Bone Island Mambo: An Alex Rutledge Mystery Page 2

  Ninety seconds later, Julie came back around the block, down Peacon Lane, past swing chairs on porches, railings and cacti, stubby driveways and trash cans. Turning toward Simonton, she grinned and shook her head: “You bastard. You upset that poor girl’s exercise regimen. Now she’s over by the Laundromat on Eaton, leaning into the wall, intent as all hell, gabbing on her cell phone. Probably her therapist”

  I went back to shooting the new arcade. I repositioned myself two or three times, tried to minimize the maze of overhead wires. With the water table in some locations a foot below the island’s pavement, there are no buried electrical cables. I let my mind wander as I shot, to memories of the seventies.

  Caroline Street had been seedy territory. Winos in piss-stained trousers slept on benches in front of the shuttered Fisherman’s Café. At the east end of the street, people lived in cars and vans buried under mounds of fishnets and nautical gear. And there’d been tough saloons on Caroline: The Big Fleet, an unofficial petty officers’ club. The Red Doors Inn, with its all-day smells of stale beer and the previous night’s cigarette smoke. There had been Friday-night bloodbaths, shrimpers in drunken, pointless frenzy, city cops on the offense, pot smoke in the air. I’d wandered into the Mascot one night in 1976, when Curly and Lil were onstage. Forty or fifty shrimpers were packed into the tiny bar. Curly had little hair, but a constant smile. He played a beautiful double-neck hollow-body sunburst guitar. With a voice as tough and lovely as Dolly or Reba or Loretta, Lil had belted, “Has anybody here seen Sweet Thing?” Curly’s solos rang of Les Paul, with a touch of Scotty Moore. I’d left in a hurry after a staggering fisherman in rolled-down rubber work boots pointed out my huarache sandals to his compadres. They hadn’t approved. Time to go.

  I’d ventured down Caroline with my camera one Sunday morning in 1977. A derelict had staggered from behind the marine-supply company. Dried blood stuck his hair to his cheek and forehead. His tongue worked a section of gum where a tooth had broken. Convinced that I’d done him the damage, he came at me with a broken beer bottle. I’d lifted my bike in defense. His first slash popped a tire. I swung the bike, bolero-style. It ended there. Two oceangoing brethren intervened, confiscated the wounded man’s weapon, walked him back toward the docks.

  Historical perspective is a study of contrast A generation later, the only action on Caroline centered a block east of me. Every sports utility vehicle in South Florida was competing for eleven metered parking slots on the north side of the street Every angler south of Jacksonville and not on the ocean waited in an outside line for a table at Pepe’s. Hair o’ the dog higher on the priority list than breakfast omelets.

  Despite its lack of visible threat Caroline Street still felt ominous.

  Change is certain in the Island City.

  From the direction of Pepe’s Café, I felt concussions of sub-aural bass. Rhythmic low tones preceded a black Chevy S-10 pickup truck lowered to within four inches of the pavement No high notes that I could hear. Opaque doper tinting, a black camper top. The vehicle rolled on bowl-sized, maybe twelve-inch chrome wheels, tires the thickness of licorice twists. Hearselike and ominous, the truck radiated evil. It yanked me from my ten-minute photo jag.

  Thumpa-thump-boom. So much for a quiet Sunday morning.

  A tourist foursome near B.O.’s Fish Wagon, blue-coiffed seniors in pastel Bermudas, favored the sidewalk edge farthest from the curb. The elderly men squared their shoulders. The women shifted their hands to protect belly-packs, to shield credit cards and cash, a move doomed should the car stop, a door open, a muzzle or blade wiggle in the yellow sunlight. The cockroach grooved past the seniors. The threat lifted, the weight of the ocean had spared a bubble of innocence. Then it slowed to approach me, to pass more deliberately. A row of three-inch-high decals across the pickup truck’s rear glass, alternating Confederate flags and Copenhagen snuff logos. In the window’s lower left corner a NASCAR competitor’s stylized number. A chain-motif license tag frame, also chromed. I thought, Is that gaping hole under the bumper a tailpipe or a sewer pipe?

  The truck stopped. An increase in stereo volume as the passenger-side door opened. Two pasty-skinned specimens exited. Ratty tank-top muscle shirts and identical brush mustaches. One tall, thin oval sunglasses, a Nike beret. One short with a spiraling barbed-wire arm tattoo, his face stupid, frosted with malice. Gold jewelry equal in value to a Third World annual income. I caught a whiff of fresh-burned hashish.

  These children were not promoting a fair fight They had been to punk school, where experts remove conscience and install weaponry. They had grown up ripping chains from tourists’ necks on Duval, had expanded their talents clouting BMWs and Acuras up on South Beach. In some other locale, they’d be kneecappers on the docks, or brass-knuck mob flunkies. The only style twist they knew was to slide gold chains before they yanked, to slash neck skin, to leave a wire-thin reminder of that visit to south Florida.

  If this social call was aimed at get-rich-quick, the pukes had targeted the right bike—my eight-hundred-dollar Cannondale—but the wrong camera. My Olympus was almost twenty years old. They probably weren’t thinking too far into the future. The bicycle would upgrade the truck’s stereo. The OM-4 would barely buy an afternoon’s buzz.

  I learned years ago, aboard sailboats, that stringing cameras around my neck caused their straps to tangle with the lanyards that kept my sunglasses from going overboard. I got in the habit of double-looping camera straps around my right wrist. It cured tangling and kept my gear from going into the drink when a sudden roll forced the use of grab rails. I was about to learn the benefits of wrist looping when the snatch-and-grab boys play games.

  The short one moved first; the tall one hung back. Some kind of tag-team strategy. Two sharks chasing a minnow. They’d stupidly given me a fighting chance, if I didn’t lose track of the malevolent tall boy in the background.

  “You want this?” I said to Shorty. “Take it away.” I held the camera body upright, the lens pointed at him. My thumb brushed the shutter button. On impulse I pressed it Probably an overexposed, out-of-focus close-up of his shoulder. Or one of his drug-dead eyes.

  Shorty stepped forward. Watery snot glistened on his upper lip. He stuck out one hand, held the other snug to his leg. A four-inch pigsticker pointed downward, threw glints of sunlight. The kid stank like a bucket of onions and cheap aftershave. His eyes didn’t look crazed—just emotionless—but I felt sure that his long-term prep had included hurriedly crafted pipes, chemicals and fumes, clipped straws, and stolen needles.

  Where was tourist traffic when you needed it? No pedestrians in and out of the Caroline Street Market? No Conch Train rolling by? Had some out-of-sight witness already dialed 911? I pictured the sidewalk seniors locked snug in their LeSabre, making tracks for North Palm Beach. I smelled bacon on the breeze, drifting down from Pepe’s.

  Shorty’s open hand came closer, his other hand twitched. I heard clicks from ten feet away: the tall one setting the blade of a plastic-handled carpet cutter. I was alone. I hadn’t lived my life in constant gang-banger readiness. I hadn’t gone to dress rehearsal. I would either eat street and shed blood, or pull off an out-of-character survival move. A few days earlier I’d read a newspaper article about martial arts schools teaching courses on fighting dirty. None of it involved graceful, dancelike moves. Most of die techniques would have gotten you kicked off the playground, or banished from the team. I tried to recall the text of the article. Difficult, on short notice.

  I baited the hook, stuck out my arm and the camera. The knife moved upward an inch. Hell. This wasn’t a rip-off. I was a target Handing over meat was not going to appease the tiger. As soon as the shitbird thought I was in range, the sharp metal would swipe at my arm. Then he’d grab my other hand, pull me in for a deep back puncture, a lung or a kidney.

  To break his concentration, I dropped the camera, formed a fist with my hand. I swung my forearm in a circle, like stirring a pot Shorty focused on the moving fist, brought his knife to waist
level, pointed it at my belly button. He didn’t notice the rotating momentum of the Olympus until the camera swung up like a shot banged his head just forward of his ear. My follow-through put me in perfect position: I kicked him in the nuts. A hard, solid connection between his slightly spread legs. An audible smack.

  The tall one was almost on me. I needed Shorty completely out of the game. I sidestepped the carpet cutter and let go a scoop kick. It buckled Shorty’s knee. I switched feet and kicked again. The second jab caught his leg broadside. This time I felt and heard his knee go. He toppled, grabbed his partner for support, robbed him of his balance. I swung the camera like a bolo. The tall one’s head bounced backward. He grimaced, tried to stand upright, then spit teeth and blood.

  The screech was not from the injured men. The low-slung pickup burned rubber in reverse, coming at me, the open passenger-side door flapping like a black wing. The truck skidded to a stop. The driver jumped out, identical attire except for his backward ball cap. He pointed a strange gun. The way he moved tweaked my memory. I knew his name—Bug Thorsby—and family reputation—god-awful. Neither out of synch with the confrontation.

  Drawn by the tires’ noise, silent onlookers began to gather. The driver understood the need for retreat. He tore off his tank top, draped it over the truck license tag—too late, but not in his mind—and managed to shove his wounded comrades into the truck. As a parting gesture he turned toward me, aimed the pistol at my chest, and fired. I felt the hit, the rush of liquid, pain and a coldness. I stumbled backward. I looked down.

  A monkey-puke green splotch on my shirt. He’d hit me with a paint-pellet gun. It hurt like hell. I smelled like cheap salad dressing.

  The truck sped away, as did most of the witnesses.

  “You okay?” Don Kincaid, from the charter sailboat Stars and Stripes, offered me a towel from his motor scooter’s basket. A fellow photographer, he worried more about my Olympus than my clothing. The paint-freckled camera was intact. Don told me the license number.

  Another bystander, whom I recognized—a regular customer at the Sunbeam Market—offered to call 911 on her cell phone. I shook my head, then noticed the true miracle. In the excitement and action, no one had stolen my Cannondale bicycle.

  Kincaid said he had to go. I assured him I was okay. I just needed to catch my breath. I leaned against my bike and looked up the street I couldn’t dodge the feeling that someone had put the kiddie-thugs on me. Julie Kaiser had said she’d seen Heidi Norquist on her cell phone. No sense in that connection, but this was Key West

  The rest of Caroline had shed its turmoil. The Blazers and Expeditions and Cherokees had quit fighting for space. The brunch line at Pepe’s was down to the last three, each customer reading a newspaper. The sun shone bright pale yellow. The sky glowed pure blue. The restored Red Doors Inn gleamed with fresh white and vermilion paint A peaceful Sunday morning in paradise. Someone could argue that the island was improving with age.

  I heard a sharp snap, a carpet cutter opening.

  There was no one within twenty yards of me.

  Just my imagination.

  2

  A few hours earlier, my morning had begun on a light note. After waking with Teresa Barga in her Shipyard condo, we’d shared wonderful, energetic love, the toothpaste, Cuban coffee, the toothpaste again. Then yellow-label Entenmann’s pastries, and the Miami Herald. She’d shrugged off my suggestion that we spend the day in a kayak. She wanted the time to herself, to catch up on paperwork. In her eighth month as the Key West Police Department press liaison, she was confirming that the crime rate, and her job load, increased during tourist season. I wasn’t happy having to compete with the city for her time on a Sunday. The upside was my admiration for her work ethic, a rare trait in Key West.

  Teresa and I had met five months earlier at city hall. She’d been new in town, we’d both been “single” for months. We were attracted by curiosity, humor, and common interests: being on the water and, during bad weather, reading good books. We’d been constant companions since then.

  Wearing only a nightshirt, Teresa had walked me to her door, patted my rear end, kissed me. She’d said, “Take care, lover. It’s a jungle out there.”

  I’d boasted, “Show me the vine. I’m a swinger.”

  She’d laughed. I’m a laugh a minute.

  I rode home from Caroline Street to get rid of my paint-stained shirt. I found my neighbor Cecilia Ayusa, in Dredgers Lane, picking up fallen palm fronds, dead leaves, and litter. She’d always kept a perfect yard. But she had a new compulsion to clean the street. None of the neighbors, including her daughter and granddaughter, Carmen Sosa and Maria Rolley, had mustered the moxie to question her preoccupation. I wondered if she had reason to fear larger judgment, was trying to please the Chief Inspector. Even Castro had hedged his eternal standing by tempering his four-decade suppression of religion. He’d allowed the Pope eight days of secondhand cigar smoke. If tweezing the lane—often two and three times a day—gave Cecilia comfort, that was fine. I hoped she was not holding back news of ill health.

  I locked my bike to the mango tree. I peeled off and trashed my ruined shirt. No messages on the machine. I spread a plastic garbage bag across my porcelain porch table and cleaned the camera with vinegar and Q-Tips. My camera strap had been badly nicked by the carpet cutter. I chucked it, strung a new one, and hid my photo gear under the false bottom of a cabinet. I hit the open-air shower, listened to church bells and a neighbor’s stereo—early John Prine. The purple paint-ball welt on my chest took me back to Caroline Street. I thought about it, decided not to be a victim, not to slog my flip-flops through self-pity, wallow in victimness. I also pledged revenge. Not simple paybacks, either. I’m easygoing. I shun negativity. But this time, in due time, I wanted cold, refreshing revenge. I also needed to know what had brought on the attack. Choice one was Heidi’s phone call. I hadn’t looked like a fat-cat tourist, prime meat with a fat wallet and a shiny watch.

  Help us take these monsters off our streets.

  I found three messages after the shower.

  Sam Wheeler: “I need you for twenty minutes at the most. I know you love physical labor. You always stay in touch with the inner animal. I have Caribbean fish chowder as barter bait, and life-affirming cold beer. I’ll give you the play-by-play on my Jamaican vacation.”

  Teresa Barga: “I couldn’t work at home, so I came to the office. Just in time for bad boogie. Call my cell.”

  The last one: “City Dispatcher Faust, one-twenty P.M., Sunday. Detective Sergeant Hayes needs a call soon as possible. Two-nine-nine-five-two-oh-two. That’s twenty-nine, nine, fifty-two, oh two. It’s a signal five.”

  I wrote the number, and understood Teresa’s distress. A “five” was a homicide. I didn’t recognize the detective’s name.

  The phone rang. I picked up. Marnie Dunwoody identified herself. She was in her car.

  I said, “You went to the tropics to chill out?”

  “. . . and then came back to this lunatic island.” Her voice shook. “I’ve got a message. The watch commander’s been trying to find you. Dexter Hayes needs you to photograph a crime scene. I’m on my way right now.”

  Dexter Hayes? The old “mayor” of Key West’s black section had been called Jumbo Chief. “Marnie, what are we talking? Big Dex isn’t the police. He was the opposite, until his power dried up.”

  “Alex, we’re talking Dex Junior. Detective Sergeant Hayes. He’s been with the city four months.”

  “I haven’t seen Dexito in years. Teresa’s never mentioned him.”

  “He came down from Broward. He was a SWAT Team leader in Boynton Beach, I think. Take my word, he didn’t get hired by affirmative action. He’s good.”

  Four months earlier, my previous Key West Police contact, Detective Fred “Chicken Neck” Liska, had been elected Monroe County Sheriff. He’d given me two small jobs since then, when his regular forensic people were busy. But the city hadn’t called at all.

  “Give me the add
ress,” I said to Marnie.

  “Caroline Street. My brother’s construction site.” Her voice trembled. Her emotions let go. “A man was murdered. Butler found the body.” She hung up.

  Had a body been in there when I was taking pictures?

  I returned Sam Wheeler’s call to tell him I couldn’t help immediately. I wasn’t sure he knew about the murder. Also, I wanted him to contact Florida Keys Hospital to find out if anyone had shown up at the emergency room with a smashed face or a broken knee. No answer. Sam was using the power saw or sander.

  I scarfed two bananas, gobbled two tablespoons of peanut butter straight from the Jif jar, chugged a tall glass of water. I called it lunch. I pulled my camera satchel from its hidden cubbyhole, snatched a couple three-packs of twenty-four-exposure Kodacolor, grabbed a long-sleeved shirt The job could go late. A January evening could drop to the high fifties.

  I locked the house, rode my motorcycle down Eaton. I felt like stockpiling scenery before viewing a murder victim. Then I thought, Bogus idea. What would I do, trade hand-hewn balustrades for discarded weapons? White ibis for a slashed throat? A queen palm for a fist-sized exit wound?

  Baseball players get to average their good and bad days. My first call in months from the Key West Police would launch my new year in the cellar.

  City cops had closed die three hundred blocks of William Street and Peacon Lane. I explained myself to the uniformed patrolman at Elizabeth Street. He was an old-timer, recognized me from other city crime scenes. Something clicked in my thoughts. I asked if he knew Bug Thorsby.

  The officer grimaced. “Rotten mango don’t roll far from the tree.”

  I asked if he knew where Bug hung out.

  “Little shit’d be out to the Southern Nights, there on Big Coppitt, chasing out-of-town sluts. I got the deputies to pull him outa there once or twice last year. Check it out. He keeps an ice pick in his boot.”