Read Online Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories by Michael Haskins - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Haskins
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began playing at 10:30 p.m. and was not a surfer band, contrary to its name. They had a pretty good repertoire of classic rock hits, but I enjoyed their original music the most. It was a mixture of folk and rock and Coco Joe was the lead singer.
He wanted to see the Fenian Bastard, so Padre Thomas, Coco Joe, and I taxied to the marina at 2 a.m. The rest of the band went to Duval Street to explore the nightlife.
Street light reflection, from North Roosevelt Boulevard, streaked across the black water and highlighted the marina’s docks; a steady stream of traffic hummed along the four lanes. A full moon hung in the cloudless sky, surrounded by a protective army of stars, and a soft wind rippled the bight. I gave Coco Joe a tour down below, brought out three Mexican
Bohemia
beers, and we sat in the dim lit cockpit, facing the Gulf of Mexico.
“What are the lights out there?” Coco Joe pointed toward the cut where a few small windows radiated light.
“To the left is Navy housing,” I tasted the beer. “Over there,” I pointed right, “is Hilton Haven, where homes begin around a million.”
He whistled at the price. “So you got the same water view, but for a lot less dough. Way to go, dude.”
“I got the view, but they have the land.”
The homes on Hilton Haven have seawall docks. One home had a pontoon boat tied off to its seawall. A little further, a 40-foot fishing boat was tied off to a dark seawall.
Padre Thomas used his empty beer bottle for an ashtray.
“A girl was murdered over there less than twenty-four hours ago,” Padre Thomas’ tone was somber as he looked across to the homes on Hilton Haven. “They killed her somewhere over there.” He pointed into the dimness.
Coco Joe and I remained silent and finally Padre Thomas went below and brought us beers we didn’t need.
He lit another Camel and exhaled smoke into the breeze. Coco Joe didn’t smoke, what do you expect from a Southern California boy, but he didn’t complain about the cigarette or cigar. His first beer remained mostly full.
“Padre Thomas told me about his vision,” he sipped a little of the
Bohemia
and waited for my reply.
“You know about his angles?” I took a long swallow of my beer.
“I was in Guatemala when the visions first started. Do you believe him?”
“Do you?’
“I find it easier to explain what he knows from his visions, if I believe him.”
He stood and walked to the stern of the boat. “I want to be a skeptic,” he stared across the bight, “because it seems to be the politically correct thing to do,” he laughed. “I guess no one has looked on the back of their money recently.”
“He doesn’t see God, he sees angels.” I tossed my cigar butt into the bight.Padre Thomas had fallen asleep, while we talked, and a soft snore belched from his lips. I stuffed his burning cigarette into a beer bottle and walked to Coco Joe, who was laughing to himself.
“Look at him,” he pointed to Thomas. “If angels weren’t looking out for him, do you think he’d survive?”
“I don’t know why any of us survive.”
“Maybe we all have angels.”
“Maybe.”
Coco Joe stared across the bight, intent on seeing something, while Thomas continued to snore.
“I need your help,” he said, the California youthfulness gone from his voice. “I’ve read your jacket.”
With those few words, I was taken back to a life I thought I’d left behind; a life of trying to avoid my government’s intimidation as I traveled civil-war-torn Central America as a journalist. I turned and looked at him with his sun-bleached curly hair and peach skinned face. I didn’t answer.
A small outboard engine twittered from the other side of the cut. Street traffic was sporadic, but the sound of humming tires echoed off the night water.
“I worked with Gabriela,” he looked across to Hilton Haven. “Someone over there killed her and I want to take him down.”
“Who are you? Really?”
“You know who I am, what I
He wanted to see the Fenian Bastard, so Padre Thomas, Coco Joe, and I taxied to the marina at 2 a.m. The rest of the band went to Duval Street to explore the nightlife.
Street light reflection, from North Roosevelt Boulevard, streaked across the black water and highlighted the marina’s docks; a steady stream of traffic hummed along the four lanes. A full moon hung in the cloudless sky, surrounded by a protective army of stars, and a soft wind rippled the bight. I gave Coco Joe a tour down below, brought out three Mexican
Bohemia
beers, and we sat in the dim lit cockpit, facing the Gulf of Mexico.
“What are the lights out there?” Coco Joe pointed toward the cut where a few small windows radiated light.
“To the left is Navy housing,” I tasted the beer. “Over there,” I pointed right, “is Hilton Haven, where homes begin around a million.”
He whistled at the price. “So you got the same water view, but for a lot less dough. Way to go, dude.”
“I got the view, but they have the land.”
The homes on Hilton Haven have seawall docks. One home had a pontoon boat tied off to its seawall. A little further, a 40-foot fishing boat was tied off to a dark seawall.
Padre Thomas used his empty beer bottle for an ashtray.
“A girl was murdered over there less than twenty-four hours ago,” Padre Thomas’ tone was somber as he looked across to the homes on Hilton Haven. “They killed her somewhere over there.” He pointed into the dimness.
Coco Joe and I remained silent and finally Padre Thomas went below and brought us beers we didn’t need.
He lit another Camel and exhaled smoke into the breeze. Coco Joe didn’t smoke, what do you expect from a Southern California boy, but he didn’t complain about the cigarette or cigar. His first beer remained mostly full.
“Padre Thomas told me about his vision,” he sipped a little of the
Bohemia
and waited for my reply.
“You know about his angles?” I took a long swallow of my beer.
“I was in Guatemala when the visions first started. Do you believe him?”
“Do you?’
“I find it easier to explain what he knows from his visions, if I believe him.”
He stood and walked to the stern of the boat. “I want to be a skeptic,” he stared across the bight, “because it seems to be the politically correct thing to do,” he laughed. “I guess no one has looked on the back of their money recently.”
“He doesn’t see God, he sees angels.” I tossed my cigar butt into the bight.Padre Thomas had fallen asleep, while we talked, and a soft snore belched from his lips. I stuffed his burning cigarette into a beer bottle and walked to Coco Joe, who was laughing to himself.
“Look at him,” he pointed to Thomas. “If angels weren’t looking out for him, do you think he’d survive?”
“I don’t know why any of us survive.”
“Maybe we all have angels.”
“Maybe.”
Coco Joe stared across the bight, intent on seeing something, while Thomas continued to snore.
“I need your help,” he said, the California youthfulness gone from his voice. “I’ve read your jacket.”
With those few words, I was taken back to a life I thought I’d left behind; a life of trying to avoid my government’s intimidation as I traveled civil-war-torn Central America as a journalist. I turned and looked at him with his sun-bleached curly hair and peach skinned face. I didn’t answer.
A small outboard engine twittered from the other side of the cut. Street traffic was sporadic, but the sound of humming tires echoed off the night water.
“I worked with Gabriela,” he looked across to Hilton Haven. “Someone over there killed her and I want to take him down.”
“Who are you? Really?”
“You know who I am, what I
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