The Sail

by Landon Beach

  One crew member got behind the helm and started the engine while another readied a line in his hands. The other two sat in the stern. After the boat pulled away from the yacht, it made a tight loop to starboard and was soon parallel to the seaplane with only five yards of separation.

  Livingston looked back up at the woman.

  She took another drink and then headed back inside the yacht.

  The co-pilot emerged from the cockpit. “I’ll tie us up and then you can board and head over to her, sir,” he said to Livingston.

  “Did you see her too?” Livingston asked.

  The co-pilot stopped on his way to open the main aircraft door and saw Livingston looking up at him with perspiration on his forehead. “I meant her,” he pointed, “your yacht, sir.”

  Livingston saw the man’s eyes focused on his forehead. Feeling a bead of sweat travel down the center and slip on to the bridge of his nose, he lifted his right hand and wiped. “Of course,” Livingston said. “She looks great.”

  The co-pilot gave a nervous nod and then opened the hatch. A warm breeze blew inside the cabin as he stepped out onto the plane’s starboard pontoon. A crew member from the boat stood amidships and threw him a line. The co-pilot then pulled the craft over and secured the line to a cleat on the pontoon.

  Bannon and Sanders unbuckled their seat belts and grabbed their duffel bags. Then, Bannon moved past Sanders and picked up Livingston’s bag.

  The co-pilot stuck his head back inside. “All ready, gentleman.”

  ✽✽✽

  “So, how does this work?” Trist asked.

  Kevin Shelby laughed as he took another puff from his cigarette, exhaled into the cramped cockpit of his Camaro, and then tipped back a fresh can of Miller High Life. “Relax, buddy. He’ll be here soon.” Another sip. “Gonna show you how easy this shit is.”

  Trist sat back in the passenger’s seat and cracked open a beer.

  “There ya go,” Kevin said.

  Trist took a drink. “Who are we meeting?”

  Kevin grinned and reclined. “You remember Brad Armstrong, right?”

  Trist shook his head ‘no.’

  “Graduated two years ago, football player, dad owns Armstrong Lumber?”

  It clicked. “Got it,” Trist said.

  “Well, you probably didn’t know this because you’re such a goody two shoes—”

  “Hey—”

  Kevin punched Trist’s shoulder. “C’mon, you know it’s true.”

  Trist took a huge gulp of beer. “Okay, Okay.”

  Kevin’s eyes scanned around outside—driver’s side window, front window, Trist’s window, then the rearview mirror. He continued. “Well, Brad used to be one of the local dealers. Another guy dealt to adults and Brad’s turf was the high school and junior high.” Kevin motioned to the tennis courts and parking lot with his hand that held the cigarette and beer can. “This here parking spot is where Brad turned his job over to me right before our sophomore year.”

  “I remember you riding around with him Freshman year.”

  Kevin smirked. “Learned the ropes that year. Where the spots were, how to approach kids, and...how to not get caught.” Kevin finished the beer and crushed the can. “Got my set of wheels that summer, and Brad passed the torch.”

  “Why is he still dealing?” Trist asked. “I thought he had a football scholarship.”

  “Dropped out after the first semester.” Kevin squirmed in his seat and turned far enough around to grab a small Igloo cooler from the backseat. He took out two beers. “Finish your beer, puss,” he said to Trist and handed him a cold High Life. He put the cooler back, opened his can, and gulped. “Brad’s moved up now. Deals out of Detroit. He comes up here every few weeks and delivers the goods to me. I sell it all, take my cut and give the rest of the cash to Brad when he comes back. It’s a piece of cake.”

  “What’s your long-term plan?”

  Kevin paused and stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you staying in the business or passing it on when you go to school?”

  “Fuck school, man. I ain’t budgin’.”

  Trist finished off his beer and opened the new can. “Don’t you have a replacement?”

  “Not right now. Gotta a couple of prospects in this year’s freshman class, but I’ll have to watch ‘em for a little bit.”

  “But you’ll have to pass on the job to someone. You can’t hang around school after this year or it would look suspicious.”

  “So now you’re the local drug dealing expert, huh? Just let me worry about it, okay?” He did a surveillance sweep with his eyes again. “Plus, my old man’s headed for an early grave anyway. I don’t think it’s even registered with him how I was able to afford my truck and this beauty. A few more bottles of Smirnoff deposited in his liver and I’ll be running the marina. Then I’ll talk to Brad about passing the torch. He’ll know what to do—guy’s a genius.”

  Headlights appeared in the distance. Kevin was way keyed up, despite the 4 beers, so he noticed them first. As they got closer—traveling at a slow but steady speed—he perked up in his seat. “That’s him,” Kevin said. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty, right on the nose. “Goddamnit, he’s smooth as silk,” Kevin smiled. “In the business, this is what we call professionalism, Trist. You show up on time, every time. You receive the delivery quietly and then drive off like nothing ever happened. Plus, we’re small-time here in Hampstead. From what Brad told me, the regional boss lives somewhere up in Canada.” The car’s blinker came on. “Get ready to watch and learn.”

  Trist wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and observed the car turn into the tennis court parking lot. It was an SUV. “I thought you said Brad always showed up in his old Chrysler Cordoba?”

  Kevin tilted his head. “I—” He leaned forward and squinted. The SUV continued to roll toward them. “Trist, how many people do you see?”

  Trist’s eyes focused on the windshield, but the headlights made it impossible to make out the interior, even shadows. “I can’t tell.”

  Kevin reached under his seat and pulled out a .357 Magnum.

  “Whoa. What the hell, Kevin?”

  “Shut up,” Kevin said. He looked at the oncoming SUV and then his eyes darted to Trist’s. “I don’t think it’s Brad.”

  “Let’s get outta here,” Trist said.

  “Naw. Too late now.” The SUV came to a halt three spots away, parallel to the Camaro’s driver’s side. “Be ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  The SUV’s passenger’s side door opened and out stepped a man wearing boots, jeans, and a lightweight jacket. He closed the door and approached the Camaro.

  Kevin slid the gun between the seat and center console, barrel down and safety off. He lifted his leg to conceal it and placed his right hand on his knee.

  The man smiled as he reached the car and motioned for Kevin to lower the window.

  Kevin rolled the handle. As the window came down, the man bent over and his head filled in the open space. “Evenin’, boys. Now, don’t you get spooked. Everything is fine.” He looked at Kevin. “Kevin, right?”

  Kevin shook his head.

  The man eyed Trist. “And who do we have here?”

  Trist cleared his throat. “A friend.”

  He looked back at Kevin. “That true?”

  Kevin looked at the man. Behind him, the sound of a door opening could be heard. “Yeah,” Kevin said.

  “Well then, you’re in business.” The scent from Kevin’s breath reached him. “You boys been drinkin’ tonight?”

  Before either of them could answer, a voice behind the man said, “Get ‘em out of the car.”

  Kevin and Trist froze.

  The man rose up and stepped away from the Camaro. “You heard him. Let’s go, nice and slow.”

  Kevin started to reach for the Magnum’s handle but was met with Trist’s hand instead.

  Trist squeezed, then he whispered, “No.”

  Kevin
shook his hand free.

  “C’mon. Stay cool,” Trist said.

  “Okay.”

  They climbed out of the Camaro and met near the trunk where the men were waiting. The second man was enormous, around the size of Uncle Tyee, and had a shaved head with a goatee that looked like steel wool.

  “You boys armed?” The large man said.

  “No,” Kevin said back.

  Then, the man who had been by the driver’s side window came over and frisked both of them. Satisfied, he gave his partner a nod.

  “I like honesty,” the giant said. “Now, come over here. Wanna show you boys somethin’.”

  They followed the men to the back of the SUV. The smaller man motioned for them to step back a few paces. Then, the large man opened the back door.

  Trist’s stomach started doing cartwheels as he saw the body of Brad Armstrong curled up on the floor of the SUV. His hands and feet were bound with rope, there was blood on his t-shirt, and his face was a mess—bruises and cuts and one eye was swollen shut. Brad moaned, “Help me.”

  Kevin took a step forward. “What the fuck!”

  The giant turned around, put both hands around Kevin’s neck and picked him off of the ground. Kevin wheezed, trying to breathe. Trist made a motion to help but then saw that the other man had pulled a gun with a silencer out of his jacket and had it pointed at Trist.

  The man shook Kevin side to side and then released him. Kevin hit the pavement and sucked for breath on his hands and knees.

  The big man crouched down next to Kevin. “Now, we don’t want to speak out of turn again. Understood?”

  Kevin could only cough.

  The man grabbed a handful of Kevin’s hair and jerked the boy’s head back in order to make eye contact. “Understood?”

  Kevin’s eyes twitched in fear, and he nodded.

  The man rose back up. “Good. Now, where were we?” He glanced at Brad Armstrong. “Right. This shit.” He lifted Kevin to his feet with one arm. “Now, I don’t know who you brought with you tonight,” he said looking at Trist, “but it’s good for you to have a witness along.” He let go of Kevin’s arm and walked over to Brad. “This is what happens when you steal from your supplier.” He pulled back and slugged Brad in the stomach.

  Brad curled up tighter and sobbed. His one open eye looked straight into Trist’s.

  The man turned around. “Keep this vision in mind anytime you think of skimming some product or money off the top.” The man paused. “Also, don’t lie. This asshole told us it was you,” he pointed at Kevin, “who was ripping us off.”

  Kevin’s sympathy for Brad disappeared, and he straightened up.

  The giant closed the trunk and put his hand on the shoulder of the man carrying the gun with the silencer. “Meet your new contact, Kevin. This is Orson.”

  Orson lowered his gun and shook Kevin’s hand.

  “What’s going to happen to Brad?” Trist asked.

  Orson spoke to Kevin. “Better teach your friend here to shut up.”

  Kevin eyed Trist and then looked back at Orson. “He didn’t know about any of this. I just thought it would be a quick pick up from Brad and then we’d be off to a party. He’s not involved.”

  The giant opened a side door and removed a shoe box. “Well, I better never see him again then. And don’t bring anyone with you from now on unless it’s your replacement.” He closed the door. “In the meantime, let’s see if he can hold on to something. C’mere,” he called to Trist.

  Trist walked over and put his hands on the shoe box. The man didn’t let go. “Now, the two of you be on your way. Orson will be here next month to collect.” He let go of the box. “New meeting place too. You know the scenic overlook a mile north of your old man’s marina?”

  “Yeah,” Kevin said.

  “Good. Orson will meet you there, same time.”

  Trist and Kevin walked over to the Camaro. By the time they got in, the SUV was gone.

  Kevin lit a cigarette with a shaky match and then turned on the car.

  “Man, you’re in over your head,” Trist said.

  “I’m fine,” Kevin said. “And maybe you didn’t notice, but I kept your ass out of this.”

  “Thanks,” Trist said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. Put that box on the back seat and cover it with the blanket.”

  Trist did, and they took off out of the parking lot.

  Kevin turned on the radio and inserted a tape. AC/DC began to thump from the Camaro’s speakers. “Need a drink?” Shelby asked.

  “Hell yes,” Trist said.

  “Let’s head out to the bonfire at Fogarty’s. You need to get sloshed and have sex in the woods with Rachel.”

  Trist exhaled.

  The Camaro roared down the street.

  PART II

  Cast Off

  12

  “I think that’s it,” Robin said as he came up the companionway and entered the cockpit where Tyee and Levana were sitting.

  “How is he?” Tyee asked.

  “Passed out in the hammock up forward. Still hungover as hell. I ought to leave him here on the dock and make him swim out to me. This cold water could knock some sense into him.”

  “He’ll be okay in a few hours,” Levana angled in. “There is nothing left in his insides, I can vouch for that. He spent most of the ride up with his head out window feeding the animals on the side of the road.”

  “I saw. He tried to drink the Great Lakes dry by himself,” Robin said. “I told him last night—”

  “Robin,” she said. “Let it go right now, or it will gnaw at you for the rest of the trip. He’s a kid—our kid—and he made a mistake.”

  “Let’s hope it was only one mistake.”

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that now. Just let him sleep it off, give him lots of water, and try and let things settle in starting tomorrow morning.”

  Tyee walked forward and pretended to check the main halyard.

  Should he press harder or retreat? He looked at Levana. Damn it. She had that convincing stare—not one that pleaded, one that commanded. He folded. “All right. We’ll start over tomorrow.”

  She walked over and gave him a hug. They separated, and she looked out at the flat water. “Five lakes, one Superior,” she said.

  “Now where did you get that saying from?” Robin asked.

  “You’re not the only one who does research in this family,” she pointed a finger playfully at his chest.

  Tyee wiped his brow, and then returned to the cockpit. “You need anything else?”

  Robin looked around. The pain-in-the-ass work was thankfully over: the escort car and permit for trailering the boat, the crane to raise the mast, and getting the boat into the water. “Not that I can think of. Just a hand casting off.”

  “Not a problem,” Tyee said. They shook hands and Tyee stepped onto the pier.

  Robin and Levana embraced again. “I know it will go well,” she said.

  He kissed her and they parted. “It will,” he said.

  She put on her sunglasses and he helped her onto the dock. She watched him as he took his position behind the helm and started the engine. “Robin?”

  He looked up at her.

  “Take care of him, and both of you come back to me safe and sound.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll check in when we hit our first port in two weeks. You can always have someone reach me on VHF Channel 16.”

  She blew him a kiss and then walked down the dock and grabbed the stern line.

  Tyee was already up forward and holding the bow line to check Levity’s forward motion.

  Robin looked around. Traffic was clear. He addressed his wife and brother-in-law. “Okay, team, normally I would give my first mate below the command to cast off the stern line and then cast off the bow line, but we’re going to have to settle for the two of you throwing the lines on my deck.”

  With a nod, they obliged and Levity’s starboard side started to ru
b against the dock fenders as she surged forward.

  Robin throttled up and Levity was soon clear of the pier and heading for the navy colored water off the bow. After perhaps thirty yards, he stole a glance back.

  Tyee had his arm around Levana, and they waved goodbye to him. He gave them a hearty wave and then turned back around and concentrated on the water ahead.

  He brought up the first waypoint in his Loran: the wreck of the Bermuda. He looked through the open hatch and into the salon. He won’t be ready to dive until tomorrow. Parenting. There were some aspects of it he would not miss; dealing with a hungover teenager was at the top of the short list. However, the rest of what he would be missing weighed on him now.

  Robin turned the wheel a few degrees to starboard. He’d get deeper then run her a few miles east and anchor—they’d head to the Bermuda tomorrow morning. He knew what his journal entry would be about tonight.

  ✽✽✽

  The bar was overcrowded as usual. From the middle of a pack of hungry twenty-one-year-old males marched Jill Elizabeth St. John—nearly six feet, sporting blue eyes, shoulder length layered cut silky blonde hair, and an athletic build that proclaimed her campus celebrity status as Lake Superior State University’s starting middle hitter. And tonight she was in no mood to deal with the little boys trying to convince themselves that they were men.

  “Jiiillllll...c’mere, baby,” shouted one of the boys.

  She ignored him and kept moving until she joined her fellow volleyball teammate, Missy Prosser, on stools at the bar.

  “You made it past the pin-dicks back there, sweetie,” Missy said.

  “Hoo-fuckin’-ray,” Jill said as Missy handed her a tall shot of Jack Daniels.

  Jill started, “Call him Jack tonight,” and the shot glasses were raised—downed—slammed upside down on the bar, followed by Jill and Missy in unison, “but come mornin’, it’s Mister Daniels!”