I put the receiver reluctantly to my ear.
“Dr. Fleming, hear me well. I advise you be cautious about choosing sides until you know both teams very well. The game not always fair, and it can be very deadly.”
He hung up before I could utter a word. That was the second time I’d been threatened in less than three hours. I’d like to tell you I’m another Sam Spade or better yet, the Incredible Hulk, but it just ain’t so. I was having trouble not feeling like a scared school boy surrendering his lunch money to the bully in the little boy’s room. I sat back down and tried to gather myself.
Shit . . . that wasn’t going to happen. I went to the designated hide-out and pulled out my old Taurus .38 and a plastic baggie full of slugs. Wasn’t I clever? I had used a jigsaw to cut out a small rectangle of fiberglass just under the nav station. The piece fit perfectly and slid out to reveal a small space against the hull. That’s where my old friend resided, packed in a plastic freezer bag and wrapped in oil cloth. Any criminal worth his salt would have found it in five minutes, but it gave me quick access and a small measure of confidence. Or maybe I should be honest, and admit it just made me a little less freaked out. Surely that was a good thing.
I hoped I’d never have to carry this weapon again. I’d killed a couple of men, but at least at the time, it seemed my only option. But it was bad shit. I didn’t like it. It still taunted me in my dreams. At heart I’m one of those old 60’s “make peace, not war” boys. It might sound naive to you, maybe even like bullshit, but I’m a believer. I don’t want to kill anything . . . a fish, a bird, even an ant, much less a living, breathing human being. So okay, I’m a wimp . . . different strokes for different folks . . . but hell, the 60’s were ancient history . . . and just maybe I was about to be caught in a crossfire.
There was one other item stashed under my v-berth. I’m not even sure why I was where I was that day, much less why I bought it. Curiosity, maybe, or perhaps I was one of the “frightened or intimidated” and was just too stupid to admit it. I don’t like gun shows, the products, the sellers, or the general ambience. The hangars are always full of sly, smug smiles that seemed to whisper, “Hey, if you’d only been armed, all of your problems would be in the dust now”. Sorry, it’s not quite that simple. I knew. I’d been there. But I had to admit, the whole spectacle fascinated me in a sick sort of way.
It looked like a toy from the local Walmart. All neat and shiny. Two short silver barrels with light scrolling, one on top of the other. No trigger guard. Pearl handle. A hammer that didn’t look like it could set off a wooden match. It lay in a tiny leather holster with two narrow brown straps complete with Velcro fasteners. Above it was a hand-lettered sign in bold marker. “THE ULTIMATE CONCEALED WEAPON”, it blared. “Small, but Deadly”, was printed underneath.
A vendor with a surprisingly squeaky voice gave me a serpentine smile as I picked it up. It couldn’t have weighed more than eight ounces. He showed me how to attach it to my wrist and how the spring popped the derringer into my hand if I flexed my forearm. .22 caliber, up close, personal and effective, especially with the hollow points as its handmaidens. I shoved the cash into his sweaty hand and made off with my dubious prize. No background check, any ID would do. Hey, it’s Florida, the land of “stand your ground”, and lots of cowboys who would love “open carry” in bars, churches, schools . . . all those horribly dangerous places you might want to be packing. I just needed a concealed carry license. Hell, I already had one.
Anyway, I pulled my new toy out and wiped off the excess oil with an old t-shirt. I placed two small rounds in the chamber, tucked it back into the holster and set it on the nav station next to the Taurus. It really didn’t make me feel any safer . . . but I have to admit . . . it was kind of fun.
Chapter Nine
He placed the small cooler gently on the floor of the baby-blue BMW. It was a gorgeous day. He thought about putting the top down, but he didn’t want to overheat the prizes in the plastic container. He turned the air conditioner on high and found “Love in an Elevator” on Sirius. Some Aerosmith . . . just the thing for a beautiful Florida morning. He ramped up the volume to official deafening status. The traffic was fairly light, but then it was a Tuesday. The trippers would start arriving later in the week and the bars, the souvenir shops, and the restaurants might as well be printing money. That’s okay. At least it was an honest buck.
He was getting his soon, maybe even a bonus. He checked his nails. He liked them immaculate, but he still hadn’t found a decent manicurist in this whole damned town. It was okay. He’d be back in Miami in a couple of days. He turned onto Whitehead and found a parking space at the curb near the Truman Annex, not far from the corner of South Street.
He walked toward the concrete buoy that supposedly marked the southernmost point of the United States. Of course, it really didn’t, but what the hell? Things weren’t always what they seemed in good old Key West. There was no one in the small stretch of park. He placed the cooler in a rusty garbage can and closed the top firmly. He scanned the area again and checked his Rolex. Surely they hadn’t missed him . . . but then they never did. He went across the street and pretended to window shop at a place that swore they had authentic pieces of eight from the wreck of the ATOCHA, the famous Spanish treasure ship that went down in 1622 about thirty-five miles offshore, near the Dry Tortugas. Mel Fisher, the salvage expert, a self-styled buccaneer himself, had spent 16 years looking for it. When he did, he became famous . . . no, make that notorious . . . not to mention fabulously wealthy. His partners didn’t do too badly either. Actually, the shop probably did have the real thing, but so did every other tourist trap in the capital of the Conch Republic.
The man with the scalpel didn’t stay long. When he went back to the park, he lifted the lid of the can and saw a faded manila envelope, stained with coffee, and what was left of a grape jelly sandwich. He could see the slight bulge. He lifted it gingerly and tucked it under his arm. No counting out here. That could wait until he got back to the penthouse. Anyway, he needed a shower and some of that nice skin scrub they supplied at the Pier House. Hot date tonight. He remembered the salacious description the doorman had given him, “She could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.” He hoped that was true. In any event, he was going to find out.
He checked his nails again. Maybe a coat of clear polish. Hell, it would have to do.
Chapter Ten
She dabbed a bit of Chanel behind her ear, between her breasts, then shook her head, checked her velvety blond locks, and made a final study of the mascara and eyeliner. “Eleise,” she whispered . . . that was the name she was using this month . . . “you are a total knock-out.” The stilettos, the red dress. Hell, she could have been a high dollar hooker . . . and in some ways, she was.
He’d fallen for the Brazilian routine, the phony accent, poor little girl from Rio. She’d laid it on thick. Dumb bastard . . . these guys were all the same . . . they liked to think you were a little dim, even desperate . . . it pumped their egos, made them feel superior . . . a common weakness. Too damned bad. She didn’t mind taking advantage of it.
He was picking her up at eight. She didn’t know where they were going, didn’t care, as long as it was gourmet fare and very expensive. She was already hungry as a damned lioness, but she could wait. After all, that’s kind of what she was paid to do . . . wait until it was time to spring. She just hoped she could get what she needed before that creepy sonovabitch got his. But again, this is what she’d chosen. The people she worked for expected it, and the results somehow made it all okay. She’d fuck him if she had to, even blow the bastard. She owed it to the kids, the blameless, the helpless . . . those who were being sacrificed, chopped up so the animals could feast. Her roommate had been one of them. It preyed upon her mind, but she had to dismiss it. She couldn’t cry right now. It would screw up her makeup.
Still, she remembered. Kari was just a farm girl from outside Des Moines, but she was strikingly beautifu
l, deep auburn locks curving around an oval face that belonged on a cameo. Skin like ivory and a body with every component honed and sculpted by a master. She wanted to be an actress. They’d met in New York at a coffee shop just off Broadway. Kari was waiting tables, looking for that big break. Pure coincidence, but the kind that was made in heaven. Eleise envied her immediately, but the grace, the intelligence, and the simple, quiet elegance almost made Eleise ashamed. She had never wanted a woman, but if she had, Kari would have been her choice. They became roommates, but it was more than that . . . more like sisters of the same soul. They shared the same heart, the same body, the same mind. It was simply a love that bound them inexorably and for all time.
They had eight months together, sharing the joys and the disappointments that youth entailed . . . and even embraced. Late night talks, too many glasses of cheap white wine, the sex-starved dates, and the auditions when one of them just might have had a call-back if the hair or the smile had been just a bit closer to perfect.
But one night Kari didn’t come home.
The next morning the police called . . . a positive ID . . . that’s what they needed. When the sheet was pulled back, her reaction was instantaneous. That ivory face was beaten and bruised. The loathsome trace of purple already had drained into a hollow, jaundiced mask . . . a sick, distorted caricature of the beauty and warmth it had stolen. But God forbid . . . the cop had told her that the body had been defiled . . . not raped as Eleise might have expected. The attendant turned her on her side. Kari’s kidneys had been removed, sliced from the body of a goddess with the skill and exactitude of a trained surgeon.
It wasn’t too long after that they recruited her. She got her wish. She was an actress. She didn’t like some of the parts she had to play, but she was good . . . maybe even great. It had brought some of the bastards down. In some ways, it was all for Kari.
Eleise replayed the words of the cop again and her stomach twisted. She almost threw up. But this was not the time. She shook her head . . . gazed back into the mirror . . .
Tonight she would be exquisite, charming, sexy, and vulnerable . . . all of the things most desired by men. She reminded, even scolded herself . . . there were things to know . . . and she was good at getting at them. She couldn’t make it right, but she could strike . . . maybe even save.
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He’d decided on fashionably late. What the hell? These stupid broads were used to it. He shifted the BMW into first gear and roared out of the parking lot. He patted the 14 karat money clip in the pocket of his black silk slacks. A thousand bucks . . . it ought to do. Some polite conversation, good food, a little Cristal, and perhaps even a snifter of Hennessy after dinner. That should convince her to visit his sumptuous room for one short nightcap. It had worked before, and he expected it to work again. He’d have her . . . every inch of that delectable flesh. Then he’d decide whether to kill her or not. Hey, she was a lovely, healthy girl. There had to be some things inside her worth harvesting. Another cooler . . . another payoff. He kept spare tools in the room. No problem, the shiny scalpel was an old friend. So it goes.
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Lobster stuffed with fresh crab meat bathed in a lemon-butter sauce with capers and just the perfect hint of Chardonnay. The Caesar salad was simply the best she’d ever had, crisp and tangy without being overbearing. The champagne was served elegantly by a sommelier in a gold waistcoat with black lapels. She though he might be Romanian. She savored it all and thought, “this job does have some delightful benefits”.
The menu was in French and the tall dark gentleman across from her spoke it fluently. He was actually quite good looking, and had all of the sartorial gear to go with it. A two thousand dollar navy silk suit with a stunningly white linen shirt beneath it, open at the neck, a couple of thick golden chains completing the ultimate GQ look. She couldn’t quite get over his hands. They were hairless, baby pink. They seemed to have a life unto themselves, quiet, understated, but elegant. They moved with a grace and a presence all their own.
He had introduced himself as Eric, no last name. A nom de guerre, no doubt. He was intelligent, if a bit too glib, but very continental. It all seemed so charming, but she knew there was a reason he was on their list . . . and it was her job to find out why. She tried to get him to talk about his business . . . after all, what man won’t? He fell for the bait, but when he finished, she realized she didn’t know a damned thing she hadn’t already gleaned before he started. He claimed to be a surgeon down for a long weekend. Said he had a penthouse in Miami, but that was about it.
After dinner, she turned down the Hennessy and ordered a tumbler of green Crème de Menthe over the rocks . . . a bit pedestrian, she knew . . . but very effective for cleansing the palate.
Then the words she knew would come, “Would you consider coming by my place for a nightcap to finish off this magical evening? The view from the balcony is simply stunning.”
She did her best impression of coy, feigned slightly embarrassed, and cooed, “Well . . . just one. No more.”
He grinned, a hint of the Big Bad Wolf contemplating three little pigs on a barbeque grill, then raised a slender finger for the check.
When the waiter appeared, the bill in hand, Eric reached in his pocket and peeled off four crisp hundred dollar bills and added two fifties for good measure. Interesting, she thought. No credit card, but maybe he had a jealous wife who monitored that sort of shit. It wasn’t unusual.
The valet brought the BMW to the curb and they were off.
Chapter Eleven
Sunny sat on the sofa, her brown legs tucked under cut-off jeans that crept up her luscious ass. She had her hair in a disheveled bun, a bleached bone clip stuck through it to hold in some sort of place. The yellow tank top was faded and fraying at the seams, her lavish breasts lolling about, pretending to be contained. A casual look, I thought, but one that evokes images of Venus, herself. I tried to quash the dirty old man that was surfacing, but no luck.
“Okay, Romeo,” she said with more than a tinge of sarcasm, “let’s get down to business, and not the business that I see in those ravenous eyes.”
I tried to look like a hurt puppy. That didn’t work either.
“Well, I told you about my so-called meeting with Carlos and the lovely lady who threatened to cut my balls off and have them for breakfast.”
“Nothing odd in that.” she said kind of matter-of-factly. “I’ve wanted to do it myself a couple of times.”
I nodded, trying the hurt puppy thing again. No sale.
“There’s just nothing much to go on. According to the computer, Carlos doesn’t even exist, much less his phantom twin brother. Their sister, if she’s real, simply may have been a victim of the coyotes. It happens all the time. Pay the money so you can drown at sea. Such a deal. I don’t even have a clue as to where to start, and Vee wants to cut off my dick and stuff it in my mouth. I damned sure don’t want to sign on for that one.”
“I understand. It would cause terrible inconvenience, and I’m not a big fan of dildos anyway.”
“Glad to hear that, but what the hell am I supposed to do . . . the Ghostcatcher . . . yeah . . . my ass.”
We’d had this conversation before. Sunny . . . God love her . . . seemed to think I was some sort of self-styled Houdini . . . master of escapes and all manner of other-worldly knowledge. Right. Why not schedule a séance?
“Come on, T.K., you’re no dummy and you do have resources. People trust you. You’ve been here before . . . not much to go on . . . and you’ve unearthed info with your instincts, and some damned good luck. You know how to rely on those who can provide directions . . . not even clues . . . just ways to think, to examine, to attack the things you know have that stench of injustice.”
“Well said, my devoted paramour. Yeah, I’m a regular Don Quixote and you’re my Sancho Panza. I’ll buy it along with that bridge I Brooklyn. So shall we go tilting at windmills?”
“Okay smart guy, you still have Frank, but suppose we start this business with Captain Sal. She knows more about what’s moving in and out of Key West, legal and illegal, than anybody on the water.”
The business was boats. Captain Sal was the best charter captain in the keys. She regularly came back with enough fish to keep the whole damned town in grouper dinners for a month. She knew many of the illegals in town, even hired the good ones as mates on TOUGH BROAD, her spotless sport fish. She was as big as a house, with a heart to match, and a mysterious sixth sense that didn’t miss a damned thing.
“Okay, Miss Marple, I’ll call Sal right now.”
I had her cell on speed dial.
“Hello, T.K. And why would you be calling a humble fisher-lady during cocktail hour?”
Good ol’ Sal. Her wavering voice told me she was already into her cups. Nothing unusual.
“I need to pick your brain, Sal? Where are you?”
“Well, you’d better get here while there is still some of the hootch left. I am at Schooner’s sitting across from the mysterious Miss Julianne. Whipsaw and the Wreckers are delighting the tourists with alternate strains of Willie Dixon, Robert Johnson, and Sonny Boy Williamson.”
Those were my kind of strains. I could hear the wail of the Whip’s harmonica in the background.
“I’m on my way.”
Sunny was tired. She’d worked an extra shift to cover for a no-show at the Green Parrot the day before.
“I’m going to bed,” she said, “and just maybe I’ll get some sleep without you around, but if you get back early wake me up.”
She winked, then slinked down the hallway to the bedroom shedding the tank top as she went. Now I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave, but duty called, and I reluctantly answered.
I hopped on the Schwinn and was at Schooner’s in ten minutes. Captain Sal and Miss Julianne were parked in the back corner, far enough away so that they could each hear the harmonica wailing, and see his left leg shaking line a man having a fit.
Sal was in her usual attire, a dirty t-shirt stained with dried fish blood and a broad-brimmed hat that should have been featured on the Antiques Roadshow. Her face was fat and wrinkled, bleached hair that had been combed with a garden rake, but not recently. Forty miles of bad road might have been accurate for those less diplomatic in their descriptions. Miss Julianne was resplendent, as usual, in a satiny dress that might remind you of Joseph’s coat of many colors. Rings on every manicured finger. Her feet were adorned in Roman sandals that laced up her ankles and wound around her tanned calves. Whipsaw and the Wreckers were deep into their usual mode. The crowd, some locals and a frenetic hoard of tourists, had been elevated into a hypnotic trance, partly empowered by alcohol, and amplified by the infectious beat. I was dripping like Niagara, but what the hell, so was everyone else at the joint. The pungent odor of sweating bodies battled for dominance with the cigarette smoke, but the bare feet tapped on the sand and the arms and hips flayed like leaves in in a rhythmic wind. I guess no one minded.