Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (14 page)

"Yessir," they all said together.

The world is full of people who live their lives in a miasmal world of
pure meanness. They prey upon the weak and don't know how to react
when confronted by someone stronger. They figuratively adopt the canine
surrender posture, rolling onto their backs, feet up, showing their vulnerability to the aggressor. They have no sense of shame in their behavior, because they see themselves as part of a pecking order. The strong devour the
weak. Some days they're the stronger, and some days they're the weaker.
It all works out.

I backed out of the door and left in a hurry.

I walked at a quick pace, not running, not wanting to attract attention, but
in a hurry to put some room between me and the Sharkstooth Bar. I looked
at my watch, a cheap one bought at the Wal-Mart in Bradenton. It was only
a little after five. The sun hadn't really begun its descent yet. The tourists
wouldn't be heading for the sunset show at Mallory Square for another
couple of hours.

I was tired. It had been a long day, and I still had a lot to do before I
could claim my bed in the rooming house. I had no idea how to identify
Calhoun or Crill. I didn't think asking around in the Mango Bar made a
lot of sense. I decided to call Detective Paul Galis.

I walked until I came to a church. There was a walled garden abutting the building, and a gate with a small sign announcing its availability
to anyone in need of serenity. That was me. Serenity and a beer would just
about revive my spirits.

I went through the gate and found a cement bench under a
bougainvillea tree. Its red flowers were etched against a blue sky and surrounded by green bushes. It reminded me of Vietnam for a moment, and
then I pushed that thought back to where my dark memories and even
darker fears reside.

Laura wasn't with Peggy. I didn't know if that was a good sign or
something worse. If she hadn't left Atlanta to find Peggy, where was she?
Had she been taken by the same people who took Peggy? Was there a connection? I couldn't see one, and I thought that made Laura's disappearance even more menacing. Fear was slipping out of its chains, threatening
me again with the sense of foreboding and loss that I felt whenever I'd
thought about Laura over the past few days.

I pulled out my cell phone and called the Monroe County Sheriff's
office. I identified myself and asked to speak to Detective Galls.

A pleasant voice came over the line carrying a faint echo of the hills
of West Virginia. "David Sims said you might be getting in touch. How
can I help you?"

"Did you ever hear of anybody named Charlie Calhoun or Crill, no
last name?"

"Never heard of Calhoun, but a guy named Crill used to bartend over
at Louie's Backyard. I heard he got into the booze pretty bad and fell on
hard times. Crill isn't a name you hear very often. Might be him."

"Wouldn't know where I could find him, would you?"

"No, but I'll check around. He's hard to miss. Got a head full of red
hair that he wears in spikes. Lots of gel. He has a blue birthmark that pretty
much covers his right temple. How can I get ahold of you?"

I gave him my cell number and told him to leave a message if I didn't
answer. I said, "Do you know where the Mango Bar is?"

He gave me directions, and said, "Be careful in there. That's a badass place. If we could close it down, our crime rate would drop by fifty
percent."

"I'll watch my back. I appreciate the help."

"No sweat. Sims says you're good people." He hung up.

I was a little surprised at Sims' recommendation, but maybe he'd
been talking to Bill Lester and decided to help me. I'd take it where I could
get it.

I dialed JeffTimmons in Atlanta. I needed to know about Laura, and
Jeff needed to know what I'd found out about Peggy. In the end, neither
one of us was much help to the other. Jeff had no word on Laura, and the
police were still not putting much effort into finding her.

I related what I knew about Peggy, and told him to try not to worry
too much. If the men chasing the girl had meant her harm, they could have
shot her in the Sharkstooth Bar, and nobody would have seen a thing.

He promised to call me as soon as he heard anything about Laura.

The Mango Bar was a step up the pecking order from the Sharkstooth,
but it was a small step. It was located near the Key West side of the bridge leading to Stock Island, in an area of town that catered to the fishermen
who manned the commercial boats that worked out of the nearby marinas. The bar was housed on the first floor of an old two-story building
that was not aging gracefully. The second floor seemed to be empty, with
several of the windows broken out. Wide double doors were open to the
sidewalk. A small parking lot was next to the building. A rusting pickup
truck and a beat up Mazda sedan were parked there.

I'd walked about two miles to get to the bar. I was sweaty and dusty
and probably smelled like Bigfoot. I'd fit right in at a place like this.

I walked through the doors into the dim space. I stood for a moment,
letting my vision acclimate to the lack of sunlight. I saw Crill at the far end
of the bar, sipping from a shot glass of dark liquid. A cigarette smoldered
in the ashtray in front of him. The spiked red hair and the birthmark were
unmistakable. He was the only customer. The space was narrow, with four
booths lining the wall across from the bar. A large fan sat atop a stand in
the corner, barely stirring the sultry air in the room.

I sat at the near end of the bar, ordered a Miller Lite from the bored
barmaid and paid her cash. I sipped the beer slowly, catching a steely
glance now and then from the bar lady, wondering, I guess, how long I was
going to sit there nursing one beer.

Crill raised his glass, and the barmaid poured him another shot from
a bottle of Old Grandad. I motioned to her with my beer bottle, ordering
another. I sipped some more, glancing occasionally at Crill. He seemed to
be in deep contemplation, savoring his whiskey, drinking it in small swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after every taste.

An hour went by. Grill didn't move, except to raise his glass or his
cigarette and wipe his mouth. He stared into his whiskey, moving only to
drink or inhale or to order another shot. I wondered what he was thinking, or even if he was thinking. He drank with the single-minded dedication of the true alcoholic. I ordered another beer.

Another half hour elapsed. Grill jerked upright on his stool, as if he
had felt an electric shock. His gaze swept the room, a look of consternation
clouding his face. He stubbed out his cigarette, tipped the glass back, and
gulped the remaining contents. He got off his stool and headed for the
door. He was tall and rangy, with long arms and big hands. A tattoo of a dragon wound up his right arm, its tail trailing to his wrist, the snout
covered by his shirtsleeve. He wore cutoffs, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. I let
him get by me, and then followed. I planned to stay with him until I could
get him alone.

As I stepped out the door, I saw the Mazda leaving the parking lot.
Crill was driving it. So much for my grand plan. I was on foot and had no
way to follow him.

I walked to the corner and used my cell to check for messages. Galls
had called and left me an address for Crill. And a last name. McAllister.

I pulled out the city map I'd bought at a tourist stand on Duval Street
earlier in the day. The address was only about a mile from where I was
standing.

Darkness was descending on the town. Lights were winking on in
the homes and businesses as I walked toward Grill's place. I was in an area
of small clapboard houses. Most seemed to be of the shotgun variety;
narrow with the rooms situated one behind the other. There was no grass
to speak of in any of the yards. Chickens pecked at the dry earth, clucking
their displeasure at the paucity of food. They were protected by city
ordinance and roamed at will through the town. Every July there was a
festival in honor of the stupid birds. Only in Key West.

By the time I found the right address, full darkness had cloaked the
city. The streetlights were few in the neighborhood, and they put out scant
illumination. That suited me just fine.

I was going to wring Grill dry, but I didn't look forward to it. I didn't
like violence, even though I'd seen more than my share of it. Sometimes the
blood lust took over, as it had at the Sharkstooth Bar. That always scared
me, but it didn't happen often. I was usually in control, but sometimes I
frightened the hell out of myself.

If Crill was the right guy, and I was almost sure he was, he didn't deserve much compassion. He'd chased down a scared teenager with the
tenacity of a wolf, and if I had to do him violence, I would. And I would
control the blood lust. If that made me a cold bastard, so be it. I just didn't
want anybody to witness the act.

The house was like every other one on the street. It sat on a narrow lot
with a small front yard. The Mazda was parked at an angle to the front
steps that led to a porch that ran the width of the house. The green paint
was peeling, and the roof had been patched with different colored shingles.
Two window air-conditioning units jutted from the side of the house.
Probably the bedroom and living room. A streetlight sat at the front edge
of the property, giving me enough light to see the house clearly.

I climbed the three steps and knocked on the door. I had my .38 in
my hand.

"Who's there?" The flinty voice of a heavy smoker.

"Key West Fire Department, Mr. McAllister," I said. "We've got a gas
leak in the area and need to check your house."

The door flew open. Grill was standing there barefoot, shirt gone,
wearing just the cutoffs. He had a beer in his hand.

"I ain't got no gas service here," he said. Then, realizing I wasn't the
fire department, "Who the fuck are you?"

"People keep asking me that," I said, holding the pistol up so that lie
could see it. "Invite me in."

He stepped back from the door, raising his hands. "Be cool, my man."

"Put your hands down," I said, and walked into the house.

He backed up, keeping his eyes on me. We were in the middle of a
small, sparsely furnished room. An old easy chair sat in the corner, stuffing coming out of tears in the fabric. A sofa took up one wall, a bedspread
thrown haphazardly across it. A small black-and-white TV rested on a
scarred table, rabbit ears drawing in a game show. The sound was turned low. The window air-conditioning unit chugged cool air into the space
and made a noise like a deranged elephant.

A door led off the living room into a hallway. I knew the layout of
these houses. There would be a kitchen off one side of the hall, a bedroom
on the other. At the end would be a bathroom. A door at the rear of the
kitchen would lead to the back yard.

The house was quiet, except for the noise from the air conditioner
and Crill's heavy breathing.

I waved the gun at him. "Anybody else here?"

"No."

"If anybody comes through one of those doors, I'll shoot you."

"Nobody's here, man. Honest."

"Where is Charlie Calhoun?"

"Charlie who?"

I raised the gun, pointing it at his face. "You can do better than that."

"Okay, okay. I don't know where he is. I see him sometimes at a bar
I go to."

"The Mango," I said.

"Yeah."

"Why were you chasing Peggy Timmons yesterday?"

"Who?"

"Look, dickwad, either you start talking straight to me or I'm going
to start shooting you in the foot"I aimed the gun at his dirty feet.

"Okay. That the girl at the Sharkstooth?"

"Right."

"I don't know. I was drinking with Charlie at the Mango when he got
a call on his cell. He offered me a hundred bucks to go with him to get the
girl."

"How did you know she was at the Sharkstooth?"