Sailors and Sirens

by Charles Dougherty

  "Yes."

  "Okay. This is why I said you were psychic. You saw Rayburn and his party go in the Parrot. Seems that Brandon was already there. He was at a table with two young guys who just started working on his campaign. Rayburn's security detail stayed back in the shadows and covered him.

  "Rayburn took the three girls up to Brandon's table and the four of them sat down. Two blondes and one with auburn hair. They had a few drinks. Pretty soon, the two young guys had the blondes sitting on their laps. The third girl, the auburn-haired one, sat there between Rayburn and Brandon while they shot the breeze. It was a welcome-aboard party for the two new staffers.

  "After an hour, Rayburn and Brandon shook hands, and Rayburn and the extra girl left. Our source saw Brandon slip her a business card before she stood up. He scribbled something on it before he gave it to her. Then Brandon made arrangements to cover whatever his two staffers spent, and he left them with the blondes. That foursome closed the place down in the wee hours and left in a cab. And that's about it."

  "That's quite a bit, Aaron."

  "Yeah. Not sure what it means. Now, you said you had news on Brandon."

  "You'll hear about it on the news in the morning, once his staffers show up for work," I said.

  "You nailed him already?"

  "Not me. Somebody beat me to it. I watched from a car parked across the street as his campaign headquarters closed for the day. Brandon locked the door behind the last staffer to leave. Then he went back toward where I figured his office was. I gave him around 30 minutes, and then I tried the back door. I thought Brandon was by himself, or that he slipped out the back way."

  "And what did you find?" Aaron asked.

  "The back door opens on a narrow alley, and it was unlocked. I let myself in and felt my way through the dark into the main office. His private office was back in the corner where I thought it was, but there was no light coming under the door. I figured it was empty, so I decided to have a look." I told Aaron how I found Brandon.

  "I'll be damned," Aaron said. "But how did that happen?"

  "I couldn't see the alley from my car. Somebody could have approached the back entrance from any number of places. They could have left the same way. The irony is that I ruled out trying to make it look drug-related — figured that might get more attention than we wanted. I planned to make it look like a burglary gone wrong if I caught him in there alone — an interrupted burglary."

  Aaron laughed. "I guess he must have crossed the wrong person. The Colombian necktie says it all. Be interesting to see where this one ends up. Sorry we wasted your time, Finn."

  "No sweat. And thanks for gathering the background on Rayburn. It wasn't for nothing; at least I know I was right about Rayburn and Brandon. And the retired marshals still bother me. How about you?"

  "I just collect the information. It's you operational types who process it," Aaron said. "What about it bothers you?"

  "I don't know yet. Put it down to intuition for now, but something will bubble to the surface, eventually. I'll let you know. Why would retired U.S. Marshals work for somebody like Rayburn? And three of them? There are too many pieces that don't fit — like Rayburn procuring girls for Brandon to reward his troops with. He was a pimp, after all. I called that one right for whatever reason. Maybe just because we already knew Brandon was dirty. But he was on your list, and Rayburn wasn't. Something's still not right, there. My gut says Rayburn might have been connected to other targets."

  "He could've been, I guess. You know where we got the list, though."

  I knew about that list. Mary was working for Phorcys when she stole it from some high-level mobsters who aren't with us any longer. She was trying to escape the repercussions when she hitched a ride out of Puerto Rico on my boat a while back, but that's another story. Several other stories, actually.

  "Yeah, I know where it came from," I said. I chuckled for a second, remembering.

  "Why do you ask, Finn? About him being connected to other targets, I mean."

  "I'm thinking about the targets yet to come."

  "I'm not following you," Aaron said.

  "We already know Brandon was connected to several of the future targets, right?"

  "Yeah," Aaron said. "So?"

  "If Rayburn was connected to some of the same ones as Brandon, they might be getting nervous. One of their dirty friends getting whacked could be written off as the kind of shit that just happens, but two in two days?"

  "I see what you mean. You want me to check on Rayburn's contacts?"

  "If you can, it's probably worthwhile. We don't really know how comprehensive that list is — just that the people on it were taking bribes. There could be layers that the keepers of the list didn't know about — people like Rayburn, who were connected to the people taking bribes."

  "Good point," Aaron said. "I'll do a little checking. If you don't have a problem with it, I'll run that by Mike and Bob, too. They might not have thought of expanding on the list."

  "Sounds like the right thing to do," I said.

  "On a different subject," Aaron said. "With Brandon down, are you moving on to the next one?"

  "Yes. I thought that was the plan. Why?"

  "It's the plan. You need to know he left yesterday, planning to spend ten days at his place in the Bahamas."

  "Thanks. Lyford Cay, or Eleuthera?" The next target had two Bahamian getaways.

  "We think Eleuthera, but we're still checking. He stopped off at his place in Lyford Cay, but we think that was just to pick up his boat. I'll let you know. Anything else we should talk about?"

  "Not that I can think of. I'll be in touch as my plans take shape."

  "Okay, then. Good talking with you; stay out of trouble."

  "Yeah, I will. You too. Bye for now."

  I disconnected the call and took a big swallow of my beer. I needed to work my way through all the new information before I responded to Mary's message.

  8

  After what Aaron told me, I was sure that Mary killed Brandon as well as Rayburn. I was awestruck by the effectiveness of her disguises, too. Except for my brief, accidental glimpse of her tattooed thigh as she got out of Rayburn's Hummer, I wouldn't have recognized her. That was a talent of hers that I didn't know about.

  Mary left the Pink Parrot with Rayburn after he hooked the other girls up with Brandon's staffers. The Wells woman described the girl Rayburn and his minions hustled into his condo as wearing a skirt "slit up to… well, you know." Coupled with the timing, that left little doubt that the girl was Mary.

  Mrs. Wells gave the impression that Mary might not have been a willing guest. Knowing Mary, though, she let them push her around until she got them where she wanted them. I was sure her intent was to get them all inside Rayburn's condo where she could kill them without witnesses. Rayburn's intent was a different question. What did he have in mind when he coerced her into joining him in his condo?

  That left me wondering about her interrogation of Rayburn. What did she need from him? Or did he just piss her off and pay the price? Only Mary could answer those questions.

  Aaron's source said that Brandon had given the girl in the slit skirt a business card with something written on the back. That was no doubt a note related to the assignation I witnessed this evening. Rayburn must have introduced Mary and Brandon, but why? Was Rayburn indeed nothing more than a pimp masquerading as a political consultant?

  The answers to those questions might have some bearing on the project Phorcys assigned to Mary and me. Whatever the answers might be, they weren't likely to address my biggest question, though. What was Mary up to? It was personal, she said. Did that mean she and Rayburn knew one another? Did she have more "personal" hits planned?

  My head was spinning. I drained the last swallow of beer from the can and took it over to the wastebasket. There was another beer in the minibar. I decided I might as well drink it. I was too wound up to sleep.

  With Brandon out of the way and my next target en route to Eleuthera for
a week, I wasn't in any rush. I retrieved the second beer and took it back to the easy chair. As I took my first sip, I considered whether to send a message to Mary before I planned my next hit.

  I missed her. The last woman I was so attached to was my ex-wife, and we parted company almost before Mary was born. I wanted to be part of Mary's life, and for her to be part of mine. That feeling was mutual, but we both had other things going on in our lives right now. Until the last few days, I thought we were focused on the project that Phorcys assigned us. Phorcys and I both thought Mary and I were part of their team. Now I wondered if Mary found her personal agenda more compelling than our shared goals.

  Her personal agenda… I shook my head and took another sip of beer. Trying to figure out her personal agenda was a waste of time. I was sure she would tell me all about it, but not until it was a fait accompli. I wanted to write her, but I couldn't think of anything worthwhile to say.

  She missed our rendezvous here the other night, and I would miss our next one, still two days away. I would be in the Bahamas, probably in an anchorage off Eleuthera, on a boat I was yet to acquire. I wouldn't put that in a message to her. What was the point?

  Putting Mary out of my mind, I began to think about my next target. John F. Hawkins, known to television audiences throughout the southeast as Honest John. Hawkins started a franchise operation that sold used cars.

  The franchisees pooled their inventories, so their customers could shop at one location and choose from cars in the pooled inventory. For a small fee, a customer could put a hold on the vehicle of their choice and have it brought to their local franchise for an inspection and test drive. If they purchased the car, the fee was refunded.

  Hawkins implemented some clever ideas, like selling at a "no haggle" price and using professional-looking showrooms. He offered a thirty-day, no-questions-buy-back guarantee, too. Those things weren't unique, but he implemented them well and helped the franchisees operate efficiently.

  That was one of the things that put Hawkins in my sights, that efficiency. He offered his franchisees two main advantages over his competitors. One was low-cost financing of their inventories. Hawkins was laundering drug money, making low-interest loans to the franchisees. The other advantage was in labor costs. There were a lot of semi-skilled jobs in the used-car business, and Hawkins provided his franchisees with illegal immigrants who had false work permits.

  Those were the things that put him on the lists that Mary stole from a mobster named O'Hanlon. Hawkins was one of many participants in a conspiracy organized by O'Hanlon. An evil genius, O'Hanlon knew that a lot of criminal enterprises shared the same needs. Many of those needs could be satisfied by funneling money to corrupt government officials. O'Hanlon's scope had been broad; he had an extensive network of government officials on his payroll.

  Once Mary stole O'Hanlon's lists for them, Phorcys developed a two-pronged strategy to return the government to the people. One thrust was to expose corrupt officials and leave the authorities no choice but to prosecute them. The other was to eliminate the crooks the government wouldn't prosecute.

  That's where Mary and I came in. Some of our targets were government insiders. Others, like Hawkins, were private citizens who were beyond the reach of the government.

  Hawkins's illegal activities had made him one of the country's wealthiest men. Like many other rich people, he thought he was a law unto himself. Given the extent of the O'Hanlon-fueled conspiracy, Hawkins wasn't wrong about his impunity. But that was about to change.

  Tomorrow, I would find a boat to buy. It's easy enough to fly to Eleuthera from Miami, but once there, I would need a place to stay. Even traveling under an alias, I would leave a trail that the authorities could follow. Besides, Eleuthera isn't a big place. It's a long, narrow island, with a population of around 10,000. The people are spread out; anywhere I stayed, I would be noticed, and getting to Hawkins's private compound at Savannah Sound might attract attention.

  Eleuthera was a couple of hundred miles from Miami. I could leave Miami and sail 40 miles to Bimini, where I could clear into the Bahamas with all the other local boaters from the Miami area. Arrivals like that were so common that the customs agents were pretty relaxed about it. You filled out their forms and paid your fee and that was it. Then you could go anywhere in the Bahamas without further ado. From Bimini to Eleuthera was another 160 miles.

  Once I anchored off Eleuthera, I would be just one more American hanging out on his boat. A big speedboat was tempting from the standpoint of reducing travel time, but that would mean stopping for fuel en route and staying in a marina once I got to Eleuthera. Living on a go-fast boat for several days at anchor might get me noticed. It was a little unusual. Staying in a marina sacrificed my anonymity; I would be forced to deal with other people.

  If I bought a beat-up sailboat, anyone who noticed me would write me off as just another boat bum. Boats like that were easy enough to come by; I could buy one for a few thousand dollars if I kept the length under 30 feet. The weather was settled this time of year, and I wasn't crossing an ocean. A nondescript boat that was moderately seaworthy would serve me well.

  Buying from an individual seller and paying cash, I would leave no trace. Once I accomplished my mission, I could ditch the boat — even just abandon it — and be long gone before there were questions about transfer of title or registration with the authorities in Florida.

  Finished with my second beer, I thought about Mary again. Too bad she wouldn't be working with me on this hit. It was the kind of thing she would enjoy. I thought again about sending her a message, but I vetoed the idea. When she was finished with whatever she was doing, she would let me know.

  Powering on my laptop, I searched the online listings for sailboats in the Miami area for sale by owner. I was overwhelmed in a few minutes. There were plenty of choices, but having done this before, I could weed out most of them. I made a short list of three boats and jotted down the phone numbers and the details.

  I glanced at the clock; it was too late to call. Setting the alarm for 7 o'clock, I went to bed, planning an early start in the morning.

  9

  The first boat I called about was on a trailer in the owner's backyard. It was an old Morgan 30, a racer/cruiser from the early '70s. I knew the design; it was solid enough for my purposes, but it only took a few questions for me to cross it off my list. The boat spent the last three years out of the water. The owner swore it was seaworthy, but I knew what happened to boats that sat in somebody's backyard for three years. She might be a good deal for someone, but not for me. It would take at least a few days to get her ready for sea, even if she were perfect. At a minimum, I would have to get rid of all the insects and rodents, and the engine would need to be commissioned and serviced. I thanked the man for his time and hung up the phone.

  The second one sounded promising. She was a 1972 Ericson 29. The owner said he bought her in rough shape 2 years earlier and sailed her most weekends. He was asking $6,500 — well within my price range. Money wasn't really an issue, but I wanted to keep it under $10,000 to avoid any banks having to report the transaction.

  "What's rough shape mean to you?" I asked.

  "Cosmetics," he said. "She's a solid little boat. The exterior's rough, and the interior… Do you know these boats?"

  "Sort of," I said. "I've been aboard them over the years, but I've never owned one. What about the interior?"

  "I bought her to race, figuring I would fix her up. My wife always wanted to try racing. She's hooked now, but she wants a newer boat. The cushions on this one are rotten, the veneer in the interior's all peeling, and some of the plywood in the furniture is delaminating from leaks over the years. But the old Ericsons were built like tanks. You could sail her anywhere, take off this afternoon, if you wanted to. Making her pretty is more effort than she's worth, at least to me."

  "Where is she?" I asked.

  "I keep her on a mooring off the Miami Yacht Club. You want to see her? I'm not working today,
so I could meet you there if you're in the area."

  "Yes," I said. "I'm about ten minutes from the Miami Yacht Club. You have a dinghy there?"

  "Yep. Part of the package, if you want it. It's not much to look at, but it gets the job done. It'll take me about 20 minutes to get there."

  "Good enough," I said. "Should I wait outside, or what?"

  "Nah, go on inside. The club's not busy on a weekday morning. There's a squawk box at the gate. Tell 'em you're meeting Jack Schmidt and have a seat in the bar. Grab a cup of coffee, and I should be there before you finish."

  Schmidt was right on time; he walked up and introduced himself. I left my sour coffee on the table and pulled out my wallet, heading to the bar. Schmidt waved off my effort to pay and called out, "Put it on my tab, Julie."

  The girl nodded as we walked outside to the dinghy racks. Schmidt tugged an old Avon inflatable from the rack and let it flop on the ground. It looked like it was made from patches, but when he poked it, it was tight.

  "Looks like crap, but it holds air," he said. "Drag it on down to the water; the kicker's in the shed. I'll go get it."

  Once I got the dinghy to the water, I stopped and sat down on one of the tubes, taking off my shoes and socks. I tossed them in the dinghy as he approached carrying a beat-up old two-horsepower Yamaha.

  He clamped the outboard on the transom and we pushed the dinghy out into the water. I stood holding the bow, the wavelets lapping against my lower shins. He fiddled with the outboard for a few seconds and gave the starter cord a pull. The engine sputtered to life on his first try.

  Reading the surprise on my face, he grinned and yelled, "Cranks like that every time."

  I nodded and pushed the dinghy out as I climbed in and sat on the opposite tube from him. He steered through the anchorage until we came to a battle-scarred, chalky-looking white fiberglass sailboat with faded, mismatched sail covers. I eyed what I could see of the waterline. The bottom paint looked fresh and free of growth, consistent with his weekend racing. The name on the transom was Narnia.