Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  "Uh-huh. And I trust you, but shit happens, man. You could get jammed up and turn on me, see what I'm sayin'?"

  "Okay, so you think Nicholson might be jammed up?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. But he's out for himself, either way. Always was, always will be. That's the way it is. He don't give a shit about you, or me, or even Pinkie. Not unless there's somethin' in it for him. That's the first thing. You can't trust him, and you sure as shit can't trust this asshole he's bringin' to the meet."

  "All right. I got that. What else?"

  "You gotta make 'em think you'd sooner kill 'em than cross the street. They think you're weak, there ain't gonna be no deal, Horton. You know what it means if there ain't a deal?"

  "We're screwed."

  "I'm screwed. You'll be dead if that meet happens and there's no deal. Get that fixed in your mind."

  "Why do you say you'd be screwed?"

  Kilgore shook his head. "Pinkie will ... never mind. This ain't about me. I ain't gonna be at the meet. You are."

  "What should I do, then. Tell me." Horton frowned, looking Kilgore in the eye.

  "Be cool, and be tough. You said you had a piece?"

  "Yeah, a Glock 19."

  "Good. That makes you look serious, but you gotta let 'em see it."

  "Huh? I got the 19 because it's easy to conceal. I don't -- "

  "Yeah, sure. And that's good. But this ain't a time to hide it."

  "What if they take it away?" Cary asked.

  "Better not to let that happen."

  "So shouldn't I keep it out of sight unless I'm going to shoot?"

  "Normally, that's a good idea. But not in a drug meet, man. Goin' to a meet like this without showing a piece is like goin' to Sunday School without no pants. It sends the signal that you don't know what the fuck's happenin'. Trust me. You ain't gotta wave it around; that'll get you shot or get it taken away from you. But let 'em see it stickin' outta your belt, okay?"

  "Yeah. What else?"

  "Don't let nobody get behind you; I ain't there to cover your back. Back to the wall, or in a corner, even better."

  "In a corner? But what if they jump me?"

  "Man, if you even think one of 'em is thinkin' about doin' shit like that, kill him. Just blow his shit away, okay?"

  Horton swallowed audibly.

  Kilgore chuckled. "You ever shoot that Glock?"

  "On the range, I have."

  "Just pretend you're on the range, then. Point and shoot."

  "Then what? If I have to shoot one of 'em?"

  "Shoot the other one, too. If you gotta shoot one, figure the other one's just waitin' to get the drop on you. Go on and take him. Then haul ass outta there."

  Kilgore laughed at the look on Horton's face. "Maybe you ain't gonna have any trouble. That'd be best. But don't be countin' on this bein' no social gatherin', hear?"

  "Yeah, I got that. Thanks. Anything else?"

  "Good luck," Kilgore said.

  "Thanks. What time are you and Sam leaving?"

  Kilgore looked at his watch. "About an hour. Let's order us one of them room service hamburgers and a coupla beers."

  Chapter 8

  "I'm sorry Frank's not feeling well," Connie said. "Is he seasick? We have a couple of options -- pills or patches -- that we keep on hand."

  "Thanks, Connie, but that's not the problem. He's been stressed-out for the last few months about our expansion plans. That's why I thought a three-day non-stop sail might be a good idea -- sort of forced relaxation for him."

  "I see," Connie said. "I hope it helps."

  "Maybe it will," Kathy said.

  "Should I delay dinner a bit?" Paul asked.

  "I don't think so, Paul. That's thoughtful of you, but he's probably down for the count. He has a prescription for this, and he missed his dose this morning. He doubled up on it a few minutes ago, so he's going to be out for a while. I'm hoping he'll sleep straight through the night. He needs it."

  "Okay, then. I'll go ahead and put the fish on; I was going to serve peas and rice and salad with it, so it'll be fine served chilled later. I'll fix him a plate and put it in the fridge, in case he wakes up hungry during the night."

  "That would be wonderful; thanks. Can you show me where it is after we eat? Then I won't have to bother you if he wants it."

  "Sure, I'll do that. Can I get you ladies a glass of wine before I start?"

  "None for me. I've got the watch after dinner," Connie said. "But don't let that stop you, Kathy."

  "I'd like a glass of whatever you're serving, Paul."

  "And coffee for me," Connie said.

  "Coming right up," Paul said, as he went below.

  "Was it something I said or did?" Connie asked. Seeing the blank look on Kathy's face, she added, "That upset Frank?"

  "Oh," Kathy said, forcing a tired smile. "I don't think it was you. The excitement of the fish and all that blood reminded him of a traumatic experience, I think. I'm not sure what happened to him; he won't talk about it with me, but I know he's seen a therapist for it. The medication seems to work, but he's not good about taking it if I don't watch him."

  "I see," Connie said. "I was a little confused by his reaction when we landed the fish. I hope I didn't -- "

  "No," Kathy interrupted. "Please don't give it another thought. I could see you were taken aback. His comments to you were sort of off the wall; it wasn't anything you said."

  Connie nodded.

  "Here you go," Paul said, putting a tray with a glass of chilled white wine and a steaming cup of coffee on the cockpit table. "Dinner should be ready in time for the sunset." He popped back below.

  "It promises to be a nice one," Connie said, reaching around the steering pedestal to pick up her coffee. "Have you seen a sunset at sea?"

  "No, I never have."

  "Ever heard of a green flash?"

  "No. What's that?"

  "Sometimes when conditions are right, the light from the last little edge of the sun when it drops below the horizon gets refracted by the atmosphere and bathes the sky in green for a split second. You can literally blink and miss it -- it's that fleeting. But it can be quite beautiful."

  "It sounds like it, from your description. You think we'll see one this evening?"

  "You never know, but conditions are perfect for it. That's why I brought it up; I wouldn't want you to miss it just because you weren't looking for it."

  "Thanks. You and Paul are quite good at this, you know. I've never been to this part of the world. I'm impressed with how much you know about it."

  "We're still learning, but we both like new places and experiences, so we try to share our favorites with our guests. You'd probably do the same if the situation were reversed."

  "How's that?" Kathy asked, taking a sip of her wine.

  "I was thinking about London," Connie said.

  "London?" Kathy asked. "Why London?"

  "The English have always fascinated me. They practically ruled the world once, not to mention the sea. From what I've read about London and the pictures I've seen, living there must have been an incredible experience."

  "Living there?"

  "When you were working on your doctorate," Connie said. "Surely you must have taken advantage of being there to see some of the sights: the museums, the architecture, all those historical places."

  "Oh," Kathy looked away, frowning. "I'm afraid I was too focused on my studies."

  "How long were you there?"

  "Only long enough to get my degree. About a year." Kathy shrugged and looked away. "Why don't you use the autopilot more? You always seem to steer by hand."

  Connie took a sip of her coffee and turned her eyes to Kathy, studying her for a moment. When Kathy still wouldn't meet her gaze, she swallowed the coffee and said, "Steering's not much effort if the sails are balanced. Having a hand on the helm keeps me in touch with Diamantista II; I enjoy the interaction with her."

  "That's interesting, the notion of interaction with a boat."

 
; "It's one of my quirks, I guess," Connie said, "but she's more than just a boat to me. When I'm holding the wheel, I sense her coming alive. It's like feeling her pulse."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. It's like that for me, anyway. Would you like to try it?"

  "Well, not right now. Paul must be about to bring up our dinner. Maybe another time, though."

  "Any time you'd like," Connie said, "But I'll warn you, it's addictive. That's how I got hooked."

  "Looks like it worked out all right for you," Kathy said.

  Connie nodded. "Here comes Paul. I will switch on the autopilot for dinner."

  ****

  Whit Nicholson sat on the couch in the cheap hotel room. A king leisure suite, they called it. He smiled when he remembered the reaction of the girl at the front desk when he'd asked, "Which king, and how long since he stayed here?"

  She'd made a sour face as she shook her head, mouth turned down at the corners. She'd still given him her phone number, though. He'd call her after this was over, once he ditched the Mexican with the plastic-looking face.

  "How much longer we gotta wait?" the man asked, his lips barely moving in the mass of scar tissue.

  Nicholson checked his watch. "Not long, now. He said about 8:15; he had to take the others to the airport first." He wondered what had happened to the man's face, guessing it was acid burns. Whatever it was, it looked like a plastic Halloween mask.

  "The airport? To go to Miami?" Scarface asked. "That doesn't add up. It's better to drive. Are you sure he's not setting us up?"

  "They're picking up a rental car. They drove here with Horton."

  "Why?"

  "Why what?" Nicholson asked.

  "Why did he bring them to start with?"

  "Schultz sent them over here to fuck you up, man," Nicholson said.

  "I don't understand," Scarface said.

  "They're the guys that carved up your friend in Miami the other night. Peeled his face off a little bit at a time."

  "Jesus! Good thing he didn't know anything. I thought fuckin' Torres set him up. That's what he told us; he was going to meet Torres."

  "Torres led him into the trap," Nicholson said, "but these guys were the ones that took the razor to him. Schultz wanted me to set you up for the cutter. He's an old fart, a goddamn pedophile called Sam the Barber. A throwback to the old days."

  "So why are we meeting this Horton, then?"

  "He wants to change sides," Nicholson said. "He told Schultz he couldn't meet with me until tomorrow; said I was out of town or some shit like that. Schultz had something for Sam to do in Miami tomorrow. Probably cuttin' somebody up. Horton knew that, took advantage of it so he could meet us without the others. They're comin' back tomorrow night, expecting to question you. They think Horton's busy lookin' for me tonight so I can set you up for them."

  "You trust him? This Horton?" Scarface asked.

  "No. But he's a greedy little shit, and he's Schultz's nephew. If he decides to join us, he could be real useful."

  "You're thinking he could be a spy for us?"

  "Yeah," Nicholson said.

  "What happens tomorrow night?" Scarface asked. "When the others come back? I'm not going to sit around and let him slice me up."

  "I'm gonna give them somebody else to play with."

  "Who?"

  "I got somebody," Nicholson said. "He works for one of your competitors."

  "You're crazy." The man with the scarred face shook his head. "What's he going to tell them, when that Sam dude starts peeling off his face like you said?"

  "Everything he knows. But none of it will do the two of us any harm. He'll send them off in the wrong direction."

  "So what does Horton want from me tonight?" Scarface asked.

  "He wants to run Miami for your people."

  "Maybe we already have somebody to run Miami."

  "He doesn't need to know that," Nicholson said. "Just play along with him. Let's see what he can give us."

  "But what happens with him once we take over?"

  "I'll handle him, either way. If there's no place for him, he'll disappear," Nicholson said. "Meanwhile, we use him."

  "Okay. We'll see how this goes, then."

  There was a knock on the door of the room. Nicholson stood and pressed his eye to the peephole. He turned and looked back at his guest and raised his eyebrows. The man with the scarred face nodded, and Nicholson opened the door.

  ****

  "Did you get any sleep?" Connie asked, as Paul came up into the cockpit.

  "Some," he said. "Thanks for taking a double watch."

  "Well, I wasn't sleepy, and you looked beat. Besides, it looked like Kathy was going to hang out in the cockpit after dinner, and I was curious to see what she might have to say."

  "You two seem to be hitting it off fairly well," Paul said.

  "Well, we got along all right, I guess."

  "Did she stay up late with you?"

  "Until almost eleven."

  "So you did have company to keep you alert, then. Did she say anything interesting?"

  "Not really, but she did arouse my curiosity a couple of times."

  "You want to talk? Or are you ready to crash?"

  "No, I'm fine. I'd like to visit for a while, kind of wind down. I felt a little like I was on stage with her. Can I make you some coffee?"

  "Later, maybe, before you call it a night. I think once you go down, you should just sleep until you wake up, by the way. I think I'm good until sunup. I slept hard for a few hours."

  "Okay, sounds good to me." Connie shifted to her right and made room for Paul to slide in behind the helm.

  He rested his left hand on the rim of the wheel and put his right arm around her shoulders. "So tell me about Kathy," he said, as she snuggled against him in the cool of the evening.

  "We talked about Frank some more. She told me a little about him before dinner; I can't remember how much you heard before you went down to the galley."

  "Just that he'd taken some medication to relax," Paul said.

  "Right. She said he'd been under a lot of pressure related to the expansion of their business. I didn't think too much about it at first, but the more she told me, the more it sounds like he's got a real problem. He's taking medication all the time."

  "Tell me he's not a druggie," Paul said.

  "Oh, I don't think that's it. He's got a prescription for Zoloft. Reading between the lines of what she told me, it sounds like PTSD."

  "Is he a veteran?"

  "She didn't say," Connie said.

  "Probably not, then. Any indication as to what happened to him?"

  "She doesn't know; he won't talk about it with her. She did say she knows he's seen a therapist about it."

  "That's consistent with the prescription for Zoloft," Paul said.

  "Yes. She didn't actually use the term PTSD; I concluded that based on everything we talked about."

  "Okay. So, there's more."

  "Yes. Did you hear our conversation after we caught the fish? When you were on the side deck cleaning it?"

  "No, not much. I was upwind, and it was really whistling through the slot between the headsails. I couldn't hear you except when you raised your voices."

  Connie nodded. "Frank freaked out from all the blood when we brought the fish aboard. We had this weird exchange, he and I did. He commented on all the blood, and I said it wasn't unusual when you killed a big fish."

  She paused to collect her thoughts. When Paul gave her shoulder a squeeze, she turned to look at him and smiled in the dim light from the instruments. "He asked how I felt about that, and I said something like, 'about what?' or, 'why do you ask?' and he said, 'Most women don't like killing.'"

  "Did that piss you off? 'Most women?' It was kind of a sexist remark."

  She chuckled. "You know me pretty well, cookie. It did piss me off, at first, but he kept talking and I realized something else was happening. The more he talked, the more I wondered what was going on in his head. We
got past that with a little help from Kathy; she somehow changed the subject.

  "Then later, while you were cooking, I think, she said that she thought the excitement of catching the fish and all the blood had reminded him of whatever caused his PTSD. In hindsight, I probably gave him some kind of smartass answer that didn't help matters any. I can't remember exactly what I said in response to his 'most women' remark. I was too confused by the whole thing. I told Kathy I was sorry if I'd said or done something that set him off."

  "How'd she react to that?"

  "That's when she told me about the therapist and all."

  "Well, you shouldn't worry about it. Whatever upset him, it doesn't sound like your fault. I don't know a lot about PTSD except what I learned in the military, and that all related to combat. I do know people get it from other traumatic experiences, like maybe a car wreck, or witnessing extreme violence. Sounds like they're dealing with it. Don't let it bother you, okay?"

  "I'm trying not to." She smiled at him and snuggled against him again, purring when he planted a kiss on the top of her head.

  They sailed along in silence for a few minutes, and then Paul said, "You said there was something else about Kathy that puzzled you."

  "We were talking about how I liked living in the Caribbean, and I asked her about London. She looked blank, and I said something like, 'When you were working on your doctorate, you must have gotten to see a lot of interesting sights.' She said she didn't have time for sightseeing, and I asked how long she was in London. She said a little over a year."

  "That's not very long, is it?" Paul asked.

  "That's what I thought. I would have figured several years, for a doctorate. I didn't press her on it, but the whole context of that exchange seemed odd. Then she changed the subject abruptly, like she didn't want to talk about it anymore."

  "Well, she's an odd duck anyway," Paul said. "Remember, it looked like she wanted us to call her Dr. Lewis at first. Maybe after all the PTSD stuff, she felt like she'd revealed too much personal information to the hired help."

  Connie laughed. "Could be. You always know how to make me feel better."

  "That's one of the many facets of my job. Making you feel good is my favorite part. Now go try to get some sleep, okay?"

  "Yes, sir." She stood up and gave him a protracted kiss. "Good night, cookie."