Read Tales of Old Brigands Key Online
Authors: Ken Pelham
Tales of Old Brigands Key
Tales
of
OLD
BRIGANDS KEY
Three
Short Stories of Suspense
by
Ken Pelham
Copyright 2013 by Ken Pelham
All rights
reserved.
Cover Design: Jennifer Pelham
Cover Image Source:
Depositphotos
,
Plrang
.
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded,
decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored by any means, other than as allowed
through license to the purchaser of the material, without the express written
permission of
the
author, except
where permitted by law.
About These Tales of Old
Brigands Key...
Fans of my novel,
Brigands Key
,
have asked, "Where is Brigands Key? Is it really like that?"
Yes, it really is like that. In my head,
anyway. Brigands Key is a fictional island on the Florida Gulf Coast, in the
region known as the Big Bend, the area where peninsula meets panhandle, where
old Florida meets new. The Big Bend is sort of the forgotten region, bypassed
by the intensive land development that has overwhelmed so much of the state.
By the time I finished the novel, the
place had gotten under my skin. I had populated it with folks with a history of
living literally and metaphorically on the edge, and I felt compelled to
revisit the island.
With
the novel, the short story titled "Double Effect" in my
Treacherous
Bastards
collection, and the three stories contained herein, bits and
pieces of the island's dubious past are revealed.
--
kp
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Chris
Havern
,
Staff Historian, U.S. Coast Guard, for his assistance with technical details
and descriptions of Coast Guard vessels and crewmen during the Prohibition era,
valuable background needed for "The Rum War."
Many thanks also to James T. Shirley, a
veritable fount of information on shipwreck salvage practices and law, which
contributed enormously to "The Wreck of the
Edinburgh Kate
."
James's critique and suggestions on the details lent the story an air of
19th-century authenticity.
And of course, thanks to my family for
reading and offering suggestions to make the stories better.
—
kp
Ah, Demon Rum. My father tells the story
of my grandfather's investment in a little bootlegging boat in Depression-era
Daytona Beach. Don't get the wrong idea; it's not like Granddaddy—a bricklayer
by trade—was Al Capone or something. Times were tough, and he moved the family
around trying to find enough work to feed them. Bootlegging was a valued trade,
because, frankly, no one quit drinking just because it was illegal. Stupid law.
"The Rum War" delves into the
waning days of the Prohibition in tiny Brigands Key, never a place to shy away
from doing the dirty work the rest of society demands. A local ne'er do well
partners with an outsider of some literary bent to exact an islander's idea of
justice.
For those interested in the look and
feel of the boats (and the times), the U.S. Coast Guard has marvelous archives
at
the
Coast Guard history website.
—
kp
Brigands Key, Florida, February, 1932
L
ou Denton eased
the heavy black shutter board aside from the window and looked out. He
scratched the stubble on his chin, knocked back another drink of Scotch whiskey,
and settled in to watch his boat like a hawk from the second floor loft of the
warehouse.
Watching
his
stolen
boat.
Each
sip burned his gut. He didn't particularly care for the stuff, even though it
paid the bills and had gotten more popular than it had been when it was legal.
But he needed it tonight. He needed to be on edge and a little drunk to go
through with what needed to be done. This was going to be a long hard night,
one he might not live through.
They
took his damn boat!
His
boat, his family's boat for fifteen years, now
defiled by some desk boys in the Coast Guard.
Goddamn
crooks. They stole it, and with it a small fortune in goods.
He
took another drink. This needed fixing, and soon. The window would slam shut
and then it would be too late, maybe by tomorrow. The boat would be gone and
he'd likely be in jail.
The
sons of bitches already had Anna in jail. He shook his head. His sister had
tried hard to do a good job, but weren't too damn smart, and not near quick
enough on her feet to get out of a jam. Kind of lacked the Denton brains and
mean streak.
That
didn't make him feel no better about it. Worse, if anything. She'd probably go
to federal pen for a long time, and it was his fault. He knew she couldn't
sneak her way through.
He
had to act tonight, but he couldn't pull it off alone
A
hand snatched the shutter from his own hand, slammed it shut, and slid a bolt
down to lock it in place. "Damn you, Denton," Cleveland Ross said.
"This is
my
joint. You
ain't
s'pose
to open the window any time, much less when the damn
Coast Guard is in town. Jesus, you're stupid. Once more and you're gone."
Lou
glared at him, and sulked over and took a seat. "Fine. Set me up with
another Scotch."
"That'll
be a dollar, in advance."
"A
dollar! I sold you the damn stuff."
"You
wanted whiskey, you should have kept some for yourself. A buck."
*
* *
A
half-hour later, Lou huddled alone over another drink, smoking his fifth
cigarette. The joint had filled. All the rooms upstairs hummed with vice; this
room—the biggest, the speakeasy—hummed the loudest. The other three rooms,
peopled by ladies entertaining gentlemen, hummed quietly, punctuated by
occasional shouts of gusto. Like Brigands Key had any gentlemen in it.
Downstairs, all was dark and quiet, a rusted rat-hole warehouse.
Drinks
flowed, the piano played, jokes abounded, all by the light of hanging kerosene
lamps. A fistfight or two. Lou's friends trickled in and made themselves
welcome, Pat Johnson and worthless Jack Rabbit Abbott, but they all stayed well
clear of him. When your shadow business dragged you into in the spotlight,
thing was, you were pretty much on your own. You didn't expect the others, who
committed the same things and worse, to stand up for you. You just didn't. Life
had to go on. There were mouths to feed.
But
Lou needed help tonight.
So
when two strangers entered, Lou fixed a close, studying eye on them. One of
them, a tall thin sort, seemed a little too precious for what needed to be
done, and fidgeted and glanced like he didn't want to be in the joint.
The
other man, now there might be something to him. Weathered like a baseball
glove, although he didn't seem old, and built real stocky. A broad dark
mustache sprawled across his square head. A little rough around the edges, but
not a whole lot. Maybe enough. Seemed a little too smart, but that might be a
good thing.
The
two men ordered, and two glasses of beer soon appeared on their table.
Lou
stubbed out his cigarette and sauntered over. "You gents mind some
company?"
The
dainty one said, "Well, actually, we were only going to be here a minute
or two."
"Settle
down, Max," the other said. "Live a little. Sure, mister, pull up a
seat." He waved to the bartender. "This beer's on me."
"Obliged,"
Lou said. "Name's Lou."
"Pleasure,
Lou. Call me Ernest."
Lou
studied him for a moment. "I seen you two pull a pretty nice boat into the
harbor and tie up on the dock this afternoon. What you
doin
'
in Brigands Key? Got business here?"
"Oh
heavens no," Max said.
"We're
tooling up the Gulf coast," Ernest said. "Up from Key West, just
fishing and sightseeing. We might make it to New Orleans. Haven't quite decided
yet."
Lou
nodded towards the beer glasses. "
Ain't
you
heard alcohol
ain't
legal in this country?"
"We
heard a rumor to that effect." He raised his glass in a toast. "To
rumors."
"So
you
ain't
a goody-goody. That's a start. Listen. You
want to make thirty dollars each tonight?"
Max
smirked. "Oh my. Thirty dollars. I don't think—"
"Shut
up, Max," Ernest said. His eyes glinted. "That's a lot of money.
What's a man have to do to make thirty bucks in one night?"
"Steal
a boat back that's been stole from me."
"Why
don't you just call the cops?"
"'Cause
it's the cops that stole it. I'm gone to steal it back from them Coast Guard
sons of bitches."
"Oh
my," Max said. His smirk evaporated. "I don't think—"
"Shut
up, Max," Ernest said. "This is becoming a good story. Why don't you
go back to the room?"
Max
pushed his chair away from the table. "Gladly. I need to arrange enough
money cabled to pay your bail tomorrow. Or begin the funeral
arrangements." He dropped a dollar on the table and hurried away.
Lou
watched him go. "He
ain't
gone to blow the
whistle on us, is he?"
"Max?
Hell no. I'm his meal ticket. He's just not particularly fond of
adventure."
"Adventure?
This
ain't
no game, mister. Like he said, you might
get shot before the
night's
through."
Ernest
leaned back, and seemed to consider that. "Tell me the story so I can see
if this is worth sticking my neck out."
"What
story? You drink booze, and that's against the law. I reckon damn near
everybody is a lawbreaker now. Anyway, you drink it, and I haul it in, mostly
from Cuba. I didn't have no trouble with the old Coast Guard Six-Bitters. They
was too slow. Now they got them CG-400s, and
them
sons of bitches haul ass. So my boat, the
Pilar
, got caught this morning out on the Gulf. I
wasn't on her this trip, but my first mate was."
"
Pilar
. I like that. Your first mate, what's his
name?"
"Anna."
Ernest
nodded. "Your first mate, you say?"
"It
ain't
like that. She's my dimwitted sister. Anyhow,
they was gone skipper or tow
Pilar
all the way
to Mobile. I know what happens next; they either gone sell her, re-commission
her into one of their own, or scuttle her. I aim to not let any of them things
happen. It's my goddamn boat."
"I
assume you had contraband aboard."
"Don't
get fancy, boy. She was full-loaded with whiskey and rum. There
ain't
nothing can be done about that now. That's a loss,
and a big one. I aim to get on board and get my sister out. She
ain't
going to prison on account of me. You uncomfortable
with that?"
"Not
unreasonably so. In fact, it smacks of chivalry."
"After
they hijacked
Pilar
and arrested Anna, they'd
a gone straight off to Mobile. They figured
Pilar
was based here out of Brigands Key, and the last thing they wanted was to have
to bring her in here, amongst the riffraff. But I had a bit of luck today,
maybe first time ever. The CG gunboat had some engine trouble and needed work,
and the
Pilar
wouldn't have held up towing
something that big all the way to Alabama. Their mechanic up and got too sick
to stand, much less fix an engine. So they was stuck
puttin
'
in here for the night. They already rustled up a new mechanic, Bobby Watson, to
fix her in the morning. I got until daybreak. I been watching '
em
. They still got Anna down in the hold of
Pilar
, and one guy keeping an eye on her, and God
knows what else. The rest of their crew is on the CG. I count six, all
told."
"Lou,
this has disaster written all over it. I think I'm in. What's the plan?"
*
* *
Lou
held back in the shadows, watching first the
Pilar
and then Ernest. The
Pilar
was moored
alongside the dock, tied fore and aft with heavy lines. The Coast Guard vessel,
a seventy-eight footer, rocked gently alongside
Pilar's
starboard, lashed to her and the dock, pinning her firmly into place. She was
going nowhere until that Coast Guard boat was out of the way.
From
the north, the beacon of Hammond Lighthouse swung its swift arm of light across
the island, each pass brightening the waterfront for an instant.
The
day had been overcast, but that cover had blown away and a full moon climbed
high in the east. Damn the bad luck; when you want good weather, you get a
mess. When you need bad weather, you got a clear beautiful night with moonlight
on the water. Too late to worry about that, though.
He'd
studied Ernest when the guy had first pulled up the channel. The guy was a
college boy, that was plain as day, but had some nails and broken glass in his
gut, and pain, too, and knew his way around a boat. Now the guy showed just the
opposite, just like they'd planned, like a rich man with a big boat and little
sense.
Ernest
sauntered down the dock, whistling like some goddamn playboy, and stepped onto
the
Pauline
. Lou had taken note when she first berthed in Brigands Key.
Nice looking craft, a sportsman's boat, polished wood and brass and all that
rich-man stuff, maybe twenty-eight feet long.
The
main dock jutted a hundred yards perpendicular from the inland side of the
island, pointed like a middle finger at the mainland. Smaller docks teed out
from the main dock, about half of them occupied by the commercial fishing boats.
In better times, every last one would be occupied, but the Depression wiped out
a slew of them and drove them off to other places. The ones that was able to
stay in business, like Lou, was the ones that did a little moonlighting.
Kerosene
lanterns bathed a good bit of the dock in a dim orange wash. A couple of CG
sentries, carbines slung over their shoulders, stood fore and aft on the deck
of their gunboat, which was the meanest-looking vessel on the waterfront. The
aft sentry seemed alert, like he was watching Ernest too. The one on the bow
sat cross-legged on the deck with a deck of cards, playing solitaire. Lazy son
of a bitch.
Ernest
fiddled about on the
Pauline
for a few minutes, trying to look busy,
fussing over fishing gear, rustling about in a locker, withdrawing a can. Lou
knew what he was up to. Ernest glanced at the CG, and moved aft with the can
and a paint brush. He dipped the brush into the paint and leaned out real easy
over the transom as if to inspect something, and slopped paint over the name of
his boat. He'd already said he was going to take pains to lessen up the chances
of being
accompliced
in Lou's felony. Smart feller. A
college boy.
The
paint job done, Ernest stowed the brush and can, and unhitched his mooring
lines. He went into the pilot house and a moment later, his engines purred and
churned up the water behind the boat, and he eased it away from the dock.
Lou
looked at his watch. It was four A.M., not an unreasonable time to get seaward
for some daybreak fishing. The aft sentry kept an eye on the
Pauline
as
she drew nearer.
Pauline's
engines
throttled up a bit. Ernest had bumped her up, and the boat gained speed, maybe
to six knots. Not what fishermen like to see in a too cozy harbor around the
boats that put food on their tables, but exactly what you'd expect from some
rich
playboy.
The
Pauline's
engines suddenly died, and Ernest glanced about, looking
puzzled and concerned. The boat plowed ahead with momentum now.
Lou
smiled. This stupid idea just might work.
The
Pauline
closed toward the CG now, and Ernest made a show of frantically
trying to restart the engines.
The
alert sentry leaned closer. "Ahoy," he shouted. "Control your
vessel. You're coming too close, too fast." The lazy sentry glanced up,
and slowly got to his feet.