Wood's Reach

by Steven Becker

  While the grill heated, he grabbed another beer and moved into the shed to avoid the mosquitos. The small room was overloaded but organized. On the right was a sheet of plywood where the solar equipment would be mounted. Against the back wall, gear and tools were piled on steel shelves. The left-hand side had a workbench with shelves overhead for more tools and hardware. The space was cluttered, but somehow it reassured him. He lit a kerosene lamp and sat on a barstool pulled up to the bench. Once the light had evened out, he pulled out a manila envelope, opened it, and took another sip of beer, steeling himself for the latest bad news.

  His livelihood, a converted forty-five-foot lobster boat, had been confiscated when Trufante, his wayward friend and deckhand, had been talked into a quick score. He had finally gotten it back, but the feds had not taken care of it while it was in their care, and one of the twin diesels had seized. Removing the invoice from the envelope, he placed it on the counter, deciding another beer was in order before he got the bad news. After putting the lobster on the grill and grabbing a fresh bottle, he sat down and reviewed the carefully itemized bill.

  Not as bad as he’d thought, but it was considerably more than his meager cash on hand. He might have gotten his boat back from the feds, but his commercial fishing license was still suspended after Trufante’s illegal plundering of the lobster casitas. Mac had earned a good deal of money working with Wood and salvaging when he could, but the cost of rebuilding the house on the island and his boat at the same time was beyond his means. Now without the fishing income, he was living on his small nest egg. He thought back to the lost stash of gold he had cached on the reef, again realizing how foolish he had been to trust his treasure to the sea. One stray anchor had dispersed the contents over the seafloor—probably never to be found again.

  He reached up for the thumb drive on the shelf and turned it in his hand. The images on the drive contained what he thought were the clues to a mystery—one that might have a large payday attached to it. Over the years he had tried to figure out the mysterious tattoos, suspecting they led to a treasure, but had hit a dead end. He’d never had the right eyes to analyze the images, and the mystery had remained unsolved.

  The smell of the lobster cooking brought him back to reality, and he went outside to check the grill. The tail was ready. Taking it from the grate, he sat down and ate in silence, his thoughts drifting to his other enigma—Mel.

  ***

  “You freakin’ morons,” Hawk berated the two men sitting in the Mercedes with him. “How the…?” He stopped short, knowing his breath was wasted on the men, one a thug hired for his muscle, the other a disbarred lawyer employed for his brains. He stared at them, then turned away and started the car. Pulling out of the sheriff’s station, he turned onto US-1 and headed north. After a silent mile, he turned right into a driveway. “We’ll talk on the boat.” It had taken a long call to the sheriff filled with promises of future favors to persuade him to drop the weapons charges. That was the easy part. It was ICE and the antiquities trafficking charges that worried him—the federal agency was known to act quickly.

  He parked under the house, built ten feet above the ground, and walked down the gravel path to the boat, unable to take his eyes off the red labels stuck to the doors. His house had been confiscated within hours of the men’s arrest and the discovery of the antiquities they were carrying. Fortunately, the sixty-five-foot steel-hulled trawler he had just boarded was held in a shell corporation and shielded from the authorities. He would have to move it tonight, probably to his ex’s house—the end to a wonderful day.

  The men sat across from him in the salon. “Who leaked the information?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but that dude out there got wind of it somehow and was all over us. We made the transfer like you said, but they were on us in seconds. All we could do was run,” the lawyer said.

  “Run right into the sheriff is where you ran. Now you cost me twenty grand cash to bail your asses out.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” the muscle-bound man with no neck said. “I want a piece of that guy.”

  Hawk rubbed the little hair on his balding head. “Let it go. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  Chapter Three

  “We gotta talk,” the man said as he walked up to Trufante.

  The lanky Cajun continued to hose off the parasail boat, ignoring the request. The man went to the spigot and turned off the water. “Now.”

  Trufante turned to face him.

  “You can’t be doing that.”

  “Doing what?” Trufante asked.

  Both men wore khaki shorts and matching polo shirts with the name of a water sports rental company embroidered on the front. Trufante, however, looked ragged and, aside from wearing the clothes, was breaking most of the dress code rules.

  “Come on, dude,” the other man said. “It’s one thing to be helping the girls into the harness, another to be feeling them up. You got to keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Shoot. Ladies love me,” Trufante said, his Cajun accent getting deeper as he went on the defensive.

  “Well, that was the last complaint. One of these women is going to sue us.”

  “Y’all got insurance for that, don’t you?” Trufante asked.

  “I gotta let you go, man. You’re a blast to work with, but this is going to end badly,” the man said and turned away.

  Trufante dropped the hose and kicked the transom of the boat. Losing the job was not the end of the world. It was temporary and wasn’t really his thing, though the contact with the women tourists was kind of nice. All told, though, he’d rather be fishing, but it had been a dismal lobster season and the dolphin hadn’t started to run yet. Most years, stone crabs bridged the gaps between seasons, but they had been down as well, forcing him to seek another line of work, at least until something better came up. Mac kept saying he’d get his commercial license back before too long, but he spent all his time rebuilding Wood’s place. With no options in Marathon, Trufante hopped on his bike and relocated sixty miles to Key West to take advantage of the influx of spring break tourists.

  He looked down the dock, trying to see if Shelly was still in the office. Might as well get his last paycheck and blow this town, he thought. Without a reason to stay, he figured he’d head back to Marathon and try to talk Mac into doing something that made some money. He walked toward the office and tried the knob, but the door was locked. He banged a few times, then shielded his face and peered in. There was no one there. Moving into the shade, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the tip money he had earned today. He counted out fifty dollars in wadded-up fives—not bad for not doing much, but nowhere like the cash he and Mac used to make.

  Walking over to Front Street, he decided to take a detour to Mallory Square and watch the tourists gape at the sideshows and the sunset. After that, maybe go to the Turtle and have a few beers. His bike was parked at a friend’s apartment on the other side of Duval Street, and he rationalized it was all on the way. The crowd thickened as he approached the square. With spring break came the families, an entirely different crowd than he was looking for, and he thought about shining it and just getting a beer when he saw her.

  It was more a dance than a walk. Almost as tall as his six-foot frame, she looked lost, wandering in circles with a purple suitcase in tow. Her frizzy hair partially covered her face, allowing only a glimpse of a proud nose and full lips, then fell halfway down her back. Loose clothes concealed her body, but her shorts showed off legs that were long and lean. Wanting to see her eyes, he moved at an angle towards her and commenced the patented Trufante courtship dance. He liked what he saw.

  She was still bopping her head, and he looked for the telltale earbuds, but her hair concealed her ears and there was no sign of a cord. She started to circle back like she was lost, and he decided to make his move.

  “Y’all lookin’ like you could use a little help, or maybe a tour guide?” he started, lighting up his thousand-dollar smile that was s
aid to resemble the grille of a Cadillac.

  She ignored him, still listening to whatever song was playing in her head. He followed her to Caroline Street, where she turned left. Closing the gap, he walked next to her. “If you’re lost, I can help.”

  “Huh?” She looked at him. “Just wastin’ away in Margaritaville,” she sang softly, whispering the words.

  He froze when he saw her deep green eyes. All he could do was stare.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she asked.

  He shook his head, trying to regain his composure. It wasn’t often that a woman had this effect on him. “Shoot. I was only asking if you needed some help. You’ve been walking in a circle.”

  “Can’t find my way home,” she sang—the old Blind Faith tune.

  “But are you wasted?” he asked, referencing the beginning of the line. She smiled and his knees almost gave out. “Where ya headed?”

  “Damn boyfriend and I split up, and I think the jerk-off took the car. I’ve been walkin’ these streets all afternoon.” She stopped at the corner of Whitehead and looked both ways, as if the car would magically appear.

  Trufante shook his head in sympathy. “Yeah, sometimes it’s better to just have a beer and chill. Things seem to solve themselves.”

  She sat on the suitcase and put her head in her hands. “Name’s Pamela,” she said, looking up.

  “Pajama Bama,” he said and she laughed. “Come on. Old Tru will make it all better. Promise. I’ll even buy,” he offered, fingering the cash in his pocket.

  “Money’s not the problem. I’m just kind of bummed is all,” she said.

  Now this was his kind of woman. “Let’s go, then. No strings. We can just hang out.” He held his hand out for her.

  It felt like a jolt of current had just gone through his body. She rose and looked him in the eye. There weren’t many women who could eyeball him, and he found himself staring at her—he was hooked.

  “Well?” She shook her head, trying to break the spell.

  “Yeah, I got that too.” He took the handle of the bag and started toward Duval. “Turtle’s right up here. Local’s kind of place.” He led the way across Duval, dodging the tourists and vendors. Scooters, bikes, rickshaws, car and foot traffic all blended together into a mass of partiers heading toward the bars now that the sun had set and the Mallory Square show was over for another night. Taking her hand, he led her past the main drag and onto a quiet side street.

  His eyes opened, alerted by the sun streaming through the flimsy curtains. Like every morning for the previous week, he turned his head and saw her there next to him. Somewhere he knew this was too good to be true, like every other windfall in his life had been starting back in Louisiana. In the decade before Katrina had hit, he had lucked into the Army Corps of Engineers concrete contracts to reinforce the jetties. It was all good until it wasn’t, and it had all gone to hell after the storm, and his work failed. With only an old fishing boat to his name, he had port-hopped along the Gulf coast, picking up whatever work he could before finally landing in Marathon.

  She stirred, rolled over, and smiled at him. “Just another day in paradise,” he said and kissed her.

  “Right on. How ’bout a cheeseburger, then?” she said, using her unique dialect of song lyrics.

  He grabbed her butt and leaned in to kiss her again, but she rebuffed him. Not the first time, but he hoped paradise wasn’t wearing thin. “Shoot. I’m all about breakfast. Let’s go get some grub.”

  They dressed and walked down the exterior stairs of his second-floor apartment. His bike fired up and they both hopped on. Loving the freedom of Florida’s no-helmet law, Trufante turned onto US-1 and headed south. He pulled into a breakfast-and-lunch place a few miles down the road. If there was any tension or doubts on his part, it was always about this time of the day, when it was time to decide what to do until you could justify the first beer and things got easier. They had already done a lot of the tourist stuff: kayaking, fishing from the bridges, and hanging out on Sombrero Beach. He’d even let her talk him into renting Jet Skis for an afternoon. He’d had a blast, but was constantly looking out of the corner of his eye to make sure that Mac or one of his other buddies didn’t see him on what they regarded as the curse of the Keys.

  While she sipped her coffee, he looked around and grabbed a Keynoter newspaper off an adjacent table. Always curious about the local gossip, he opened the paper and started reading.

  “Hey. We ought to check that out,” she said.

  He put down the paper. “What?”

  She grabbed the paper from him and pointed at the headline. Confiscated Goods Auction Today. “Maybe we can score a better living arrangement.”

  “You’re not liking the Hotel Trufante?”

  She reached for his hand. “No offense, babe, but I’m used to something a bit more upscale.”

  He looked into her eyes, wondering again where she came from. She had spoken little of her past or her circumstances, but the word “job” had never been mentioned, nor had her credit card been refused. Whatever, he thought. If this is a ride, it’s a good one. Might as well see how it ends. “So, you’d buy something?”

  “I’ve heard they sell really cool stuff for pennies on the dollar at those things,” she said.

  The stump of his finger started itching at the mention of confiscated goods which, down here, usually meant drug dealers; he’d lost the rest of the digit in a grinder at the expense of one. “You don’t want to get messed up in that,” he cautioned.

  “No harm in looking.” She read the article. “Starts at eleven. Just enough time to finish breakfast and head over.”

  With an awkward silence between them, the first of their budding relationship, they finished breakfast, she paid, and they left the restaurant. They rode south to the Marriott, where he turned in and parked the bike under the canopy. Looking at her, he thought she appeared different entering the hotel. This must be Pamela for real, he thought, not her alter ego, Pajama Bama, that he had spent the last week with.

  They entered the ballroom, or the large room that sufficed for one in the small town of Marathon. Chairs were set up in rows with a center aisle leading to a podium. The setting reminded him of a church—another omen. At the entrance was a long rectangular table manned by a half dozen law enforcement officers.

  “Why don’t you look around? I’ll register,” she said and approached the table.

  He didn’t mind moving away from the uniforms and took himself on a tour of the room. Around the perimeter were cases of jewelry and watches, most too gaudy for anyone besides a rapper or dealer. Between the cases were easels with poster board displays of the larger objects: boats, cars, and houses. She joined him, and he felt like a married couple as they walked around the room together; he more interested in the boats, she in the houses.

  “That’s the one.” She stood in front of a display.

  “Shoot. Betcha that sucker is over a million,” he said, peering sideways at the waterfront house.

  “I’ve heard you can get them way below market at these auctions. That’s the one I want,” she said and fanned herself with the placard used for bidding. An announcement was made and the crowd went for their seats. “Come on, they’re getting started.”

  He followed her to a pair of empty chairs near the front, far from the back row, where he would have felt comfortable. The bidding started, and he nodded off until an elbow jabbed him awake. Opening his eyes, he groaned inwardly as he saw her hand raised high above her head, waving the placard back and forth. He sat up and started paying attention as the bidding went back and forth. He was shocked at how low the numbers were, but they were slowly climbing. Eventually most of the bidders backed out, leaving only Pamela and a man in a suit. He was sweating, the suit too thick for the climate, and Trufante was surprised when he turned to the man next to him, obviously hired muscle. Trufante got a bad feeling when he turned to stare at them and pulled her hand down.

  “This is some bad shit,” he
said in a whisper.

  “Oh, come on. Have some fun.” She smiled like a little girl and shot to her feet, raising the bid.

  Defeated, the man sat down, but Trufante would remember his face and his look toward them as he conceded.

  “Going once … going twice … sold,” the auctioneer yelled and smashed the gavel down.

  “Woo-hoo,” she sighed. “My island in the sun.”

  She got up to leave, but Trufante pulled her down. “At least wait this out and blend in with the crowd on the way out. Those guys are creeping me out.”

  Chapter Four

  Dawn was not quite ready to make an appearance when Mac woke. He’d spent plenty of nights sleeping outside, but mainly on boats. The clearing Wood’s house was built in may have concealed the house, but it also provided a barrier to the sea breeze. With no air moving through it, mosquitoes invaded at dusk and the clearing was thick with dew in the mornings. He’d tried sleeping under a net but found that more annoying than the pests it was to supposed to protect him from. In contrast, Wood’s house had been well thought out, positioned to catch the predominantly southeasterly breeze; the living quarters, rising ten feet above the ground, were comfortable and bug-free. Once he paid off the repairs for his boat, he intended to bring it out to Wood’s island and live aboard, but for now, he was stuck on the ground.

  He walked down the path to the beach and pulled an old kayak out of the brush. It was too dark to work, but the fishing was generally good at dawn. Gathering the paddle and two rods lying beside it, he pulled the boat into the water and maneuvered it between his legs, grimacing when his butt met the dewy seat. He settled into the small boat and paddled along the flats flanking Harbor Channel, watching the eastern sky for the first hint of daylight. Turning to the left at the end of the invisible bank, he coasted by a lone egret standing on one leg and watching the water intently, undisturbed by the small craft. With an easy cadence, he stayed in the center of an unmarked narrow slot that held seven feet of water running between foot-deep flats on each side. There were no markers here, the channel known only to locals, and not many of those. It was one of a thousand well-guarded spots in the maze of the backcountry, known only to a few locals and not appearing on any hot spot maps or charts. He coasted to a stop ten minutes later when he reached the end of the channel.