Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories (12 page)

“Who runs the party then?”

“Two hot babes,” Alex smiled. “There’s a couple of dudes off in the shadows and I think they’re security, but I don’t know for sure.”

“I need to get on board and snoop around.” I ran my fingers across my beard. “Maybe dye my hair.”

“And bleach your skin, look like Michael Jackson,” he shook his head and laughed. “Look, if it’s that important to you, I can put a few studs back in my ears and do your snooping.”

I guess he really did want to be a cop. Goth to cop, go figure.

“Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll go tonight.” He was getting excited.

I didn’t like sending someone to do my legwork, but he had a point about me standing out. There was no way I would fit into the Gothic scene. My presence could make them suspicious and possibly they’d disappear again. Or, maybe they had other ways of dealing with snooping journalists.

• • •

I tried to get a look at the yacht Alex mentioned from the Glass Bottom Boat dock at the end of Duval Street. The Sunset Pier at the Ocean Key Resort blocked my view, but I did see the yacht’s outline. I cut through the resort and found a good viewing spot at Mallory Square.

My guess about the anchored yacht was it had to be 100-foot long, wooden hull and was once beautiful; a large, open aft deck, and inside there was sure to be a roomy salon with staterooms below, a galley and crews quarters, too; an engine room in the lower aft section, an enclosed bridge above the salon.

Today, the yacht fit in with the background of Christmas Tree Island and its dissolute pine trees and landscape. Across the channel, Sunset Key and its million dollar homes sparkled in comparison. Once the old ship might have belonged with expensive island homes, but now it bobbed in Key West Harbor while Jet Ski riders zipped past, as if it was a forgotten stepchild. The yacht anchored far enough offshore to keep it from city jurisdiction.

“The gates of hell,” came a voice from behind me. I turned to see Padre Thomas Collins.

Padre Thomas is an Irish-born Jesuit missionary that walked away from his mission in Guatemala when the angels he sees and talks to told him to. Soon afterward, the rightwing junta’s soldiers massacred most of the villagers and Padre Thomas still suffers from survivor’s guilt all these years later. He’s medium height, thin as a rail, and slowly losing his hair. He gets around town on an old bicycle and chain-smokes cigarettes. He’s sixty if he’s a day. Or maybe guilt has aged him.

“Padre Thomas,” I greeted him and waited for his explanation.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he wheezed and lit a new cigarette. “What are you going to do?”

It is scary how he often knows what I’m doing before I do. “About what?” I said without conviction.

Padre Thomas pointed to the yacht.

“Beautiful old boat,” I smiled. “Why’d you call it the gates of hell?” I turned away and looked back at the water.

“Because the devil lives there,” he sighed callously. He wasn’t joking.

“Lucifer or one of his fallen angels?” I tried not to laugh.

Padre Thomas moved up next to me. “Evil resides on that boat,” he whimpered.

I looked at the old yacht and my curiosity wondered about its history. Who had sailed on her, partied, laughed and was happy? When had the gaiety of past lives turned into the gates of hell? And, if it leads to hell, why hadn’t the wooden boat burst into flames?

I didn’t say what I was thinking. Instead, I put my arm around his bony shoulders and turned him away. “People are looking into it, Padre,” I said. “People that can do something about it, unlike you and me.”

We headed toward the Hog’s Breath Saloon for happy hour.

“It’s in your hands, Mick,” he said without a trace of a smile. “And time is running out.”

• • •

My phone rang at five A.M. the next morning.

“Meet me at Harpoon’s in a half hour,” Alex said when I answered.

“Alex? What time is it?” I muttered, half awake.

“The time vampires go back into their coffins,” he laughed. “Bring some paper and pencils too. Half an hour, Mick.” He hung up.

I dressed hurriedly, again, and drove my old white Jeep to Harpoon Harry’s. At the early hour, I didn’t have a problem parking, but it irked me to put so many quarters into the meter.

Ron, the owner, smiled as I came in. Alex sat at a table in the back.

“
Con leche
, Ron,” I said as I passed and knew he’d make the Cuban
café con leche
I drink. It’s espresso with steamed milk and too much sugar. I am addicted to it.

Alex looked wide-awake and sipped regular coffee.

“You ain’t gonna believe this,” Alex said with a grin. “Did you bring the paper and pencils?”

I put the rolled up paper and two mechanical pencils on the table.

We ordered breakfast and while we waited Alex began drawing.

“Things are getting weird out there,” he said. The studs were still in his ear.

“How?” I sipped my
con leche
.

“The babes I told you about,” he looked up at me and smiled. “They wanted to suck my blood. I saw them sucking on a guy’s neck, a girl’s arm, and another girl’s neck, more than once.” He finished one sheet and began on another. “Also, get this, they were asking everyone onboard if they’d donate blood for
The Master
. Yeah, that’s what they called the old guy,
The Master
.”

“Donate blood?” I was waking up quickly. “How?”

“Just like in the doctor’s office, Mick.” He looked up. “You know, needle in the arm and a big tube to fill.”

“Did they have any takers?”

Our breakfast came and Alex moved his drawings aside and we ate.

“More than I thought they’d get,” he said with a mouthful of egg and toast. “If you give, you get to go below.”

“For what? What’s the attraction down below?”

“Hell if I know, I ain’t givin’ blood, even though the babes are hot,” he smiled and stuffed the remaining egg into his mouth. “I stay away from anything that involves a needle, especially if it’s used more than once.”

He slid the first sheet of paper to me, it was the floor plan of the yacht, and continued to work on a second sheet.

“There’s a go-fast boat on the starboard side.” He kept drawing and didn’t look up. “You can’t see it from land. The measurements on that are a guess, I paced off the lengths,” he said about the footage figures on the paper I held. “You ain’t gonna believe this,” he said again and handed the second drawing to me.

Alex had drawn a head shot of
The Master
, sardonic smile showing fangs, and he looked a lot like Hollywood’s image of Dracula.

• • •

I stood with Sheriff Pearlman and Key West Police Chief Richard Dowley at the railing on the deck of the Sunset Tiki Bar, sweating in the bright sun, and we had a good view of Christmas Tree Island and the yacht. They held copies of Alex’s two drawings.

The yacht was anchored far enough offshore to be in county waters, so the city police could do nothing. The sheriff didn’t have the manpower to patrol the waters surrounding the Florida Keys, he depended on the state marine patrol to do that and the Coast Guard.

They talked about the need for warrants and the evidence necessary to get a warrant. Richard could have the nightshift patrol the parking lot of the Simonton Pier to see who went there. Chances were good that someone would show up with an outstanding warrant, eventually, and then they would have a person to question about the yacht. Maybe even get enough for a warrant on suspicion of drug use or underage drinking. Maybe.

We talked about having Captain Fitton of the Coast Guard look in to the yacht’s history, see if it was certified, had a legal holding tank and safety equipment; the Coast Guard could board her to check on these things. We tossed around a lot of options.

The sheriff thanked me for what I had done and promised to keep me appraised on his investigation. I didn’t believe him, but he didn’t seem bothered by that. Richard knew me better than Sheriff Pearlman did. Richard turned for a second time as he and the sheriff left the Tiki Bar, and his puckered brow told me he was concerned. I should have been too.

As a journalist, I have rules to go by. Get the story right and present it honestly. The rule for getting the story is simple: anything goes. I don’t have the restrictions law enforcement does, but I don’t have their back up either, I was alone.

After breakfast with Alex, I had this nagging question about
The Master’s
Spanish accent. I read Tracy’s articles online that night and she speculated the disciple was Puerto Rican. In New York that made sense, but in South Florida, the accent would make him Cuban.

I had a hunch and old-time journalists did legwork because of their hunches. What I needed to find out wasn’t in recorded files, so it wouldn’t show up on Google.

As I left the Tiki Bar, I called a waterfront character I was acquainted with and offered to buy him a drink. He’d given me background material for stories before, but this time I was hoping for more.

• • •

Bob Pierce had to be in his late fifties. He was born and raised in the Keys and worked his way through college with the proceeds he made smuggling square grouper and powerboat racing. He stayed below the radar and that kept him out of jail, even when the Feds made the local Bubba Bust in the ‘80s for drug smuggling.

“They are the last remnants of old Key West,” Bob drawled as he looked at the shrimp boat fleet from the seawall of Safe Harbor on Stock Island.

“So I hear,” I agreed about the shrimp boats.

“The older I get the less I like change,” he sighed.

We were on our second bottle of beer and left the bar for the privacy of the seawall.

“I’ve got a hunch about something and I thought maybe you’d be the guy to check with,” I said and swallowed beer.

Bob looked suspiciously at me and smiled, but said nothing.

I unfolded the portrait Alex had done and handed it to him. His smile grew.

“Dracula?” He almost laughed.

“Forget the fangs,” I finished my beer. “Look familiar?”

“Wouldn’t know him from Adam.” He handed me back the drawing. “Who is he?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“You wearing a wire?” He trusted no one, it was a way of life for him.

“You know better.”

“That’s not a no.” He finished his beer and walked to the bar. He returned with two beers, our third so far. “Yes or no.” He held the beer out to me.

“No,” I said and took the bottle. “This is personal. Could lead to a story.”

“Let me tell you a story.” He took a long gulp from the bottle. “There’s this captain who brings in refugees from Cuba. First he did it because a girl he knew wanted her family here, then because someone offered him money for a relative and soon it was a lot of money for a lot of relatives.”

Bob leaned against a palm tree and drank. This was his story, so I let him tell it his way, but we both knew he was the captain.

“One day he was approached by someone who offered him a lot of money,” he smiled. “Notice how it always involves lots of money?”

“I noticed.”

“There was one rule, the captain could only bring back his people, no extra cargo. The money was good, so the captain said okay. He showed up at Marina Hemingway on a certain day, went to a certain bar . . .”

“And meet a certain somebody,” I cut him off. “We getting to the point?”

“If you’re in a hurry, Mick, you should’ve come yesterday and we’d be done by now,” he grinned. “Can I go on?”

I nodded.

“Anyway, since you’re buying I’ll cut to the chase,” he finished his beer. “The people were at the bar like he was told they would be, they met and went to the marina with the captain, passed through security and were in Summerland Key a few hours later. You know how hard it is for a Cuban with a suitcase to get into Marina Hemingway, not to mention on a boat?”

“Impossible, I would’ve said.”

“Me too.” He walked to bar and came back with our fourth beer. “Anyway, at Summerland Key this captain is met by someone in a van, gets paid the second half of the fee and all is well with the world as he heads back to Key West.”

“A good story, but what does it have to do with him?” I shook the folded paper.

“This captain made the trip a few more times for the person and it was always the same. Then, one day, this person offers him the full-boat-load fee to pick up one passenger,” he leaned back against the palm tree again. “Lots of money for very little work.”

“And?”

“Well, if Dracula’s face was a little thinner with a mustache instead of fangs, that could be him in your drawing,” he said without losing his smile.

“How many years ago?”

“Two, maybe a little more.”

“What did the captain think of all this?”

“Now you want the whole story,” he laughed. “The captain is fluent in Spanish but the Cubans don’t know that, so they talk freely among themselves. Basically, the person has brought them over, paid their fees, and in return they’ve agreed to give him a kidney when he can match them as a donor. Gotta be a doctor.”

Hunches sometimes pay off, I thought to myself.

“Any recent trips?” I said.

“Not for a year.” He finished the beer. “Not for the doctor, anyway.”

“Does the captain know how to get in touch with the doctor?” I was excited because I just about had the bastard.

“No name,” he said. “But this captain has a pornographic memory.”

“Photographic,” I corrected him.

“No,” he grinned and tore the label off the bottle. “Pornographic, everything is dirty to him,” he laughed. “He took the plate number of the van, call it curiosity or self-preservation, because the person knew him, but the captain didn’t know squat about the person. Turns out the van is registered to a small hospital in the middle of the state.”

“You gonna make me beg?”

“No, I’m going to make you buy lunch.” He turned and walked toward the bar.

I got what I needed from Bob during lunch, which wasn’t another beer, the hospital’s name, address and phone number. I hadn’t felt this excited about a story in a long time. I could use Google to find out more, including the names of hospital staff. Somehow, somewhere the hospital was connected to the Gothic yacht, I knew it, I just had to find the connection.