Dark Cay

by Douglas Pratt

  Blake shook his head, “I can’t imagine a girl got one over on Garrett.”

  Joe nodded. “It seems she might have had some help.”

  “The sailboat?” Blake asked. “Todd mentioned another boat anchored nearby.”

  Joe growled. “Idiots. Didn’t they check it out?”

  “They didn’t think it was an issue. Just one guy snorkeling.”

  “Apparently,” Joe breathed the words through his teeth, “the snorkeler intervened.”

  “Garrett?” Blake asked. “He’s one of my best men. There’s no way some fat-ass sailor is going to take him out.”

  Joe didn’t care about Blake’s man. He made a mistake that made him useless to Joe now. He waved off Blake’s thoughts.

  “Find that boat,” Joe remarked. “I want to know where it went. Is the car ready?”

  “Yeah, boss. They just called. The hands are tying us off now.”

  “Get Travis to the car and take him to the farm,” Joe commanded. “I’d prefer no one saw him.”

  Blake nodded and vanished down the stairs. Joe turned and looked again at the little boats tied up along the fingers of the marina. After a moment, he turned and descended the steps to the main deck, where he crossed the gangplank and set foot on the floating dock.

  10

  Something pulled at the tendrils in my head. The tugging dragged me out of my sleep. The air in the boat was cool, but I was hot. The skin on my chest was clammy under the pressure of Missy’s bare arm draped over me. The light from the morning sun was barely allowed access into the cabin. The vinyl blinds installed on all of the ports blocked 99% of the sunlight.

  My internal clock said it was between eight and nine in the morning. Closer to eight, if I were to make a guess. I don’t enjoy popping up before dawn against my will, and over a decade of answering to the Corps schedule, I try to avoid the alarm clock syndrome. When I’m working, it’s often late nights, and when I’m cruising, I have nothing that needs to be done that early.

  Unfortunately, most mornings, my body is up before seven anyway. Last night, though, was a rigorous bout with Missy, filled with several shots of rum and v-berth acrobatics until the wee morning hours. I would have slept another hour or two if given a chance.

  My mind came to attention. Whatever woke me up was still there, and my brain was trying to piece together what it was.

  “Hola!” a voice outside the boat shouted, answering the lingering question in my mind.

  “What the hell?” I mumbled.

  Gently I slid out from under Missy’s arm before I crawled out of the berth. A pair of running shorts were hanging on the hook next to the head. I like to keep them handy for situations like this. When I’m in a secluded anchorage, I run up on deck in the nude all the time. At the marina, the neighboring boat owners don’t appreciate my coming on deck in all my glory just to check out stray noises.

  My head popped up out of the companionway. The sunlight blinded me for a second before my pupils acclimated to the tropical sun. A single alligator-skin boot rested on the gunwale of my cockpit.

  I climbed the steps into the cockpit to give the miscreant scuffing my gelcoat a piece of my mind. My eyes climbed up from the gaudy boots to the black jeans and silken black shirt. Esteban Velazquez leaned on the leg propped on my boat.

  “Scar,” I growled at the drug enforcer. “Get your damn boot off my boat!”

  The Cuban grinned at me with faux sheepishness, as if he meant no harm. “Lo siento, Gordon,” he offered, moving his boot off the boat.

  Velazquez was the number one enforcer for Julio Moreno, a drug lord that brought in the vast majority of the heroin, cocaine, and who knows what else across the Florida border. His product was pushed as far north as Atlanta, but his bread and butter was the peninsula state. We crossed paths earlier this year, and the Scar moniker was attributed to the long ripple that started at the corner of his right eye and traced down to his chin.

  “What do you want, Esteban?” I questioned as I stepped out of the companionway.

  “Señor Moreno would like to speak with you this afternoon,” he stated. “He told me to tell you to come to Padrino’s at noon for lunch.”

  “What does he want?” I asked defiantly. When we last spoke, Moreno made me an offer to work for him. It was a job that I flatly refused.

  “If he wanted me to tell you,” Velazquez commented, “I would have done so.”

  Moreno wasn’t going to kill me at his own place, and if my life was in danger, Velazquez wouldn’t have waited on the dock in the early morning to offer me an invitation. He’d have come at me from several directions. No, this was something else.

  “Fine,” I conceded, “tell him I’ll be there at noon.”

  Velazquez sniffed at the air. “Perhaps you want to shower. The smell of un coño.”

  The heels of his alligator boots clicked against the wooden dock as he walked away. Dropping onto the cockpit, I watched the enforcer leave.

  Less than 24 hours in dock. How did Moreno know I was back? I don’t like coincidences; they aren’t reliable data. Scar didn’t show up today and find me out of luck. His boss knew that I was back Stateside. That information traveled fast.

  Movement below deck attracted my attention; I climbed below to see a naked Missy moving around the galley trying to make coffee.

  “Who was that?” she asked me.

  “Julio Moreno’s number one.”

  “The drug guy?” She stopped scooping coffee into the French press and looked at me. “The one in Miami?”

  “Yeah, same one.”

  “What does he want?”

  I shrugged. “Told me to come have lunch with Moreno.”

  “But…” she started. I moved in and put my arms around her back and kissed her. The scoop of coffee in her right hand fell to the counter, sending coffee grounds across the white countertop. She put her hands around my face and kissed me back.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” I assured her when I pulled away.

  She gave me a half-smile and kissed me again while her fingers slipped under the waistband of my running shorts. She shoved them to the floor in one deft move. I picked her up and maneuvered her into the v-berth without hitting either of our heads on the surface of the tight quarters.

  “Can I get my coffee now?” she asked after we crumpled together.

  I looked down at her. “Are you making it?” I replied.

  “I think I deserve to have room service.”

  My face swept down and kissed her lips. “It’ll be right up, ma’am.”

  The coffee took about ten minutes to make. The spilled coffee grounds were cleaned up while I waited on the water to boil.

  “Are you going to check on your little girl?” Missy asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered back. “I asked Jay to look into her dad.”

  “Can’t the cops help?”

  “I don’t know,” I responded. “Whoever took Porter knew Lily was still there. They had someone in the Royal Bahamas Defense Force. Can we be certain he doesn’t have someone in the local law enforcement too?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Once I hear from Jay, I can make some educated decisions. I think keeping Lily safe is the most important thing. Porter will either turn up or he won’t.”

  “Didn’t she offer you a lot of money to help her?”

  I nodded. “It’s not really my area of expertise. I’m a point and shoot guy.”

  Missy shimmied out of the berth. Her bare feet hit the cabin sole again. She started dressing as the tea kettle began whistling.

  Steam danced above the press as the hot water poured out of the kettle’s spout. While the grounds steeped in the boiling water, I put my shorts back on.

  “I think you should help her,” she told me.

  “I already did,” I pointed out.

  Missy sat on the settee and stared up at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I know you better than that
,” she replied. “You aren’t going to leave her to fend for herself.”

  I shook my head and poured two cups of coffee before adding a splash of cream to her cup.

  “She’s a sweet kid,” I mused, not necessarily to Missy.

  She sipped her coffee. “I’m going to bring your cup back,” she told me. “I have to get a shower and meet with Steve, the new front desk manager.”

  “Hope you aren’t sleeping with him too,” I joked.

  “He is hot but so gay.”

  I grinned over my coffee, watching her pull her shoes over her heels. She stood up and kissed me.

  “See ya, cutie,” she offered as she climbed out of the cabin. The boat rocked as she stepped off.

  I dropped onto the settee and drank my coffee. If I was meeting Moreno, I did need to shower first. I finished my coffee and grabbed a towel.

  The head has a shower, but I don’t use it much. It’s cramped and uses far too much water from my tanks. Besides, the pressure is crap. It’s like trying to shower with a water pistol. The marina had a nice shower next to Randy’s office.

  The door to Randy’s office was open, and he wasn’t around. Probably making rounds. I stepped in and picked up the phone.

  “Delp,” Jay answered his phone.

  “Jay, it’s Chase.”

  The exasperation rushed through the phone. “What the hell have you gotten into?” he questioned with a heavy sigh.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Travis Porter,” he answered. “I ran a search through the system, and within 15 minutes, I get a phone call from an Agent Letson with the F.B.I. asking if Porter was in custody. I had to do some hemming and hawing to come up with a plausible reason why I was searching for the subject of a Federal investigation.”

  “Porter? What did Letson say?”

  “Very little. What I gathered was that Porter is either a witness or the subject. Based on his tone, I think he’s a witness or at least a potential one.”

  “That tracks,” I stated.

  “Let me repeat my question: What the hell did you get me into?”

  “Travis Porter was kidnapped off his boat. His daughter was hiding, and when the men came back to get her, I was somewhat in their way.”

  “Shit, Flash,” he mumbled. “What happened?”

  “I intervened.”

  “You don’t know where Porter is?” he questioned.

  “No idea.”

  “The girl?” he followed up.

  “She’s safe, but I have a feeling she’s a loose thread.”

  “Let me take her in. The Feds can protect her.”

  “Jay,” I explained, “the reason they came back for her was they have a contact in the RBDF that relayed my radio for help.”

  “That doesn’t mean that there’s a mole in the F.B.I.”

  “Look, for now, I am going to keep her hidden. I completely understand if you have to tell Letson.”

  I heard the sigh. “Don’t be an asshole!” Jay snapped. “I’m not doing anything.”

  “I don’t suppose you actually found anything about Travis Porter?”

  “He’s some kind of broker. He graduated from the University of Florida in ‘91 with a degree in business and accounting. His finances look dismal. Looks like a ton of medical bills wiped out anything he had. There’s a house in St. Petersburg. He has a second mortgage on it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s about when my search got blocked by Letson. I was told to steer away from Porter.”

  “Do you have an address for the house?”

  He rattled off the address in St. Petersburg.

  “I’m sorry if it caused you trouble,” I commented.

  “Eh, I know how to handle a Fed.”

  Glancing out the door, I saw Randy walking along the finger of the G Dock. He was making notes on a pad as he inspected each slip.

  “Jay, just so you know,” I started, “I have a lunch date with Julio Moreno.”

  “Shit, Flash,” he muttered again.

  “I know,” I admitted. “His numero uno came by this morning to offer the invitation. I couldn’t exactly turn him down.”

  I envisioned Jay shaking his head silently.

  “Do you know what he wants?”

  “Maybe he just likes my company.”

  Jay was silent for a few seconds before he said, “He probably doesn’t want to kill you. Otherwise, why go through the trouble of giving an invitation?”

  “My thoughts exactly. Plus, he knows I’m not easy to kill.”

  Jay chuckled, “No doubt, it’s one of your more annoying habits.”

  “I just wanted someone to know,” I said, “in case my body shows up in the Glades one day.”

  “Don’t worry, Flash. If you go missing, I’ll assume it was either a murderous drug czar or some pissed-off husband.”

  “Thanks, Jay. When you’re off, let’s go fishing.”

  He agreed before hanging up. I threw the towel over my shoulder and walked into the shower.

  11

  When I set sail a few years ago, I sold the only vehicle I ever owned, a Ford Ranger truck that I drove down to South Florida. The truck was a 2000 model with a surprisingly low odometer reading of 143,000 and change. When I was 16 years old, I bought it off a repo man in Little Rock with the savings I’d built up working construction jobs during the summer. That little beater tore up the two-lane highways and gravel roads all over northern Arkansas for a year before I shipped off to Parris Island. When I was back in the States, I brought it to wherever I was stationed. But most of the time, it would sit in a friend’s yard while I was stationed elsewhere.

  Even when I’m dockside, my world doesn’t extend much farther than a mile or so. It was time to let it go. Unfortunately, the result is when my world needs to extend past that mile, I don’t have the means to get there. Luckily, the need doesn’t come up much, and when it does, the marina has a complimentary car for transient cruisers to use to stock up on food or make a hardware store run. Currently, the little amenity was a silver Corolla.

  Aiming the little Toyota south, I headed for the most dangerous man I would see today.

  Padrino’s was a Cuban restaurant in South Miami. The neighborhood had seen better days; vacant store-fronts and boarded windows lined both sides of the streets. In fact, Padrino’s looked like an oasis in the desert. The hand-painted sign was meticulous compared to one a block away advertising cell phone repair. The front was adorned with a few flowering hibiscus and colorful flowers. It was a defiant flower blooming up through the crack in a desolate field of asphalt.

  The inside was sparse without looking like it was cheap. Most of the tables weren’t the stock restaurant supply store kind. They were wooden with crisp white linen covering each of them. Every place was already set with polished silverware and thin water glasses.

  The hostess was still in high school. She was a first-generation kid. One foot in her cultural ancestry and the other trying to grip the American culture. She took one look at me and flipped the switch in her head that took her brain from Spanish to English.

  “Welcome to Padrino’s,” she offered in impeccable English.

  The man I was here to meet sat in the back corner at a secluded table. A movable folding screen was erected on one side, blocking the view of the table from the front window. Moreno was the target of at least the DEA, but possibly other law enforcement agencies. The screen might have added a bit of protection from spying eyes. Maybe he just liked the mystique it brought.

  Most of the tables were full of a wide spectrum of clientele. Padrino’s was immune to class distinction, apparently.

  “I’m expected by Mr. Moreno,” I informed the girl.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. “One moment.”

  She left the podium and walked back to talk to a skinny man standing close to the bar. The two conferred for a second before the man walked over to the screen and asked Moreno if I was expected. The graying drug lord twiste
d his head to look my way. He gave a quick nod and waved his permission.

  I waited. Men like Julio Moreno are accustomed to getting what they want. All the time. He already made an offer to me that I rejected. I don’t like being waved over like an employee. He’d treat me like a guest if I had anything to say about it.

  He noticed that I hadn’t moved. He dipped his head and made a comment to the skinny man who looked at the hostess and nodded. She received his signal and returned to the podium.

  “If you’ll follow me, sir,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  I wasn’t averse to being told what to do. I spent 14 years in the service; I work behind a bar. I comply with those whose authority I recognize. Moreno was a dangerous man, and if I allowed him to think I gave him even an inkling of control, his nature would only try to pervert that. Wrest the power from me.

  No, I could play hard to get. Although with Julio Moreno, I wasn’t playing.

  “Mister Gordon,” Moreno greeted me as I approached the table. “Please, have a seat. Thank you for joining me.”

  The short, fat Cuban next to Moreno vacated his seat as Moreno motioned for him to move. The skinny man swept in and took the half eaten plate in his right hand while his left wiped the area clean.

  Two other men sat at the table. Esteban Velazquez and a short greasy guy that I had a run-in with before. Moreno gave the greaser a look, and he stood and left the table. Scar remained.

  “Nice to see you again, Julio,” I commented as I took the seat, still warm from the fat guy’s ass. Velazquez bristled at my use of Moreno’s first name. The sheer lack of protocol annoyed him.

  Moreno, on the other hand, didn’t give any indication that he noticed my disrespect.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he offered. “Please, order some lunch.”

  I glanced at the thin man who must have also been our waiter. “I’ll take a beer and whatever you surprise me with.”

  He nodded and vanished from the table.

  “How have your travels been?” Moreno asked.

  Leaning back in my chair, I studied the drug czar. “Did you want me to bring some slides?” I asked.