4.A missing agent, a woman, and probably a FED.
5.And Vee, the admitted lover of two men. Definitely a mystery . . . and a dangerous one, at that. Involvement? Motive?
6.How did it all fit . . . if it did?
I damned sure didn’t know. I went to the fridge and popped a cold beer, longing for another slice of pizza, but it was way too late for that. We needed more leads, not to mention some proof, if we were to turn it over to Frank, and some of his so-called associates. It was definitely their territory, but we’d ignored that before.
“Okay,” she said, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, “Let’s assume that the Messageros, our nasty biker buddies whom we know are tied in to several nefarious activities, are front men for even uglier things than dope, gambling, and prostitution. So they set up arrangements for the arrival, maybe even the transit, of illegals, many of them with presumably healthy livers and kidneys. Black market organs? There’s money there. Hell, to them it’s just another buck. Obviously they need the right contacts, and probably someone with at least minimal surgical skills. That stuff could definitely interest the FEDs. So they send an investigator, probably undercover. Now she’s gone. How . . . where? And then there’s Vee? I still can’t figure how she fits into the equation.”
I took a sip of the cold beer and sat very still. Sunny might not be making sense, but at least she was offering some possible, maybe even plausible, connections. I wrote down three names, Maria, Hernando, Frank and I added a capital V with a fat question mark. Theories, speculation, of course . . . but at least this was a place to start.
I called Vinnie’s. He was double checking last night’s receipts and compiling the evening booze orders. He sounded hurried, but he gave me Maria’s address and cell number without hesitation. She was number one with a bullet.
She sounded a little groggy, but she perked up when I told her who I was.
“I must tell you, Dr. Fleming. I think dey are watching. I know not if it is careful for us to be seen together.”
“So who’s watching?”
“I wish I am sure. I don’ know, but if I did, at least it would be something.”
“Look Maria, I certainly don’t want to put you in any danger, but if we could meet somewhere, there are a few questions I would like to ask. It’s probably better to go somewhere where there’s a crowd. What about the Raw Bar? The tourists are packing the place and I have a friend who can make sure we have a table in the back . . . a place where few can see us and no one will hear us.”
“No, it is too obvious. I meet you at Mallory Square at two. The cruise boats will be there . . . big crowds. We blend. The bench to de west, near de big boats. Only a few minutes I can stay. We feed popcorn to de pigeons . . . hide in plain sight. Then I go to my job.”
The idea was as good as any. It might work, and I figured I only needed twenty minutes.
I got to Mallory a little early. The place was teeming with sweaty bodies clutching wet bills, just aching to leave some of them with the street hawkers or the bartenders. The human statue was covered in white grease paint, looking lifeless until one of the suckers got a little too close. Then a twitch or a reach followed by a wail of surprise and laughter. It was always worth a buck or two in the can in front of him. There were a few nasty looking pirates posing with the gawkers for selfies. One of them had a large parrot perched on his shoulder. “My name is Peter. I see you, I see you,” he’d squawk and jerk his head back and forth. Ol’ Peter was the undisputed star of the show.
The guy who breathed fire was breathing fire, a couple of organ grinders with monkeys dressed to the nines, their tin cups polished and ready for any worthy contribution, and numerous acrobats, contortionists, a few guitar players, and one belly dancer, bells jingling, her tambourine clanging to celebrate the next gyration of her hips and twist in her navel. Everything looked normal for the afternoon performance of the Malory Square Circus.
Maria was on the appointed bench, a brown paper bag of popcorn in her lap. The pigeons were loving it. She had a fire-engine red baseball cap pulled low down over her eyes and a pair of matching shades. Her ebony hair was pulled into a knot that stuck out in a clump behind her head. She wore a man’s faded pink shirt. It was long-sleeved despite the heat. A simple pair of Bermuda shorts somewhat hid the beautiful brown legs and sumptuous hips, black Chuck Taylor high-tops with no socks on her feet. I scanned the area behind her. Lots of gawkers, but no stalkers that I could make out.
I stepped over to the man and handed him two bucks. He offered my very own bag of golden kernels, and I wasn’t sharing them with the damned birds. I scanned the area, but still nothing unusual. I didn’t include the wierdos. They were just too damned obvious. She didn’t acknowledge me when I sat down about three feet to her left.
“Hello, Maria. Thanks for coming.”
“Ask your questions. Be quick. Dey are probably here.”
She locked her fingers together in her lap, probably hoping I wouldn’t notice the trembling.
“The sister of Carlos and Francisco. Carlos sent her money. She was coming to America. Do you know anything?”
“I think she is dead. Carlos does not know. De boat of de filthy coyote turn over in de bad sea. Her body probably in de deep. Hopefully she find peace. Francisco supposed to get her here. He do not.”
I damned sure didn’t want to be the one to deliver that news.
“Someone is stealing kidneys, probably livers from the dead. There is a huge black market in organs for transplants.”
“This I do not know, but I meet a man. He knows Hernando. He say he is doctor. Eric is first name. Last name Dancer, Danzer . . . something like that. I think he stay at the Pier House on Duval.”
I knew the Pier House. The rooms started at $350 and escalated quickly. Very nice and quite exclusive. Just the place for a well-heeled visiting Doc. I asked her to describe him.
“Tall, muy good looking, dark hair back on his head. He is wearing very fine clothes. His hands got no callous, long thin fingers, like classical pianist. He is what you call arrogant, like I should bow as he is a king. I didn’t like him at first. I still would not.”
“Do you know this woman they call Vee?”
“I see her twice. That is enough.”
I heard the deafening roar behind us. Someone revving a Harley, exorcising demons or just extending his phallic pretentions, no doubt. Suddenly Maria shuddered. She looked around like a frightened bird and popped off the bench.
“I go.”
She didn’t wait for a response. I sat on the slim boards and finished the last of my popcorn. She left her box. I gave it to the pigeons. They scrambled and cried as they fought viciously over the last morsels.
I had to be at Vinnie’s in a couple of hours. I was doing the early show. I went back to KAMALA for a quick nap. It was hot and I’d need the energy and a few cold beers to wade through the sets and the tourists on their way to getting tight.
Chapter Eighteen
The Schwinn was waiting patiently on the dock. Sunny was at the Parrot slinging beer and smiling at the eager patrons. I rolled into the parking lot and locked my bike to a stanchion near the back entrance. I set up my equipment and tuned the Epiphone. “Test, test.” It was all ready. The Ancients wouldn’t show up until later. It was okay. I could wing it.
I looked around for Maria, but no sale. Maybe she had the day off. I vowed to check at the bar when I went on break. When Vinnie came around to tell me how great my music was, I asked him. He just shook his head.
“Not like her. She always shows up . . . should’ve been here at four. Maybe sick. I hope not. Nice kid. Sweet, good-hearted. The tourists and the locals damned sure love their Layla, but you know how it is with these kids. They come and they go. You can’t predict it. Maybe she took off with that boyfriend, the biker guy.”
I went to the bar for a cold Ice House and a Marlboro. A tipsy patron came up to chat with the big star and make a request. Big surprise
. In the Keys, Jimmy Buffett was always the gold standard. I told him I’d do “A Pirate Looks at Forty” in the next set. He went away happy, but not before he laid a damp five in my palm. Hey, dis washed-up English professor got no pride. All contributions are graciously accepted.
The rest of the night was about the usual for Vinnie’s. A few drunks, none too sloppy, and everyone seemed pretty happy. Vinnie was beaming and working the crowd at his gravelly best. The bar girls were smiling and the registers were ringing. It would be a good night.
I closed with an old Ray Charles blues number, “Trying to Make a Fool Out of Me”. Nice round of applause and a few more greenbacks in the tip bucket. Sunny would be working late, then going back to her place. I had one more beer and packed up the equipment. When I got back to KAMALA, I fell into the v-berth and slept like a dead man.
It was near ten when the phone woke me up. I was still groggy and I didn’t recognize the voice, but it was low and insistent. It was a man, but he almost seemed to be crying.
“Dr. Fleming, it is Hernando. She was la mujer de mi corazon, the woman of my heart. She no ride the white horse. She quit many months ago. I help her. She was clean. I love her. Dis time dey go too far. You must help me.”
He stifled a sob and went on.
“De cops find her last night. Dey say she O.D. Dis is not true. Hernando knows. Dey kill her . . . probably because she talk to you. Her blood is on your hands. Dis is day for vengeance.”
He hung up.
So Maria was dead. Was her blood on my hands? God forgive me . . . yes. I mixed a screwdriver, heavy on the vodka, and lit a Marlboro. The taste in my mouth was foul and bitter as though I had swallowed something metallic, even covered in rust. I stepped out into the cockpit. The sun was already hot and high in the sky. The breeze caressed my cheek. The beauty and the clarity mocked me. Was this a day when a young beautiful girl who clung to hope should have died? It pierced my mind and my flesh like a fiery ice pick. I leaned over the lifelines and threw up into the light swell. The sickly stink crawled up into my nostrils and festered like a disease.
I went below, rinsed out my mouth, and reached for the cell. Frank answered on the first ring.
“Hello my intrepid friend. What can I do for my favorite Ghostcatcher on this fine morning?”
“The girl . . . the waitress from Vinnie’s?”
Frank’s voice got quiet.
“Yeah . . . a damned shame. Pretty, smart, hard-working from all accounts . . . but another junkie. O.D.”
I told him about my meeting with Maria at Malory Square the day before.
“Only maybe on the O.D., Frank. Her boyfriend, Hernando, called me this morning. He says she had quit months ago. He had helped her. They had a thing . . . they were in love.”
“So he’s blinded by passion, or maybe plain old lust. It happens all the time. Junkies think they quit, but the desire . . . and the withdrawal get to them. Just one more hit. That’s all. But the dope is too strong, maybe some stuff that’s been treated with rat poison. System can’t handle it. They stop breathing. Tragic, but nothing unusual. A reformed junkie is about as rare as hen’s teeth. There were no signs of foul play. The needle was right beside her bed along with a baggie of white powder. I’m having the lab check it, but it damned sure tasted like smack. I’m guessing we’ll find her prints on the syringe. ”
“I want to see the body.”
“Shit T.K. what good is that gonna do? She’s dead. That’s all that matters.”
“Hernando said her blood is on my hands. He might be right. He vowed vengeance. That does matter.”
“Okay, Lone Ranger. Come on down to the station about two. I’ll be your reluctant, but faithful, Indian companion.”
Chapter Nineteen
I hate the morgue. I don’t care how many times you go, it’s always the same . . . cold, eerie, lifeless . . . not to mention the new attendant. He’s a cross between Igor and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Shriveled, disfigured, with a voice out of an old Bela Lugosi movie. When he smiles, it looks like he might want to eat your liver. The chills march up and down your spine.
Maria was in compartment number three. He pulled out the long stainless steel drawer. She was covered in a sheet that smelled of formaldehyde and death. Her hair had been arranged over her bare shoulders. It was still radiant and beautiful even in the pale light. Her body was perfect. The lips wore a tinge of blue, but she looked as if she might draw a breath at any minute. I stared for a moment. Then the nausea started rising in my gut. I hadn’t really known her, but I liked . . . even respected her. She had reached out to me although she must have known she was placing her life in grave danger. Call it nothing, if not courage. I choked, forced back the bile, and spoke.
“Can I see her arms?”
Igor nodded haltingly, stifling a slight grin. A gnarled hand pulled back the cloth. Her forearm was dotted with needle tracks, but they were all healed. Not a trace of a scab or any suggestion of recent penetration, but there was one mark about the size of a dime right in the crevasse of her elbow and forearm. Even in a corpse barren of animation, it was purple and whispered a silent lethal message.
“Okay, Frank. She obviously hadn’t been shooting in a while.”
“T.K., get over it. It’s like I told you. We got the needle and the smack. The junkies go back. Can’t resist one more ride on the white horse. It is what it is. Accept it and move on.”
His voice was firm . . . even dismissive. I sucked in a breath of the wintry, but fetid, air.
“Okay, I will,” I lied.
Frank’s right. It is what it is . . . but even that’s not always clear. It mattered to him, too. He cared . . . he always did . . . but I think sometimes Frank has just seen too damned much. He was like an old farm hand whose hands hurt, but the calluses numbed him, and called him back to work that was brutal . . . and sometimes futile.
I went back to the boat. The day was much too lovely. I heard the lazy cries of the gulls and saw a wealth of silvery minnows dancing around the docks. The laughter bounded out of Turtle Krawls. The tourists were into their cups, wallowing in excitement and the music of pure unadulterated joy. But the pieces didn’t fit. It had all become a crazy kaleidoscope, a miasma of misshapen forms and horrific sounds with no recognizable order or meaning. The world should be mourning the loss of another kindred soul, and the others that would follow . . . here in the Keys, across the Atlantic in France, Belgium and Germany, not to mention the horrors of the Middle East. The bell was tolling, but few seemed to listen, or to notice that it tolls for us all. I chided myself for being the sap I was, but it was all I knew . . . all I could fathom or feel. I tried to clear my mind and think straight, even though I wasn’t sure what that meant.
I was pretty confident that Hernando was right. It was the rather neat murder of a beautiful young woman, one with a conscience and an inability to let evil overcome it. A warning for me and others . . . perhaps from the Messageros, the good surgeon, or some other depraved bastard who was making a buck, and didn’t care how he did it.
Hernando obviously knew more than he had told me, but I didn’t know how to contact him. And if I did, what would he tell me? What’s more, if he was convinced “her blood was on my hands”, what did that say about his lust for “vengeance”? Was I wearing a bullseye on my back? I thought of Francisco and his biker buddies. Their warning was clear and pointed. Maybe it wasn’t even him that I had to fear the most. Maybe I feared myself. I shook my head, my teeth grinding, and a leaden thing was thudding in my chest.
Then there was Sunny. I should have left her out of it, but it was too late. We were both in way too deep. Yeah . . . the lady was tough . . . but I didn’t have to remind myself, these people murdered the helpless for a living.
I pulled out the Taurus and laid it on the table. Then the derringer. One last inspection. The oil still gleaned on both small barrels. I had a tight little holster for the .38 that slid onto my belt. With that and the sma
ll .22 strapped to my wrist, maybe I at least had a chance. Now it was time to wait . . . something I was never too good at. I went to the fridge and lifted an old friend. It felt good and icy in my palm, but even the pop on the can when I opened it didn’t seem too reassuring.
I called Sunny to check on her, but also to offer a warning. I knew she had the day off. No answer. Probably napping, or maybe out for a few errands. I left a message on her voice mail and told her I’d be at her apartment at five armed with the Super Supreme, extra cheese, and a bottle of Cab.
I arrived a few minutes late, but with all of the goodies in the basket on my Schwinn, I would be greeted like a king, no doubt. The Saab was in its usual spot. I called as I reached the door. It was cracked open like she always left it when she was expecting a feast. There was usually music coming from the boom box on the shelf. 80’s rock’ n’ roll was the lady’s preference, but it was strangely silent. I put the pizza and Cab on the Formica counter. Her handbag was on the kitchen table next to her cell. I called her name. Nothing. Then I checked the rooms. Nothing again.
I emptied her handbag on the kitchen table. The Ruger .22 I’d given her for protection slammed into the wood, along with the car keys, and a bunch of women’s accessories . . . brush, lipstick, hand lotion, pancake blush, and a pack of Tic Tacs. I damned near jumped out of my skin when her phone rang.
I picked it up and fingered the talk button.
“Alas, Dr. Fleming. I warn you of de perils of not minding your own business. But then, some lessons be hard to learn. Is it not so, amigo? Eat your pizza, drink your wine, and go back to your boat. Perhaps dis turn all right for de lady, but who would know? Oh . . . and sleep well.”
I tried to spit out a question, but the click in my ear was loud and definitive. I just hoped it wasn’t final.
They had Sunny.
Chapter Twenty
I damned sure couldn’t eat the pizza and I needed something much stronger than wine. I pedaled back to KAMALA and poured a double of Evan Williams over the rocks. I lit a Marlboro, inhaled the poison, and went back up to the cockpit. The Key West sunset was exploding in shades of orange and red, gently brushed with glimpses of pastel blue sky. It should have been magnificent, but my guts churned and I felt way beyond helpless.