Gordo watched as the figure stopped right over their heads. His mind was racing. Did he see the cut in the side of the boat? Was there any Fiberglas dust on the dock? What in the fuck was this guy’s problem? Gordo grabbed a hold of the seawall and prepared to push off. He figured that the few seconds he could gain would be very valuable because it was very obvious that they were about to be discovered. The wind started to blow again pushing the Heads Up against the dock, squeezing the raft in between the boat and the concrete seawall. Then as suddenly as it stopped, the rain started to fall again. Gordo looked up as the figure took one last drag from his cigarette and discarded it over the side of the dock as the smoldering butt landed in the middle of the raft.
The time was 9:39 p.m. Julio had cut three of the four sides of the new hole. Gordo was hoping for overtime. Maybe the men at the station wouldn’t be able to see them from the window above when the lights came back on, Gordo wondered but doubted. The lights could come on any second and they would be in broad daylight, exposed for everyone to see.
The saw blade started to dull from the course Fiberglas. Julio was on battery eleven and he had only purchased twelve. More blades would have been a good idea, the experienced Fiberglas man thought. What at first seemed like butter now resembled a charred, overdone steak and the motor on the saw was starting to turn slower with the increased resistance. Julio popped out the spent battery and popped in the last charged one. The saw came back to life as dust filled the air around the cut and covered all three men. The saw started to wind back down just six inches from the end of the cut. Julio watched as a light gray acrid smoke filled the air and the power tool seized tight. Its life was over. Julio sighed in disbelief as he sat down back in the bottom of the boat.
“We killed it,” Julio said.
Gordo looked at the partially completed square etched in the side of the boat. How could we come so far and fail...The story of my life, Gordo thought to himself. Then, out of mere frustration, the cumbersome hulk kicked the boat’s side. The flat panel surged forward. Julio and Del looked up with excitement as Gordo pushed the loose hull piece away from the main structure, discarding it to the side. The two sat motionless for a second as they peered into the three-by three-foot hole they had created. Julio looked down as water started to lap into the unprotected hull. Gordo immediately reached in pulling out the first duffel bag containing exactly forty-six kilos, then the second, and the third until twenty of the heavy bags had been retrieved. Nine hundred and twenty kilos were piled into the small 14-foot raft weighing down the center. Julio discarded the saw and other tools over the side before all three men climbed into the dark cold water. Gordo gave a push and the three swam vigorously, using their cupped hands to quietly propel the small craft out of the cove and back across the channel.
•
Coast Guardsman Daniel Phillips watched the latest episode of Unsolved Mysteries on his battery-powered two-inch television as the radio room filled with fluorescent light. After checking the radios and other electronic equipment, he peered out the large bay window before him. Large mercury vapor floodlights mounted on tall poles overhead came to life, warming up and flooding the neatly manicured grounds with fresh white light that bounced off the partially submerged deck of the Heads Up as turquoise water lapped over top of it. Phillips watched in disbelief as the mooring lines snapped under the immense pressure letting the craft roll over and sink to the bottom of the cove.
* * * * *
Pact
Joel and Tessa had gone out for the night. The Sands home had lost power an hour before and Owen lit some candles while he watched Monica. It was the first time he had been alone with his granddaughter and the time had brought back many good memories of the early days with his own kids; the early days when Leslie was alive and they were a functional family.
Owen sat on the floor of Tessa’s childhood room with Monica who was playing her own rendition of hospital nursery with some of her mother’s old dolls.
“These are the new babies and these are the sick ones,” she said, pointing to the two rows of ten dolls and her favorite, a rabbit puppy toy that was also lying on the floor around them.
“New babies?” Owen asked.
“They were just delivered,” she said.
“Oh, right, by the stork.”
“No silly, by the truck.”
“The truck?”
“The baby truck. One for baby boys and one for baby girls because they come from different places.”
“You’re telling me,” Owen replied.
“Grandpa…we need blankets because they are getting cold.”
“How about this one?” he suggested, pulling a knit shawl from his daughter’s queen-sized bed.
“I think that’s perfect, but we have to pretend it’s…it’s…no germs,” she said, trying to choose her words carefully. “This is a baby hospital you know.”
“I agree. It looks pretty clean to me,” Owen declared, as Monica looked over all the dolls secure under the makeshift blanket. Then she walked over and sat in Owen’s lap, resting her tiny head against his chest.
“Grandpa…”
“Yes, sweet girl.”
“Where’s my daddy?”
Now it was his turn to choose his words carefully.
“Well, honey,” he said, pausing, “you know how those babies came here by the baby truck?”
“Yes…”
“Well, sometimes people go back to the place where the babies come from.”
“Heaven?”
“Yes baby, heaven.”
Or not in this case, he thought quietly to himself.
“When can they come back?”
“They can’t honey. They get a new job - an important one taking care of all the babies who are in heaven waiting for their turn to come here to Earth.”
“My daddy’s taking care of babies in heaven?”
“Yep, and I bet he’s got a bunch of them right now who need his help. It’s important work you know, taking care of all these babies, just like we are taking care of these babies here.”
“Are the lights out in heaven too?”
“I don’t think they need lights up there because they have all those twinkling stars to brighten things up.”
“I bet it’s pretty bright.”
“Yeah, and they have the moon too.”
“They have the stars and the moon?”
“Of course.”
“Grandpa…?”
“Yes baby?”
“Are you going to go help the babies one day?”
“Someday honey.”
“Not too soon because I need help with these babies,” Monica said, pointing to the dolls under the shawl.
“That’s a deal,” he promised, holding her tight.
“Grandpa…?”
“Yes baby?”
“Not too soon…” she said as her eyes closed shut.
Owen didn’t answer. Her breathing had changed and he felt that old familiar feeling of a toddler asleep in his arms.
* * * * *
188th Street
A man known as “Marko” cruised up and down Miami’s Northeast 188th Street in a green Mercury Cougar as the scores of Fiberglas men, mechanics, upholsters, and painters applied their respective talents to the sleek performance boats that were built on this street. The driver had spent most of the morning hanging around the waterfront industrial community and was starting to feel queasy from the smell of Fiberglas resin in the air. Then he saw it. At the end of this street that made performance boats famous was Aaron Donaldson, its founding father, dodging a puddle created by a light rain that had been falling since sunrise.
Donaldson opened the door to his dark blue Mercedes 450 SL and started the engine, giving Marko a few fleeting seconds to prepare. As the SL pulled forward, a young blond woman ran out into the street with a manila file folder in her hand. Marko clinched a Ruger .22 long barrel pistol as he bent down onto the front seat. He was not exceptionally experie
nced at this, unlike the Hollywood hit men who had closets full of equipment and sent perfect shots in the dark, completing their fantasy missions with skill and precision. He was just a guy who knew a guy. This act was supposed to be a repayment for a favor that had been granted to other men Marko had never met or would ever meet.
What Marko did know was that it was smart to steal a rental car because it would go unnoticed for several days. He knew that small caliber weapons were good because the noise they made didn’t travel very far. The use of the Hollywood silencers was another part of the hit man urban legend. Fast, accurate bullets broke the sound barrier and that was a shot no silencer would muffle. And he knew that he had to strike his target’s head in one of five vulnerable areas: either of the two eyes, the two ears, or at the base of the neck because getting a low caliber bullet to pierce the human skull was almost impossible.
As Donaldson pulled forward, Marko put the rental car in gear and followed. 188th Street wasn’t terribly long. Like a bush pilot running out of runway, he had a small window of opportunity to complete his task.
Marko followed for a few hundred feet, watching his target answer the handset of his car phone. That’s when he made his move.
The Cougar lunged forward, passing the Mercedes as Marko pulled alongside Donaldson who was deep in a conversation.
POP POP POP
The gun rattled off. Marko watched with disappointment as only one of his shots hit his target, bouncing off of his forehead. Donaldson, with blood gushing down his face, veered away from the gunman, steering the car off the road and into the front of the Indian shop, hitting the corner of the metal building. Marko jumped out of his car, leaving it in the middle of the street with the driver’s side door open and walked directly towards Donaldson who fumbled for the handset of the Mercedes car phone. With his arm outstretched and the gun’s sights pointed at the target’s head, he fired again.
POP POP POP POP
Donaldson’s head rocked forward and then back. A stream of spurting blood shot from behind his left ear. The other shots hit him in the shoulder, face and back of the head.
Marko ran back to the car he left running in the street and sped off, leaving a dual set of black rubber marks in the process.
Inside the Indian shop, Scott Roberts and his boat crew heard the noise outside. Most in the crew wrote it off thinking one of the busy shops on the street was pulling a new boat out of one of their molds. It was customary, almost religious to throw packages of common firecrackers in between the hull and mold as a ritual signifying the birth of a new boat.
Roberts knew better. He ran out the front door of the Indian shop just in time to find his old friend bleeding to death.
“Aaron, can you hear me?”
“Hello...?” came a voice from the car phone’s hand piece.
“Aaron’s been shot!” he screamed, pressing the end call key and dialing 9-1-1.
Roberts’s heart was beating through his chest. Blood was already covering his own clothes and that’s when he saw it: Aaron Donaldson’s all gold, diamond-studded Rolex watch. Instinct took over as he slipped the watch off his friend’s wrist and into his pocket.
“Hello? Police now! Northeast 188th Street in front of my shop,” he yelled into the hand piece.
“Sir, what’s your emergency?” the 9-1-1 dispatcher asked.
“A man’s been shot,” he yelled, almost out of breath.
As Roberts spoke, he looked down at Donaldson who was still spitting a small amount of blood from behind his left ear. The spurts corresponded with his fainting heart that was beating rapidly and with less force. Then, as though he just gave up, the spurting turned to a steady ooze as he felt Donaldson cease his shallow breathing.
* * * * *
Duty
Veterinary paramedics Hal Keller and Ron Jeffries started their shift like any other. Unit 152, a prize-winning bull in barracks C, had required a supplemental dose of antibiotics to fight a persistent upper respiratory infection. Soon after, the two men ate breakfast at the International Farms Corporation commissary and returned to the station where they started on some much-needed housecleaning before the alarm came in.
“Rescue one, Rescue one. Peripheral patrol has called in a small brush fire next to the abandoned porcelain plant.”
“Rescue one copy, we’re en route.”
After a quick jaunt across the complex, their red, pickup-sized fire-rescue truck pulled into the parking lot of the dormant plant. The blacktop was faded and overrun with weeds that had grown through the cracks in the pavement over the many years of neglect. As the brakes screeched to a halt, Jeffries positioned the truck about fifty feet from a burning patch of brush.
“Rescue one to control, we have a small containable brush fire. We will be out extinguishing.”
“10-4 Rescue one. Control out.”
This was routine duty, unlike the massive structure fires the duo had fought while employed by the City of Ocala Fire Department. Regardless, the work had to be done and Jeffries pulled the hard rubber booster hose while Keller manned the small pump mounted into the side of the truck. In a matter of minutes, clear, cold water was flowing from the high-pressure nozzle towards the burning brush.
SWOOOOSH
A flume of steam rose into the air as the fire died out, leaving a patch of black smoldering embers where the fire once was.
“Rescue one, fire out,” Keller said after reaching inside the truck’s cab and grabbing the radio’s microphone.
“10-4 Rescue one, return to quarters.”
The abandoned plant was off limits to most of the IFC staff after a memo was issued warning of high levels of asbestos, an insulation ingredient that had just been included on the growing list of cancer-causing agents. The Occupational Safety and Health Administration had warned companies like IFC that they would be liable for any long-term illnesses associated with an employee’s contact with the substance and that was all it took. Like a witch with a wand, the spell had been cast and asbestos soon became the new lead.
•
Across the complex and in the office of Sal Alcone, Gus Greico was pouring rum from a fresh bottle of Puerto Rico’s finest.
“I am so proud of you Del. Words cannot describe how I feel right now. You did it my friend,” Sal said.
“Where’s Gordo?” Greico asked.
“I think that is going to be it for our chubby friend,” Del added.
“He’s quitting? We just got him started,” Greico said.
“When we went after the stuff he…” Del explained, choosing his words. “Well let’s just say he had a life changing experience. He’s gone on a diet and is retiring from our…”
“Look at this!” Greico interrupted, pointing to the television in the corner of the room.
“Oh my God!” Del exclaimed, standing to his feet.
“CNN reports that famed Miami boat designer Aaron Donaldson has been shot and killed in the trendy South Florida suburb of Aventura this morning,” the television broadcasted, showing live video of Donaldson’s dark blue Mercedes with a sheet draped body behind the wheel. “Details are still coming in but one witness says he heard numerous rounds of high-powered automatic gun fire. Another says he saw a brown custom van flee the area. Metro Dade police have sealed off the entrance to Northeast 188th Street and will be questioning everyone who works there. And now to our Washington desk,” an announcer said as the video stream shifted from Donaldson’s car to a still picture of an older suited man.
“Miami boat builder and international world champion boat racer, Aaron Donaldson, ran with the jet set, developing a lifelong friendship with none other than the Vice President of the United States,” CNN then rolled video of the same man pictured in the still, but he was now walking out of an office building surrounded by Secret Service agents in black suits. “Aaron Donaldson was a good friend of mine and of this country. His contribution to America’s war on drugs is immeasurable. I will make it a priority of this administration
to seek out and find all who are responsible for this selfish and heinous act.”
Sal shut the set off with a remote control he kept in his desk drawer.
“Well, I guess your problems are over Del,” Sal said.
“I haven’t had time to think about it actually,” he responded.
“He was going to turn you in. Hell, he was going to turn us all in. It had to be done. Consider it a bonus for a job well done.”
Del and Greico looked down at Sal who was sitting back in his chair, staring out the window.
“We have some other stuff to discuss,” Greico announced, changing the subject.
“I hear that,” Del replied, retrieving his tumbler of rum.
“Turnbush,” Sal said.
“Turnbush? The private club?” Del asked. “You want me to join?”
“You know the place, right?” Greico asked.
“Sure, I’ve never been there before.”
“We are going to change up our plan a little. I purchased a 96-footer yesterday.”
“I guess so. Wow. I don’t know what to say,” Del replied.
“The dockmaster over there has been working for us for quite a while now. He’s got quite a safe setup down there.”
“I had no idea.”
“That’s why we like him. He’s a real pro and underneath everyone’s radar. Yours included.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I need you to go get this large yacht. I’m paying you over a million and a half dollars so you should be able to handle that without any problem. Get a crew and a classy couple to take with you. They need to look the part. I want uniforms, gourmet food, the whole bit. You will depart from Puerto Barrios, Guatemala and return to Turnbush. Fred Gold, the dockmaster, has the place locked down tight. It seems some presidential hopeful got caught with his pants down banging some supermodel a few months ago and now security is real heavy,” Sal said.
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