Wood's Fury

by Steven Becker

  “We better start looking.” Mac climbed in the truck, and hit the switch to unlock the passenger door. He sighed in relief when he heard the click and the lock disengaged. Mel had been lobbying for a new mode of transportation. The old truck was pretty dependable for the few miles they drove, but the electric windows and doors worked when they wanted, and it was just a question of time before the entire electrical system revolted against the harsh Keys’ climate.

  “Pamela’s house?” Mel asked.

  Mac nodded, and pulled onto US 1. It was the logical place to start, but from the text he’d received earlier, he doubted she or Trufante would be there. Marathon had its share of bars and partying, but was nothing like Islamorada or Key West. His guess was they’d be hanging out with Commander or be down in Key West.

  A quick drive-by confirmed he was correct. “We can go by Commander’s place, but I’m thinking he’s in Key West.”

  Mel reached across the console and grabbed Mac’s phone from the cup holder. “You really should put a security code on here,” she said, as she found the contacts app and scrolled to Trufante’s number.

  Mac glanced sideways, with one eye on her and the other on the road as she pulled up a map with a flashing red dot. “Really?” Mac asked.

  “Yup. He’s not as stealthy as he thinks. You’re right, he’s in Key West. Looks like a late breakfast at Blue Heaven.”

  Mac glanced at the gas gauge. The half-tank would be enough to get them the sixty miles to the Capital of Weird. Stomping on the accelerator, the truck belched a cloud of black smoke before responding. They were quickly through town and over the Seven Mile Bridge. School was letting out by the time they passed Sugarloaf, and the traffic slowed to a crawl as every few blocks, cars in both directions stopped as the buses made their drop-offs. The nightly pilgrimage to Duval Street was also underway, further clogging the two-lane road as they crossed into Key West.

  “He’s at some place called IV on Duval.” Mel opened the map app on her phone while still watching the blinking dot on Mac’s screen. “Just past Duval on Whitehead. Truman looks like the fastest route.”

  Swearing this would be the last time he put himself in this position, Mac ground his jaw as they inched closer to the red dot.

  There weren’t a lot of options left to him. Warner’s threat had been clear. If the drugs turned up, Mac would be held responsible as captain of the vessel that found them. Though Warner’s version ignored the fact that Mac had cut loose the packages to save the turtle, he knew the FWC agent would probably be promoted if he brought Mac in. There were two ways the officers could move up from the job of sitting at boat ramps checking random anglers: find a poacher, or bust a commercial fisherman. The payoff Warner would require to forget the matter would surely be steep. They were delayed as a parade of cruise-ship tourists crossed Truman at Duval. Finally, after sitting through three lights, he made it across the intersection and turned right on Whitehead. Several blocks ahead, he saw a bicycle-powered rickshaw. “You can put the phone away. We found him. Billy Bones is here.”

  Mac knew it was pointless to look for a parking spot on the street and pulled into a twenty-dollar all-day lot around the corner. He paid the attendant, asking him to make sure the truck was not blocked in, and, with Mel beside him, marched toward Billy Bones.

  “Mac freakin’ Travis and Ms. Melanie Woodson. Y’all looking for your boy.”

  “Not now, Billy. Just tell me where they are.”

  Billy nodded his head in the direction of the door. Mac knew Trufante and Pamela were here, but was still surprised. It didn’t matter if this was a sham or a healthy cure for a hangover, if Trufante had money in his pocket he would use it to fuel the party, not stopping until he finally ran out of cash or crashed. The ninety-nine-dollar price tag could buy a lot of drinks.

  “What’s he doing in there?”

  Billy rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Tru’s got him a benefactor.”

  Mac knew Bones was trying to figure out how much free information to give him, and the clock had expired on Mac’s patience. Pushing past Billy, he pulled the door open, letting Mel take the lead. She marched to the counter and, with every bit of courtroom presence she had learned, asked the two employees behind the counter where Trufante was.

  Mac sat back, a part of him impatient, but another part enjoying the show as Mel picked the pair apart. By the time they finally opened the door and led them to the treatment room, Mac thought the employees were probably thinking it was either obey her, or submit to lethal injection.

  They entered the room and froze. It looked like a scene from a horror movie. Six reclining chairs were laid out in a row. Four were empty. Pamela, with an IV needle stuck in her arm, appeared to be asleep in one, and in the other sat Trufante.

  Two men stood in front of the Cajun. By the time they noticed that the people who had entered the room were not employees, Mac was able to meet Trufante’s stoned gaze. Glassy-eyed, he stared at Mac. Their eyes locked for several seconds, long enough for Mac to realize Tru was drugged, and from the look of the two men, not of his own volition.

  One of the men fled through a back door. From his lab coat, Mac assumed he was the doctor. The other man’s look changed from shock to determination. The guy grabbed Trufante by the ears and shook his head.

  “Where are they?” he demanded.

  Trufante seemed to snap out of it for just long enough to mutter something. Mac barely heard it, but the initials JC chilled him to the bone.

  Twelve

  Leaving Trufante and Pamela to their own fates, Mac stormed out the door. He exited the facility, and paced the sidewalk, trying to figure out what to do. He knew the man with those initials and if he was involved, his troubles with Warner and the FWC were only beginning. JC should be a top target of the agency. It was no secret what the fishmonger did, and he had operated untouched for years—there was no way the authorities, meaning Warner, were ignorant of his activities. His continued operation clearly showed the hold their ongoing collusion, either by cash, blackmail or both. Mac knew JC had the power to send Warner at him. The FWC officer was lining his pockets Instead of going after JC, Warner, to justify his worth, had taken the strategy of writing a thousand small tickets instead of one large one. By hitting up the tourists with nickel-and-dime charges, and stumbling across the occasional poacher, the constant petty activity seemed to obfuscate his superiors from the larger crimes being committed on his watch.

  Instinctively, he looked toward Stock Island, where JC’s fish house was located, but the three-story houses and business with apartments over them blocked his view—except for a plume of smoke rising in the east. Mac looked away, and found Mel by his side.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Wood ever talk about JC?” Mac turned back to the smoke. He knew he had never mentioned the name around her.

  She thought for a minute. “I don’t recall.”

  “Probably no need. There’s no love lost there.” In the distance Mac could hear sirens.

  She turned to the east, watching the smoke. “Are you going to tell me or what?”

  Mac turned his attention to her. “He’s from a family of crooked fishmongers. Wood knew him before I came down. That was about the time the DEA really started focusing their efforts on shutting down the smuggling operations coming into South Florida.”

  Mel gave him the “I don’t need a history lesson look.”

  Mac glanced over at the fire again, trying to pinpoint its location. Thinking he knew the source, he returned to their conversation, simplifying the situation for her. “The authorities lost sight of him, instead focusing on the media attention garnered by drug busts. While they were all off chasing go-fast boats and floatplanes, JC’s business and power grew. He’s a bad dude. If he whispers my name in Warner’s ear, I’m done.” Mac turned toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Mel asked.

  “That freakin’ Trufante started this,” he said, yanking o
n the handle. “We’re going to see what this fire’s all about and we’re taking him with us.”

  Mac saw the worried look on her face that told him she thought it was a bad idea. He knew she was probably right. Saving Trufante had gotten him in trouble more than once.

  “I couldn’t care less about what happens to him, but I’m not letting him or that witch of his out of my sight. That fire looks like it’s coming from JC’s place. We need to check it out.”

  “Well, let’s go get calamity Jane and the boy wonder.” She led him into the facility.

  Mac followed her. The employees must have seen her determined look and buzzed the door open to save themselves the fight. They walked past the reception desk, and entered the treatment room.

  “Howdy y’all,” Trufante mumbled.

  “Howdy yourself,” Mel said, reaching over to the tube in his arm and yanking it out. He yelped, and sat up.

  Mac was by Pamela’s side, and with a little more finesse, did the same. She slowly woke up.

  “Come on, get it together,” Mel yelled.

  They both looked bleary-eyed, but slowly sat up and put their feet on the floor. Mel grabbed Trufante and pushed him toward the door. Mac reached for Pamela’s arm and helped her. Before they left the room, he realized the other man was gone.

  “You know who that guy was?” Mac asked Trufante.

  Trufante turned, showing his grill. “Sloan? He’s a party machine.”

  Mel dragged him to the lobby and pushed him toward the exit. They stood on the sidewalk, listening to the sirens. It seemed every emergency response vehicle in Key West had been alerted.

  “We’re not going to get there by road. There’s only one street that goes into where his place is,” Mac said.

  “Whose place?” Trufante slurred the question.

  “JC, you idiot. Now, shut up and let me think.” Mac turned away from him.

  “But, I got a boat.”

  They all turned to him.

  “Left it up at the marina on Stock Island.”

  “That’ll work.” Mac let the map of the island load in his head. Robbie’s Marina was off a different street than the fishmonger’s plant. “I’ll get the truck,” Mac called over his shoulder as he ran down the street. Reaching the lot, he saw that the attendant had done as he requested. Taking the keys from the man, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn five-dollar bill, which he handed to him.

  Mac ran to the truck, opened the door, and got in. Relieved when it started immediately, he pulled forward out of the space and left the lot. The one-way streets were against him, and though it was still early, it still took twice as long to get back to the IV place than it had to walk. Mac, Trufante, and Pamela piled into the cab of the truck. It was a tight fit, and Mac could feel Mel almost crawl onto his lap to distance herself from Trufante.

  Traffic leaving Key West was light and they were soon over the bridge. Mac knew the marina well enough that he didn’t need directions, and turned right on Fifth Street. After turning left onto Fifth Avenue, he noticed several new condo projects under construction. Shaking his head, it looked like the developers, having maxed out Key West, had their teeth into Stock Island. The island had always been hospitable to the lower-income workers needed to keep Key West running. Now, they would be forced to live further up the chain of islands. The only problem was that there was no place for them there.

  He turned onto Shrimp Road. Passing a trailer park and several industrial buildings, Mac was relieved that the developers’ reach was still limited. The plight of Stock Island was similar to the rest of the Keys, bringing him back to JC’s success.

  After the DEA had shut down the importers, a lot of guys, commercial fishermen mostly, lost their income streams. Normally law-abiding, they had already crossed the line bringing in drugs, and in the process acquired expensive tastes. When the DEA shut off the faucet, they had no choice except to return to fishing. But, the newly instilled greed had been like a drug, turning many of Mac and Wood’s friends to the illegal side of the fishery. That was where JC came in.

  To the east, the smoke was thick, but the cove that contained JC’s place was accessed by a secondary street, allowing Mac to reach the marina. Leaving the truck, they followed a stumbling Trufante to the center console.

  JC watched the flames engulf his warehouse. His first thought wasn’t the loss. Between the illegality of his business plan and his abundance of enemies, he was insured to the maximum value he could arrange. One of his exit strategies was to torch the facility for the insurance money himself, but he had not started this fire. He would try to figure out who had done this and revenge would be his, but that would have to wait until later. His concern of the moment had been to get the million dollars’ worth of drugs out of the building. He had done that, and the six red dry-bags now sat behind a stack of traps in one of the rubberized wheelbarrows used to transport fish from the docks to the scales.

  His other problem—more like a freak-out anxiety—was that the gods were unhappy with him, something that would have to be rectified immediately, as they were not likely to stop with a fire.

  Sweat poured into his white rubber boots, pooling around his toes as he waited behind the traps. But staying put was not the answer. He needed to get himself and the drugs out of the area without being seen. The last thing he needed was to be detained by the investigators who were already standing by, clipboards in hand, waiting for the firefighters to extinguish the blaze. Once the drugs were safe, he would reach out to his priestess and find out what he needed to do to placate the gods.

  Stepping backwards, he kept an eye on the police and arson investigators while he pushed the wheelbarrow along the backside of the steel building. Reaching the end, he thought about making a run for his truck, but it was pointless. Mahoney Avenue, the only access to the marinas and docks, was blocked by several fire trucks. To make matters worse, he felt like the gods were laughing at him, increasing his already high anxiety. Pulling out his phone, he hit the favorites icon and pressed the only name there.

  “I need you right away,” he spat into the phone.

  “The gods are not happy. I will meet you at the beach.”

  JC overlooked the obvious claim, thankful that the priestess would meet him, but he still had his immediate problem, and that couldn’t wait. Glancing at the road, it looked like the access would be blocked for while. There was one other way out, and he turned to the water with dread.

  JC had grown up in a family of fishmongers. His Cuban grandfather had taught him the business at the very location that was now on fire. His grandfather, the family patron, had been a respected man, devoted to his family and the Catholic Church. His father had been different; his love for the water was greater than his commitment to the business, so it had been passed down from grandfather to grandson.

  His father was responsible for his dread of the ocean. A fearless waterman, he refused to listen to his wife and leave his young son home when the weather was bad. It was the only way to make the boy a man, his father had said, and taken him along. The memories of his father standing at the helm, cursing him as he vomited over the rail, still lingered. Fortunately, his grandfather had seen his adverse reaction and given him enough work to allow an excuse to not go with his father.

  The business was successful. His marriage to a white woman had delighted him, and was happy, but had not reaped the anticipated social benefits. Something along the way had changed, though, and it always seemed to point in the direction of his son. The years had passed, as had that first marriage, and one other. Beaten down by his own bad decisions, JC had seen his courage wane until he was constantly in a state of near panic.

  The fish house was located on a rectangular-shaped, man-made basin off a natural channel leading to the Atlantic. Neither his physique or his boots were made for work in the best circumstances, and now, desperate to get the drugs to safety and to reach his priestess, he struggled to push the wheelbarrow across the lot toward the lobste
r traps stacked on the south side. Several commercial boats were docked there, and he could see a few familiar faces, as everyone had stopped work to watch the fire.

  “Rusty! I need a ride to the island,” he called out to one of the men.

  “Sure thing, JC. What’s up with your place?”

  “Stash these,” he ordered the fisherman, ignoring the question.

  Rusty complied. JC could see Rusty eyeing the packages as he tossed them down to the boat. He wasn’t worried, though, for he knew the fisherman feared him, but also that some kind of compensation would be forthcoming.

  With the packages stuffed in the closest lobster trap, JC clenched his jaw and waited while Rusty freed the lines, then he reluctantly hopped aboard. Even in the protected basin, the motion of the boat when he landed on the deck was enough to start his stomach churning. Moving to the starboard gunwale as close to the transom as he could fit, he waited for the inevitable. Sitting more or less directly behind Rusty to avoid being seen, he hoped the loud engine would cover the noise.

  “Where we going?” Rusty turned back to him, and reversed into the widest part of the basin. He cut the wheel back and looked forward.

  They were in the main channel now. At first JC was relieved there was not much chop. “Higg’s Beach.” JC kept the words to a minimum as a boat passed to port. He felt the all too familiar feeling of bile rising in his throat when the ensuing wake had him retching over the side of the boat. Once they reached the flats, they entered a field of small, brightly colored buoys. Gathering himself, he rose slowly, and holding back the building bile in his throat, heaved the trap overboard.