Rum Runner eBook_for Epub_Revised

by dannal

  The groundskeepers both nodded.

  “A word of advice,” Vivienne said. “Stick to cutting the grass and pruning the flowers. Maybe go and work for one of the other distilleries. Vidal Molière is a human worm. He sent you here and almost got the both of you killed. Life is too short to take the short path. Know what I mean? End of lecture.”

  Max and Josue helped the men to their feet and escorted them to their boat, making sure each of them could climb across the gunwale of their old fishing boat. The father wouldn’t be driving, or likely much else, for some time. The son was about a tick away from delirium, but he seemed to be able to walk a straight enough line, and Max guessed he could drive the boat.

  “I recommend you both go and get checked out at the hospital,” Max said, as the son powered up the boat. “You’ve got a broken wrist and a broken nose. And you almost certainly have a concussion. Don’t let these things go untreated, okay?”

  The beaten son gave one last confused look at Max and Vivienne on the dock as the weathered fishing boat motored away. Max figured the guy was probably surprised by both the violence he encountered on Ilet d’Ombres, and the civility. But the boat drew away, and Max’s thoughts almost immediately drifted back to his dinner with Everest Walsh.

  “You are bleeding, Max,” Vivienne said, putting her fingers on his cheek to check a wound.

  Max looked down at himself. “No, all of this blood is probably theirs.”

  “No, you have a deep scratch on your cheek,” she said. “You should get cleaned up and get some antiseptic on that.”

  “Forget that,” Max said. He grabbed hold of Vivienne’s shirt and began to lift it. She grabbed his hand to stop him. “No, Viv, I need to check the wound. It looks serious.” He lifted the side of her shirt up to the side of her bra. A four-inch slice appeared across her rib cage, and a thin stream of blood trickled from the wound.

  “It’s just a scratch,” Vivienne said, trying to pull her shirt back down. “Should’ve bought the armor with the side plates.”

  “No,” Max said. “You need stitches. Josue has first aid training. He’ll get you bandaged up, but you need to get to the hospital and have it sewn up. Josue could do it, but it won’t be a very straight line.” Max unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it down to show Vivienne his left shoulder: a zig-zagging, lighting bolt-like scar showed in pink scar tissue directly over his scapula. “That’s as straight as he can do.”

  Vivienne smiled. “Okay, I’ll go.”

  “Boss, we gotta get you ready for your dinner,” Josue said.

  He took in the sight of Max’s blood-splattered face and winced. “We gotta get you cleaned up. An’ Walsh will ask you about scratch on your cheek. Better think of good story.”

  Max nodded. It would be an eventful night to be certain. He wasn’t sure what would happen. But Max hoped with all the strength left in his body that he wouldn’t kill someone with his bare hands before the night was over. He had to bide his time; the killing would come later.

  “You almost got us found out, Tiny,” Zann protested, as he and the others watched the police boat motor away from the catamaran. The rented yacht rested at anchor with the stern facing a sumptuous palm tree-lined beach hemmed in by protective rock jetties.

  Standing on the rear deck of the catamaran, Momo felt as though he was witnessing a living postcard: behind the wide span of white sand, restaurants and shops clamored with sunburned tourists clad in bright tropical shirts and dresses; blue chaise lounges lined the sand outside of a boisterous beach bar; and the distant sound of a local island band’s combined steel drums, horns, and guitar reached Momo’s ears, giving him a profound and unexpected sense of relaxation. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the aromatic smoke of flame-grilled, exotically-spiced meats that drifted into his nostrils like a thin fog of tempting island witch doctor medicine.

  The boat’s anchorage was near Les Trois Ilets, Martinique; at least that’s where the boat’s GPS told Momo they were located. The Customs officers had approached lightning fast, before Momo even knew they were coming, in their swift Zodiac speedboat.

  Zann had stood by the entire time, ready to discreetly cut a length of rope tied between the catamaran’s bow rail and a dry bag filled with guns and ammunition the gang members had brought to the island for their important task. The bag also contained heavy barbell weights; Momo had figured they could cut the bag loose at any sign of an inspection. The loose bag would settle to the shallow bottom of the harbor and go undetected by Customs; they could always retrieve their weapons later. But being caught with unregistered Uzis, Glocks, and Berettas would likely get them locked up in an island jail for a very, very long time.

  But the Customs men had seemed much more interested in paperwork and checking passports, than in invading their space or taking up too much of their time. Momo was thankful. The last thing he wanted was to get into it with the police. Besides, all of the papers and passports the fellas had brought were all aboveboard.

  “I just wanted them to think we ain’t got nothing to hide,” Tiny Deege said, opening the fridge and rifling through looking for another bottle of Champagne.

  “By asking them if they wanna look around,” Zann said. “What the hell is that?”

  “Where’s the Champagne?” Tiny Deege complained.

  “Ain’t no more cold ones,” Reggie said, munching on some pretzel sticks and mashing buttons on his Xbox 360 controller.

  “Didn’t you think to maybe put a few mo’ bottles in the fridge when you noticed we was out?” Tiny Deege fumed as he dug into one of the galley’s cupboards, finding an unopened case of Veuve Clicquot. “Gettin’ low on bubbly now too.”

  “You worried ’bout the bubbly when you practically begged those cops to find our contraband,” Zann said, angrily. “Why’nt you just say, ‘Come on in! Come in and look for some o’ the stuff we got hidden. You wanna see some of our weed? Some of our coke? Or maybe you’d be more interested in our weapons horde.’”

  “Easy, now,” Momo said, pulling the .50 caliber Desert Eagle from his waistband.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tiny Deege said, holding his hands up. He stared at the powerful Israeli pistol through huge bulging eyes. “Chill, Momo, chill. We all right. We just working things out between us is all. Ain’t no need to go slingin’ lead around.”

  But Momo just placed the pistol on the galley’s granite countertop and stripped off his long Miami Heat jersey. “We in paradise boys. Might as well make the most of it.” He strode through the open rear of the catamaran’s salon and did a back flip off the deck into the crystal clear blue-green water.

  “Yeah,” Zann shouted, as he and Tiny Deege clapped. Reggie looked over from his video game, semi-interested.

  It didn’t take long for Zann, Tiny Deege, and Reggie to join Momo in the warm water of the harbor. Momo climbed back onto the boat and retrieved a mask and snorkel from his stateroom. He hadn’t ever really found time to go down to the beach, even though he lived in Miami. But now, despite being here for a purpose, Momo intended to find at least a little time to chill.

  He ripped the diving mask out of its plastic packaging and pulled it on over his head, adjusting the strap. He secured the snorkel through a loop attached to the mask and jumped off the catamaran’s bow. Then he dove down into the pure water, finding the depth to be less than twenty feet. He spotted brightly colored tropical fish swimming in schools all around him: bright white and yellow butterflyfish; the occasional curious trumpetfish or pufferfish; a cluster of yellow and blue Spanish hogfish. Momo even watched a huge sea turtle swim by, obviously unconcerned by the large gang member’s presence. As he swam back to the surface, Momo couldn’t believe how peaceful a place he had found; he hadn’t even set foot on the island, and now he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to leave.

  Momo’s head broke the surface to the sound of screaming. “Ahh. Agghh. Ahhhhhh!” Tiny Deege was shouting over and over.

  “Yo! What happened?” Momo asked. He climbed on
board the yacht. He and Zann helped Tiny Deege on board, while Reggie watched passively. As Tiny Deege’s foot cleared the water, the source of his screaming became evident. A small spiny red and black sea urchin protruded from the bottom of the pint-sized Ti Flow member’s left foot.

  “Get it out, man! Get it out!” Tiny Deege screamed.

  Momo reached down and gave the sea urchin a good yank. It pulled free from Tiny Deege’s foot, leaving half a dozen needlelike spines behind, protruding from his flesh.

  “Oh, man, it still hurts!” the wounded man shrieked.

  “Shut your mouth, fool,” Momo scolded. “You be whinin’ like a punk little sissy girl. Man up an’ act like you belong in the Flow, brother!”

  Tiny Deege collected himself and sat down on one of the waterproof seats on the catamaran’s rear deck. He picked up his foot and examined it carefully. “Why there all those little blue spots on my skin? Ain’t natural. An’ them black spines be in my foot still.”

  “Zann,” Momo said, “grab some pliers an’ see if you can help pull them spines outta Deege’s foot. It’s like I’m babysittin’ or somethin’ bein’ with you fools. Can’t get a moment’s peace, can I?”

  “Sorry, Momo,” Tiny Deege said, looking up at the gang’s would-be leader with a pathetic, scrunched-up frowning face.

  “I’m goin’ up to the flybridge, dig?” Momo said, tucking his .50 caliber pistol back into his wet shorts. He picked up his smartphone from the galley’s counter as well. “Gotta send a text.”

  Momo grabbed a packet of beef jerky out of one of the snack-filled galley cupboards and ripped off the top. He stuffed a big piece of dry stringy meat in his cheek and mounted the steep ladder to the catamaran’s flybridge. There was a control console inside the yacht’s salon, so that one could operate the vessel in climate-controlled comfort. But Momo found he was often left alone on the uppermost deck of the vessel, and he liked that very much.

  Besides the command console, the flybridge had lots of cushy lounge seating, a separate refrigerator, and a BBQ grill. Other than the fiberglass canopy that shaded him from the sun’s harsh rays, the top deck was completely open, allowing the warm tropical breezes to blow in Momo’s face as he sipped a cold beer or glass of Champagne.

  Momo sat down on one of the cushioned seats. The large white horseshoe of thick padded seats might have accommodated up to a half-dozen people in a party setting. Now, Momo stretched out his legs, taking up an entire side, and he switched on his smartphone.

  He found the contact he wanted to text and began to type out his message by tapping on the little virtual keyboard with his index finger.

  We’re here. In Martinique.

  Momo chomped on the beef jerky as he awaited a reply. A minute or two later, the messaging tone sounded on his phone.

  Come to Le Robert Bay. Josue Remy nearby.

  “All right,” Momo said, as he placed the phone down on the seat next to him. He lay back with his eyes closed and tucked his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers. “Reckoning’s coming, boy. Time’s up, Josue.”

  “You could tell them you were spearfishing and cut your face on reef,” Josue said. “Sounds adventurous, but not too daring.”

  Max looked into the mirror at the long thin scratch that ran from his chin to his left ear; a gift to remember his tussle with the man from La Maison de Verre distillery. “I like that,” he said. “Sounds believable. And it adds a little island color, which I think Walsh will enjoy.”

  Max wore one of his long sleeved black Columbia Bahama shirts—one that wasn’t freshly ripped from a brawl—along with a brand new pair of charcoal gray chinos. He improved his look by slipping on a black blazer with stainless steel buttons. Max didn’t own any fancy clothes, but he hoped he could fake it by wearing stuff that was all brand new.

  “I wish you could carry weapon,” Josue said, sounding rather somber. “I don’t like it this way.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Max said confidently. “You remember what to do, right?” He checked the blazer pockets just to be sure he hadn’t left any knives or ammunition inside. He knew Walsh’s men would pat him down, and he didn’t want to rouse their suspicions.

  “I will be as close by as I can get,” Josue said. “I bring the dinghy out, and maybe a fishing pole, so I look low key. I watch the boat and shoot some video.”

  “Don’t take any chances, Josue. You get made, you bolt. Right?”

  The slender Haitian nodded. “You gonna be okay, Boss?”

  “Honestly, my friend,” Max said, checking out his completed ensemble in the mirror, “I’m more excited than I’ve been in years. I can’t wait for this.”

  Max checked his Bulova Precisionist. “Ten minutes until go time.”

  Josue had prepped the ten-foot inflatable dinghy with his scoped 5.56 rifle and lots of loaded magazines. He also had a DSLR camera, fishing gear, a couple of GoPro cameras, and a spear gun. The inflatable was equipped with a fifty-horsepower outboard tiller motor, but Josue would more than likely be using the twelve-volt trolling motor to move as silently as possible on the water. Josue wore a black shorty wetsuit with a blue button-up over it for a more casual look.

  Max intended to bug Everest Walsh’s yacht. He carried with him two self-contained tiny wireless video cameras with forty-eight-hour batteries, along with four audio-only bugs. They were concealed inside secret compartments in the heels of his shoes, accessible only by removing the shoes and slipping his insoles out. Max had had years to concoct his plan, and he had spent many hours modifying the shoes.

  Josue would try to attach a wireless satellite receiver somewhere on the yacht’s hull, so that the tiny camera’s images, as well as the other bugs’ audio feeds, could be forwarded to the surveillance tablet Josue fiddled with in Max’s kitchen.

  “Va avec Dieu,” Josue said, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder.

  “You as well, my friend,” Max said.

  Max was waiting on the pier when the Chris-Craft showed up. He didn’t know how they had done it, but the instant the tall UFC-looking guy stepped off the boat onto the dock, Max’s watch read six fifty-nine and fifty-three seconds.

  “I’m Tito,” the tall Latin man with the peroxide blond hair said. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Walsh would like me to pat you down for weapons. He…has a few enemies.”

  “No, not at all,” Max said, holding his arms up directly at his sides. He noticed the man’s demeanor had changed quite a bit since they had first met. Max wondered if it had to do with acceptance; maybe Walsh had told his men that Max was a friend, and that his men were to treat him as such. Tito patted Max down loosely, but thoroughly. It wasn’t a deep search, he was likely just checking for the obvious bulge of a pistol or some kind of bladed weapon.

  “After you,” Tito said, holding out his hand toward a seat near the stern of the fine-looking 1930’s era vessel. “Watch your step, sir.”

  “Nice boat,” Max said, unbuttoning his blazer and sitting down on a cushy leather seat.

  “Mr. Walsh commissioned the runabout’s restoration just a couple of years ago,” Tito said. “It had once belonged to his grandfather. This is Chuy, by the way.” Tito nodded toward the driver of the boat. It was the same thick-necked, muscular man who had driven the boat earlier in the day.

  Chuy nodded and forced a smile. He throttled up the boat and motored the yacht tender away from the dock. Walsh’s mega yacht loomed ahead of Max like a cruise ship against the otherwise stark eastern horizon.

  As the Chris-Craft drew nearer and nearer the port side of the yacht, Max grew somewhat concerned that Chuy might drive the antique boat right into the two-hundred-and-three-foot yacht’s black hull. Just before Max spoke up to sound the alarm, two doors opened in the side of the massive vessel, opening wide to reveal a cavernous water-filled “garage” built right inside the hull of the Snowy Lady.

  The sleek runabout idled into the cramped mini-harbor inside the yacht. The narrow space reminded Max of a ship lock t
hat would flood with water to raise and lower boats and ships between two larger bodies of water. But this confined space did not lead to another section; rather it was flanked by a big white steel bulkhead on one side, and a wide opening into a dim, elegant room on the other.

  The Chris-Craft bumped into a padded rail at the far wall, opposite the outer doors the boat had come through. Chuy reached his arm outside the boat to press a large green button on an electrical panel beside the boat. Hydraulic rails under the water lifted the boat up, securing it in place. He flipped a switch and the outer hull doors closed behind them and the waterline under the boat subsided until no water was visible beneath the craft.

  “If you would step out to your left, Mr. Craig,” Tito said, standing up in the boat to face Max. He extended his arm toward the darkened room beside the boat, “Mr. Walsh will be waiting to meet you at the bar.”

  Max stepped out of the boat and slipped his sunglasses inside his blazer pocket. The huge yacht’s bar was about twenty feet by twenty, and featured rich, darkly-stained wooden paneling that covered the walls and added to the dim ambiance of the space. A long bar, constructed of some kind of reclaimed wood—replete with worm holes, nail holes, and knot holes, all sanded to a glassy finish and sealed in a clear lacquer—stretched from one wall of the bar almost all the way to the other. A hand-carved wooden sign over the bar read Rum Lord’s Reef.

  Three small tables with chairs were situated around the space, a candle burning on the center of each despite each one being vacant. Two men sat in stools leaning up against the bar, while one man—the bartender—stood opposite them, smiling and resting both hands on the bar top.

  Everest Walsh stood as Max entered. He was a tall, heavy man with droopy jowls and puffy bags around his eyes, and a long cigar tucked deep inside his cheek. Max figured him to be about fifty-five. The filthy-rich cigar magnate wore a loud, wrinkled black and blue Hawaiian shirt, maybe a size or two larger than he was, no doubt to cover his unflattering, middle-aged body. His camel-colored hair was buzzed close to his skull; the short cut helped him evade the otherwise obvious fact he was balding pretty thin on top.