare’s MACBETH. Maybe like the ill-fated lord, I was the only one who saw him, but I did . . . and it haunted … even terrified me.
The psychologists all say that the survivors have a sense of guilt embedded in the grief over the loss of a loved one. Maybe that was it, maybe not. I don’t think I could have prevented his murder. The set-up was perfect, mining his guilt over a daughter he didn’t even know he had, and, of course, the money that no one knew he did have. How was I to know? I can’t predict the future. I’m not God or some sort of knight in shining armor, just an aging boat bum with a dubious talent for unraveling mysteries . . . and sometimes I’m not so good at that.
But something gray and clammy seemed to slither through me constantly. I couldn’t shake it. Sure, it was a sense of loss, but somehow it was more. Abandonment, betrayal, I couldn’t put a label on it, but it bullied me like some hideous banshee, ever wailing in my ear, piercing my consciousness like a rusty marlinspike, gouging, forcing the flesh of my mind asunder.
Chapter Two
But this was Vinnie’s and they liked me. It was really just a dive off Duval. Loud, a bit scruffy . . . the place and its patrons. It had that Key West ambience --- almost a wild-west sort of thing --- that attracted an ample supply of tourists, plenty of locals, and wads of sweat-soaked cash. Sunny was the one who kicked it all off. She had insisted I put new strings on my old Epiphone Archtop, tune it up, dust off the equipment, and find a place to play. It was the stuff I’d grown up with . . . Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, and, of course, Chuck Berry. The trippers loved it . . . called it retro. I guess that was a nice way to put it, but it might also be called outdated . . . even corny. Still it kept them rocking in their seats and Vinnie sold a lot of cold beer, not to mention shots of the more lethal stuff. That’s what it was all about. I was now doing two nights a week, and I had to admit that it drove some of the demons back into the abyss . . . providing an outlet that distracted, exorcized some of the wraiths, and even soothed me.
Some nights I’d have other musicians sit in, Joel on acoustic, Tim on drums, and Steve on bass. We never practiced, but the sound was good. We laughingly call ourselves The Ancients, although I was a good ten years older than any of them. It didn’t matter. When we played, it magically produced lots of half-drunks mouthing the words and slapping their thighs with their open palms. Then there were the dancers . . . braless blonds barely out of their teens, sporting tight tank tops and brief snowy shorts, shaking for all they were worth. Most of the males would turn their heads away from their wives and girlfriends to snatch admiring and appreciative glances at the local talent, and the ladies from the mainland making naughty guest appearances.
Sometimes it was a little too raucous. I went home to KAMALA with my ears ringing and my head aching. But it was a good tradeoff, and I almost viewed it as a tribute to Chris. It was his kind of music and Vinnie’s was definitely his kind of place . . . a little scruffy, but honest . . . a joint that didn’t try to be something it wasn’t.
Sunny was there the night the bikers came in. She had a day off from The Green Parrot and had come to hear me and her boys wear out some old rock n’ roll. She stood at the bar with her fist around a cold Icehouse, shaking her beautiful ass and tits a little too much.
The dark, thick one squeezed in next to her and waved a hand like a meat hook at the bartender. There was a frosty margarita in front of him almost instantly. The other two tree trunks stood back a little, lit cigarettes, s
oaked up some Tecate, and the pounding beat of Richard Wayne Penniman’s “Long Tall Sally”. My voice was good that night, deep and clear, my fingers precise and supple, but my eyes were on Sunny and the stocky behemoth smiling at her. She exuded that cool, confident manner that had seen her through many a tangle at The Green Parrot. Her luxurious blond hair waved a bit as she grinned and laughed politely at conversation that I couldn’t possibly hear. I thought maybe I had seen this guy before, but I wasn’t sure.
He wore a black leather vest with something emblazoned on the back. I couldn’t make it out from the stage. On his left wrist was a dark thick bracelet with shiny spikes like the collar on a pit bull. Silver rings adorned at least two of his thick fingers. His hair was slicked back with some sort of grease. A Pancho Villa moustache was heavily draped over his full upper lip. Massive arms with very little hair rippled like the chains that dangled off his pockets. He glanced once at the stage and tossed us a thumbs up. I nodded. Then he went back to his conversation with my lady.
“We gonna have some fun tonight . . . have some fun tonight . . . everything’s all right . . . have some fun tonight.” I drew a circle in the air signaling a finale. Tim thundered a drum roll and The Ancients stopped abruptly . . . sweaty, but tight. The crowd nodded approvingly. There were a few whistles and mighty applause. I placed the Epiphone in its stand and bowed in tribute to my band mates. They had made it happen tonight. Then I moved toward the bar. I put my arm around Sunny’s waist and inhaled the perfume mixed with her sweet perspiration. She propped her head momentarily on my shoulder, and pecked me on the cheek.
“T.K., I want you meet a friend of mine. This is Carlos Medina. This man is a wizard at motorcycle repair. Got a little shop up near Stock Island.”
The stump grinned, nodded his head, and extended a huge hand. I’m an easy 6’2”, 190 lbs. and still in pretty damned good shape. I towered over the man, but Carlos somehow made me feel like a school boy. His hand swallowed mine. I figured he could have crushed it like a helpless insect, but his grip was warm, firm, even welcoming.
“You making awfully hot music, Dr. Fleming. Make us all want to dance. Next time me and de boys come earlier, hear another set or two. Maybe bring de women.”
“Thank you, Carlos, but you can drop the doctor stuff. I’m retired, and for now I’m just another Key West escapee trying to enjoy the rhythm of some of the Gods of Rock n’ Roll.”
“Yes. It is clear we worship many of de same deities. I think that is not all we share,” he paused, took a swig of the pale green liquid, wiped his mouth to the back of his hand, and went on,” We have some mutual friends . . . and perhaps also, some common interests.”
I couldn’t help it. His statement seemed somewhat curious. I wondered who those “friends” might be and what a biker built like a small mountain might share with a washed up English professor, jack-leg sailor, and now part-time musician. I chose not to ask, at least for now. It probably didn’t matter anyway. If he was a friend of Sunny’s, he was okay with me. He slogged the last of his Margarita, wiped his moustache with his thumb and first finger, then gave me a courtly nod. He motioned to his boys. They headed for the door. The crowd parted. I wasn’t sure if it was out of respect . . . or fear. I caught a glimpse of the back of his vest. “Ruedas de Dios” was printed in royal blue caps enclosed in a circle of clouds. My Spanish is pretty much limited to “cerveza, por favor” but the phrase translated roughly to Wheels of God. His three companions wore the same inscription on their backs.
I ordered a Sierra Nevada and fired up a Marlboro, a habit I hated. But after Chris’s death, I fell into the grip of more than one of my legion of weaknesses. Sunny had been patient and understanding, but I heard a slight groan slide from her lips every time I lit one. “Slow motion suicide,” that’s what she called it, and I couldn’t argue.
“Old friend?” I asked her.
“Yeah . . . and a tough one, but now, oh silver tongued troubadour, it’s time for you to take me home and ravish by poor needy body.”
I liked the sound of that.
Chapter Three
My head had certainly been in better shape. I was thinking brown cabbage, mushy cantaloupe, maybe even half-rotten watermelon . . . and it was throbbing like a jackhammer exploding cracked concrete. After the ravishing, I had made it back to KAMALA, the tires on my old Schwinn wobbling right along with my unsteady body. I made a mental note to have a couple less beers the next time I was the headliner at Vinnie’s.
I pulled a huge bottle of water from the fridge and gulped four Ibuprofen. When the phone rang, it was like a land mine in my brain . . . tons of sound and fury, but believe me, this time it was much ado about something.
“Okay, T.K. I know last night you were a big star, but I figured you’d want to be filled in on one of your fans.”
I recognized Frank’s voice immediately. He’s the Chief of Detectives for the Key West Police Department. A former FSU basketball star who could have signed for millions if he hadn’t wrecked his knee, he’d turned his energy to keeping the trash off the streets in Key West, and he’d done a damned fine job. The locals called him their bull dog, and he was. Everyone liked his and respected him, even most of the criminals he’d put away. They knew it was nothing personal, but Key West was his town. He had a lovely wife, two well-behaved kids, and he wasn’t going to raise them in a garbage dump.
We’d worked on several cases together over the years when I was known as “The Ghostcatcher”, a sobriquet I hated, and one that was vastly overrated. Sure, I’d helped solve a couple of murders, but I didn’t have any choice. It was just what I had to do at the time. The one thing I’m good at is paying attention, and that’s all it was. I watch . . . I listen . . . I pick up things that others don’t. Most of the time it works out pretty well.
“Okay, my dedicated protector of the public weal, give me the scoop, but keep your voice low.”
“I got it, smart-ass. Maybe it’s time for you to cut down a little on your alcohol consumption.”
“Very funny, constable,” I tried to growl, but I just wasn’t up to it.
“Your fan, Carlos Medina, is the capitan of a motorcycle gang with a reputation for love . . . and for violence. They take their name, Ruedas de Dios, very seriously. They are all God-faring Christians, but anyone who crosses them earns healthy Christian regret, and possibly a rather harsh redemption. Carlos is an illegal . . . Guatemalan, as are his boys. I’ve used him at times . . . informant, even enforcer. He can go places I can’t. He’s been very reliable, and to be honest, he’s a man of honor. He wants the best for his people and their interests. Sometimes we agree to disagree, but I trust him . . . and respect him. I admit that at times, you can be very helpful. This may be one of those times. He liked that. By the way, he has a twin brother, but I’m sure you’ll meet him sooner or later.”
“Frank, you are one charming sonovabitch. With friends like you . . .”
“What the hell, T.K. Maybe a little project will keep you off the streets.”
“Oh, Detective Beamon, you’re a funny guy.”
“Right, Pal. One favor. Just promise me you’ll listen if he decides to talk.”
“You got it, Mommy.”
He laughed a little . . . but only a little.
A short conversation, but interesting. Frank didn’t give me any specifics, but he never did . . . at least at first. I’d just wait, but now I needed a long nap, and maybe two more Ibuprofen.
Chapter Four
The man with the scalpel was very careful. After all, no need to damage valuable merchandise. This damned thing would bring upwards of $35,000 on the market. Of course, he wouldn’t get all of it, but it was easy work for the $10,000 he’d get on delivery. He’d already donned the nitrile gloves. With those magnificent hands, he couldn’t be too careful. He began the incision just above the waist on the left side of the back. The blood still ran, and it was warm. That was a good thing. He needed them fresh.
He laughed
quietly to himself. If they could see him now, the condescending jackasses . . . students, they called themselves . . . wallowing in their arrogance, their ivy league membership in the elite, and then, of course, the pompous professors . . . oh, they damned sure knew it all . . . Yes, they’d be shocked . . . maybe even envious. The dumb bastards had run him out of school. Now he could buy and sell any of them. He had the hands of an artist and the touch of a sculptor . . . always delicate . . . precise . . . focused on the work and its intrinsic value. He didn’t even try to fight back the smirk. Fuck them all.
His carefully ensconced hands lifted the bloody organ. It was supple, still useful, and replete with the pulse that breathed life. Perhaps he would take the other. It would almost double his fee, and he knew they could deal the additional inventory. He carefully placed the one in the bag and laid it on the ice in the cooler. Then to the other.
Now he noticed her ass, delicately curved and supple, covered with skin the color of olives. A tuft of hair protruded from between the shapely legs. She couldn’t have been more than 16, a girl in the process of becoming a woman. He felt a throbbing in his jeans. He stroked it. What the hell? No one would know. He’d done it before. His seed would not violate, or even bother her. She was dead. But he hesitated. There was still work to do. When it was completed, he could have his choice. There were so many . . . locals, tourists, a bevy of the ready and the willing. A little small talk, a couple of drinks . . . all part of the foreplay. He loved it. After all, money was, indeed, the greatest aphrodisiac.
He went back to work. Surely, one was dead, but what good was the body of an intruder, a trespasser . . . a parasite who would suck the sustenance of his country of birth . . . the place where his opportunities had flourished, if not totally blossomed. His task was a contribution . . . a blessing for those who could afford it. Yes . . . one would die, but one would live. He was a God. No ghoul . . . no demon. He stared at his long elegant fingers. A gift, he thought . . . these hands. His touch was divine. He was the giver of life.