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A Mad Mick Murphy
Mystery CHAPTER THREE A few days later, Bob Lynds called and asked me to meet him at the Tree Bar on the two hundred block of Duval Street. It was early but he said it was important. Bob has forgotten more about sailing than I will ever know. He is tall and lean, with long silver hair he keeps in a ponytail, smiling brown eyes and a contagious laugh. When local building contractors get in a pinch, they call him for finish work. He prices his service way above scale. Most of the time, he’s working on his classic wooden boat or sailing. Lu Kim, a young Korean-American with long silky-black hair, large chestnut eyes, and bronze skin, was behind the empty bar teasing Bob with a smile and feminine laugh, when I walked into the alley. The Tree Bar sits in an old brick-lined alley shaded by a large gumbo-limbo tree. Premium liquors fill the mirrored shelves and fresh squeezed citrus juices are used for mixed drinks. A sidewalk away from Duval Street, the bar is a respite from the crowded thoroughfare. The bar, often under attack by vehicle exhaust, loud obnoxious wanderers, and a tropical sun, was quiet and cool as I took my seat. Lu works the outdoor bar three afternoons a week and usually tended bar at Rick’s next door on the weekends. She tells customers she’s North Korean, but forgets to explain the north part comes from Franklin Lakes, New Jersey, where America parents raised her. Most first-time customers tell her she speaks English well and she thanks them. The tips on the weekends are outstanding. “Bloody Mary?” Lu said as I sat down. “Please.” I turned to Bob. “What’s so important?” “Lu might have stumbled onto something about who’s responsible for Tom.” Bob lit a cigar. He offered me one, I took it and he lit it with a lighter I had given him years ago. I lose four or five good cigar lighters a year, Bob has had only one since I’ve know him and it was a gift from me. Three days had passed since I found Tom beaten at the sail club. He remained in the intensive care at the hospital. Morales still hadn’t been able to talk to him and Richard had warned me that the medical reports were not good. And, neither was the criminal investigation’s progress. Lu slipped my bloody Mary in front of me, garnished with a large slice of lime and piece of celery. A beer delivery truck pulled into the loading zone and began taking full beer kegs to Rick’s. The dolly clinked and rattled when he returned with empty kegs. “I didn’t think about this until I was talking to Bob last night.” Lu’s bright eyes were a contrast to her sad expression. “We were talking about Tom and something clicked.” She had been behind the bar at Rick’s Saturday night, it was the early hours of Sunday morning, and three Cubans sat drinking shots of rum with beer chasers, celebrating. They were laughing and slapping each other on the back. They hardly noticed the petite Asian bartender and never thought she might be fluent in Spanish. “One of them asked me what time the Sunday paper came out,” she said. “I told him I wasn’t sure, and when I asked if he was going to be in it, they laughed and said ‘yes,’ but wouldn’t say what about.” It was busy at two in the morning, so she caught up with other customers, but kept hearing the loudness of the three men. “They kept laughing at how surprised this man was, but they always used derogatory words to describe him,” she frowned. “‘Son of a whore,’ those Cuban macho words, and they kept getting more vulgar as they drank.” “What made you think they were talking about Tom?” I finished my drink. “Well, they talked a lot about how the guy would never be pretty again, they fixed his face, and when I asked if one of them was going to be citizen of the day in the local daily, they laughed and one said, ‘No, we’ll make the front page.’” “And who made Sunday’s front page?” Bob blew smoke rings into the air. “Tom,” I said. “Do you know these guys?” “They’ve been in before. I think they’re from Miami or that neighborhood.” Lu wiped the bar with a damp rag, her petite body a beauty in motion. “From what I picked up in their conversations, they boat to Cuba once or twice a month.” “Fishermen?” “I doubt it, their hands were too soft. They spend a lot of time outdoors, but not doing anything as physical as fishing. Not for a living, anyway.” “Why do you think they meant Tom?” I said again, biting into a lime. “I make my living by judging people, Mick. I can tell the cheating wives and husbands before the first drink is finished; I know the big tippers and hustlers by their second drink,” she stopped in front of me, took my empty glass, and smiled, “and all the phonies as soon as they walk in the door.” “What do you make these guys out to be?” “Cruel,” she said without a smile. “Cowards, alone, bullies together.” Bob and I knocked the ash from our cigars and ordered another drink. “You wanna tell Richard?” Bob rolled his cigar. “He’d need more than Lu’s suspicion to go on.” I relit my cigar with Bob’s lighter. “Do we follow it up?” “From a distance.” “Because they’re dangerous?” “Cruel and dangerous,” I said. |