'I don't know. I was drinking with Charlie at the Mango when he got a call on his cell. He offered me a hundred bucks to go with him to get the girl.'
'How did you know she was at the Sharkstooth?'
'We didn't. Whoever Charlie talked to said she was walking down Benefit Street. We went over there and saw her just as she ducked into the bar.'
'What happened?'
'She went out the back door and we caught her just down the alley. Charlie put her in his car and took off. I had to hitch a ride back to the Mango to get my car.'
'Did you hurt her?'
'No. She scratched the shit out of Charlie's face, though.'
Good for her, I thought.
'Did you get your hundred?' I asked.
'He said he'd give it to me the next time he saw me.'
I put a round into the floor between his feet. The gun made a popping sound, not loud at all. I doubted anyone in this neighborhood was likely to call the police because of a random gunshot. He jumped back, yelling in surprise. 'What the hell?'
'Oops. I missed,' I said, taking aim again.
'Hold on, mister. I'm telling you the truth.' His voice had taken on a plaintive quality, begging, not the big man who chased a scared teenaged girl down an alley.
'I believe you,' I said. 'I'm going to ask you some more questions and if you lie to me I'll know it. I damn sure won't miss next time.'
'Okay, okay.'
'Who does Charlie work for?'
'I don't know his name. He's got a lot of money and lives out on Blood Island. He owns a massage parlor here.'
'Where is Blood Island?'
'Down in the Mule Keys. He owns the whole island.'
'Tell me about his massage parlor.'
'It's over off Simonton. Near the Key West Bight. It's called The Heaven Can't Wait Spa.'
'Crill, we never had this conversation. When I find Charlie, I'll know if you told him I was looking for him. If you do, I'll find you and kill you. Do I make myself clear?'
'Yes.'
'Just forget about this evening and you'll have a longer life.'
'I hear you. I never saw you.'
I turned and walked out into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I had to cross the island and then head west to reach Simonton Street. Another two-mile trek. I started walking at a pace that would get me to my destination in thirty minutes. I was sweating in the evening heat, but at least I was wearing my walking shoes.
I was on Caroline Street approaching Simonton, when I noticed three men standing on the corner. One was elderly, and he seemed to be pleading with two young men, one black and the other white, who were standing on either side of him. As I got closer, I saw that the white man was one of the guys who backed up the thug with the pool cue at the Sharkstooth earlier that afternoon.
'What's going on?' I said.
'None of your business,' said the black guy. 'Move on.'
The white guy stared at me for a moment. 'Shit, that's the dude what kicked the shit out of Big Rick today. He's got a gun.'
They turned and ran. I looked more closely at the shaken victim. It was Austin Dwyer, my seatmate on the bus from Marathon.
'Mr. Joyce,' he said. 'You're just in time.'
'Are you okay?'
'Yes, thank you. Another minute or two and I might not have been.'
'Glad I could help.' I turned to leave.
'Ben,' Dwyer said. 'I was on my way to the Seaport Boardwalk for dinner. Will you join me?'
I looked at my watch. Nine o'clock. I hadn't eaten since Tampa Airport. Dwyer seemed anxious over his encounter with the thugs, and I decided to keep him company.
'Sure,' I said. 'I could use something.'
Austin Dwyer was probably in his late seventies. He was a small man, about five eight and couldn't have weighed more than one sixty. His ruddy face reminded me of a happy leprechaun, a grin lighting up his features. His head was covered in gray hair, and I could still see strands of the brown that had been there in his youth. His accent was pure New England.
We walked the couple of blocks back to the boardwalk along the Key West Bight, and took a table on the deck of the Turtle Kraals Bar and Grill. Dwyer told me that he had been a history professor at a small college in New Hampshire. When he retired, he moved to Key West, but when his wife died, he moved back north, to Connecticut, to be closer to family. He had taken the seniors' tour on a whim. It was sponsored by his alma mater, the University of Rhode Island, and he thought it would be entertaining as well as educational.
When our server came, I ordered conch chowder and blackened grouper along with a Miller Lite. Dwyer asked for a salad and Chilean sea bass.
'Did you ever hear of Blood Island?' I asked.
'Sure. It's down in the Mule Keys.'
'Where is that?'
'Just a few miles west of here. They're part of the Key West National Wildlife Refuge.'
'Does anybody live there?'
'A couple of park rangers on Mule Key. That's about it.'
'I heard that somebody lives on Blood Island.'
'Maybe so. That's a private island that's not part of the refuge. I used to fish out that way.'
'What can you tell me about it?'
'Back in the Teddy Roosevelt administration the government decided that all the islands between here and the Dry Tortugas would be part of a wildlife refuge. That includes the Marquesas Keys, which lie between the Mule Keys and the Dry Tortugas. But, as often happens, politics got involved. It seems that one of old Teddy's big financial supporters owned Blood Island on the western edge of the Mule Keys, out past Boca Grande Key. It's about twelve miles from here, not far.
'A deal was struck, and the supporter was able to hold on to Blood Island. It's the only island west of here that's not part of the Refuge,' Dwyer said.
'That's an odd name for an island.'
'Like everything down here, there's a story attached to it. Do you know about the Nuestra Senora de Atocha?'
'Sure. That's the Spanish treasure ship that Mel Fisher found.'
'Right. But he wasn't the first to find it. She went down in a hurricane in September of 1622, near the Marquesas. Of the two hundred sixty-five passengers and crew aboard, only five survived, three crewmembers and two black slaves. Another ship, the Santa Margarita, grounded on a sandbar about three miles away, and a large number of her crew and passengers were rescued. The surviving fleet returned to Havana.
'A Spanish captain named Gaspar de Vargas found the Atocha within about three weeks of her sinking. Unfortunately for de Vargas, another hurricane hit in early October, and completely hid the wrecks of the Atocha and the Santa Margarita. He spent months looking for them and finally gave up.
