Port City Shakedown

by Boyle, Gerry

  “Do it,” he said.

  Irina walked to Kelvin, slipped her gun in the waist of her slacks. Lucky put the shotgun muzzle on the back of Kelvin’s head. He closed his eyes. Irina took the handle in one hand, braced Kelvin’s head with the other. And pulled.

  Kelvin cried out and blood oozed. He put his hands over the puncture, bloody fingers in the dike.

  “Go,” Lucky said, like Kelvin was an animal they were releasing into the wild. “Go.”

  Kelvin staggered off down the driveway, weaving slightly, breaking into a trot when they didn’t shoot.

  “What the hell?” Irina said.

  “We kill them we have to clean it up,” Lucky said. “Then we have to run and we can’t go yet. This way, they take off, maybe they make it. By the time they get caught or killed, we’re long gone.”

  “Or they get picked up down the road.”

  “I like our odds. I call Brandon from the boat on the way back in, he can tell us if the coast is clear. So to speak.”

  There was a pause in the conversation, and it was filled by the sound of the wind on the bay, waves breaking on the rocky islands just offshore.

  “Or we don’t go at all,” Irina said.

  “Not an option,” Lucky said. “I’ll go alone. I’ll keep your share.”

  “You can have it.”

  “Victor would consider you a major liability. You know that.”

  Irina looked away, thinking of the fate of the last liability she’d heard of, chopped into pieces, buried in a landfill.

  “What time?” she said.

  “Off the mooring at five,” Lucky said.

  “I’ll get the drop of blood in the kitchen,” Irina said.

  Lucky smiled, said, “I’ll hose off the drive.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Brandon ran the engine, checked the electronics, the lights, idled around to the fuel dock in the drizzle, and pumped in eighty gallons of gas, a half-week’s pay. Locking the pump, he idled Bay Witch back out, made a wide circle around Ocean Swell riding on her mooring. The breeze was from the south and the sailboat’s bow pointed toward shore. A south wind was better than wind out of the east, Brandon thought, if you were sailing from Portland to Halifax.

  Backing into the slip, he tied up, stood in the cockpit for a moment. It was after eleven. There were lights glowing in the cabins of a few of the boats, but most of the marina was in darkness. The harbor was quiet, the ferry was out, spotlights illuminating empty piers on the Portland side of the harbor. Soft rain matted what little chop there was and the waters of the harbor were black, a mirror of the sky. Brandon stepped off the stern onto the dock, headed for his truck parked outside the gate by the south boat shed.

  The yard was lit by a single lamp high on a pole. Moths fluttered weakly around the light, wings heavy in the dampness. Brandon stopped at the top of the ramp and looked over the yard.

  There were open bays on the rusting sheds, dark as caves. The wind rustled the leaves in the vines that covered the fence along the road. Brandon started across the yard, staying in the shadows along the buildings. He sidestepped boat stands and dock carts, made his way to the gate. It was locked from the outside and he pulled the latch, eased it open, slipped through, and closed it behind him.

  Boats were lined up in the storage yard across the road. Big cruisers, some smaller. These boats weren’t launching this season. Some were for sale. Some needed work owners couldn’t afford.

  In the back of the yard, a couple of hundred yards from the road, tucked between an ugly cruiser and a tuna boat with its tower folded down, was the black Caprice.

  Kelvin was in the front, his legs stretched across the seat, his head against the driver’s window, cushioned by his rolled-up sweatshirt. Fuller was in the back, one foot on the seat but not trying to sleep.

  “I know you want to run,” he was saying, “but I’m right. I know I am. They didn’t shoot because they can’t risk bringing cops in.”

  “Coulda killed us and buried us in the woods there,” Kelvin said.

  “But that would take time,” Fuller said. “Clean up the house, blood all over the walls. Gotta dig the holes, that’s a bitch of a job, not like on TV. Try it sometime. Haul us out there, fill the holes back up. They don’t have time for that.”

  “Why not? It’s not like they work or anything.”

  “Because they got something going. And it’s going down soon. Gotta be something big, for them to take this chance.”

  “What chance?” Kelvin said.

  “Letting us go.”

  “What? Like we’re gonna call the cops? Say we’re the guys killed the cop. We tried to rip off these people and they chased us out?”

  “No, but now they know that we know.”

  “We don’t know shit,” Kelvin said. “And even if we did, what are we gonna do about it? I ain’t going back there. Guy with a fucking sawed-off, that bitch sticking me. This cat’s used up all his lives, dude.”

  “It’s big, I’m telling you,” Fuller said. “Coke. Heroin, maybe. I saw this show in jail. These people were just smuggling money. Cash money. Big boxes, millions.”

  “Smuggling it where?”

  “Outta the U.S. Drug dealers make all this money, gotta get it back to someplace they can put it in a bank, some fake bank in the Cayman Islands or something. These smugglers had the money in hidden compartments in trucks and shit.”

  “You think these rich assholes are smuggling money?”

  “Would explain why they have all that cash.”

  “Which they still have and we don’t,” Kelvin said.

  “I got a plan,” Fuller said.

  “Better than the last one? ’Cause that one sucked.”

  “We grab the blonde.”

  “How we gonna do that?”

  “She’s gotta be alone sometime. We take her when she gets out of her car. Or we get him out on a boat someplace, tell him one of the yachts is sinking. He goes out to check, we take the blonde, leave a note. Give ’em a day to get the money.”

  “You are freakin’ insane,” Kelvin said, his eyes closed.

  “She’s friends with those people. Not like they’re gonna call the cops,” Fuller said. “They got cash. Drive out, drop the cash, we tell ’em where little blondie is.”

  They were quiet for a moment. The rain pattered on the roof of the car. The windows were opaque, the light glittering through the droplets.

  “How much you think those two would pay to keep her alive?” Fuller asked. And then he waited, knew it would come, knew it would be way low.

  “Five thousand?” Kelvin said.

  Fuller smiled and shook his head.

  “Kelvin, Kelvin, Kelvin,” he said.

  CHAPTER 48

  They slipped down the stairs at 4:30. Nessa would sleep until ten, tired after a night of wine and Scrabble with Jackie. Another cop was in the kitchen, a big football player of a guy drinking coffee in the dark. He nodded as they left by the back door, rain gear on.

  The sky was dark gray, a shade lighter than night, the rain coming in windblown spatters. They took the truck, rolled out of the drive, and clicked on the lights. An SUV came out of the darkness and followed at a distance, staying with them all the way to the marina. When they pulled up to the gate, it stayed fifty yards back, lights off.

  Walking to the boat, Brandon felt the steady wind out of the southeast, the edge of a big low-pressure system pushing up the east coast. There was chop on the harbor now. If Lucky and Irina set out now, they’d have two days of slop, some serious seas offshore.

  It was a good test, Brandon thought, a day when nobody would go sailing for fun.

  On board Bay Witch, Mia put water in the kettle and put it on the propane stove. She warmed her hands while Brandon stood on the berth and watched out the port window.

  “If I were them, I’d stay in bed,” Mia said. “Standing out in the cold rain for hours? Yuck.”

  “Lucky may have a different idea of bad weather,” Bra
ndon said.

  “How far will we go?”

  “Beyond the islands. Far enough to know whether they’re swinging south.”

  “Is this boat up to it?”

  “Sure. She’s takes a sea pretty well, for her size I mean. If it gets uncomfortable, we’ll think about—” Brandon paused.

  “What?”

  “They’re here,” he said.

  Lucky and Irina were towing a dock cart. It was filled with duffels, cartons, what looked like plastic grocery bags. They moved down the left side dock, away from Bay Witch, to where the inflatable was tied up. Brandon heard the outboard start, saw Lucky head out with the first load. He offloaded on the sailboat, putted back to the dock. Irina lifted bags into the dinghy, then stepped in. The pair, hoods up, motored out between the moored boats. The outboard went silent and fifteen minutes later Brandon saw the running lights come on.

  He went to the cockpit and climbed up, crouched at the helm, and watched as Ocean Swell cast off and swung about, motoring in a wide circle and heading out of the harbor.

  Brandon waited until the sailboat passed out of sight beyond the next point, then started the engine. It coughed, then settled into a low rumble. Mia came up, climbed out onto the dock, and cast off the lines, stern first. Brandon eased out of the slip, idled out of the marina and into the channel. He left the lights off.

  Ocean Swell was a mile off, still under power. Onshore, the city was quiet, only lobster boats chugging out from the wharves in a slow procession. Brandon fell in behind a 40-footer, kept it between Bay Witch and the big sailboat. The sternman on the lobster boat looked back at them, wondering why a small cruiser was heading out in this dirty weather.

  “He thinks we’re crazy,” Mia said, standing by Brandon at the helm.

  “Crazy is doing this in January,” Brandon said.

  As they left the harbor, he explained there were two logical courses if you were headed south: Hard southeast to cut between the mainland and Cushing Island, or east by southeast between Cushing and Peaks and out Whitehead Passage. The southerly course would force Lucky, if he put up sail, to beat into the wind, tacking all the way to Portland Head.

  “What would you do?” Mia said.

  “I’d motor east, get outside Ram Island Ledge, start sailing south.”

  They came out of the harbor, out of the lee of the land. A four-foot chop slapped the bow and the wind blew spray by them as the boat dipped into the waves. Ocean Swell was a half-mile south, bearing for the bell at the tip of Cushing Island. Brandon throttled back, kept his distance from the sailboat and two lobster boats that had taken the same course. Abreast of the island, one swung east, headed into shallower water to start pulling traps. The second continued on, shielding the cruiser from the sailboat, still bearing south by southeast along the coast.

  “What if—” Mia said.

  “I’m wrong?”

  “Yeah. What if they’re fine? What if we’re thinking these things about them and the whole time—”

  “There they go,” Brandon said.

  Ocean Swell had raised sail. Lucky had turned east at the bell and the south wind filled the sails and the boat heeled. The main was up and a minute later the jib, too.

  “She’s moving,” Brandon said.

  “When will it mean something?” Mia said, squinting into the wind and rain.

  “Not yet. He could have decided to avoid some of the marked stuff off Cape Elizabeth. Go outside a mile or so, then swing south.”

  “Can he see us?”

  “Maybe, but we won’t be recognizable if we stay back. His sails are easier to see than our little hull.”

  “It’s getting wavier.”

  “Just the beginning,” Brandon said.

  The sailboat had set a course nearly due east, driving with the southeast wind. They were two miles offshore and the chop was building, combining with swells rolling up the bay. Brandon bore south just enough to ease the rolling of the boat as it took the waves on its starboard side. Ocean Swell was doing eight knots, Lucky pushing the sailboat to its limit.

  “He’s got her rail right down,” Brandon said. “If Irina doesn’t like sailing, she’s having no fun.”

  “Is he a good sailor?” Mia said.

  “Very,” Brandon said.

  “Well,” she said. “That much is true.”

  They followed Ocean Swell east, five miles, six miles. The black-green seas were building, the tops of the white caps clipped off by the wind. Bay Witch rose and plunged, throwing spray off the bow, the engine growling in a slow rhythm with the waves.

  Mia took the wheel as Brandon, elbows braced, watched Ocean Swell through binoculars, saw Lucky move to furl his jib. He looked like he’d reefed the mainsail, but he still drove the boat like he was racing. Bay Witch was heaving over the swells, windblown spray flying across her bow. There were ledges three miles east of the outermost Casco Bay islands, and Brandon wanted to get beyond them before he had to turn north and run for shelter.

  “How much farther out can we go?” Mia said, her white hands gripping the wheel.

  “A while longer.”

  “It’s getting cold.”

  “You can go below.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Then check the GPS. Tell me where we are.”

  “You don’t know?” Mia said.

  He took the helm. Mia peered at the screen.

  “There’s numbers. Forty-three and thirty-seven. Then seventy and zero-three.”

  “Another mile we’ll be clear if we swing north,” Brandon said.

  “What about them?”

  “We’ll watch ’em on radar.”

  “Have you decided?”

  “I decided as soon as they set course due east,” Brandon said.

  They stood at the helm, side by side, bumping shoulders as the boat pitched, rose, and fell. The rain grew more steady, coming in at a slant, right to left, and the radio squawked, lobstermen talking somewhere. Brandon looked over at Mia, blonde hair wet at the edge of her hood, cheeks pale in the cold. A big wave rocked them and she grabbed his arm to steady herself.

  “You okay?” Brandon said, leaning to speak into her ear.

  Mia nodded, but she looked frightened. Brandon fell off to the northeast to take the waves better, felt the boat settle in. Ocean Swell was disappearing into the gray wall, only her sails visible, like a surrender flag on some windswept field of battle. But Lucky wasn’t surrendering. They were six miles offshore and the sailboat was still headed nearly due east, making eight knots with the strong south wind. Brandon bent to the radar hood, hunched, and squinted. The radar had a ten-mile range and there was only one lonely blip to the east. Lucky and Irina, sailing like hell into the teeth of the storm.

  Not to Kennebunk, not to Boston, but offshore, where it was blowing hard, kicking up a serious sea. No fun. No easy cruise.

  Brandon finally swung north, planning to run with a following sea, bear slightly northwest toward near Eagle Island, Commodore Perry’s old haunt. They’d turn southwest inside of Cliff Island, make their way back to Portland in the lee of the archipelago scattered outside the harbor.

  The wind had picked up, over twenty knots, and Bay Witch pitched even with the following sea, sliding down the waves, driving her bow into the troughs. Brandon bent to the radar screen, saw that Lucky was still sailing east, bearing slightly northeast but probably just a tack.

  “What do you think it is?” Mia said, as if she were reading his mind.

  “What?”

  “That they’re doing.”

  “Lying,” Brandon said, looking up from the radar.

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. What do people lie for?”

  “Power,” Mia said. “Money. To cover something up.”

  They were quiet again, shoulders bumping as the boat plowed its way north, rain spattering the back of their hoods. Mia looked off to the side of the boat, watched the endless waves, the sea cold and empty like some great gr
ay-green desert. The little boat was like a leaf blown across a lake, she thought, could disappear into the blackness without a trace. Why were they out here, she asked herself, but then she realized she knew.

  She turned back to Brandon, put her hand on his on the wheel. She craned to get close, half-shouted over the rumble of the engine, the dull roar of the sea and spray and wind.

  “You think this could be the answer, don’t you?” Mia said.

  He looked at her, then away as the boat pitched, spray exploding off the bow.

  “Answer to what?”

  “What happened to your mom.”

  The boat climbed, paused at the crest of a wave, plunged down. Water came over the bow, ran off as the boat climbed again.

  “I’m getting closer,” Brandon said.

  Mia wanted to tell Brandon that even she could tell that people sometimes just disappeared out here, that the ocean didn’t need a reason.

  The boat heaved, shuddered as it hit a deep trough. Brandon was concentrating, adjusting the throttle to find just the right speed. Too fast and the boat pounded too hard; too slow and they risked broaching, turning sideways, and rolling over.

  The waves were bigger now, and then one was bigger still, lifting the boat high on its crest so Mia could see the white gargling foam, the frantic sea extending into the gray. Then the boat rushed down, motor rumbling louder as the stern lifted, the bow spearing the wave. Brandon pushed the throttle as the boat climbed the next crest, readied for the crash. They held on as the bow slammed.

  “The last trip,” Brandon said, as they climbed the next wave.

  “Ours?” Mia said, leaning over to hear him.

  “No, theirs. How long did it take?”

  “Four days.”

  “That’s how long we’ve got,” Brandon said.

  “Got for what?” Mia said, but the boat pitched, a big wave sweeping it forward, turning it slightly sideways, and Brandon pushed the throttle. The cruiser climbed and Mia looked out, saw nothing but the cold ocean, no other boats, no land. She wondered if there wasn’t a part of Brandon that was driven to find his mother even if it meant following her into this black abyss. Even if it meant feeling the terror Nikki had felt, the panic, the final acceptance that her life was going to end.