“Hey,” DJ said. “This is DJ Martin. I need y’all to track a boat for me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Martin, but I think you’ve dialed the wrong number. We’re an oceanographic research company. If you need help locating a specific vessel, please consider contacting the Coast Guard or the local police.”
“I’m not here to report illegal dumping,” DJ said. “I want to find a boat, and y’all in the S&R division are supposed to support me.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but there is no division of that name here.”
“Don’t play that with me—this is DJ Martin. You got that? Martin! Can you square up with me a second and just do what I ask?”
“Sir, I—”
“No, don’t give me an excuse. I need a boat tracked. Put your fingers on that keyboard in front of you, and type in this boat’s name.”
“But, sir,” the S&R nerd said, clearing his throat, “sir, we don’t offer a service like that to the general public.”
General public? The hell did that mean? DJ had been through all the Armstrong training. He’d been on ops, he’d met other members of the team, what else—
“Aw, hell.” The pass phrase. He wanted a pass phrase. “I forgot my pass phrase. Gimme a sec—I got it here.”
DJ shuffled over to the tackle locker on the boat’s starboard side. He remembered scribbling the new pass phrase on the back of a bar napkin the last time he’d met up with Stockwell. When was that? Last June? Was it really seven months ago?
And what bar was it?
He opened the locker and sifted through all the crap he’d stuffed in there. Brass casings, empty nicotine gum packages, girls’ numbers… Then, he found it. Scribbled in fat, black handwriting, inside a beer ring on a napkin from a place called The Thirsty Gull.
DJ held it up to the light and blinked until his eyes focused.
“You ready?” he said into the phone.
“Yessir.”
“Uhh…” It was upside-down. He dropped it on the counter, then twisted it right-side up. “Blue tang on the deck.”
“Blue tang confirmed,” the researcher answered.
The tightness in DJ’s chest let loose. Until then, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.
“So, Mr. Martin, what’s the name of the boat?”
“Boy, you’re gonna turn my hair gray,” he said. “Don’t call me Mr. Martin. Just DJ.”
“DJ,” the operator repeated.
“Good going. What’s your name, son?”
“It’s Chip.”
“All right, Chip, I don’t—” DJ stopped cold as a new thought burst into his head. Something he couldn’t ignore. “Belay that boat stuff. You wanna look into something for me real quick?”
“That’s why I’m here, sir.”
“Call me DJ. Hey, you know I’ve been working with Jerry Snyder, right?”
“No, DJ, I’m not cleared for that information. Mr. Armstrong likes to keep all data about his teams restricted to the upper ranks of the organization.”
“Well, now you know, man. That’s a little secret we’ll keep between us. Anyway, Jerry was getting hassled by this guy, Arlen. You think you can dig up some information on him?”
“Do you have any other identifiable information on this person?”
“His first name. Guess he knows Jerry pretty well, too.”
“It’ll take me some time to find out more.”
“But you think you can?” DJ didn’t expect much of anything. Matter of fact, he couldn’t say why the idea had occurred to him—he shouldn’t care about the problems of some tight-ass prick like Jerry Snyder. He’d probably wash out of Armstrong by the end of the year.
“Yessir, I can, given enough time.”
“Then take the time you need. Treat it like a long-term thing, man.”
“I will do that—did you still want me to check on that boat?”
“That’s why I called. Now, I don’t have the full name of the boat, but I know it’s harbored in Culebra. I hit the back end of the boat with a spotlight and caught the word Daze. That’s delta, alpha, zulu, echo—you catching all this, son?”
“Daze, yes sir.”
“DJ.”
“Yes, DJ.”
His name tripped out of Chip’s mouth, but that was okay. The kid probably was nervous as all hell just talking to somebody.
“I think that Daze is part of a multi-word name. I’m not sure how many words are in the name, but Daze was kinda off to the starboard side of the boat. Now, can you match something with just—”
“Purple Daze,” Chip said. “Registered in Culebra to Southern Cross Marina and Boat Rental, LLC. I’ve got pictures of it here.”
DJ choked on his own spit. What a damned fine way to figure all that out. Unbelievably fine. Too easy to be any good.
“DJ?” Chip’s voice thinned. “DJ, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just thanking my luck.”
“Would you like photos of the boat? I can have them sent to your secured Armstrong email address.”
“Cigarette boat, right? Purple as a grapefruit?”
“Grapefruits aren’t—”
“You did good, Chip.” DJ’s mind had already moved on. “You’re a commendable addition to Mr. Armstrong’s outfit, or business, or what have you. I gotta go.”
DJ ended the call.
Purple Daze out of Culebra. Southern Cross Marina. Had to be that, didn’t it? Maybe DJ’s luck wasn’t that rotten. Had to be a little something usable still in there, but did he want to use it now?
Of the five hundred people who lived on the island, he knew of only one dropout of the Timothy Leary school of hard knocks living there. His friend Bobby Blount was obsessed with having as many boats as he could get his grungy fingers on and naming them after his favorite hippie songs.
DJ put the sat phone in his pocket and walked back into the salon. On the way forward, the mirror in the head grabbed him by the beard and yanked him over.
His whiskers looked salty; his skin dressed in a rind that could’ve peeled off him.
A shower. Just a quick army shower. Water on. Water off. Soap. Rinse. A minute to catch his breath and put his thoughts in order, then figure out his next move. Turn back, tail-tucked, and tug on Jerry’s sleeve? Or go to Culebra, then figure out why some cold-blooded murderer was driving around a boat that belonged to one of DJ’s oldest buddies, Bobby the Blunt.
Reel Fun cleared the twenty-five miles between Buck Island and Culebra in under an hour. As his boat approached the mouth of Ensenada Honda, or Deep Cove, or Big Cove, or whatever you wanted to call it, DJ pulled back on the throttles, and carefully navigated through the channel between the reefs and into the island’s biggest inlet.
From there, he held a northwestern course, until he passed Cayo Pirata on the leeward side. Then he hooked around the little island, guiding Reel Fun due north, toward the golden light of Southern Cross Marina.
His buddy Blunt’s place.
Though he’d never gone to Blunt’s marina, or home, or seen him outside a bar or Garner’s place, DJ had an open invitation to stop by Blunt’s marina whenever he liked. Or at least, DJ assumed he did. Blunt had never said it, but if his buddy complained about Reel Fun being docked in one of his open slips, he could shove it right up his ass.
What kind of ignorant fool named a marina in Culebra “Southern Cross” anyhow? That was like sailing to Cape Town and hitting up a place called The Big Dipper Bar and Grill. Most people in the Southern Hemisphere didn’t know the Big Dipper. A man in Cape Town couldn’t stand on his back porch with his kid and point it out in the night sky. DJ maneuvered Reel Fun into the first slip he saw. He backed it in, fitting snugly between the docks. The waters in Ensenada Honda were particularly easy going, so he didn’t have much trouble dropping fenders and getting tied without Jerry there to be his deck hand. With the boat secured, DJ went into the salon to go pick out a new friend.
The first thing he’d done when he’d bought his Viking 48C was figu
re out where all the hollow spaces were. He didn’t need many, and he didn’t need them to be cavernous—only a few spots a couple feet wide and a couple feet deep that didn’t draw the eyes of a casual observer.
Those cavities weren’t hard to find. With the right kind of stud-finder and a free weekend, a diligent captain could pick out a couple on about any boat.
On Reel Fun, one such spot was in the galley.
DJ got to a knee. Then he pressed his fingertips against the crease where the bar cabinets met the galley’s laminate flooring, smoothing the crease with his hands until his fingers found the irregularity he was looking for—a small rope. There was less than an inch of it visible, and it was about the circumference of three shoestrings braided together.
He dug the end out with his fingernail, then drew it out further and further until he had enough to grab with his hand. The carpet came up, as did the steel hatch beneath.
The hatch covered a hollow about as deep as the distance between the tips of his fingers and his elbow. He tapped a small LED disc light stuck on the inside of the compartment. It illuminated all the things that DJ didn’t want sitting out in the open where other eyes might easily find them.
Beside a brick of pesos and a half-full mason jar of weed and magic mushrooms sat a Glock-branded hard case. He took the case out, set it on the floor beside the compartment, then pulled up the latches and opened the top.
His compact Glock 19 and three extra magazines waited inside. A good friend for these troubled times.
DJ pulled the slide back to make sure a round was in the chamber, then shoved the handgun in its holster, and clipped the holster to the inside of his waistband, behind his back. He stuffed a spare magazine in each pocket.
He closed the hard case, returned it to the hidden compartment, then felt around the sides of the compartment in Reel Fun’s floor until his fingers came across something small and boxy. Another kit, about the size of a large smartphone.
When he got his fingers under it, he yanked it, making the Velcro attached to the kit hiss.
DJ put the slim, plastic kit in his back pocket. Then he placed the lid back on the compartment in Reel Fun’s floor, tucked the string under the laminate, making sure to leave just enough to grasp, and then tamped the lid down with his real foot.
The weight of his new friend tugging on the waist of his jeans, DJ walked out of the salon, locking it behind him. He hopped across the gap between Reel Fun’s stern and the floating dock, then made his way toward the marina office on shore.
Southern Cross Marina looked to be turning good business. There were yachts and cats and fishing charters of just about every size and configuration. Three or four dozen boats in total, if DJ had to guess, scattered around the various docks in no apparent order. A lot of decent folk probably owned those vessels, which made it no wonder that Blunt hadn’t insisted on inviting DJ over for a couple beers around the grill.
At this time of night, the guests’ boats were all buttoned up, so he had to be careful about making too much noise. The office sat at least fifty yards back from the shore, but sound carried better at night.
After tugging on the mirror-polished handrail to help himself up the few stairs leading to shore, DJ paused and peered at the office’s darkened windows, though calling the building an office stretched the definition of the term.
Apparently, Blunt ran the Southern Cross out of a converted garage attached to a meager bungalow. Looked like a low-rent operation, but judging by all the boats on his docks, there were plenty of people without hang-ups about a guy running a marina out of his house. People were more relaxed around the islands. On the mainland, a neighborhood association or zoning board would have a kitten about the white banner hanging from the gutters, stretching halfway across the house. DJ imagined that most days, when the humidity was low and given a clear line of sight through all the masts and bows, one could spot the words MARINA OPEN from the shores of Cayo Pirata. As he got closer to the house, he noticed a flicker of blue light coming from a window mostly obscured by the sign. The light played through the long-ignored bushes under the window’s bottom edge. DJ checked left, then checked right. The coast was clear.
He moved quietly around the front, then up the side of Blunt’s house, walking through weeds and over uneven paver stones. He peered around the back corner before going forward.
A small, dirty patio lay before him. A pair of gnarled wires hung where a light should be, their copper ends reflecting the moonlight. He crossed the patio to a door beside a couple steel trash cans and a stack of old lawn chairs.
DJ took the slim case out of his back pocket, snapped open the case’s latch, and without looking, his fingers knew exactly where to go. They pulled out a small penlight, which DJ clicked on as he eased down to his knee.
Pointing the light at the door handle revealed a Weiser-brand lock. He shined the light into the keyhole, having a look at the cylinder before getting down to business. The thing was dirty as all hell. The pins were probably covered in grime, and the springs were likely half-stuck.
But a little graphite would take care of that. He took a small tube of graphite powder from his kit and squeezed two or three puffs into the lock. Then he dropped the tube and popped the light between his teeth, keeping it pointed at the keyhole.
One of his tension tools fit snugly into the top of the key slot. DJ held it in place by pressing the end of it up and to the right with his thumb.
He pulled out a pick especially designed for Weiser locks and with a couple scrapes, all the pins were out of the way, and the tension tool twisted the tumbler, unlocking the door. DJ put his tools back into his kit, then stepped into Blunt’s garage-office.
The inside of the garage was pitch dark, and it stunk like flavored pipe tobacco and good weed—the surest sign that Bobby the Blunt had been around. The smell followed him wherever he went. It was amazing the guy ever had anybody coming into his marina, but the sea air probably did the work of covering up the smell.
Up a step to the right, DJ opened the kitchen door.
Inside, the curtains were drawn. A pendant light over the sink glowed like a waning harvest moon, casting an inviting glow on frozen-dinner boxes scattered on the counters. The kitchen cabinets were in dire need of a paint job, and even though he probably lived alone, it was bad practice for Blunt to leave his digital scale out on the counter—with a handful of stems lying on the countertop next to it, no less.
A few plastic boxes with air-tight lids were stacked in the corner. The biggest ones, about a foot deep by two feet long by a foot wide, were filled most of the way with marijuana. Some gallon-sized kitchen baggies on a spice rack screwed into the wall held about a quarter pound of weed each.
Blunt earned his name, that was for sure. DJ shook his head and walked by. If Nick Garner saw how cavalier Blunt was being with his supply, he’d be none too happy about it. Didn’t Blunt know there were men with lock pick sets visiting Culebra tonight?
As he passed the weed rack on the wall, something small and white behind the baggies drew DJ’s eye.
Sniffing it out in the dim light, his fingers pinched a thin sheet of plastic and pulled it out.
Another baggie. Now, what was this? DJ laid his lock pick set on the counter and fished out his penlight, then shined it on this new discovery.
Inside this new baggie were a couple dozen smaller baggies, containing what looked like small crystals. DJ recognized the meth. It was subdivided into varying amounts—a size for any mood or type of buyer. Blunt really had himself a head full of trouble, didn’t he?
But that’s the way he was. Some dead nineteenth-century author would’ve called him a rapscallion. In modern times, people would say he was a criminal and a lowlife. DJ wondered if Garner knew Blunt was selling harder stuff now. Hell, maybe it was Garner’s idea.
Whoever came up with the idea, it didn’t matter. Blunt was what he was. No point in trying to change him, and as things stood right now, that criminally stupid part
of Blunt was gonna come in real handy for cutting through his usual crap.
On the other hand, a semi-automatic, polymer and steel, nine-millimeter compact Glock 19 usually did a damned fine job of cutting to the heart of things. He tossed the baggie back on the counter. Hard not to drop that junk down Blunt’s garbage disposal to save him from himself. Blunt had a successful marina, and a decent side-hustle selling weed. Why mess it up with something that’d get him thrown in federal prison for at least five years, but probably more? Couldn’t have been worth the risk.
Then again, anything was worth risking if a man didn’t feel like he had what he needed. And a guy like Blunt always had needs.
Maybe in some possible future when the DEA was cracking in Blunt’s front door with a battering ram, he might cry out that his belly was full, and he couldn’t pick out any clothes that he didn’t own, and he’d have to sink two boats just to have a spot for a third.
Of course, once the cue-balled psychos of the DEA got his address, they’d be too jacked up to listen.
DJ clicked off his penlight, put it back in the kit, and stuck the kit in his back pocket once more. He brought out his Glock, took one last look at the baggies, and sighed.
He turned left, through a dining room centered around an old, brown card table and ahead, DJ saw the living room. A TV droned on, talking to the overflowing ashtrays, empty beer cans, and handful of .45 rounds on Blunt’s coffee table. Blunt’s recliner was at the end of the coffee table, blocking the front door in such a way that if you were to throw it open, you’d split Blunt’s scalp over his left ear as he slept.
He snored hard. Beneath his T-shirt of the Doors, his belly inflated Jim Morrison’s face every time Blunt inhaled. One dirty flip flop clung to his toes; the other was on the floor, leaning against a coffee table leg.
“Blunt,” DJ said, in a voice that would’ve gotten most people to jump up with a start. “Hey, Blunt, wake your ass up.”
One hairy arm unfolded from its resting place on Blunt’s chest. He scratched at a chin hidden beneath a long gray beard streaked with black.
DJ knew it would come to this. It was a sad state of affairs, but the truth was his buddy Blunt had become such a layabout, he only ever responded when his life was threatened. How the man ran two successful businesses was a wonder.
Wayward Sons Page 21
