Wood's Fury

by Steven Becker

  Mac turned the light back to the stairs, catching a glimpse of her face as he did. Pamela too was studying the blood, as if divining something from it. Mac let her have some space. Standing back and watching her, he thought back on the circumstances that had brought them all together.

  Trufante had found her dragging a suitcase near Duval Street, and, with the exception of one breakup, they had been together for almost two years. Nothing was revealed when Mel tried to run a background check on her, either, using her credit card—it should have turned up something—which only added to their suspicions.

  After being around her, Mac had to admit there was something different about Pamela. At first he had thought it was different in a bad way; she had actually scared him with her forecasts and predictions. After spending some time with her, and as often happens when you go through a life-or-death experience with someone, they had developed a pact of tolerance between them. Until the night the hurricane hit the island, mere months ago, when she had named his boats, and everything changed.

  Since then, it had been different between them; more like a father with a daughter he loved, but didn’t understand.

  “What do you know about the Santeria, Pamela?” Mac asked her.

  “Evil business twisting things around like they do.” She pointed at something in the shallow water at the berm of the beach.

  Mac moved the light but instantly jerked it back. Slowly, he sent the beam across the water again, illuminating the three beheaded chickens. Caught in some seagrass, they had resisted the pull of the outgoing tide.

  Pamela leaned over and, using her own phone, started to examine the corpses. “Yup. Those babies were sacrificed.”

  Mac got the feeling that things were starting to escalate. First the fire and now the sacrifice; they seemed to him to be acts of desperation. The question was, where had JC gone?

  “You seen enough?” Mac asked Pamela.

  “Yup. Seen one ritual killing, seen them all.” She took a picture of the chickens, stood, and directed the light to the stairs. Climbing from the water, she started walking back toward the memorial.

  Mac followed, careful not to walk in the other footsteps. When he reached the concrete surface of the memorial, he turned around and took a picture of the footprints. He might as well start building whatever kind of case he could to clear himself. They entered the memorial, where Mel and Ned were deep in conversation.

  “What about Tru?” Pamela asked. “I’ve tried his cell a bunch of times and only got voicemail.”

  “Did you check his location?” Mac asked, feeling he was suddenly turning from a technophobe into a nerd, or was it a geek. He had trouble with the distinction.

  She looked down at her phone. “It’s off.”

  In the light from her screen, Mac saw a tear fall from her eye and start rolling down her cheek. Not that he was without sympathy—at least for her—but Trufante would have to take care of himself. His concern had to be finding JC and the drugs.

  “Maybe it’d be best to split up and look for him. Duval is only a half-dozen blocks away. He might have just gotten bored and wandered over there.” Another tear slid down her face and Mac knew he hadn’t given the right response.

  “Why don’t you go sit down for a minute and let me figure this out.”

  She walked over to a bench facing the ocean and sat. With Pamela officially a train wreck, and Mel and Ned still deep in a conversation he suspected had nothing to do with JC or the drugs, Mac stood alone.

  “I got no cash,” Trufante said, over the noise of the boisterous singer. It was close to the truth after he’d spent all but a few of the hundreds JC had given him last night. The remaining ones would stay in his pocket—just in case.

  “No worries, I got you.” Sloan ordered another round of drinks. He wasn’t sure what he was doing with Trufante, but Sloan was currently holding no cards. Somehow, Trufante’s friend Travis had come looking for him, and that meant the man had some kind of value. The worst that could happen was Sloan would ditch Tru somewhere.

  “I should let Pamela know where I am.” Trufante picked up his phone.

  Just as he did, the bartender delivered their drinks, and before Trufante could make the call Sloan lifted his glass in a toast. Trufante set the phone on the bar and lifted his glass. The reprieve was short-lived. In one gulp, Trufante downed the beer and set the empty pint on the counter. Sloan signaled for another round.

  Trufante belched and stood up. “Got to hit the head.” He disappeared into the crowd.

  Sloan sat alone at the bar staring down at the Cajun’s phone. Looking around, he needed to decide what to do before Trufante returned. The bartender set two fresh pints in front of them and, just as he walked away, Trufante’s phone vibrated. Sloan glanced down at it and saw Pamela’s name on the screen. He also noticed that it was an earlier model iPhone—before they started to waterproof them. He knew what to do now, and glancing back to the restrooms, saw no sign of the lanky deckhand. Picking up Trufante’s phone, he dunked it in the beer like a donut in coffee.

  The overflow from the full glass spilled on the bar. Sloan removed the phone and set it face down in the puddle. With any luck it was now disabled and, since it was sitting in a pool of beer, the bartender would take the fall.

  Trufante returned a minute later. He lifted the phone off the bar, wiped it on his shorts, and looked at the screen. Sloan glanced across, relieved when he saw no response from the phone. Without a word, Trufante set it back on the bar and picked up his beer.

  Sloan had won round one, but had no idea what round two even was. Turning slightly to the side, he studied the Cajun. He tried to look past the comical grin and was figuring out what use Trufante could be to him when one of the other bartenders came over.

  “Yo, Tru, how’s it going?” the bartender placed a fresh beer in front of him. Trufante’s face showed indecision; not in taking the beer, but how he was going to pay for it. The bartender must have seen the look as well. “On me, bro.”

  The Cadillac grin was back, and Trufante lined his beers up on the bar.

  The interaction gave Sloan an idea. “You seem to know a lot of people around here.”

  In response, Trufante’s head bobbed as he drank. Sloan waited until he had finished. He thought he might have found the answer to his problem. “If someone was looking to make a buy around here, where might they look?”

  “That would depend on what you’re lookin’ for.” Trufante focused on him.

  “White stuff, primarily. Maybe some quantity.” Sloan baited the trap. If he couldn’t find the drugs himself, he would use Trufante and his associates to do it for him.

  The grin was gone, and Trufante set the beer down, looking all business. Sloan had just won round two.

  JC sat on a crate of stone, scheduled to become the floor of the bar, screaming into his phone. It was no use; his insurance agent continued to stonewall him.

  “Yes, you are insured, but we cannot pay out your claim until the investigation is complete. Arson will nullify any settlement.”

  The agent said it as if he already knew someone had purposefully set the blaze. JC put his head in his hands. Things had gone from bad to worse, and he started to question the quality of the chickens he had sacrificed. With nothing else to be accomplished, he instructed the agent to do what he could, and disconnected. Looking around the construction site, he realized how much trouble he was in. In another attempt to please the gods, and with the loss of income from the fire, his construction funds had dwindled.

  The income stream from his fish house, especially if he relaxed his already-pliant rules, would have easily covered the costs of building the bar. His wife hadn’t been happy with the loss of income, but she was the one who started him down this road. The gods surely would be pleased with the offering and would enrich him, but it might not happen soon enough. The three months free rent, negotiated for the buildout, had expired, and he felt a lump in his throat as he swallowed, knowing the first f
ive-figure sum was due next week—as was his payment to Warner.

  The drugs were his last resort. A quick sale would solve all his problems. Even if the transaction was at fire-sale prices, including the pittance he had given Trufante, he should recoup six figures. Until today, he’d had the resources to sit on the drugs and sell them in highly profitable increments. Now, desperately needing cash, he would be forced to dispose of them as one lot, and the closest place he could do that would be Miami.

  But a hundred-fifty miles away, and with his current iffy situation with the gods, it was too big a risk. He needed the drugs gone now, for whatever cash he could get. Whether the gods favored him or not, he was a smart businessman. Careful to insulate himself from the actual dirty work, he used intermediaries to handle the actual transactions. When dealing with drugs, his man was Billy Bones.

  JC was well aware of the sketchy nature of the man, but he also knew that just as he feared the gods, Billy Bones feared him. Hoping Billy had better connections than the nickel-and-dime transactions he usually handled, JC picked up his phone and called him.

  Bones was out of breath. “Got a fare right now. I’ll drop them and be by as soon as I can.”

  JC hung up, rose, and walked to the unfinished counter. The backbar was all woodwork, and already showed the structure of the three shrines he had planned. Where most bars displayed their top-shelf liquor, he would showcase the gods. He said a quick prayer to each while he waited.

  Billy rode hard, standing as he pedaled his fare past the cemetery. Set on the high point of the island, twenty-odd feet above sea level, it was as close to a real hill as the island had. Coasting down Windsor Street on the south side, he braked before turning onto Packer. Seven Fish, the restaurant where the boisterous trio in his cab had requested to be dropped, was on the right. He pulled over, dropped them off, and collected his fare. When they asked if he could pick them up later, he declined. JC’s business would be more profitable.

  Reversing his course, he pedaled up the hill and turned left on Margaret. It was all downhill from there, and he relaxed as he coasted toward the newspaper-covered storefront of JC’s bar. Leaving the rickshaw out front, he locked it to a pole. It wasn’t theft that he was worried about, rather more to discourage the drunk tourists who would inevitably take it for a joyride. Before he had a chance to knock on the door, it was pulled open.

  Billy was on high alert when JC offered him a few ounces of his privately distilled cane alcohol. It wasn’t often he was treated like royalty. Though Bones was suspicious, he drank.

  “That product you brought in the other night. I’m in a position where I need to unload it quickly.” He got up and refilled Billy’s glass.

  Billy accepted the refill, noticing that JC was not drinking. The blood splattered on JC’s shirt was unnerving, but he knew he needed to suck it up. Chances like this didn’t come along every day.

  “Thought you might have some idea where I could do that.”

  Billy knew this moment needed to be relished and stayed quiet, acting like he was deliberating between several possible options to unload the cocaine. Sipping the drink, he watched JC squirm. He pushed it as far as he dared.

  “I might.”

  Seventeen

  Mac had been through this before. The last time he and Pamela had cruised Duval Street looking for Trufante had been just before Hurricane Ruth hit. It had been a crazy night, the one when she had named his boats.

  For many people, a boat’s name held little significance. Named after wives, girlfriends, or some witty pun, the names were mostly meaningless. For Mac, the names Pamela had given his boats were almost spiritual. Ghost Runner and Reef Runner had previously been called, like all his other boats, by what they were—in this case, the trawler and the center console. He’d never thought to name them, and when Pamela started after him about it, he ignored her—until he heard her christen them.

  “Spiritual” is an oft-used term. When applied to people, it has many meanings. Whether that meant a person can commune with the dead or the gods, no one really knows, but, as skeptical as he was, Mac was learning that Pamela was the real deal.

  That fateful night had been about saving Trufante; this one was to save himself.

  “Where’s he been hangin’ out?” Mac asked.

  Pamela stopped walking and, with hands on her hips, faced Mac. “He didn’t leave to go party. Something happened. I know it.”

  Mac had to agree. There was something else in play here, and knowing Trufante, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what that was.

  They had almost reached Duval Street. “Let’s start checking the bars, then. Those are the logical places. Maybe he ran into someone he knew or something,” Mac said, cursing Trufante under his breath. If it wasn’t fishing or fixing engines, the Cajun could complicate anything.

  At least Mel had gone back to Ned’s house with him. Duval Street and Melanie Woodson did not mix well. Whatever secret Ned and she were talking about would keep her busy for a while.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Pamela said, after they had checked the first two bars.

  “The action’s further up the street,” Mac said. This end of Duval was mostly shops and a few restaurants. Most of the party was toward Mallory Square and Front Street.

  “That’s not what I mean. Why would he take off like that?”

  Mac didn’t have an answer. “Come on. We’ll find him.”

  Trufante watched as Sloan reached for his phone. Squinting across at his drinking partner, he could see the name “Eleanor” on the screen. Sensing they were close to a deal, he inched closer to Sloan, trying to make him uncomfortable, as well as eavesdrop. This close to a finder’s fee, he was not going to let a woman interfere. The conversation was muted, but sounded tense. Sloan glanced at his watch several times while they spoke before promising that he would be right there—whatever that meant.

  “Got to go make amends with my girl.” Sloan finished his drink, waving his credit card to signal the bartender to cash them out.

  “You was just talking about wanting some product. Just let old Tru here know, and I’ll beat them bushes for you.”

  A wave of concern passed across Sloan’s face. A victim of circumstance in his own mind, Trufante often had to read people, and what he saw on Sloan’s face was indecision. Trufante needed to close the deal, and without Sloan learning that he had already knew where the drugs were.

  “What kind of quantity are we talking about?” Trufante asked him.

  Sloan appeared lost in thought. “Huh? Oh, yeah. It would be substantial. Into the five figures for sure.”

  That brought the grin back to Trufante’s face. While making a quick calculation of what his fee would be, he rose, drained his beer, and stood facing Sloan. He’d burnt through enough money, and dealt with more than a few shady characters in his day, to know the value of a deposit. He still had a few hundred of JC’s money left from last night, but on Duval Street, that was a pittance. “Shouldn’t be a problem, but I gotta get a new phone, and need some walking-around money.”

  Sloan reached into his pocket and pulled out ten hundreds. He reached for a bevnap and, using the pen he had signed the credit card voucher with, wrote his number on it. “Let me know. This needs to happen fast.”

  Trufante took the cash and Sloan’s number. “I hear you on that girlfriend trouble.”

  Sloan turned to leave and Trufante waited by the bar until he was out of sight. Guys who tossed money around like that were seldom trustworthy, and he wasn’t going to risk Sloan following him to his source, then cutting him out of the deal. Once he was out of sight, Trufante went to the exit.

  Though he knew every bar on the strip, he had no sense of the retail stores. Seeing a chain drugstore across the street, he crossed Duval and entered. A few minutes later he emerged with a burner phone. The clerk had warned him that the battery would need to be charged before it would work, and that would require at least a beer.

  Continuing tow
ard Front Street, he stopped at The Bull and Whistle, grabbed a bar stool, and sipped a beer while his phone charged behind the bar.

  Sloan was at his wits’ end. He had little doubt that the Cajun would locate the drugs. Key West was the capital of more things than just weirdness; imports and exports were close to the top of the list. What he needed was a back-door route to his father and Trufante was it.

  Walking toward the marina, he readied himself to face Eleanor. It was hard to tell on the phone if she was angry or not, and he wanted to be prepared either way. Despite the pile of cash he had laid out last night in his attempt to win over Pamela, she had remained resolute in her boyfriend.

  Deciding he needed a drink to figure things out, he ducked into a French restaurant with a terraced patio overlooking the street. He ordered a brandy and sat watching the street, hoping the pieces of the puzzle randomly scattered in his head would come together. With the sun long gone, the street was busy now, and he watched the parade of people pass by as he drank.

  How to deal with Eleanor was a not a pressing concern, but one that would affect his other decisions. She could not find out about his business. Knowing her background and family, she would be gone the minute she sensed that his philanthropic, trust-fund lifestyle was a sham. Her being in Key West added another layer of urgency to a problem that was already red hot. Trufante, for everything he wasn’t, somehow held the answer.

  Just as he thought about him, the Cajun walked by. Feigning as if he had dropped something under the table, Sloan bent over and watched Trufante through the legs of the chairs. As soon as he was past, Sloan dropped two twenties on the table and started to follow him.

  Staying a half-block back, Sloan struggled to keep pace with the long-legged Trufante. He needn’t to have worried; standing a head above the crowd, the Cajun was easy to spot, despite the street vendors and carnival-like atmosphere of Duval Street at night. Sloan stayed far enough behind that there was little risk in being spotted, though he did have to put the brakes on when Trufante stopped on the corner of Duval and Front Street. The Cajun stood there for a minute, then stepped to the side and appeared to make a phone call.