Tom died Wednesday, eleven days after the beating. He fought death, but brutality won out. Richard called late that morning with the news.

“Tom never regained consciousness, if it’s any consolation,” Richard said. “I wanted to tell you personally, but the twit Tommy Foolery from the paper was there, so the word will be out, and I didn’t want you hearing it from someone else.”

“I appreciate the call,” I said.

Tom’s condition had gone from bad to worse during the week, and I didn’t think he’d make it, but I must have secretly held out hope because the news left a hollow ache in my chest and I needed to take deep breathes to fill my lungs.

I was at the dock on the Fenian Bastard, the sun was out, and a twelve-knot wind was blowing from the southeast. It was a good day to be sailing, and I thought how awful for a sailor to die on a day like this. The wind carried the salt scents off the Gulf Stream and the bright sky looked like the reflection of the gulf itself.

“It’s murder now,” I said.

“Yes, I know. I need to contact Tom’s family.”

He changed the subject from murder and I let him, because if I spoke my mind it might’ve been the beginning to the end of our friendship, and losing another friend was something I didn’t need.

“He fought in Vietnam and was a damn good sailor. He probably has some contact info on his boat. Most of us leave a note on who to contact … just in case.”

“Tell me where the boat is and I’ll meet you there.”

“Peninsular Marina on Stock Island,” I said. “Richard, what do you do now?”

“We’ll talk about that at the marina. Half an hour?” He avoided my question.

“I’m leaving now.” I hung up.

North Roosevelt Boulevard runs past Garrison Bight Marina. The four-lane road is constantly busy with traffic heading to and from Old Town, and off the island. Tom always revved his motorcycle’s engine extra loud as he passed my slip, his way of saying hi. I walked along the floating dock to the parking lot and realized he wouldn’t be doing that anymore. How long would it take me not to look up when I heard a motorcycle’s engine rev on the boulevard?

It was a slow ride, on a beautiful day, to Peninsular Marina.

I found a phone number for Tom’s sister taped to the bottom lid of his chart table and gave it to Richard. All his boat insurance and military papers were in large envelopes in the aft cabin.

“I’ll see she gets everything,” he said, as we stood in the main cabin. “Does she know you?”

“I don’t know her.”

If the cabin’s walls could talk, they would have been loud with laughter and sea stories of men and women who had spent time aboard enjoying life. How many times had Bob and I helped Tom with some dirty, sweaty project on this boat and how many times had he helped us with problems on our boats? Though each project had been hard work, it resulted in beers, cigars and, most importantly, laughs.

I left reluctantly because I would never be back. I looked around the cabin one last time, missing Tom.

Outside Richard closed the hatch and looked for a lock.

“Most live aboard don’t lock ‘em,” I said to his puzzled look.

Low flying Navy jets screamed across the sky. Boca Chica Navy Base was opposite the bay and when pilots were in the Keys for flight training the sky thundered and the ground shook.

“Where are you going?” Richard said as I got into my old Jeep.

“I can use a drink. You?”

“I want to take care of this,” he raised the large envelope with all of Tom’s information.

“It’s a murder investigation now, right?” I said, between the thundering jets landing and taking off.

“A police murder investigation, when we come up with something, I’ll let you know, Mick.”

Richard climbed into his unmarked patrol car and rolled down the window.

“I want to solve this. I want to get whoever did this as much as you do.” He had a hurt look, as though he knew I didn’t believe him.

I nodded and drove off wondering how he would handle the murder investigation and the Feds.

* * * * *

Parking in Old Town is difficult at best, even on weekdays. I pulled into B.O’s Fish Wagon’s parking lot. Buddy Owens owns the fish shack, but his truck wasn’t there so I walked toward Schooner Wharf Bar.

Schooner has been around for about twenty years. The bar looks out at a harbor that has two private marinas filled with million-dollar yachts. Shrimp boats filled the harbor twenty years ago and white-booted shrimpers occupied the bar’s stools then. Schooner has four floating docks of its own filled with classic wooden boats, attached to the pier. The bar is nothing more than some thatched roofing and gnarled driftwood planking. Old, uncomfortable wooden barstools sit along the bar’s railing. There are no doors or windows, it is open to the elements, and its weathered and beaten look is well deserved. A covered stage fills one side of the pebbled courtyard and there is entertainment from noon to midnight, seven days a week, rain, or shine. Small, brightly painted tables fill the courtyard, some with umbrellas; larger tables have their own thatched roofs. A small fry-kitchen fronts the restrooms and serves a great fish sandwich.

A humid breeze blew in off the water as I took a seat at the bar. The sky was ocean blue and wisps of white clouds skipped across it. The salty smell off the Gulf mixed lazily with the aroma of cigar and cigarette smoke, stale beer and songs about Key West that flowed from singer Michael McCloud’s stage speakers. Noisy conversations competed with the music.

I don’t know where my mind was. I was angry and sad, but I couldn’t focus on my feelings or what to do about them. I wanted to get drunk, real drunk, but feared the dreams that would arise from the depths of my subconscious; the same dreams I tried to drown with alcohol until I decided alcohol might have been the cause of them.

I accepted a Kalik, a Bahamian beer, from the bartender and took the steps up to a small room that had a large-screen TV and one pool table. The TV was on, but the sound was off and I was by myself. I sat down, looked out at the boats, and wondered why they were in slips and not out enjoying the water. Why wasn’t I on the water? I wondered, pushed the slice of lime down the bottle’s long neck, and drained my beer.

“How’s that for timing?” Padre Thomas Collins placed a Kalik on the table and sat down.

Thomas is one of many idiosyncratic characters that find refuge in Key West. He’s a Jesuit missionary, in his late fifties, who one day walked away from the mission rectory because the angels told him to. He sees and communicates with angels and sometimes the wisdom he surprises me with makes me believe him. He’s a little taller than six feet, very thin – soaking wet he couldn’t weigh one hundred and fifty pounds - and has the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. His skin is sunburned a brownish red from spending so many hours outdoors. Home is a small efficiency apartment on William Street and he gets around the island on a bicycle or by foot.

He wore a collarless, washed-out yellow shirt with the sleeves torn off, cutoff jeans without a belt and sandals, his regular attire. Two packs of Camel cigarettes, one opened, were in his shirt pocket.

Thomas still considers himself a priest, and I have seen him talking with the pastor of St. Mary Star of Sea, the local Catholic Church, but I have never heard of him saying Mass. Rumor is that the Church pays him a stipend to stay away, but rumors run rampant over the small island and are very rarely true.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the beer as Thomas sat down, “how are you Padre?”

“How are you, Mick?” His pale eyes probing me.

Sometimes, when talking with Thomas, I have the feeling his eyes are searching for my soul. He could be laughing, but if you glanced into his eyes, the intensity was scary.

“Any better, I’d be illegal,” I smiled and took a swallow of the beer he’d brought.

He sipped from his Budweiser. He looked outside and watched tourists stop and stare at the tall ships berthed there. One of the boat’s mates took a photo of a family as they stood in front of the Schooner Western Union.

A soft breeze came in the open windows and helped the room’s slow swirling ceiling fan do its job.

“I was sorry to hear about Tom,” he said, never taking his stare away. “I’ve prayed for him.”

“Thank you,” was all I could say.

Thomas took out an unfiltered Camel cigarette and lit it. He inhaled deeply.

“You don’t want to talk about it?” He stubbed out the Camel.

“About what?”

“About Tom. It had to be horrible finding your friend beaten like that.”

“Is this confession, Padre?”

“Why?” he grinned. “Have you already been?”

“Yeah,” I said, “with Father Chief of Police.”

“Mick, don’t misjudge your friends,” he lit another Camel. “You’re better than that and know things are never as simple as they appear. Richard is a good cop.”

“Yeah, but will he go up against the Feds?”

“He’ll do what’s right,” he sipped some beer. “What will you do?”

“I haven’t thought that far yet.”

“Tom is at peace now.” His eyes like rivets. “No one can hurt him any longer. You need to find peace, Mick.”

“I can’t let his death go unpunished,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I think you have more to make peace with than that. Since I’ve met you, you have been at war with yourself.” He blew smoke over my shoulder. “You have probably fooled everyone but yourself and me. Make peace with yourself, Mick, and dealing with Tom’s death will be easier. Maybe you’ll even see the world as a better place.”

Since first meeting Padre Thomas sitting on a bar stool eight years ago at Schooner, he has seemed to know about my darkest secrets. Of course, I’ve told myself, he couldn’t. I escaped to Key West, but not from myself and the horrible truths of my past I have difficulty living with.

Ten years I’ve been gone from Los Angeles, taking eighteen months to sail to Key West. Eighteen months, eight-and-a-half years later and my nightmares are no less real than the afternoon the bomb blew up the car in Tijuana, Mexico. The bomb I’d put in a briefcase. It was covered with money, money that bought the release of a friend who had come there to help me swindle a Mexican drug kingpin. It was supposed to kill him, a man who had escaped justice because of corruption in high places in too many countries.

Almost every night since, I’ve dreamed the same dream. Dick Sullivan gets out of the car – its windows are tinted – a man with a gun is leading him. Sully stops, but the man continues to me. I open the briefcase, show him the money, and close it. I handover the case – it’s set to explode on the second opening – and as the man walks away Sully rushes to me. He is trying to tell me something, but I can’t make it out. Cars are circling the rotary sections of Avenida de los Heroes. I can hear the noise and smell the exhaust, even though it’s a dream.

“Mel’s in the car,” Sully yells twenty-feet away from me.

The man hands the case through the car’s back window, gets in, and begins to drive away.

“Mel’s in the car!” Sully yells again.

As his words are understood, I see the car move and then explode. Sully turns when the explosion goes off, a look of horror on his face as he runs to me. Alfonso Ruiz, my Mexican friend, grabs me and pulls me to his waiting car. I can’t stop looking at the car as it smokes and burns. Sometimes in the dream, I can see Mel sitting in the car and watch her burn up.

We had been close for years. I loved her, and I can only speculate on what our future would have been, but that’s a waste of time. She was there to help us sting the drug lord with a money-laundering scheme. I killed her because I allowed her to get involved, and I killed her with a bomb I handed over.

Knowing it was an accident, something Sully, Alfonso, and other friends involved in the scheme kept telling me, did not release me from what I felt was my responsibility. I have so much to be angry with myself for and, though I know Padre Thomas is right, I am unable to let it go.

“Time, Padre,” I said, “it heals all wounds, right?”

“If we let it. Sometimes we need help to get time to work for us.”

He lit another Camel and my hand went to my pocket for a cigar, but it was empty, so I took a long hit on the Kalick.

“You know, Mick, angels are warriors,” Thomas said while exhaling smoke.

“What?” I wasn’t sure where the statement had come from.

“Angels, you know, today’s TV shows about angels helping people, they aren’t too off track,” he grinned and his eyes brightened. “But angels are God’s warriors and sometimes turning the other cheek just isn’t the right way to go.”

“I thought Jesus taught turning the other cheek.”

“Yes, he did, but Jesus is the son and God is the father.” He stubbed out the Camel. “Sometimes God’s work has to be done by warriors.”

“You’ve lost me, Padre. Are we talking about the Old Testament?”

“I’ve heard you may have a lead on who killed Tom.” He ignored my Biblical comment and finished his beer. “Want another one?”

He got up without waiting for my answer and walked to the bar.

Key West is a small island, and anyone trying to keep a secret is going to get a quick lesson in futility. The often called “coconut telegraph” spreads news – real and imaginary – around the island faster than a local lobster escaping a diver.

Thomas often used angels when explaining his actions or opinions, and I had a feeling I was in for one of his angel explanations and a cold beer when he returned.