I looked at the old yacht and wondered about its history. Who had sailed on her, partied, laughed? When had the gaiety of past lives turned into the gates of hell?
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 who 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.
He laughed. “The time vampires go back into their coffins. 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 cafe con leche I drink. It’s espresso with steamed milk and too much sugar. I’m 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 headshot 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 into 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 backup 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 that 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’re the last remnants of old Key West,” Bob drawled as he looked at the shrimp-boat fleet from the seawall of Safe Harbour on Stock Island.
“So I hear.”
“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.”