“Jeez, Buck, looks here on the screen like you’re coming out of the gates of hell. Called that one a little close, didn’t you?”
I pictured the glistening glimmer on the coral head. “Closer than you think, Donny. Do me a favor and tell Ray Floyd to meet me on the tarmac. Betty’s showing her age, again. Grumman one-seven-four-one-November out.”
The old Widgeon banked around the corner of Key West, past the remains of Fort Zachary Taylor, the Southernmost Point, the Casa Marina, White Street pier, Smather’s Beach, and down to land on runway 9 into the northeastern wind. The rain had yet to hit the island, and the sun lit its colors like an impressionist pallet. As I taxied to the end of the runway I looked down and saw my one-of-a-kind key out loose on the floor. It must have fallen from the pouch when I put the maps away. The same maps that I had liberated from e-Antiquity before the regulators shut us down.
By the time I’d finished with the post-flight checklist, Ray Floyd, resident aircraft mechanic and flower-clad philosophical guru, was there to greet me.
“How do you want it to read?” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your obituary. ‘Bankrupt entrepreneur cum charter pilot dies chasing dreams, antique plane now artificial reef?’”
“I’d rather die chasing dreams, than old and dreaming of the chase.” I wanted to mention the gold, but knew I better not.
“Then we need to keep this old girl in the air.”
“Speaking of which, Betty’s port engine was backfiring, can you check it out?”
“I’m up to my elbows in airworthiness inspections—couple of days all right?”
“The sooner the better.” I paused. “You hear the Mayday during that storm?”
“Nothing came through the tower. Should I check to see if any boats are missing?” On several occasions Ray and I had flown out together, with him returning by air and me at the helm of a repossessed or ailing boat. I hated repo work, but it had steadily been on the rise, and helped to keep me afloat.
“No point with Betty acting up,” I said.
I wondered where this morning’s mystery woman had been headed. She’d never said, but that had been hours ago.
Inside the Conch Flyer, Susie Pizzuti gave me two fingers of Barbancourt four-star rum and a lecture on not getting myself killed hunting wrecks. I bit my lip, fighting back the urge to tell her—anybody, for that matter—that I found gold. I felt like an alcoholic who had discovered a gigantic still. Desire was overwhelming, but the ramifications held me at bay. Plus, if word got out, every boat in Key West would light out with gold fever, whether they knew the location or not.
My imagination, of course, ran wild with scenarios.
5
STILL SOAKED, I HEADED back to my sixth-floor apartment at the La Concha Hotel in the heart of Old Town. The suite had been an office when the hotel was built in 1927. I rented it on a month-to-month basis and enjoyed the second tallest vantage point on the island. The only thing higher was The Top, the rooftop lounge above me, and I had a private staircase right to its balcony. What began as a temporary situation at one of the island’s oldest hotels had become my semi-permanent residence.
The picture on the dresser of me and my parents ringing the bell at the New York Stock Exchange the day e-Antiquity went public bore no resemblance to me now. Except for the blue eyes. Heather, my ex-wife, used to say my eyes made her feel like I could look into her soul. If only I could have. It might have saved a lot of heartache.
My old GQ image reminded me I was twice due for a haircut. Short and slicked in the photo, my hair was now straw-colored and wild, hanging over my shoulders like weeds. Armani suits had been replaced by shorts and flip flops. The world had broken and taken me down with it. And a whole lot of people who trusted us, too. I didn’t much like what I had been, and I damned sure didn’t want to repeat those mistakes, but if that was the Esmeralda out there off Garden Key, the quiet world I had created may be blown wide open.
A flashing light caught my eye. Phone messages usually meant opportunity or trouble.
“Mr. Reilly? This is Willy Peebles here at Redeemer. I got your number from Lenny Jackson.” Conch Man? “I have a serious problem, and I…or we, could use your help. Time’s of the essence, so please, call me. God bless you.”
The Church of the Redeemer. Why would Bahama Village’s hard-case reformation center need me?
Betty’s ailments and today’s discovery put all of Last Resort’s work on hold. After the day’s near disaster I appreciated his blessing, and wondered why Conch Man was hanging out with the tough-love preacher. Instead of returning the good pastor’s call, I dug out all the articles and loosely assembled facts about the Esmeralda, wondering again if it was her amidst the depths of the Dry Tortugas.
6
THE STORM THAT NEARLY finished me never reached Key West, raging up through the gulf instead. A quick jaunt down the stairs led me to the hotel lobby where the sound of my leather flip-flops slapped against the terrazzo floor and raised nods from the familiar faces of the staff.
“Hey, flyboy?”
If the southern accent hadn’t given her away, Karen Parks’s nickname for me would have. The hotel day manager’s smile drew me to the mahogany and granite reception counter.
“Have you given any thought to what I asked you?” She glanced quickly toward my feet.
“Ah, sure, the Old Island Days festival. Nothing’s come to me yet.”
She’d signed on to be the festival’s Chairman of Special Events, the latest in an endless series of commitments her nurturing heart had driven her to make. Yet another language I didn’t speak: volunteerism.
“The festival’s in two weeks and I’m starting to get desperate.” She flashed the smile again, pulling me closer. “I did have an idea you could help me with, though.”
“Nice to know you think of me when you’re desperate.”
“With your plane, flyboy.” She pressed her lips together, stifling a smile. “By the way, Lenny Jackson was looking for you, said it’s urgent. He seemed upset, no big smile and no flirting.”
“That’s a bad sign, Conch Man not flirting.”
She batted her eyelashes. “About your plane?”
“She’s in for service.”
“For two weeks?” Her blond hair was tied up in a ponytail, which emphasized the long curve of her neck. She lifted a plastic clad newspaper. “Your Wall Street Journal’s here—”
“Toss it—”
“…And your monthly FedEx envelope came.”
Inside was the usual copy of a deposit slip. What’s this? A note on Fox Run Farm stationary: I haven’t heard from you in months. This is it until I do. B.
“Bad news?” Karen said.
My sigh must have been audible. “Something like that. I’ll catch you later.”
“You okay?” she called down the hall after me.
I waved without turning back. Once around the corner I stopped in front of an oil painting of a tropical courtyard to read the note again.
Shit! Why now, Ben? Our relationship had deteriorated, thanks to the on-going investigation into our parent’s deaths, and I really wasn’t surprised he’d finally cut me off, but the timing couldn’t have been worse.
Outside, I tripped over a chicken pecking at the asphalt. The hen was leashed to the bike rack and had a pink ribbon around its neck. The Chicken Rescue League was another of Karen’s causes. She used colored ribbons to mark protected birds.
The smell of bougainvillea permeated tepid air, and unseasonable humidity quickly dampened my shirt. I unlocked my red bike, turned onto Fleming, and tried to remember what my plans were before getting the note. What started as a meandering path focused into a defined location. If my financial life-line was being cut off, there was no choice but to point my bow into the waves. Opportunity was on the horizon, and I needed gas money to continue the hunt.
7
SEVERAL BLOCKS LATER I arrived at Bahama Village, the
oldest settlement on the island. Known as Jungle Town when I first visited Key West as a child in the late 70’s, it was a calaloo of Cuban, African, Haitian, and Bahamian ingredients that remained the historically black area. A chipped white steeple pierced the palm canopy ahead. The neighborhood was normally quiet on a Tuesday afternoon, and I was surprised at the number of people gathered by the church. So many that they were spilling into the street.
I didn’t bother locking my bike, less worried about these folks than the drunken tourists at the opposite end of Duval Street. All conversation stopped at my approach, and unfamiliar faces stared at me.
“Pastor Peebles around?”
Nothing.
A commotion stirred from inside the open door, and everyone turned to look. “I’m talking an eye for an eye, Willy, nothing less!” someone yelled from inside.
I pushed my way to the door where a man in a tight black T-shirt spun on me. His eyes were bloodshot, and something between concern and anger distorted his handsome features.
“What are you, the press?”
His question wouldn’t have surprised me more had he asked if I was here to give a sermon.
“Buck, that you?” Lenny Jackson’s short, muscular figure stepped forward from behind the small group.
“Lenny, who the hell’s—”
He grabbed my arm, pulling me aside. “Real quick, man, I need to talk to you before you meet Willy.”
An elderly light-skinned black man stepped out from behind him. He wore small round eyeglasses but was broad-shouldered and nearly as tall as me at six-two. Lenny stood frozen, uncharacteristically speechless. I extended my hand.
“Buck Reilly.”
The man’s grip was strong, his palm dry. He put a heavy hand on Lenny’s shoulder and moved him aside.
“Sorry for the greeting.” He glared at the guy in the black T-shirt. “But Manny here is…well, everyone’s upset. I’m Willy Peebles. From everything I’ve heard I’m surprised we haven’t met sooner.”
“Willy?” Lenny was fidgeting like a child in need of the bathroom. “Can I talk to Buck before—”
“I’ll see Mr. Reilly alone now, Lenny.”
If he weren’t black as the night sea I’d have sworn Lenny was turning red. It was the first time I’d ever seen Conch Man at a loss for words.
Pastor Peebles led me down the short aisle of the simple sanctuary. We left Lenny rubbing the sparse whiskers on his chin. The church had white walls, square windows, and a rough-hewn podium with a small cross of dark wood hanging behind it. We entered a dimly lit corridor that had three doors. He opened the middle one, which turned out to be his office. To my surprise, the guy in the black T-shirt—Manny—followed us in.
Inside, there was an old wood desk covered with neatly stacked piles of paper and a few folding chairs placed against walls covered with old black and white photographs, faces from an era gone by. None were smiling.
I had the distinct recollection of going to the principal’s office as a kid.
Silence followed after we all sat. Pastor Peebles eyed me up and down, his gaze penetrating, his expression intense. He drew in a slow breath and held it. Was he having second thoughts?
“What do you know about the Church of the Redeemer, Mr. Reilly?”
“My father was Mr. Reilly, call me Buck.”
“Your father’s dead, right? Your mother too?” I swallowed and glanced at Manny, whose red eyes were simmering in their sockets.
I cleared my throat. “Redeemer’s the oldest church on the island, isn’t it? With a reputation for steering young troublemakers back onto the straight and narrow?”
“Adults, too.” He raised his eyebrows. “We’re old-island here, hanging on to the simpler times, before drunken money lined Key West’s streets. We do what’s needed to maintain a tranquil setting. Up until today.”
Manny grunted and crossed his arms. His face had strong lines, a thin neat mustache, and golden skin that glowed like it was buffed.
Willy glanced at his telephone. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Sounds as if you know my story.”
“All I know is that you live in a hotel and run a low-budget charter service.”
“Charter and salvage, I do—”
“I know all about you, Buck,” Manny said. “Or should I call you, King Charles?”
What the hell?
“King Charles?” Willy said.
“Few years ago there was a picture on the cover of the Wall Street Journal of this guy sitting on top of a huge pile of Mayan treasure. Only back then his name wasn’t Buck. The headline read “King Charles hits the motherlode!” A real modern day pirate, our pilot.”
“Those days are over,” I said. “Besides, Buck’s my middle name!”
“His company was a NASDAQ darling that plundered ancient artifacts and sold them on-line. Until the global economy cratered, and then, like any good pirate would, Buck turned and ran—”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Manny Gutierrez,” he said. “MG International ring a bell? We bought and sold a lot of product through e-Antiquity before you went bankrupt, turned evidence against your partner to save your ass, then vanished. Figures you’d come to a place like Key West.”
A long few seconds passed before I realized my mouth was hanging open.
“Your Chapter Seven cost me thirty grand, plus legal expenses trying to get the rest back.” Manny said.
I turned back to Willy. “Didn’t your message say you were in trouble?”
“That’s right, but if what Manny says is true, I can’t afford to deal with hustlers. It’s against everything we…teach our youngsters.”
An uncomfortable pause ensued. The pastor’s response to Manny’s exaggerated description of e-Antiquity didn’t surprise me. Many people had opposed our efforts to find forgotten relics, even though we always worked closely with local museums to preserve the sites and create exhibits. We only kept a fraction of the finds, but it only took a small amount to stir up trouble. Success had made me numb to those accusations, but my skin wasn’t as thick as it used to be.
I was about to stand up when Willy said, “But the situation leaves me no choice.”
“What exactly is the situation?” I said.
“Our mission to Cuba. Three of our people left this morning for Havana by boat. A sudden storm hit and they called in a Mayday. We haven’t been able to reach them since. The Coast Guard’s been searching for hours, but still, nothing.”
“Was this Mayday in Spanish?”
Willy nodded. “Word travels fast. The Coast Guard estimates our ship was halfway to Cuba when it disappeared.”
“You’re wasting your time with this guy,” Manny said. “He can’t be trusted.”
“Maybe not, but we need all the help we can get,” Willy said.
One of the reasons I came to Key West was because e-Antiquity had no clients here. Now, MG International…I vaguely remembered his account. We obviously left them hanging, like so many others. Guilt was a sensation I’d only recently begun to recognize.
“Any chance the boat only lost power?” I asked.
The pastor drew his hands together, interlocked his fingers, and squeezed them tight. “Just before the Mayday I got a cell call from Manuel Ortega, one of our people on board.” He exhaled a long breath. “He sounded frantic, and the call kept breaking up before he finally got cut off. I couldn’t make out a damn word he said. The Mayday followed a few minutes later over the ship’s radio.”
“The old guy was scared shitless about Santeria. Probably knew something we should have.” Manny pointed his thumb at me. “I refuse to be associated with a cut and run type like Buck Reilly.”
“He’s got a seaplane, Manny. This isn’t about you.”
God, I hated being broke. “Why the mission to Cuba?”
The pastor stared at his finger tracing a deep gouge in the desk’s scarred wood top. The tension and fear out front was palpable, as was Manny’s anger i
n here, but Willy Peebles held his composure.
“Details don’t matter, finding our people does. The Coast Guard’s got a lot on their plate, that’s why I want to charter your sea plane.”
“This is a joke, the ocean’s huge!” Manny said. “Believe me, I know.”
Manny’s attitude and knowledge of my past, along with Betty’s symptoms this morning made me want to turn and run. A job that starts bad always ends bad. But the recollection of the golden shimmer in the Dry Tortugas, combined with Ben’s note in the FedEx package left me no choice.
“Five hundred per day, minimum, plus expenses—”
Willy held his hands up. “Whatever.”
“Tell me about the boat.” I said.
“It’s big, was loaded to the gills with supplies—along with our volunteers. The boat was an answer to our prayers, until this.”
Manny rubbed his eyes and forehead. His fingernails glistened. Manicured.
“They gave their location to the Coast Guard, wait…” He dug into his pocket. “Here’s the latitude and longitude, or GPS coordinates. I’ve lived on this island my whole life, but truth be told, I hate the damn water.” He held out a piece of paper. If memory served, the boat was in the middle of the Florida straits.
The sky outside his small window had turned orange with sunset.
“This Ortega, he didn’t say anything else?” I said.
Willy slowly shook his head. “Nothing that would help you find them.”
My eyes locked onto a picture on the desk. It was at an angle, but—I grabbed it.
Uh-oh. “Who’s this?” I turned the picture toward him. “This girl?”
“Shaniqua? She’s my daughter. What about her?”
“And the name of the boat carrying the missionaries?”
A long pause. “Carnival, like the cruise line,” he said finally. “Shaniqua wanted to go, thank God I didn’t let her. You know her?” Willy stared at me, waiting, his eyes narrowing to a squint. Manny’s stare remained hostile.
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