Del’s sister was very religious. Like Gordo, she followed the Mishawaka and Santeria faiths, also called “La Regla Lucumi,” a sect that merged Native American, Caribbean and Roman Catholic beliefs into one. Her religious artifacts were everywhere, including a large ceramic eye that was mounted to the top of the wall in a remote corner of the room so that it could be seen from all four corners. Below it, placed on the floor, a shrine of sorts made up of the flowing fountain, kept alive with a small water pump salvaged from an old aquarium. Flowers, rice, dried beans, and chicken feathers surrounded the basin. Inside, immersed in the cool, clear, flowing water was a pair of rusty handcuffs. She believed this would protect her brother from prosecution and another prison sentence. In the opposite corner next to the bird was a wooded Indian warrior standing almost six feet tall, complete with a carved feather headdress and war paint. Alberto always thought it was funny that Risa insisted on putting her bird next to a carving with so many feathers.
“Hey man, what’s up?” asked Del as he entered the room, pulling his friend into a tight embrace. He was wearing jogging shorts, no shoes or socks, and a pullover sweatshirt, not the button-up physician’s shirt and matching polyester pants he was usually seen in. Alberto stood to his feet hugging his much taller friend.
“Well, are you ready this time?” Del asked as the two stepped back.
“I got the parts for the other motor and she is running great. I did the work myself so I know it’s done right,” said Alberto.
“You can’t let me down this time. This is my first load since I got out and I want it to go right. The load is coming from Andros and they will start to cross at about eight or as soon as it gets dark.”
“What reef do you want me at?”
“Go to Molasses. Anchor out a bit and monitor CB Channel Four. Roberto and I will be out there in the big boat, Vibrations, and there will be a second boat to bring in half the load. I think you remember Red and Stump. As soon as you make contact, switch to Channel Seven. You will be meeting with Philipe.”
“Gordo?”
“Yeah, listen. He will be in a 36-foot Mirage called the Cigarette. His Stiletto, the Black Duck, is in the shop. The boat has outboards so you probably won’t be able to hear it until he’s right on you. He’s bringing four thousand pounds of which you will take two. The clavo is at Taylor Creek.”
Del tried to convey confidence to the less experienced Alberto. Two years prior, Alberto lost a three thousand pound load. The barrowed boat he was using caught fire and they had to dump the product mid ocean. Del could tolerate the menace of law enforcement; it was a price of doing business. If someone got hurt, he would abandon the load in a heartbeat. But avoidable mechanical problems had no place in such a risky operation.
“Alberto, remember that guy, the one on the TV show about stunt men? You used to be so impressed with him.”
“Ivan the Great, the motorcycle guy?”
“Yeah, well you see, he is in the type of business where you can’t afford to have a bad day; one goof and you’re red meat on the hood of a car in front of thousands of people. Our business is much the same way. You need to invest a little more time and money into this venture. After this one is over, I expect you to buy a new fucking boat.”
“I will, I promise. I got laid off at Aquasport Boats. Business is slow and they had to cut thirty people. I need this real bad man.”
“I hear you. You still rigging boats?” Del asked.
“Hell yes, the best rigger in Miami bro.”
“Let me talk to Scott Roberts over at Indian Powerboats. I think he’s looking for some fresh faces. In the meantime, let’s do this thing right, okay?”
Alberto needed a break. He had been laid off and had spent his family’s savings on the La Pinta, a 24-foot, twin-engine boat that needed more than it offered.
“Oh, by the way…I can only pay five points.”
Alberto stopped for a second looking down at the floor. Despite the fact he knew the going rate was seven to ten dollars per pound, he realized he was not in a position to bargain. He nodded his head and walked out the door.
Del picked up a portable phone resting in its battery charger next to the couch.
“It’s taken care of. I can handle two thousand additional shares of that stock. So there’s no confusion, my commission is eighty-five points…right? Okay.” The beep of the phone disconnecting echoed from the high ceilings. Del walked over to the fountain, pulled out a rusty spark plug, and dropped it in.
“Good luck my Cho Chos.”
* * * * *
Hostel
As Joel opened the front door to his new apartment, the air hitting him in the face smelled of stale bread. The two-bedroom flat was spacious and he hadn’t been assigned a roommate, which gave him the privacy he desired. The place was fully stocked with linens, dishes, pots, pans, and enough garbage bags to last a year. On a scale of one to ten, judging the eleven places Joel had called home over the last six years, this apartment in the Plantation Key Colony Condominium ranked a solid eight. Only his sister’s house in Atlanta, a ten and the dormitory at the Glynnco Academy, a nine because of the food, ranked higher.
At the bottom of the scale was a pup tent he occupied while waiting for a crew spot on one of the fishing boats out of Sitka, Alaska. Of the things Joel’s father left him after his death, his most cherished were the BMW he had to temporarily leave in Seattle and a thick wool sleeping bag that proved to be very valuable during the cold Alaskan nights. After three months, a spot opened up on Sunshine, a 110-foot steel-hulled crab boat on its way to Anchorage. His bunk on the ship was clearly a two on the scale and, due to the bunk’s short length, Joel got to fold over the end of his sleeping bag at the head to bolster his pillow. Other than the tight quarters, he enjoyed his time at sea earning the respect of the crew, an incredible feat since he was fundamentally different from everyone else on the boat. Besides being disciplined, punctual, educated, and possessing more teeth than the rest of the crew combined, he was searching for that thing the rest of the boat had already found, a search that was still not complete by the end of the voyage. The crew and captain were sorry to see him go after their four-month trip as he did his job well and helped them land a record catch that was profitable for everyone.
His next stop was a wildfire in Southern California, the largest the state had ever seen. His home for two months was a base camp at the foot of a mountain that was a three on the scale and was comprised of a large warehouse with seventy bunk beds. Joel fought the flames every day, coming back to the bunkhouse each evening covered in red fire retardant. The work was a diversion though, and despite the total exhaustion, he felt like he was accomplishing something important at the end of the day. It was this experience that reinforced the notion that he had to finish his degree. He had dropped out of the Citadel in the middle of his second year against the wishes of his sister Jhenna, who pleaded for him to finish.
After a month living in his tent on the beach in Baja, he enrolled in classes at UC Berkeley where he completed his bachelor’s degree majoring in political science. He rented a room in a four-bedroom townhouse with five other students, a home that was always loud with parties, alcohol, young coeds, and music. Being the eldest in the house was both a blessing and a curse. Whenever the police were called to calm things down, he was the one who was summoned by his roommates, primarily because of his ability to reason with the officers and negotiate an amicable outcome. He put in his time though and two and a half years later, he graduated, leaving the townhouse, which was, with all things considered, a five on the scale.
An ad in the “Alternative Help Wanted” section of the Los Angeles Times prompted him to drive to Montana where a horse farm was willing to trade room, board and two hundred dollars a week for what the ad said would be “an unforgettable experience.” Joel quickly learned that horses were not his forte, developing a new respect for farmhands and the suspicions of Buck, the farm’s manager who caught Joel with his twenty-
year-old daughter in one of the barn lofts during what could only be described as a poorly planned rendezvous. The cabins were adequate though and earned a solid five on the scale mainly because of the view of the surrounding snow-covered mountains.
His last stop before retreating to his sister’s was a ski lodge on the top of North Carolina’s Beach Mountain where he landed a job as a ski instructor. His chateau cabin was clearly a ten, less four points because he couldn’t afford to pay for the heat. After three broken legs, a broken arm, six dislocated shoulders and a major head injury, Joel’s bosses decided they couldn’t afford to visit another student in the hospital.
It was fate, or something like it, when his BMW rolled into Jhenna’s driveway in Buckhead, a trendy suburb of Atlanta. Jhenna had always been an independent woman which was why Joel was so surprised when she dated and then married Pat Stephens, a man who was their father’s lead prosecutor eight years before. Pat was fourteen years older, a career government service employee, and represented all of the things that were completely opposite of her. To Jhenna, true security came from within, not any institution. At a young age, her life unraveled when her mother left and then again with the death of her father. Joel never got to know his mother but for Jhenna, that separation was devastating and molded her into what she had become.
Joel figured that Pat reminded his sister of their father though to him, Pat was no John Kenyon. Pat was at least an inch shorter than his sister, a stark contrast to their father who stood six-foot-four.
This home would be different, mainly because it represented a milestone in his life. He had something to build upon: a stable job and a future with serious benefits, something his father always preached about but he could never understand. But wasn’t that the way it always was between sons and fathers, he thought to himself. It took the real world to teach some of our most valuable lessons.
“Joel?” a woman yelled through the partially opened front door.
“Yes, can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m Betty Sands, Owen’s mother,” she explained.
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you Mrs. Sands.”
“I live just across the hall. We share the same washer and dryer.”
“That’s good to know ma’am, thanks for coming by.”
“Don’t let me bother you though son, I’m sure you have a lot of unpacking to do.”
“You’re no bother Mrs. Sands. Thanks for coming by,” he said as she closed the door behind her.
* * * * *
Complicit
In a foggy mist, Gordo panted as he dumped the forty-seven burlap-skinned bales off the side of the Black Duck, his 38-foot Stiletto. He never had a good back and this exertion was proving to be more than he or his failing spine could take. But he was desperate. He was amazed at how calm the ocean was as he watched each bale hit the water. The surface was as smooth as a pane of glass. With the last bale over the side, the Stiletto, now almost three thousand pounds lighter, slid off the top of the Island Girl just as his nephew’s body floated to the surface, lingering by the floating bales. With a boat hook in hand, Gordo pulled the lifeless body closer to his boat. Silence was all around him. The only sound he could detect was his own heartbeat, something his nephew Bobby no longer possessed. As the body floated closer to the side of his boat, he reached over to pull him in and that’s when his back rebelled with a series of spasms that brought the three hundred and twenty pound man to his knees in a surge of unbearable pain. He grabbed Bobby’s wrist, feeling for a pulse, the water still thick with blood. It was limp and lifeless.
In a moment of desperation, looking at his nephew’s gold and stainless Rolex, he did what he believed was right.
•
Gordo awoke with a jolt as their car hit a pothole. Del, who was driving with one hand and holding a cup of coffee with the other, cursed as some of the scalding liquid dripped down his forearm.
“Shit!”
“What is it?” Gordo asked, rubbing his eyes.
“These roads suck. Did you enjoy your nap?”
“Man, I keep having these dreams.”
“You can say that again. You were yelling something. I was going to wake you but you know what people say.”
“No, what do people say, Del?”
“Not to wake someone if they are dreaming.”
“No man, that’s sleepwalking. Don’t wake anyone who is sleepwalking. You can wake me anytime you want from one of those dreams,” Gordo insisted.
The two were making their rounds, getting everything ready for the next night. It was a reunion for Del who had not seen the regular crew in almost two years and an opportunity to get acquainted with the new men Gordo had enlisted in the meantime. The rounds began in North Key Largo with a visit to Kevin Pinder, the owner of the clavo, the safehouse, or in this case, the mobile home where the merchandise would be stored and weighed before being moved to Miami. Pinder was happy to see the two. He said he needed the money. Pinder always needed the money. He did have job security though. His trailer was conveniently located close to Key Largo’s Taylor Creek, a secluded pathway to and from the ocean-bound routes. Pinder would receive five points, or ten thousand dollars for every ton of merchandise received. Pinder’s only other job was as a line apprentice with the Florida Keys Electric Co-op, so his lifestyle ranged from feast to famine. Parties and non-stop noise could be expected mere days after the successful delivery of a load, lasting for as long as the money did. Kevin Pinder and his friends looked forward to it. The experience was exciting and the rewards were bountiful.
“So what do you think about us taking on business from Gus Greico?” Del asked.
“I don’t know. It sure would help things out when the season is down,” Gordo answered.
“Well, between you and me, what we would be moving doesn’t have seasons.”
“What are you talking about Del. Guns?”
“No idiot, coke!”
“Shit, don’t let Roberto hear you say that. You know how he hates that shit,” Gordo said.
“I know, and Gordo, I hope this conversation is between us.”
“Always man. No, you don’t have to worry about that man, but Roberto won’t like any idea of working with coke.”
“Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t think about expanding our horizons.”
“Expanding our horizons? Man, this Greico guy has you snowed.”
“Greico has very little to do with it. I’m the one who solicited him.”
“Solicited? You been soliciting in jail, Del?” Gordo asked with a smile.
“Maricón.”
“Del, when was the last time you heard of someone getting busted for pot, unless of course it was some dumbshit who got lost or something. But everyday you hear of the coke. The murders…the big time corruption…Roberto doesn’t want any part of it and personally, I don’t blame him,” Gordo explained.
“Greico does a lot of business with pot,” Del replied.
“Bring it on. I’m a reefer hauling fool man.”
“You are that, you crazy son of a bitch.”
“Hey, don’t take it personally. It’s just that we’re down-home type people. I would hate to think that Gordito got hooked on some of the coke that I brought in,” Gordo said.
“You never know, the stuff would make him lose a few pounds.”
“Hey! Don’t start that shit.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Let him smoke the reefer.”
“I’m telling you mother fucker!” Gordo warned with a half smile. “Could you imagine Gordito with the munchies, ay mi madre?!”
“And you with a contact high. Shit, Cecilia would be working around the clock to feed the two of you.”
“Shit, that would be a sight,” Gordo said.
“Is Gordito alright, I mean he doesn’t have a pituitary problem or anything like that, does he?” Del asked.
“Shit no. He’s just got big bones and baby fat, you know.”
The next stop was at
the insurance office of Carson Plimpton. Located in a top floor office was Carson’s youngest son of four, Jimmy. An avid angler, Jim Plimpton had won the respect of the Upper Keys fishing community and through a connection with Bobby Alazar had, in the process, assumed the responsibility for the senior Alazar’s counter-surveillance activities.
The last stop on the list was to the home of Red and Stump Albritton. The brothers, whose names resembled more of a cartoon comic strip than a family legacy, were experienced boat runners. Gordo had recruited them from another operation, meeting the two during a crossing at Gordo’s island retreat on North Andros in the Bahamas. They would be responsible for piloting “Old Faithful,” as Roberto called it, a 26-foot Chris-Craft open sports fisherman. The boat was old and in dire need of cosmetic repairs but with her twin 454 power plants and new Volvo outdrives, the Chris never missed a beat and always delivered her load.
After leaving the Keys, the two drove to Gordo’s house where Del left in his car. Gordo spent the next four hours preparing his 36-foot Mirage powerboat for the Gulf Stream crossing. He checked the lube in the lower units of each of the four outboards and then recharged the hydraulic steering system. At a local gas station, he took on three hundred gallons of 93-octane fuel. Later he shopped at a grocery store, stocking up on enough food to keep himself and the crew of the plane he was soon to be aboard happy for a week if the need arose.
Del returned later in the day and drove Gordo’s dually truck with the boat to the Bayfront Park in Homestead. There, they launched the boat and Gordo, his boat fueled and full of provisions, left for North Andros, Bahamas.
* * * * *
Yo Yos
The Yellow Baithouse was a small, modest convenience store and bait shop that was nestled between two large dogwood trees along Key Largo’s main highway, U.S. 1. The store was a landmark for fishermen and boaters who needed a wide variety of angling equipment as well as both live and frozen baits, from hand-rigged ballyhoo to iced-down shrimp.
Mid Ocean Page 9
