Free Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories by Michael Haskins Page A

and walked away.
    # # #

THE FLOATER
    Footnote
    “The Floater” was my first attempt at a long short story. No one bought it, so I edited it some, especially the ending, and included it as a few chapters in another book. Let me know when you figure out which one.
    You might remember Joe Bolter from “Finding Picasso,” but he was Joseph then and now he’s just plain Joe. Or should I say Coco Joe.
    Murphy’s old nemeses, Neville Cluny, the Brit mercenary is back. Did you read “Revenge,” the first Mick Murphy novel? Neville shows up there.
    This story might have been the first forming of the idea for “Free Range Institution.”
    It was a fun story to write and I hope you enjoy it, even if you recall reading most of it in one of my books.

DRUMSTICK MURDER
    D allas Lucas hadn’t eaten brunch with us earlier, unless you counted the stick of celery in his bloody Mary. Of the people gathered for the breakfast reception for the Key West Songwriters Festival, half those that knew Dallas wish they didn’t. The other half hated him. The handful of songwriters at the reception that didn’t know Dallas didn’t know him on purpose. But that never kept him away from gatherings where drinks were free and there was sure be an up-and-coming songwriter or two eager to meet the legend, especially the pretty ones.
    “I’ll be upstairs around ten,” Dallas said to me, as he wandered into the Saloon and went to the bar. “We’ll do the interview there. I’ll give you a half-hour.”
    Upstairs was the Saloon’s showroom where some of the festival’s events were to take place. It would be quiet at ten in the morning, since the welcoming party usually continued as an afternoon jam session of alcohol-powered songwriters around the outdoor bandstand.
    I excused myself from the bar at ten, grabbed my camera bag, and headed upstairs unaware of what waited for me. The loud mixture of music and chatter followed and I stopped on the top landing to look down at the weathered, outdoor bar, the Saloon’s worn-concrete floor, and the celebrating crowd. Clint Bullard and Bob Pierce were laughing and jamming on the small stage, powered by bloody Marys, screwdrivers, and mimosas. Roosters strutted and crowed atop the bar’s tin roof, having climbed one of the large trees covering the patio to escape the crowds.
    As I walked in, Kris Kristofferson’s gruff voice thundered like hurricane
    winds from the multiple speakers in the Key West Saloon’s upstairs showroom, his recorded words vibrating off the walls as he sang about love and loss, pilgrims, Sunday mornings, and traveling with Bobby McGee.
    Window light dimly illuminated the room. The A/C was on high, and it was chilly. I saw Dallas sitting by the drum set on the shadowy stage about the same time I noticed the CD unit’s remote control on the bar. I put my camera bag down and lowered the volume.
    “Dallas, I need to hear myself think.” I attached the flash to the camera bracket as the music softened. “I appreciate your time. I know you’ve got a lot of things to do before tonight’s show.”
    Dallas ignored me. I wondered if my turning down the music upset him. He’s a short-tempered man I know because he’s part of the featured events at the annual Songwriters’ Festival and each year I grow to dislike him more. But this interview was a paying gig so I smiled and disregarded his mood.
    If he wanted to massage his hangover in the cold dimness it was okay, but I needed light to take notes. I stopped at the theatrical lighting panel by the woman’s room and switched on the soft light above the sound mixer. As soon as I stepped to the front of the stage, I knew why Dallas wasn’t talking and it had nothing to do with being upset with me.
    Dallas sat on the drummer’s stool, his back against the wall, with a wooden drumstick stabbed into his throat. Blood stained his western shirt and jeans, and dripped onto the stage, while his alcoholic eyes stared into the netherworld,