about Peggy. In the end, neither one of us was much help to the other. Jeff had no word on Laura, and the police were still not putting much effort into finding her.
I related what I knew about Peggy, and told him to try not to worry too much. If the men chasing the girl had meant her harm, they could have shot her in the Sharkstooth Bar, and nobody would have seen a thing.
He promised to call me as soon as he heard anything about Laura.
The Mango Bar was a step up the pecking order from the Sharkstooth, but it was a small step. It was located near the Key West side of the bridge leading to Stock Island, in an area of town that catered to the fishermen who manned the commercial boats that worked out of the nearby marinas. The bar was housed on the first floor of an old two-story building that was not aging gracefully. The second floor seemed to be empty, with several of the windows broken out. Wide double doors were open to the sidewalk. A small parking lot was next to the building. A rusting pickup truck and a beat up Mazda sedan were parked there.
I'd walked about two miles to get to the bar. I was sweaty and dusty and probably smelled like Bigfoot. I'd fit right in at a place like this.
I walked through the doors into the dim space. I stood for a moment, letting my vision acclimate to the lack of sunlight. I saw Crill at the far end of the bar, sipping from a shot glass of dark liquid. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray in front of him. The spiked red hair and the birthmark were unmistakable. He was the only customer. The space was narrow, with four booths lining the wall across from the bar. A large fan sat atop a stand in the corner, barely stirring the sultry air in the room.
I sat at the near end of the bar, ordered a Miller Lite from the bored barmaid and paid her cash. I sipped the beer slowly, catching a steely glance now and then from the bar lady, wondering, I guess, how long I was going to sit there nursing one beer.
Crill raised his glass, and the barmaid poured him another shot from a bottle of Old Grandad. I motioned to her with my beer bottle, ordering another. I sipped some more, glancing occasionally at Crill. He seemed to be in deep contemplation, savoring his whiskey, drinking it in small swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after every taste.
An hour went by. Grill didn't move, except to raise his glass or his cigarette and wipe his mouth. He stared into his whiskey, moving only to drink or inhale or to order another shot. I wondered what he was thinking, or even if he was thinking. He drank with the single-minded dedication of the true alcoholic. I ordered another beer.
Another half hour elapsed. Grill jerked upright on his stool, as if he had felt an electric shock. His gaze swept the room, a look of consternation clouding his face. He stubbed out his cigarette, tipped the glass back, and gulped the remaining contents. He got off his stool and headed for the door. He was tall and rangy, with long arms and big hands. A tattoo of a dragon wound up his right arm, its tail trailing to his wrist, the snout covered by his shirtsleeve. He wore cutoffs, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. I let him get by me, and then followed. I planned to stay with him until I could get him alone.
As I stepped out the door, I saw the Mazda leaving the parking lot. Crill was driving it. So much for my grand plan. I was on foot and had no way to follow him.
I walked to the corner and used my cell to check for messages. Galls had called and left me an address for Crill. And a last name. McAllister.
I pulled out the city map I'd bought at a tourist stand on Duval Street earlier in the day. The address was only about a mile from where I was standing.
Darkness was descending on the town. Lights were winking on in the homes and businesses as I walked toward Grill's place. I was in an area of small clapboard houses. Most seemed to be of the shotgun variety; narrow with the rooms situated one behind the other. There was no grass to speak of in any of the yards. Chickens pecked at the dry earth, clucking their displeasure at the paucity of food. They were protected by city ordinance and roamed at will through the town. Every July there was a festival in honor of the stupid birds. Only in Key West.
By the time I found the right address, full darkness had cloaked the city. The streetlights were few in the neighborhood, and they put out scant illumination. That suited me just fine.
I was going to wring Grill dry, but I didn't look forward to it. I didn't like violence, even though I'd seen more than my share of it. Sometimes the blood lust took over, as it had at the Sharkstooth Bar. That always scared me, but it didn't happen often. I was usually in control, but sometimes I frightened the hell out of myself.
If Crill was the right guy, and I was almost sure he was, he didn't deserve much compassion. He'd chased down a scared teenager with the tenacity of a wolf, and if I had to do him violence, I would. And I would control the blood lust. If that made me a cold bastard, so be it. I just didn't want anybody to witness the act.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The house was like every other one on the street. It sat on a narrow lot with a small front yard. The Mazda was parked at an angle to the front steps that led to a porch that ran the width of the house. The green paint was peeling, and the roof had been patched with different colored shingles. Two window air-conditioning units jutted from the side of the house. Probably the bedroom and living room. A streetlight sat at the front edge of the property, giving me enough light to see the house clearly.
I climbed the three steps and knocked on the door. I had my. 38 in my hand.
'Who's there?' The flinty voice of a heavy smoker.
'Key West Fire Department, Mr. McAllister,' I said. 'We've got a gas leak in the area and need to check your house.'
The door flew open. Grill was standing there barefoot, shirt gone, wearing just the cutoffs. He had a beer in his hand.
'I ain't got no gas service here,' he said. Then, realizing I wasn't the fire department, 'Who the fuck are you?'
'People keep asking me that,' I said, holding the pistol up so that lie could see it. 'Invite me in.'
He stepped back from the door, raising his hands. 'Be cool, my man.'
'Put your hands down,' I said, and walked into the house.
He backed up, keeping his eyes on me. We were in the middle of a small, sparsely furnished room. An old easy chair sat in the corner, stuffing coming out of tears in the fabric. A sofa took up one wall, a bedspread thrown haphazardly across it. A small black-and-white TV rested on a scarred table, rabbit ears drawing in a game show. The sound was turned low. The window air-conditioning unit chugged cool air into the space and made a noise like a deranged elephant.
A door led off the living room into a hallway. I knew the layout of these houses. There would be a kitchen off one side of the hall, a bedroom on the other. At the end would be a bathroom. A door at the rear of the kitchen would lead to the back yard.
The house was quiet, except for the noise from the air conditioner and Crill's heavy breathing.
I waved the gun at him. 'Anybody else here?'
'No.'
'If anybody comes through one of those doors, I'll shoot you.'
'Nobody's here, man. Honest.'
'Where is Charlie Calhoun?'
'Charlie who?'
I raised the gun, pointing it at his face. 'You can do better than that.'
'Okay, okay. I don't know where he is. I see him sometimes at a bar I go to.'
'The Mango,' I said.
'Yeah.'
'Why were you chasing Peggy Timmons yesterday?'
'Who?'
'Look, dickwad, either you start talking straight to me or I'm going to start shooting you in the foot' I aimed the gun at his dirty feet.
'Okay. That the girl at the Sharkstooth?'
'Right.'
