“Buck, friend of Truck, huh? The sunuvabitch who stole my schooner? Not only that, but brings cops and reporters down on Footloose Fantaseas with all kinds of crazy allegations, like maybe Lou Fontaine had something to do with the Atocha robbery? Sunuvabitchin’ Truck Lewis.” He had a New York accent and kept waving his cigar around when he wanted to emphasize a point, more or less with every sentence. “After all these years of my keeping him on after a zillion guests complain he’s rude and scary when they have a little too much booze, after all his showing up late and sometimes not at all, the sunuvabitch goes and steals my hundred-year old schooner and disappears? That Truck Lewis?”
Footloose employees stared at me while Lou scanned me head to toe with the cigar clamped at the corner of his mouth.
“Donny Pogue, the manager of Treasure Salvors, asked me to help in any way I can.” Slight exaggeration, but he had mentioned a reward.
“You?” Lou said. “The hell can you do that the cops can’t?”
Even if I could say so, nobody would believe I was sniffing around on behalf of an FBI Special Agent, and I hadn’t yet considered how I’d explain my interest in the matter, having only been inserted into it thirty minutes ago.
“I run Last Resort Charters and Salvage from my flying boat, search and rescue is one of the things I do.”
“You here looking for work?”
“I’ve already been asked to search for your boat, Lou, I just came around to get your thoughts on what happened.”
His face took on that getting-something-for-nothing-so-why-not look. He put a lighter to the cigar, expelled a puff of green smoke, and nodded.
“Come back to my office.”
I wanted to ask for an oxygen mask—there were ashtrays on each of the three desks, and Ms. Hog’s Breath lit a long black cigarillo herself. Lou’s office was like a flat spot on Mt. Trashmore, with papers, old brochures, invoices, photos, and printed materials spread in no discernable order all over the cramped room. He sat in an old wooden chair, leaned back, and put his hush-puppied feet on the desk. There was nowhere for me to sit, so I crossed my arms.
“Does the boat have a transponder of any kind on it?” I said.
“It did. They found it in the water behind the museum, along with the radio. Ruined. Sonuvabitch.”
“When did you realize the Sea Lion was missing?”
“Not till this morning. They came back from last night’s sunset cruise, docked, the passengers left, the rest of the crew told me they washed her down, and left Truck behind talking on his cell phone. Must have been calling his partners, the crooks who robbed the museum.”
I considered this. “Did the rest of the crew—how many others were on board last night?”
“Two others.”
“Did they report anything strange to the police about any of the passengers? Or the way Truck was acting?”
“Nah, just the usual booze-cruisers, makeout artists, dreamers. And Truck was his usual charming self. Only one complaint, from a dyke who said he insulted her by calling her butch.”
“So other than the boat disappearing and the video from the dock behind the museum, there’s no evidence Truck stole the boat?”
“My boat’s gone, he was caught on camera, and now I’m left to fight out the value with the insurance company for an irreplaceable hundred-year old ship, the oldest in Key West, not to mention my fleet’s now reduced by twenty-five percent. I really don’t give a shit about the details. Either the cops get it back or I’m screwed.”
“How long has Truck worked for you?”
“Eight years. Aside from scaring the shit out of some of my customers, he really wasn’t a bad captain. Never sank any boats, at least. Who knows what happened? I just hope they find my schooner. Intact.”
Something occurred to me. “Where does Truck live?”
Lou made a face. “With his brother. Goes by Bruiser. He’s an animal.”
I knew Bruiser oh-too-well, and Lou was right.
“They rent a duplex on Patterson.”
I thanked him and left.
Outside Footloose Fantaseas, the cigar stench clung to my skin like a layer of mold. I hadn’t learned much from Lou Fontaine, certainly nothing that totally convinced me Truck had turned into a thief, even though I’d seen him toting crates at the scene of the crime. I had what was left of the afternoon to dig, but speed was important, and even though I couldn’t beat the Cubans to the sunken speedboat, at least I had the exact coordinates. But seeing how it was Truck who hit me, and Treasure Salvors who got robbed, and the two were possibly connected, going after my maps would have to wait. Especially if I was on that security video too.
That possibility gnawed at me. Experts would enhance, review, and re-review the security video, so I wasn’t in the clear yet. I could just imagine how Booth would react if he spotted me on the tape. I’d be his bitch for life—if I didn’t wind up in jail as an accessory.
I had to find the Sea Lion.
9
The ride to Patterson Avenue took me past Garrison Bight marina and the city charter boat docks. It was a gorgeous day, and I realized it had been a hell of a long time since I’d been able to pursue what had once been a passion: billfish on light line. Images of pitching live bait to sailfish and blue marlin tail dancing were fond memories from my days of international travel, wealth, and high-net-worth friends.
I hadn’t seen Bruiser Lewis since our boxing match a few months back. I crossed over Truman, coasted along Patterson, and though I didn’t have the exact address it wasn’t hard to figure out which place belonged to the Lewis brothers: a Key West police cruiser was parked in front of a house with Bruiser standing on the porch, arms crossed.
I pulled up onto the sidewalk and got off my bike. The cop climbed out of the car.
“Can I help you?” the policemen said.
“Reilly, that you?” Bruiser yelled.
I leaned my bike against a scrubby fichus, nodded at the policemen, and walked up under his stare to the porch.
“The hell’s going on?” I said. “Where’s Truck?”
Bruiser looked past me, scowled, then nodded toward the door. I followed him inside. Boxing trophies, glass tables, leather and metal chairs, and wood floors with Rothkoesque-patterned throw rugs created an altogether different environment than I had expected.
“Some serious shit going on, man,” Bruiser said. “They saying Truck robbed Treasure Salvors and took off on the Sea Lion. You believe that shit? Fucking crazy, man.”
“I tend to agree with you.” I pretty much meant it, despite the evidence and the knot on my head. Truck might be involved in the heist, but he was no criminal mastermind.
“Did he ever say—”
“Don’t even go there, Buck. He may be stupid but he ain’t fucking insane. And ain’t no way he’d of done something like that without me knowing.” He shook his head. “Nah, man, something fucked up’s happened. He must of been kidnapped or something, that’s the only thing I can think of.”
“Have the police—”
“Motherfuckers wanted to tear this place up. Good thing I was here. They ain’t found shit, ‘cause they ain’t shit to find.”
“Can you think of—”
“No, man—like I said, he must of been boat-jacked, or hijacked, or fuckin shanghaied if what they saying’s true.”
Bruiser’s eyes were more intense than I recalled from the time we squared off in the ring. Boxing was his business, and as a pro he could measure the effort required and regulate its distribution to meet the need of the moment. He was that good. But seeing him here, in a situation he couldn’t control, with his older brother missing and accused of a major crime, his response was anger, aggression, and something I never thought I’d see in Bruiser: fear.
I wanted to ask more questions, but he hadn’t let me finish one yet.
“Look, Buck, I know you help people with your airplane,” he said. “I’ll pay your ass to get out and look for him.”
; That made three people who wanted me to go out and search for Truck in the same day. Not that I would ever share Booth’s demand with Bruiser. If I did, he’d see me forevermore as one of them and he’d never trust me again. I might have seen Truck at the scene of the crime but I would come to my own conclusions, and if I learned anything more, well, I’d tiptoe through that minefield when I reached it.
“You don’t have to pay me anything, Bruiser. I’m going up first thing in the morning to look for Truck anyway.”
He stared at me and plopped a sirloin-sized paw on my shoulder.
“You all right, man. Keep me posted.” He scribbled his cell phone number on a piece of paper. “Take this, too. Truck’s emergency frequency he uses if he’s got problems. Or if he’s trying to get me and the cell don’t work, we use this.”
“You let me know if you hear anything, okay?” I put the scrap of paper in my breast pocket. “I’ll do the same.”
When I left, the policeman still on the curb watched me climb onto my bike. I felt his eyes burn holes in my back as I pedaled up Patterson. I was surprised he didn’t ask for my ID. Could Booth have told the police I was helping him? I suddenly felt dirty, as if I’d lied to Bruiser by omission. If word got out I was helping the FBI, I’d be finished on this island, and another chapter of my life would end abruptly.
I couldn’t let that happen.
10
“Conch Bail Bonds.”
“Curro, it’s me, Buck.”
I was at a phone booth next to Strunk Lumber. A convoy of forklifts were unloading a tractor-trailer that had just arrived loaded to the hilt with wood of various dimensions. I hoped it didn’t mean a late season hurricane was headed this way, because here in the Keys you start to worry when you see sheets of plywood.
“What’s up, cuzzie? You get some sleep?”
“Got a favor to ask you.”
“Another one already? What now?”
“I’m heading out to hunt for the Sea Lion and wanted to see what you knew about Truck Lewis.”
“Shit, cuz, he’s no altar boy, but I wouldn’t peg him for something like this.”
“Despite the video I tend to agree with you, but what else can you tell me?”
“Little bit of B&E, couple minor assault cases, maybe a DUI or two, you know, typical for a local boy.”
“Has he done any time?”
“Nah, nothing beyond a couple nights in the local jail. Never been convicted of anything. Guess maybe that’ll change, huh?” A rhetorical question, but Curro’s next one wasn’t. “And what video you talking about?”
Crap. “Donny from Treasure Salvors mentioned it. The security video from the museum.”
“Shows your boy?”
“Apparently so,” I said.
“Hmm. That’s his ass.”
“Does this seem like something he’d be a part of?” I said. “Maybe just muscle and transportation for a cut?”
“Truck? Not really, cuz, but I see shit that surprises me every day. Fact is nothing makes me shake my head anymore. So sure, he could have got tired looking at all the crackers coming down and making money off all the old houses, and with everything costing so much here, he might of snapped, said fuck it, and went after his piece. Who knows, but hey, you find him, make sure he has my number, will you?”
While he talked I was trying to think of how I could ask the real question behind my call. With Curro, though, there was only one way, because he smelled bullshit better than anyone I knew, which considering his clientele was a necessity.
“One other thing,” I said.
Silence.
“That security video from Treasure Salvors is the main evidence against Truck.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I’m sure KWPD has it, and, well, your cousin … the one I, um, met this morning?”
“Sweetwater works in the jail, not the evidence locker.”
“I just want to see it myself, Curro. You have any other cousins who might be able to sneak me a peek of that video?”
“Damn, boy, you got some big ones.”
I swallowed, not knowing what to say. “Well, it’s been—”
“I’ll look into it,” he said.
“Thanks, Curro. I’ll owe you, big time.”
“No promises, but yeah, you damn sure would.”
THE COAST GUARD BASE bustled as the Mohawk’s crew prepared to embark on their hunt for the Sea Lion. The 230’ cutter had all the state-of-the-art detection and tracking hardware, a crew of one hundred, helipads for up to three helicopters, three rubber-hulled inflatable boats (RIBS), and a long record of success in these waters for everything from refugee interdiction to intercepting drug smugglers to catching Cuban spies. Frank Nardi was the Officer of the Deck, which made him responsible for the safe and proper operation of the ship while at sea. Big job for a laid- back guy with a nice outside jump shot.
The security guard at the main gate wouldn’t let me through but called aboard the Mohawk and told Nardi that I was here. Several other boats were tied up at the piers where the water depth allowed submerged nuclear-powered submarines to enter undetected by the outside world. For decades a missile base on Tank Island, just across a narrow canal, had been considered the first line of defense against the Soviet fleet in Cuba. When the USSR ceased to exist and their patronage of Fidel Castro evaporated, the Tank Island missile base was quietly cleared out. Someday the old missile silos would likely be reconfigured into condominiums.
Nardi hustled over, dressed in his dark blue Operational Dress Uniform.
“We’re getting ready to sail, Buck. What’s up?”
“I heard about the Sea Lion.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Truck Lewis is an acquaintance. I’ve met with his boss at Footloose Fantaseas and his brother, Bruiser. I’ve got mixed feelings on whether he’s really involved.”
“That’s not the intel I have, sorry.”
“Have you seen the video footage of them loading crates onto the Sea Lion? Are you sure it’s him?”
“I just follow orders, Buck. It’s not my job to critique evidence. What are you doing here?”
“I’m heading out in the morning to search too and thought we could share information. You know, while we’re out and about.”
“Between the Mohawk’s capabilities, satellite tracking, Fat Albert, and our air support, you really think you’re going to find something we won’t?”
“Not if we’re looking in the same place,” I said. Booth’s directions had been clear, but Nardi was right. It’d be a waste of time to cover the same water they were. “I’m thinking of heading toward the Bahamas.”
He looked both ways down the dock. The security guard was on the phone, laughing with someone on the other end. Nardi lowered his voice.
“Then stay to the north, otherwise it will be a waste of time because we’re headed to the southeast.”
“Based on what?”
“Common sense, mostly. Either that boat headed up the Keys or high-tailed it to the Bahamas, because they’re the closest islands to get lost in.”
“Besides Cuba, you mean.”
“We talked about that, but if Truck’s involved, his having been arrested and kicked out of Cuba is well-documented. Nobody believes he’d go back there. Problem is, that old wood boat doesn’t have much of a thermal signature for infrared detection so she’s not easy to track. And they dumped their radio and cell phones in the water so there’s no GPS signal to follow. We don’t know whether that was smart planning or dumb luck, but either way we need a visual sighting to find them.”
A loud whistle sounded along the pier.
“That’s my cue, Buck. Let me know if you find anything.”
“And you’ll do the same?” I said.
“Sure, just keep your television on and watch the news.” He winked and took off at a jog toward the sparkling white cutter.
As I made my way home, another fact ate at me. Why hadn’t anyone said anything about me be
ing passed out at the scene? Or on the video? I had a bad feeling, but couldn’t identify why.
FROM MY SIXTH-FLOOR CORNER window overlooking Duval Street, I watched the sun setting on another day in Cayo Hueso. Even though Fantasy Fest was still a week away, the streets were filled with body-painted tourists who’d likely be gone before the real party started. With the influx of newsies, law enforcement officers, and party-hearty tourists, you could feel the build-up like barometric pressure before a storm.
Not that I was in a party mood. It was the first time Booth had called me into action, and I didn’t like it one bit. I had friends on both sides of the issue and I hated lying to them about what I was doing.
There was no message from Curro, and since I was leaving early in the morning I figured I wouldn’t get to see the security video. I confirmed that I’d meet Ray early at the airport but had yet to let him know our plans had changed. He responded with silence when I suggested he bring his passport, just in case.
The worst part, though, would be if we found the Sea Lion and I had to call Booth to report the location. How would I explain that to Ray? Or Bruiser? I hadn’t told anybody about seeing Truck last night, nor would I until I was certain of his role. So when I told Ray we were going to look for the Sea Lion instead of dive on the sunken speedboat, I’d have to convince him we were not only trying to help a friend but also going for a reward. Everyone would expect me to go after the Sea Lion as a salvage project, but to perfect a salvage claim you either had to rescue a foundered vessel, be asked by the captain for help, or have possession of the vessel. And if we found it, and I mysteriously had a direct line to the FBI, that would lead to questions I wouldn’t want to answer.
I poured four fingers of Pyrat rum over ice.
One crisis at a time, Buck, just take it one crisis at a time.
11
The sound of pounding woke me. Was it from The Top upstairs?
Bang, bang, bang.
It was at my door.
I rolled over. My clock read 5:13 a.m. What the hell?
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