Death on Duval Street (Chapter-12)

I COULD HAVE FLOWN to Miami and back for less money and time than it took me to rent a car and drive there. But I wanted to relax a bit and enjoy the drive up Highway One. I got a convertible and put the top down. The sunshine and the cool breeze along this highway that separates two large bodies of water are amazing.

The sky seemed to glow with an effervescent bluish hue all the way. And along several miles, I felt I could see all the way to Cuba. I had the radio blaring out the sounds of B. B. King, Eric Clapton, and my favorite Blues singer of all time, John “Too Cool” McCool.

As I drove into the Little Havana section of Miami, I reached into my pocket for the card with the address written on it that Perry had given me the day before. I pulled over to the curb and opened a map of Miami. Although I rented a car with a GPS locator, I just felt more comfortable looking at a map than looking up an address on the dashboard locator. I made several turns onto SW 23rd Avenue, saw the street I was seeking, and turned.

I drove by several buildings, rolled to a stop, parked the car, and got out. Several men and women were sitting on the stoops and porches outside the houses and buildings on the street. The people seemed to stare at me.

My thoughts raced. Was it so obvious that I did not belong in that neighborhood? It must be that I am so Anglo-looking that my discomfort with the surroundings was evident. I knew a lot about Hispanic culture, especially Cuban, because of my research. But, they knew I did not belong here.

I walked up to one of the doors and knocked. A beautiful young twenty-something lady leaned out of an open upper-level window and looked down at me. She yelled in perfect English without even a whisper of an accent, “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Maria Hernandez.”

“Does she know you?”

“Probably not.”

“Why do you want her?”

“That’s for me to say to her alone.”

“Que gringo tan estupido!” she said under her breath.

That’s when I replied, “Tengo noticias de Brian.”

“And how do you know Brian?” the girl questioned.

“He was my friend in Key West.”

“Who are you?”

“Jay Morrison.”

“Jay Morrison? Wait there. I’ll be right down.”

Maria drew herself from the window, ran down the stairs to the front entrance, and opened the door. She stepped out onto the porch and reached her hand to me.

“I’m Maria.”

“I appreciate you seeing me.”

“Brian talked a lot about you. He said that if anything happened to him I could talk to you without any fear.”

“Is there someplace we can talk?”

“Sure. But not here.”

“My car?”

Maria walked to the car and got in on the driver’s side and said, “I’ll drive.”

I shook my head in disbelief then opened the passenger side car door and got in. Maria reached out her hand as I took the keys out of my pocket and handed them to her despite the fact that the rental agent told me not to let anyone else drive. She put the key in the ignition, started the car, and peeled the rubber as we drove off.

We traveled east for a while, made several sharp turns to the right, and then left as if she was trying to lose anyone who may have been following us until we came to a deserted outdoor storage area under Interstate 95. She pulled around a building until the car was under the viaduct and turned the engine off.

As she turned to me, I said, “How long have you known Brian?”

“We went to high school together. We also attended the same church.”

“Christian Center?”

“Yes. You know about Pastor John?”

“I’m beginning to.”

“If I were investigating Brian’s murder, I’d start with him or at least his sidekick Marcus Champion.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a lot going on there they don’t want people to know about.”

“What in particular?”

“Like where does the money go? Or who’s sleeping with whom? Or who’s in charge over there?”

I sat waiting for more. There was a moment or two of silence. I asked, “There’s something else? Isn’t there?”

She turned her face away from me and paused in thought. She let out a sigh and turned her head back toward me.

“Look, I don’t want to disparage anyone. And I’m not the kind of person that spreads rumors, but there seems to be something important going on.”

“Just tell me. We’ll sort it out.”

“Okay, but remember that this is just a rumor. I don’t know if it’s true or not. I heard that Brian might be the illegitimate son of John Santos.”

“Whew. That’s big, especially for the pastor of a large conservative church.”

“I know,” she replied, “He never said anything about it himself and I never got up the courage to ask him after I heard it from someone in the church.”

“That’s okay. I’ll pass this on to someone who’ll be able to check it out and might even be able to figure out if it’s the truth or not.”

“Will you let me know when you find out?”

“Of course, I will. Now, what about Key West?”

“What about Key West?”

“He talked about people he knew. He mentioned me.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So, who else did he talk about?”

“A man named Jerry or Perry, I think. Said I could trust him. And you, of course. He talked about you a lot. Says you were the only Christian in town he knew.”

“Perry and I are working together on this.”

“Good. Brian liked Perry. Said he was dying of AIDS?”

“He’s the one who got me involved in this investigation.”

“He also talked about a man named Theodore.”

“Theo. Yes. He’s Perry’s life partner.”

“That’s what he called him. Said he was a straight arrow.”

“Actually he’s more like a limp noodle. But he’s alright.”

“Brian also talked about a lady named Ruth. I think she has something to do with the club where he performed.”

“She owns the place. She’s the one who talked him into coming to Key West.”

“I used to hate him doing that.”

“What?”

“Dressing like a woman and singing in front of people, you know? But he made so much money, I mean, what could I say?”

“Who else did he talk about?”

“Let’s see, he mentioned someone named Harvey and someone named Sly or Clyde or Fly--”

“Styles?”

“Yeah. Styles.”

That name caused me to pause a moment from a bit of shock. But I recovered with, “Did he say anything about him?”

“Not that I remember; maybe that he was so talented. I think Styles played in the band.”

“Yes. That’s right. Anyone else? Did he say anything about anyone else like in the band or the community?”

“I think he mentioned someone named Harvey as being an entertainer at Ruth’s place. I don’t remember about anybody else.”

“Styles’ real name is Karl Perkins. He’s the pianist. Not many people know him or even call him by that nickname in Key West. Was there anyone else?”

“No. I can’t think of anyone else. But, I think we’d better leave. That Miami-Dade Police Cruiser has passed by here three times now and is paying a little too much attention.”

She started the car and moved back onto the street and drove back to her place. We rode silently until she pulled up and stopped in front of her building.

“Thank you, Maria,” I said. “Here’s my card. You can call me on my cell phone anytime if you think of anything else.”

“I appreciate what you’re doing. I loved Brian.”

She opened the door and got out. As she closed the door she stopped.

“We were planning on getting married--next summer. Did he tell you that?”

“No,” I uttered with a stunned look. “I’m sorry for your loss. I think he must have loved you a great deal. He was a true friend to me.”

“Oh, I forgot. Just before he died, he called me and said that he had run into Marcus Champion in Key West. He seemed to be upset.”

“About what?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He said he’d call me back when he took care of something he had to do. Oh, and he said that things like this have a way of working themselves out.”

A tear began to roll down her cheek.

“I wish I had insisted that he talk to me more. I wish--”

“Maria, don’t. There was nothing you could have done to stop what happened. Nobody could. Thousands of people were there when he was shot and no one was able to stop it.”

“I know, Jay. I know.”

“I appreciate your help.”

Maria stood on the sidewalk as I slipped to the driver’s side of the seat and started the car and said, “I guess I’d better start the long drive back.”

“Oh, and Jay?”

“Is there something else?”

“Find Brian’s killer. Please.”

“We will.”

It broke my heart, but I drove off leaving Maria on the corner as I noticed her mouthing the words, “Vaya con Dios.”

The drive back seemed long on that hot afternoon. As I bore to the right at Key Largo headed toward the east, I tuned the radio to a local station just in time to hear a report describing a three-car pile-up on the seven-mile bridge. I continued on anyway knowing I was about an hour from that bridge. I hoped that the wreck would be cleared up by then.

By the time I reached Islamorada, traffic was creeping along at ten miles per hour. Not fun for any of the people on the road that day. At one point where the road widened a bit, I pulled up next to a convertible driven by an attractive blonde. In the passenger seat sat a woman who seemed to be my age with her long brown hair tied back. So for the next ten minutes, we chatted until the road narrowed again and the girls pulled out ahead of me.

Around the next bend, I noticed a small hole-in-the-wall café I didn’t remember ever seeing before. But being too tired to care what it looked like, I pulled off the road, gave up my place in line, and parked in front. After walking in, I looked around. I was alone, so I chose a booth, sat down, and looked at the menu sitting on the table.

After about a minute a man walked in from the back and went behind a counter. He fit the stereotypical greasy spoon-type short-order cook like that depicted in the Saturday Night Live skit “Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger.” He was almost bald and wore a dirty paper chef’s hat that looked like it was copied from a cartoon series. With a toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth, he said, “Do you want anything to drink?”

To which I replied, “A large glass of water and a beer.”

“We don’t get any beer or alcohol here. Just soda.”

“Okay,” Jay mused, “How about a Diet Coke?”

“Just soda.”

“Coke?”

“I’ll git ’er fer ya.”

I tried not to, but I smiled with amusement at the guy’s responses.

Did he even know what constitutes soft drinks? I mean just how stupid can people be? I thought.

The man brought over a can of RC Cola and placed it down on the table.

“What’re ya havin’?”

“What’s good?”

“Well,” the guy drawled, “I got some fresh ham back ’er. Would ya like a ham and Swiss on rye?”

“Okay, a ham and Swiss on rye is fine with me.”

“What kinda cheese?”

“What?” I nearly spit not believing what I was hearing.

“What kinda cheese do you want?” the man stuttered again.

“Swiss?”

“Swiss?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Okay,” the guy said and wandered off into the kitchen area.

No wonder there are no cars parked here, I thought.

I stood up and started to go to the bathroom when I noticed there were no signs as to where the restrooms were located.

I called out, “Hey! Where’s the restroom?”

“Out back,” the guy answered.

“Out back?” I muttered. You have got to be kidding. I thought places like this went away decades ago from health violations.

I walked out of the café and around back as I thought, I’ll bet the bathrooms still have signs that say, “Whites” and “Negros” on the doors. But my imagination could not prepare me for what I saw: there stood an actual operating outhouse.

My eyes began to water as I attempted not to laugh with hysteria. It was made of wood and had a half-moon cut out near the top of the door. It seemed to be taken out of an early Earnest Hemingway novel. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if Hemingway had used this outhouse himself.

What the hell am I thinking? I almost spoke as I jolted back to reality. What a stupid thought. I wondered if I was starting to compare myself to Hemingway. My body shuttered at the idiocy of that idea. But, then again--

Shaking off the insanity of my thoughts again, I remembered that my intention was to wash my hands rather than use the toilet, so I turned around and walked back into the café. The sandwich and a few chips and a pickle were sitting on a plate on the table. I sat down and picked up the sandwich. With a deep breath, I took a bite and began to chew.

Not bad. Not bad at all, I mused and finished up the sandwich and warm soda. After sitting for several minutes, I called for the waiter again.

No one answered.

“Hello!” I yelled out. Not hearing a response, I walked back into the kitchen but didn’t see anyone. That’s when I noticed that the kitchen was spotless; as if it had never been touched by human hands.

Here’s a mystery, I thought as my eyes roamed the empty room.

I walked back into the front, took out my wallet, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and left it sitting on the cash register. Shaking my head with amusement at the whole experience, I walked out of the diner, got into the car, and drove off.

The traffic jam had subsided and the sun was creeping down toward its ultimate destiny with the horizon. It would be dark before I got back into town, so I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Perry’s number.

“Hello, Perry here.”

“Hey, Perry, it’s Jay.”

“Where are you, man? I thought you’d be back by now.”

“Big wreck. Got jammed up.”

“You drove?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Happens only when you’re in a hurry, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“So,” Perry began, “What did you find out?”

“Not a lot, despite the fact that the girl can talk.”

“But, did she say anything at all that will help us with this case?” Perry pushed.

“I’ve got a lot of stuff written down in my notes. When can I drop by?”

“How far out are you?”

“Probably be back around seven-thirty or eight.”

“Okay, why don’t I meet you at the cafe in the morning around ten?”

“Sounds good to me. We’ll talk in the morning,” I said and hung up.

I settled back in the car and set the cruise control. I reached over and turned up the radio and enjoyed the mellow sounds of B. B. King singing “The Thrill is Gone” flowing into the air. Turning up the volume a little higher, I spent the next hour or so of the drive thinking about just what I had learned and what it might mean to help find the murderer of my good friend, Brian Silver.