“Someone involved back then. Long before you or I ever thought we’d be in Key West.”
“Do you know who it is?”
Padre Thomas shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. “I warned Wizard yesterday. He told me he had an idea for protecting everyone and was supposed to pass it on to Tony this morning. He wouldn’t tell me more, just not to worry.”
“Tony should’ve worried.” I sipped the warm con leche.
Padre Thomas put his sandwich down and lit a cigarette. “Wizard doesn’t even know.”
“How do you know?”
“He asked me if I had seen Tony.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him no.” He inhaled deeply. “Because I hadn’t.”
“Can you help the cops?” I finished the coffee.
“You know I can’t.” His grin returned. “At first they wouldn’t believe anything I told them and then, since I’d give them information only the killer should know, they’d think I did it.”
He had a point. In the past, his knowledge of things that happened in secret or dark places had gotten him in trouble. I was one of the few people he confided in, maybe because he knew I believed him about the angels, or at least wanted to.
My cell phone chirped. “Yeah.”
“Mick, it’s Tracy at the Hog’s Breath.” The words whispered hoarsely in my ear, like Lauren Bacall talking to Bogey in the movies. “One of those old treasure guys is here looking for you.”
“Wizard?” It was too early for the Hog’s bar to be open.
“No, the one they call Lucky.”
“Where is he?”
“Downstairs.” Tracy worked in the office on the second floor. “He left you something, but he’s sitting at the bar waiting.”
“Thanks, Tracy, I’ll be there in a little while.” I closed the cell phone.
“All three of those treasure hunters are in danger.” Padre Thomas crushed out the cigarette and bit into the last of his sandwich. “Be careful, Mick.”
“Tell me something I can use, Padre.”
“They’ve scared someone from back then,” he mumbled as he chewed. “Someone who’ll kill to keep a secret.”
“Thanks for the coffee.” I got up and rode my bike down the harbor walk toward the Hog’s Breath.
It smelled and felt like rain, the humidity getting thick, as clouds blowing in from the south began to hide the morning sun. Key West had been getting afternoon showers every day for almost a month and they brought a summer mugginess that reminded us we lived in the tropics as well as in the southernmost city in the Continental United States.
The Hog’s Breath Saloon is a short block from the waterfront, at Duval and Front Streets, but large hotels block any scenic view of the water. When cruise ships are in port their smokestacks rise above the hotels and are visible from the Hog’s outdoor patio bar. It’s a friendly place where the bartenders remember your name and what you drink after only a few visits and, because it’s outdoors, smoking is allowed. I routinely meet friends there for cigars.
The parking lot between the bank and the Hog’s Breath had two cars in it and the outdoor bar area looked empty. As I rode in off Duval Street, I thought Lucky must have got tired of waiting and left. I was wrong.
I locked my bike in the bike rack and headed in.
To the right of the parking-lot entrance of the Hog there is a stage, to the left a small raw bar that also serves draught beer. Straight ahead was the large full-service bar with seating on all four sides.
Lucky was sitting on the ground, barstools were turned over, and a sword, thrust through his stomach, impaled him to the bar. A small pirate flag hung from its grip. Lucky’s face showed pain and fear. Blood dripped in multiple spots down his T-shirt. I looked around, but there was no one. The con leche turned in my stomach. I walked to the side of the bar that faced the restaurant, so I wouldn’t have to see Lucky, and called the chief.
Next, I called Tracy upstairs.
“Tracy, there’s going to be some police action downstairs.” I took a deep breath. “Stay upstairs, but call Charlie and tell him someone has died at the bar—”
She didn’t let me finish. “Mick! Who?”
“You’re going to have enough cops upstairs in a little while, just call Charlie and prepare yourself…”
“For what?” The gravelly whisper began to sound nervous. “What’s happening?”
“Call Charlie, Tracy, and don’t mention my package, please. All you know is Lucky asked for me, so you called me, nothing else. The cops are on their way. Put the package in the safe, please.” I disconnected the call and lit a cigar. I needed the package and I trusted Tracy to put it away and keep our secret, but knew it would cost me a lunch and twenty questions in a day or two.
A squad car screeched into the parking lot, lights flashing and siren wailing. The chief pulled in a few seconds behind and had the cop turn them off. He held the uniformed officer back and walked toward me. He stopped and looked down at Lucky, then motioned me to meet him.
“You said he was Lucky.” He shook his head. “I guess he isn’t anymore.”
I chomped on the cigar, but there wasn’t the foul odor that the boat cabin had, I was just nervous.
The chief got closer and bent down to the body. “Stab wounds,” he said, more to himself than to me.
“There’s a trail of blood from the raw bar to where you are.” I pointed to small splatters of blood on the cracked concrete floor.
“Why are you here?” He stood up. “Were you meeting him, too?”
“I was having coffee with Padre Thomas and Tracy from upstairs here called and told me Lucky was here looking for me.”
“The crazy priest! Don’t you know any normal people?” He shook his head and watched the crime-scene van drive in. “Did you touch anything? The sword?”
“You’re the most normal person I know, Chief, and no, I didn’t touch anything.”
Sherlock stopped at the entrance and looked down at Lucky. He scanned the stage and the raw bar and he saw the blood spatters. He walked to where they began and waved the chief over. Pretending he was holding a sword, Sherlock twirled his wrist and thrust forward like Errol Flynn in an old swashbuckling movie, forcing the chief backward.
“Tell me something.” He stabbed forward and the chief backed up. “Tell me something, tell me something,” he repeated as he thrust forward. In four or five steps the chief had his back against the stage railing and Sherlock turned him to the bar. “Tell me something,” he yelled and the chief almost tripped over Lucky.
“The killer is getting messy and nervous,” Sherlock said, dropping his imaginary sword. “There was a conversation, he didn’t like what he heard, or didn’t hear, and killed the guy quickly and cleanly on the boat. Here, he stabbed the vic—” he looked down at the body — “maybe six times from what I can see. He’s after something or someone and he’s getting nervous. Who’s left of the three?”
“Wizard is back at the station, so we know he didn’t do this.” The chief looked at me. “The other old guy is Bubba?”
“Yeah.” I sat back down. “If he’s not on his boat, he’s probably at a bar.”
The chief took Sherlock’s radio and called dispatch. He wanted Bubba picked up.
“What is it with the swords and pirate flags?” Sherlock checked behind the body.
“You know their story about finding the treasure, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard so many versions, I don’t believe any of them.”
“You’re probably right.” I took the cigar out of my mouth. “Tony was helping them write their memoirs and my guess is someone’s afraid of something in the story.”
“Why?” The chief moved closer.
“If I knew that, I’d know who the killer is, wouldn’t I?”
“This sword looks as old as the other one.” Sherlock studied the sword handle. “There can’t be that many pirate swords on the island… maybe we’re looking for a collector.”