Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  “Leo, maybe you can’t go after him, but I can,” I said. He gave me a strange look when I suggested, “Come on, we’ll take my car.”

  With the back of his hand, the man wiped his face. “You already know, don’t you? That’s why you’re pretending to help me.” In reply to my blank stare, he explained. “The guy’s a Nassau customs agent, a lieutenant, and he’s got very heavy connections. He’s the one screwing my wife. You really didn’t know?”

  I said, “Now I get it. A Bahamian official. The guy has access to security footage of someone who looks a little like me. Tell the truth, Leo, how clear is the video? The freeze-frame shots, I assume they were blown up.”

  “Not that clear,” the man admitted. “There’s a resemblance—a big guy with glasses. Probably you, but the face is blocked. The way we made the connection is, you left a note at the mailboat office for a friend or someone. Marion Ford, don’t tell me it wasn’t you.”

  I said, “The customs agent made the connection and he came to you and offered to cut you in.”

  Leo nodded.

  “Did the customs agent seduce your wife before or after you two cut a deal? What’s his name?”

  “Ray . . . Rayvon Darwin . . . He’s a mobster in a uniform. You don’t want to mess with him. I mean, a serious headbanger. Ray . . . One time I saw the guy . . .” Leo’s eyes widened. “Hold on, I’ve gotta check on something.” He hurried down the hall. A bathroom medicine cabinet banged open. “Oh Christ . . . he stole them, too.”

  Prescription drugs, I guessed, but said, “Tell me about it on the way.”

  TWELVE

  We took Okeechobee to North Dixie Boulevard, turned left toward Rivera Beach. It was five miles of fast food, corporate start-ups, and failed sixties surf shops. Next we drove through residential housing, mid-income, on a gray three-lane that, in the heat, sparkled with flecks of melting tar.

  Leo was jittery and argumentative—signs of withdrawal. He demanded to inspect my phone to make sure I wasn’t recording our conversation. My questions about his wife and Rayvon—Did they sometimes ride a Harley? etc.—were evaded. I got the impression he was scared of the customs agent, dreaded an encounter that might soon happen. And Leo refused to acknowledge details about himself until he saw the three-page dossier I’d been provided.

  He leafed through the pages in a rage. “This is confidential information, man. I ought to tear it up and throw it out the window. Where’d you get this?”

  I countered by referencing the medicine cabinet. “I don’t know what you’re on,” I said, “but would a beer help?”

  “Just drive,” he snapped. “I’m not a goddamn junkie.” But changed his mind, so we pulled into a CVS. Leo came out, not with a six-pack but an over-the-counter med for menstrual cramps. “I haven’t had a drink in two weeks and I’m not falling off now,” he said, opening the packet. “But getting off the pills, man, that shit’s harder. But I’ve got to if I want my kids back.”

  He washed down two Midol with a Pepsi. A few stoplights later, he sighed, and said, “Oxycodone—yeah, I was hooked, off and on, but I’m done with that crap, too . . . It’s that obvious?”

  “The way you snapped at Isabelle,” I lied. “That was my first clue.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman at the pro shop.”

  “Oh, her, the attractive . . . Yeah . . . Anyway, my doctor gave me a script to help with the symptoms—naproxen. My wife knows, and she wouldn’t have had Ray steal my last bottle. I wasn’t a perfect husband, but I’m a helluva good father, so it had to be his idea. The asshole wants me to crash and burn. That ain’t gonna happen either, pal.”

  I was starting to like Leo a little bit.

  I said, “Some of the best ones fall into that trap. Friends of mine. More and more, it seems. They start taking painkillers because of an injury, then find out they can’t stop.”

  “Four years ago,” Leo said, “same with me. Ready for this?” He looked over while he popped another tab from the blister pack. “Jimmy Jones—that’s when my life started to go to hell. Jimmy was a curse to anyone dumb enough to trust him. Including me.”

  The Midol was doing its magic. Leo sat back and explained.

  When word got out that Jones had found one of the richest treasure ships ever, the SS Panama, all sorts of governing agencies had gotten involved. Archaeologists and state accountants were mandated to record every artifact recovered. Customs agents from the U.S. and Nassau also monitored the project. The Palm Beach office of the IRS had sent Leo and a pair of other agents.

  “We split shifts,” he explained. “Three days on Jimmy’s salvage boat, three days off. He was a likable guy—until you got to know him. The year before, I’d had rotator cuff surgery and was already hooked on oxy. Jimmy said he’d been through the same thing and offered to help out.”

  “He gave you pills?”

  “Jimmy didn’t give anyone anything. Ray was our connection. You name it, Ray could get it. Pills, coke, women—especially women—all you wanted when we docked in the Bahamas. Ford, you ever get tied up in something that makes you feel dirty? In your head, you know you’re wrecking your life but you can’t stop?”

  I didn’t respond. I made a right onto Flagler. A forest of boats, oceangoing yachts, and commercial cranes came into view. He kept talking. “What was that story about the badass in Cuba? If it’s true, you’ve been through some crap. I doubt if you’re still married.”

  I said, “Never been. What did Rayvon do, blackmail you?” I was thinking of surreptitious videos of Leo and a string of hookers. Threaten to send them to Leo’s wife if he didn’t pry information about the gold out of me.

  “Not married, even once, a guy your age?” Leo asked. “Are you gay?” He didn’t sound opposed to the idea, just curious.

  “No, I’m selfish. I have three children, all by different women. The two oldest, one won’t even talk to me. The mother’s convinced the girl that I work for the CIA. For some people, depending on their politics, that’s like working for the Devil. The other, a son, he’s almost twenty, lives in South America, and we don’t talk much. It sucks. The older I get, the more I think that family is all that—”

  Leo interrupted. Told me to slow down, look for the Rybovich complex and go another few blocks. Then couldn’t wait to ask, “No offense, but why would the CIA hire someone like you?”

  “They didn’t,” I replied. “Now I’ve got a little boy, not even walking yet. From here on, what’s best for him comes first.”

  “Two girls”—Leo smiled—“daughters eight and ten. Why don’t you marry the kids’ mother?”

  We were having a conversation, I realized. Two strangers, safe to say any damn thing we pleased, because we knew we’d never be friends. Probably never see each other again.

  I said, “She’s a great lady, but she’s very religious. A devout Christian. A person who doesn’t just talk it, she lives the life. I’ve tried, gone to church a few times, but it’s just not—”

  “The born-again types,” Leo said, “that’s lame. They drive me nuts.”

  “She’s a lot saner than you or me, Leo,” I said, giving him a look. “Hey, where’s this guy live?”

  The street had narrowed. Palms, hedges of purple bougainvillea, and bus stops with green awnings and freshly painted benches—this was money, not a place where a Nassau customs agent would buy or rent an apartment.

  “A couple more blocks on the right,” Leo said. He popped another Midol, nervous again. “How are you gonna play it? Wait for him if Ray’s not here? I already said I can’t risk getting involved.”

  After a stoplight, a high chain-link fence separated us from the bay and a maritime compound. Yachts towered above the quay, floating high-rises in billion-dollar rows.

  “He lives on one of those?” I asked. “Where’s he get his money, selling drugs?”

  Leo explai
ned no, three years ago the U.S. and Bahamian governments had both issued seizure papers on Jimmy’s salvage vessel, Diamond Cutter, a hundred-ton trawler. While the courts wrangled for control, Ray lived aboard as security, but had to switch off every few weeks with another customs guy from Nassau.

  I stopped short of the compound entrance, where there was an electronic gate—aluminum, not government-grade—and a sign that read Owners and Crew Only. I didn’t have to ask which boat Rayvon lived aboard. The Diamond Cutter, with its towering wheelhouse, a massive crane and blow boxes aft, was distinctively utilitarian. She was set apart from the other vessels, moored alone in a landward slip. Egress was barred by a galvanized chain across the bow. Seizure notices in bright yellow had been posted, compliments of the U.S. Marshals Service.

  “You know the gate code?” As I asked, I consulted the GPS. It showed the street address of our location. The first four digits were of interest.

  Leo had slumped down in his seat. “Four-zero-something-something, unless they changed it. Man, why we doing this? What you gonna do, ask Ray nice and polite to give me my shit back?” He stared out the window. “I don’t see anyone around.”

  “Could the code be four-zero-nine-eight?”

  “The code? No . . . Well, hey.” Leo sat up a little. “How’d you know?”

  The gate’s installer had reversed the street address. A common ploy that to me signaled lax security. There was no car near Diamond Cutter’s gangway, which was also chained and flagged by the Marshals Service. “What’s he drive?”

  “Ray? A Corvette, usually, but a rental. It varied. He likes shiny shit. But it’s not like we saw much of each other once I found out he was banging Nanette. Dude, come on, he’s not here.”

  I replied, “If Rayvon’s the one who robbed you, a Corvette’s too flashy. What about a motorcycle? You didn’t answer when I asked about him and your wife going for rides on a—”

  “Because it gives me ulcers to even think about. Yeah, sometimes he did that, too, rented a bike. Not always a Harley, but that’s what Nanette liked—Harleys.”

  “That was her bike I saw in your garage?”

  “Uh-uh. Mine, an old Triumph. I bought her a Super III, entry-level. We’d cruise around the neighborhood. You know, slow and safe because of the girls. When we split, she had her bike put in storage along with about everything else we own.”

  Across the street, half a block down, was a bus stop bench that was shielded from view by acacia trees. I pulled ahead, did a U-turn, and stopped in front of the bench. “Get out,” I told him. “Sit here and just watch. We’ll give it twenty minutes.”

  “To do what?”

  “Probably nothing if Rayvon’s in a car,” I said. “But if he’s on a motorcycle, I want you to steal it if you get a chance.”

  Leo’s expression: Are you nuts?

  “Steal the dude’s fuckin’ bike?”

  “You heard me. I’ll say something to make sure he leaves the engine running.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re out of your damn mind.”

  “Leo, you’re starting to irritate me. Do you want your shit back or not?”

  The man nodded dumbly.

  My Maxpedition tactical bag was on the floor in the backseat. I reached for it. “Okay, then do exactly what I tell you. When the timing seems right, I’ll give you a sign. Or use your own judgment. Get on the damn thing and drive, but not too far, just a few blocks. If we can pull this off, what we’re doing is a type of street con.” I went into more detail, before adding, “Leo, if you start to lose your nerve, think of that broken picture on the floor.”

  His daughters, I was referring to.

  * * *

  —

  Rayvon Darwin lived up to his billing. He was six-three and change, two hundred pounds, a block of muscle with a head to match when he removed his helmet—a checkered racing model, silver on black, that I recognized.

  He didn’t recognize me from the Bahamian security video. Probably wouldn’t have even if we’d stood face-to-face the day he’d come looking for me on Sanibel. I was inside the fence when he pulled up on a Harley and saw that my car blocked the entrance. The gate was open just wide enough for me to squeeze because I’d shorted out the wires to freeze the mechanism.

  “You work here?” I asked, half yelling over the rumble of his motorcycle. “I think I messed up the code or something. I was just about to go hunt for someone in Maintenance.”

  The look on Rayvon’s face, like I was a bumbling doofus. He glared at my car. He dismounted, then strode to the gate and punched in numbers. Punched in numbers a couple more times before finally addressing me. “My friend, what the hell you do? I never seen you here before. How’d you break the damn gate?” Bahamian accent, suspicious, but cheery like a cop ready to spring a trap.

  I tapped my ears, and said, “You mind turning that off?”

  “What?”

  “Your motorcycle. Turn the damn thing off. I can’t hear a goddamn thing you’re saying.”

  “What?” Ray’s smile was the equivalent of the middle finger. “Man, don’t tell me what to do. This here’s my home. What’s the problem?” He tried the key code again, then banged it with his fist. “A year I been here, and you’re the first one to— Shit! How’d you manage to screw this up?”

  By then, I’d joined him at the gate. He was on one side of the narrow opening, me on the other.

  I said, “Don’t know. I punched in the right code. It started to open, then I must’ve hit something else.”

  “Huh?”

  I said it again, louder.

  “Why you mess with the damn gate when it’s opening? You do dumb stuff like this all the time?” He hammered the electronic box with his fist. “Man, your car’s blocking the damn entrance. What I think is, I’m gonna have you towed for my trouble.”

  A pair of computer bags were looped over the Harley’s backrest. One of them was stuffed full. It was similar to the Maxpedition bag I’d left on the ground nearby. Leo was across the street, slump-shouldered in the shade, as if waiting for a bus.

  “I’ll pay for it, don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll call someone. Triple A—you think they might help? Unless— Hey, you live here. Let’s go find someone in Maintenance.”

  I reached for my bag. Intentionally, I grabbed it by the bottom, not the strap on top, then backed away to give Rayvon room enough to squeeze through. “Come on. They know you.”

  No way. The customs agent wasn’t going to join me inside the compound—until the flap of my bag came open. My wallet, my phone, and a roll of money spilled out onto the ground.

  There was a light breeze. Loose bills—mostly ones, fives, and a few twenties—went kiting across the cement toward the water. I grabbed my wallet and my phone, then charged after the bills, hollering, “That’s close to five grand . . . Damn it, I could use some help here.”

  Rayvon, grunting from the effort, was soon beside me. Hunched over like kids at an Easter egg hunt, we lunged at and stomped the bills into submission. Most, though, sailed off the wharf and into the bay.

  Behind us, the Harley revved. There was a clank of a kickstand. We both turned. The motorcycle was already moving, Leo’s back visible for an instant as he roared off.

  The customs agent screamed, “Dude just stole my bike.” He lumbered in pursuit after it.

  I got to the gate first and slid through. “Call the police,” I yelled over my shoulder. “I’ll follow him.”

  From the courtesy car, I got a snapshot look at Rayvon before I drove away—a big man in a tank top, a fistful of bills in one hand. His other hand slapped at his jeans as if he couldn’t find his phone.

  * * *

  —

  Leo said through the open window of the rental car, “I’m not leaving the bike here. Hell no, it’s my wife’s Harley, and the son of a bitch stole my computer, too. I didn�
��t know when I agreed to . . . But, goddamn”—he sounded giddy, was laughing—“that was the most fun I’ve had since, hell, I don’t know when. Wish I could’ve seen the look on the asshole’s face.”

  “That’s not the way it works,” I said. “Get in the car. The police will be here soon. If you take the bike, they’ll find you before you get home.”

  “But I own the goddamn thing.”

  “Yep, then Ray will know it was you. How do you think that’ll go?”

  Leo decided to focus on the positive. “When I took off, what did he say? Geezus, I wish I could’ve heard him. Bet he screamed like the bitch he is. That big bag of . . .” His giddy grin faded. “What the hell does Nanette see in that guy? Giving away the Harley I bought for her? A birthday present, you believe that? Until then, she didn’t want to have kids.”

  “Get in. You can sit in the front for now,” I said.

  “For now, right,” he said like I was joking. “Why’re you wearing gloves?”

  “If you enjoy this sort of thing,” I replied, “you should buy some.”

  The motorcycle was parked on a quiet side street a block away. The computer bags still hung from the backrest. Before getting out, I asked, “Did you take anything? Don’t lie to me.”

  Reluctantly, the former IRS agent produced Rayvon’s alligator-hide wallet. I opened it. “Where’s the cash?”

  “You kidding? After what he did to me and my family? I’ve gotta get something out of this.” He thought for a moment. “Hey, just exactly what are you getting out of this?”

  “You get what Ray stole from you and you’re done threatening me with that whistlerblower crap,” I replied. “And if you hear any more about this, you give me a call. We stay in touch. Understood? Now give me the money.”

  I held out my hand, palm up. Leo dug into his pocket and handed over a sizable wad of bills. I counted it—close to a thousand dollars—fifties and hundreds, not new.