KEY WEST MUSCLE
by Rick Dalton
CHAPTER ONE
"This here's a crime scene, boys. So I don't want nobody touchin' nothin'. Y' hear me?" the sheriff admonished.
"He's really pissed 'cause he can't figure this one out," Jorge whispered as we followed the sheriff through the house.
"The stereo was left on. Them two glasses was right there on the desk. They been dusted, ain't no prints on 'em. Wiped clean as a whistle."
We were standing in the library of Mr. Germaine's Victorian townhouse on Fleming Street. My apartment was in the rear, converted from the original carriage house.
"Y'all wanna follow me upstairs, I'll show ya where we found 'im."
Sheriff Whitehead led us up the grand staircase to the front bedroom, the one looking out on the second floor verandah.
"He was handcuffed to that there headboard, kinda spreadeagled, blood runnin' down his chest. Big ol' stab wound right above the heart. We never found no weapon, nothin'."
The linens had been stripped from the antique fourposter bed, a dark brown stain still remained on the bare mattress.
"And this here's off'n the record, but we found cocaine traces on a plate, side o' the bed. Course the medical examiner says 'pending toxocology' 'neath the part 'bout the stab wound. Sends outta state for blood tests t' see if it was in his system."
Sheriff led us down the back stairs to the kitchen.
"This house is off limits to anyone," he continued looking directly at me. "I'm showing you 'cause you live in the back there. I expect you to keep your eye on the place. You see anyone messin' 'round here, you call me right away."
He locked the back door and replaced the yellow crime scene tape across the doorframe.
"I'm ready for that drink now," I said to Jorge as the sheriff backed his patrol car out of the driveway.
"Thought you would be. I stocked the bar and fridge as soon as they finished searching your place."
"They what?" I sputtered with outrage.
"It's all part of the same property, they had to look everywhere. Even checked the roof, pool, and shrubbery."
"What're they looking for?"
"Clues, like footprints, tire tracks, tossed out matches or cigarette packs, the weapon!"
"They came up with nothing and now I'm supposed to help them solve this thing?"
"Yeah, it's a tough case, but you're good at this type of thing."
"Let's get inside, I need a stiff one."
"Thought you'd never ask, Ricky baby."
If there's one thing Jorge is good at, it's sex. I was rode hard and put up wet, as they say. Jorge soon passed out, slumbering like a baby, while I was still restless. Too much going on around here. I needed another drink. Time to haul out the Bombay Sapphire, it makes a mean martini. I carried my drink out the french doors of the bedroom to the pool. The best part about this place was the privacy, the owner being an absentee landlord, always in New York, but now absent permanently. I settled into the lounge chair. Looks like I'd be delayed getting back to Jamaica. Once Marco was off probation we wouldn't need this apartment anymore. A rustling noise in the foliage interrupted my thoughts, drew my attention to the back of the carriagehouse. I walked to the edge of the pooldeck and peered over the hedge.
"Chet, what're you doing back there?"
"Just taking a piss. What you staring at, you ain't never seen a big dick before?"
"Well, I..."
"Guess I had too many beers last night. Need to talk to ya, real private like. Come back when yer boyfrien's gone."
"Hey Ricky, who you talkin' to," Jorge asked, standing fully nude in my doorway.
"Nobody, just Chet the lawn guy taking a leak."
I glanced back over the hedge, he had disappeared.
"Better stay away from that mean hombré, he's rough trade."
"And you're not?" I chuckled, staring at his growing hardon.
"You want a big piece, wrap your lips around this," he grinned pulling me back into the bedroom.
Can't say we made love, but we had some wild sex. Jorge soon had me filled up with his second load of rich cream. As usual he passed out for a late afternoon nap. Once again I wandered out to the pool deck, this time looking for Chet. What could he possibly have to talk to me about, in private no less. The few times I had seen him around the house and grounds he had never even glanced at me. No sign of him, so I settled back into the lounge chair and started my second martini of the day, or was it the third. I lose track easily when I'm with Jorge.
The shadows grew long heralding the approaching evening. Time to rouse Jorge and send him on home
"You be careful and keep the doors locked," Jorge warned as he let himself out the front door. "And don't let that lowlife Chet in here, I don't trust him. Maybe he did in Mr. Germaine. I hear they had a thing going on for awhile."
"Don't worry about me, big boy. I've already dealt with drug dealers, arsonists, and ghostly spirits. I think I can handle myself."
"Use the cell phone if you need me, I won't be far away. Ciao, baby."
"See ya lover boy."
I closed the door, but didn't lock it - on purpose. Martini number four and I had a date on the pool deck. I'd been settled in the lounge for five minutes when I heard quiet footsteps coming from the house. Without turning, I knew he was in the doorway.
"You want something to drink, Chet?" I asked.
"Yeah, I'll take a beer. How'd you know it was me?"
"Been waiting for you."
I got up, squeezed past Chet, and headed for the kitchen.
"Sit down, I'll get your beer."
He was stretched out in my lounge when I got back. I handed him a cold Heineken and pulled a plastic pool chair up close to him.
"You ain't got any real man's beer," he grunted, looking disdainfully at my offering.
"Sorry, I only buy imported."
"Figures. You gay boys is all alike!"
I let the remark pass.
"What did you want to tell me - in private?"
"Bout Mr. Germaine. He been awful good t' me. Helped me buy my car - I love that car. I used to do lots a things for 'im when he was fixin' up this place."
"Yeah, I've heard."
He looked at me sharply, but continued, "We was gettin' pretty close. Then he up and went back to New York. Somethin' 'bout a new play he was puttin' on. Next time he came back had some girly boy wit' 'im. Nothin' were the same between us after that."
"So?" I asked, trying to hurry him to the point of all this. I was getting tired of the white trash gay bashing.
"I was cool wit' all this. He still paid me good for workin' 'round here. But like we wasn't frien's no more."
"And you were jealous?"
"Of that limp dishrag? No way! But this time, he brought some big muscle guy wit' him. He was still a sissy boy, but gee, even I would o'..."
He suddenly stopped and looked away, kind of red faced.
"It's okay to admire someone's ... muscles. Doesn't reflect on you, don't worry."
Not quite sure what I meant exactly, he accepted it and went on.
"This new guy was kinda rough wit' Mr. Germaine. They got into a big fight."
"And how would you know all this?"
"I was cleanin' the pool that night, could see right into that room wit' the big desk."
I stood up and walked to the front of the pool deck. Sure enough, I could have seen right into the first floor study, if the shutters had been open.
"I wasn't spyin' or nothin'. I jes like to keep an eye out for Mr. Germaine. Like I say, he been real good to me."
Seems the boyfriend had stormed out of the house and walked toward Duval Street. Chet hadn't seen him come back.
"The next day, they found Mr. Germaine, all stabbed up and such."
"I hope you told Sheriff Whitehead about all this," I said increduously.
"No way, Sheriff 'n' me don't get along so well. Don't want him knowin' I was even 'round here that night."
Chet suddenly got up and walked nervously toward the edge of the deck, perhaps afraid he'd already said too much.
"Why are you telling me?"
"Maybe you can find this guy and turn 'im in. I owe it to Mr. Germaine."
He turned quickly and left, pushing his way through the hedge.
It was still early evening, so I headed on down to Duval Street to ask a few questions.
" 'Lo, Rick, where ya been?" the bartender at 501 greeted me.
"Jamaica, Fire Island, Puerto Rico, and now back home for a few days,"
"I hear ya. Our island's a bit small for you Miami guys. Your usual?"
"Think I'll stick to tonic and lime, got a lot o' places to check out tonight."
One advantage to being a former guest house owner, all the bartenders new me.
"You seen any of Mr. Germaine around this weekend?" ( Sometimes I subconsciously fall into the lazy speech pattern of whomever I'm talking with at the time, especially when I'm looking for information.)
"Nah, them rich guys from NY don't hang around here, they don't have any bluejeans!" He chuckled out loud at his own joke.
I glanced subconsciouly down at my own Polo chinos.
"Yeah, but they sure like to look at a well stuffed pair of 501's," I observed.
"I hear ya! Might try that fancy place up to the other end o' Duval, called La Ti Da. All them fancy pants New Yorkers hang out there, tea dance around the pool, and later at the piano bar."
"Sounds like you been there."
"Yup, checked it out once or twice, looking for a good rich piece o' ass."
"How 'bout Chet, the big muscle guy, works for Germaine?"
"Nah, he's super straight. Wouldn't be caught dead in a gay bar like this. I know'd him since high school. Hangs out at Hogbreath and Sloppy Joes."
I finished my drink and headed North on Duval. LaTiDa was a resort complex with pool, guest rooms and dining on the second floor. The elegant restaurant in black, white, and crystal had an intimate piano bar which seemed half empty of the usual wellheeled out-of-towners.
"Yessir, what can I get for you?" the elegantly dressed barkeep asked.
"Bombay martini straight up, with a twist," I ordered, to blend into the toney surroundings.
A glance around didn't reveal any hunky, muscular gay boys from New York. Perhaps I was wasting my time.
"Will that be all, sir?" he asked, placing the frosted glass in front of me.
"Actually, I was hoping to run into a friend of mine here, I'm just in from the island."
"And who might that be, sir?" he asked absentmindedly as he continued polishing glasses behind the bar.
"Harry Germaine, from New York. He's got a place down here, but he doesn't seem to be at home."
He leaned over conspiratorily and whispered, "Normally we don't talk about our customers but because you're a friend of his, I can confide in you, he was in Friday night for dinner. Didn't see him Saturday or today."
"Well, there's that anyway," I mused, feeling my British persona kicking in. "Guess he'll turn up."
"You might check with his dinner companion," he went on. "The young man himself checked into one of our rooms late Saturday night."
"Would you be so kind as to point him out, if he stops in?" I asked politely, laying a twenty on the bar.
"No need to wait," he smiled, pocketing the bill. "Room 101, downstairs front. And you didn't hear it from me," he added with a wink.
The main stairway of the building was just off the corridor outside the bar. I skipped quickly down the carpeted stairs. The lower hall was sparsely but elegantly furnished with an oriental runner, carved Victorian furniture and potted palms strategically placed. A brightly polished 101 in brass stood out from the satin finished mahogany door. I tapped lightly.
A slight rustling inside indicated someone was home.
"Yeah, who is it?" came the young throaty voice within.
"It's Rick, I live in Mr. Germaine's carriage house apartment. May I speak to you?"
"Sure, come on in, it's unlocked."
I slowly turned the burnished brass knob, the door opened easily inward.
A well chiseled muscular young hunk stood at the open window on the far side of the room, totally nude, and grinning seductively.
"Harry send you to beg me to come back to him?" he asked.
CHAPTER TWO
"I don't think Mr. Germaine is in any position to beg for anything. He's dead!" I said bluntly, as much to gauge his reaction as to cover my own embarrassment at his nudity.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he said shakily, his smooth tanned face turning lighter by a shade or two.
"He died Saturday night," I continued. "Where were you?"
Staring at me blankly, his mouth fell open, as if to respond, then closed again.
"You just getting out of the shower," I asked, noting the beads of water on his broad chest, "or do you always answer the door like that?"
"Oh, yeah, I mean no, I was just going out to eat," he said with confusion, looking down at his nakedness for the first time.
Not bothering to dress, he walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge.
"What happened to Harry?" he said quietly, motioning me to the single chair in the room.
"You tell me!" I said noncommittally.
He stared again, his face still flooded with confusion.
"Got anything to smoke?" he asked.
"Don't smoke," I replied, "but I'll take you out for a drink if you want."
"I don't drink. I meant a joint."
"Don't have one. How about a line?" I baited him.
"Yeah, that'd be great."
"I thought so. You and Harry doing a line or two Saturday night?"
"What's it to you?" he asked sullenly.
"Okay, I'm going to give it to you straight." The corners of my mouth turned up at my word choice. "Harry was found in bed, blood dripping from a hole is his chest. Cocaine beside the bed. I think the sheriff would like to talk to you, under the circumstances."
"Man, I didn't have anything to do with that. Harry was fine when I left the house."
"Why did you leave?" I probed further.
"I'd like to be alone for awhile. You mind leaving now?"
The sullen attitude returned.
"Long as you don't leave town. I won't say anything until I hear your side of it."
I departed with, "You know where I live if you want to talk."
I was taking a chance leaving him alone, but where would he go. The news would hit New York before he did. When he'd thought it over, he'd have plenty to say to get himself out of this mess. I continued slowly up Duval Street toward Fleming. Sunday night tourists from the cruise ships were spilling out over the sidewalks, going from shop to shop in happy throngs, oblivious to tragedies that occur behind the closed doors of Old Town's Conch houses.
Approaching the house on the quieter Fleming Street, I could see a taxi idling in front. I turned down a side alley to approach my carriage house apartment at the rear of the property. No use announcing my arrival. I slipped quietly around to my door, startled by a figure lurking in the shadow of my entryway.
"Who is it?" I called out in alarm.
"Rick, it's me, Derek."
Harry's boyfriend stepped into the glow cast by my coachlight. Some detective I was, hadn't even asked his name.
"Oh, geez, you scared me. How did you beat me here?"
"Took a cab," he pointed out toward the street in front.
"Guess that's a New York thing, huh?"
I stepped past him to unlock the door and caught the scent of his rich musky cologne. Flipping on the lights, I strode back to the galley kitchen to mix martini number four, or was it five. Who's counting anyway.
"Since you don't drink, and I don't do drugs, what can I get you?"
"A little white wine, if you have it."
"Coming right up."
I carried our drinks back to the tiny living room on my antique silver tray. Derek was already seated in a wing chair by the fireplace, looking cool and composed and quietly elegant in his pressed white linen slacks, starched peach colored shirt, expensive tasseled loafers - no socks. Another New York thing, or was it Palm Beach?
"You from New York like Mr. Germaine?" I asked, settling into the other wing chair.
"I live there now, but my family's from Palm Beach."
Bingo!
"Are you in show business like Harry? You look like a model, actually."
"Thanks," he blushed slightly, "but I'm on Wall Street."
Ouch!
"I came by to clear the air. I didn't have anything to do with Harry's death and I can't be involved in any scandal."
"What happened here Saturday night?"
"I flew down for the weekend with Harry. We went out for dinner Friday evening. Saturday, I wanted to stay around the house, Harry wanted to go out again. We got into a heated discussion. Harry asked me to leave. I took my bags and checked into the hotel.
End of story."
"You want to know what the sheriff's going to think?"
He nodded.
"The two of you had drinks in the library, got horny, went upstairs, did a few lines of coke. One or both of you like kinky sex. Harry was handcuffed to the headboard. More lines of coke. In a drug crazed frenzy, you stabbed Harry. End of story."
Derek gasped, the cool facade crumbling before my eyes.
"He was handcuffed to the bed and stabbed to death?" he moaned, tears coming to his eyes. "It wasn't me, you've got to believe me!"
"So where's the truth, somewhere in between?" I asked sarcastically.
"Okay, here's what happened. We didn't have any drinks, I don't drink."
"Except a little white wine," I interjected.
"Yes." He looked down at the glass in his trembling hand, set it back on the tray. "Harry's got a real appetite for drugs and sex. That's why he keeps this house in Key West, away from his friends and business contacts in New York. He called his dealer and asked for a delivery. The guy must have put him off. Harry flew into a rage, started yelling at me, cursing and screaming."
"Doesn't sound like the famous broadway man I read about."
"Nobody knows this side of Harry. I got fed up with his temper tantrums and called a cab, took my bags and left. Told him to call me when he calmed down. That's the truth!"
He seemed deflated, but relieved to get this out in the open.
"Who's the guy he called for his drug supply?" My mind was already leaping to the next logical suspect.
"I never knew his name. Harry just called him 'my agent'."
Sudden silence fell between us. I got up to refill my drink.
"Another wine?"
"No, but thanks. I've got a cab waiting out front."
"You're welcome to spend the night here," I offered, more to keep an eye on him than anything sexual. "In case you'd rather not be alone," I added quickly.
"Actually, I'd prefer to be alone for awhile, now that I've got this off my chest."
"I guess I'm not your type," I smiled slightly, to break the somber tone.
"I do prefer older men, but don't take it personally," he smiled back.
I walked him over to the door and promised to call in the morning. As I settled back down in my chair, mulling over this new information, my front door opened softly. Chet poked his head around the door.
"Everything all right?" he asked.
"Don't you ever knock?" I sputtered angrily.
"I been keepin' an eye on the house," he explained, ignoring my rude remark. "Figured 'muscles' 'd show up again. Seen 'im waitin' for you, thought I'd better stay case you needed protection sort of."
"Chet, I can take care of myself. Anyway, he's not a thug or hoodlum."
"Snotty little rich kids, ya' can't trust 'em. 'Specially druggies."
"That brings up something else. You know who Mr. Germaine's drug dealer is?"
"I wouldn't be knowin' nothin' 'bout that," he said nervously. "Long as yer okay, I gotta be goin'. See ya later Rick."
He closed the door quickly and was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
"Baby, it's me. I'm with Bradley here in Miami."
"When did you guys get in?" I asked sleepily.
"Late, late, late, last night. Bradley wants me to stay with him for a week and finish our workups from the photoshoot."
"He paying you for this?"
"Of course, or I'd be down there in Old Town with you in a New York minute."
"Please, don't even mention New York!"
"Uh oh. Your investigation not going well?"
"I've ruled out the boyfriend from New York, I think. The handyman Chet seems in the clear, I think. And that leaves the mysterious drug dealer called 'the agent' by Mr. Germaine."
"Clearing up two out o' three's not bad for one weekend."
"You don't know anyone from your drug running days known as the 'the agent', do you?"
"I don't think that's a street name. Better dig deeper. Watch yourself, baby, and if you need me, I'll leave here in a ... a minute and be down there."
"I'll be okay. I love you, Marco, and be good."
"I love you, too, baby, and I'm always good - or so they tell me," he laughed.
Couldn't drink my breakfast and nothing in the apartment to eat, so I showered, dressed and walked down the block to Fausto's, a little mini grocery, to put in some supplies for the week.
"Good morning, Verna," I greeted the checkout clerk, an old acquaintance.
"Mornin', Rick, didn't know you was back in town."
"Just for a week , I hope. Seems our sheriff needs my help solving the murder."
"Wasn't that just awful, what happened to poor Mr. Germaine. Not that I knowed him very well. Somebody like that doesn't do his own shoppin', if you know what I mean. But as for helpin' the sheriff, good God almighty, he's already arrested poor Chet for that there murder. I was just talkin' to poor Chet's mother about..."
"Arrested Chet?" I interjected.
Stopping Verna in the middle of her discourse was like stepping on the tracks to stop a speeding freight train.
"...giving him some work around the store, now that poor Mr. Germaine is gone. And she up and says that won't be necessary as he's been arrested this morning for the murder and what's a poor women like herself supposed to do to pay for a lawyer and such."
I fled to the rear of the store to scoop up a few items for breakfast.
"Sorry to run out on you, Verna, but I got to catch somebody at the hotel before they leave town. You tell Chet's mama not to worry, I don't think he had anything to do with it."
I love Verna dearly, but she sure can talk. The nugget about Chet's arrest spurred me to action. I got on the telephone immediately.
"Yes, thank you. Room 101, please."
"He's checked out? Derek? Okay, thank you."
I'd slept too late, he'd skipped town already. Time to face the music, and the sheriff! Like most places in Key West's Old Town, everything is a short walk away and I didn't own a bicycle like other residents. The Sheriff's Office was in the County Courthouse on Whitehead Street. I skipped breakfast and walked the few blocks in ten minutes.
"Good morning Sheriff," I said with a smile as I was shown into his office. "Chet didn't do it. You got the wrong man."
"First of all, son, it's almost one o'clock in the afternoon, and second, who ya got in mind for the culprit?"
"Spoke to a Derek last night, the traveling companion of Mr. Germaine. His story doesn't completely add up. Chet saw them have a big blowup over drugs or lack of drugs, whatever. Then there's a mysterious drug supplier Mr. Germaine called 'the agent'."
"Now, now, don't get all het up about Mr. Derek Flagler. He was in first thing this mornin', explained the whole thing to me. Fine man, from a fine Palm Beach family. Why his great granpappy practically made Florida what it is today, bringing the railroad in all the way to Key West."
"His name's really Flagler?"
"He had to get back to New York for work Monday, said he'd be back anytime I needed him. Fine young man."
He sure snowed the sheriff or blowed the sheriff. Either way, he walked and Chet paid the price.
"That there drug person, o' course we want t' get ahol' of him, but he'd have no reason to kill a customer," he drawled as a only a redneck, country sheriff can. "Now that brings us to Chet."
He paused to take a deep drink from his coffee mug.
"That young'n is a handfull. Been in trouble since he were in high school. Probably put the squeeze on his boss for money, got turned down then got even. He's been known to 'do favors' for older well-to-do gentmens for gifts and money. Runs with a tough crowd up in Big Pine Key. Takes that fancy hot rod o' his up there most weekends and raises hell."
"So that's it," I said, disgustedly, "you got him tried, convicted, and hanged already."
"Now, lookey here, young man, that's for the judge and jury to handle. I just investigate and bring 'em in."
"You don't mind if I believe Chet is innocent until hard evidence proves his guilt?"
"Course not, that how she works," the Sheriff smiled.
I had nothing further to gain by trading shots with the sheriff, so I made my exit. Time to call Jorge and the hell with the day time minutes, I used my cell phone.
"Jorgie, can we meet for lunch? I need your counsel," I pleaded coyly.
"Where's your husband, before I commit?"
"Marco is staying up in Miami for the week to finish his work, and as for who's the husband, I'll show you next time."
"Yeah, my versatile Ricky! How about Kelly McGillis's place? I love their Key lime pie."
"Perfect, I'm just a block away at the Sheriff's office."
"So you heard about Chet?"
"Yeah, how'd you hear?"
"Tell you at lunch, be there in fifteen," he said somberly as he disconnected.
"My handsome Jorgé," I greeted him outside the entrance using the Spanish pronunciation.
"Ricky baby," he kissed me in return, "you're either horny as hell or you want something."
"And maybe both!" I said leading the way through to the outside dining area.
We chose a quiet corner table under the giant Kapok tree. Ordering my usual Hollywood Slammer, the oversize Club Sandwich with thick cut French Fries on the side, China Mist Tea, iced with lime slices, and Key lime pie, I was ready for the grilling.
"So how'd you know Chet was locked up?" I asked.
"I turned 'im in," Jorge replied quietly.
"You what?!?" I gasped in disbelief.
"The word around town is, he tried to blackmail Germaine. Everyone knows he's no handyman, just a plain vanilla hustler. Jealous of the new boyfriends, I figure, and wanted more cash to keep quiet."
"Keep quiet about what? In Key West who cares if he's gay or straight, buys it or brings it in by airplane?"
"Not boys, drugs! You must 'a known that, living behind him all this time."
Always gets back to drugs, I thought, must be something to it.
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