Rum Runner eBook_for Epub_Revised

by dannal

  “Maxwell Craig, I presume,” Walsh said with a huge grin. “Welcome to my humble home away from home. Everest T. Walsh. You might have heard of me.”

  “Of course, Mr. Walsh,” Max said, shaking Walsh’s hand. “I’ve read all about you and your cigar plantation in the Dominican Republic in GQ, Esquire, Playboy. Your appetite for small batch rum is legendary; probably unmatched by anyone I’ve ever heard of before.”

  Walsh chuckled. “And I’m sure you read all those publications just for the articles.”

  Max smiled. The truth was, he had studied Walsh like a book. The exhaustive research Max had performed after his family’s murders had unearthed everything there was to publicly know about the man, and a few things less than public. In addition to owning a cigar plantation in the Dominican Republic, Everest T. Walsh was one of the biggest smugglers of cocaine between Bogotá and Miami.

  Max’s brother-in-law, Chase, had once worked for NOAA. After his sister was gunned down in the Florida Keys, Chase had been more than happy to help Max secure satellite data from the exact time and place Max’s family was murdered. Max had studied the satellite images thoroughly, frame by frame, tracing the course of the boat driven by the man who had killed Lovelle and the kids. He had tracked the boat all the way back to a massive mega yacht that sat at anchorage a few miles away from the murder scene. A yacht owned by a suspected drug trafficker, and well-known international playboy. A yacht brazenly named the Snowy Lady.

  “What the hell happened to your face, Maxwell?” Everest Walsh asked, staring directly on the long scratch on Max’s cheek.

  “Oh, I went out spearfishing this afternoon,” Max said. “I like to do my part by skewering as many lionfish as I can; not bad eating either. Afraid I got a bit too close to the reef, and I left with this souvenir.”

  “At least you got a good story out of it,” Walsh said, slapping Max on the back. “Hey, I’d like you to meet my right-hand man, Marquise de Losa.” Walsh stepped aside so that the other man at the bar could stand up and face Max. “He’s a good man. If you ever need anything, you just ask Marquise.”

  The man extended his hand for a shake, and Max noticed the black tattoo on the man’s arm which showed a long black trident and an octopus with its tentacles wrapping all around the trident’s shaft.

  Max froze. His eyes locked with the blank black eyes of Marquise de Losa, a man of about fifty years of age with rough, clay-colored skin weathered by countless hours spent in the sun and salt spray. De Losa wore a long olive drab coat with sleeves rolled up, and black shorts over leather huarache sandals. The leather scabbard of a long machete protruded out from underneath the coat.

  The Cuban man’s black hair seemed unnatural; as if the top had been dyed black and combed through with some kind of shimmering oil, in stark contrast to the feathery, pure white hair on both sides of his head.

  The first thought in Max’s head was that he might throw up. His second thought suggested that, if Max did not project the utmost friendliness and tact, the entire situation would unfold, badly, in the next minute or so.

  Against every instinct his brain screamed at him, Max’s lips formed a cordial smile. He robotically lifted his hand to meet de Losa’s in a firm, and outwardly friendly handshake.

  “Marquise, was it?” Max asked. “Great to meet you. Are you a rum aficionado as well?”

  “Marquise doesn’t drink alcohol,” Walsh said, slapping de Losa on the back with a bright snapping sound. “I believe he’s a Mormon, or something like that.” Everest Walsh laughed hard; a wheezing full-bodied laugh one would expect from a six-foot-three expatriate Texan, made fat and crass by old family money, likely never having really worked a day in his life, chain-smoking his own terrible cigars, and guzzling way too much of the finest rums in the world. “No, de Losa’s a teetotaler. He just goes out and gets the rum for me.”

  “I bet he always gets his rum,” Max said awkwardly. He wondered if de Losa recognized him, even if only a faint sense of familiarity. Max’s hair had changed since the last time Marquise had seen it; once blond, and kept very short, it was now longer, mussed-up, dyed black. Max knew his eyes had changed since de Losa had last seen them; once bright, naïve, and likely about as innocent as a grown man’s eyes could appear, and now cold, hard, devoid of life.

  “Yeah,” Walsh laughed. “You got that right. Like a Texas Ranger who always gets his man, Marquise always gets his rum.”

  Max thought about Jacques and Suze. What it must have felt like to have had Marquise de Losa cornering them on their Viking yacht. The sheer terror they must have felt as he approached them, machete in hand, before ending their lives, and spilling their blood all over the floor of their stateroom.

  Though he tried to force himself not to allow such thoughts to creep in, Max’s mind began to dwell upon memories of his young children, his wife, as de Losa cut them down with his 9mm submachine gun. What callous disregard he had for their lives. The temperature in Max’s blood rose in his veins as he stood before the man, pretending to be a friendly new acquaintance.

  Max’s conscience wrestled with itself like the fiercest Jujitsu sparring session he and Josue had ever engaged in. On one hand he knew he had to remain cool; any false move and Walsh might have him shot. More importantly, he would lose his chance to get even with Walsh and de Losa for his family’s sake. On the other hand, Marquise de Losa’s throat was right there, and nothing would have given Max greater pleasure in life than grabbing onto it, and choking the life out of the man who had taken everything away from him.

  “This is Coyo,” Walsh said to Max, while stabbing his thumb over his shoulder toward the bartender. “Best rum slinger in all of the islands. He must know how to mix every rum drink there is. Bunch I don’t even know about too. Always surprising me.”

  “Hi, Max,” Coyo said, shaking Max’s hand. The slick-looking bartender wore a silver silk shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his tanned chest, and crisply ironed black slacks. Coyo’s hair was black, and as slick as the rest of his appearance.

  “It’s always a pleasure meeting the man behind the spirits,” Coyo said. “Your 2012 V.S.O.P. is possibly the best rhum agricole I’ve ever sipped.”

  Max handed the bartender the bottle he had brought. “This one is pretty good too,” Max said. “At least that’s the feedback I’ve gotten.”

  “Oh, man,” Coyo said. “No way. The 2013 élevé sous bois is legendary. Hey Max, since I’ve got you here, would you tell me something? What would you say it is that makes Fleur de Lis so different from the others? Something about the water you use or something?”

  “I make the rum inside a cavern, under the ground behind my villa,” Max said.

  Walsh burst out into boisterous, breath-gasping laughter. “You make the rum in a cave?” he asked, his old Texas accent resounding through; it suggested to Max a rowdy drunk from a bar scene in a Western. “I knew there was something special about the Fleur de Lis rum. Didn’t I?” Walsh threw his elbow into de Losa’s bicep, compelling the man to force a half-smile.

  “Hey, Coyo,” Walsh said, after blowing a big lungful of cigar smoke into the bartender’s face. “Make Max one of those strange mojitos you make with the smashed-up mint and the ginger stuff.”

  Coyo adroitly dropped a half-handful of mint leaves into a glass, along with a spoonful of raw sugar. He used a wooden muddling stick to mash the coarse sugar into the leaves, pulverizing them and releasing their fragrant oils. Next, the suave bartender squeezed a lime wedge into the glass before dropping it in, and adding a scoop of ice. From behind the bar, Coyo produced an open bottle of Fleur de Lis rum, and poured a generous shot into the glass. Max recognized it to be one of the first bottles he had ever produced; it was extremely scarce.

  That would be just like Everest Walsh, Max thought, using some of the finest single cask rhum agricole in the Caribbean to make a mojito.

  “The secret to the drink is to use really good quality ginger beer,” Coyo said, twisting the cap off a fr
esh bottle and pouring it into the drink. He stirred the drink with a swizzle stick and handed it to Max.

  Max took a sip of the drink, realizing that all eyes were locked on him. “Wow, that is good.”

  Walsh slapped Max on the back. “Bring it with you. I want to show you around before we have dinner.” The wealthy drug-trafficker led Max down a long hallway lined with doors. “These are all staterooms for the staff. I’ve got a captain, first mate, cook, housekeeper, and stewardess, and a couple of deckhands for good measure. Coyo serves as bartender, wine steward, and sometime cigar cutter.”

  Max chuckled and nodded.

  “I don’t have a huge staff on board because I don’t like having more people around than I need,” Walsh explained. “The folks I have here are here because they are necessary, they are trusted, and they are fiercely loyal.”

  Max, Walsh, and de Losa mounted a steep stairway—likely one designated for the staff—up to the next deck, and entered a short, narrow hallway with only a couple of doors, one of which hung open. Chuy stood inside the medium-sized stateroom, shirtless, curling a stout dumbbell. Walsh pulled the door closed; he looked pissed. “Chuy’s room,” he said. “Tito’s across the hall.”

  They reached the end of the short hall and stepped into an expansive room that spanned the full width of the yacht. Wide windows covered almost every inch of the outer walls, running the full length of the great space. Several seating areas occupied the space, with sofas and arm chairs situated so that one might best observe the views outside the windows. An incredibly long, oblong cherry dining table with twelve chairs occupied most of the other side of the room.

  “Incredible,” Max said, stepping up to one of the port side windows, and peering out toward Martinique. He took a sip of his drink. “I’ve never actually seen the ilets like this before. And Le Robert looks breathtaking.”

  “Cigar lounge is upstairs,” Walsh said, leading Max to the far end of the great room. The two men ascended a beautiful, carpeted spiral staircase, entering another wide open space, almost as large as the one they had just left. This room featured two matching sitting areas, one on the port side and one starboard. Each one featured three large white sofas situated in a horseshoe fashion with a big, square, stone-topped table in between.

  “I could get used to this,” Max said.

  “My stateroom through those doors,” Everest Walsh said, nodding toward a pair of smoked glass doors at the front of the room. “Other end of the boat is the bridge and captain’s quarters. But we’ve got one more deck to go.” Max and Marquise de Losa followed Walsh to the uppermost deck, called the sundeck.

  Max stepped out into what looked like one of the most elegant living rooms he had ever seen, except it was outside, covered only by a hardwood-lined metal awning with recessed LED lights.

  “Dining room’s a bit formal for me,” Walsh said, cutting off the end of a Don Legado cigar and handing it to Max. He trimmed another for de Losa, and finally one for himself. He pulled a torch lighter out of his shirt pocket and blazed up each man’s cigar. “Dinner will be served up here. Hope you like seafood. Chef’s been delivered a whole crate of little bitty octopuses, octopai, octopao, whatever they’re called—he got a whole crate of ’em.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Max said. “Reminds me of Marquise’s tattoo. I’ve never seen one like that; with the octopus and the trident. Does it stand for anything?”

  “Marquise used to be with the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces,” Everest Walsh said before taking a drag from his cigar. “Before he decided to become a capitalist. Used to lead an armored brigade; each of his men got the same tattoo.”

  Marquise de Losa glared at Max with an expression that suggested, “How dare you ask questions about me.”

  I’ve got something really special in mind for you, my friend, Max thought to himself as he smiled pleasantly at the vile murderer.

  Walsh led Max to a table at the stern of the yacht. It really was an impressive vessel. Max played the awestruck tourist the best he could. He grabbed onto railings and peered over, he looked down inside hatches and pawed at every piece of opulent furniture along the way, generally acting amazed by almost everything he saw. In truth, Max was trying to get a better lay of the land.

  Josue had printed the actual blueprints of the Snowy Lady from a yacht sales website that had sold Walsh the vessel eight years prior, so they already knew where everything was; as long as Walsh hadn’t changed them. It helped that Walsh had pointed out where Chuy’s, Tito’s, and his own staterooms were located. Max wondered if de Losa’s room were on the bottom level, near the staff quarters.

  A modest, round, wooden patio table sat under a fabric covering which reminded Max of a sail. It allowed a great deal of light to pass through, but blocked out the full strength of the sun, which would soon be setting.

  A generous hot tub that must have been twelve feet across occupied the rear of the sundeck, surrounded by handsome hand-placed stonework. The elaborate spa featured a cascading waterfall which trickled down over smooth river rocks on either side of the pool-sized spa.

  “The water from the tub is pumped through the waterfall and then back down into the tub,” Walsh said, sounding rather proud. “You can sit on one of the rocks and let the warm water from the waterfall trickle down over your body. Feels especially nice when you’re someplace cold, like Norway or Alaska.”

  “Impressive,” Max said.

  Walsh offered Max a seat at the table, and then he and de Losa sat down across from him. “How long have you lived here in Martinique?” Walsh asked.

  “About five years.” Max took a long puff of his cigar and tried not to choke on the dry, acrid smoke of Walsh’s foul cigars. “I used to be in accounting.”

  “Accounting?” Walsh almost choked out. “Why would you ever give up accounting to move to the Caribbean and make rum?”

  Max laughed along with Walsh and de Losa. He was bonding with these men. It was sickening. “Why is right. Why did I ever give up the paper cuts and the fast-paced dynamic of crunching all the numbers on some ignorant wretch’s 1040EZ?”

  The chef brought each man a large platter brimming with all kinds of claws and tentacles. Max ate as much as he could stomach, before asking, “Where’s the nearest head?”

  “One deck below. Head toward the bow, through the cigar lounge, and it’s the first door on the left,” Walsh said, barely looking up from the lobster claw he was sucking on, his chin shiny and slick with melted butter.

  Max slipped down the spiral staircase. He found himself at the end of the cigar lounge, with all of its off-white decor, near Walsh’s stateroom. The room was deserted. For a split second Max thought about opening one of the smoked glass doors and poking around Walsh’s room to see what might shake loose. But he realized the doors might be alarmed. He wasn’t ready to get shot quite yet.

  Max found the head and shut the door behind himself, making sure it was locked. Max put the toilet seat lid down and sat, taking off his shoes. He removed his tiny cameras and miniature microphones. Just before leaving, Max made sure to flush the toilet and run the sink for a bit. He stepped out and looked around the cigar lounge for a spot to place a video camera.

  Double-checking that no one was around, Max hastily stuck a video camera under an end table at the end of the cigar lounge, near the door to the vessel’s bridge. It wasn’t ideal, but the ordinary table with a vase of flowers on top would not draw any attention; it was out of the way and would capture a wide span of the room.

  Max next placed an audio bug under each of the stone-topped coffee tables on either side of the cigar lounge. That way, even whispered conversations could be recorded no matter which side of the room someone decided to sit.

  Max stepped softly down the spiral staircase to the main deck below, looking sharp for anyone who might see him. He found a bookshelf at the far end of the great room with the dining area, and he carefully secured the second video camera under a low shelf, facing toward the opposite
end of the room. He placed one of the microphones nearby.

  Then Max made a beeline for the uppermost deck. He found Walsh and de Losa arguing about something, but they ceased as soon as Max approached.

  “Find it okay?” Walsh asked.

  “Yes, I did. But I must admit I couldn’t help taking another look out the windows in your cigar lounge. Please tell me it doesn’t ever get old living on a yacht like this.” Max said, before taking a sip from his third ginger mojito, despite never having asked for one in the first place. Walsh must have just assumed it was his new favorite drink.

  The wealthy cigar plantation owner and drug trafficker shook his head. “Nope, hasn’t gotten old yet. Don’t expect it to any time soon.”

  Everest Walsh guzzled down almost a whole ginger mojito in one gulp. “I would give about a million pesos to see your underground distillery, Max,” Everest Walsh said. “Any chance I can come and take a look around?”

  “I’d love to have you,” Max said. “Why don’t you have Mr. de Losa, Chuy, and Tito come out as well. I’d love to show you all the same hospitality you’ve shown me here.”

  Max had a sudden image in his head of all four of these criminals walking into the depths of his underground distillery. Max would push one button on his smartphone and the C-4 bomb in his cabinet would detonate; his family would be avenged in less than a second.

  “How about I come and see you around eleven o’clock,” Walsh said. “I like to sleep in,” he added with a raucous guffaw. “That work for you, Marquise?”

  De Losa nodded.

  “Eleven it is,” Max said. “Can’t wait to show you around.”

  “In the meantime, Marquise is gonna deal some cards,” Walsh said. “You play Texas hold ’em?”

  “Of course,” Max said, forcing himself to take another draw on his cigar.

  Walsh used his cell phone to call Tito and Chuy, to have them come up and join the poker game. Marquise de Losa stepped away from the table and called someone on his cell phone. Max hadn’t studied Spanish since tenth grade, but he was pretty sure he heard de Losa calling the person on the other end mi reina hermosa. My beautiful…queen?