Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery by Michael Haskins Read Free Book Online

looking tired, and moved his stare between Bob and me.
    “We’re here, Dick, but we’re being cautious,” I said.
    “Okay,” he said with a nervous smile and sat down. “I killed the broad at the house, but it was self-defense, honest.”
    “Answer a couple of questions and we’ll see how honest you are.” I sat across from him, watching where his hands went. “You called me for almost six hours, why me? Why not Padre Thomas who knew your background?”
    “Why didn’t you answer my fuckin’ calls?” He turned an angry gaze toward me, ignoring my question and I could hear his paranoia.
    I explained about the comedy club I’d been to. He didn’t look as if he believed me.
    “So, why me?” I asked again and received an accusing stare.
    “How much do you know?” He asked his sour expression a little anxious.
    “Dick, the cops had me for hours and think I’m involved. They told me what they know and that’s very little. Seems your history is only a few years old. About as long as you’ve been hiding from the marshals.”
    “You know anything else?” He looked edgy. “Do the fuckin’ marshals know you’re meeting me?”
    “The cops told me the marshals are on their way and want to talk to me, too,” I said. “No one knows we’re meeting.”
    Walsh squirmed. “Christ,” he moaned, bent forward and held his head in his hands. I expected him to cry. He didn’t. He laughed quietly. “They’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”
    “Why does everyone want to kill you?” I needed to hear his reply, even if he was paranoid.
    “It seems that way, don’t it?” He frowned and looked behind us at the island of Key West.
    Did he expect the marshals to come swooping in? Bob and I looked at each other and waited.
    “You talked to Padre Thomas?” His attention was back on us.
    “Yes.”
    He waited for me to say more and when I didn’t he said, “He didn’t tell you?”
    “You told him in confession, didn’t you?”
    “Yeah.” He laughed again, softly. “I wasn’t sure he’d fuckin’ honor it.”
    “Religion isn’t a game to him, Dick. Whatever you think of him, Padre Thomas is a Jesuit and takes his vows seriously.”
    “Funny, sometimes, ain’t it?” He muttered to himself, as if we weren’t there. “I walked away from all that fuckin’ religious crap, hell and damnation.” He quieted down with a cackle and went on. “All the fuckin’ saints they taught us about in Catholic school when I was a teenager and here I want to embrace the Church I walked away from. I want its forgiveness, its peace and I don’t deserve it. Death bed Catholic,” he muttered, looked at us and forced a small, guilty smile.
    “Padre Thomas told me once we are all death bed Catholics,” I said. “Some all their lives because they believe and want to be prepared for death, others, like you, wait until the end to reach out, but ultimately, it’s the fear of death and the unknown that scares us into being believers.”
    “God’s all about fuckin’ fear, ain’t he? Well, I fear the wrath of God,” he said. “What about you? Padre Thomas reach you?”
    “Oh yeah, a few times,” I said thinking of the times he saved my sorry ass from the screeching Banshee. “But I think I fall somewhere in between the true believer and you. I still have questions that I can’t answer, not yet.”
    “Don’t wait too fuckin’ long,” he whined. “It only gets worse.”
    Walsh stood up, Bob moved toward the shotgun and, nervously, I stood up next to him. He looked into the main cabin. Bob scanned the water.
    “You live on the boat, right?” Walsh said without turning toward us.
    “Yes. I have for a while.” I looked at Bob and hunched my shoulders because I had no idea what was happening.
    “You’re a journalist, so you have a tape recorder?” He stared into the cabin.
    “Yeah,” I said, figuring less was better.
    Walsh turned to us with a determined look and said, “Can we go below? I want to tell you my