dog island

by Mike Stewart

  “Whatcha wanna do? It’s your dollar.”

  I said, “Keep moving as fast as you can.”

  Just as Billy pushed the throttle wide open, a spotlight swept a silver path through the rain and came to rest on the bridge. A twenty-foot cigar boat pulled up alongside. Billy called out. “We ain’t gonna outrun that.”

  I said, “Turn away from them,” and Billy spun the chromed wheel. The speedboat shot past us and quickly began to circle back.

  I pulled the 9mm out of my back waistband, and Billy said, “Whoa. I didn’t sign up to shoot nobody. Put that thing back where you got it.”

  “What if they shoot at us first?”

  “Then you can take it out.” He reached up to pat a twelve-gauge pump hung from two brass stirrups above the front glass. The rear stock had been sawed off and shaped into a pistol grip. “Somebody points a gun at this boat, and I’ll blow their ass out of the water. You don’t worry about that.”

  Billy was a tough old bird, but I held on to my Browning. The cigar boat was alongside again. Its narrow spotlight swept the deck, stopping on young Willie who gave them a one-finger salute through pouring rain that shone like tinsel in the light’s beam. A loud, sharp crack cut the night air, and Willie went over the side. I screamed at Billy. “Stop! Stop this thing. Willie’s in the water.” Billy yanked down on the throttle arm. The shrimp boat dropped its nose into the surf, and, once again, the cigar boat shot past. I shouted, “I’ll go after Willie. Use the shotgun.”

  As I turned to run, Billy’s leathery hand closed painfully on my bicep. “Stay still. You get out in the water, and they’ll run you down or shoot you too. We can’t do nothin’ for Willie till we take care of that boat.” We could hear the speedboat coming back. Billy said, “Get down. I’ll try to hit the spotlight. You unload that pistol into whoever’s drivin’.” I nodded and wondered if I’d have that much sense, that kind of balls, if someone I loved was flailing around in the night ocean with a gunshot wound.

  The speedboat revved and then cut to idle as it came near. A yellow beam hit the bow, and Billy waved me back. I ran doubled over to the stern and hunkered down behind a pile of nets. The light swept back over the deck and then forward again to the bridge cabin. Without warning, automatic gunfire splintered Billy’s bridge into bits of glass and wood that spun and flashed across the light like lethal fireflies. Shit. I popped up and put three shots as close to the light as I could, considering that I was firing from the deck of one rolling boat to another. The light spun toward me, and I hit the fiberglass-coated metal deck just before automatic gunfire made the netting pop and dance above my head.

  A loud boom interrupted the fast crack of automatic fire, and the spotlight blew, spewing electric sparks into the night. Two more booms came in quick succession. Billy was unloading on the boat. I rolled away from the netting and jumped up. Two dark bodies moved inside the cigar boat. I took aim at the form behind the wheel and had fired six jarring shots before the shadow jumped and fell sideways. Two more booms echoed across the water, and flames shot out of the oversized motor next to the larger man who had fired the automatic weapon. The big man dove forward. I pumped three rounds into the speedboat and the windshield fell and twisted like a gleaming mirror reflecting fire from the engine. Something heavy splashed, and the big man was in the driver’s seat. The torched engine roared. The boat hooked hard to port, and its bow shot out of the water as the stern scraped the hull of the Teeter Two.

  I was on my feet screaming into the night, emptying my clip into the flaming cigar boat. I stared hard through the rain to see who had done this, to see who Billy Teeter and I would have to kill when we got home. The bullet-shaped boat skipped down the larger boat’s hull and, just before roaring away, the driver looked across the gunwale directly into my face. Then Carli’s father, the New England cod fisherman, literally fired off into the night.

  Billy stood beside me. I cussed. Billy grabbed my arm. He said, “He’s going the wrong way. Watch him. He’s gonna hit.”

  Poultrez zoomed toward shore trailing flames and thick smoke like a jet afterburner. I said, “It’s going to blow.”

  “Won’t need to. Watch.”

  A loud, mechanical ripping noise echoed across the water, and Poultrez’s flaming bullet boat shot into the air, tucked its fiery tail under, and slapped top down into the surf sending a gush of black seawater into the air.

  I said, “What the hell?”

  “Oyster beds.” Billy said, “Let’s go find my grandboy.”

  While Billy cleared broken glass off the bridge and got the boat going, I found a flashlight and examined the hull section scraped by Purcell’s cigar boat. It was going to need some woodwork and paint—and I was going to pay for it—but, as far as I could tell, we weren’t in any danger of sinking.

  Billy was working his spotlight back and forth across the water, steering carefully toward the place where Willie went over. The old man was slowly and rhythmically clenching his jaw with each swivel of the lamp. I moved up to the bow. I heard Billy using his radio, calling for help. Then I heard something else—a voice, thin and distant. I held up my hand. Billy pulled back on the throttle and stepped out to look.

  I said, “Cut the engine. I think I hear something.” The old man reached inside the bullet-riddled bridge cabin and twisted a key, and the Gulf fell silent. I said, “Move the light. See if you can see him.” The spot swept across rolling waves, and the thin voice came again. “He’s seeing the light. Stop!”

  Sixty yards off the starboard bow, an eerily white head bobbed in the waves. I pointed, and Billy turned over the engines and moved the right way. I lost Willie twice in thirty yards. Then we were on him, and I dropped over the side.

  The Gulf in March was still cold enough to take my breath when I hit the water. Willie’s pale head seemed to float toward me as I paddled in place. His eyes were open, his lips blue and trembling. I managed to slide my arm under his and grip him across the chest. I kicked hard and seemed to paddle in place again while, this time, the boat floated toward me. Billy had a ladder over the side. I perched Willie on the bottom rung, held on with my left fist, and pushed his hypothermic mass up into Billy’s strong arms with my right hand. I hung there trying to catch my breath and quickly realized the water was sapping my breath and my strength. I made it up the ladder alone.

  On deck, Captain Billy had Willie on his stomach, alternately pressing his upper back and lifting his underarms. It’s what the United States Marines taught in 1942, and it works, just not that well. I said, “Move,” and was surprised when Billy complied. I flipped Willie onto his back and checked his pulse and breathing. The first was strong. The second was weak and shallow. I put a hand under Willie’s neck to cock his head back and swept the back of his tongue with my fingers to check for blockage. Then I placed my lips over his clammy, whiskered mouth and pushed a lung full of air into his chest. Willie gurgled and choked the air back out. Again, I breathed deeply into the young man’s lungs; and he vomited violently into my mouth. Reeling backward, I spit out Willie’s mess and then puked the last few morsels of my lunch across Willie’s chest and onto the deck.

  He was breathing strongly on his own, so I began checking for gunshot wounds. There weren’t any. I looked up at Billy. “He’s not shot. He got some water in his lungs when he hit the water. You got any blankets?” Billy immediately pulled off his coat and put it over his grandson. A few seconds later, he was back with a silver emergency blanket and two large sheets of opaque plastic. I got Willie as comfortable as possible on the rolling, rain-soaked deck while the old man throttled up and headed for shore.

  God and nature protect teenage boys. Willie began to come around before we hit the bay. Captain Billy had radioed ahead for help, and an ambulance met us at the dock. Willie, complaining loudly now, got lifted onto a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance. Billy climbed into the front seat next to a paramedic, and the white van screamed off into the night.

  I was left st
anding on the dock, checking the lines, surveying the damage, and generally feeling like a complete asshole for involving the Teeters in a death match with Carli’s father and the Bodines. I would pay for the damage. I would give Captain Teeter one hell of a bonus. I’d even pay for Willie’s medical bills. But none of that was going to make me any less of a prick for having involved them.

  It was past midnight and cold. My saltwater-soaked clothes felt hard and rough on my skin. I opened the trunk and pulled out my duffel. No one was around. I found clean underwear, a shirt and chinos. I had stripped and, thankfully, pulled on dry boxers when Billy’s partner, Julie, came around the corner of the shack. I started to apologize; then I saw the two men behind her. They wore dark suits and ties, and they had the look of men you run from in the night.

  I pulled on my pants. I smiled. I spun on the balls of my feet and ploughed into the widest human being I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.

  chapter twenty-two

  The human wall looted like an Hispanic Odd Job, minus the decapitating bowler. This one just had a gun, which he used to tap me on the head until he had my complete attention. He didn’t say much. One of the other men, one of the ones with Julie, spoke.

  “Come with us, please.”

  “Where?” It seemed a reasonable question.

  Odd Job said, “Move,” and gave me a shove. I turned and looked for my 9mm inside the Bonneville’s open trunk. It was there, no more than a foot from the bumper where I could easily grab it as I walked by and, if I were really lucky, click off the safety, chamber a round, and shoot one of these guys before the other two pumped me full of little pieces of metal. And, at that moment, standing in the shadows behind a shrimper’s shack at midnight with a twenty-thousand-dollar bounty on my head, it didn’t seem like a particularly bad idea. Fortunately, Julie saw me look. She stepped forward into pale yellow light from inside the trunk, picked up the Browning, and fixed me with a look of such hatred that I thought she was going to shoot me herself. Instead, she turned and handed my gun to one of her escorts. Odd Job bumped me on the head again and repeated, “Move.”

  “Mind if I get a shirt?”

  He pushed me aside, rummaged in my duffel while keeping his narrow black eyes trained on my face, and handed me a sweatshirt. More precisely, he shoved the wadded shirt against my chest with enough aggression to leave no doubt that he enjoyed his work, and, as he manhandled me, Odd Job repeated his last instruction. “Move.”

  I wanted to stick a fist in one of his nasty little porcine eyes—eyes that looked like someone had slit his dark meaty face with a razor to reveal onyx marbles—but the man had a gun and he outweighed me by a hundred pounds, so what I did was move.

  The two suits led the way. Julie followed them. I followed her, and Odd Job brought up the rear. We circled Teeter’s Seafood, mounted the porch, and walked in through the front room where, during the daytime, customers bought shrimp and fish and frozen crab cakes so good they “taste like something that came off a menu at a restaurant.” We walked through a doorway into a back room that looked like an old, single guy’s idea of a den. A wood-burning stove squatted in the back right corner beneath a crooked length of stovepipe that angled out through the rough paneled wall. The front right corner held an abused television in a stained and chipped wooden cabinet. Opposite the stove and the television, antlered deer heads, plaster-filled fish with lacquered scales, and worn fishing tackle hung from the walls. Below the trophies and spinning rods, a collection of upholstered chairs and sofas waited in varying states of distress.

  As we entered, a dark, slender man in a two-thousand-dollar suit rose effortlessly out of an orange Naugahyde chair and stepped forward.

  “You are Thomas McInnes?”

  I was a little overwhelmed and more than a little afraid, and I didn’t answer right away. Odd Job took offense and tapped me once again on the crown with the barrel of his automatic. I found my voice, “You want to talk to me, tell Odd Job to quit hitting me on the head.”

  The dark man held up his palm at Odd Job, and, with the quiet authority of someone who was used to being obeyed, he said, “Please.” Then he nodded at the door and my head tapper walked out, turning sideways to navigate the opening. The dark man turned back to look into my eyes. “I apologize, señor. Please sit down.” He motioned at a used-up La-Z-Boy upholstered in mustard hopsack and punctuated with exposed tufts of almost matching foam rubber.

  I sat. One of the suits, the one who had spoken, moved to the far wall and watched. He held what appeared to be an UZI in one hand. At least, it looked like what I imagined an UZI would probably look like. The second suit left the room, I assumed to help Odd Job secure the perimeter or some such thing.

  The dark man was attired with the formality expected of a business executive in Europe or Latin America. Thick black hair swept back from a narrow forehead and would have curled if he had been the sort of man to allow such lack of control.

  He said, “Are you comfortable?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. “No, señor. Yours is not a comfortable situation.” He sat back and studied me. “You like cigars?”

  “Sure.”

  He reached inside his coat and produced a black alligator cigar case. As he opened it, he said, “Would you like one?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t appear surprised or offended. He pulled a huge, unwrapped cigar from the case, glanced at the foot, which had already been cut, and put it in his mouth. The UZI guy walked forward, reaching into his pocket with the obvious intention of lighting the cigar. The dark man held up his palm, just as he had earlier, and the UZI guy stopped and returned to his corner.

  I said, “Got ‘em trained with hand signals.”

  “Señor?”

  “Nothing.”

  He lit his cigar with a match, and he took a while doing it. When he had it going, he said, “My name is Carlos Sanchez.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m John Smith.”

  Once again, he smiled. “Yes. I see what you mean. But it is something to call me. We have business to discuss.”

  A.k.a. Carlos Sanchez smoked his Havana the way only Central and South Americans smoke them, drawing the thick, pungent smoke deep into his lungs and then letting it out through his mouth and nostrils. He said, “You are an intelligent man. Or, more precisely, you are ‘smart.’ That is the word we hear about you. “Tom McInnes is smart.’”

  “I feel so good about myself now.”

  “Señor?”

  “What do you want?”

  “We want you to leave Leroy Purcell and his group alone.”

  I said, “What?” and he started to repeat. “No, I hear you. I just don’t believe what I hear. Your buddy, Leroy Purcell, has taken out a twenty-thousand-dollar contract on my life. He’s trying to kill a young girl who’s a client of mine, and, I’m not certain, but he’s probably got a contract out on another woman who’s a better person than you and me put together.”

  Sanchez simply said, “Susan Fitzsimmons.”

  I looked at him.

  “And Carli Poultrez. Daughter of Russell Poultrez of Gloucester, Massachusetts.”

  I kept looking at him and thought some more before I spoke. “Are you offering an end to this? Can you guarantee the safety of Susan and Carli if we agree to walk away from Purcell and his people?”

  “I can try to arrange these things. I cannot guarantee. Señor Purcell is an unpredictable and dangerous man. But I believe I can arrange for your safety and that of Señora Fitzsimmons.”

  “And Carli?”

  Sanchez shook his head.

  “Are you saying Carli’s not part of the deal?”

  “I’m afraid she is not. That part has gone too far. But I can arrange…”

  I interrupted. “Who are you? I’ve been sitting here talking with you, basically humoring you, because there’s a guy with a gun over there. But it looks like you know everything about me and my clients and … Who the hel
l are you?”

  Sanchez rolled his cigar between a manicured thumb and a set of fragile-looking, tanned fingers, then raised the moist foot of the Churchill to his lips and turned the ash red as he pulled smoke into his lungs. He was thinking. Considering. He reached inside his tailored coat, once again pulled out the alligator case, removed the cap, and held out the cigars. “Please.”

  This time I took one—maybe I needed a prop too—and he lit it for me with a wide, flat match.

  As he replaced the case in his inside pocket, Sanchez said, “I work with a group of Cuban patriots who are pursuing a number of goals. None of which are in any way contrary to the interests of the United States. Please understand that. It is most important. We have great respect for the United States and wish to see many, if not all, of its ideals emulated in a free and democratic Cuba.” He stopped to smoke and look at the UZI guy. Some unspoken communication passed between them. He went on. “You, Señor McInnes, and your two clients have become involved, through no fault of your own, with something that could become quite … unmanageable.”

  He paused to give me a chance to comment on that. I didn’t.

  He said, “I am told that either Susan Fitzsimmons or Carli Poultrez witnessed a murder last Wednesday night on St. George Island. Is that correct?” I looked at him some more. Sanchez said, “We have a problem. Your clients are in danger because of what one or both of them saw, and, of course, because they want to go to the police and see justice done. Unfortunately, I cannot allow them to take that action.”

  “You can’t allow that, huh?”

  “No. I’m afraid I cannot. You see, Leroy Purcell did kill someone that night.”

  “Who?”

  “Señor?”

  “Do you know who he killed?”

  “Not that it should matter to you, Señor McInnes, but no. I do not. It was, as they say, an internal matter.”