Wood's Fury

by Steven Becker

  Sloan stared into her eyes, badly wanting to ask if there was anything else. “Does this happen often?”

  “Quite a bit. Mostly fishing line though.” She went on to explain that despite its apparent flimsiness compared to rope, the monofilament was more dangerous to the turtles, with its thin diameter able to cut through the skin.

  “What’s the wildest thing they ever got caught in?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m kinda new around here.”

  That was as much of an answer as he was going to get from her. If there had been packages of drugs found with the turtle, she would surely have said so. “These guys that found the turtle. I’d like to reward them.”

  “Oh, Mac won’t take anything. He’s not like that.”

  “Maybe just a thank you then? How would I find him?” Sloan asked.

  Before she could answer, the director entered the room. Sloan pulled his attention away from Pamela long enough to shake his hand. “Fine work your staff is doing here.”

  “We’re very proud of them,” he said.

  “I’d like to give a donation for the care of this turtle in particular. Whatever it needs, just let me know.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” the director said.

  At the mention of the donation, Eleanor looked up at Sloan. He caught her smile. Hoping that she hadn’t noticed Pamela, he watched as her focus returned to the turtle. “Maybe we could step outside and work out the details.” Sloan’s intent was to get Pamela out of the room as well.

  Pulling a check out of his wallet, he handed it to the director.

  “Thank you, Mr. Reed.” It disappeared into his pocket. Having done his duty for the night, the director looked for an out.

  “The tall woman that helped save the turtle. Do you think I could have a minute with her?” Sloan asked.

  “Pamela? Sure. I’ll get her.”

  The director returned with Pamela, said his goodbyes, and left the two of them alone. “This fellow, Mac—”

  “Mac Travis. You were wanting to thank him.”

  “Yes, and you as well.” Sloan’s mind was racing, trying to figure out how to get her alone. “Maybe you could take me to him?”

  “That’s a little harder than it sounds.”

  Seven

  Jaw dropped, Trufante watched the bright LED tail light of the rickshaw fade away. With his payday now in the basket of Billy Bone’s rickshaw, Trufante slammed the control panel with his hand. Suddenly, the basket jerked and dropped several feet. Trying to put his anger aside, Trufante examined the panel, knowing as with most pieces of heavy equipment there should be a failsafe. He found the emergency instructions posted on a metal placard.

  Without the security light that he had disabled, he squinted to see the writing. It was too small, so he focused his efforts on deciphering the drawings. Finally, he pulled out his phone and with the aid of the flashlight app was able to read the instructions. Back at the controls, he pressed the foot switch, and held the auxiliary power switch at the same time he pulled back on the joystick. Slowly, the lift dropped to the ground. Leaping from the basket, he saw a rusty beach cruiser leaning against an old shipping container. Old bikes like this were often scattered around marinas, saving the employees countless miles of walking, and employers the same in lost time.

  He ran toward the bike, hoping it wouldn’t be locked. Pulling it away from the container, he hopped on and awkwardly started pedaling toward the road. The seat was too low, but there was no time to adjust it. With his knees flailing out to the sides and the chain banging with each revolution as if begging for oil, he picked up speed, hoping the bike—without the added weight of the carriage, drugs, and passenger—would be able to catch Billy Bones.

  Key West usually made Trufante smile, but not tonight. With aching knees, he crossed the bridge over the Cow Key Channel and had to make a decision whether to turn left toward the airport or right onto North Roosevelt. Odds were that Billy had turned right if he were looking for a party, but with the drugs, there was no telling.

  The light changed and with cars backed up behind him, Trufante had to move. Making his choice, he turned right and cruised the bike lane on North Roosevelt. People-watching was a legitimate sport here and under normal circumstances, Trufante would have slowed and enjoyed the scantily clad women jogging down the well-lit sidewalk. Just as he dodged a couple rollerblading who begged a sobriety test, he saw the tail lights of the rickshaw turn right onto the Palm Avenue Causeway. Trufante followed, invigorated now that Billy Bones and his drugs were in sight. After crossing a small bridge, the destination became evident. He was heading toward the Key West Bight.

  That added more urgency to the situation. If a boat was waiting, he would quickly be out of reach. Trufante took a chance, knowing he had to make it to the marina before Billy, who was cruising down Eaton Street, one of the wider streets that could accommodate the width of the rickshaw and a vehicle. Trufante turned right onto Frances, made a quick left onto James then a right on Grinnell, all streets the rickshaw would have a hard time negotiating. At the end of the road, he hopped off the bike and ran toward the marina. Stopping behind the entrance to the Half Shell Oyster Bar, he gulped air, catching his breath. While he waited, he thought about Billy and how he could recover the drugs.

  On the sliding scale of humanity, Billy surprisingly was not at the bottom, though the elevated ranking was for consistency, not any kind of moral fiber. There were two ways the theft could have gone down, and Trufante suspected Billy was being opportunistic—at least he hoped he hadn’t planned on stealing the packages from the beginning. Although the Keys had a reputation as a smugglers’ paradise, this was overstated. It wasn’t as much the ease of bringing in the drugs, which continued to flow into the porous network of islands, it was the inability to spend the ill-gotten gains. As Al Capone had discovered, it was easier for the feds to imprison criminals on tax evasion than for their “real” crimes. The subterranean economy of the Keys was just too small for someone without a job to be throwing money around without being noticed. Trufante doubted Billy would risk burning him. The word would get out that he couldn’t be trusted, making him a pariah.

  The rickshaw appeared and pulled into the large courtyard, bringing Trufante back to reality. Billy got off, and locked the oversized tricycle to a pole. He and the man in the cab split the packages between them, and walked across the street to a newspaper-covered storefront, where Billy stopped and knocked. The door opened and the two men disappeared inside. Crossing the street, Trufante ran to the dive shop next door and slid against the glass, peering into the cracks in the newspaper.

  The packages sat on a table while a man who had his back to Trufante poured shots of a clear liquid for Billy and his accomplice. They toasted, and just as the man was about to turn around, Trufante was jostled by two kids on skateboards. His body slammed into the glass window hard enough that he worried it might break. Without an apology, the kids quickly moved on, but before Trufante could move, the door cracked open and staring him in the face was the barrel of a large-gauge shotgun.

  Mac pushed his plate aside, and sat back in one of the Adirondack chairs on the deck. The fish had been good and the night was pleasant.

  Mel swirled the last of her red wine in the glass before drinking it. “Good dinner. Want a nightcap?”

  “If you’re breaking out the good stuff.” Mac started to rise, but Mel waved him off and took his plate. She returned a minute later with two tumblers filled with three fingers of scotch. Mac nodded and toasted her before taking a sip of the twelve-year-old liquor.

  “There were some messages on your phone.” Mel reached into her back pocket, and handed Mac his cell.

  “Probably Tru, wanting to know when he can get paid. He ran off before we even cleaned the fish.” Mac debated whether to tell Mel about the packages and missing bucket. He took another sip, and wondered if Trufante had gone after the drugs. Even with the Cajun’s instincts it would be close to impossible t
o recover them, though well worth it if he did. The drag of the bucket would certainly help, and the irregularly shaped packages would be seaweed magnets. Estimating that both factors would slow the drift to less than a mile an hour, he guessed that if Tru had taken a picture or recorded the coordinates from the chartplotter where they had found the turtle, it might be possible to find them.

  “Pamela,” he said, after glancing at the screen. “Three calls and a voicemail.”

  “That’s strange. Tru runs out on you, and now she’s calling.”

  Mac took another sip, savoring the flavor before swallowing, knowing their night was probably ruined. He pressed the speaker button, and retrieved the voicemail. With the phone sitting between them like a stunned mullet, Mac waited.

  “Mac, it’s Pamela. There’s a guy here that wants to meet you. Said something about thanking you for saving the turtle. I’m with him now, so call.”

  The message sounded innocuous enough, but Mac knew there were layers to anything Pamela was involved in. She generally wore her emotions on her sleeve, and it was at least reassuring that there was no sign of panic in her voice.

  Mel answered the question for him. “Sounds like this benefactor of yours was listening when she left the message. Not like her to be so straightforward.”

  “I suppose I ought to call her back.” Mac picked up the phone and was ready to press the phone icon when Mel stopped him.

  “Let it go until tomorrow. It sounds like she’s okay, and there’s no way we’re going to run into town now and meet him.”

  There were advantages to living on an island in the middle of nowhere. Mac switched the ringer off and set the phone upside down on the table between them. Looking over at Mel, he saw the corner of her mouth turn up in a smile, and was immediately glad that he hadn’t called Pamela.

  Sloan was working both ends of the same line. Eleanor was still in the recovery room, helping the attendants soothe the turtle, while he remained outside the door with Pamela. Even without the missing packages, he would be conflicted between the two women, but with close to a million dollars out there somewhere, Pamela was the only option that could help get it back.

  “Do you think he’ll call back?” Sloan asked.

  “Mac Travis does what Mac Travis does. He’s not affected by the moon, or the stars, or the mores of a society off the rails.”

  Sloan swallowed so he wouldn’t laugh. “Sounds like someone I would like to meet.”

  Her eyes bore through him, clearly judging. From the expression on her face, and the way she continued to study him, he got the distinct feeling he had failed some test.

  “What about that boyfriend of yours? He helped with the turtle. Maybe I should thank him tonight, and we can catch up to this Mac Travis of yours tomorrow.” He hoped his ulterior motives were not noticed, but she seemed to read him.

  “Tru’s probably out partying. Looked like him and Mac had a good day.”

  Sloan froze, wondering if she knew.

  “A good day?”

  “Yeah, they hit the tuna pretty hard.”

  A wave of doubt passed through him. It was an odd feeling, neither relief or excitement. He was conflicted, knowing that her involvement would change the effect she was having on him. He decided that until conclusive evidence indicted her, if the men had found the drugs, she didn’t know. “Why don’t you give him a call, I’d be happy to buy drinks.” With Mac Travis out of the picture until at least tomorrow, it would be good to know if his deckhand knew anything. The chance to spend more time with this mystical creature in front of him was also enticing. Sloan had no worries about her boyfriend being there. If the two of them were side-by-side, he was sure to win.

  She turned away, extracting her phone from her very tight, very short cutoffs. “I’ll give him a yell, and see what’s up.”

  “Okay. I’m going to check on Eleanor. She’ll probably want to stay here with the turtle.” While Sloan waited for Pamela to find her boyfriend, he went back inside the recovery room.

  “How’s the turtle doing?”

  “You mean, Wood?” Eleanor looked up at him. “He’s pretty good. The sedative’s wearing off now. I might stay for a while.”

  “I was going to buy a few drinks and thank the deckhand that found him,” Sloan said, leaving Pamela out of it.

  “We’ll each do our part then.” Eleanor turned her attention back to the turtle.

  Sloan felt like he was being judged for the second time in ten minutes, and wondered if either of these women were right for him. But, it wasn’t about the women. He needed to find the drugs. With the additional expenses incurred with the purchase of the Surfari, the scheme he used to buy, sell, and donate, all financed by his father’s stipend, had changed. For the first time, he needed to have the supplier front the product.

  Sloan left Eleanor in the recovery room, and waited for Pamela.

  “Had to leave a message.” She shrugged.

  “Well, Eleanor’s tied up for a while. I’d be happy to extend the offer to you—until he shows up.”

  Eight

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Trufante looked at the man, ignoring his question and the gun. “Those are mine.” He pointed to the six red bags on the counter, which he now saw was a rough bar top. A quick survey of the room confirmed a bar was being constructed here. He almost laughed when he realized they were building a bar. Trufante could have told them their chances for success were minimal. There were already too many bars on and around Duval Street; many more empty than full. Anyone with half a business sense would have known even with a surefire plan and gimmick to compete with Sloppy Joe’s and the other famous Key West bars, it was sketchy. Sloppy Joe Russell’s tombstone got more visits a day than many of the bars.

  “I asked you who you were, I already know this lowlife.” The man turned to Billy Bones, then squinted at Trufante, and nodded at the man with the shotgun standing next to him. Trufante found himself looking at the round hole in the end of the barrel once again. “You look familiar.”

  “Trufante, but my friends call me Tru,” he said, showing off his thousand-dollar grin, trying to bring a little levity to the situation. When the man continued to stare, he decided to play the only card he had. “Billy stole those from me.”

  “Goddamned son of a bitch, go to hell,” he said, and muttered something that sounded like an apology under his breath. “I ain’t one of your friends.” He turned from Trufante to Billy. “Is what he’s saying the truth? You know we got a code around here.”

  “Shoot, stealing from another thief ain’t stealing—it’s totally legit.” Billy squirmed.

  “What’s legit is what I say is legit, and that ain’t legit. By the gods, you bring me bad luck. Get out of here.” He nodded to the man with the shotgun, who moved the barrel from Trufante to Billy Bones.

  “And what the hell’s with you?” The man turned to the gunman. “You was supposed to watch that idiot—not help him.”

  The gunman shrugged.

  Trufante was watching the interaction carefully—it could mean his survival. Billy started to say something, but the sound of a round being chambered stopped him short. He turned to leave, casting a dark look at Trufante, who shrugged.

  Shotgun man pushed Billy into the street, pulled the door closed, turned the thumbscrew, and pointed the weapon at Trufante.

  “Go on, Tru, tell me a story.”

  Trufante started with the find of the turtle, and continued until Billy’s ambush at the marina. He didn’t see any empathy on the man’s face, but there was no anger either. Practiced at reading people, he knew what you saw wasn’t always what you got. From his Santeria references and his dark features, Trufante guessed that he was Cuban. He resembled half the fishermen in Key West. Dressed in a long-sleeved fishing shirt, knee-length cargo shorts, and white rubber boots, he would have fit in perfectly on a commercial fishing boat, but here, in the heart of Duval Street, he was out of place.

  “Hey, JC, what do you
want to do with him?”

  Trufante knew who he was when he heard the name. Juan Cristobal was a fishmonger of some repute.

  “You heard the man, they’re his drugs. Maybe we should call that detective over at the police department. He’d be happy to know a crime has occurred.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Trufante rubbed the nub of his finger with his thumb. He’d made mistakes with drug dealers before, and his present situation was getting uncomfortable, especially when the man called on the gods. Glancing around, he realized he was standing in a large Santeria shrine disguised as a bar. The African/Caribbean offshoot of Catholicism certainly was practiced in the Cuban community here, and Pamela had dabbled with it for a short time before deciding there was too much religion in it for her.

  “I’ll be on my way. Never saw you or this place.” Trufante turned toward the door.

  “Not so fast. If they’re yours, the least we could do is pay a finder’s fee.”

  Trufante smiled, revealing about half of his Cadillac grill. Maybe there was a chance. “What kind of place are you opening?”

  “This will be an ebbo to the gods. Them hipsters’ll love coming in here and drinking the oti, then paying to make an offering. My family will be blessed by their stupidity.”

  “I was worried about you there for a minute. Lot of bars on this street, but you may be onto something.” Trufante rubbed the stubble on his chin. “What’s this oti stuff about?”

  Both men laughed and JC finally spoke. “Pour him a glass. One for us as well. We’ll toast our new friend.”

  The man set the shotgun down on the bar. Trufante thought about taking the opportunity and bolting, but his situation appeared to be improving with the mention of a finder’s fee, and he decided to work that angle. The man poured an inch of the clear liquid in each of the three glasses.

  JC nodded for them to pick the glasses up and held his high. “To Yemeyá.”