Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  Jhenna waited, listening to the phone ring without an answer before hanging it up.

  “I think this was a bad idea,” Pat said. “We had doubts about some of the agents in the Upper Keys. Nothing solid mind you, just some chatter about some guys who were abusing their positions by scavenging the discarded drug loads from the boats they were chasing. They take the stuff, floaters they call them, and resell the drugs on the open market.”

  “You don’t think that Joel might be involved do you?”

  “Of course not. What I am worried about is that his judgment might become skewed because of this woman. A woman who, by the way, has a very colorful past.”

  “Joel is a smart one. He was just like Dad.”

  “Only different right?” he added.

  “In a good way.”

  “I thought I had this guy Sands figured out. It seemed like an open and shut case presented to me on a silver platter by the group supervisor down there. It all looked so simple, but then this damn juror, a fucking restaurant supply salesman for Christ’s sake, said something that put a wrench in the whole scenario.”

  “I’m sure the truth will make itself known. You just have to be ready to accept it.”

  “That sounds great…as long as I don’t ruin an innocent man’s career and reputation in the process.”

  “Look, I do have something I need to talk to you about honey, but maybe now’s not the best time.”

  “I’m sorry Jhen. It’s okay, what is it?”

  “We’re pregnant, Pat.”

  * * * * *

  Invasive

  With the tragic death of Prince Henry, the agents of the Tavernier office were in an uproar fueled by gossip, conjecture and an overall fear of something they didn’t understand. To make matters worse, the builder of the boat, Aaron Donaldson, was killed in an unexplained shooting and not available to rebut the allegations against his design. More industry criticism came after it was learned that Donaldson had taken a simple skill saw and cut one of his former 38-foot Stilettos in half, inserted a four-foot wide tunnel and made a mold from the simple hybrid of catamaran and deep-V. The Miami Herald was quick to report that the government was grounding all of its Blue Thunder fleet with a headline that read:

  Blue Thunder or Blue Blunder

  “Now look, I know you’ve all seen this and by now most of you are probably afraid of this boat. I know I would be too if I had just read this article and I knew nothing about the boat on my own, but I, as I hope most of you, know better. The boat that killed this prince was capable of speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour. Everyone here has been on that blue pig we’ve got and if you could get it over sixty, you were doing good,” Cheney said to the agents who had circled around him for their morning briefing.

  “That’s not the point,” West interjected. “Everything the manufacturer has stated about this boat has turned out to be false. The damn thing doesn’t run the way they say it should. They promised us, in writing mind you, that this boat couldn’t be stuffed. It was hydro-dynamically impossible were the words they used. Well, they were wrong again. What are we to believe Jordan?”

  “You guys know better,” Cheney said.

  “Do we?” Holmes asked. “What about our wives who read this shit. Christ, this job is dangerous enough without having to dodge flying dishes when I get home. And then to think I could get killed or seriously injured just by riding in a damn boat…It’s not worth it, you need to ground the fucking boat Jordan.”

  “Okay, well I was given an ultimatum by C3I. They said that if we ground the Blue Thunders, we’ve got to ground everything until the investigation is over. I hope this makes everyone happy. Maybe a hug would be in order, you bunch of pussies,” Jordan said.

  The crowd broke up and the men returned to their cubicles and desks. As they did, Owen and Joel entered the office.

  “What’s up?” Joel asked Holmes who had the phone up to his left ear.

  “I’m explaining things to my wife. We’re grounded for the next few weeks it looks like. The guys are afraid of the Blue Thunder boat. I guess you can’t blame them after what happened to that racer in Key West over the weekend.”

  “So, no big deal. I’ve never been in the damn thing,” Joel said.

  “No Kenyon, Jordan has grounded the whole fleet. We’re all on dry land for awhile.”

  “Kenyon, Owen, come in here for a minute,” Jordan yelled from the partially opened door to his office.

  “What is it boss?” Owen asked.

  “Owen, I need a favor.”

  “Oh shit here it comes,” Owen said.

  “We’ve got a real problem with the Blue Thunder boat.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “You, being the next in charge, need to secure all the boats until this whole thing blows over and these guys get tired of driving around the rock.”

  “That damn boat is more trouble than it’s worth. The only reason we got the thing is because the builder is…was good friends with the Vice President,” Owen explained, frustrated at his superior’s order.

  “It’ll only be for a little while,” Jordan said.

  “Okay. Me and the kid are on it as soon as we grab a bite to eat.”

  “Alright, just get it done.”

  “Hey Jordan, does your guy in Miami need any more of those doubloons?”

  “I thought you were going to save the last batch. How many more do you have? Maybe, if the price is right.”

  “I’ve got nineteen left,” he said. “I need to get eight hundred a piece. I need the cash, Jordan. Something’s come up.”

  “Alright man. Let me see what I can do. We just need to be careful. You see what the state is doing to that salver from Key West. A few pieces are one thing, but, if my numbers are right, you’ve sold around sixty grand worth. We could get in big shit if anyone found out.”

  “It’s gold Jordan. My gold that I found.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “What’s up?” Joel asked, walking into Cheney’s office.

  “You see? That’s what I’m talking about, right there,” Cheney said, pointing at the chained gold doubloon that was hanging around Joel’s neck.

  * * * * *

  Tan Lines

  Lynn Kinser was an attractive girl and as much as she strived to revolve her life around the world of wealth and fame, she always found herself falling short and living the part of the very middle class. She was reminded of that every day she opened her small bathing suit shop, Tan Lines, located in the heart of the Turnbush Yacht and Country Club. She made a good living; her store grossed over three hundred thousand the year before and the year’s fall quarter was even better. She managed to clear sixty thousand a year, just enough to afford her cozy duplex on the beach and a leased red Porsche 928. She was still no match for the seven, eight, and nine figure jetsetters she spent her days pandering to, the Rolex-clad, Euro wannabes who waltzed through her store handling the merchandise to death, then bickering over the price as though the store sold secondhand consignments rather than her three hundred dollar European and South American originals. It was a frustrating business but fairly lucrative. Lynn always held her ground with diligence and humor, a redeeming combination that equated to more sales. She had two full time sales girls, busty models who were shopping for someone to pay the bills. Lynn saw them for what they were, classic gold-diggers who were on the fast track to the great American gravy train. They were in the right place.

  Unlike its Miami rival the Jockey Club, Turnbush catered to a younger, faster crowd, one that was flashier and more pretentious. The Jockey Club stood for everything that was traditional and conservative smelling of old stale money. When the Jockey was holding its annual sailing regatta, one of the largest in the country, Turnbush was busy promoting its Puerto Rican Rum 200, a grueling offshore powerboat race that ran from Miami to Bimini, Bahamas, northwest to Fort Lauderdale, and then back to Miami. Every year the race was christened by a poolside bikini contest in
which all the sponsored contestants wore suits provided by Tan Lines.

  Some members liked it both ways, patronizing the Jockey Club with their wife at their side on the weekend, and then slipping away on Monday to Turnbush to see their twenty-something mistress who was waiting in a fully furnished, million dollar condo overlooking the two hundred slip marina.

  Lynn reached her tired body to hang some freshly delivered merchandise on an elevated rack. Her strained muscles didn’t stretch like they used to back in her college days as a fashion student at the Florida State University School of Fashion Merchandising where she met her husband Biff Halpren, a law student. They dated religiously and were married soon after. Lynn enjoyed living the American dream. They decided against kids and enjoyed a life of self-indulgence instead. Summers were spent in Hawaii, winters in Vail, and every other Easter in Europe.

  Biff was moving up the corporate ladder with his firm and she had a flourishing career with a small but growing chain of maternity shops. They lived the ideal young urban professional lifestyle: a vigorous day of productive work, followed by an afternoon at the gym, finishing the day with a perfectly planned meal. The American dream though, soon turned into the great American nightmare. Three weeks after the couple’s seventh anniversary, Lynn found a lump in her right breast, a tumor that was later diagnosed as a cancerous mass requiring surgery. Quick action saved her life, but it wasn’t fast enough to save the life. Her perfect breasts were never quite the same and the chemotherapy severely affected her face and hair. In the course of five months, the tender thirty-two-year-old looked all the part of forty.

  During the ordeal, her husband had adopted a longer than usual work schedule. After her last round of intensive therapy and after being released from Shands Medical Center in Gainesville, a friend drove her home to Jacksonville to find an empty house. Biff had moved out and they were divorced within six months. At that point she knew she had to move. A change was necessary in preserving what sanity she had left. A fresh start in South Florida seemed the only logical spot. Her parents had moved to Palm Beach in 1976 but that area was too expensive. She had learned some very valuable business lessons from Biff and she wanted to start her own business.

  Her two hundred and fifty thousand dollar settlement and twenty-two hundred per month lifetime alimony was only going to get her so far. North Miami Beach and Turnbush seemed like the logical solution at the time.

  Tan Lines opened in 1980 and was strategically located at the base of the club’s main hotel complex making it visible to the guests checking in on one side and the yachts docking in the marina on the other. The dockmaster’s office was directly adjacent on one side, and on the other the trendy Turnbush Raw Bar and Grill.

  Her duplex on Ocean Boulevard was within walking distance to the beach. She purchased it in 1981 on the courthouse steps at a foreclosure sale, immediately renovating the two units, renting one side out to make the monthly mortgage payments and living in the other. Her business sense was starting to sharpen with time and experience. She was determined to never pay lifetime dividends to a man again. On a warm summer morning in August of 1982, Lynn awoke to find Biff’s picture on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. A federal indictment had implicated him and twelve others in a wide-reaching savings and loan scandal. His life was going to be put on hold for at least five years and yet she still couldn’t picture him in prison. His assets were frozen and Lynn realized what it was really like to be self-sufficient forgoing her monthly alimony. She immediately adapted a positive attitude, telling herself it was better this way. Besides, it was almost worth it to see Biff suffer just a fraction as much as she had. Just in case though, she called her attorney to file a quick judgment should his estate recapitulate. To her, it would be poetic justice for Biff to survive the rigors of prison life and then have a two hundred thousand dollar bill waiting on his doorstep.

  Lynn had a sideline. It had started as a referral service for wealthy club members that desired a beautiful dinner date or a few young girls to share a boat ride with; what it developed into was something totally different. In two years, she had doubled the store’s gross income and secured some new friends. One of them was Maryland Senator Gary Smart who was a rising star in the Democratic Party. Their friendship flourished as his appetite for her bathing suit models increased. It wasn’t until he started running for his party’s presidential nomination that he acquired the national spotlight, and with it, scores of roving reporters, each of whom were eager to find the next groundbreaking story. It wasn’t until a young Washington Post journalist went out on his own, bought a year’s membership to the Turnbush Club and spent a week at the posh resort where he caught Smart in several compromising positions with women half his age, and half the age of his wife who was home waiting for him with their three young children.

  The headline read GET SMART and the story and pictures that followed gave several firsthand accounts of the forty-two-year-old politician frolicking in Miami with a variety of bikini-clad women, with some wearing even less. The article also mentioned Lynn, her shop, the friendship they had developed and the circumstantial fact that all of the women Smart had been photographed with had also appeared in her Tan Lines bathing suit catalog.

  She was devastated and kept a low profile for several months. The problem was that she had grown accustomed to the extra income her sideline provided and was now having trouble making ends meet.

  * * * * *

  Gold

  Del was impressed with the Turnbush Country Club as he stopped his Ford Bronco at the guardhouse situated at the massive main entrance.

  “Peter Delgado to see Mr. Fred Gold,” he said to the armed officer at the window.

  “Just a minute.”

  In the distance, Del could see the many yachts moored in the club’s huge marina complex.

  “Mr. Gold is waiting. Take this road past the marina and turn right. His office is on the left next to the retail center.”

  “Thanks man,” Del said as the guard nodded back, flicking a switch that opened the entrance gate.

  This is the life, Del thought to himself as he passed the rows of million dollar yachts that were lined up like cars in an airport parking lot. At the end of the road, just as the guard described, was an office with gold leaf letters that read DOCKMASTER.

  “Mr. Delgado,” Fred Gold announced, holding out his hand as Del handed the Bronco’s keys to a waiting valet.

  “You can call me Del.”

  “And I’m Fred to my friends,” he responded, squeezing Del’s hand a bit harder.

  Fred Gold was custom-made for the position of dockmaster for the Turnbush Club. He had spent most of his life working as a captain on a wide variety of yachts including the U.S.S. Sequoia, the U. S. presidential yacht. He was the Sequoia’s only civilian staff member and served for ten years before an incident involving twenty-eight marines and eighteen sailors implicated him in a marijuana use and possession case in 1973. He reluctantly resigned as the Sequoia’s top officer, taking the head Turnbush spot. As long as the position involved the sea, Gold had the look with his white hair and full sea captain’s beard. He was the son of Auschwitz Jews who taught him how to be tough and that “persistence was omnipotence.” Gold had a simple sign behind his desk: Tell a man once, tell him twice, and then tell someone else. And that summed up how he commanded the staff of thirty-two men and women of the Turnbush Marina and earned their respect.

  As the two walked inside the glass-encased office, a blond bikini-clad woman caught Del’s eye as she slipped into the Tan Lines Bikini Shop next to Gold’s office.

  “It’s hard to keep your eye on the ball around here,” Gold said, noting Del’s distraction.

  “How do you do it?”

  “It’s not easy,” Gold replied shaking his head. “So did you find the place alright?”

  “It’s kind of hard to miss Fred.”

  “Inconspicuous was not in the developer’s vocabulary I can assure you,” Gold joked wit
h a short laugh.

  “So where do we start?” Del asked.

  “That’s what I like, a man who gets to the point. My documentation officer in Fort Lauderdale received the wire from Gus Greico a few days ago. The Jolene Marie is all yours.”

  “Jolene Marie?”

  “She’s a 96-foot Broward Yacht, aluminum hull with a composite Fiberglas superstructure. We sent her south to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala, for a re-fit and now she’s ready to come home.”

  “Well, I guess that’s where I come in.”

  “I’ve got a skeleton crew already set up. Guys we’ve worked with before. The type that can be trusted and will keep their mouths shut. Regis…” he said, pointing to a picture of a uniformed man standing on the bow of a mega yacht, “is the crew leader. You’ll meet the others in time. You will fly to Guatemala City and Greico’s got you covered from there. You and your partner will fly first class.”

  “Partner?”

  “Do you have a girlfriend? I don’t recommend wives for this kind of thing.”

  “Neither,” Del admitted reluctantly.

  “Let me work on that. I’ve got an idea that might kill two birds with one stone,” Gold replied, looking over at Tan Lines.

  “What about passports? I’m on federal probation, I don’t think I can get one, and certainly not in such a short period of time.”

  “Got you covered my friend. You will have to leave here and head straight to the Miami Airport Zone. See my friend,” Gold said, handing Del a scrap piece of paper with an address on it. “Hector Aroyo. He’s the man when it comes to stuff like this. From now on, you are known around here and everywhere that’s connected with this thing as Dr. Peter Gray. Here is your new Turnbush Yacht and Country Club membership card.”