Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  “I hate this weather,” Holmes said. “One day it’s cold as shit, and then like today, it’s hot and humid.”

  “Holmes, you bitch too much,” West replied.

  “Will you two pay attention,” Jordan barked.

  “To what boss? I mean it’s not like we have a BOLO or anything.”

  “Well…just keep an eye out just the same.”

  “Isn’t this something? Some tourist sees something he thinks is suspicious, calls 1-800-BE-ALERT and we get a suntan…Incredible!” Holmes exclaimed, this time using the full motion of his arms to illustrate his statement.

  “If you’ve got a better idea, I’d like to hear it,” West said.

  “Yeah, actually I do. It’s called 1-800-GET-A-FUCKING-LIFE…”

  “Will you shut up!” Jordan yelled, this time with a handheld radio to his ear. “I can’t think through all your static.”

  “Sorry boss, we’re just not used to this heat,” West said.

  “Papa 1901 direct to Slingshot,” Jordan spoke into the radio.

  “Slingshot - 1901.”

  “Go ahead and loop back one more time and then we’ll call it a day.”

  “10-4, 1901.”

  The 210 ascended to three hundred feet before making a one hundred and eighty degree turn to head south, against the flow of traffic.

  “You guys really need a shit detail to show you how good you have it,” Jordan said as he packed a pair of binoculars and some other equipment into his duffel bag.

  “An exciting day like this really makes a guy hungry,” Holmes announced.

  “Effective immediately - you’re on a diet,” Jordan answered.

  Slingshot spotted it first. A light brown Nissan pickup had attempted to make a U-turn and return to the Keys. The small truck headed south at a high rate of speed. The 210 pilot lowered its flaps and slowed the craft to seventy knots staying just behind the truck and just above the plane’s crucial stall speed.

  “Slingshot - Papa 1901.”

  “Go ahead,” Jordan answered.

  “We’re behind a profile vehicle - a small tan pickup. Foreign. They made a U-turn and headed south at a high rate of speed.”

  “10-4 Slingshot, we will alert Monroe County Sheriff’s Dispatch from here.”

  “Roger that 1901. The subject vehicle is equipped with a black tonneau cover. We are going to stay on him for the duration.”

  * * * * *

  Static

  The Alazar home on 232nd Street in the Redlands was a hotbed of tension as Roberto and Del sat at the home’s eat-in bar, nervously awaiting word on the Cho Chos’ apparent demise.

  “Oye, mira, the gringo!” Mima said, pointing to a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria that was coming down the driveway.

  Both men stood and went to greet Gil Lindback. It was out of character for any of the workers to come by the Alazar home unless invited but this visit was welcomed.

  “Hey Gil, what’s the news?” Del asked.

  “Not a word. I drove the last bit of Red and Stump’s stuff out myself, but even if we find them and they still have their load to deal with, we now have a new problem,” Lindback answered.

  “Ay, Jesús Cristo! What now?” Alazar said softly.

  “The cops have put up the checkpoint in Florida City. I had to drive through the fucking thing with six bales in the trunk!”

  “Good work!” Roberto said, sensing Lindback’s tense frustration.

  “How’s everything over at Mongi’s house? Are they asking questions yet?”

  “No, I told them that we would have to suspend trips for awhile because of the roadblock.”

  “Good thinking,” Roberto said.

  The three men stood in silence for a moment before being interrupted.

  “Popito! El teléfono,” Mima announced, coming out the front door with the ringing brick-sized cellular phone.

  “Shit!” Roberto said, running over to her.

  “Hello!”

  “Roberto?”

  “Chino, where in the fuck have you been?”

  “Everything’s okay but I need to see you and explain.”

  “Explain! Explain what?”

  “You’ll see when you get here.”

  “This doesn’t sound good Chino.”

  “No man, everything’s okay. We just need some help getting our kids picked up at daycare today.”

  “Where?”

  “Meet me at the Dairy Buster, next to the Cut,” Chino suggested, and with a beep the circuit was disconnected.

  “Gil, I have a job for you.”

  “What is it Del?”

  “That was Chino,” he replied, as their eyes lit up. “Meet him at the Dairy Buster next to the Cut. Call me as soon as you know something.”

  “Okay, before I go though, there’s something we need to talk about,” Lindback said, hesitating for a minute.

  “What is it Gil?” Roberto asked.

  “It’s about Kevin.”

  “Can it wait?” Roberto asked.

  “I guess so,” Lindback answered.

  “We’ll talk when you get back. Be careful.”

  The two men watched as the sedan pulled out onto 232nd Street from the Alazar’s driveway. The Crown Victoria was an official looking car, dark blue in color. Gil Lindback, besides working at an auto parts store during the day, was a volunteer emergency medical technician with the Tavernier Ambulance and Rescue Corps. He enjoyed helping people in need and the status the position gave him within the community was uplifting. His car was outfitted with a two-way radio capable of communicating with the ambulances and the rescue dispatcher. Mounted across the car’s trunk were a series of antennas making the vehicle look more like an undercover police car than a mule for illegal drugs.

  •

  An hour later, Chino sat alone next to a side door sipping on a chocolate milkshake. It was his third in two hours. He considered himself a connoisseur of milkshakes and in his opinion, the Dairy Buster made the best. He was still dressed in the residue-stained clothes he wore the night before and his face was in desperate need of a shave.

  Gil Lindback entered the small ice cream shop from the front entrance and immediately ordered from the counter. Minutes later, the two were both sipping milkshakes and looking behind themselves and around at their surroundings for anyone who looked suspicious.

  “So what happened?” Lindback asked.

  “Our boat broke down. I think we got some bad gas or something. Both engines quit at the same time,” Chino said.

  “Where’s the shit?”

  “Wait, I’m getting there. We drifted through the North Creek and into the Cut. Both of us used every muscle in our bodies to fend the boat off the coral sides. When we got to the bridge we unloaded and hid the stuff in those mini-warehouses over there,” he explained, pointing to the storage complex across the street.

  “Where’s the boat?”

  “Alberto had to sink it. That big white Customs boat started to come down the Cut, so he sank the boat right there. You think Roberto will buy us a new one?”

  “I don’t know; you’ll have to ask him.”

  “We had to do it to save the load man,” Chino said.

  “Where’s Alberto?”

  “With the shit in the mini-warehouse.”

  “The roadblock is up and running in Florida City,” Lindback stated.

  “Shit, what are we going to do? We are sitting ducks!”

  “Have you tried to rent the unit you are in?”

  “I thought of that, but I think it’s too risky. Too many questions and what if he doesn’t want to give us that particular one?”

  “Wait here, I’ll be back in about twenty minutes,” Lindback said, tossing a crumpled dollar bill onto the table. “Here have another shake.”

  * * * * *

  Dynamic

  “You fucking piece of shit!” a motorist yelled to Jordan Cheney from a passing car. “Why don’t you get a real job, you pussy!”

  “I feel so
loved here,” Holmes said sarcastically.

  “In a way, I can’t blame these people. Card Sound and U.S. 1 are the only two roads in and out of the Keys and when we set up out here these people face a two to three hour delay. But, we don’t have a choice. It’s our job,” Jordan declared.

  “Slingshot to 1901,” squawked the handheld radio.

  “1901, go ahead.”

  “Heads up, we’ve got an ambulance rolling your way at a high rate of speed. Hold up all southbound traffic.”

  “10-4 Slingshot,” Jordan replied into the mic.

  Minutes later, the blaring siren of the ambulance came into range. The agents from the Tavernier field office could see its flashing lights through the afternoon haze. Red and white strobes and rotating beacons glistened like rubies and diamonds. Jordan and his men made sure the traffic was stopped so the emergency vehicle could pass through a relatively unobstructed path. Jordan feared the political nightmare that would be created if harm were to come to an ambulance, or anyone needing help for that matter, as a result of the already unpopular roadblock. The ambulance screamed by with the driver focused intently on the traffic ahead.

  “What do ya think boss? A heart attack? Or maybe a stroke?” Holmes asked.

  “Should we start a pool?” West asked.

  “My bet - it’s a car wreck. A bloody one for sure,” Holmes suggested.

  “What a way to go, rocking back and forth in that thing. The sound of the siren alone would tell you you’re half dead,” Jordan said.

  •

  Gil Lindback switched the siren back and forth from a long wale to the sharper repetitive yelp, hitting the ambulance’s high-pressure air horns. Like a train approaching a crossing gate, the loud horns echoed from the surrounding buildings as the traffic came to a complete stop, making an open path for the orange and white truck. In the back, Chino and Alberto Mendez held on to a grab rail, bracing themselves as Lindback swerved through the heavy traffic. Chino watched as the curtains in the back dangled from side to side, making sure they covered the dark, tinted windows concealing the twenty-three bales that were stacked neatly like crates in a warehouse.

  •

  Mongi watched from the window of his two-story South Miami clavo as an ambulance pulled into the secluded alley to a detached garage. Panic struck his spine as he wondered what god-awful fiasco was unfolding before his eyes. As the white and orange truck neared the home he could see the driver, Gil Lindback. With a sigh of relief, he met the rig by the rear garage, opening the ambulance’s back door to find Chino and Alberto sitting atop thirty bales packed tightly amidst the stretcher and bench seats.

  “This has got to be a first,” Mongi said to Lindback, who had met him at the back.

  “My chief said the truck had to go to Flamingo Ford in Homestead for service. I just thought we’d take a small detour along the way,” Lindback replied.

  “You got it here without getting caught. Now let’s unload before my neighbors see this thing and get curious.”

  * * * * *

  Captain Crunch

  Joel Kenyon treaded lightly as he walked into the Tavernier office, this time taking a moment to look around. He was amazed at the overall decay of the building. Despite the fresh carpet throughout and the freshly painted walls, the office was one of the worst government facilities he had ever seen. This was more of a hideout than an official building, he thought to himself. The windows were heavily draped, for the most part to cover the dirt buildup on the exterior. The most impressive feature of the room was the four-by-eight-foot bulletin board he had seen the first day he reported for duty. It contained pictures of recent busts and scores of boats that had been seized. At the top of the board, a bumper sticker was affixed. So many Columbians…So little time - Operation Greenback, U.S. Treasury Dept. He recognized the title. Operation Greenback was a high-level Treasury sting operation focused on Columbian businessmen wanting to invest in U.S. companies. Most turned out to be legitimate investors. However, on three separate occasions, the foreign nationals tried to entice undercover federal agents into taking large sums of money and laundering it through their businesses. The operation title drew flack from liberal lawmakers on Capitol Hill who remarked the name “greenback” was similar to the name “wetback” given to illegal Mexican immigrants. To the agents of USCS Tavernier, the bumper sticker was a collector’s item, a souvenir from a vacation to nowhere.

  “Kenyon!” Jordan Cheney called as he came out from his office. “Close call you had today, sorry about that steering problem. Our repair contractors aren’t what they used to be. But it’s no great loss. I hated that little boat anyway. Look, I left an incident report on your desk; fill it out after the meeting.”

  “My desk?” Joel asked.

  “Yeah, I put you in the cube next to Sands.”

  “Thank you sir,” he answered.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, patting Joel on the back.

  “Okay, could I get everyone over here please,” Jordan yelled, commanding immediate attention from everyone in the office. It was time for their weekly office meeting; a way for the group supervisors to keep tabs on what their agents were working on and for them to disseminate information to the ranks.

  “Jennie, get the video please. Okay, the white Stinger is back from Brunswick. They tell me it has been completely refitted. There are supposed to be new engines, so whoever spends the next twenty hours in her, Brunswick tells me she’s still in kind of a break-in mode, understood? I want these engines to last longer than the last pair. Blue Thunder is down again, it’s supposed to be a fuel pump, so don’t just jump in it and go, you won’t get very far,” Jordan said, pausing, as he looked over at the office receptionist who was busy setting up a rollaway video monitor and player. “Jen, are we ready yet?” She nodded yes. “Okay, what you are about to see is some old footage, the Cordera Brothers. Take note of the new boats, Indians I believe. Let’s put some pressure on these boys. Go ahead Jen, start the tape,” he instructed looking around the room. “Wait! Where’s Sands? Aw fuck it, he hates these things anyway,” he said, sitting down on the corner of one of the desks with the others. Agent Kenyon watched a crudely made videotape containing various scenes and places. The first was a boat being launched by a highly polished dually loaded with every aftermarket option available: chrome roll bar, fog lights, and a wing-type TV antenna mounted on the roof. The sides of the truck were painted with custom airbrush scenes.

  “Whatever happened to inconspicuous?” one of the agents offered as the tape showed two plump Latin males offloading a 30-foot offshore boat down the concrete boat ramp.

  “Those are our boys, Frankie and George Cordera,” Jordan said.

  The next scene showed the go-fast in the previous scene, this time moored to a concrete dock with a two-story house in the background.

  “342 Bougainvillea Drive. It has access from South Creek. This is definitely the clavo,” Jordan stated as the frame zoomed in on the dock area. There were several potted plants arranged to conceal the pathway from the dock to the house. “The notes I have here say the front of the residence has a well-concealed carport also,” Jordan added.

  The screen went black for a second before showing a doublewide mobile home on a canal. The frame was shot at night when the photographer was obviously hiding in some trees. He zoomed in on a picture glass window behind which a large man, dressed in shorts, followed a bikini-clad woman leading a class in sensual aerobics. The room erupted in laughter. “You go Gordo!” one of the agents yelled while the others continued to laugh. The plump man in the window was dancing the moves of the aerobics instructor, following her every move on a big screen TV in front of him. This continued for another minute before the tape ended. A second later, the office’s fluorescent fixtures came back on as the agent’s eyes adjusted to the burst of light. Jordan continued.

  “Okay, one more item we need to discuss. Our office has been blessed with a new agent fresh from Glynnco. Some of you have already met
him. Agent Kenyon will be working with Owen,” Jordan said.

  “Poor Guy,” Holmes added.

  “Kenyon has also earned a prestigious award…and on his second day,” the group supervisor announced with a smile while holding an empty box of Captain Crunch cereal.

  CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!

  The room started yelling. Jennie sat quietly, smiling and shaking her head. The yells grew in intensity. Agent Joel Kenyon stood looking around wondering what kind of ceremony was occurring.

  CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!

  “Yeah, you guessed it, Agent Kenyon, on his first day in the beautiful Florida Keys, sank my truck and today wrecked our tiny Boston Whaler, destroyed, and I mean totaled it beyond recognition. So it gives me great pleasure to present the prestigious Captain Crunch Award to you, Special Agent Joel Kenyon. Display it with pride son,” Jordan said, handing the box to Joel who was shaking his head as the room clapped and jeered.

  “Okay, everyone get back to work. Joel, don’t forget that accident report.”

  “Yes sir, and thank you sir,” he replied, holding up the box, walking back to his cubical. The incident report his boss spoke of was neatly on the desktop. Joel looked around the cubical and like most who are awarded a new office, he felt the need to check out the drawers and feel the seat. The side drawers were empty as expected. Then, almost instinctively, he opened the flat lap drawer, the one normally reserved for pens, pencils, and other miscellaneous desk utensils. It was filled to capacity with the missing Captain Crunch cereal. Joel felt honored by the gesture as he closed the drawer.

  “They have a funny way of showing affection,” Owen said, surprising his partner as he stood at the cubicle’s opening.

  “Hey, I thought you weren’t coming in,” Joel asked.

  “I thought I’d get a head start on the paperwork from last night, and, well, maybe walk you through it in the process.”