Read Online Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories by Michael Haskins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Haskins
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am.” He spoke into the darkness.
“A spook.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Are you with …”
“No,” he cut me off. “I’m supposed to be here, she’s supposed to be here, and Cluny is here.”
“Cluny is the Limey.”
“Yes and I think he’s still here.”
“Why?”
“Are you going to help me?”
“Do what?”
“Whatever it takes,” the Californian idioms were gone.
“If I can help you find him, I will, but I’m not gonna take him down,” I turned to face him. “The DEA and Colombians are here looking for him, too.”
“They don’t think he’s here, I do.”
“And that’s because?”
“He always talked to Gabriela about Key West and how he liked it, his home away from home.” He paused and stared across the bight. “He wasn’t delivering drugs to Key West for sale.
The drugs came here by boat to be transported to Miami. It’s slower but a safer route.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“You see that fishing boat?” he pointed to the 40-foot boat tied off at the seawall. “I bet in the daylight you can see a flag pole in the back yard, and a tree too. And I’ll bet you the pole’s flying the Union Jack.”
All the homes at the end section of Hilton Haven are walled in, for privacy. But, he was right, I had seen the flag poll.
“I haven’t seen a flag on the pole.”
“Whoever lives there is a part-time resident, right?”
“Yeah, who likes to party after fishing,” I checked my watch it was almost 3 a.m.
He walked to his backpack and pulled out a large pair of binoculars. He looked toward the fishing boat, adjusting the binoculars.
“There are lights on in the house and people in the yard,” he kept staring across the bight to the seawall dock. “What time is it?”
“Three a.m. How can you see across there?”
“Night-vision goggles,” he handed them to me.
Twenty years ago, night-vision goggles were bulky; this pair wasn’t much larger than the binoculars I had on board. I looked across the bight and, as my eyes adjusted to the strangeness, I saw movement by the back gate and a dim light in one window.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I scanned the seawall before giving the binoculars back.
“They’ve moved the drugs off the boat and I bet they’re loading a truck right now,” he stared through the binoculars toward the house.
“Let’s call …”
“No,” he almost yelled through clenched teeth. “I don’t want the Colombians to get him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t trust them,” he turned to me, the binoculars hung at his side. “She didn’t trust a lot of them and I don’t know which ones are here.”
“I don’t know what my
jacket
said about me,” I sipped my warm beer, “but I was
never
an operative. I didn’t take people down.”
In the darkness, his smile was brighter than it should have been.
“Yeah, you were listed as a fellow traveler with the guerrillas but,” he smiled again, “you had no problem turning in drug runners. Cluny is a drug runner and a murderer.”
“We don’t know how many are there or how well armed they are.”
“You still have your Glock?”
“Down below.”
“And I’ve got mine and we have surprise on our side.”
“The odds are on their side.”
“You wanna let ‘em get away?”
“No.”
“Then let’s do something. Damn it, you found her, you saw what he did.”
Staring into the night, I saw her again, as I turned her over in the water and realized how young she was. My insides trembled and I wondered why I felt this attachment to someone I had never known.
“Are people still in the yard?”
He looked through the binoculars and nodded.
“Listen to my idea.”
“Go ahead.”
“We dinghy over to the cut and get on the road. From there, we can see the truck pull out. We ID it, license plate, color, whatever and I call the chief of police, he’s a friend.”
“The Colombians still get them.”
“If Cluny’s smart, he isn’t going to travel with the
“A spook.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Are you with …”
“No,” he cut me off. “I’m supposed to be here, she’s supposed to be here, and Cluny is here.”
“Cluny is the Limey.”
“Yes and I think he’s still here.”
“Why?”
“Are you going to help me?”
“Do what?”
“Whatever it takes,” the Californian idioms were gone.
“If I can help you find him, I will, but I’m not gonna take him down,” I turned to face him. “The DEA and Colombians are here looking for him, too.”
“They don’t think he’s here, I do.”
“And that’s because?”
“He always talked to Gabriela about Key West and how he liked it, his home away from home.” He paused and stared across the bight. “He wasn’t delivering drugs to Key West for sale.
The drugs came here by boat to be transported to Miami. It’s slower but a safer route.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“You see that fishing boat?” he pointed to the 40-foot boat tied off at the seawall. “I bet in the daylight you can see a flag pole in the back yard, and a tree too. And I’ll bet you the pole’s flying the Union Jack.”
All the homes at the end section of Hilton Haven are walled in, for privacy. But, he was right, I had seen the flag poll.
“I haven’t seen a flag on the pole.”
“Whoever lives there is a part-time resident, right?”
“Yeah, who likes to party after fishing,” I checked my watch it was almost 3 a.m.
He walked to his backpack and pulled out a large pair of binoculars. He looked toward the fishing boat, adjusting the binoculars.
“There are lights on in the house and people in the yard,” he kept staring across the bight to the seawall dock. “What time is it?”
“Three a.m. How can you see across there?”
“Night-vision goggles,” he handed them to me.
Twenty years ago, night-vision goggles were bulky; this pair wasn’t much larger than the binoculars I had on board. I looked across the bight and, as my eyes adjusted to the strangeness, I saw movement by the back gate and a dim light in one window.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I scanned the seawall before giving the binoculars back.
“They’ve moved the drugs off the boat and I bet they’re loading a truck right now,” he stared through the binoculars toward the house.
“Let’s call …”
“No,” he almost yelled through clenched teeth. “I don’t want the Colombians to get him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t trust them,” he turned to me, the binoculars hung at his side. “She didn’t trust a lot of them and I don’t know which ones are here.”
“I don’t know what my
jacket
said about me,” I sipped my warm beer, “but I was
never
an operative. I didn’t take people down.”
In the darkness, his smile was brighter than it should have been.
“Yeah, you were listed as a fellow traveler with the guerrillas but,” he smiled again, “you had no problem turning in drug runners. Cluny is a drug runner and a murderer.”
“We don’t know how many are there or how well armed they are.”
“You still have your Glock?”
“Down below.”
“And I’ve got mine and we have surprise on our side.”
“The odds are on their side.”
“You wanna let ‘em get away?”
“No.”
“Then let’s do something. Damn it, you found her, you saw what he did.”
Staring into the night, I saw her again, as I turned her over in the water and realized how young she was. My insides trembled and I wondered why I felt this attachment to someone I had never known.
“Are people still in the yard?”
He looked through the binoculars and nodded.
“Listen to my idea.”
“Go ahead.”
“We dinghy over to the cut and get on the road. From there, we can see the truck pull out. We ID it, license plate, color, whatever and I call the chief of police, he’s a friend.”
“The Colombians still get them.”
“If Cluny’s smart, he isn’t going to travel with the
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