Tuna Tango

by Steven Becker

  “Hope the accommodations are OK,” he said hopefully.

  She didn’t answer, but sat on the bench by the tiller, tossed her shoes onto the deck, and held a hand out for a cooler. He exhaled, twisted the cap off, and handed it to her. She took the bottle and rubbed it seductively between her breasts.

  “It’s hot,” she whined. “No AC, I guess.”

  There was no good answer, and he was more aroused than he should be, so he unlocked the cabin door and removed the planks. Once inside, he put four of the coolers into the small propane refrigerator and opened one for himself. He looked out the companionway and watched her as she adjusted herself to get comfortable on the bench.

  “I’ll be right up.”

  No answer came. He reached into his pocket and took out the pills. With a knife, he cut them in half and squeezed the contents into the open cooler. The halved lemon he had used on the fish earlier lay on the counter, and he squeezed that in as well, hoping to cover the taste. With the cap screwed back on he shook the concoction, opened it, and took a sip.

  Not bad, he thought, as he replaced the cap. He grabbed a cooler for himself and went back on deck.

  ***

  Three coolers and an hour later, she was asleep on the bench. Will checked on her once more, to be sure, went into the cabin and sat at the small table. He adjusted the fan to hit his face, hoping he wouldn’t drip sweat onto the papers spread out in front of him. A quick search of the lockers had revealed several charts as well as dividers and parallel rulers. With a carpenters pencil in hand, he started the GPS and waited for the unit to synchronize itself with the satellites it used to pinpoint position.

  The unit took a few minutes to satisfy itself and the screen changed. He scrolled through the options and found the waypoint screen. There were forty-two waypoints, all but a few sharing similar coordinates. Starting with the first, he took the latitude and longitude for each, and plotted the coordinates on the chart, using the waypoint number to label the spot.

  It took almost an hour to plot all the points. They were clustered around an area called the Middle Grounds by local fishermen and divers. The area was eighty miles into the Gulf of Mexico. A major trip, but the rewards, as evidenced by the fish the boys had found in the cooler, were worth it. With the dividers, he transposed the scale on the side of the chart to the line he had drawn from the North Pass to the center of the cluster and measured the distance. Eighty-five miles confirmed his guess. Next he took the parallel ruler and lined one end up with the magnetic reading on the compass rose, and brought the other side to the line he had drawn. The course read 283 degrees, and he noted that next to the line.

  He rolled the chart up, took the GPS to the forward berth, and put it in a small compartment he had found under the mattress. Then he went back out to check on Jazmyn. She was snoring softly, and he just stood there for a moment and watched her breasts rise and fall.

  Chapter 13

  The weather service prediction last night had been for the wind to blow 15 knots, and that’s exactly what Will felt as he stepped out of the cabin onto the dark deck. He could only hope the conditions held. Heading eighty miles offshore was a daunting task, especially when he was sailing single-handed, but he had no other ideas. The cluster of waypoints he had plotted on the chart last night were all within a few miles of each other. That was the most likely place to find George, and hopefully Kyle with him. As long as the wind stayed below 20 knots, he was comfortable with the trip. Anything over that and the seas would hit six feet, decreasing visibility and restricting his movement on the boat.

  If something went wrong with the wind blowing over 20, it would go wrong in a big way. The boat had a roller furling on the jib and a self-reefing mainsail that should allow him to decrease the sail area without leaving the cockpit … but the roller furling had already jammed once and the mainsail reef was untested.

  He went below to stow gear, and saw the girl lying sprawled the bunk where he had carried her last night, her thin shirt undulating in the breeze generated by the small fan he had pointed at her. The combination of alcohol and NyQuil had done the trick—and then some. She was still snoring when he touched her shoulder.

  Ideally, he would have woken her, said goodbye, and set her on the dock, but she was going nowhere, and he didn’t want to waste any time. It was going to be a six to eight-hour trip, and if he left now, he could be back by dark. She rolled over, exposing her butt to him in rebuttal as he worked around her, preparing the cabin.

  Expecting at least four-foot seas, he stowed all the loose objects, checked the cabinet latches, and made sure the hatches were all closed and locked. Within seconds of closing the hatches, though, the cabin became uncomfortable, and he looked over at her, hoping the lack of air flow would wake her before he left.

  With the GPS in hand, he went back on deck and started the GPS unit leaving it to acquire the satellites and position while he prepared the dock lines. One at a time he looped each line around the dock cleat and brought the end back to the cockpit, instead of having them tied off on the cleat. It took several minutes he didn’t want to spend, but with the wind pushing the boat into the side of the dock, he would need to release the lines in sequence to get away with no damage.

  A quick glance assured him that everything was ready, and an inspection of the gas tank revealed a little over half a tank. He squeezed the priming bulb, opened the tank vent, and pulled the choke out. It took half a dozen pulls before the engine coughed, and then several more before it started. With the choke pushed in, the small outboard started to even out.

  He looked up at the sky and saw the moon a few inches above the horizon, Venus a dull glow beside it. That should give him enough light to navigate the intracoastal and Pass-A-Grille channel. Once he reached open water, he would be fine in the hour of darkness that would remain before sunrise. He released the bow and stern lines and pulled them into the boat. The only thing stopping the hull from colliding with the dock now was the aft spring line. Reaching back, he set the engine in reverse and released it. Quickly, he turned the throttle and the boat slid backward, away from the dock.

  Once into the waterway, he lashed the tiller and stowed the lines and fenders. The moonlight lit the channel, clearly illuminating the markers as the boat coasted by them. A half-hour later, he was past the last lighted buoy and into open water. With the wind coming from dead ahead he could maintain course while raising the main sail. He lashed the tiller again, loosened the main sheet and raised the halyard. The sail flapped in the breeze as he placed the halyard onto the winch and cranked until the luff of the sail was tight against the mast.

  Back at the tiller, he steered 25 degrees off the wind and watched as the sail filled. With his course established and the wind powering the boat, he shut down the engine. It was always exhilarating when the only noise was the sound of the boat as it slid through the water. Now he released the furling line and pulled out the jib. The speed picked up noticeably as the genoa unfurled. A glance at the GPS revealed that he was making 9 knots.

  He adjusted the course to the bearing shown on the screen and watched the speed rise to 9.5 knots as the boat settled into a beam reach. If he could maintain this speed, he would reach the cluster of waypoints by early afternoon. Hopefully Kyle would still be alive.

  ***

  Dick woke on a couch—one that he had never slept on before, and he had slept on plenty. He sat up and looked around the room, trying to piece together where he was. Things weren’t that bad, he figured, as it took seconds rather than minutes to realize he was at Sheryl’s. She had nagged him to stay over after a round of smoking and drinking when they got back to her place late last night or early in the morning, depending how you looked at it.

  He didn’t need much persuasion—her weed was good.

  Taking the room in, he walked over to a bookcase and noticed several pictures of her holding some large tarpon and bonefish, then went to the tray left from last night on the bar by the kitchen. Breaking a
part several buds, he rolled a joint and lit it.

  “Pretty early for that,” Sheryl said as she came out of the bedroom, dressed in workout clothes.

  He held the smoke in for a second before releasing it and answering, “Never too early. This is good. Didn’t know you fished.” He pointed to the pictures.

  “That was with Will.” She stopped in mid-sentence. “I’m going for a run. Be back in forty-five minutes. I’ll make something to eat when I get back, if you’re still going to be here.”

  He looked around and took another hit. “Yeah. Can I use your phone? I want to see if I can find out anything about Kyle.”

  She nodded and left. He hadn’t wanted to mention Will’s name in front of her. Every time he had brought it up, she became morose. He took another hit from the joint and pulled his wallet from his pocket. On the back of a tattered business card, he found Will’s number, and went to the landline on the table.

  No one answered, though, and he hung up, realizing it might have been the caller ID that had stopped Will from answering. He would have to find another phone to contact him. Without much hope, he picked up the phone again and dialed Kyle’s cell phone. It went immediately to voice mail. He hung up and looked at the pile of buds on the tray, trying to figure out if he could liberate a few joints’ worth to get him through the day.

  Hungry, he went to the refrigerator and scoured the contents, emerging with eggs, ham, cheese, and some vegetables. He had onion sautéing in butter when she walked back in.

  “Hey. Figured I’d just make something. Hope that’s OK.”

  She looked at the pan and ingredients and nodded. “It wasn’t going to be as good if I cooked. I’m going to shower, and then we’re going to figure out what to do about Kyle.”

  Dick snapped back to reality. “OK, yeah.” He finished the omelet and set out two plates. She emerged from the bedroom in a robe, with a towel slung around her hair, as he was portioning the food. He looked at her, wondering how Will could let her get away. Most of the girls he knew were of the meaner, self-serving variety. But she seemed sincere and just nice.

  Then again, he’d seen it all. Not the best-looking guy, and usually too stoned to be a threat, he had plenty of girls that poured out there hearts to him. He decided to try and get her talking and see what she was all about.

  She dug into the breakfast, rebuffing his attempts at conversation. When she finished eating, she turned to him and the questions started. He looked at the tray, hoping she would offer another joint to get him through the interrogation.

  She must have seen him staring at the tray. “Come on, Dick. You can have some when you answer.”

  He started to fidget in the chair as he gave her a recount of the last few days. The look in her eyes grew more serious as the story unfolded, her concern evident when Will’s name was mentioned.

  “Holy crap, you guys are in this much trouble and not one of you thought to call the police?”

  She reached for the phone, but he stopped her. “They’ll put me in jail for my warrants for sure, and probably take Will with me for being an accomplice. There’s no evidence left, and just our word that Kyle was taken. This isn’t going to play out well.”

  She thought for a few minutes. “Will introduced me to the guy that owns the fish house. He’s at least indirectly involved in this, anyway. Maybe he can help.”

  Anything was better than the police. “OK. Just no cops.”

  ***

  Will estimated they were twenty miles off the coast when the sun emerged from the clouds. The wind had picked up noticeably, and he had reefed the mainsail. The only problem was the seas; the bigger swells were five feet now, and they threw spray over the bow all the way to the cockpit as the boat surged through them. If they got any bigger, he would have to furl the jib and lose even more speed.

  He had almost forgotten about the girl when she emerged from the cabin. With a look of disgust cast his way, she went to the leeward bench, which was closer to the water, with the boat heeled over, and leaned over the side. He could tell she was in a bad way as her back convulsed with each heave. She stayed there for a long minute before she turned and wiped her mouth on her blouse.

  “What the fuck did you give me, and where are we? You didn’t say anything about a fucking sail.” The rant continued for a minute before she took a breath, went back to the gunwale, and leaned over again.

  I guess the honeymoon is over, he thought as he watched her empty what was left in her stomach. Without a word, she turned and glared at him before stumbling down the steps to the cabin and disappearing. He almost laughed to himself about the difference a night and some weather could make. Last night, he couldn’t take his eyes off her; today he didn’t want to look.

  And then his thoughts turned to Sheryl. Maybe it had taken last night to appreciate her. He lashed the tiller and went into the cabin, casting a quick look at the bundle of misery curled up on the bench, thankfully facing away from him. That was the price he would have to endure for his infatuation.

  Quickly grabbing the cell phone from the chart table, hoping she wouldn’t turn and confront him again, he went back on deck.

  He stared at the phone, feeling a connection as the screen showed Sheryl’s number as a missed call. Reluctant, or maybe plain scared to call back, he stared at the phone, hoping it would ring and be her to break the ice. Better if she called first. A large wave jarred the boat, breaking him from his thoughts.

  A glance over the rail and he estimated the seas had risen another foot since he had last checked. The GPS showed they were making almost 10 knots now. Just thirty miles from the group of waypoints; well past the halfway mark, he thought as he adjusted the sails and reviewed his options. The weather had called for 15- to 20-knot winds, and from the look of it, they were every bit of 20 now.

  Hoping for the best, and with only a few hours to sail before he reached his destination, he decided to hold course.

  ***

  “What do you mean you lost the fish?” the voice yelled.

  The boat was rocking on its anchor in 120 feet of water. “We got one in the box already, and I’m planning to stay out until we get another. Just settle down,” George screamed into the phone over the wind.

  “You fool. The one in the freezer. There are at least three people that know about it now. What are you going to do about them?”

  George looked over at Kyle. “I’ve got one handled. I’ll deal with the other two when I get back in. I know where to find them.”

  “This isn’t good. Maybe you should come back in now.”

  George looked at the seas. They had built over the last few hours, but the NOAA report said this was the peak. Although it was uncomfortable to be anchored and fishing in these conditions, he knew from experience that you got the biggest fish in the biggest seas. He would wait it out and run back when the wind calmed.

  “Give me a few more hours.”

  “I’ll cut you out of this deal so quick—” The voice was halted by the line ripping off the reel.

  “Big fish, gotta go.” George ended the call and went for the anchor ball. One of the deckhands had instantly gone for the rod and was working it furiously. George watched him as he clipped the hook on the anchor line and released it from the cleat. From the looks of it, the fish was big enough they would have to chase it and retrieve the anchor later. He went to the helm and started the engine, turning around to see which way the fishing line was going out before setting the two levers to forward. Turning to port, he swung the boat in a wide circle, keeping an eye on both the line and the deckhand frantically reeling in the slack as he closed on the fish. This kind of fishing was all about teamwork, not individual glory. It mattered that they brought back fish, not who reeled it in.

  The fish must have sensed the boat as it closed, and it started to peel off line at a furious pace. It crossed behind the boat, and George had to abandon the wheel and help the angler switch the rod to the holder on the other side. They had to keep the li
ne away from the propellers at all costs. Just as they were about to set the rod in the holder, the fish reversed again. They struggled to take the rod back to the original position when one engine suddenly stalled.

  “It’s in the prop. We’re screwed!” George yelled as he furiously tugged on the line. He felt the tension ease as the friction of the line against both itself and the steel of the propeller weakened the monofilament. Then it parted and the fish was gone.

  Chapter 14

  Sheryl could hear the yelling from the waiting area, and wondered about this side of Lance, which she’d never seen. Or maybe it was just business. The smell of fish permeated the air-conditioned office, which was located in an older section of St. Petersburg, next to the railroad tracks. Through a plate glass window, she could see the fish processing and warehouse facility filled with stainless steel sinks and tables and giant walk-in coolers and freezers. She sat next to Dick, who was fidgeting in the old vinyl chair. His constant anxiety was starting to wear on her. They had gone by the fish house first, to see if Will knew anything, but he was gone. The building was locked up, and although his truck was there, the boat was not.

  This lowered him another notch in her eyes. He should be working. And to think, she had been kind of excited to see him.

  Lance was the only other person she knew that had any ties to this. He owned the building and the freezer where everything seemed to be happening, and although Dick had said that he leased the freezer to some guy named George, he was still the logical place to start. Maybe he had contacts with the Department of Fish and Game, or knew someone else that could help without running Dick’s name through the computer and landing him in jail.