Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery (16 page)

“Simple as that,” Chris said between bites of salad.

“You have to tell us where he is.”

“What will it take to make you understand I don’t know where he is?” I said.

“Do you know who is lining up behind us?” Chris turned to Norm again. “Does he?”

“If I know it, he knows it,” Norm said as he chewed his food. “For what it’s worth, I believe him and think this whole thing is a wild goose chase.”

“Of course you do,” Ted Williams said. “Get us out of here and you don’t have any competition.”

Now he was talking about the diamonds, not a rogue agent.

“Competition?” Norm laughed. “Chris said it, they’re lining up for this interview.”

“Not this interview,” Chris said. “The Russians, the Israelis, the others are not going to sit down to lunch. Their interrogation tactics will make your little trip to Stock Island seem like a visit to Disneyland.”

“What do you know of that?” I raised my voice because her comment caught me off guard.

“It’s all in the marshals’ and sheriff’s reports,” she said. “If it’s on paper, we have access to it, even if we are, as Norm pointed out, retired.”

The lunch wasn’t going as I thought. I expected more yelling, demands and roughness. Maybe I’d watched too many Bruce Willis movies.

“So, if you’ve read all the reports, you already know what I know,” I said and heard the frustration in my voice. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“If you can convince me…us, I mean,” Chris said looking at the others. “I have a chance to convince them you’re telling the truth, it’s an old-boys club.” She laughed. “Well, even back in the Cold War a few us weren’t old boys, but they let us in the club anyway.”

“I told Mick the truth wouldn’t work,” Norm said.

“Mick, you gotta understand, none of these people believe the truth when it’s presented because they wouldn’t tell the truth so the assumption is no one else would either.”

“Oh, Norm,” Chris sighed with a smile, “time has turned you cynical and not in a good way.”

“I’ve worked with agency types too long not to understand you,” he said. “It’s like an old New England witch hunt when the agency wants information. If you die sticking to your story, it might have been the truth, but the tactics they use seem to get people to agree to anything. Kind of like Gitmo or maybe Iraq.”

“My God,” Chris said with a chuckle. “Cynical and soft, that isn’t like you.” She stared at me and her face lost its softness. “You’re not a good influence on my old friend.”

“Who are you calling old?” Norm grumbled.

Chapter 38

L
unch ended abruptly, a stalemate, meals half-eaten, and threats of what was to come the parting words. The agents didn’t believe me and I didn’t care. The Cold War was over, it was being taught in high school history classes, Nikita Khrushchev and Ronald Reagan were dead.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said as the three agents strutted out of the restaurant in a huff.

“That they left you with the bill?” Norm laughed and then turned serious. “Hell, Mick, I told you to lie a little. The truth is what they want it to be, not what it is. You should’ve told your Cuban beach theory. They would’ve bought it because they could see themselves doing that.”

“How’d we win the Cold War with people like them?” I said.

“We won it because of people like them,” he said. “They’re methodical, cold, and determined to come out ahead. All that should worry you because they are not going away.”

I tried a laugh that came out feebly. “Yeah, worry about Ted Williams and Jimmy Piersall, get real.”

“Chris is the brains.” Norm continued eating his lunch. “Those two are muscle.”

“So I assumed.”

“Don’t underestimate her because she’s good lookin’.” He turned away and looked at the Jet skiers. I wondered what he was hiding. “She was one of the youngest agents in the agency. Her family worked with the Shah’s government in Persia. She was just a kid, really, and learned to read and write the language and used to go horseback riding with the Shah’s cavalry, their little mascot.” Norm stopped and smiled. “Iran.”

“Yeah, I know. The Shah of Iran. Persian, not Arab. Right?”

“Right.” He held the smile and I wondered why. “At that age, she was concerned about opium use in the city’s market place and one day showed up at the Embassy with a list of places people smoked, sometimes out in the open. She made a nuisance of herself, she came back so many times. She even had photos and showed the agent in charge how she hid the camera.”

“And no one tried to stop her?”

“Oh yeah, most of the embassy staff did.” Norm paused and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. “Anyway, by the time Langley knew who the new operative was, she was too good at her job to pack up and send home.”

I laughed. “She recruited the CIA.”

“Something like that,” Norm said giving me a hard stare. “This isn’t fun and games to them, Mick. They may have dressed silly, but their tactics are deadly serious. They’re old school, so today’s rules don’t apply.”

“I’ve got marshals to be worried about,” I said and finished my ice tea. “I don’t need a group of over-the-hill spies on my ass. Do something, will ya? They all can’t be that stupid, talk to them.”

“I’ll talk to the ones that will listen,” he said standing. “You’re making a mistake thinking they’re stupid. They maybe over-the-hill spies, but if they’ve lived this long it means they’re anything but stupid. Cunning is a more appropriate description.”

“Okay,” I said, even though I couldn’t see anything cunning in the threesome. “What do we do from here?”

“We do nothing.” He walked toward the water and stopped at the After Deck’s rail. He looked out to where the Jet Skis were buzzing. “I’ll see who I can make arrangements with and you hibernate.”

“See if they’ll meet us at lunch or dinner,” I said. “I think we should meet them at different places and different times.”

“Suggestions,” he said without taking his stare from the water.

“Yeah,” I laughed quietly to myself. “Meet the French at Schooner, the Limeys at La Trat, the Israelis at Harpoon Harry’s, the German’s at the Smokin’ Tuna and the Russians at the Hog.”

“You’ve given this some thought.” He turned to me. “What do you have in mind?”

“I figure the French will like the cuisine at Schooner, the Limeys have to like good Italian food, so La Trat…” He didn’t let me finish.

“Why the Hog with the Russians?” I had piqued his curiosity.

“They’ve got vodka,” I said. After I didn’t get a reply from him, I added, “And there’s more than one way in and out.”

“And?” He was satisfied with my answer.

“And Bob and Burt can hide in plain sight.”

“At least you know the Russians are the most dangerous,” he said and walked away.

Chapter 39

S
chooner Wharf Bar on a Saturday afternoon and the place was packed with locals watching the Weather Channel for hurricane news, between drinks of course, and tourists sitting in the pea-rock patio, drenched in sunlight, with their plastic cup of rumrunners or some other alcohol-driven concoction. If they were from anywhere north of the Keys, it was probably getting cold at home, so soaking up a few rays, seeking that last sign of a tan before making that trip back seemed reasonable. The sky was dark blue with only a whisper of clouds crossing it. A warm, salty breeze sent hints of seaweed and algae through the bar reminding patrons they were on an island. No wonder everyone wanted to call Key West home.

Michael McCloud and Carl Peachy played their mix of Key West songs, some originals from Michael—the crowd always cheered his
‘She Gotta Butt’
and
‘Tourist Town Bar’
songs—and they performed songs from a repertoire decades long. The locals knew the routine and the tourists ate it up.

The bartenders, Vickie, Angus, and Sissy, kept busy filling orders from the servers running between tables, and the locals sitting around the four-sided bar. There were no empty seats, so I stood next to the long rail that separated the bar from a few tables facing the boardwalk. The rail was wide enough to hold your drink.

Alexis walked by, smiled and said, “Kalik,” and kept on going to deliver drinks. A misting fan cooled the area and I had a good view of the flat-screen TV by the T-shirt shop for watching the hurricane reports.

“Crowded,” the Professor said as he stood next to me, his notebook and drink placed on the rail. “I guess it’s Saturday afternoon.”

“Professor,” I smiled because his silliness was more exciting than ridiculously dressed spies. “How goes the quest?”

He drank from his cup. “It seems that my idea is not original. I’ve located texts on the subject on the Internet and that’s the bad news.”

Alexis pushed the lime into the neck of my Kalik, handed it to me, threw me a pretend kiss, and went to take orders from others. I toasted the Professor.

“What’s the good news?” I took a long swallow of the cold Bahamian beer.

“I’m still doing research,” he said with more vigor. “I love research. I’ve ordered some of the books and papers online and I’ll see where they lead me.”

“Do you still believe we’re in the netherworld and waiting?” I said. The conversation beat the hell out of my lunch talk.

“Yes, yes I do.” He hesitated and took his pipe tobacco from his shirt pocket, and stuffed the pipe bowl with the aromatic blend. “I believe we are in a dimension other than the one we came from.” He put the tobacco back in his pocket and lit the pipe with a wooden match. “Maybe we slipped through a time warp.”

“Please keep me informed.”

“Oh, I will, Mick,” he said puffing white streams of smoke from the pipe and was ready to walk away. He walked up the steps toward the poolroom section of Schooner Wharf where he could sit at a table and write in his notebook, unbothered, without waiting for me to answer.

Alexis brought another beer and I stood there listening to the music mixed with the bar conversations, and watching the summer tourists stroll along the boardwalk, slowing to gawk at the large tarpon swimming near the surface. Some bar customers tossed food scraps into the water and everyone watched the tarpons attack it.

“You look like a fish in an empty harbor,” Pauly said standing beside me with his beer.

I smiled at him, his bushy strawberry-blonde hair, and beard highlighting a darkly tanned, weathered face. “Look who’s talking.”

He waved at Alexis and raised two fingers, ordering a new round of beers.

Pauly and I had been friends since I first moved to Key West, before I knew he was a drug smuggler. I learned that when I visited him in the Dominican Republic. Now he lives in the Lower Keys. He gave up smuggling when the Colombians and Mexicans began arming themselves and killing each other. He kept many of his contacts and I wasn’t sure if that was because he wanted to or they wouldn’t let him move on. Only Norm was better connected, but they belonged to two different worlds.

“I’ve got a friend who’s an ER nurse,” he said, finished his Budweiser and stared at me. “How’s your memory?”

“Who are you, again?” I said, wrinkling my eyebrows and squinting, trying to look puzzled.

“Bruce Willis,” he said in a deep voice.

“I love your movies and your disguise. I’d never have known it was you.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep for grinning.

“You done?” He accepted our beers from Alexis, giving her his empty.

I took the new beer. “Yeah. Can’t anyone have a secret on this island?”

Pauly laughed. “A secret, what’s that?”

“I don’t know,” I said and swallowed as much beer as I could. “My memory is fine. How are you doin’?”

“Concerned about some of the things I’m hearing.” He looked worried.

“What things?”

“About U.S. Marshals, Boston FBI agents, a Whitey Bulger hit man…”

I stopped him before he could add more. “What do you know or are you guessing?”

“People in town talk, Mick, you know that.” He grinned. “I still have cops that talk to me and some ask me what I think about certain things. Who do you think grabbed you?” He finished his beer and waved at Alexis.

“My bet is the marshals because they were cautious, they didn’t want to do anything that might kill me.”

“Have you talked to the FBI?”

“Nope. The marshal, Dudley Crabtree, said the FBI isn’t involved.”

“And he wouldn’t lie,” Pauly said. “There are Boston, FBI agents in town.”

“Nothin’ surprises me, these days,” I said. “There are old Cold War spies on the island too.”

“Do say. What do they want?”

“It’s all about Walsh and who he is or who he ain’t,” I said.

“If the CIA didn’t buy your story, why bother with the others?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said and shook my head at the overall silliness of it. “How can anyone connect Walsh to a Cold War agent with contacts that he needed, not to mention his ability at disguises, to fool governments for years. Get serious.”

“You should take the kidnapping seriously,” he said. “Hoods, back of vans and a deserted warehouse that should be taken seriously.”

“I’m seriously pissed,” I said. “Crabtree denies it, of course, and Norm thinks I’m wrong, but who’s left? These Europeans weren’t here then.”

“Are you sure?”

Chapter 40

“I
can check with some sources and see what this Crabtree is capable of doing to get his man,” Pauly said and lit a cigarette. “But Norm is most likely right. He knows how the Feds work and has a better idea of who might be shady.”

“Crabtree says there’s another player in the mix, because it wasn’t him,” I said.

“If it wasn’t, he’s right.”

“Who the hell else could it be?”

“I’d be focusing on Walsh,” Pauly said exhaling smoke. “Or whatever his name is. He’s a loose cannon and apparently has a lot of people interested in him.”

“Great,” I said. “So it could be anyone from Whitey Bulger to some Cold War spy. Just great!”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Mick,” he said and smiled. “I’ve got your back and Norm seems to be your front man, so you can relax. When’s Tita due?”

I’d been so preoccupied with the luncheon and all this ridiculousness, that I’d let the situation with Tita slip from my mind.