Demon Rum (Part I)
A Detective Florida Man Weird Tale
“Let’s keep the taxman outta this transaction, sound good to you?”
I counted out one hundred fifty dollar bills in the unassuming white envelope the fishing charter captain dropped on the dark formica table in the hidden back booth I inhabited on a breezy Sunday night at the beachside tiki bar.
Ever since the Dick Wayne/CursonTech case, I didn’t like spending too much time at home. Ugly cat had found himself a lady friend to provide him some much needed female companionship and wasn’t around much anymore either. I hated that I was jealous of a grizzled old tomcat.
“You want to hire me to find a bottle of rum? Brother, I…” He held up a bronzed, deeply scarred hand.
“I know, I know. I can find a bottle of rum in any liquor store from here to Key West. But this is different, you’re not a fishing captain, so you don’t know the dark tale of Captain Silas Mirth and his bottle of demon rum.” I smiled. This guy has spent way too much time under the Florida sun, his brain is cooked, I thought to myself. But a payday is a payday, so I listened to this fisherman’s tale.
It did give me a good idea though, I ordered a rumrunner cocktail from Melissa, the new part-time bartender. She plopped the cocktail down in front me and gave me a smile and a wink that would make a dead man erect. Missy knew what she was doing when she hired that tall, slender, blonde Sydney Sweeney look alike.
Magically, the male clientele suddenly increased on Sunday nights when she worked.
“As I’m sure you’ve heard about the old days here in Tampa. The Bay was a place where pirates would dock. They would use the time to rest, repair and outfit their vessels and of course, drink too much. By 1824, with the establishment of Fort Brooke, the US Navy ended piracy in Tampa.”
“Yeah, I heard there was a pirate village at one point…some wild nights, I’m sure.” He nodded as he drank his glass of Coors.
“Exactly. But these men would also collect quite a bit of coin and booty in their various attacks and raids. There were no banks of course but there were plenty of small islands for them to bury their treasure in.” I politely nodded. I was bored.
“I’ve never heard of this Captain Mirth,” I admitted.
“He wasn’t your ordinary freebooter. It was said that he was a sorcerer, a magician, a servant of Satan himself. Even the other pirates and smugglers wanted nothing to do with ‘em. Who knows? But it’s clear from the few stories that exist, he was a demon on the high seas and a worshipper of something unclean. He especially enjoyed burning and looting Catholic churches in the Caribbean.”
“Well…he was a pirate,” I offered sarcastically.
“Yes, but he went out of his way to go after churches, these weren’t crimes of opportunity. He targeted them specifically.” I just shrugged and took a long pull from my cocktail. I was still bored.
“You know what a lich is?” He blurted out and I sputtered, spilling rum on my stark white Bermuda shorts. I grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the stain.
“What?! Uh, yeah. I played Dungeons and Dragons as a kid!”
“Good, then you know that a particularly powerful sorcerer can place his soul in an object and when he stores that object somewhere safe, he never truly dies. Sorta exists in a state between life ‘n death. It was said that Mirth placed his soul in a bottle of rum and any man who possessed it would be cursed.”
“C’mon on man, it ain’t Halloween yet.” This time, the fisherman shrugged.
“That’s the story, bud. Anyway, for his crimes against the Catholic Church, the Spanish hunted him mercilessly. They eventually killed or captured everyone associated with him. His own men finally mutinied against him due to their fear of the Spanish navy. It was said that as they made him walk the plank, Mirth laughed. He told them as long as the bottle was out there, he would never truly die. Mirth claimed that once they died, they would serve him in the undeath, never knowing either Heaven or Hell.”
I stifled a chuckle. This was better than watching an old horror flick on Tubi. He ignored me and continued.
“Not long after the mutiny, his ship The Hungry Hagfish soon entered an unnatural storm that suddenly formed in the Gulf. A thick, sickly colored fog came out of nowhere and enveloped it. One man escaped by stealing a rowboat before the vessel fully entered the strange storm. He witnessed it disappear. He was rescued by a Spanish naval brigantine. This man’s tale was recorded by the ship’s physician, before the captain of the vessel hung him from the mast. They tossed his body into the waiting sea. The physician recorded the crew witnessed several large hagfish pull the pirate’s body further into the depths.”
“Yes, sir. That is quite the sea tale but how does this relate to…” He cut me off.
“Three men, treasure hunters, believed they found Silas Mirth’s hidden cache on Hudson Island, you know where that is?”
“Of course, just north of here, in the Gulf. It’s only about ten miles west of Hudson Beach. It’s tiny and basically barren. Did they find a treasure chest?”
“In fact, they did just that…but it was empty. Turns out someone got there before them, maybe twenty years before or two hundred, who knows? Next to the empty chest was a burlap sack, inside the sack was an ancient bottle of Jamaican manufactured rum. They thought that maybe they could recoup some of their expedition costs by selling it, so they took the bottle.”
“Okay, did they lose this valuable bottle of rum?”
“I don’t know. You see, Gus, there were three treasure hunters, now there is only one…and he’s been missing for a week.”
“What?!? What happened?” I felt myself getting pulled into this mystery.
“Both my brother-in-law’s partners were found dead. One died of a heart attack, at his home, on the shores of the Gulf, he was only thirty-three years old. The man was a former competitive swimmer, fit all his life. The other died three days later, in a car accident. He was driving home from the same shore after a long day of fishing. It was night and he texted his wife that a strange fog came out of nowhere and he was pulling off for a bit, since he could no longer see the road. He never sent another text after that. Eric Franklin’s truck was found nearby, in the Gulf. The vehicle was partially submerged, he was found inside, drowned. Cops couldn’t understand why he didn’t just get out of the truck and just swim away, there were no other wounds on him. No head trauma. The last treasure hunter has been missing for almost five days now.”
“And this third man is…”
“The missing treasure hunter is my wife’s brother. Five O’Clock Somewheres said that you would take this case seriously. He said that you ‘n him have seen some things, things that the Gulf doesn’t show just anyone. I think you’re the man for this kinda weirdness, Gus.”
“What do you want me to do, Harley?”
“Find my idiot brother-in-law and put that bottle back where it belongs. I’ll be honest, I don’t think he’s alive but maybe you can find his body, give my wife some peace of mind. She thinks he’s gone back to Orlando and is on a bender, that’s where he used to live, when he was a club promoter. Cops think the same thing, and aren’t taking his disappearance seriously. But he’s been sober for a long while and hasn’t been involved in the club scene for years.”
“Okay, tell you what…I’m not saying I believe you about this undead pirate curse…but I can look for your missing brother-in-law. Email me his address and any names and phone numbers of people who know him, I’ll start there.”
The contract was signed by two men shaking hands, business done the old way.
“By the way, what happens if the bottle is broken or it ever gets uncorked?” The tanned fisherman’s face turned ashen.
“Nothing good, I would imagine. You find it, bury it whole, Gus…I mean it.” He stood up and slowly shuffled out into the starry night.
After my new client left, I ordered another cocktail. I knew I shouldn’t have. I was maudlin and alcohol just adds fuel to the psychological flame.
Nowadays, I was feeling pissed off all the time. I don’t know why. I admitted that ever since I took the part-time security gig at the casino I was drinking a bit too much, sleeping in a bit too late. Other than a few brief flirtations with some cocktail waitresses at the casino, my dating life was as dead as Richard Nixon.
It was all coming to a head. When I moved to Florida, I never expected to stay here long. I came here after my unceremonial termination from the fedgov. I needed a place to lick my psychic wounds…to heal. But the wound didn’t heal, instead it began to fester, becoming gangrenous.
I knew what I needed to do, but like most men, I resisted.
I decided I needed a spiritual infusion, like those tourists who go get a Vitamin B shot and IV drip after a long weekend of partying too hard. I needed inspiration from the divine. Tomorrow, before I started this new case, I decided I would take a short pilgrimage to Tarpon Springs.
Some orthodox christians I knew told me that spending some time at the Saint Michael Taxiarchis Shrine always gave them peace and clarity. It wasn’t very baptist of me but I needed to center myself. Too much darkness had been collecting inside me as of late.
Then I would be ready to find Harley’s missing brother-in-law and Mirth’s bottle of demon rum.
Part II Next Week