Wood's Fury

by Steven Becker

  Bones was leaning against the bar, using the tail of his untucked Hawaiian shirt to clean his face.

  “Get him out of here,” JC said to his men, then turned to Billy Bones.

  “You find Travis and tell him I want the drugs or he loses his boy here.”

  Nineteen

  Soaking wet, even the warm breeze sent a chill down Mac’s spine. He knew the wind, light from the southeast, was misleading. Mac looked over at Pamela and saw her shiver. Even though they were in the tropics, without the sun and soaking wet, it was actually cold. During the summer, the southeast wind was the prevalent condition and usually meant good weather and calm seas. During the winter, as the heat and humidity built between cold fronts, that same wind was indicative, as were the thin, dark clouds streaming across the moon, that a front was approaching. As if on cue, the first fat drop of rain landed on his head. Rather than walk in this condition and freeze, Mac opted for a cab. Remembering the young woman driver who’d helped them out on his last trip here during the hurricane, he stopped and scrolled through his contact list.

  Pamela was looking over his shoulder. “There—Sonar.”

  “Right.” Mac pressed the phone icon and waited. Sonar answered. After reminding her who he was, she agreed to pick them up.

  “She’ll be here in a few,” Mac said, walking over to a bench.

  “I liked her.” Pamela sat next to him. “Mac, I’m worried Tru’s in trouble. We’ve got to get a boat and find the drugs.”

  Mac looked her in the eye, knowing she was right. “He’s involved in this, that’s for sure.” He regretted the bluntness in his voice, but there was no choice. Her eyes started to water and he looked away, trying to find something positive to focus on.

  Mac also didn’t want to tell her that saving Trufante wasn’t the only reason he needed to find the drugs. He had his own set of problems as a result of the Cajun’s actions.

  He was about to try to comfort her when he saw a pink cab pull up to the curb. Mac had felt an attachment to Sonar when they first met, and he was glad to see she was doing well. For all its reputation as the “let it all hang out” refuge for the lost and lonely, the Key West environment was hard on people, and a large number fell into depression, or worse. When you let all your marbles roll downhill to the southernmost point of the United States, it was hard to climb back up, and there were a staggering number of people who decided to cash out.

  After a short ride, the cab pulled up in front of Ned’s house. Mac left a large tip and thanked Sonar as she dropped them off. Still considering his options, he walked through the decorative gate to the front door. A minute later, he and Pamela stood inside dripping on the old, Southern yellow-pine floor, waiting for Mel to bring towels.

  “What’s your plan? If you’re so sure the drugs are ditched out there, you better get them,” Ned said, after Mac filled him in.

  “If I can find them, I’ll have some leverage, at least.”

  “You think if you recover them and hand them over, that’s the end?” Mel asked.

  “Maybe if I call Warner and tell him I’ve got a lead, he might back off. He’s expecting to hear from me. ”

  She handed him a dry towel, waiting as he wrapped it around his waist and wriggled out of his shorts so she could put them in the dryer. Ned had some of his daughter’s clothes upstairs that fit Pamela, but Ned’s wouldn’t fit Mac.

  “Might buy you some time, but you need a plan B,” Mel said.

  Mac reached into his pocket and withdrew a soaking wet business card. The ink had started to run, but he was able to make out the number. As he anticipated at this late hour, the call went to voicemail and he left a message.

  “That oughta hold us till morning,” Mel said.

  Ned opened the refrigerator and pulled out four bottles of water, which he handed out. “First thing tomorrow, then.”

  They had just finished their waters when Mac’s phone rang. The number came up as “unknown,” a call he ordinarily wouldn’t have answered if it weren’t for the message he had left for Warner. Pamela was busy trying to enlist Mel and Ned’s help in finding Trufante, and Mac turned away to answer.

  “Billy Bones here.”

  Mac heard the voice and cringed. “What?”

  “Rusty saw you out there and now JC’s got Tru. Says he wants the drugs back.”

  Mac’s first reaction was to yell, but he fought the urge and thought for a second. “I don’t have them.”

  “Yeah. Well, he’s your boy.”

  JC’s goon grabbed Trufante by his arm and pushed him out the door. Sandwiched between the two men, he knew better than to cause trouble. He tried to reason with them as he was pulled down the street, but they turned a deaf ear to him. As they escorted him up Margaret Street, Trufante tried to figure out where they were going and how to stop them.

  A half-dozen blocks later, he saw the cemetery ahead. He had clearly heard JC say that he was being held hostage, and as they approached the gates he started to panic. Pulling against the men, the one on his right turned and laid a well-placed fist into his solar plexus. Trufante crumpled to the sidewalk.

  “We ain’t gonna kill you. Just put you on ice for a while.”

  That wasn’t all that reassuring, since putting someone on ice in a cemetery usually meant they were dead.

  They stood in front of a locked gate, which the man opened with a key from a keyring that JC had given him.

  Trufante looked around for anything that could help him escape. Finding nothing, and with what surely was the barrel of a pistol jammed in his back, the man led him down the narrow road running diagonally across the the cemetery. When it dead ended, into an old family plot, they turned right, then left.

  In all the trips Trufante had made to Key West, this was his first visit here. The cemetery reflected the island’s colorful history and residents. The area they were in looked to be comprised of family lots and mausoleums. Some were built like miniature versions of ancient Roman buildings; others were plain. They stood at odd angles to each other and were in all states of repair.

  The men guided him to a concrete structure with two stone slabs forming a gable roof. One man, using the same keyring as earlier, opened an ornamental cast-iron gate. He pushed Trufante forward, through the solid door he had just unlocked and opened. Trufante ducked, but it was too late, and he slammed his head into the low doorway. Breathing the stale air, Trufante felt the beginnings of a panic attack. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his knees inside. The men backed out and the door slammed shut.

  Prone to claustrophobia, he searched the dark space, bumping into two raised concrete blocks that he figured where the tombs of whoever lay here. That only freaked him out worse. The only saving grace was that the building was not constructed to be impenetrable to the weather and there were a multitude of cracks and crevices, some large enough for him to squeeze his hand through. He heard a rat scurrying across the floor and realized the openings were large enough for rodents to enter as well.

  Trying to calm himself, he sat on one of the coffins, and waited for his eyesight to acclimate. The tomb soon revealed itself, though it was of no comfort to him. Besides the pair of concrete caskets, there was nothing. To make matters worse, he felt a cool breeze find its way through the cracks and a few minutes later felt the first drops of rain. The driest spot seemed to be in the corner, and as he sat there, wondering what was going to happen to him, a cat squeezed through one of the larger cracks and stood facing him.

  It hissed, telling him that he was intruding. Calling on his own catlike abilities, Trufante hissed back. The cat looked like any of the feral street cats in Key West. At times the chickens, cats, and rats seemed more prevalent than the humans.

  Not knowing what to do with Trufante, the cat sniffed the air and moved toward him. Instinctively he recoiled, but the cat brushed against his leg, then without notice, jumped onto the coffin, and found a comfortable spot next to him.

  “I’ll come to you,” Mac
said.

  Billy told him to meet by the marina. Mac agreed, then explained what was transpiring to Ned and Mel.

  “I can feel death around him,” Pamela said.

  “Fine, you two go save the boy wonder,” Mel said.

  Mac almost asked what the secret project was that Ned and Mel were working on, but figured if they were occupied with something else, he would be free to find Trufante. He sensed Pamela’s anxiety and figured the best thing he could do for everyone was to meet Billy Bones. “On it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  With Pamela leading the way, they left Ned’s and started walking down Whitehead Street. At Front Street they turned right, fighting their way through the bar crowd, and started at a fast walk toward the marina. Billy Bones sat on his rickshaw near a large catamaran used to ferry tourists to and from the reef for snorkeling trips and later in the day for sunset excursions.

  “Yo, Travis, over here,” he called out.

  Before Mac could stop her, Pamela marched right toward Billy. He caught up to her and grabbed her arm just as she wound up to hit him. “Come clean now, Bones. You can see there’s not a whole lot of patience here.”

  “Shoot, Travis, I’m in the shit as bad as you.”

  “Start talking,” Mac said, noticing blood on Billy’s face. Scanning the crowded boardwalk for anyone showing an interest in them, no one had turned an eye their way. As far as Key West went, their little spectacle was nothing.

  “Where’s Trufante?” Mac demanded.

  “JC’s goons took him. Rusty must have ratted you out. He says hand over the drugs or he’ll kill him.”

  Mac’s gaze bore into him. “And supposing that I did have them, we’re supposed to give them to you?”

  “We have to find Tru,” Pamela pleaded, adding to the tension.

  “Dammit.” Mac turned toward the marina, trying to come up with something that would get Trufante back without giving up the drugs and screwing himself.

  Sloan sat on the deck of the Surfari. Eleanor was below, changing in anticipation for the night on the town he’d promised her. Sloan had reevaluated her worthiness since Pamela had shown no interest. He sucked on an ice cube, all that remained of his drink, while he waited. Eleanor was not the only thing he was waiting for. The call from his contact in the Dominican Republic was overdue. He didn’t want to speak to his supplier, but if the call came, it would be better to take it now, while he was alone.

  Sloan was distracted when he saw the outline of Eleanor’s naked figure as she walked behind the backlit curtains. Looking around to see if anyone else had noticed, he saw a familiar face on the dock. Pamela stood there with the rickshaw driver and a man he could only guess was Mac Travis.

  Formulating his plan on the fly, he grabbed his phone, cracked the door, told Eleanor he would be right back, and stepped onto the dock. Hoping that Pamela wouldn’t see him before he reached them he started walking toward the group, in an attempt to catch them off-guard.

  “Hi, Pamela,” he said, walking up behind her.

  She looked back. “Sloan.”

  He couldn’t tell if her response was a greeting or a threat, but there was a look of desperation on her face, and he had little choice than to plow ahead.

  “They took Tru,” she said, quickly telling him what had happened. “They say that if we don’t give them the drugs, they’ll kill him.”

  Her plea for help had given him some credibility and he played his card. “Who is they?”

  “JC, the fishmonger. He bought the package from Tru last night,” said the rickshaw driver, who he remembered as Bones something or other.

  “So, what’s the problem?” Sloan asked.

  “Something must have happened in the fire and he lost them,” Pamela said.

  “And who are you?” the man he thought was Mac Travis asked.

  This was what he wanted. To meet Travis holding the upper hand. “Sloan Reed.” He extended his hand. Travis took it, but Sloan could tell he was wary. A wave of anxiety came over him, remembering that Travis had been there when he’d slid out the back door of the IV place. It was only a quick glance, but Travis might recognize him. His only play was to make Travis an ally and he turned to Pamela.

  “How can I help?”

  Twenty

  Before they could decide anything, Billy’s phone rang. Mac could hear the familiar voice on the other end even before Billy pressed the button for the speaker. He held the phone in the center of the group. When JC spoke, it was like he was standing next to them—which from Billy’s frequent glances back at a newspaper-covered storefront, Mac assumed he might be.

  Focusing on the phone, Mac waited for the inevitable. The message was clear. It was one thing when the demand had come from Billy Bones; quite another from JC himself. Trufante would be dead by dawn if the drugs weren’t returned. Mac had been in this situation before, and knew the first thing he had to do was bargain for more time.

  “This is Travis. We don’t have the drugs.”

  “I know who you are, so let’s cut to the chase. Get them.”

  Mac tried to analyze the voice to see what he could get away with. The answer was: nothing. JC sounded like he was at the end of his rope. Mac could almost sympathize, seeing that the man’s seafood facility had burned to the ground earlier. But Mac knew who he was dealing with.

  “I don’t have them. I need more time.”

  “I know what you’re up to, Travis, and it’s not going to work.”

  JC was screaming, and Mac thought he could hear an echo. Looking at the storefront across the street, he jerked his head at Billy, who replied with a nod. There was nothing to negotiate now. Thinking he knew where the drugs were and actually having them were two different things, but knowing JC’s location had to help. He just wasn’t sure how.

  “You just take care of him. I’ll figure it out,” Mac said, signaling Billy to disconnect the call. He looked up and saw only Pamela and Bones standing there. The other guy was gone. Mac didn’t know when the guy had disappeared, and guessed it didn’t matter. He was used to evaluating men, and he had judged the man with the Ivy League name as close to worthless.

  The first thing they needed to do was move out of JC’s line of sight. Having him watching could only hurt. Pamela and Bones followed him onto the boardwalk. Mac didn’t stop until he could no longer see the storefront.

  Mac moved to within inches of Billy’s face. “What do you know?” he asked Bones.

  “Shoot, Travis. Why does it always have to be like this? I’m just a businessman.”

  Mac had no response or patience for the con artist/wanna-be gangster. “Then get lost.” Mac was counting on Billy’s greed, which would have the man thinking somehow, someway, he’d get a cut of whatever went down.

  Billy lowered his head like the words actually stung. “Shoot, hell if I know, but that dude, Sloan, he’s mixed up in this somehow.”

  “He’s right, Mac Travis,” Pamela confirmed. “He was trying to split up me and Tru last night. I don’t know his game, but he had a dark aura.”

  “Did either of you see where he went?” Mac asked.

  Sloan watched the group from the alley behind them. It would be harder to earn their trust now, but the alternative of his father seeing him was even worse. He listened, waiting for one of them to mention where the drugs were. With that information, he would no longer need them. If he could recover the drugs, what his father did to the Cajun was not his problem; he actually saw it as icing on the cake to have Trufante gone.

  Travis had moved to one of the piers, out of hearing range. There was no cover for him to move closer, but he could tell by his body language that Travis was upset with the rickshaw driver. Travis finished scolding him, and the group started walking back toward Front Street. It was late now, not last-call late, but the crowd had thinned out enough that he had to be careful as he followed them back to the rickshaw. Once there, Pamela and Travis climbed into the cab while Billy Bones hopped on the bike. Seconds later, Bones start
ed pedaling away.

  Sloan had to act quickly, and his only choice was to steal one of the dozen bicycles jammed into the rack near the public parking lot. He found somebody’s old beach cruiser without a lock. Pulling it from the rack, he climbed on and started after the rickshaw. What had once been barely more than a drizzle now stung his face as he rode. Two scooters came barreling through the stop sign at Duval and Front, forcing him to make a complete stop. When he looked up, the rickshaw was nowhere in sight.

  With no idea where they were going, and the rain increasing, he backtracked to the marina and slid the bike back into the rack. There was nothing else to be accomplished. To be arrested for stealing a bicycle would take him out of the game, and all the action seemed to be centered around the marina. He had turned toward the finger pier that led to his boat, composing in his head the story he would tell Eleanor, when he saw a streak of light come from across the street.

  Looking around, he saw the newspaper-covered door had opened and two men exited. One turned back to lock the door, and Sloan smiled. He might have lost Travis, but now he could find out what his father was up to. If JC led him to Trufante, that would give Sloan the leverage he needed over Travis. His father thought Travis had the drugs, and though he denied it, Sloan knew Mac had at least an idea where they were. When they were found, he would trade them for the Cajun, and Sloan would be there to make his move. Regretting that he had left his pistol on the boat, he decided to go without it, rather than having to make excuses to Eleanor about why he was going back out in a rainstorm.

  The man finished locking the door and turned. As if the white rubber boots weren’t evidence enough, a nearby streetlight illuminated him enough for Sloan to positively identify his father. The men started walking down Front Street, then turned the corner onto Margaret. After losing Travis, Sloan was faster to respond and, when the men had their backs to him, he ran across the street.