

DEATH

of the

MARKED

by

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2013

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn and Rosalee, my patient readers, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and talents.
Chapter 1

The laughter was raucous, full bodied and bold. Buffett's Roundtable had convened at the Green Parrot. We blended in beautifully with the rest of the reprobates in Key West. People of all shapes, sizes and colors simply looking for a good time, an escape from the debris that cluttered their daily lives. They were locals and tourists, some burned by the sun and others ghostly from the hollows they'd created in their lives.

It was our own collection of the usual suspects, a few miscellaneous dock rats, Captain Sal, the queen of the charter boat business in Key West; Whipsaw, the godfather of blues in Key West; his mysterious lady companion, Miss Julianne, the woman who saw what others didn't; Louis Moulet, the bartender at the Raw Bar, on a rare night off; and a welcome addition. Tracy, young and beautiful, was the new owner of The Strip Search, a haven for sex addicts and the weird ones who got off on hard porn and adult toys. Some of those devices looked downright painful, but maybe satisfying, especially if you were into S&M, bondage or just old fashioned deviant behavior. Fritz was MIA, but I figured he was locked onto a computer screen, sucking down Marlboros and Diet Coke and trying to show some new client how he could make a few extra bucks from the suckers he'd assembled.

Sunny, my lady and my friend, sat next to me waiting for her shift to begin at six. Her hand caressed my neck and she whispered into my ear periodically. She'd been working for Jack, the owner of the Parrot, for a couple of years now. Jack loved her because she sold buckets of beer and generally kept the male patrons focused on her ass instead of a loud argument or scary fistfight.

I sat watching and listening like a burned out English professor should. I laughed at the right times, talked when I needed to, and shut up when it was time to hear something earthshattering. I still missed Chris. He was my friend and he had been violated. He didn't commit the murder of the child, even though he'd been arrested and charged. Nevertheless, he'd been branded and embarrassed and now he was gone. I just hoped he was okay.

"All right, Perfessor, I'm gonna hoist this cold mug to our newest inductee, Miss Tracy, and to all of the other lovely lasses at this table. And I'm gonna rock dis' house with Sonny Boy Williamson's 'One Way Out' in the Manish Boy way dat' de master rightfully intended. Here's to Miss Tracy and the beauties of The Green Parrot."

It was Whip at his finest, tan fedora cocked over one eye, arm outstretched, tilting the golden liquid to all of the ladies in the house. He took a mighty gulp and slammed his mug on the table. Then he mounted the stage, tipped a nod to his backup band, the Wreckers. He snapped his finger three times and the blues began to wail. "Ain't but one way out . . ." The crowd began to sway immediately and one hip couple made for the dance floor.

"Í don't think Whip has lost a step," Sunny said to me and Miss Julianne.

"The boy's blood runs 101 proof Wild Turkey and his bones are packed with the Delta's muddy water all the way to the marrow," Miss Julianne replied.

The other members of the Roundtable were knocking knees and slapping the table as he continued. "Cause there's a man out there. Might be your man, I don't know." Tracy was grinning like she hadn't since the death of her Uncle Malachi. She had taken it hard, but the young rebound, or at least they seem to. She grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the floor. At fifty-two I was no match for a twenty-five year old body that seemed to have no joints. I just faked it and laughed like a fool. Sunny began to slap her hands together and the rest of the table joined her. As we left the floor, I saw Fritz out of the corner of my eye. He was in a hurry. Something was wrong. Fritz wouldn't do hurry if the bar was on fire.

He grabbed a chair and twisted it around next to me. He lit a Marlboro and leaned his head toward my ear. "Gotta talk to you quick. Angel is gone." It wasn't the first time I'd heard that line. Angelica was Fritz's daughter. I knew her mother, Alisse, briefly at Lake Norman, the huge Carolina lake where I'd learned to sail. She wasn't a beauty, but there was an alluring energy just beneath the surface and the subtle hint of demons. I never understood how she and Fritz hooked up. He was quiet, even reserved, and radiated strength and competency. She bounced around like a teen starlet, a cup of gin and anything glued to her hand. Posing, batting her long lashes, and kidding everyone on the dock. Especially the men. Maybe opposites do attract, but not for long. Angelica was their only child. I never got the whole story, but apparently motherhood just didn't suit Alisse. She left Fritz with a three-year-old girl to raise. The rumor was that she bolted with a musician she'd met on one of her infamous "girls nights out". No one ever heard from her again, including Angelica. Birthdays, Christmas, her first date. No female guidance or woman's intuition. The child grew and each of us adopted her in our own way, but there was a hole that none of us could fill.

At twenty-two, there was no kind of trouble she hadn't been in. Prostitution, dope, burglary, you name it. Angel had seen the inside of every jail cell between Charlotte and Key West. But Fritz loved her. He'd paid for rehab, bail, and a few "less than legal" fees to try to get her straight. So far, none of it had worked.

I knew her as a child. Deep brown bangs, eyes to match, and the body of a full grown woman by the time she was twelve. I remember her standing on the dock at Wrightsville Beach wailing like a banshee because her chocolate had melted. Fritz spoke quietly to her, grasped her in his bear-like arms and produced more candy from a frayed pocket. Still she screamed and fought. For years I thought she'd just grow out it all. She hadn't.
Chapter 2

I think it all came to me when she arrived at the dock one evening. She was probably seventeen at the time. She hugged me. She always did.

"Guess what, Uncle T.?" I smiled and shook my head.

"Look at this," she said proudly. She rolled up the sleeve of her t-shirt.

It was an angel. The wings were exquisite, lacy and delicate, floating gracefully behind a thin, willowy form. The body was covered by a wispy gown floating behind an imagined breeze. But it was the face that riveted your eyes. A death's head, lipless teeth and fleshless eye sockets grinning like the devil's own minion. Something cold crawled up the back of my neck. I stared for a moment, hoping it wasn't some sort of prophecy. Not too long after that, she went to jail the first time. Possession of crack cocaine. She was still a minor and got off with probation. Fritz wrote it off to normal teen experimentation. He wasn't worried. At least, that's what he told me.

The next few years were a series of run-ins with the cops. Mostly small stuff, but the momentum was building. She began to disappear for days at a time. Fritz would get frantic. Then she'd call. "Just a couple of hundred to tide her over, maybe some bail money." She'd ask for two; he'd send three. I guess he thought that over time he could love it away. It didn't happen.

I was at Fritz's condo when she brought the guy home. She came in the door, a little too much makeup and skirt a bit too short, but she looked young and fresh. He was a step behind her. He smiled at me and Fritz as he walked in.

"Dad, this is Angelo. I met him at that party at Lisa's. We've been seeing each other a lot and I told him you just had to meet him. And guess what? We have the same nickname." She was almost giddy.

Angelo was maybe six feet, bulky, but lean, 195 or so. A lifter, I suspected. He wore a beautifully tailored silk sports jacket over a black t-shirt and khakis. I thought I recognized the Cardin cut. Alligator shoes with a tassel on his feet. No socks. His hair was almost black, immaculately coiffed away from his forehead. His skin had an olive sheen to it, aquiline nose and a tight mouth with a hint of rose in the lips. But it was the eyes that caught me. There was a glint, but it didn't warm his face. Something steely and dead crept out of them. It was hard to tell, but I guessed him to be much older that Angel, maybe late twenties.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Monroe. Angel has talked about you incessantly." His voice was quiet and respectful, but there was no depth to it. It was almost as if he was hiding a healthy dose of contempt for squares. In his eyes, we'd invented the term.

"I understand you're a sailor. I am what you sailors call a stink potter, got a little Grady White with a small cabin on it. Only 34 feet, but it suits my needs. And you, sir?" He turned in my direction.

"This is one of dad's oldest friends and mine, too," she said and patted my arm. "Dr. T.K. Fleming. He's a lit professor over at the university." Angelo thrust his hand forward and smiled.

He certainly didn't look like any of the teenage boys Angel had brought home before. They were scruffy, broke, rude and obviously oversexed. It was hard to talk to them and dismiss the idea their primary goal was to get in her pants. This one was very different, older, refined, polite, and the appearance of money. I glanced out the window. A white Mercedes convertible was parked in the driveway behind Fritz's old Focus wagon. It looked new. He either had the money, or the credit to get a nice lease.

"So, you are a student?" Fritz asked.

She smiled and he laughed quietly. "No sir. I have a little business. Imports and transportation. It's amazing what you can persuade these South Americans to create. Bric-a-bracs, carvings, small statues, all kinds of home accessories that can be bought for a song and sold for a symphony. I do quite well. But, Mr. Monroe, I understand you're into computers."

That was all it took for Fritz. He launched into his standard dissertation on the marvels of the information age, the doors it opened, the opportunities it offered, the golden age it was ushering in. I had heard the speech a hundred times, but it was still fun to see him work himself into a frenzy over that thing he loved. It reminded me I could use a bit more enthusiasm for something myself.

It all went very smoothly, but it just didn't feel right. Sunny always says when it seems too good to be true, it probably is. This situation definitely qualified. Angel was a budding beauty with a body that Beyonce would envy. But despite the trouble she'd been in, she was still just a big child. He was suave, good looking, seemed to be the proverbial man of the world. He could get a bevy of willing ladies at his doorstep if he preferred. What would he want with a naïve, inexperienced, girl?

"Gentlemen, you must excuse me. I have several appointments. Calls to make. Perhaps you can all join me for dinner some evening." He put his arm around Angel's waist and gave her a discreet peck on the cheek. Fritz saw him to the door. I heard the Mercedes rev up and watched him back out of the driveway.

"Can you believe it, Daddy? Isn't he just a dream? I mean the way he looks, the way he dresses, and that car! And you know what? He treats me like a lady, not like those stupid high school boys that want to take you to MacDonald's and borrow the money to pay for it. Then a nice little drive down to the beach so they can paw you and beg you to do stuff you know you shouldn't do. Too cool. And it's me he likes. We have the same nickname and even the same tattoo."

"You mean the angel?" Fritz stuttered. She nodded. "Okay, he seems like a nice fellow, but isn't he too old for you?"

"Come on, Dad. He's only thirty-two, and so sorry, but I'm just not a little girl anymore."

She was and she was proving it. Fritz didn't see him again and he told me he wasn't disappointed. Still we both heard his name often and though she didn't talk much about it, I think he was taking her to some expensive places.
Chapter 3

Fritz had retired. He sold his condo in Charlotte and moved his old Grampian 30, NO DECISIONS to the South Carolina coast. He trucked it to a marina near Beaufort. We lost touch.

I continued to live the life of a respectable professor of English Lit, but hell was at my door. I just didn't know it. After my involvement in a Martin's death and the mysterious disappearance of the murderess, I was definitely persona non grata. People at the college turned the other way when they saw me come across campus. I was no longer invited to the Chancellor's cocktail parties. When the publicity wouldn't go away, the college decided I needed to. They plied me with a generous early retirement package. It was an out. I was ready for it.

Mostly on the strength of the academic work I'd published, I was offered a position at the state university near Wrightsville Beach. I moved KAMALA, my O'Day 31 to Seapath, a beautiful marina a few minutes from the inlet and the blue Atlantic Ocean. But again, the dirt caught up with me. I should never have written about it, but I had to have some closure. Had to at least try to make some sense out of the madness. DEATH OF THE SPIRIT was a best seller. The royalties were generous, but I was out of a job again. I was asked politely, but demonstratively, to resign. I didn't have much choice. It was time to go away quietly. I paid for the slip, provisioned the boat, checked the systems, and headed south.

I hadn't seen Fritz in five years until we ran into each other at Salty Mike's, a favorite watering hole on the docks in Charleston. After the usual catching up, I asked him about Angel. He just shook his head and said nothing. We sailed together after that, him on NO DECISIONS and me on KAMALA, sometimes in the ICW and offshore when the weather gods blessed us. Finally we ran out of land. We stopped at Land's End in Key West, just to provision and relax for a few days. That was two years ago.

Sunny had taken her shift. I waved at the boys and girls that made up the Roundtable. Fritz followed me. "My boat or yours?" I said. We decided on KAMALA. We settled into the cockpit and I went below to retrieve an old ashtray I kept on board especially for Fritz. He thanked me and fired up one in an endless series of Marlboros. I grabbed an Ice House from the fridge and popped a Diet Coke for him.

"I think it's serious this time, T.K. She's been down here almost six months. Has a good job, seems to be straight most of the time. Looks good. You've seen her. Nice little apartment and a cute roommate, Brandy. They had me over for dinner a couple of times. The place was clean. I couldn't see any signs of trouble. Thought maybe the worst was over. Then, all of sudden, she's gone. Nobody's seen her. Brandy doesn't know. No phone calls, no texts, no nothing. It's been a week now. T.K. I'm worried. I thought the last rehab had taken. But you know the history."

I did. To be honest, I figured she was on the crack again and maybe on the run. But I didn't say that to Fritz.

"Fritz, have you called the cops? Maybe you need to file a report or something."

"That's the thing. You got buddies over there, Detective Beamon. He likes you. You helped him solve the murder of Alexis. I don't want Angel busted again. I can help her. I know I can, but I got to find her first. I need you, T.K. You're the Ghostcatcher."

"Jesus, Fritz. Please, not that crap again."

"Okay, sorry. But I got to have you on my side. No telling what she might be into. She's not perfect, but my blood runs in her veins. She's my baby. I can help her," he said again.

Maybe he could, but like he said, I know the history. Fritz was as good a friend as I had, especially since Chris had disappeared. I promised to call Frank, but I told him we'd probably have to file a Missing Persons Report. He nodded and lit another cigarette. Frank Beamon was the clever and cagey detective on the Key West Police Force. He missed out on a pro basketball career by one false step at Florida State. Four knee surgeries later he was at the academy and trying to figure out how to get by on the salary of a rookie cop. We'd become friends working on the murder of Alexis. Locals called him the bulldog. Once he picked up the scent, he wouldn't let go until his teeth locked into the bone. He was the best man I knew to supply Fritz with a serious investigation if one was needed.

The next morning Sunny showed up before her ritual swim. She stepped on board wearing a pair of shorts that were cut to the crotch and a top that displayed every sweet inch of the health and vigor that radiated from her body. Her skin was as creamy and brown as a premium latte and it rippled subtly whispering vitality and maturity. She kissed me on the cheek and sat. "Coffee," she growled. She frowned, but listened as I told her about the conversation with Fritz.

"Oh my God, T.K. Not again. Believe me, I like the kid. Got a few skeletons in my own closet, but this tape is on endless replay. No telling where she is or who she's with. And that includes jail. And I can't believe he pulled that damned Ghostcatcher card on you."

"I know, Sunny. But what the hell can I do? I called Frank earlier. We're going to meet him at the station at eleven. Fritz is an old and trusted friend. We've cruised together. He's been there when I needed him. Now it's my turn. You can't blame him for loving his daughter."

"I didn't tell you this before, because I know you are her Uncle T. That job Fritz was talking about. Yeah, she was doing okay, but it's what she was doing. I heard some of the regulars at the Parrot talking and drooling all over themselves. They'd been to the Velvet Glove."

The Glove, as the locals call it, is an all nude dance club on one of the back streets off Duval. I've never been in there, but I hear the ladies are quite alluring and quite willing. Miss Velvet runs it. Rumor has it that she's an ex pro whose sexual proclivities are legendary in Miami. She made a lot of money and decided to branch out into something legal. Angel had been one of her main attractions. Moves like a demented snake, rhythm descended straight from the devil, and lap dances that made you want to leave you wife yesterday. Brandy was almost as good. Redheaded and hot as they come. Five, six hundred cash on a good night. No telling what they're doing or who they're doing it to."

It wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear. Good old Sunny, always a fount of information, even if you didn't want to know. She gulped her coffee, gave me another peck on the cheek, and headed for the beach.

It was nearly eleven. I corralled Fritz and we walked to the station. We went up the steps to Frank's office. The usual files and messages covered his desk. He rose to shake both our hands. I sat in one of the rough wooden chairs, but Fritz continued to stand.

"Sorry to see you guys under these circumstances. I already made a few calls, pulled a few records." he said. "Fritz, you got to tell me all you know."

His face flushed a bit and the words stumbled out of his mouth. Nothing I hadn't already heard from Fritz or Sunny, but the voice came from far away and there was the plaintive tone, almost pleading, left over from the night before.

"We'll find her. The best place to start is The Velvet Glove. At least it should be interesting to meet Miss Velvet." Frank was reassuring, but I'd seen that act before. He was thinking the same thing I was. Angel was off on another binge, crack, booze, who knows? She could be anywhere in Florida. Still he filled out the paper work, asked Fritz to sign something, and adding some curt instructions, handed it to a uniform. Fritz wasn't happy, but he seemed satisfied, at least for the moment. "Thanks, Detective Beamon. I'm headed back to the dock," he said and dragged down the stairs.

"So what do you think, T.K.?"

"The same thing you do, Frank. But he's a friend of mine and I've known that Angel since she was seven or eight years old. I'm just trying to help."

"Aren't you always?" he said and laughed. "So how'd you like to meet Miss Velvet?"
Chapter 4

Frank picked up the phone and dialed a number he had written on a yellow Post It note. The conversation was brief, but productive.

"She doesn't want us at the club. Cops and all that, but she agreed to meet us for lunch at Pepe's. She made it clear it was on the department. One o'clock. Work for you?" I nodded. We drove over in Frank's unmarked.

We got there a few minutes early and were seated in the small garden. The plants were doing their Key West thing. Colors vibrant and full bodied. Oleander, hibiscus, bird of paradise and some spritely blooms I didn't recognize. It was easy to identify her when she came in. Early fifties, bleach blond hair that still looked full and fresh, a body that was trim and even a bit luscious at her age. The make up was heavy, but discreet, sensuous red lips matched by a scarlet silk mandarin jacket covered in dragons. No bra. I knew because her nipples begged recognition. Tight black slacks and heels. She came directly to the table and smiled like she was meeting old friends. She shook our hands as Frank introduced us.

"I am in a bit of a hurry, Detective, Dr. Fleming. Business always calls. Let's order and let me address your questions as we eat."

It was cheeseburgers for Frank and me and a Caesar salad for the lady. Iced tea all around.

"Miss Velvet, as you know, one of your employees, Angelica Monroe, has gone missing. Her father filed a report this morning. He is very concerned and we are talking to anyone who may have information as to her whereabouts."

"I can certainly understand his concern, but I haven't seen Angel in a week or so. She did not show up for her shift on Thursday. She did not call or send a message with her roommate, Brandy. I actually had a check for her, a week's pay. She never picked it up. That's not like my girls at all."

"Do you have any reason to believe she was involved in any questionable activities? Or had any questionable associations?" She stiffened and leaned back in the chair.

"I assure you, Detective Beamon, I know exactly what you imply. My girls are not hookers, nor are they users of any controlled substances. I make it very clear when they audition that any illicit activities will result in immediate dismissal. The Velvet Glove is simply an entertainment nightspot. We do not hire or serve minors. We do not service our customers anywhere except the bar. My girls are respectable young ladies employed in a legitimate business that allows them to use their God given attributes to make an honest living."

I couldn't help but remember Gertrude's line from Shakespeare's "Hamlet", "The lady dost protest too much, me thinks." Righteous indignation is a great tool when it works, but Frank and I had both seen it piled high enough to fill the barn. "I am sure you are quite right, Miss Velvet," he said. I put my fist to my mouth to stifle a quiet laugh.

"I suspect Angel has simply found other interests. It happens quite often in our business. The girls come and go. She is obviously gone. I am sure she is safe and secure, probably moved on to something she finds more alluring. My apologies, but I must be on my way. Gentlemen, do drop by the club sometime when duty is not calling."

She had finished her salad. The interview was over. She smiled again and gave us a curt wave. Frank lingered over the last few French fries while I sipped my tea.

"Not much there," I said.

"No. And she's probably right. I checked Angel's rap sheet. Not a pretty sight. She could be anywhere doing anything. Still gotta check it out. The next step is the roommate, but I'd be surprised if she has any news. I'll check in with you later. If anyone asks, you're doing some consulting work for the department. Kind of semi-official capacity. Maybe I can even sneak you a little stipend. Get it on the books. Expenses, you know."

"Thanks for the lunch. I won't hold my breath on the stipend."

I crossed the street, passed by the junk shops and Turtle Kraals, then headed down the dock. On KAMALA, I picked up the phone and punched in the number of The Strip Search. Tracy was in. She wasn't too busy and she could see me at the store when her girl got in at four. I did a little straightening up down below and headed toward Duval around three forty-five.
Chapter 5

When I got there, Tracy was wearing what I call her Strip Search Suit. No make up, white cotton blouse buttoned to the neck, baggy jeans and black flats. She had her hair pulled back in an old maid's bun. But no matter how she tried, Tracy couldn't look plain, much less dowdy.

She hugged my neck and ushered me into her office. Somehow it looked different than when her late Uncle Malachi had been the proprietor. The Picassos from his blue period had disappeared and on one wall was a Renoir print of "The Boating Party", the ladies smiling and proper and buckets of gaiety to go around. I'd always liked that piece. It's an explosion of color and warmth and people are happy. It makes you smile. A few other female frills made the office much less dour. I knew she was trying to forget her uncle's murder, and redecorating the office was part of it.

"T.K., I know you wouldn't be here on a social call. I'm guessing it has something to do with the disappearance of Angel. You know Key West. Word gets around fast."

"Tracy, I know you're busy. Let me just ask you right out. Do you know her or any of the girls that work The Glove?" She leaned back in her chair and shook her head slightly. She measured her words for a moment, then spoke.

"Some people might think Miss Velvet and I are in the same business, but we're not. I don't deal in any live flesh. I don't know Angel, but I have known quite a few of those girls over time. A lot of them are single mothers just trying to keep their kids out of the free lunch programs. They aren't hookers or some other kinds of degenerates. They work hard and the money is honest cash. I think some of them believe that Prince Charming will walk out of a fairy tale with the glass slipper. The fit will be perfect and they'll leave one night to live happily ever after. But for now, they're just trying to survive. No question, some of them are bad people. Dope, booze, sex drives them. Quite a few have been abused and they've come to believe what the scummy bastards say about them, that they're worthless objects and deserve what they get. But still, that is the minority. The only one of them I really got know a little is Angel's roommate, Brandy. Nice kid from up your way in the Carolinas."

"I know Detective Beamon is going to question her, but he's a cop. It might scare her. I'd like to talk to her if she's willing. Could you call her? Tell her I'm safe. I need to do it for Fritz and maybe Angel, too. You don't know what might turn up."

She thought for a second, then said yes. "I got her number. When I reach her, I'll give you a call if it's okay. Some of those girls are very superstitious. They see Miss Julianne. Might help if she knows you two are friends."

I gave her a fatherly kiss on the cheek and told her I'd wait to hear from her.

Sunny was working. I stopped by The Raw Bar for a cold one on the way back to the boat. It was Louis at his best, hustling sweating bottles to the charterers, eyes exploding with mock amazement as the fish they'd lost got bigger. His phony island accent was as thick as ever and the bar was lined with dollar bills. He grinned at me and winked.

I didn't have to wait long to hear from Tracy. The next morning the phone rang.

"I talked to her, T.K. She sounds kind of scared, but she will meet you. But it's going to have to be at the Glove. I think maybe she's afraid to be seen anywhere else and she wants to check you out before she says anything that might come back to haunt her. Said to come in after her shift starts at eight. Sit at the horseshoe, order a drink. When she finishes her set, she'll come to you and hustle you into a lap dance. Those booths are the most private place in the club."

It sounded a little too 007 for me, but I agreed. I thanked Tracy and told her I'd stay in touch. When Sunny came by the next morning, I filled her in on the latest and told her I was going to do a little field research.

"Oh yeah, and just what field are you researching? The anatomy of wayward nymphs? That's no place for a respectable scholar like yourself, Dr. Fleming. I thought your specialty was English Literature, not errant wildlife."

"Well, Sunny, a man has to make sacrifices in pursuit of knowledge." I was glad she laughed.

"I'm off tonight. You probably need some private tutoring on the finer points of female manipulation and gratification. See you around ten. My place, Big Boy." She shot me her best "Mae West come hither" look and scooted off KAMALA. She sauntered down the dock, hips swaying like a surly hammock in a strong breeze. She turned and blew me a pouty kiss. Then she was gone.
Chapter 6

I turned down the alley and spotted the sign. From the sounds echoing off the brick, Sunday must be a good night for voyeurs. The neon flashed scarlet and a purple border framed a feminine gloved hand. It was single wooden door with a small dusty window. The brass handle was well worn, the zinc showing through. I turned it and a billow of smoke escaped in a rush. I stepped inside. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to lack of light.

"Good evening, sir. The cover is ten dollars," seemed to rumble out of a cave next to me. I wasn't prepared for this. To my left, I'd guess 6'8", probably 270, with shoulders like mounds of granite, biceps the size of my thighs. He was dressed in camo from head to toe. Huge black boots that laced up the front. He still had the GI cut and his face was thick and chiseled. A sharp, clean scar ran down his forehead and over his cheek. Some plastic surgeon hadn't quite earned his money. The giant wasn't smiling. I reached for my money clip and pulled out a ten. Suddenly Miss Velvet was at my side. She looked even better in the dark. The wrinkles had disappeared and her breasts begged to escape from a tight red satin pullover top. She grabbed my arm.

"It's okay, Large. A guest of the house." He nodded slowly and put his ham sized hand down at his side. I slipped the ten back into the fold.

"That's Large Larry," she said, "Afghanistan vet. Got a little too close to an IED. He's actually very gentle, but also very loyal. Doesn't like anyone getting rough with the girls. He can hurt people if he doesn't scare them to death first. I like to hire our boys in uniform when I can. Patriotism and all that. I must say I didn't expect you to take me up on my invitation, Dr. Fleming."

"Please. Make it T.K. Theodore Kassel, if you're interested. It never seemed to fit."

"I am interested, T.K. The pleasures of my guests are always foremost in my mind. Let me offer a cold beverage."

"Thank you, an Ice house would be great." She offered a courtly nod and signaled the bartender.

"First one's on the house," she said, "but please be generous with my ladies."

On the right was a long mahogany bar with a brass foot rail that ran its length. The matching stools were filled with men of all ages. They laughed and stared as the girls worked the crowd. Each of them wore what might generously be called a thong and a spaghetti strap top that barely covered their nipples. There were no runners-up. Blonds, brunettes, Latinos, blacks, one Asian girl, each of them ready for the runway. They laughed and cooed, flashed their eyes, and patted the boys on the knees trying to convince them that this would be the best good time they'd ever seen. A few minutes in the back booth, a private dance, and all for a mere $35. Tips appreciated, of course.

To the left was the horseshoe. It was a long, narrow table that fronted the length of the stage. There was enough space for your drink and an ashtray and plenty of room for a girl to get close enough to feel her breath on your neck. The current performer was hanging onto a brass pole attached from floor to ceiling. Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself for Loving You" blared from the bevy of speakers. The bass thumped up your leg and drove right into your crotch. A voice boomed out of the speakers, "Let's hear it for Jesse and stay tuned for our next lovely lady, the red-haired siren, the Queen of Tarts, the voluptuous Brandy." Jesse made the rounds at the horseshoe playing coy and smiling. She left the stage with a handful of bills in her garter.

I looked for a place near the stage and sat down. The bar was wet with stale beer and ashes. It started low, but I quickly recognized the strains of a song from the first Steppenwolf album, "The Pusher." Slow and bluesy, pumping with the mournful backbeat and wailing guitars. John Kay screamed, "Godamn, Godamn the Pusher."

Brandy was everything the DJ had promised. Fiery red hair draped over her shoulders. Perfectly sculpted breasts, an hourglass figure with legs that didn't seem to end. She wore nothing but high heels, a scarlet garter and a black two inch ribbon around her neck. Her pelvic area was shaved into the shape of a small heart. Miss Velvet talked about God given attributes. Brandy had them all. Her hips swayed as she caressed her breasts. She pointed periodically to that spot between her legs and nodded her head. The guys at the horseshoe were mesmerized. She'd catch one of them leering, get a foot or two from him, grind her hips, and point to the garter. They couldn't grab the cash quick enough. A few ones, but five seemed like the magic bill. It rated an extra shake and a close up of things sweet enough to eat.

John Kay continued to rasp and she moved over in my direction. She turned and put a beautiful ass about six inches from my face. She shook it a bit and grinned at me over her shoulder. She ran her hand up between her legs. I reached for a five and slipped it into her garter. The voice again, "And let's hear it for Brandy. A few wolf whistles and a raucous round of applause. "Up next the alluring Stephanie. Hold your seats and be kind to the ladies who make The Velvet Glove Key West's premier gentlemen's club. Brandy extracted her dues from the admiring patrons, then came to my chair.

She smiled and leaned against me. I could smell the sweat through the not so cheap perfume. Her skin glistened. "You look lonely, Doc. Maybe Brandy can show you something to get your mind off all of those bad things. I promise you won't be sorry. But I'm awfully thirsty. Maybe you could buy me a drink?"

I signaled to the waitress. She brought me another Ice House and what Brandy called "the usual."

It was a murky blue liquid over ice in a brandy snifter. Maybe vodka, maybe colored water, but she took a good slug when it came. She took me by the hand and let me toward a dark corridor next to the stage. We walked down a short hall with small cubicles. She pushed me into the third one and closed the red curtain. I sat on a small wooden bench with my back against the wall. I could hear moaning from next door, but I wasn't sure whether it was the girl or the guy.

"Be still," she ordered' "and keep your hands at your side. You're gonna like this." She put her hands on my shoulders and leaned over until her breasts were against my chest. She spread her legs and straddled my thighs.

"I shouldn't be doing this," she said, "but you are friends with Miss Julianne. She's good to us. I don't know much. Me and Angel are M's girls. We've been to the mansion in South Beach, but they keep us in the dark." She giggled at her own pun and looked down at her forearm.

In the weak light I could make out a tattoo marking her pale, but perfect skin. It was a dagger with a snake encircling it. On the left was the inscription, 'Tread.' And opposite it was the word 'Die." There was a small M below the art. Even in the poor light, the thing was menacing. I thought about Angelica's angel with the death's head.

"I haven't seen her or heard from her in a week, but she didn't always tell me everything. I know she had this boyfriend. I think he was in Miami. I never met him, but I think she called him Anthony or something like that. We can't talk here, too many ears. I'm coming to your boat tomorrow around eleven. Have some coffee ready. That's it for now. Look excited when we leave. Sorry. I got to have the thirty-five. The club gets a take."

I handed her a fifty. She kissed me on the cheek and we exited the booth. I gave her a nice showy hug when we got back to the floor. I finished my beer. Large nodded to me when I left and grunted something that might have been, "Have a good evening."

It was close to ten when I left KAMALA, just in time for my rendezvous with Sunny. I knocked on the door and she answered with a glass of ruby cabernet in each hand.

"So what do you think, my earnest young scholar? Did your research go well?"

I filled her in on everything I had, but frankly, it wasn't much. I could see the wheels turning in that mind honed by grad school at UVA. Psychology, of course, the perfect match for a woman who spends half of her life listening to the problems of drunks.

"I agree that there isn't a lot, but some of the details are interesting. Who the hell are M's girls? And the tattoo with the dagger and the snake? Did you notice it on any of the other girls? Anthony? Or could it be Angelo? I remember you telling me that story from Wrightsville Beach. So now he's in Miami? You need to talk to Frank. He's got contacts all over the state. If it isn't about his almost pro basketball career, it's about cops who owe him some way or another. I'll bet he knows someone up there."

"Oh hell, yes. And I will talk to the mysterious Miss Julianne. Tracy says those girls are very superstitious. I am sure she won't share any private information, but I need a direction right now. I feel like I'm wandering in some sort of labyrinth and I don't have a ball of string."

"I don't worry much about you, T.K. You always seem to figure it out. My Ghostcatcher." I frowned and she laughed.

We'd finished one glass and started on another. Sunny sat down next to me on the sofa and leaned close. She put a cool fingertip to my cheek. "So you like those young ones, do you?"

"Well, they're nice to look at. But the truth is I much prefer a more mature woman. A good wine doesn't reach its full potential until it ages just a bit, and a girl doesn't come into her glory until she becomes a woman. You, my love, are a woman, full bodied, ripe with wisdom and wit. Just the thing for this beat up ex-college professor."

She batted her eyes like Greta Garbo and brushed my ear with her lips. "Oh, my darling, you say the sweetest things," she trilled. Then she put her glass down and bounded into my lap. "If you will follow me, my dear, I will show you how a mature woman can tear your ass up."

She did.
Chapter 7

Sunny slept in. I was on KAMALA by nine. I straightened up down below, read a day old "USA Today" and made a pot of strong coffee. At ten-fifty, I heard her shoes on the dock. I looked out of the companionway.

"A little small, but pretty nifty," she said.

Brandy wore a pair of blue denim bellbottoms with brocade that started on the hips and ran down to the hem. A turquoise peasant blouse hung loosely on her shoulders covering her arms to the wrists. It bulged in all of the right places, but I had to rely on my imagination for the details. The black ribbon was tied around her neck. A Mexican silver medallion with a relief of an Aztec god glimmered in the bright sun. The red hair was disheveled, and blew in the breeze like copper glory. She slipped off her Birkenstocks and stepped on board, painted toenails playing with the light. It was a bit of Janis Joplin, but there was no bottle of Southern Comfort. She seemed sober.

"Yeah, I like it," she said, "we end up on those huge power yachts most of the time, but they just don't share the aesthetics of a well-found sloop. The damned things remind me of fancy overgrown bathtubs. Daddy had an old Bristol 41.1 up in Michigan, named her LADY ESTHER after my mom. I was damned near raised on it in the summers. She was a beauty. Long gone, now."

"I'll take you sailing sometime," I said.

"Only if I can wear all my clothes," she said and winked. "And where's my coffee?"

I asked her if she wanted to come below. She shook her head. I made her a cup of Columbian roast and offered cream and sugar. She shook her head again.

"So I guess you want to hear the story of my life? It's the stripper's curse. How did a nice girl like you end up in a place like this and all that shit? I'll give you the short version. I wanted to come south to school. Too damned much snow for me in Michigan. I ended up at UCF in Orlando. Daddy was a contractor, did okay, but I had to work my way through school. You won't believe it, but little miss naked here was Snow White at Disney World for a couple of seasons. Not too bad a gig,except I had to wear this black wig. Damned near suffocated on those hot days. Dad was older, passed away when I was a sophomore, Mom followed not long after. I finally got my degree in Art History. Hell, who wants an Art History major?'

I laughed and nodded for her to go on.

"I figured grad school, but I didn't have the money and Snow White was getting a little old. Kids can only sneeze on you so many times before it gets a little crawly. That's when I met Mario. I didn't know it at the time, but he was a pimp. It was his job to locate local talent for entertainments they don't exactly offer at Disney World. He spent some money on me, treated me like a lady, even suggested he had a way for me to pay for grad school. I'm not stupid. I knew there was more to it, but I wanted that degree and I figured there were going to be some sacrifices involved. The dancing was easy. The hell with the men. I like girls. I mean I really like girls. And it was fun in a way to put the guys on, make them think I was hot for the stuff they offered. The money was great. Sometimes I'd make a grand a night. So I had this plan. Work three years, max. Save the money. I could get my degree all paid for by the time I was twenty-five. It all made perfect sense, but then there was M and the Bluegoo. Things went bad. It's time to end it for me and for the girls that have dreams that won't come true. At least like this. "

She pulled up her sleeve and the snake almost hissed. There was something ugly and threatening in the beady eyes and the dagger with the cryptic inscription on either side. I wanted to hear more, maybe ask how Angel was involved in all of this. But she raised her palm.

"I gotta go. I know they're watching me. Great coffee. Going to see my sister in Marathon on Thursday. Meet me at the Seven Mile Grill. Noon. No cops, just you. I'll fill in the blanks and you guys can get to work. Then I think it's time for me to disappear. Maybe somewhere back north where nobody knows me."

Brandy got up before I could speak. She was halfway down the dock before I could pick up the empty cup. Thursday seemed a long way away.
Chapter 8

That afternoon I made some calls. I couldn't get Miss Julianne. Then I remembered that Whip and the Wreckers had a gig at some festival up in Islamorada. Maybe she had gone with him. I left a message for her to call as soon as possible.

Frank was at the station. I told him about my lap dance and my upcoming meeting with Brandy. He had already questioned her, but the results had been predictable. No info.

"Yeah," he said, "some people just won't talk to cops. I didn't see the tattoo, but it sounds interesting. M's girls? What the hell is that? I got a buddy in Miami. Bama Baker. Works vice. Knows everything about everyone who hustles in the big city. He and I have a lot in common, but for him it was football. Could've been an All-Pro linebacker, but he tore up his knees his senior year, all for the glory of the Crimson Tide. We go back a long way. I'll call him, see what he's got."

That evening the phone rang. It was Miss Julianne. She had gone with Whip for the gig. I could meet her at Turtle Kraals the next evening. Whip was playing, but we could talk before the blues got hot. Come around seven, she told me.

It was Tuesday. I'd put off seeing Fritz as long as I could. I didn't have much and I was uncomfortable with what I had. I decided it wouldn't do any good to tell him about Brandy. I didn't have anything solid that wouldn't make him worry even more. Still I owed him. I knocked on the hull around nine. He opened the companionway and a cloud of gray smoke polluted the morning.

"Come on aboard, Cap."

I sat down in the cockpit trying to escape the smell of the stale butts that seeped from below.

"I was just about to come down to your boat. I heard from her," he said.

"Angel? Is she okay? Where is she?"

"She wouldn't tell me much. Only that she was out of town for a few days. She's in Stuart. Said she was with some friends. She'll be in Miami next week. She didn't sound too good, but I think she's safe for now. Said she'd be ready to talk about it when she gets home. I asked her what that meant, but she clammed up quick. She wouldn't say anything else. I got a bad felling, T.K. Something in her voice. She's scared of somebody or something."

I shook my head and thought for a moment. I didn't like the way the information meshed with what I had heard from Brandy. Both of them were frightened.

"Fritz, I don't like this. We need to call Frank. Let him know where she is, call off the search, but let Frank's buddy Bama know she is headed that way. Maybe he can do something to protect her. Maybe we ought to go get her. When do you expect to hear from her again?"

"She said she'd call me before she left for Miami, but not to worry if her cell was turned off."

If you need someone to man the helm in a hurricane, Fritz is ready and able. But he isn't much for words. He dropped his head. I heard him sucking his lungs full of salt air. When he began, I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or himself, but it didn't matter. The words rumbled out of him from a dark place he really didn't want to go.

"I understand computers. You input the data, cross reference it, and retrieve the results. They don't have conflicting emotions. They don't talk back. You just tell them what to do and they do it. To be honest, I felt a sense of relief when Alisse left. I never understood her, her moods, the things she found important. I never knew why she might want me. When we had Angel, she was excited, but it didn't last long. Suddenly Alisse was gone and I was left with a three year old girl. I didn't know how to tie a ribbon in her hair. I didn't understand why she cried when the older girls wouldn't play with her. I wasn't sure what color looked best on her. I was embarrassed when she got her first period. But I loved her and she knew it. I thought it was enough. I did the best I could, or at least I think I did. I guess this is what it's come to. Maybe it's my last chance to make it okay."

I hoped not, but maybe it was.

We called Frank from NO DECISION. Fritz talked to him. I could hear Frank's voice on the speaker phone. He didn't seem surprised or irritated.

"I'm just glad she's safe, Fritz. And T.K., call or come by the station when you get a chance. No big deal. Just filling in some blanks." I thought I caught a certain tone, but maybe it was just the bulldog trying to find a bone to sink his teeth into.
Chapter 9

Wednesday is a big night in Key West, but it seems like they all are. Turtle Kraals was full of boisterous diners sucking down the lobster and crab and alcoholic beverages of all sizes, colors, and shapes. Some of them were already primed for a hotel bed and a handful of aspirin. The Wreckers were set up on the small stage in the corner, but the blues had not arrived yet. Miss Julianne and Whip were tucked into a table in the back. He waved as I came in. His suit was deep purple, black silk shirt and a neon white tie. The two toned patent leather shoes matched.

"Perfessor, I know you're here to see the lovely Miss Julianne. Nevertheless, I am truly honored by your esteemed presence. I have already instructed Grace to bring you the coldest Ice House in the cooler. She has assured me she will comply."

Grace arrived immediately with a frosty bottle and a smile to warm the heart of any aspiring alcoholic.

"And now I will entrust you to the company of this lady and the wisdom she may choose to share. Duty calls and The Wreckers must be rallied to action." He put two fingers to the fedora and adjusted the sunglasses. The musical mayhem would start soon.

Miss Julianne wore a costume I'd seen her in before. Her hair hung loosely in black waves. The peasant blouse matched, cut a bit too low, but obscured by a huge silver medallion that swung between her breasts. The skirt was floor length, deep burgundy, and sandals swayed on her feet. Every finger was ringed with some form of silver or gold and more than a few precious stones the colors of the rainbow.

I had known Miss Julianne for a couple of years, and despite her unusual nature, she had always been warm. A gentle hug and a brush of her lips on the cheek usually greeted me. But tonight she leaned back in her chair, her arms and her legs crossed. The pose was almost defensive.

"I know why you are here, T.K. It's about the girls. Let me warn you. They trust me. They come to me for all sorts of counsel. I know many things that I cannot reveal. We, too, honor professional confidentiality. I will not break that bond."

"I wouldn't expect it. I'm just trying to understand some things. I've known Angel since she was a child. I've got to do something if I can. Any information would be helpful. You can tell me it's none of my business any time you want. I know that part of you and I admire it."

The compliment was sincere and it seemed to loosen her up a bit. She leaned slightly forward, waiting. I knew it was time for me to offer something. I began to talk. I told her about my meeting with Frank and the visit to The Velvet Glove. She seemed assured. She put her hand across the table and touched my forearm.

"They don't tell me everything," she said, "but I watch, I listen, and I learn more than they intend. Many of them are frightened. They don't want to be who they are or become what they've seen. It is sad, indeed, to observe a woman who has invested everything in her looks and charms move to that place where these things fade. They find themselves left with nothing. Then they become the targets of the predators. They drown in booze or dope and become less than human. I try to encourage them to find some skill that will give them confidence and independence when the run is over. Some of them listen, but they come because I do not judge and I do not tell."

"Do you know Brandy? She only agreed to talk to me because we are friends and she trusts you."

I saw something I'd never seen from Miss Julianne. A single crystal tear formed at the corner of her eye and crept down her cheek.

"Yes," she said quietly, "I knew her."

Her shoulders slumped. The words were plaintive and distant.

"Knew?" I said.

"It is not your fault, T.K. You are doing what creates your essence."

"I don't understand."

"She came to me on Monday evening. She told me of your meeting. She asked me to read her Tarot cards. I saw it clearly. They do not lie. She has moved on. Her spirit may be with us as we speak."

"Moved on? Left town?"

"I suspect she is dead. You need not go to Marathon tomorrow. She will not make your appointment."

I sat. I shook my head. Something vicious poured into me. How could Miss Julianne know something like that? I had just seen Brandy, the epitome of youth, energy, and sexuality. She was dead? It was like a bad episode from Serling's "Twilight Zone".

"If it's true, what did you mean it's not my fault? I've done nothing to endanger that girl."

"Brandy was right. There are too many ears at the Glove. You saw the tattoo, the snake and dagger. The words Tread and Die, with the M at the bottom. That is the mark. Brandy wouldn't talk about it even to me, but she was terrified of something. I could sense it in her mind, body and spirit. That's why she asked for the reading. I do not claim to predict the future, but the cards spoke. I told her to be cautious and avoid any she did not know. I fear she did not take my advice."

I had heard all I wanted. I thanked her and left the rest of the beer on the table. It was too late to call Frank. Sunny was working. I walked.

The faces on Duval leered and the laughter seemed like the howl of demons. Was she dead? Was it because she'd talked to me? She'd told me nothing. What was threatening about a meeting for lunch in Marathon? I stopped into Captain Tony's hoping the rock'n'roll would pound my brain into senselessness. The Out of Hand Band was playing. Local favorites. The guitar player had a birth defect. His right arm was shorter and the appendage at the end was stunted and malformed. He didn't care and neither did the music. He made love to that Stratocaster and the guitar alternately screamed and cooed at his beck and call. One girl in white shorts and a diaphanous top slung her ass and shook her breasts on the dance floor until she was surrounded by appreciative gawkers. Her boyfriend looked baffled, but kept up the ruse. The crowd shook and juked to every backbeat and swilled the cold beer. It was vintage Key West.

The Ice House felt good going down, but it didn't work. On the way back to KAMALA, I had the clammy feeling that Miss Julianne was right.
Chapter 10

I called Frank at eight the next morning. He listened. Didn't say much, but I could feel his skepticism seeping through the phone. Still, he did that thing that the bulldog does so well.

"Let me get on this right away. I'll make some calls, get back to you as soon as possible."

I made some coffee and sweetened it with a dollop of Jameson. A couple of pieces of toast with butter and honey got my blood circulating. I had to go to Marathon even though Miss Julianne said Brandy wouldn't show. I had already arranged to borrow Sunny's old Saab convertible. I needed to leave Key West by eleven or so. At 10:30 the phone rang.

"I was real lucky," Frank said. "Miss Velvet hasn't seen Brandy in a couple of days. There is no sister in Marathon, at least one that I can locate. My buddy, Bama Baker in Miami, has an unidentified vic. Fits Brandy's description, at least what's left of her. I figure we drive up to Marathon, wait for her to meet you. If she doesn't show, we'll head to Miami, call on Bama. The girl had no relatives of record. If it's her, do you think you're up to a positive ID of the victim? It won't be pretty."

I mumbled something he took for yes. I called Sunny and left a message that I wouldn't need the car. In fifteen minutes Frank's unmarked was waiting at the end of the dock.

We went out toward A1A. Frank was unusually silent. I felt like a jumper on the ledge of a high rise. My guts churned and I realized I was staring into the face of death. Not mine, but Brandy's.

The parking lot at the Seven Mile Grill was filled, but Frank found a spot to the side of the building. It's a locals' favorite, but a big tourist draw. It sits on the west side of A1A looking like a roadside dive. It is, but the fried seafood and the sandwiches are served in heaven if St. Peter was any kind of a fisherman. I went in first. I scanned the tables for a glimpse of her, but nothing. Frank followed and took a seat at the far end of the bar. He pulled a straw Panama down over his eyes and slumped. I asked for a Yuengling draft. The mug was frosty and inviting. When the waitress came back I told her I was meeting someone and described Brandy. She shook her head. I finally ordered a grouper sandwich with fries and slaw. I continued to scan the arrivals, but still no redhead. At two, we left.

"We waited long enough," he said.

Still not much conversation in the car. When I asked him about the body in Miami, he said curtly, "Bama will fill you in. You're gonna like him. Sonovabitch saved my life. We were in rookie school together. Couple of crack heads knocked over a liquor store. He and his partner came with the backup. I made a stupid rookie mistake. Rushed into a blind alley without checking things out. The bastard came out of a darkened doorway. Jumped me. Had the knife to my throat, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I was staring dead into the eyes of a real short career. Bama pulled his Glock and put a 45 slug right in his temple. Now I'm breathing instead of watching my blood wash down a dirty alley. Hope I'm gonna get the chance to return the favor someday."

It was a good story and Frank wasn't one to exaggerate.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Miami police station. The officer at the desk seemed to know Frank and he waved us on to an office at the end of a long hall. Bama was on the phone, an Alabama drawl about inadmissible evidence. He smiled and pointed to two ancient wooden chairs. He put the phone down and towered up out of his seat. Bama was every bit the all pro linebacker Frank had described. His hand swallowed mine. My 6'2" was dwarfed by at least 6'7" and 250 pounds of lean, sheer muscle. He had a mop of blond hair that had just been styled and a tailored brown linen suit that looked like a month's pay on a cop's salary. A three hundred dollar pair of snakeskin loafers covered feet the size of violin cases. When he spoke, it was Rhett Butler out of "Gone with the Wind". Strong, powerful, but with a wry humor that rumbled with every word. He even had the mustache. He watched as I admired the team photo on the wall.

"It wasn't like Nick Saban," he said, "but we were 7-3 and contending for the SEC Championship. Big bowl game on the line, maybe the Sugar or the Cotton. Auburn was tough. You know in those days we damned sure played hurt. No pansies in the Crimson Tide locker room. I'd been banged up against Tennessee, but hell, it was business as usual. We was leading 17-14 at halftime. Had to stop that opening drive. That damned guard hit me like a freight train and the fullback plowed over me. Shit, I heard it snap like a fresh branch. Looked down and the bone was sticking through the flesh just below my knee. Made me kind of sick. They brought out the stretcher and that was all she wrote. Still Honorable Mention All-American. You got no knees, don't make a damn. Now I'm a cop." He gave up a laugh, but it seemed to rattle around in his throat with a hollow sound.

"Anyway, back to business. Greens keeper found her in a pond at one of the local golf courses. Gators had gotten to her. There wasn't much of her that wasn't chewed. The thing that tipped us off was the tat. Just like Frank said. Dagger with a snake coiled around it. "Tread" on one side, "Die" on the other and a small M below the art. Damn good thing the golf guy saw her. A few more hours and there wouldn't be any of her left to identify. They had shaved her head. Some sort of shitty statement, I guess. We got her quick. That sort of thing is bad for business. Them rich duffers can be awfully picky about course maintenance." I forced a smile.

"You sure you up to this, Fleming? Make a grown man sick to his stomach. I promise you that." Frank looked at me and I nodded. He pushed his chair away from the desk and led us to the parking lot. We piled into his Marquis and a few turns later we were parked in front of a gray cinderblock building with Miami Dade Morgue emblazoned next to the entrance.

The uniform at the desk smiled as we entered. "Mornin' Miss Clovia. I got some honored guests, southern kinsmen from the Keys. They come to visit one of our new tenants. Unidentified Vic 37442. Came in early this morning." She pushed a form and a pen in his direction. He signed and we headed down the hall. The doors were gray metal and the air was stale and cold. An invisible cloud of disinfectant clung to my clothes and crept into my nostrils. Bama knocked on a door with a number on it and an attendant peeked out of a small window. There was a buzz and it clicked open. A man in scrubs led us to a cabinet with a dozen large chrome drawers in stacks of three. He checked the number on the form and grasped the handle of the middle one in the last row.

She was covered from head to toe in a white sheet. The chill got to me as I heard the rollers grate on the metal slides. Scrubs pulled the sheet back from her face. The last few strands of the red hair were the first things I saw. They hung like the last shreds of a shroud. Then her face. The perfect skin had huge punctures in dozens of places and her head was misshapen, partially crushed. Chunks of flesh were missing, but I knew it was her.

"Sorry Boss, but we need to see her right forearm," Bama said. The attendant reached up under the sheet and pulled it out. It hung from her shoulder by a string of muscle, but most of it was gone. A ghost of the tattoo glared at us.

"It's Brandy. I can tell by your face, Dr. Fleming. Sorry. I told you make a grown man sick. There's the bathroom if you need it."

I did. My guts swirled and the bile came rushing out of my mouth and my nostrils. I wiped my face with a wet towel. Then I washed my mouth with cold water. But the taste mocked me and cursed me like the vile corpse I had identified. A lifeless thing I had known as a living, breathing woman.

On the way out, I filled out some forms and provided my driver's license. I listed myself as "friend" on the official notification. Someone would still have to claim the body. I hoped it wouldn't be me.

We drove back to the station. Frank thanked Bama, said he'd be in touch. His hand engulfed mine again and we were headed south.

My mind twisted and spun. What hideous thing was trailing me? Who else would I touch and bring that Pale Rider galloping to sentence them to a bloody gallows? I thought about Martin, Alexis . . . now Brandy. Was their blood on my hands?

The rational mind said no, but some malevolent thing was lurking, creeping, chilling my spine.

Frank kept quiet . . . he knew.
Chapter 11

"You okay. Can you talk?" Frank said. "T.K., you got to get this crap out of your mind. You are not responsible for the death of this kid. She made some bad choices. We know that much. You had seen her twice. She was going to talk to you. Might have been more, but maybe she wanted your advice on grad studies. Was having trouble with a boyfriend. How the hell do you know? Now you're thinking she was going to reveal some conspiracy to ship nuclear weapons to jihadists. Give yourself a break. Tell your guilty conscience to shove it."

I wanted to do just that. I didn't even know Brandy, knew only what she'd told me about her past. Her passions, her real dreams were a mystery to me. She was a kid with a beautiful body and maybe a longing to be some kind of star. I remembered the 70's song by Sly and the Family Stone, but it sold a lie in a soulful package. Everyone is not a star, no matter how much Facebook and the media want to sell it. Most of us simply have to live our lives, savor those things that make us strong and reject those that don't. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Frank interrupted my fifty cent philosophical rambling.

"Anyway," he said, "I got some information that may prove useful. Hard to believe, but they had a slow night in Miami. Medical Examiner did the autopsy this morning. Cause of death seemed pretty obvious, but there was some interesting stuff in her body. Toxicology's not complete, but the Doc thinks she had ingested a huge dose of laudanum."

"Laudanum? I haven't heard that term since my junior year in college. I know it's controlled now, but the stuff was legal and highly popular in the 1800's. The legendary romantic poets, Percy Bysshe Shelly, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Edgar Allan Poe were all heavy users. It's a liquid combination of alcohol and opium. Highly addictive. Most scholars think Coleridge's mystical poem "Kubla Khan" was written while he was in some sort of altered state."

"Yeah," Frank said, "now it's called tincture of opiate. Hell, you can mix the stuff with cheap vodka in your basement. The forensics guy thinks maybe there was a trace of ecstasy in it. Have the final results in a couple of days."

My mind flashed to 'the usual.' Was that the Bluegoo, the murky drink Brandy had ordered at the Glove? I told Frank.

"Well, Laudanum is consumed in liquid form, could have some food dye, maybe even some Blue Curacao to add color. There were no needle marks on her arms, between her toes, none of the usual junkie alarms. No signs of any struggle. Bama thinks she was stoked when she went in the pond. If she was drinking the stuff, it would only show up in her blood. Another thing. Kind of interesting. When you and I both saw her, she was wearing that black ribbon tied around her neck. I figured it was some sort of stripper's fashion statement. The Doc found two tiny punctures near the jugular, but it didn't look like any kind of injection. Skin was a little puffy, but no real idea what they are. Maybe more when the report is complete. In the meantime, I guess I better find out what 'the usual' is."

"At least we know Angel is somewhere and she's safe," I said.

"I wouldn't bet on safe. She knows what Brandy knew. The tattoo, Bluegoo, an unexplained and maybe unplanned trip out of town during a murder. Too many questions, coincidences that don't add up. We need to track her down. If not in Stuart, when the kid gets to Miami. Bama can locate her, bring her in. We find out what she knows."

I was glad Fritz couldn't hear Frank's words. Good or bad, Angel was his baby. I wouldn't want to be the guy who tried to hurt her if Fritz found out. I felt like I had to fill him in on the news from Miami. I stopped behind NO DECISIONS. The lights were on below and I thought I heard the light buzz of the printer. I knocked on the cabin.

"I'm glad to see you, Cap. I been thinking. I need a favor, a big one. I want to be there. First tell me what you got."

I told Fritz about my trip with Frank. Bama, the pond, the identification of the body. His jaw set like General MacArthur and he shook his head. The muscles in his arms exploded and shrank as he sucked in a series of short breaths.

"Nice kid. I had dinner at their apartment a couple of times. Pretty, polite, gentle, just trying to make a decent buck. She made a damned good Stromboli and they shaved her head. Worst thing you can do to a woman. It's her glory, her identity. Bastards, pricks, savages."

For a moment I thought he was going to cry, but Fritz doesn't cry. He sinks deep into himself, licks his wounds, then grabs something by the throat.

"That settles it, Cap. I gotta go. I don't want to ask, but I got to. I need you."

I wasn't sure what all this meant, but I knew I couldn't say no.

"Okay, buddy. Where we going?"

"Back to Miami. We stay off of the highway. No hotels. We go on the boat. I got an engine over heating. NO DECISIONS can't leave the dock. We take KAMALA. We'll be there when Angel hits town. Find her and bring her home. If we need to hide out we can pull into any one of a dozen anchorages between here and there. I'm sorry to bring you into this shit, but I need someone I can trust. A Ghostcatcher. That's you."

Ghostcatcher. Who the hell had come up with that crap? And what did it mean? That I'd become some sort of demon who left a wake of poison and mutilation in his wake?

Maybe Fritz didn't want to bring me into this "shit", as he called it. Unfortunately, I was already knee deep and the stench clung to me, sucking my blood like a hellish leech. It was murder again and I was the reluctant point man. The plan sounded off-center, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. We had Bama in Miami. According to Frank, he knew the places and the thugs involved in any kind of vice in the city. He was good man in a tight situation. Hell, he had saved Frank's life. We might even be safer on the boat than traveling by land. I had my old 38 on board, even though I'd never fired it. I knew Fritz kept a Sig Sauer 45 with a thirteen shot clip. We weren't exactly Stallone and Schwarzenegger, but I didn't think we'd need to be. Find Angel. Snatch her, and hit the water. It was even a bit romantic. We were a couple of pirates. I was Errol Flynn and Fritz was my first mate. It sounded simple. It wasn't.
Chapter 12

The next morning Sunny showed up for her pre-swim caffeine fix. She looked a little bleary-eyed. When I told her about the body and my discussion with Fritz, her back straightened and her eyes cleared. The wheels turned and that keen intelligence kicked into high gear.

"So we'll cast off the lines in the morning, probably anchor somewhere around Key Largo and go on into Miami the next day. Pick up a slip at the Miami Beach Marina. We'll be within walking distance of South Beach, probably rent a car. I think we'll need it."

"So that's the plan? You've got to be kidding me, T.K. You guys just blow into Miami, find Angel, sneak her off to KAMALA and disappear like Arabs in the desert. You've lost your mind. A girl is dead. She had a direct connection to Fritz's daughter. You don't really know where Angel is, who's with her, how much danger she might be in. Suppose she doesn't want to go. She may have some very ugly friends."

"Well," I said, "I've got the Taurus revolver."

"Yeah, you've got the five shot 38. I'd be surprised if you knew which end to point, much less the will to shoot anyone. Face it, Buddy, you're a lover, not a fighter. Fritz . . . maybe that's another story, but it sounds like a sure prescription for major disaster. I can see you guys in prison orange. Kidnapping, maybe assault with a deadly weapon. And that's the least of it."

"It's the best we got, Sunny."

"Come on, T.K. Why not let the cops handle it. You've got Frank and that Bama buddy of his. They're the pros. They can shoot people and get away with it. Be reasonable."

"Even if I could, Fritz won't. He's my friend and he needs me. He's not in a good place. At the very least, maybe I can keep him from doing something stupid."

"You gonna do that by being stupid, too?"

She was right, as usual, but it didn't change anything.

"I guess I am."

She looked at me and sighed.

"I can't talk you out of this. I see that. It's so damned crazy that it might just work. Okay, my knight errant. If you and Sancho Panza are going off to chase windmills, I'm Dulcinea and I'm going."

"What?" I stared at her and shook my head.

"I said I'm going. At least I can be the voice of reason that nobody listens to. I can sail a boat and I can drive a car. Besides, a woman understands. I could be some help with Angel. And I know someone."

"You know someone? What does that mean?"

"You gotta trust me, T.K. I'll tell you about it when we're underway. Skeletons in the closet and all that. Right now I need to talk to Jack at the Parrot, get a few days off. Should be okay. He owes me. Then I need to throw some things together, help you guys provision. If I know you, you guys will leave with peanuts and beer. We got to do better than that. I'll handle it and we can be out of here early. You and Fritz check the boat. I'll get the groceries. See you back here around seven."

She left before I could open my mouth. Arguing with Sunny when she's made up her mind is like wrestling a gorilla. You know you're going to lose, and you might end up covered in hair and snot.

I put a shot of Jameson in my coffee and called Fritz. He didn't like it any more than I did, but we were on a mission. And that was the point. We spent the rest of the afternoon checking boat systems. We motored over to the fuel dock and topped off, checked our water tank, Coast Guard equipment, and gave everything a good look. KAMALA was ready to go. I hoped we were.

Fritz went back to the old Grampian to gather his things. I wanted to let Frank know we were leaving. I caught him at the station.

"Damn it, T.K. I got to agree with Sunny. Don't jump the gun. Let us do what we get paid for. I'm on it. Bama's on it. We'll have something in a few days. Patience, my friend."

"Even if I had any, Fritz doesn't. It's his daughter. He's got to do something and I've got to help him. I don't want Sunny in harm's way, but she insists on going. It's done. Hell, she might be able to help."

It just didn't seem like a good idea to tell Frank about the 38 or the nine. I was ready to go and I didn't need a repeat of Sunny's lecture from a cop, even Frank.

"Okay, I'll call Bama and tell him you guys are on the way. I won't mention any plan. Just gathering some information that might soothe an aching father's heart. Yeah, and one other thing. I did a little research. Another girl. They found the body in Lake Okeechobee not too far form Stuart. Same M.O. Head shaved, doped up, gators had ravaged her. She hadn't been raped, but her body showed signs of excessive sexual activity. Don't know about a tattoo. Her left arm was completely gone. In the belly of some reptile, no doubt. I'm surprised Bama didn't pick it up, but I'm sure he's covered up in his own shit."

"I'll give him a call when we get to the marina. Maybe he can help us locate Angel."

"Jesus, T.K. Be safe."

Sunny showed up as promised with enough food and beer to lower the waterline a couple of inches. We stowed everything and turned in early. Tomorrow would be a long day.
Chapter 13

The rising sun shone a deep orange on the water. !0-12 knots out of the southeast. High 70's. They don't make better days for sailors. We rounded the south end of the key. Sombrero Light was pasted against the sky. Sunny took the helm. Fritz hoisted the main while I unfurled the genoa. We trimmed the canvas and KAMALA settled in at a steady 5-6 knots. Hawk Channel was covered in a soft chop just aft of the beam. There wasn't much conversation, just satisfied sighs and hot coffee.

The rest of the day was pretty much like the beginning. Nothing but the rustle of the wind in the canvas and the bow gently carving her way through the water. We talked about dropping the hook on the north side of Boot Key not too far from Marathon. But the wind held and the night was clear. We decided to make an overnighter and stop in No Name Harbor the next morning. Steaks on the grill. Boat potatoes and some bag salad with a homemade vinaigrette. A nice Cabernet for Sunny and me. Diet Coke and several Marlboros for Fritz.

He had said little all day. The furrows in his brow got deeper and his jaw twitched from time to time. He brought the Sig up on deck and caressed it like some sort of Holy Grail. I watched and cringed. He slammed the clip in and out a few times, checked the chamber, and fingered the trigger.

After dinner, Fritz pled exhaustion and went below promising to take the graveyard watch. He lay on the settee, tossed for a minute, then settled into a snore that whirred like a chainsaw.

There were stars, but little ambient light in the basin. I could her Sunny breathing next to me. She topped off our glasses and crossed to the other side of the cockpit.

"I don't want you to talk until I finish. No questions. I'll tell you what you want to know, but for now you just listen. Promise?"

I nodded.

"I told you there were skeletons. I have my share and then some. I was a kid, barely nineteen. I guess that's my excuse. I was pregnant. Robert wasn't much older, and he said he loved me. Mom and Dad were married for over 40 years. It seemed like the thing to do. Make me an honest woman, make a home for the kid and all that stuff. So we went to the courthouse. He was nice enough when he was sober, but that wasn't often. I think the marriage and the baby scared him. He got worse. Started drinking on the job. That didn't last too long. Got fired. He hit me too hard one night. I fell down the steps in the basement. Started bleeding. A few hours later I miscarried in the bathroom. Flushed a part of me down the toilet. I couldn't stop crying. He slapped me, told me to shut up and mix him a drink."

She stopped and looked toward the shore. A sprinkling of lights flickered in the darkness. I could see the tears. She took a sip of the ruby liquid and went on.

"We needed money and I couldn't ask Dad. I was working part time in a drugstore, but that didn't even cover the groceries, much less the vodka. When I saw an ad in the classifieds for a model, I made the call. It didn't say "clothing not required" and it didn't mention the creeps that sat at the bar leering and grabbing your ass. Still the money was good and Robert seemed a little better. One night one of the goons followed me home from the club. Turned out he knew Robert. They had made a deal. I just didn't know it. A threesome. It was a quick hundred, but I told Robert not again."

'You'll do what I tell you to, Bitch.' That was the way he put it."

"I wanted to kill him. Thought about it. He kept a loaded Smith and Wesson in a drawer beside the bed. I wanted to shove it up his ass and pull the trigger. I didn't. Suddenly he started to come home with cash. Not fifty or sixty dollars. Wads of hundreds. He kept it in a shoebox in the closet and dared me to touch it. Then one night I got home from the club and he and a buddy were doing lines on the kitchen table. It scared the hell out of me. I locked myself in the bedroom. A few nights later it happened."

"He was lying on the bed. The sheets and blanket were soaked in blood and bits of his brain were scattered on the wall. The hundreds were everywhere, covering his body, on the floor, five or six stuffed in his mouth. I gathered up the bills that weren't bloody, threw a few things in a suitcase and started the car. I didn't stop until I was outside of D.C. It seemed like a big enough place to get lost. A month or so later I got word from one of my girlfriends that it had been ruled a suicide. No one was looking for me."

My God. I thought. This can't be my Sunny, a woman I loved. A woman that said she loved me. But it was. Beautiful, wise, and damaged. Maybe beyond repair. I watched as the phosphorous played in the wake of the bow. It glittered and flowed like some magical dust washing away toward some undefined eternity. I moved over next to her. She sobbed softly. I put my arm around her shoulder and whispered, "I love you." She buried her head in my chest and heaved silently. My shirt soaked up the tears.

I heard Fritz shuffling below. He stuck his head up and growled, "You guys get some sleep. It's my watch."

We made our way to the v berth. She put her arms around my waist and pulled her naked body into my back. Her hands were cold. She held me a little tighter than usual.
Chapter 14

Sunny slept through the night. I tossed for a while and finally joined Fritz in the cockpit. There was a little chill in the breeze, but it washed me. Still I wasn't clean. I thought about Sunny, but it was Brandy that haunted me. The red hair, the mangled flesh in her face, the malevolent mark on her forearm. The guilt built inside me and clung like the smell of stale sweat.

We glided past the lights of Key Largo, sitting quietly, each keeping our own counsel, or tending our own demons. The sun began to creep over the horizon and paint the swells in a brilliant gold. The day was new, but we were as old as Satan, covered in the crimson stains of evil and uncertainty.

At ten, I spotted the marks that led off to starboard and announced our arrival at No Name Harbor. It's part of Bill Baggs State Park on the southern tip of Key Biscayne. On the weekends, this place was a madhouse of massive yachts and small runabouts, drunken boaters, kids yelling and laughing as they bobbed on anything that would float. Today it was quiet, a few day trippers on power boats and some cruisers relaxing before their departure to the Bimini, the southern gateway to the Bahamas. We found an open spot in the basin fifty yards away from the mangroves and dropped the hook. Sunny was up. She backed down on the anchor and Fritz let out enough scope to give us a 7-1 ratio. We were in. Coffee and Jameson for me. I was planning a nap in the cockpit. Fritz had burned his final Marlboro for the morning and retreated to the settee.

"One more thing before you crash, T.K. I told you I knew someone. I do. I'm going to make a couple of calls this morning. See if I can set up a meeting. I'll fill you in after you get some rest. And thanks. I guess I have to admit it. I don't want to, but I need you. And I think I'm in love."

I had never heard those words from Sunny. I don't know that they fit. But I slept in a peace that was denied to me many times since the deaths with no solace and only pitiful excuses.

We bobbed at anchor for the rest of the day. A few naps, some sun, and a nice walk around the pathway to the point and back. At seven we dinghied over to the Boater's Grill. Enrique gave us his best Cuban smile and seated us at the rail overlooking the anchorage. The sun was setting and the breeze washed us. We ordered drinks. Soon an entire sea bass, head and tail, stared up at us with one glassy eye. It was deep fried to perfection. The white, flaky flesh fell off the bone. Fritz and Sunny went at it like the barbarians were at the gate. I washed mine down with a couple of sweating bottles of icy Presidente, a great Dominican beer. Hot brown rice and beans topped off the meal.

"Day after tomorrow." Sunny said. "He'll send a car to pick us up around seven. Dinner and drinks and hopefully some useful information."

I didn't know what she was talking about, but it didn't matter. I figured I'd find out when I needed to know.

The next morning we left No Name around ten and motored north to Government cut. We headed off to starboard. I called the Miami Beach Marina on the VHF. I thought I heard a chuckle in his voice when I announced we were 31 feet, but he assigned us a slip. It was all here. KAMALA looked like a dinghy compared to the massive sport fisherman and long range motor yachts. There were three over 100 feet on the face docks. A runabout larger than KAMALA sat on the aft deck of a massive Bennetti next to a shiny black Escalade. Sixty footers were the cheap seats. Hey, it was Miami Beach and we were here. The dock master was polite, but obviously amused. I went up to the office to register. The slip prices matched the neighborhood. We had just settled in when I heard the sound of an outboard off the stern. I turned to see an old Avon inflatable closing on us. The driver was waving like a madman and hollering "KAMALA. FOXES' LAIR."

It was Chris. I watched him approach and thought about all of the years we'd been friends. He had mysteriously bailed out of Key West after being accused of the murder of Alexis, the child whom Voodoo had claimed. I figured I had lost him, hadn't seen him or heard from him in months. I had cursed myself many times for thinking he might have been guilty. I should have known better.

He tied off at the stern and came aboard. He hugged Sunny, shook hands with Fritz and embraced me.

"I've missed you, Buddy," I said.

"I just couldn't take it. I wouldn't have hurt Alexis for anything. It kind of worked on me that anyone would believe I could. Had to get away from the evil eyes. I've been anchored up near the Venetian Causeway for a couple of months. Even got a job. I'm doing the MacGyver thing at one of the local chandleries. A lot of guys know where they want to go; they just don't know how to get there. They come to me and I give them some suggestions, even some solutions."

Chris was good at that, maybe even brilliant. 'Think outside the box' was probably tattooed on the inside of his skull. Sunny handed him a cold beer.

"Well, Darlin', you still know the way to a wandering sailor's heart. So what the hell are you guys doing up here?"

Fritz took over. Chris had known Angel since she was a child. They had that special thing that Chris always had with kids. He hugs them and he makes them laugh. He got quiet when Fritz got into the details.

"So when she gets to town, we're going to snatch her. Take her home. Try the rehab again. I don't know. Maybe it will work this time. Anyway, she's going home with her Dad." The tone in Fritz's voice set off something in all of us that screamed and slashed.

Well, it damned sure sounds crazy, but I'm in," Chris said quietly. "You just tell me what you want me to do. I'm in."

"Come on, Chris. This might be dangerous. Two murders that we know of. Could be more. We don't want to put anyone at risk."

"Fuck you, T.K. You think I'm going to turn my back on Angel just because it's the safe thing to do. I held that kid every time she stubbed her toe on the dock. Anyway, it won't be the first time we stepped into the shit. Tell him, Fritz . . . I'm in."

Fritz lit another Marlboro. He looked at me, stared at Chris for a moment, then nodded.
Chapter 15

We spent the afternoon walking on Ocean Boulevard at South Beach. Nothing had changed. The restaurants and hotels were resplendent in their best Art Deco attire. Pinks and greens, music, and a parade of the beautiful people, both straight and gay. Tall raven haired women in heels, tight slacks and rainbow tops, hands fluttering, feverishly conversing in Spanish, Portuguese, French, and occasionally, English. The dandies strutted in their white loafers, shirts open to the belly and gold chains dangling and chattering around their necks. We stopped at the News Café for a fat bold Reuben and a Kalik. The food was delightful, but the people were the real treat. We laughed and gawked. Then it was back to KAMALA for a well earned nap. I was still astounded by the array of power yachts at the marina. Floating palaces with uniformed crews cleaning and polishing, refinishing the bright work, each with a yes sir or yes ma'am ready on their lips.

We all caught showers and put on our best finery. Sunny looked absolutely stunning. White canvas slacks tight enough to be painted on her butt. No bra, a burgundy top that hung loosely about her shoulders, showing off the glory that God gave her. No boat shoes, not tonight. White sling back heels, thank you very much. Her hair was rich and golden in the sunset. I didn't know who we were meeting, but he was going to like it. The car arrived at the gate precisely at seven. A black Mercedes limo. Freshly waxed and immaculate inside.

"I am Raoul," the driver said in perfect English. "I will deliver you to the home of Mr. Litton forthwith." He held the door for all of us, but his eyes were fixed on Sunny's ass. I can't say I blamed him.

We went back over Ocean Boulevard to Collins Avenue. The houses were like small hotels. Imposing gates fronted each one. To keep the tourists on the outside, I guessed. Nevertheless the pervading theme was warm and inviting, all lit up like the private tributes they were. There were several guards at varying degrees of attention. I suspected the guest lists were severely limited. We pulled up in front of a magnificent Mediterranean that looked more like a Moorish castle. Raoul hit an unseen button and the black spiked wrought iron swung open slowly.

A short, stocky man in a white silk jacket stood on the tile steps to the entrance. He was shaking like a jitterbug and his smile occupied most of the front portico.

"Sunny," he bellowed as Raoul opened the door for her. She rushed into his arms and kissed him enthusiastically on the cheek.

"Guys, this is Bingo Litton, my friend and my savior." He made an "aw shucks" gesture.

Bingo actually reminded me of a ferret. His eyes were dark and fiery, too close together. His snowy teeth protruded and his nose was too large for his face. I immediately got a hint of clever, but behind the guile was a kindness and generosity that shone in his genuine delight over Sunny. Nothing sexual in his hug, just the affection of a father or an eccentric, but very dear uncle. His handshake was firm and dry. He was stronger than he looked and I bet he could use it if he needed to. He and Fritz were the perfect contrast, both short and solid, but Bingo was groomed like a model from GENTLEMEN'S QUARTERLY, while Fritz looked like a small gorilla that had cleaned up as best he could. Chris was observing the scene like a character from LAW AND ORDER.

"Hey, I got drinks," Bingo said. He led us into a foyer with a twenty foot ceiling. It was emblazoned with a colorful mosaic of Daniel and the Lion. The floor was polished Spanish tile. He laughed as I looked up.

"That's me," he said, "always in the lion's den."

We followed him through the house onto a deck surrounded with marble columns and statuary. I recognized the three classic Davids'. Donatello, Michelangelo, and Bernini, each with their take of the boy hero who, against all odds, slew the Philistine giant, Goliath. I couldn't help but feel humble in that kind of company. The wet bar was nearly as impressive. Raoul stood behind it, waiting to mix any expensive concoction we could imagine. I opted for a double of Woodford Reserve over ice with a whisper of water. Sunny had a Margarita with salt. Chris followed my lead. Raoul raised his eyebrow when Fritz said resolutely, "Diet Coke".

There was a pool to our left. The light from the underwater spots danced on the surface as the turquoise liquid flowed from the mouths of polished brass dolphins.

"I know you guys want to hear the story," Sunny said somewhat reluctantly. Bingo just grinned and settled back into a leather chaise. Sunny took a long sip of the lime froth and sighed. It was going to be difficult and I wondered what parts she'd leave out. I figured the murder was the big one.

"My luck had gone cold. I was in D.C. I was alone, afraid and ready to do whatever it took to make a buck. I went to the only thing I knew. Dancing. Bingo hired me before I had taken the first step. He owns a string of places from Philadelphia to Miami. All what we politely call gentlemen's clubs. I knew he was going to hit on me, make me stage a 'private performance' to keep my job. I waited. It didn't happen. He never touched me until one night when everyone else had left. We sat in his office and talked for hours. Then he reached over and put his hand on my arm.

"Honey," he said, "you ought to go back to school. You're too good for this place. Every time I see one of those creeps reach for your ass, I want to kill 'em. I got some friends. Gonna send you up to UVA. You got the brains for it and you got the class. Don't worry about the money. It's all covered, no strings attached. At first I thought it was a con, but then I received a letter of acceptance on official stationery."

I was on the Dean's List for four semesters. When it came time for grad school, Bingo just said "Make me proud."

"And I am. Sunny's the best thing I ever did. She's a light. I never had any kids, so I guess she's it." There was a note of sadness in his voice, but he was still beaming.

We were all silent. Finally Sunny wiped a tear and laughed. The ice was broken.

"I have a daughter," Fritz said. He took the lead and told the ferret what we knew. Bingo shook his head.

"I got you. These girls, sometimes I'm the best bet they can make. They got nobody who cares. No dope, no hooking out of Bingo's establishments. They come and they go. Every once in a while, I hear from one of them. They're married, got kids, respectable jobs. I guess the bottom line is I try to protect them. Let them make a few bucks while they can and move on to something better. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but I don't have any trouble sleeping at night. Sunny is my star. The best of them. Gorgeous, smart and with a heart as big as Chicago. I'll help you guys any way I can."

"Angel is one of M's girls. She has a tattoo on her forearm . . ." He interrupted.

"I know the mark. I don't work M's girls. He keeps them under tight control. There's a circuit. They travel from one club to another up and down the east coast. Uses them as headliners. He has them doing things. Stuff I don't want my girls to do. Sometimes flies them to Vegas for 'special parties' with the A listers. Maybe the NBA Championship, the Super Bowl, Nassau. If you pay, you play. And believe me, you play in style. He pays them damned good money, get them hooked on that and this blue shit. Some kind of weirdo stuff you drink. Keeps them high and happy. When they're in town, he puts them up at his mansion on Ocean Boulevard not too far from the old Versace place. Big iron gates, armed security. They don't leave except to go to work. I hear one of them disappears every now and then. Maybe they know too much or maybe he's just used them up."

"Do you know why M's girls wear the ribbon around their necks?" I asked.

Bingo looked away for a moment. He stared at the glistening pool and put his forefinger to his lip. I wasn't sure he was going to speak. His eyes panned from Sunny to Chris to me and locked onto Fritz.

"Doc," he said quietly, "I'm not sure you want to know."

"Do we need to?"

He paused again, looked at Fritz, "You got a daughter. Me, I never had any kids. Maybe if I did, I'd be working at the bank. As it is, I do what I can with what I got and don't try to hurt anyone. My girls are important to me. I try to keep them out of trouble, not get them into it. A lot of people would say that's bullshit, them up there on the stage shakin' their tits. Believe me, it's a lot more innocent than it looks, but there are creeps out there. I got some big boys working for me. They know you don't touch my girls. Sunny will tell you." He looked at her and she nodded.

"I can't tell you about the ribbons. But I can call in a favor, maybe even scare somebody a little. He might."

Fritz had gone white. His lower lip quivered and his jaw was set in stone. He squeezed the gold can until it burst in his hand. The jagged metal bit into his flesh and the blood ran onto the shiny tile. Raoul gave him a towel from behind the bar. In a quiet stupor, he wrapped it around his palm. It oozed red within minutes.

"I got to get her," he whispered. I watched for a minute and spoke.

"Bingo, can you find out when she gets to town and where she's dancing?"

"I'll make a few calls. Put you in touch with a guy who may or may not talk to you. She gets in, I got my money on The Gilded Lady down on 11th Street. M's girls work the joint. But I'm warning you. Be careful. Anybody gets hurt, I'm not responsible. As for Angel, one of my girls may know. They kind of have their own sorority. Give me a day. You need to get your kid out of there. Now. I'll find her, but you'll have to do the rest. I can only get involved so much. Got a business to run. Don't need any complications. This is for you, Sunny. Your friends are my friends. That's all."

The dinner was fabulous. Red Snapper with a white wine sauce and capers. Cristal in long stemmed champagne glasses. Home made rum cake for dessert, and a snifter of Hennessy, but not much conversation. Chris tried to turn things to something light and convivial, but it didn't work. Bingo's chef came out of the kitchen and we burst into applause. He beamed, bowed gallantly at the waist and retreated to his chrome studio.

We thanked Bingo and Raoul drove us back down Collins to Ocean Boulevard. The lights flashed and glared as the night came alive. More young beauties, more dandies and the lurid promise of music, sex, and lines of cocaine flooded the sidewalks. Then we were at the marina. Raoul opened the doors for us, still fixed on Sunny's ass, but nobody cared. The magnificent fiberglass toys were lit up like small cities. Refined laughter and the clinking of crystal and expensive china trailed us down the dock. We settled in and sleep struggled to overtake us.
Chapter 16

The expensive bourbon, champagne, and brandy had pumped my head full of thick gauze. I finally crawled out of the v berth, stumbling and moaning. I popped four ibuprofen and started the coffee. Fritz was already up, sitting in the cockpit sucking down a morning Marlboro. He grunted at me and mumbled, "Wages of sin, Cap."

Sunny soon joined us. The sun was high and startling, but the salt air began to restore me to the land of the living.

"Hell of a night," I said.

'Yeah, I been up since four, must have burned through a pack of these damned things." He stared at the crumpled red paper.

"Well," said Sunny, "we've got to eat. I'll rustle up some eggs and sausage and you guys lick your wounds. The only thing we can do is wait."

About ten the phone rang. The voice on the other end was muffled. I thought I heard the word 'patient' in the background, but I could barely make out the words.

"There is a parking lot around the corner from the marina. Clothing store for the gay blades. It closes at six. You will recognize it by the display in the window. I'll pull up, but I won't get out of the car. Come to driver's side. No one but you, Dr. Fleming. I am offering you five minutes. No more. Be there at eight. That's all. Should I observe anything the least bit alarming, I'm gone." He hung up.

Fritz looked puzzled. I told him about the conversation, he said, "It's my kid. I should go."

"He warned me, Fritz. If he sees you or anyone else, he'll split. We need the info. I'll be okay. No problem."

He didn't like it, but he didn't argue.

We'd been in Miami for two days. I called Bama. I had a thing creeping up my spine that said we'd need him soon. I didn't tell him about our meeting with Bingo or my mysterious caller. I was going alone. He had talked to Frank again.

"Don't worry, T.K. You tell Fritz I got your back. You find Angel, let me know and she'll be on her way home." The sound of his voice inspired confidence. That was something I needed right now.

At eight I was in front of LE HOMME JOLI, the pretty man. The name fit. The window was filled with shades of mauve and pink on manequins in feminine poses. The few prices I could make out were in the stratosphere. Ferraris, Porsches and Cadillac limos in a frenzied rush toward the glitter of South Beach, but I was alone. Or so I thought.

A black BMW pulled up. 700 series, I thought. Seventy or eighty thousand minimum worth of rolling thunder. I heard the whir of the driver's window coming down. I stepped to the door. He wore a broad brimmed felt hat pulled down over his eyes. The dash lights were dimmed. Even in the darkness, I could smell the cut of a dark Armani with a matching silk shirt. I couldn't see any of his face. I barely made out a parking sticker in the corner of the windshield. It said Mount Seneca something.

"Stay where you are," he commanded, "you don't know when they're watching. The ribbons cover the marks. That's where they extract the blood. Once a month, sometimes more. It's a Fountain of Youth. At least that's how they bill it. Fresh young blood spiked with some vitamin supplements, a hit of laudanum and just a taste of ecstasy. Makes you feel like you could wrestle Godzilla. Some drink it, some shoot it, some take the whole pint in an IV. Twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars a hit. Nice profit margin. Some of the more extravagant buyers even have a special girl they demand. It's like call liquor. Costs more than the house stuff, but it rocks your balls. Don't even contemplate the police. In Miami, they're deaf, dumb, and blind. That's all, Doctor. You'd best mind your ass. And now I have a previous engagement. I was never here."

He pulled away slowly. The license plate was taped over, the light missing. I couldn't even be sure of the year of the car. I was screwed into the asphalt. It sounded like something out of an H. P. Lovecraft horror novel. Junkies, modern day vampires, girls fed to alligators. I took a deep breath. It was real and Angel was in the middle of it. I wasn't even sure how I could tell Fritz, but he had to know.

I glanced back to the mauve and pink and headed toward the street. A dark Chrysler 300 cut me off. Two very large guys in muscle shirts emerged flexing and scowling.

One of them growled, "It's your last stroll, Doc. Get in the car."

He grabbed me by the forearm. It felt like vice grips. The other sank an iron fist into my belly. I doubled over, drooling and coughing. The back door of the Chrysler opened. I saw the shadow of a figure waiting quietly, not the least bit interested in the action. I felt a violent shove in the small of my back. Then I head the click of a hammer and a shell sliding into a chamber.

"Sorry boys, maybe next time. Now go on home. You Momma's waiting."

Fritz had the barrel of the Sig buried in the neck of vice grips. He released my arm, raised his hands and whispered, "Easy, Bud. No foul, no harm." The other one turned. Fritz twitched and drew a bead on his forehead. He froze. Then he smiled and backed slowly towards the car. "Maybe another time," he said.

Chris put his arm around my waist and held me up. We stepped away. The doors slammed and the Chrysler screeched out of the parking lot.

"We need to get the hell out of here," Fritz said, "those boys may be back with reinforcements."

We stayed in the shadows as we shuffled to the marina. The lights at the entrance and the armed guard looked vaguely comforting as we made our way down the dock.

Sunny stood in the cockpit. She cradled me as I tried to raise my head and fight the nausea. I didn't want to tell her what had happened, but we were in too deep already. She needed to know. I was still gasping, but the pain had eased. She poured me a shot of Evan Williams. The brown liquid fired down my throat and burned my aching belly. It settled. Soon I was breathing in a quiet cadence. I talked and she listened.

"Some nasty characters," Fritz said.

"Thanks. I'm not quite ready for that last ride. I guess the nine came in handy."

"I wish we didn't need it," Fritz shook his head.

I thought about calling Bama, but I hadn't told him about the meeting. I didn't want him to think he was out of the loop. Cops get very touchy about that sort of stuff.

It was still early and Bingo had mentioned The Gilded Lady. I was close enough to okay. It was time to further our education.
Chapter 17

We took a cab to 11th Street. The Gilded Lady was tucked into an old movie house. The marquis screamed GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS. A burly bruiser in a black tux eyed us, but took our money. The interior was dimly lit and the cigar and cigarette smoke lurched into our nostrils. A bleached blond with monster store bought breasts in less than a bikini led us to a tiny table in a corner away from the stage. Chris and I ordered Moosehead and Fritz had the usual. She grinned through vampire red lips and said in sultry tones, "I'm up next boys. Hold on to your pants and get ready to be nice to Miss Sable." There was no dagger on her forearm and no ribbon around her neck.

I scanned the room. Maybe two dozen men jittering and drinking to a pounding rap song I didn't recognize. The raven haired girl on stage was jerking and gyrating to the bass riff. She was totally nude except for the heels and a black garter squeezed around her left thigh. Her skin was a flawless latte. Dark nipples and a hint of pubic hair sneaking up her pelvis. No question, she was beautiful. We had the A team tonight. Without the makeup she could have been in one of my English Lit classes. Maybe eighteen or twenty. Still no tattoo or ribbon.

There were another six or so men sitting at the bar feigning indifference. I kept staring in that direction. One of them looked vaguely familiar. We watched the latte with a due appreciation for youth and heathen rhythm. Chris's eyes were the size of grapes and I could see his leg popping with every downbeat. The vein in Fritz's neck was throbbing. He was sizing up the crowd and getting ready. I didn't know for what, but it scared me a little.

The DJ's voice boomed, "Gentlemen, show your appreciation for the lovely Stella." There was enthusiastic applause and our star began to make her way though the crowd exacting tribute. Each one of us slipped a dollar into her garter. "Thanks, Honey," she said and kissed each of us lightly on the cheek. I could smell her thick rich perfume as she bent down to my ear. "One of you boys wants a private dance, remember Stella. I can show you a real good time." I smiled, shook my head, and she sauntered on to the next group of dedicated patrons of the arts.

I glanced back over to the bar and caught the profile of the closest man to me. I tried to focus in the dim light. He turned and looked in our direction. The aquiline nose, the dark olive skin. He didn't look much different from the night Angel had brought him in to meet her dad. It was Angelo. He was wearing a white linen jacket, the same Cardin cut with a black silk shirt open at the neck. His dark hair was pasted to his skull. He lifted his glass and tipped it in my direction. Fritz saw him at the same time. He began to bolt up, but I grabbed his arm. "Easy," I said, "not the place, not the time." I could hear him huffing, but he sat and put his elbows on the table. I saw his hands flex and watched the forearms turn to stone.

"Give me a minute, Fritz. I'll go talk to him. He might know something. Maybe he'll help."

"Yeah," Fritz spit, "and maybe I'm Brad Pitt."

Still he sat. I sipped my beer. Our bombshell came by and we ordered another Moosehead. My belly was aching, but I didn't know whether it was iron fist or the sight of Angelo in The Gilded Lady. A man sat next to him, but I couldn't see much with Angelo blocking my view.

"And now, get ready for the shining star of tonight's magnificent show. Straight from New York, Las Vegas, Washington, Atlanta, and now to you. Treasure," he bellowed, " and believe me, Gentlemen, she is a treasure, and her chest is full of goodies. Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones began to wail, "I'll never be your Beast of Burden." She slinked and crawled onto the stage, her breasts hanging like great pendulums swaying to the drumbeat. Her blond hair was slung over her shoulder like a golden mane. It rocked back and forth with every jolt of her ripe body. Men were nailed to the edges of their seats, heads bobbing and hands thrashing at every beat. She shot them coy smiles and shook her fabulous jewels at every opportunity. A couple of times she turned her ass toward the panting audience and squeezed her tight buttocks exposing talent that could only come from Venus, herself. As she got closer, I spotted the horrible dagger with the unholy snake on her forearm. She wore the black ribbon around her neck, but nothing else.

Angelo and his companion had turned slightly on their chairs to watch the spectacle. They seemed to be observing the crowd more than they ogled the glory on stage. I waited until she had given her last thrust. The DJ had pleaded again for the generosity of the eager crowd, but their hands were already deep in their pockets. She glided and cooed and the bills ran freely. When she got to Angelo, he smiled and nodded toward a tall glass of thick blue liquid. She hoisted it, then moved over and put her arms around the shoulders of the two men. She gave each a peck on the cheek and moved on to work the rest of the bar crowd. There was a short lull in the rhythm. I picked up my Moosehead and walked over to the bar.

Angelo raised his glass and stuck out his hand. I grasped it without much enthusiasm.

"Dr. Fleming. I didn't think you went in for this type of entertainment. And I see Fritz is with you. A little far from your neighborhood, isn't it? Vacation?"

"Not exactly. We're here for a good reason. Looking for someone, actually."

"That wouldn't be Angel, would it? You probably know we broke up not too long after I met you in Wilmington. Nice girl, but a bit sedate for my tastes. Haven't seen her in a year or so. She's not in trouble, is she?"

"I hope not. I hear she is doing well, working, or so I understand."

His dark eyes gleamed. It was a cat and mouse game. I was sure I wasn't the cat.

"Pardon me for being rude," he said. "This is my friend, Mr. Mustapha, an impressive entrepreneur. He has an interest in this place."

No handshake. A slightly simian face glared at me. The eyes were cunning and feral. Too far apart. His lips were thin and cruel. At a glance, his left arm seemed shorter than his right, but both hands were thick and hairy, the fingers like bands of cable and the nails sharply manicured. A diamond the size of an almond, set in thick 24 karat, adorned his right ring finger. He wore at least two thousand dollars of Hugo Boss. I didn't have long to study him, but I knew I wouldn't forget that face. He grunted and returned to his martini.

Angelo spoke. "I don't know why I would hear from her, but if I do, I'll let you know. I still have Fritz's cell number. I know her dad must want to see her. Sweet girl and all that."

I thanked him and went back to our table. We were about to leave when Treasure came sauntering up. She smiled and swung her massive breasts toward us. They threatened to knock Fritz off of his chair.

"Gentlemen," she purred, "I got a message from Mr. Mustapha. He knows you are real ready to get home. He settled your bill at the marina so you can split early in the morning. He says to have a very quick and very safe voyage south. He appreciates you guys coming in. Mr. M is always real generous when you do what he asks you to." She thrust a hip in my direction and I placed a five in the garter.

I looked toward the bar. Mustapha was starting at us, feral eyes gleaming with malice. He raised his glass in a false salute and nodded. I forced a smile I hoped he would interpret as compliance. I suspected he was used to getting what he wanted and figured we were scared.

I was. We finished our drinks and left.
Chapter 18

There was a cab waiting at the door. He hurried us to the marina. The cabin lights on KAMALA were burning and Sunny was in the cockpit, a glass of cabernet in her hand. Deep furrows and a mouth drawn up into granite dominated her face. When she saw us, she ducked below and grabbed an Ice House for Chris and me and a Diet Coke for Fritz.

"What did you find out?" she asked.

I told her about Angelo and the mysterious Mr. M. She already knew about his questionable kindness. I left out the part about the treasure chest.

Fritz fired up a Marlboro, huffed and spoke. "It was a damned threat. We're supposed to get the hell out of town. And fast. Screw that sonovabitch."

"The dock master came to the boat," she said, "left a copy of the bill and bid us a safe voyage. "Compliments of Mr. M' were his last words."

"I think we ought to do it, guys." Chris said, "that bastard is dangerous and it looks like he's well connected. Angelo is obviously his go-boy."

Sunny interrupted. "Angelo's a recruiter. I've seen them. Nice clothes. Fancy cars. Lots of money. Makes the girls feel special. A few of joints, then some cocaine. He asks for a couple of favors. Maybe some photos, a little ménage a trois if he thinks she's an easy mark. Glamour, excitement. It all seems harmless at first. But the next thing you know they're hooked. They have a habit they got to feed. And they'll do whatever it takes to keep the train running on time."

"Okay," Chris said, "but we haven't heard anything from Angel. Hell, she may be in Timbuktu for all we know. When she calls . . . if she calls, maybe we find her. Maybe we don't. We need some help here. Maybe Bama, maybe even Frank. We accomplish nothing down here but putting our asses in a sling."

"Hold on, Chris. One more thing," Sunny said. "While you guys were doing field research, Bingo called. Angel is in town. He got the word from one of his girls. Angel's the headliner at The Gilded Lady this weekend. Friday and Saturday nights. We got two days to plan. I don't think we can steal her from M's place on Ocean. At least not from what Bingo told me. The place sounds like a high class fortress. Sorry, but you guys may have to go back to 11th Street for more fun and recreation. Could be our only chance, especially if she's hooked."

Fritz shook his head. "T.K., no shit. You guys go back to Key West. It's okay. This is not your fight. Sunny, Chris, there's no need for you to be involved in this. Besides, I can handle it. She's my baby. Good or bad, I'm responsible for whatever she is. I don't give a damned what she's done. I'm her father. I'm not leaving her in this hell hole. I'm not going without her."

I looked at Sunny and Chris. They looked at me. I read it in their eyes.

"Sorry, Fritz," I said. "It doesn't work that way. We all said we were in. We are. She's your daughter, but she belongs to all of us. I don't know if we can make it okay, but we have to try. We'll get her, take her home. Then it's up to you. But for now, it's the old Three Musketeers routine. One for all and all for one."

He went from one face to the next. His eyes got misty, but Fritz doesn't cry. He put his hand out, palm down. Sunny's hand came down on his. Then Chris. Then me. It was a silly salute, a cliché, but it worked for us.

"Okay," Chris said. "Now that this shit is settled, we need a plan. Listen up. Then you can shoot holes in it. We leave in the morning early. The charming Mr. Mustapha thinks his threats worked. You take KAMALA over to the anchorage near the Venetian Causeway. Drop the hook. My Avon is in the water and that 15 horse Yamaha moves her like a bat. There's a place near there where we can land the dinghy. We could get a cab, but it makes better sense to rent a car. Something common, unobtrusive. We go to The Gilded Lady, snatch her after her set. Sunny picks us up. We make for the boat. You guys leave before the sun rises. The perfect escape."

"Yeah, it sounds damned near as stupid as it did the first time I heard it." said Sunny. "And what if they come after us. A 31 foot sailboat making 5-6 knots max. We'll be one hell of a target. Big, white and slow. Great combination. Besides, I'll just bet those boys have guns."

"Yeah," Fritz said. "So do we."

I shuddered and Chris stared at Sunny. "All right Mata Hari, you got a better idea?"

Sunny shook her head and frowned. "I wish the hell I did. So you guys are the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday. I guess I'm the designated driver," she said tersely.

"Why would they follow?" Fritz chimed in. "My daughter. So they lose a dancer? I'll bet M has them waiting in line to sample his sick brand of fame and fortune. I got a buddy up here. Lieutenant in the Coast Guard. I'll tell him we got problems, might be expecting trouble. We can get an armed escort out of here. Maybe all the way down Hawk's Channel."

When the silence settled, Chris got in the Avon started the outboard. He was out of sight in sixty seconds. It was only a ten minute ride to the anchorage at the Causeway.

The rest of us were up at six. I ran down the dock to the newspaper stand and grabbed a Miami Herald. I threw it below and turned the ignition key. The Universal rumbled and purred beneath the deck. We slipped the lines and backed out of the space. I saw someone on the dock watching, a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. I couldn't make him out clearly, but I'd take even money it was Angelo. I tossed a wave in his direction, but he didn't wave back. I steered KAMALA west on Government Cut back to the Intracoastal Waterway. The mammoth cruise ships rocked gently at the docks, preparing to board three or four thousand impatient passengers. The party crowd with their bikinis and muscle shirts on Carnival, ready to blast down free food, gulp multiple shots and dance until their legs ached. The high rollers in their white duck slacks and conservative sun dresses boarding a Celebrity floating resort. Ready to retreat to a week of expensive cocktails, exquisite food and service to match. Ballroom dancing. Perhaps an art auction. Different strokes for different folks, or as a car buddy of mine used to say, "There's a seat for every ass."

We were back to the ICW and out of sight of the marina. I turned north and doubled back east at the Venetian Causeway. We avoided the use of the VHF in case someone was listening, but in twenty minutes we were calling to Chris aboard FOXES' LAIR. He stuck his head out of the companionway. "Too damned early," he screamed and disappeared below.

I came up into the east wind and Fritz eased the Bruce and the chain over the bow roller. It bit immediately. I backed down to make sure she was set. Fritz let out more scope and cleated the anchor line. We were dug in about thirty yards from Chris among twenty sailboats and a couple of shiny power yachts. It seemed like a pretty good hideout if no one looked too hard.

I went below and started the coffee. I was looking forward to an hour or so with a good newspaper. Fritz settled in the cockpit and lit a Marlboro. Sunny was making some kind of mysterious notes, maybe planning our funerals.

I filled my mug and glanced at the front page of the Herald. It seemed like the whole damned country of Syria was on fire. Six more killed in Afghanistan, four American troops, a woman delivering books to needy school children and one Afghan police officer. "Get the hell out of there," I thought for the hundredth time. The Democrats and Republicans were screaming over the budget and a respected state senator, a veteran of twenty years of marriage, had been fooling with his young secretary. Somehow it didn't seem much like news.

Pages two and three weren't much better, but in the local section there was a small item near the bottom. A doctor from Coral Gables had been found last night in his garage. He had run a hose from the car's exhaust to the interior. Asphyxiation. His wife found him. She had been playing in a bridge tournament at the country club. The police believed drugs were involved. They found a bottle of prescription pain killers on the seat beside him, but did not suspect foul play. There was no note, but temporary findings indicated suicide. No name pending notification of other relatives, but he was a respected specialist at Mount Seneca Private Hospital.

I folded the paper and put it down. The words echoed in my mind, "You don't know when they're watching." I couldn't be sure, but the coincidences were stacked up like boxes in a warehouse. Timing, his manner of speech, the sticker in the window. Another dead man. It was one more warning exploding in my consciousness. We had to be careful. M wouldn't leave us alone. There was violence and mayhem lurking in this city, stalking us like a pack of hungry jackals, waiting for a fatal mistake or a weakness so they could savage us and leave our bleeding carcasses to the vultures. I didn't worry much about Fritz or myself. Not even Chris. But Sunny didn't need to be any part of this hellish shit. Still I knew I had a better chance of stopping a tsunami than getting her to back off.

The rest of the day was quiet, each of us sequestered in our own private hell. Scared, uncertain, but determined to follow through with a plan that Sunny characterized as "pure stupidity". Unfortunately it was all we had. I didn't tell anyone about the late Doctor X.

Fritz called his Coast Guard buddy. They traded updates. Fritz was deliberately vague about our 'trouble', but Lieutenant Cooper was on command watch the next night and promised that his old buddy wouldn't be left wanting if there was a problem.

The next day was Friday. Enterprise brought us a new Chevrolet Impala, dark green. We picked up a few groceries and more beer. If we were lucky, we'd snatch Angel, melt into the darkness and be back in Hawk's Channel on our way to the relative safety of Key West.
Chapter 19

I decided to call Frank. He answered on the first ring.

"Damn it," he said. "You sure know how to keep a guy in the dark. Where are you and what are you up to?"

He asked if I'd called Bama. I told him no. I decided to tell him about the plan.

"Come on T.K. You guys are as likely to end up in jail as you are to snatch Angel. Why don't you let me call Bama? Maybe you can get a court order, do something legal for a change. It might take a few days, but maybe he can grease the wheels."

"I think she'd be gone before the ink was dry on the request. Mr. Mustapha seems to have some friends with juice."

I told him about the mysterious doctor.

"Bad shit. Even more reason to lay low, let the wheels of justice grind. Sunny's right. You guys are an easy target. You'll never get out of Biscayne Bay."

"I hope you're wrong, Frank. In Miami, the wheels may be grinding to a halt. If we miss a shot at Angel, she could be on a plane to L.A. before breakfast. Or worse yet, gator bait at some exclusive country club golf course. I just don't see any options and Fritz is getting very impatient. I don't want to be in his way if he decides to use that Sig."

"So that's it," he said. "And what time does this brilliant debacle go down?"

"Her first set at The Gilded Lady should be around eight-thirty. We'll be there."

"T.K., please try to talk some sense into the damned A Team. Mr. T is on vacation. At least get them to wait a day or two. I got friends up there. I can make something work." There was a plaintive note I'd never heard in Frank's voice.

"I'll try," I said, but I knew there was no use in it. We were primed. I couldn't stall Fritz. Stupid or not, it was going to happen.

I didn't tell the shock troops about the call. I was afraid it would make Fritz crazier than he already was. He spent half the day nuzzling the nine millimeter. Cleaning, staring down the barrel. It was a sick love dance. He was through waiting.
Chapter 20

I heard the clatter of the outboard about seven-thirty. Chris bid us on board and ferried us over to the dinghy dock. He wore a sandy full length canvas duster, like something from an old John Wayne western. It was still warm from the day, but I knew what he had in mind. The green Impala was waiting patiently in a spot on the street. Sunny cranked it up and we headed for The Gilded Lady. I suggested a detour down Ocean Boulevard to do a recon of Mr. Mustapha's compound. Sunny drove slowly, but there was no other option with the parade of expensive convertibles and limos cruising the strip.

M's place was truly magnificent. An old Art Deco from the fifties. Three stories. Boxy, but elegant. Coquina in shades of gold and crimson. The landscaping was a manicured jungle. The courtyard was huge. Brick pavers with a drive that circled a fountain spraying geysers dancing in the light. We could barely see the entrance from the street, but the mahogany doors gleamed and two gold knockers festooned each one. There were at least two guards that I could see. One at the iron gate and one stationed at the entrance to the house. There was a black sedan parked in front of the steps. At a distance it looked like a Bentley. A chauffer in livery leaned against the side, quietly polishing the chrome door handles. I wasn't counting him, but I was sure the other two were well armed. Angel wasn't coming out of there until Mustapha was ready. No way we'd make it past the sidewalk. At least I'd convinced Fritz to leave the Sig on KAMALA.

Sunny turned right on 11th and parked in a space on the street not far from the old theater. It was perfect. She could see the front doors of The Gilded Lady. When we came out with Angel, the car would be at the curb in a minute or less.

The music was flooding onto the street. It was a Friday night crowd, loud, energetic, and eager for a taste of the writhing flesh. Fritz paid the cover for all of us. The fee had gone up. "Top notch talent. You won't be sorry," the bouncer told us and grinned. We took the table near the back where we could hide in the shadows until Mission Impossible was launched. I looked around for Tom Cruise, but he must have had a previous engagement.

Our timing was on the money. Alicia had just left the stage. Her body glistened as she made the rounds to collect her tribute. She shook her mob of red hair at all of the right times and laughed at the bad jokes and crude comments. She doled out the expected kisses and endured the adventurous pats on the ass from her enthralled audience. She had earned her money.

The disembodied voice on the P.A. boomed. "And now for her first set, sent from heaven itself. The most beautiful, most voluptuous, most willing lady on the planet. Yes, gentlemen. It's Angel, a veritable goddess without wings."

A drum pounded and the bass guitar picked up the beat. It crawled into my ears and vibrated with a hellish rhythm. There was a wailing that sounded like the howl of a thousand banshees. I didn't recognize the music, but the intent was clear. It was pure sex. I saw a glass of blue liquid sitting on the bar at the back of the stage. A willowy figure took a deep slug, caressed her long blond curls, and was consumed by the beat. She was long, almost lanky, pulsing and breathing sensuality with every move. The six inch heels made her a naked Amazon, ready to suck the life out of any male who dared worship her.

It was a slow, serpentine prance into the spotlight. The lasers picked up every mound and curve in a staccato of color. Her lips were painted stoplight red. The thick eye shadow was Bahamas blue and the charcoal liner crept from the corners of her eyes and turned upward in a graceful arc. She seemed to stumble a bit, and her pupils were somewhat dilated. The black ribbon encircled her neck. She raised her left hand and placed a red claw around the brass pole. Then she put a fingertip to her lips and traced a line down her belly to the netherworld between her legs. The snake on her forearm seemed ready to hiss and strike from its curl on the vicious dagger. The word "death" was barely visible, but it was all too real.

My face felt hot and single embarrassment crept up my spine. Was the siren on stage the innocent child I held when she was afraid, comforted when she wept and followed through every misstep she'd ever made? I looked at Fritz. He was a statue in some perverted funhouse. His face held a ghostly pallor, and his lips hung slightly apart as though words had suddenly become lost things.

She sauntered onto the apron of the stage and touched her breasts. She pulled one to her mouth and licked the nipple, smiling alluringly at the wild boys sitting in the front row. Then she raised one finger and shook it at them. "No," she seemed to say, "maybe later." She pointed at the sweet vee between her legs and began to grind.

I turned to Fritz, but he was out of his chair and headed for the stage. The music continued to pump, but she suddenly stopped and stood upright. I thought I saw her red lips form the word "Daddy".

Fritz reached the stage and offered his hand. She hesitated for a moment, then took it in hers. He helped her down and pulled her toward our table. Chris was already up and out of the duster. The bouncer bolted at us, but Chris threw a chair in his path. He tripped and sprawled to the floor. Chris wrapped the duster around Angel's naked body. She shed the plastic heels and together we rushed for the door.

The doorman had his back turned, warning an obnoxious drunk to keep his hands off his favorite beauty. We were out before he noticed. The door closed behind us. I looked for Sunny, but I froze when I saw what stood before us. Three men blocking our path to the street. No surprise on the left. It was Angelo, his shoulders bowed, feet slightly apart, looking like a prizefighter eager for a first-round knockout. In the middle was M. He was as broad as I thought. His simian features grinned. There was a trace of spittle on the lower lip of his cruel mouth. It was the third man who railed me. All six-foot-seven of Bama Baker. Frank's linebacker, his savior and our roadblock to freedom. His coat was pulled back and the butt of his Glock protruded from the holster at his belt. We were no match for them. Angel staggered and whimpered. Chris and Fritz held her up as her father whispered vainly not to be afraid. My mind spun as I scanned the street for Sunny and a quick escape route.

"Okay, y'all, we gonna get in the white limo in that spot on the right. We gonna do it quietly and without any hassle. Otherwise, I may have to call on my ol' friend." It was Rhett Butler all over again, but now the gentile accent threatened with quiet menace. Bama put his hand on the Glock and offered the sweet smile you might expect from a well raised southern boy. M glared while Angelo twitched. His face said he hoped we wouldn't comply.

"I don't understand, Bama," I said.

"You just wouldn't, Doc. Very simple really. It's all about money and pussy and Mr. M gets me plenty of both. I'm a happy boy. I want to stay that way. This ain't no damned negotiation. Get in the car."

He lifted the automatic out of his holster, slid the chamber back, and held it menacingly at his side.

I faked a turn toward the limo and dove at his knees. He screamed and buckled, crumbling on top of me. I tried to get my arm around his gun hand. Chris had released Angel and gone to his pocket. A small canister that looked like breath spray was in Angelo's face. Mace. Angelo howled and put his fists to his eyes. He coughed and writhed on the pavement. With his two thugs disabled Mustapha decided it was better to live to fight another day. He bolted into the club and the bouncer slammed the door behind him.

It was over for Angelo. Sunny finally screeched up and Fritz dragged Angel to the open door of the Impala. Bama and I still struggled, but it was a battle I would lose. He twisted me around and pounced on my belly. Then he rammed one large fist into my face. The blood came instantly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chris moving toward the hulk on top of me. Suddenly he froze. The Glock was shoved halfway up my nose.

"Okay, smart boy. You damned professors think you got it all figured out. Fuck that shit. I ain't goin' down yet, but if I got to, I'm gonna take your sorry ass with me."

I knew there was a shell in the chamber. A gentle pull on the trigger and my head would be in bits and pieces. The sweat dripped off his brow and mingled with mine. The blood ran in my mouth and slimed my throat. I began to shake.

A voice thundered behind me. "Drop it, Bama. It's over. Don't add murder to the list of charges. Don't make me do this. You might even beat it. Decorated cop and all that shit. Lay the weapon on the sidewalk." Bama kept the barrel pressed into my face and turned. Then he smiled.

"You won't, Frank," he said sweetly. "We go back too far. You owe me, Buddy. Don't forget that damned junkie in the alley. I had your back. Now you've got mine. M's got de money. Nice little hideaway in the Bahamas for you, Alicia and the kids. No more scraping and listening to the bullshit politicians. Think about it, Buddy."

"Come on, Bama. Drop it." There was mournful lilt in his voice. The broken linebacker looked at me and laughed.

"I think this world gonna get along fine with one less candy assed professor." He pushed the steel harder into my face. There was an explosion. Blood and brains rained down into my matted hair and ran into my eyes. Bama's hand went slack and his eyes rolled. His huge body came crashing down on mine. I gasped for breath and wrestled myself from under the bleeding hulk.

Frank's arm dropped. He stepped over to the body and placed his foot on Bama's wrist. Then he kicked the Glock away. He knelt over the body and checked the pulse at the neck. He was crying.

"Get the hell out of here," he said, "I'll take care of this shit."

Chris helped me into the car and Sunny hit the gas. We were back at the anchorage in a matter of minutes. We piled into the Avon and Chris dropped us at KAMALA. The Universal rumbled. We motored back to the ICW. As we turned south, I saw the red running lights of a Coast Guard Patrol Boat plowing gracefully fifty yards off our stern.
Chapter 21

Sunny took Angel below. She doused a towel and washed Angel's body from head to toe, removing the siren's makeup. Then she dressed her in an old pair of pajamas. She cut the ribbon from her neck and threw it into the trash. The puncture wounds glared at us. The sleeve of the fabric covered the hellish tattoo. They sat on the settee, Sunny with her arm around Angel's shoulders. She cried and Sunny whispered in her ear. Angel shook for a moment and wailed, but the noise grew distant and then it was gone. She lay down with her head in Sunny's lap. Sunny gently lifted the bangs off her forehead and stroked her brow. In a minute Angel was asleep. Her face was that of the little girl we had held and tried so desperately to protect.

Fritz and Chris sat wordlessly in the cockpit, scanning the water for any sign of pursuit. Fritz had pulled out the Sig and Chris cradled my Taurus 38. God forbid that we'd need them. I pushed the diesel up to 2800 RPM. It gave us only another half-knot, but KAMALA somehow knew we needed to move. We entered Biscayne Bay and continued down Hawk Channel. The night was peaceful. The phosphorus rose against the hull and sparkled in the moonlight. I heard a couple of dolphins sound beside the boat. "Good luck," I thought. I hoped it was more than just an old sailor's superstition. We ran throughout the night. I heard Angel's deep sighs and the frightened words of some hideous nightmare, but Sunny was there. She cooed and petted the lost child. Angel clung to her and slept.

About ten we were all exhausted. We ducked behind Rodrigues Key and anchored. The Coast Guard Patrol had disappeared around 3 A.M. We didn't want to use the VHF in case someone was monitoring transmissions, but Fritz called his favorite Lieutenant on the cell and thanked him for the escort. He assured us he could be back on point within two hours or less if necessary.

We all slept for a couple of hours. Sunny stayed with Angel, refusing Fritz's offer to take the watch over his damaged daughter. Soon we were under way again. The breeze had freshened from the southeast. Chris hoisted the main. We unfurled the jib and sailed on a close reach toward Key West. We left Boot Key to starboard about sunset and continued down the channel. I half expected a Donzi with triple 200 HP outboards and a half-dozen thugs with Uzi's to pull up beside us and pepper our hull with a spray of fire, but it didn't happen. I silently thanked the Lieutenant for the coasties' presence in the early morning hours of our escape.

We sailed all night and just after sunrise we pulled into Land's End. Fritz gathered Angel and headed down the dock to NO DECISIONS. He protested when Sunny tried to go with him. "She's my baby. It will be okay. I'll call you if I need you."

Chris stayed on board. I tried to get him to stay for a few days, but he said he had to get back to work. Sunny promised to take him to Miami the next day in the old Saab. She picked him up the next morning. They deflated the old Avon, dismounted the outboard and threw them in the back seat. They were off.

I was worried about Frank. "I'll take care of this," he had said. But how the hell was he going to do that? A dead cop, a pimp who was connected, a detective out of his jurisdiction. It all added up to one hell of a lot of trouble. I hoped he had the friends he thought he had. I called his office, but the sergeant told me rather curtly that he was on personal leave, strictly incognito, and would be until further notice. I left a number, but I knew he had it.

I walked down the dock to gather my Miami Herald. The headlines shouted through the window in 24 point type. "OFFICER SHOT. DRUG LORD ARRESTED." The sub-head read "Key West Detective Cracks Case." I put four quarters in the slot and snatched the paper. Back on KAMALA, I spread the pages on the table, poured a shot of Jameson, and began to read.

Key West Detective Frank Beamon had traced a drug business operating out of a chain of gentlemen's clubs up and down the east coast. Members of the Miami Police force had been involved in the cover and distribution of a liquid opium derivative. The owner of The Gilded Lady, one Mustapha Maxim, had been apprehended with several containers of the illegal substance in the trunk of a limo registered in his name. He was arrested, but spent less than twenty-four hours in jail. Bail was set at $500,000, but it was posted almost immediately. He was, however, restricted to his residence on Ocean Boulevard. Apparently, the FBI had also been investigating Mr. Mustapha Maxim for income tax evasion. It promised to be a long slog for our simian friend. The shooting of the police officer, Thomas T. Baker, was still under investigation. However, preliminary findings indicated that the Key West detective had fired in self-defense. Police were looking for a white male, six feet tall, with black hair and brown eyes, Angelo Joseph Antonelli, in connection with the inquiry. There was a composite police sketch of Angelo. It actually looked a lot like him. The article ended with the standard plea for pertinent information from the public.

Except for the part about Frank, it sounded good to me. Maybe they could convict the bastard M and put him in a place where he couldn't get to us. At the very least, it would keep him busy for quite a while. I could still feel the cold barrel of Bama's Glock shoved halfway up my nose. Too damned close. It made my guts churn.

Sunny got back from Miami late in the afternoon. The two of us sat in the cockpit and savored a cabernet I'd been saving for a special occasion. This was it. The Musketeers had been lucky and we knew it. Angel was going back to rehab. Fritz had put the Sig away. Chris was safe in Miami.

Sunny inched over to me and put her hand on my neck. "Too many people, too much excitement," she whispered. "Maybe time for some serious relaxation, Ghostcatcher." I hated that word, but coming from her it didn't sound half bad. She placed her brown leg over mine and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"Too warm up here," she said. "I'll bet it's cooler below, but we might have to take something off to get really comfortable."

I liked that idea a lot.
Chapter 22

Buffett's Roundtable had reconvened at the Parrot. Whipsaw, Miss Julianne, Louis, Tracy, and some of the other reprobates that made Key West the weird place it was. Even Fritz had showed up. Everyone was eager to hear the whole tale. I kept my mouth shut and let Fritz take the lead. He was honest, but a lot of the details went missing. I wasn't about to supply them. Fritz told the table that Angel was back in rehab. She was good physically and her attitude was positive. Sunny was working the bar. Jack was thrilled to see her back. Beer sales had been off while she was out of town and the laughter quotient was down considerably.

Every day the Miami Herald had new information. A different photo of Frank was featured in every article. He'd become a somewhat dubious local hero. I still hadn't heard anything from him, but I knew I would when he was ready. There were file photos of Bama and a sidebar about his commendations and fall from grace. The evidence was piling up. Another public servant and defender of the peace gone bad.

The judge had revoked the bail of Mr. Mustapha Maxim, but he had vanished. His bank accounts were empty and it was reported by an anonymous source that he kept large amounts of cash on hand. There was still no trace of Angelo. The police had searched the mansion at South Beach and found several milk jugs of a "mysterious illegal substance." There were also ten IV bags of blood stored in the refrigerator, but analysis had not been completed. One of the tabloids had flashed the headline, "Vampire Cult Operating in Miami." From what I knew, it was fairly accurate. The Gilded Lady was closed pending further investigation and an unnamed witness had come forward with information pertaining to the case. I figured they'd have M shortly unless he was in Venezuela enjoying the good life.

I got an email from Chris saying he was returning to Key West and Land's End on the first of the month. I offered to help him move FOXES' LAIR when he was ready.

Everything was back to normal, or so I thought.

On the way back to the dock, I stopped by the post office to retrieve the circulars and miscellaneous junk mail that usually cluttered my box. There was a small padded manila envelope with my name and address printed in a child's scrawl.

When I got back to KAMALA, I deposited the junk in the garbage and slit open the envelope. It contained a CD case with a note in the same childish script. "Thought you might like this."

I pushed the power button on the Jensen and slid the disc into the slot. It was an old jazz standard from the late thirties, still popular. My mother played it when I was a boy. Maybe Peggy Lee, I thought, trilling, "I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places."

My guts churned.

I thought about calling Sunny and Fritz, but I didn't want to worry them needlessly. Besides, I needed to think. I poured a double shot of Jameson and sat in the darkness. My mind tumbled frantically until sleep finally overtook me.
Chapter 23

The phone rang early the next morning. Sunny's words were slurred.

"No swim this morning. Not feeling well. Need you. Come by the apartment as soon as you get the chance. Love you no matter what." I heard the phone slam into its cradle. She was gone.

Sunny was usually as healthy as the proverbial horse. Maybe a cold once in a while. I'd never known her to drink in the morning. No drugs. She never missed her swim and after leaving the Parrot around two, she always slept until ten or so. It was eight-thirty, much too early for her to be stirring. Still, if she was sick, maybe something had interrupted her sleep. Some kind of sinus crap had been going around. She might have picked it up at the bar. But I was uneasy. It was just too much unlike her and I didn't like the words. "Love you no matter what." What the hell did she mean by that?

I sat for a minute and took another sip of coffee. It was getting cold and so was I. The tune from the CD clawed at the corners of my mind. I shook my head violently and threw the dregs of my cup overboard. My ten speed was propped up against the piling. I could be there in fifteen minutes. She needed me. That was the only thing that mattered. I didn't want to overreact and I didn't want to be downright stupid, but something ugly was gnawing at me.

I went below and got the 38 from its hideout in the hanging locker. I popped open the cylinder and checked the five rounds. The shiny brass gleamed in the morning sun. I pulled back the hammer and locked it. Then I eased it back into position. Everything seemed fully functional. I tucked it into the small holster and secured it to my belt. I pulled it around to the small of my back. Then I slipped into a well worn nylon jacket, zipping it at the waist so it would ride low and stay closed.

Sunny was right. I'm no gun slinger, but I thought I could point and fire if I had to. God, I hoped I wouldn't.
Chapter 24

I parked the bike on the sidewalk and mounted the steps to Sunny's door. I was about to knock when the hinges squeaked. I saw Angelo's face peering through the crack. There was a fresh scratch mark running over his cheek. He was grinning.

"You'll want to step inside slowly and quietly. Your girl's in the kitchen."

He had no weapon, but his chest was bowed up. He was hoping I'd make a false move.

Sunny was duct taped to a ladder back chair. There was a pair of panties stuffed in her mouth. She looked up with wild glassy eyes tearing at the corners and pleading. A large glass of blue liquid sat on the table next to her. An indigo trail dribbled down her chin. M was standing next to her with the chrome barrel of a Beretta nine millimeter pressed into her cheek.

"Frisk him."

Angelo stared at M and shook his head.

"No need," he said.

"Frisk him, stupid." M's voice was loud and commanding.

I raised my arms and spread my legs. Angelo did a quick pat down, but his hands didn't go all the way around my back. M pointed to the chair pulled back from the table. I sat down, careful not to bump the Taurus against the slats of the wooden back.

Sunny's right eye was blackened. There was an open cut over her left. It trickled blood mixed with sweat. Flecks of pink and traces of spit covered her face. Her blouse was torn down the front exposing one breast. I could see crimson bite marks just above the nipple. She was naked below the waist. Her legs were red and already purple around the thighs. There was a plastic bag of fresh blood on the table. I could see the marks left by the needle in her jugular.

They had shaved her head. A pile of beautiful golden brown locks draped her lap. Bits of the rest were scattered on the floor and the table. Her scalp was scraped and raw where they'd yanked bits of the hair out by the roots. A pair of open scissors had been thrown on the tile. Mustapha's silk suit, usually immaculate, was disheveled and stained. Still he looked cool and in control in a primitive way. His eyes creeped out of his skull, gleaming in deep set darkness. The thin mouth was curled up into a frightening sneer. Seeing him standing beside her confirmed my earlier observation. His left arm was shorter than the other, but both were thick and cruel. She had fought, but the battle was over. She had lost.

"Your lady was a bit difficult. Sorry, but we had to convince her that our intentions were entirely dishonorable." M laughed at his own sick joke.

Angelo spoke. "You should have left well enough alone, Fleming. We were running a nice little game. The chick Angel. Another tramp. Not even a good lay. Wasn't worth your time. We were almost finished with her. Another couple of weeks and she wouldn't have bothered anyone anymore. Just like that damned roommate of hers. Brandy got the religion, gonna fix everything and see that the monsters were locked back in their stinking dens. Too damned bad it didn't happen. Poor baby just didn't make it." He shook his head in mock sadness and made a clicking sound with his tongue.

Mustapha still had the Beretta to Sunny's head. I couldn't reach the Taurus in time to stop his trigger finger. If I went for Angelo, Sunny would be dead before I took a step. I looked at her one more time. My smart, tough, lovely lady, defiled by a couple of demented bastards. Her face twitched and she focused for one instant on my eyes. There was something there. A defiance. A final stand.

"In case you're wondering, we didn't fuck her yet. We're gonna give you a little treat, Doc," M snarled. "Angelo's gonna cram it up your sweet lady's ass and you're gonna get to watch. Then you're both gonna disappear without a trace. A little trip out to the Gulf Stream and a swim with a cinder block or two chained to your neck. The fish'll love it. I'll deal with that bitch, Angel, later."

In an instant, dark things crawled into my mind. Death seemed to be lurking. No, it was here. I flashed to the body of Brandy, the chunks of flesh missing from her face. Her eyes were open and she was staring at me, accusing, begging for one more chance to suck the breath of a girl full of ambition, energy and a lust for life. But the grisly end was almost here. I would be responsible for two more deaths, Sunny's . . . and mine.

Angelo rubbed his crotch and slowly walked toward her. The eyes were closed, her chin collapsed on her chest. I thought she had passed out. M yanked the duct tape from her legs. She didn't flinch as the adhesive snatched at her skin. Angelo had dropped his zipper and cradled his cock in his hand. He stepped up to her and lifted her head. Then he slapped her face. He was going to hurt her one more time, but she didn't stir.

My gut was empty. I was frozen to the chair. They could kill me, but I wasn't going to watch this final abomination.

"Come on, Baby,' Angelo cooed, "I want you awake so you can enjoy the rush." He pointed to the scratch mark on his cheek. "You're gonna pay for this."

"I'm gonna shove this fat cock up where the sun don't shine. You're gonna squeal like a pig and beg for more."

Her left foot came up, toes pointed, and penetrated deep into his balls. He screeched and fell to his knees. My hand went to my back. I grabbed the butt of the 38 and fired a wild shot. It hit M in the right shoulder. He dropped the Beretta and clutched the silk fabric of his coat. A circle of red immediately surrounded the hole. He growled and reached for Sunny's neck. I focused the barrel on his forehead and dared him to move. I kicked the Beretta under the refrigerator. Angelo writhed on the floor.

I pulled the panties out of Sunny's mouth. She gasped and the saliva ran down her chin. I looked at her and my mind howled. I stared at Mustapha. He gasped through clenched teeth, but there was a sickly smile on his lips. I hesitated, then fired again and put a slug in M's guts. He hit the floor, clutching his belly and groaning like a wounded animal. I went back to Angelo. I pressed the Taurus against his temple. His eyes popped open and a violent shudder rifled through his body. I pressed harder and he began to whimper. I felt the warm sweat of my finger against the trigger. I rolled my shoulders and started to pull.

"Don't do it, Doc. I never touched her. It was M. He made me do it. We got money. Please." It was the whining of a child, but he was a man. And I was about to spread his brains all over the carpet.

I heard Sunny whisper. "T.K., look at me." I turned my head. "Not pretty, I know, but I'll heal. But you won't if you pull that trigger. You'll never escape the darkness. It will haunt you until hell freezes over. Call the cops. We got them. That's all that matters."

I wanted to kill him . . . wanted to rid the world of the ugly and diseased things he represented. But it wouldn't work. They'd come back . . . and perhaps I'd be one of them.

I eased the barrel off his head. I stood. My eyes dared him to move. He stayed on the floor, now sobbing. I looked at him again, prostrate on the floor, helpless, defenseless, like some of his victims. I cocked my leg and kicked him in the face. I heard a snap and his beautiful nose twisted. The blood and snot flooded out of his nostrils.

I made the call. Then I took the rest of the tape off of Sunny and wrapped a blanket around her. I held her and stroked her while she wept. Frank was there in minutes.
Chapter 25

There wasn't much of an investigation. The evidence the cops had gathered in Miami coupled with the assault on Sunny made things simple and damning. Mustapha and Angelo both recovered. They were in custody at Key West's lovely facilities on Stock Island. No bail this time.

Frank had confiscated the Taurus as evidence, but when I asked him if I could take Sunny out of town for a week or so, he said, "Sure," and gave me the 38 in case I needed it again.

The black was fading from Sunny's eye and most of the cuts and bruises had begun to disappear. Her hair was growing. At first it looked like the down on a baby duck's back. She made jokes about it, but it was soft and fluffy, sexy in a way.

We left Land's End around 6 P.M. and rounded Fleming Key with the sun burning a brilliant orange in the western sky. We cleared the Northwest Channel by eight and were under sail in the Gulf. The wind was 10-12 knots on the beam, settling KAMALA into the groove she loves best. The swells were gentle and the rhythm soothed two sailors with ugly memories that begged to be ignored, if not forgotten. After a couple of glasses of Cabernet, Sunny yawned and vanished below. I set the autopilot and propped my feet on the bench.

I had almost killed a man, even two. The bastards deserved it. Still, I was frightened. Not of them. They would likely be in some prison until they wasted away to dust. It was me I was scared of. Was that a thing I could do again? If Sunny hadn't spoken, would the cops have discovered me standing over their lifeless bodies with a gun in my hand? What would that have accomplished? I would be a murderer, plain and simple, a savage. There's no other name for it.

I stepped quietly below. Sunny was deep into a peaceful sleep. I retrieved the Taurus from its hiding place and went back into the cockpit. The moon played with the silvery finish on the revolver. I held it in my hand. There was a sense of reassurance. It had saved our lives. Then I remembered Sunny's words, "T.K. You're a lover, not a fighter." I wasn't sure, but I wanted it to be true. I stood and hurled the firearm as far as I could. I heard it splash into the deep waters of the Gulf. It was gone.

We made our way on up to the Barron River and turned to starboard. In a couple of hours we were in Everglades City. With its fifties' ambiance, it seemed like a good place to rest and tell each other the lies we needed to hear. We tied up at the famous Rod and Gun Club, where a series of presidents and other dignitaries had been regular guests. We spent a couple of days walking and talking, then it was up to Marco Island. A pleasant marina and some fine sea food.

We were back at Land's End before the week was out. Not exactly healed, but the process had at least started.

The trials were short. I was called to testify. I told them what I knew, but it really didn't make much difference. The jury went pale and speechless as they heard tales from several of the girls who had finally escaped the terror. No death penalty for either, but Mustapha and Angelo have seen blue sky for the last time unless they glimpsed it from the exercise yard.

Sunny went back to the Parrot. She still sells plenty of beer and the boys still love her ass. She moved onto KAMALA with me. She still talks in her sleep, cries out sometimes. I hold her and whisper into her ear. It works most of the time.

Chris is back, working at West Marine and helping hapless sailors solve the mysteries of boat maintenance. Angel is at The Strip Search. Tracy keeps an eye on her. Fritz takes his baby to AA meetings at the mission on Mondays and Thursdays. She's doing okay.

Buffett's Roundtable still meets once a week. The regular crowd and a few recent inductees. It's a bit more subdued, but you'll still know us. We'll be the ones laughing.

####

About the author:

Karl Tutt is a licensed captain, veteran cruiser, former sailing instructor, and author of sailing articles for several national publications. He lives in Florida and teaches English in a dropout prevention program.

