“I ordered two fish sandwiches,” Thomas put a cold beer in front of me. “You look hungry.”

By ordering food, Thomas didn’t have to pay for the beers, and he probably didn’t pay for the first two either, because the waitress would put it all on one bill. A bill that would come to me after Thomas left. It wasn’t the first time I’d allowed him to get beer, it wouldn’t be the last, and it never bothered me.

He lit Camel and pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket.

“You need this more than a beer,” he laughed and lit a match for me.

He was right. A cigar seemed to relax me more than a drink. Sailing the Florida Straits to Cuba can be a twelve-to-fourteen-hour trip without liquor, but it always required a few good cigars.

“Thank you.” I leaned into the match and lit the cigar. The Cuban roller that sells cigars at Schooner has a good five-dollar cigar.

“Is it true?” he said as I blew out the first thick smoke.

“Is what true?”

“That you have an idea who killed Tom.”

“Maybe.”

“’Maybe’ because you don’t want to talk about it, or ‘maybe’ because you’re not sure?”

“Not sure,” I said enjoying the cigar. “What are you getting at, Padre?”

The waitress delivered our two fish sandwiches. Three large pieces of dolphin – called mahi-mahi on the menu so the tourists wouldn’t think they were eating Flipper – surrounded with fries.

“I’m just thinking out loud what others are talking about.”

Bob had told me a couple of days before that people along the waterfront had already heard we had checked out some Cubans, but that was all they had. Lu’s name was never mentioned, and it would’ve been if the people spreading the rumors had a clue about her. Of course, by now, the rumors probably had us feeding the Cubans to the sharks and another Key West legend would be born. Maybe Michael McCloud would write a song about it in a year or two, and Jimmy Buffett would have another hit.

“What are you hearing, Padre?”

“Trash from the locals.” He bit into the sandwich.

He doused his fries in ketchup. I put hot sauce on the fish and fries, added salt and ketchup.

“But?” I joined him in eating.

“You know I have more reliable sources,” he said between bites.

“The angels?”

“Yeah,” he grinned. “Sometimes, Mick, I honestly think you believe me.”

“Sometimes I do, Padre, sometimes I do.”

We finished our sandwiches without talking. My cigar went out, I relit it and drank the last of my beer. The waitress walked through to check on us and I ordered two more beers as she took the empty plates.

“Sometimes is more than most people.” He lit a Camel. “If I told you that you were on the right scent, would it mean anything to you?”

I sat back in the seat and puffed on the cigar. He never looked away as he waited for my answer.

“I’m not a hound dog, Padre, I don’t hunt.”

“You’re looking for Tom’s killers. Isn’t that a hunt?”

“That is what the rumors say, but I’ve been working on my boat the last few days. I haven’t even been fishing.”

He sipped his beer and appeared a little nervous as he put the cigarette out. He looked into the bar and then out at the docks. Was he looking for his angels? I smiled with the thought, and it was probably the first time I’d smiled in the past ten days.

“The three Cubans you think did this, did it,” he said. He leaned closer to me. “They are bad people and will get away with it if you don’t do something.”

I was startled as I listened to him.

“How do you know this?” I bit down on the cigar. “Who is telling you these stories?”

Bob, Lu, Richard, Doug, and I are the only people to have any inkling on this and I doubt any of them talked to Padre Thomas, or anyone else.

“Maybe it was your guardian angel, maybe Tom’s.”

“I’d like to talk with Tom’s guardian angel.”

“Because Tom died?”

“Because he was murdered,” I said. “Some guardian angel.”

Thomas sighed and drank his beer. “You have to have faith, Mick.”

“In angels and a God that would let someone like Tom die the way he did?”

“Yes.” His pale blue eyes bearing down on me.

“Why?”

He laughed. “Once, an old Irish priest, Bishop Breslin, if my memory serves me, heard my confession and I told him I had my doubts about my calling because I couldn’t understand how God allowed horrible things to happen in the world. Why, I wanted to know, didn’t He stop them? You know what he told me?”

“God works in mysterious ways.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was expecting.” He lit another Camel. “Let me explain it in a way you might understand. Your first bike had training wheels, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Your father took the training wheels off one day, probably a summer afternoon, and held the bike and ran along as you pedaled, right?”

“How do you know this?”

“You’re middle class Boston, Mick, you all had first bikes and fathers and summer afternoons. He ran along with you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And at some point you looked and saw he’d let go and you were on your own.”

“OK.”

“Did you ever fall and scrape your knees or hand?”

“A few times,” I laughed, and could almost see my father next to me.

“Was that your father’s fault?’

“Of course not, I was just learning.”

“How many times did you fall or have accidents after you were a good rider?”

“Enough.”

“Your father’s fault?”

“There’s a point to this, right?”

“Oh yeah.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “You see, your father could help you learn to ride the bike, but he had to let you go on your own and hope you would be OK. That’s what God has done, Mick. He has given us what we need, and it is time for Him to let go. He’s no more responsible for Tom’s death than your father’s responsible for your bike accidents, but your father gave you the bike, and God has given us free will. And we are responsible for how we use it.”

Our fresh beers came and we both took long swallows.

I had never heard God explained so simply. The Church was missing a good priest.

“So the responsibility of Tom’s death …”

“Is on the three Cubans,” he said before I finished. “They are evil men and if they aren’t stopped they will kill again.”

“And I am supposed to do what?”

“Bring them to justice.”

“How? Did the angels offer any suggestions?”

“Now you sound like a nonbeliever.” He sat back in his chair.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden a bike, Padre.”

“I ride one everyday. In this town it helps me remember to pray.”

I told him what Richard had said about the Feds protecting the three men.

“First, you must try with Richard. The chief’s a good man, he’ll do what he can.”

“And if he can’t do anything?”

“Then you have to find a way to bring them to justice.”

“It ain’t that easy, Padre.”

“The angels didn’t say it was easy, Mick.”

“I’d like, just for once, to talk to these angels.”

“You can always talk to them, Mick, it’s called prayer, but it doesn’t have to sound like one, and you don’t need to be on your knees in church.”

“No, I’d like to talk to them face-to-face. It’d make this whole justice thing a lot easier.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, Mick, but I don’t know why I can see and talk to them and you can’t.” He sipped his beer. “I didn’t believe it at first. I thought I’d lost my mind, like I was turning into one of those religious zealots who claim God talks to them. But, the angels never really ask me to do anything. They just helped me sort through questions on my calling and have stayed with me.”

I didn’t know what to think. He spoke clearly, but softly. He must have given good sermons from the pulpit once. His voice was firm, and I knew he believed everything he was saying. But, did I? Was he crazy or gifted? And, where did I fit into in those categories?

“The Irish priest that heard your confession told you the story about the bike?” I said, because I didn’t have anything else to say.