“Well, first, what’s your name, and then, what makes a yacht a yacht?”
“It’s Brad Hanson. I’m the manager. Well, I guess we’ll start with size. A yacht can be any size. It’s more defined by the luxury of the vessel than its size. So if it’s all decked out, it’s a yacht. But most of the yachts here are at least a hundred feet long. The true yachting class, the really rich and famous, look down on the hundred footers. Hell, there’s an Arab sheik that keeps his yacht down the Intercoastal by the cruise ship docks and his run-about (or his dingy that they use to run to shore and back) is a hundred foot long.”
“A dingy? That’s the small boat that the yachts have hanging off the stern in most cases, right?” I asked just to keep it interesting.
“Yeah, that’s what it is. But anyway, I’d say a true yacht is at least a hundred and fifty feet in length.” This guy was clueless. He was looking all around trying to think stuff up. Lucky, I wasn’t a real writer, because this guy was just a con artist masquerading as marina manager. He didn’t know a yacht from Yonkers.
“That has to be some big ass ship he’s got.” I played along.
“Yeah, it’s six hundred and fifty feet. It’s the size of a small cruise ship,” he chirped confidently.
“So what’s the biggest one here?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t that bright.
“That would be the Cape May. Some IT tycoon owns it. I think his name is Anthony Generilli, something about an accounting program and how he runs the numbers for the big shots on Wall Street.” God, this guy was either really dense or a pretty good liar.
“What’s a big ship like that cost?” I continued to play along.
“Oh, I say anywhere from fifty million up. The Moran Brothers own a real sweet yacht that they anchor by the A-1A Bridge, where it crosses the Intercoastal up in Lauderdale, and they paid something like a hundred million for it. It’s only four hundred and fifty feet long.” He seemed to be getting into the interview. He was leaning into his desk and talking like he really had something to tell.
“So how far can one of these yachts sail at one time? I mean, they use gas, right? How many miles can they go before refueling?” I kind of stumbled over the question.
“It just depends on how large the tanks are. Oh, and by the way, the yachts use diesel. Boats use gas.”
“Oh, hey, I stand corrected. So how far could the biggest yacht here go before they would run out of gas, err...fuel?” I asked stumbling over the fuel verses gas thing on purpose. I thought it would make him feel smarter, and I wanted him getting cocky so he would make mistakes and talk too much.
“I think it’s got two, four hundred gallon tanks and a small hundred and fifty gallon reserve tank. They could get across the Atlantic I think.” He shared what appeared to be good information as he had looked left to access some memory before he spoke. I assumed he also did the fueling as part of his job.
“So where might I get a floor plan of some of the yachts? You know, so I can walk the characters through the yacht during my story,” I pressed, hoping he might have floor plans.
“I haven’t a clue,” he replied. The first honest statement he probably made to me.
“Okay, so what’s it cost for an anchorage?” I asked just to keep the conversation going.
“It runs from about a grand a month to ten grand a month. We charge by the foot of dock space they cover. A grand is the minimum charge to park your dingy if you tie off at a buoy.”
“I see. So why would some of your members need to have security guards?” I asked, wondering if he had an opinion or knew the reason.
“Who knows? Some of them are probably paranoid and others think they’re so famous that they have to keep paparazzi away. Other than that, they’re probably in the mob or something like that,” he chuckled.
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. So…do you have any mobster’s yachts out here?” I asked conspiratorially as I turned around to look at the marina. I could see his face reflecting in the window, and he was looking at me like I was from another planet. “Come on, you can tell me,” I goaded and pulled another hundred from my pocket. He looked around, then out the window and then back at me.
He grabbed the hundred then leaned farther over the desk and whispered, “You didn’t hear this from me, but I’d bet your money that Generilli is in the mob. I mean, where does a twenty-five-year-old kid get a hundred million to buy a yacht with? I know it cost at least that because I saw it in a magazine, and the retail price for the base model was a hundred million.” He slid back and looked nervously out the windows, then added, “That ain’t no base model.”
“What magazine did you see the yacht in?” I asked. He me gave a look that said maybe I was getting too curious, so I started to fold up my notebook, and he blurted out in a mumble, “Sea and Shore. I don’t remember which month, but it was about two years ago. Now, I gotta get back to work.” He stood and started around his desk, when suddenly he blurted out loudly, “No, we don’t have any open berths but try down at Hollywood Back Bay. You might find a spot there. Good luck to you.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a huge shadow fill in where the door was, and I immediately played along with him. “Well, I’ll certainly check that out. Thanks for your time.” I quickly stood and started out the door only to be stopped by what could only be described as a rock wall. It was a huge man, and he was blocking my way. He was at least six foot eight, and he outweighed my fat ass by at least fifty pounds—only he wasn’t fat. He was a solid wall of muscle, and every muscle could be seen right through the tightly stretched t-shirt he wore.
“Oh, hey, Mr. Larson. What can I do for you?” Brad the marina manger groveled.
“Mr. Generilli wants to fuel up,” the man mountain disgorged as if it was difficult to speak with all those muscles. “Who’s this?” he then asked.
Being either stupid or a smart ass, I blurted out my fake name. “Wilbur Bennett, author and ship owner. And you are?”
“Trouble!” was all he blurted out as he stepped out of the way, letting me pass. He watched me as I walked across the store to the main door as if he thought I would try to shoplift something, and it was his job to stop me.
As I got into the Escalade, I glanced back toward the marina, and there beyond it was a huge ship parked by a large barn-type building. I took the scenic route out of the parking lot, which allowed me to swing past the barn. There, on the other side of it, was Brad, the marina manager, holding a large, heavy-looking black hose at the stern of the yacht. Mr. Larson and another huge dude stood watching every move Brad made. Some job. I managed to take a couple of pictures one-handed as I rolled past.
I spent the rest of the day at a couple of other marinas asking pretty much the same questions. I hoped that by doing so, anyone following me would accept the story about being a writer, and Generilli, the Young Turk, wouldn’t feel the need to have Mr. Larson stop by and asked me a few questions. I just had a feeling that he would get frustrated really fast and would be quick to express his frustration by pounding the crap out of me.
All the way back to the mansion, I kept looking around, trying to determine if anyone was following me. I even took a few quick turns, trying to lose anyone who I didn’t see, hoping it might cause them to stand out as I made the turns. I was a regular James Bond. I probably looked more like an idiot than anything else.
Bill was in his study again, but instead of looking out the window, he was at his desk studying some blueprints. “So how’d it go?” he asked without turning around.
“It went all right. You’d be amazed what a couple of hundred bucks will buy you.”
“Did you get anything good for your money?” he asked snidely.
“Well, it’s confirmed that the Young Turk owns that huge yacht, and that he spent over a hundred million on it, and he has some very large guards watching it.”
“Is that it?” he grumbled.
“The floor plan was in the Sea and Shore yachting magazine from a couple of yea
rs ago. I can search the Internet to find it if you think it’s worth it,” I offered.
“Don’t bother,” he remarked off-handedly.
“You find something at the mansion?”
“No, I found the ship’s blueprints,” he said, indicating the documents he was looking at.
“Really?” I stupidly asked and got a snide sideways glance from him.
“Why don’t you go and get ready to go to dinner. I’ll pick you up about eight?”
He actually made it sound as if I had a choice, so I took it that way and retorted, “Man, I am bushed after last night and the running around today. I’m going to just stay in and order a pizza. That way I can hit the hay early.”
“Yeah, I keep forgetting that you’re not a healthy man, and you’re quite a bit older than I am. Yeah, you probably need to get some rest and get your legs up. Before we became friends, you sat around most of the time, didn’t you? I guess I can’t expect you to be cured of your health problems just because I changed your name. No more than I can expect you to change your character or your principles. Can I?” Bill turned and looked at me directly with a penetrating stare.
“Look, I didn’t tell you to pick me to be your friend. I know I can’t do as much of this running around as you think I can. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. Hell, you saw how it cost me a wife. So I’m just gonna go home, get my feet up and try to relax. Tomorrow, I’m going shopping for a computer. You want to tag along, Mister Geek Master?” I found myself apologizing to this psycho for being disabled. What was wrong with me? Like he really cared. Hell, he probably just wanted to have an audience for his next murder.
“Call me tomorrow,” Bill blurted out as he waved over his shoulder, dismissing me. I was relieved that he agreed and didn’t press the issue. I was also hoping he would be too busy to bother to go with me tomorrow. Then I had a sudden brain fart.
“Hey, Bill,” I commented as I stopped and stood in the doorway. “Say, in the next couple of days, could you teach me how or introduce me to people who make new IDs, just in case something happens and I need to get one?” I was actually asking him to help me get prepared for a new life; I doubted he would help me do that.
“Yeah, I’ll take you around and introduce you next week. Now, go home and put your feet up. Get some rest and call me tomorrow.” Wow, he didn’t laugh or sound pissed. He didn’t even turn around and give me his wicked grin or his intimidating sideways glance. He was acting almost normal. I felt a shiver run up my back, and I was as creeped out as though he had done those things. Maybe even worse.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It turned out that Bill and I talked on the phone a couple of times a day for the next couple of weeks, and not once did he make me feel like he was checking on me or getting ready to kick me out of the penthouse or anything creepy. In fact, he seemed like a normal friend, a normal person. I had to catch myself several times when I started to relax too much and let my guard down. He was still the psycho killer he always was, and he was still my best friend, whether I wanted him to be or not. In fact, he was my only friend. Finally, I went to church, and it felt good. I checked out the men’s group and discovered that they met on Wednesday nights, so I signed up. Maybe I could start building some normal relationships again.
Wait a minute. How could I build friendships with normal, church-going people? I was masquerading as a retired millionaire businessman under a false name while being a suspect in at least three murders and an accomplice in at least two more. What the hell was I thinking? I can’t be friends with normal people. Hell, I’d have to lie to their faces the moment I introduced myself. Shit!
I found myself staying indoors and surfing the Internet for porn and science sites on my new computer, day after day, while I stewed over what I could possibly do to either feel better about having to lie to everyone, or fix the problem. I finally decided that I was stuck. I either accepted who I was now, or I faced a long time in prison and possibly the death penalty. I had to, once again, tip my hat to Bill. He was a total psychopath, but he was smart. Really smart.
That night, I was sitting around watching a late night movie and drinking way too much Jim Beam. I was a bit depressed at feeling so isolated and alone, when the doorbell rang. It scared the crap out of me because no one knew I was here except Bill, and he hadn’t said anything about stopping by. By the time I got the door to ask who it was, I had convinced myself that it was the police just being nice about coming to arrest me.
“Hello?” I asked over the intercom.
“Jake, let me in,” the voice stated. I didn’t recognize the voice, so I stalled.
“What?”
“Jake, let me in!” the voice shouted this time, and it was loud and clear.
“Bill, is that you?” I asked, thinking I recognized his voice.
“Jake, open the door, or I’ll make you wish you’d jumped in the canal with the car.” His voice took on that familiar, evil growl. I suddenly felt more sober as I pushed the button. A moment later, he burst through the penthouse door and stomped over to the couch where I was sitting watching the movie.
“Hey, man, what’s up with you stopping by so late?” I rambled off coherently with a good deal of effort. I had drunk a lot of Jim Beam.
“Get up and get dressed. I need your help,” Bill growled as he stared at me. I thought he was smiling, until I realized that he was snarling at me, like I had done something wrong.
“What? What did I do? I didn’t know you were coming by. How could I know it was you? If you would have called, I wouldn’t have drunk so much.” I sat there babbling as I took another swig from my drink.
“Damn it, Jake! Get up and get dressed. I need your help!” Bill bellowed, slapping my drink out of my hands.
I hardly jumped, but I did get up. As I walked toward the bedroom I asked, “Where are we going?”
“Put on your blue jeans, a flannel shirt with a sweat shirt, heavy socks and your rubber boots. All that shit is in your closet. Hurry up!” Bill bellowed.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” I waved as I disappeared into the bedroom to change. It took me several minutes just to find the clothes. Then it took me even longer to get dressed, but finally, I staggered out of the bedroom. Bill was standing by the door, giving me his evil eye and motioning for me to head out the door. I stopped at the refrigerator and grabbed a two liter of Coke. I then grabbed my wallet and my keys off the counter and stumbled my way out the door with Bill behind me.
So, what’s up?” I said as I took a drink of the two liter.
“I have some heavy lifting, and I need your help with it,” Bill said cryptically.
“Dude, I have a really bad back. I’m not going to put myself in traction moving furniture with you, no matter how good a friend you are.” I actually rebuffed Bill as if he was just another dumbass friend. The fact that he could kill me in an instant didn’t faze me. I had plenty of liquid courage swimming through my veins making me think I could deal with him tonight.
“I know that, asshole. I wouldn’t have you here if it was furniture. Just shut the fuck up and enjoy the ride. Drink some more Coke. I need you to try and sober up before we get there.”
“Hey, this is your old van from the warehouse, ain’t it?” I slurred as I looked around the interior for the first time. “Hey, what’s under the plastic?”
“That’s why you’re here. I needed someone I could trust, and that happens to be you,” Bill shared with that wicked grin crossing his face, just as it had when he had confronted me in the hotel room, what? It seemed like another lifetime ago.
“What happened?” I sounded like a parent trying not to scream at their kid for acting up yet again. I was sobering up fast because that look said it was a body under the plastic. Shit! I didn’t need to be wanted as an accomplice for yet another murder. Maybe I would be better off if I just pissed him off enough that he killed me, too.
“I was snooping around down at the marina and these two big ass black guys came out
of nowhere and started asking questions while using their fists as exclamation points on my face.” For the first time that night, I guess I really looked at Bill. I saw he had a black eye, fat lip and the left side of his head was swollen.
“Damn! They managed to ask a handful of questions before you got the answers right, huh?” I stupidly quipped, and Bill glared at me.
“If you weren’t drunk, I’d kick the shit out of you, old man!” Bill snarled, and I knew he meant it. A chill ran up my spine, and I tried to make amends.
“Oh, hey, I’m sorry. It’s just the Jim Beam talkin’. Did anybody see you?” I asked, the dumb questions coming thick and fast now.
“Yeah, Eyewitness News was taping the whole thing for their organized crime segment. Of course there weren’t any witnesses! We were out behind the barn between a couple of dry docked boats. That one monster put his hand right through the hull of one of those boats. I’m glad I was able to dodge most of his punches, although he got me good in my ribs a couple of times. Oh, hey, if your back acts up on you, I’ve got some oxycodone. It works pretty well on the pain. I can’t even feel my ribs at the moment.” Bill actually sounded civilized as he explained what had happened.
“I tell you, those two guys are the biggest, meanest mothers I ever saw, and they were out to kill me. Their necks must be two feet around, and their arms were the size of tree trunks. To top it off, they knew how to fight. I hit them with all I had, and they just kept on coming. It was as if I was this little kid trying to beat up a rock wall. They were incredibly strong. I’m a black belt in three different disciplines. It took every bit of my training to have them lying there and not me.” Bill actually sounded as if he admired the two guys he killed. Shit! There were two more bodies under the plastic. Two more counts of accomplice to murder. Shit!
“But why did you go over there? I already got the information you wanted.”
“I didn’t trust you to have actually done it.”
Apollo Road Page 13
