Thief's Odyssey

by John L. Monk

  It occurred to me that faking maydays was a selfish practice, that someone could conceivably fall victim to piracy, or hit a reef, or have a disaster of some sort and need the Coast Guard nearby—not sixty miles away chasing phantoms.

  Frank was a generally nice-seeming guy and defender of national security. A little crazy, sure, but not someone who’d put people in real danger. Yet there he was, falling short of my hastily-formed expectations.

  Out of nowhere, I wondered how Mrs. Swanson had felt on learning what I did for a living. She’d raised me and cared about me and given me everything, and now she was putting her neck on the line to sneak me back into the country illegally. Of the two of us, she had way more to lose than me, not to mention the children who depended on her.

  Frank was watching me. “There’s more beer in the cooler, fix whatever’s got you bothered.”

  I shook my head.

  A minute later I saw a boat, way off to the left. Or rather, I saw a boat’s wake stretching forever behind it, cutting through the rolling waves. At its tip, a small black shape transformed into a sea-blue speedboat. Frank altered course to intercept it. The boat pulled to a stop as Frank splashed down in a surprisingly bumpy landing. We kept moving, the propeller pulling us the hundred or so yards to the boat.

  A man stood up. When we were close enough, I saw another man sitting in the boat behind him.

  “Bo, just a warning,” Frank said. “These guys are snakes—don’t start any shit with them.”

  “Snakes?” I said, but he chose not to elaborate.

  Frank waited forever to cut the engine. When our left wing came over the boat, one of the men grabbed onto it to keep us steady and pull us together. Frank got out of his seat and opened the side door, then threw the man a rope to tie us off.

  I examined the two men. The one sitting down had a thin mustache, a gold necklace, and slicked back hair. He dressed to impress the kinds of people who like unbuttoned shirts with tacky flames and pants with too many pockets. The other guy wore jeans and a black T-shirt with Japanese characters on it, though he wasn’t Japanese. They looked Hispanic. Cubans, I figured, though I’d never met any Cubans before.

  Mr. Slick of the fiery shirt said, “Who the fuck is this?” His accent was moderate to heavy.

  I almost said something. What were they here for if not to pick me up and take me home?

  “I told you I had another delivery,” Frank said. “He’s the delivery. His name’s Bo.”

  “Fuck you, Bo,” the man said, giving me the finger. “Frank, this the kind of shit I no like. That asshole—he stay on the plane. He get off and—” He pulled his shirt aside so we could see his gun. “You got it?”

  “Come on, Marco, is that necessary? He’s a friend of mine. They won’t let him fly home. That’s all man, I swear.”

  “Frank, let’s go,” I said. “They don’t want our business, fine by me.”

  “Am I talking to you, chivato? Then shut the fuck up, okay?”

  “What the heck’s a chivato?” I said. “All I know is maricon, pendejo and tu hermana es una puta. Oh yeah, I also know mierda—it means shit—but that’s pretty much it.”

  Marco laughed. Like he couldn’t believe this guy wanted to die so bad. I sort of agreed with him.

  “Dammit, Bo, go sit down!” Frank shouted.

  “Is he stupid or crazy or what?” Marco said.

  “I forgot crazy,” I said. “Loco means crazy, but it’s not that much of a swear word, is it?”

  Marco gazed at me for a moment, a half smile on his face.

  To Frank, he said, “I change my mind. I’ll take him home, no problem. But it’s gonna cost twenty, not ten. Now I gotta watch him. That’s more work.”

  Frank started to say something and I said to him, “Kate’s good for the rest.”

  I didn’t mind promising on her behalf because I planned to pay Mrs. Swanson back.

  “I’m not running a lending house here, Bo. I’m about to retire. I especially don’t want to owe these guys. You seem all right, but I just met you.”

  I tugged him aside so Marco wouldn’t hear what I had to say. From my key ring, I removed the safe deposit key and put it in Frank’s hand.

  “That key,” I said, “will open box forty-seven at the Bank of the Bahamas, in Nassau. It has over a hundred thousand U.S., all in hundreds. The guy I stole it from probably embezzled it, but with high denominations like that there’s always the chance it’s been marked. I just don’t know. If you want it, all you do is set up your own account at the same branch and get a box next to mine. Then another day, you sign the ledger and go right to my box, talking it up with the guy with the other key. They won’t check which box anyway, at least they didn’t with me.”

  Frank eyed me suspiciously.

  “So you’re fine with giving up all that money?” he said. “To go home and risk jail?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m going home so I can help a friend of mine out of a jam, and then I’m gonna turn myself in.”

  Frank stared at me, waiting to see if I blinked or smiled or turned away or whatever would prove me a liar. For my part, I didn’t blink or smile or look away or do whatever the other thing was.

  “Sounds risky,” he said at last, rubbing his chin. “It might be easier if I had your ID. With a little work, I could get my nephew to sub in for you.”

  I hesitated, then took out my wallet and handed him my Virginia Driver’s license, which I’d used to open the account.

  “You’re serious about this?” he said, looking at the card and back at me, wanting to believe, but wise enough to know nothing could be this easy.

  “I’m a thief,” I said. “Why did you think I was in Nassau to begin with? You think I carry safe deposit keys to nowhere?”

  “It could be a bank back in the States,” he said.

  “Yeah, except that it isn’t.”

  From my wallet, I removed the receipt for my $5,000 deposit and showed it to him.

  “There’s a jail waiting for me when I get home. That was supposed to cover the yearly fee for the box. I got no other proof, man.”

  Frank stood there watching me again, looking for something to ease his decision to go into debt with these drug runners.

  “What the fuck you guys waiting for?” Marco called from the boat.

  I’d have to ask him how to say the F-word in Spanish.

  “All right,” Frank said, shaking his head like it was the hardest decision he’d ever made. “I’ll cover you. Even if I’m a sucker, there’s nothing like a Monday lottery ticket to get you through the week. Know what I mean?”

  I’d never bought a lottery ticket before, but I nodded anyway.

  Frank said, “Okay Marco. I’ll have the money for you next time I see you.”

  “Super duper,” he said.

  “And if anything happens to Bo, we’re through.”

  Marco laughed.

  “Come, on Frank, he’s fine. But if I see police, I kill him first.”

  Frank nodded agreeably and said, “Of course.”

  Chapter 24

  Frank handed down about fifteen gym bags, retrieved from a storage compartment, for me to relay off to the guy with the Japanese T-shirt. They were heavy, maybe thirty pounds each, though something told me they’d originally been measured in kilos.

  “Don’t drop them like that, asshole,” Marco said to the other guy, who seemed tired and had thrown his last one down.

  The guy didn’t reply, but he did pack the rest more carefully. He didn’t have a gun that I could see.

  “I’m Bo,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Miguel,” he said, and shook my hand.

  Marco frowned. “Untie us so we get the fuck out. No chitchat.”

  After we were free, Frank shouted, “Good luck, Bo!” He waved a quick goodbye and shut the door.

  By the time we’d drifted a good twenty feet away, Frank had the plane moving. A minute later, he was shrinking away into the sky. Probably d
reaming of all that Danny Fleer money.

  I wasn’t too bothered by the loss. It’s more fun making money than having it, and for once my ill-gotten loot would go to a good cause—reducing the number of fake maydays out there, and the quantity of drugs coming into the country.

  Well, fake maydays at any rate.

  “Why don’t you sit down, idiot?” Marco said to me.

  Since he’d asked, I sat on a cushioned seat near the front with my feet resting on the packs.

  The boat was fast—damned fast. The wind felt great in my hair. A half hour later we saw other boats. Pleasure craft, as well as commercial, but no Coast Guard or anything official. Eventually, I saw dark masses on the horizon that turned into islands. I figured we were near the Keys. Other than look at the pretty water and islands, there wasn’t much to do but hold on and watch Miguel pilot the craft. So that’s what I did.

  Now that Frank was gone, Marco mostly sat there not saying anything. The water had gotten a lot choppier, causing us to skip higher and higher as we zoomed along. I loved it. Marco seemed be having issues though. He was biting his lip. Moments later, he leaned over the side and threw up.

  “I hate this fucking boat,” he said. “Miguel—hey!”

  “Yes?”

  “Slow the fuck down—go that way,” he said, pointing to a deserted strip of land partially covered in tropical growth.

  “But you said—”

  “Just do it!” he said, looking at me and shaking his head. You just couldn’t get good help anymore. Too casually, he reached down and brushed the butt of his gun.

  I’d had my hand around the straps of one of the bags for a while now, and it wasn’t any trouble at all to hurl it as hard as I could at Marco’s head, slamming him to the deck. The boat dipped down with the thrust of my throw. It rocked even more violently when I launched myself at the astonished Marco and punched him once in his already bloody face. I was bigger than him and he was still senseless from the punch and from getting hit in the head with about fifteen kilos of, I hoped, the good stuff, so he didn’t notice when I slipped the gun from his waistband. After that, I lifted him easily and tipped him over the side—and that’s how I came to learn the F-word in Spanish.

  I examined the gun: a semi-automatic, no obvious safety. Dad and I had only ever used his revolver. I was still small, so he’d pull back the hammer for me and let me aim and shoot it. But this gun—I didn’t know how to work the slide and the clip and all that. Poor Miguel didn’t know any of this, and he flinched when I pointed it at him.

  “Don’t shoot me!” he said, raising his hands.

  By now, we’d drifted about fifty feet from Marco, who was swimming up to the island in his fire shirt, struggling against the weight of his pants and all those useless pockets.

  “Then you better move,” I said.

  When he hesitated, I angled the gun at the water and pulled the trigger. Man it was loud—one hell of a crack. He leapt off the boat like he had a race to win. I suppose he did.

  Piloting the boat was easy enough. The wheel worked the same way as a car, and the lever was clearly marked: REVERSE, IDLE, FORWARD. It took some fiddling, but I managed to get it moving where I wanted—to a section of beach well away from the two drug runners, but still in sight. One by one, I chucked the bags onto the sand. They weren’t mine and I worried what would happen to Frank if I ran off with them. When I got home, I’d get Kate to tell him what happened so he’d know to watch out.

  Marco was holding his nose. He shouted something at Miguel, then at me, then at Miguel again. Probably how he was going to pop us or whack us or something. I waved goodbye, turned around and headed the way we’d been going.

  “Yo, ho, ho! I am a pirate king!” I shouted, feeling mighty proud of myself. I did it again, louder. Nobody was watching and it felt pretty good.

  Deserted islands and patches of shallow water eventually gave way to an endless stretch of houses and personal piers going left to right in front of me. I went right, looking for a promising place to dock. The houses kept coming and I got a little nervous when a police boat sped by, throwing up a huge wake. Bank robbers often stole cars for their getaways. For all I knew, Marco had stolen this boat to pick up the drugs.

  I found a channel someone had cut through a patch of tall vegetation. With no houses in sight, I followed it and soon arrived at an abandoned boat launch. Nearby, the ruins of an old houseboat sat on the bottom with only the roof showing.

  A ramp of mud and sand ascended the water, turning into crumbling asphalt a ways up. I didn’t want to get wet so I gave the boat a little gas, hoping to slide it up gently. Instead, the bow hit the bank hard, sending me stomach-first into the wheel and bruising my ribs. My grip slipped and I fell over, bashing my forearm against the built-in plastic seat.

  “Dammit,” I said, inspecting my arm.

  I’d only skinned it, but it was sweating blood and it stung. But my plan had worked. The boat was officially stuck in the soft dirt of the embankment, and I could leap easily off the front. So that’s what I did.

  Not a drop of water on me.

  The ground felt weird under my feet after so long on the boat. The air was stagnant and muggy and I’d already attracted an entourage of insects. A dirt road led away from the launch. I followed it, not knowing where I was going but hoping I got there soon. The time on my phone showed seven twenty, and Washington DC seemed impossibly far away.

  A few minutes later, the dirt road ended at a paved street. I followed that and came to a moderately busy highway. On the other side was a marina with a bar and grill called Smitty’s. I crossed the highway and checked the little sign in the window. Smitty’s wouldn’t be open for another forty-five minutes.

  My smartphone was almost dead, but it had a signal. I pulled up the number for the British Colonial Hilton and called the front desk. Three rings and a lady picked up.

  “British Colonial, guest services, how many help you?”

  I gave her Kate’s room number and walked around, looking for a street number.

  “Certainly, sir, please hold.”

  Kate picked up on the second ring.

  “Yeah?” she said.

  “You sound awake.”

  “They had roadblocks everywhere looking for you. I only got back a few minutes ago. What the hell did you do?”

  “My TV was too loud and someone complained.”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I take it you’re in Florida?”

  “Yeah. Place called Smitty’s. You want the address?”

  “Hold on.”

  When she was ready, I gave it to her.

  “We’ve got people nearby,” Kate said. “Stay where you are.”

  “Oh, by the way,” I said. “You know what almost happened to me? That guy you hooked me up with, he dropped me off with a couple of drug runners. One of them—”

  “Bo, I don’t have time for this. Just stay put.”

  She hung up before I could show her who was boss.

  Twenty minutes later, a black, mid-sized sedan pulled in through an entrance farther down the parking lot. It crept my way like it was looking for something. I got up and waved—and then, too late, wished I hadn’t. For all I knew, Marco had managed to call someone. I didn’t know squat about drug runners. What if the boat had a tracker on it?

  Just be cool.

  The car sped up, heading my way. I backed up a step, torn between running and not wanting to look stupid. The car stopped and a man put his head out the window.

  “Your name Bo?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Kate sent me. You ready to go?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, and hoped he didn’t notice the cowardly way my voice broke.

  Buckling in, I said, “You work for Mrs. Swanson?”

  “Nope, the airline.”

  I nodded absently.

  Because I wasn’t running from security guards or fighting Cubans or flying upside down with beer-swilling maniacs, I closed my eyes and gave-
in to the effects of a wild night with no sleep.

  ***

  “Hey, man, we’re here. Sorry to wake you.”

  We were parked in front of a hanger in what appeared to be a private airport. Just outside the big open doors, surrounded by orange cones, was a small white jet with a wheeled stairway attached to it. A man, standing by himself at the foot of the stairs, came over to greet me. He had on a brilliant white shirt with silver stripes sewn on both shoulders.

  “You must be Bo,” he said. “I’m Paul Simmons, your pilot this morning.”

  “Glad to meet you,” I said, and shook his hand. I wondered if this was Mrs. Swanson’s plane. She owned her own private investigation company, why not a jet?

  “We’re pre-cleared for departure,” Paul said. “So as soon as we get you on board, I’ll give you the tour—it’s part of the package.”

  “Sweet. How long until we’re in the air?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  I climbed in after Paul.

  The plane, I learned, had a snazzy drink bar with complimentary drinks, adjustable temperature control, and a flat screen television with a million movies all at my fingertips. In case I got hungry, there was a refrigerator stocked with food.

  From behind a curtained-off area, a young Asian lady came out.

  “Hi, I am Pam,” she said with a light accent. “I will be your flight attendant today. If you need anything, I will take care of it. Until then, feel free to pick a seat. Anywhere you like.”

  I thanked her and found a seat near the door.

  “Bo, let me show you something,” Paul said, and hit a button on the side of my chair.

  I laughed in surprise. A little cushioned section came up under my feet, lifting them parallel to the floor, and the back reclined.

  “Now check this out,” he said, and hit another button.

  The length of my chair-bed began vibrating in pulsating waves.

  “Amazing,” I said, and meant it. Like a million little masseuses running up and down my body.