Crap!
The morning’s nameless charter had come full circle. Figures…“My cardinal rule for salvage projects is that I won’t do anything that could get me arrested.” I nodded toward Manny. “So whatever he meant by an eye for an eye…”
“You mean arrested again?” Manny said.
“And, I stay out of the papers,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” Manny said. “We don’t want anyone to you’re involved with us either.”
I stood up. “What’s your connection to Conch—ah, Lenny Jackson?”
“Better let him tell you that,” Willy said.
I looked around his cluttered office one last time, getting a sense of the man who committed his life to making a difference in the lives of others, knowing his situation was poised to go from bad to terrible, thanks to me. Used to be I’d put my goals ahead of anything, no matter what. In this case, that meant ignoring Willy and the smell of gold. If nothing else, my failures had proven that the world didn’t revolve around me, and whether it was my own form of penance, guilty conscience, or that I just didn’t have anything all that important to do anymore, one of my credos now was to resolve any issues my actions have created before pursuing my own agenda.
There was no choice but to get Betty back in the air.
My mind wandered back out to the Dry Tortugas, where I’d seen the Carnival this morning, where I’d dropped Willy’s daughter before the storm. A last glance at the photo now lying flat on the desk, her eyes staring up at me, mouth smiling that Cheshire-cat smile, and I walked out with Manny’s recognition clinging to me like a curse.
So much for flying under the radar in Key West….
8
I COULD FEEL THE stares drilling into my back as I left the church. If Manny Gutierrez had a big mouth, my days of quiet living were over, but with Ben cutting me off, Last Resort’s revenues wouldn’t be enough to cover my costs anyway, much less a treasure hunting operation. As for Willy’s daughter, why should I feel guilty? I was just doing my job. I swallowed hard.
If that was the case, why didn’t I say so?
I knew I had to find her, otherwise Manny Gutierrez’s sentiment about me will shortly become Gospel. I had a sort of damned if you do, damned if don’t moment. Ironic, considering my location.
Lenny was already gone, so I took my bike and left without turning back. With my own near-Mayday coinciding with the Carnival’s, the boat’s sinking as a result of that storm was not only plausible but likely. If the Coasties didn’t find them before morning, Betty would have to suck it up. My stomach churned, the name of my business suddenly prophetic. Charter and salvage was never intended to apply to the same client, all in one day.
The orange dusk had faded to black, leaving only car lights to illuminate my way. Loud rap music shook the paint-peeled timbers of an old eyebrow house on Thomas. Just one of the countless century-old dwellings that had survived everything from hurricanes to fires. Most had been restored and converted into seven-figure resort homes. The development sharks had bloodied the back streets of Bahama Village, picking off holdouts one at a time, only to be foreclosed on when their mortgages went upside down.
At Blue Heaven I was greeted by the same dark wrinkled men that held vigil there every day. “Looky who’s here, the Great White Hope,” one said. Snickers followed, along with coughing from the geriatric group of wise-crackers I referred to as the Gargoyles.
“Shiiiit, you mean hope-less,” another said.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
The patio restaurant was crowded, and a jumbo-sized woman in a tropical print muu-muu was perched under a tiny tiki hut rasping out a version of Jewel’s “Who Will Save Your Soul?” The corner of the bar was open and Lenny was fresh on duty serving up drinks. His usual cadre of Bahama Village disciples was missing, relieving him of the need to pontificate about how locals could no longer afford the island, how thanks to cruise ships local government only cared about tourism dollars, and how he’d change things. His smile was missing too.
“Conch Man.”
At the sound of my voice he dropped the glass he was polishing but made a quick save with his other hand.
“You get a call for a last-minute charter this morning? A girl?” he said.
“Hmm, let’s see. You mean Shaniqua Peebles?”
He slumped at the waist. “Damn.”
“Last Resort’s not in the Yellow Pages,” I said. “So you gave her my name?”
“She wanted to go on the mission, but her daddy wouldn’t let her—”
“So you sent her my way, then had Willy call without warning me.”
“I tried. Shit, I went to your damn hotel.”
Lenny held firmly to the bar while I gave him the details of the drop in the Dry Tortugas. He grimaced, then licked his lips.
“Does Willy know?”
“I didn’t even know until I saw her picture.”
“Hard Case is going to kill me. You got to find her, man, all of them, but Shaniqua—”
“Did you give him the scouting report on me?”
“I’ve known Willy my whole life. Hell, the man was in the room when I was born. He asks me something, what am I ‘sposed to do, lie? Boxing’s been the shit here for seventy years.” He nodded over to where they set up the ring next to the bar for boxing matches.
“I’m not talking about—”
“Lots of famous men spilt blood here. You just happen to be a not-so-famous fool got himself lined up to spill some too. I seen Bruiser Lewis knock out three men in one night. You had any sense, you’d leave town before Saturday night and never come back.” He paused. “After you find Shaniqua, that is.”
Jumbled lyrics from an old song my parents used to listen to tumbled through my mind. I hadn’t thought of it for years, and even though it had been my personal anthem for my teenaged boxing matches, I couldn’t remember it clearly. Something about a boxer standing alone, shamed, scarred by every glove that had cut him down, and no matter where he ran, he remained a boxer, a fighter to the end.
A chill took the wind out of me. I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t talking about the fight.” I leaned closer to him. “And you mean after we find her.”
He stepped back quick as if dodging a punch. “Oh no, not me, I ain’t going up in that relic, Bimbo Betty, man, no way, these people need me.”
“Don’t call my plane a bimbo. She may be old but she’s got style.”
“Style or not, you’re not getting my black ass in that jalopy. Especially with those— what did Willy did tell you, anyway?”
“About what?”
“The mission and all the shit leading up to it.” He pulled at the bottom stubble of his sorry attempt at a goatee.
“It’s a Mayday, Lenny, the boat’s missing. That’s all that matters.”
“Yeah, well, wasn’t so popular with everyone, trust me on that.”
“Is that what Manny meant about an eye for an eye?”
“Manny’s a hot-headed Cuban, man. Showed up here on an inner tube, ten, fifteen years ago. Now he’s a big shot art dealer.”
“Whatever, Lenny, I have to find those people, and I—”
Interrupted by a waiter shouting a half-dozen drink orders, Lenny sprang into action. I watched him, not surprised at his reluctance to help. He’d given me excuses before when I invited him to go flying. At least he was finally honest about being afraid.
“Get Karen to help you, she’s the type!” he yelled from the other side of the bar. “Plus, I think she’s sweet on you.”
“Perfect, just what I need.”
“A woman? Damn straight. You haven’t let anyone close since you been here.”
“I can’t afford to blow my deal at the La Concha, and I don’t shit where I sleep.”
“Un-hunh. And maybe she’d say no. Or worse, she says yes, you fall in love and she leaves you too, right?”
I didn’t say anything, irritated by the memory Lenny had dredged up.
“Your ex m
ust have really kicked your ass, brother, that’s all I can say.”
“Betty’s my girl, now.”
“Yeah, Betty. Antique bucket-o-bolts. She won’t break your heart, right? Kill you, maybe, but she won’t leave you—”
“Nice try, Lenny,” I said. “Sunrise is at six-fifteen tomorrow. Meet me at the airport at six, by then every minute will count.”
“You’re blowing a great opportunity, man. Karen’s fine inside and out. Rare combo.”
“You got me into this shit then called me in cold to face her old man. Bottom line is I can’t do it alone.”
He shook his head. “Fine, I’ll be there. Goddamn.”
“What about the others on the boat? Who are they?”
“Rodney Claggett, Manuel Ortega, Jo Jo Jeffries. Bunch of bible thumpers.”
“Which one’s connected to Manny Gutierrez?”
“Nobody, man, he got the hots for Shaniqua. Him and everyone else on this rock who’s laid eyes on her. He donated most of the food and crap they brought along, and threw ‘em a going-away party last night at his gallery on White Street. Wait till he finds out she’s on board.”
I tapped my fingers on the wood bar. Could guilt be behind Manny’s pissy attitude, or was it just because I was involved?
“If Gutierrez thought somebody was to blame, he’d be looking for revenge.”
Another stream of abuse from the Gargoyles peppered my departure.
A full moon had risen above a stand of massive hibiscus trees across the street, and a chill had crept into the air. Lenny hadn’t volunteered the nature of his relationship with Willy Peebles, but he was probably a past hard-case project, or romantically involved with Shaniqua, or who knows what. Why he’d keep that from me wasn’t clear, but then we all have our secrets.
Mine, however, were at risk of becoming public. So, thanks to this mess, my salvage pursuits had to go on the back burner, and finding the missionaries was now priority one, damnit.
Back at the La Concha, I found Josh Bentley at the front desk. The night shift. Karen was never around after work. Not out on the town at night, either, at least the places I go. She lived here but vanished. I always thought it strange.
Lenny’s idea about her helping would have been a good one, and this trip could have been a nice opportunity to spend some time together. What’s the old adage, though? Once burned, twice chicken-shit? Romance was yet another luxury I could no longer afford.
9
THE EASTERN HORIZON WAS aglow with dawn, no clouds were visible, and there was minimal wind. Betty’s white skin reflected the early morning sun. The red float under the starboard wing and the green float under the port wing were dark in the shadows. The smell of Avgas 100 aviation fuel permeated the air. The plan to arrive early enough to get Ray Floyd to give Betty’s port engine a quick once-over had been wishful thinking. I’d left him a message last night, but Ray was less than diligent about checking his answering machine.
The radio reported that the Coast Guard had found nothing during the night, and surviving twenty-four hours in the water was pressing it if the missionaries had capsized.
What’s this?
A small newspaper article was taped to Betty’s hatch. It was from the Key West Citizen’s section called the “Tattler.” I saw my name and groaned.
“…Former entrepreneur Buck Reilly, who was the co-founder of e-Antiquity, the internet auction site specializing in rare coins, ancient pottery, jewels, paintings, sculpture, fine arts, antiques, collective memorabilia and other rare items, has apparently been living in Key West’s La Concha Hotel since filing for bankruptcy nearly two years ago.
Now operating Last Resort Charter and Salvage, Mr. Reilly’s enterprise has dwindled in epic proportion since e-Antiquity’s heyday as one of Wall Street’s favorites. Sources speculate Reilly chose Key West based on clues of previously undiscovered sunken artifacts he learned of while at his former firm…”
I crumpled the article into a ball. Perfect, just perfect.
I stewed while I completed the pre-flight check and loaded the supplies. A shout from the terminal broke me out of the funk. Lenny came running with plastic bags in each hand. It occurred to me that today’s rescue mission would either cement or ruin one of the few relationships I cared about in this town. Or had left, for that matter.
“Brought some sandwiches and shit.” He spoke while scrutinizing Betty’s port engine and three-blade Hartzell prop. His inspection continued down the fuselage. The dark wood cross from behind Redeemer’s podium was around his neck. I sniffed the air, and wondered if he had a pocketful of garlic cloves too.
“You have been on a plane before, right?”
“I been on a jet, but never one of these prop jobs.”
“Jets are like buses, Lenny. This is real flying.”
“Nothing wrong with the bus, man.”
Once on board, I fired up the port engine first. It coughed and sputtered before smoothing out.
“Why’s that motor running so bad, spitting out blue smoke and all?” Lenny’s voice sounded puny in my headset, like a child’s.
“She’s just a little cold. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”
I taxied the plane to the end of the runway, was given clearance by the tower, and eased the throttles forward. A minute later we banked to the south, the morning’s first plane out of Key West International Airport. Lenny had a two-handed death grip on the base of his seat. His nose was pressed against the side window as he watched the island disappear beneath us.
“It’ll take about twenty minutes to reach the search area,” I said. “Let me know if you’re gonna puke or shit yourself.”
He plucked ferociously at his chin.
The emerald water rushed past us as we ascended to 1,000 feet. Last night, while working on my flight plan, I’d run some calculations trying to figure out where the boat might be, extrapolating different speeds and distances along with the current and tides from the time I dropped Shaniqua. My models didn’t match the Coast Guard’s. The Carnival had twin screws, and based on a conservative cruising speed of fifteen knots, she’d have far overshot the location their Cutter was searching.
A tingle danced at the base of my brainstem with the decision to disregard the conclusions of the highly qualified branch of Homeland Security to pursue my own back-of-the-napkin analysis and wrecker’s intuition. It made no sense to search the same patch of water as the Coast Guard. My former financial empire had been built on risk taking, and pursuing imperceptible paths toward my objectives. More recycled skills.
“Havana’s dead ahead, ninety miles,” I said.
“Don’t get any fool ideas.”
“Always wanted to fly there and buzz the Morro Castle.”
“Too bad Uncle Sam’s tight on giving permission slips. Took Willy forever to get his, even with things starting to open up. Probably was an omen.”
“Come on, Lenny, where’s your sense of adventure? One of America’s last forbidden fruits, swaddled in mystery, history, fiery Latinas, famous cigars, and great rum—hell, I’d trade half my collection of Caribbean estate rums for a bottle of seven- year-old amber Havana Club.”
“I’ll buy you a case of that Haitian rotgut you drink, just keep me out of there. What’s your interest in Cuba anyway, man? From being a Foreign Service brat, or another treasure hunt?”
The question made me pause. “Combination of things.”
“Can’t you ever just answer a damn question?” Surviving takeoff had done wonders for his confidence.
“My father was a maverick at State, Cuba was one of his hot buttons. He was never posted there but went on a couple occasions.”
“How about you?”
“It’s on my list.” I smiled. “Our failed embargo kept me out when e-Antiquity was rocking, now I can’t afford to go.” I thought of the ancient maps below my seat, a couple of which were of Cuban waters. “Still one of the dreams I intend to pursue, though.”
“Just keep this antique
in the air so we don’t wind up as a wet dream.”
I checked my watch. “Fifteen more minutes.”
Lenny let out a long yawn, then sat up straight.
“You know any of these missionaries?” I said.
“Rodney Claggett. We were tight when we were teenagers, man. Dude had a great jump shot. Then he started getting into some serious shit and we lost touch. Willy got a hold of him, and after a couple years he was totally different, all religious and shit.” He shook his head. “Had to be a shock to his system, boy used to have more women than anyone I knew.”
“What do you mean, Willy got hold of him?”
“Make boot camp look like Cub Scouts. Don’t let Willy fool you, man, he’ll kick your ass, trust me on that. We call him the Ruler.”
I thought of the serious faces staring back from the transom of the Carnival.
“Willy had Rodney in charge, which was a good thing considering the others. Anyone help them survive, be my man Rod.”
“And the others?”
“Bunch of lightweights, man. Ortega’s an old loud-mouth, must be sixty—”
“A loud-mouth missionary?”
“Hates the Cuban government. Brother was a pilot who got himself shot down dropping water and shit to rafters. J-three’s a skinny beanpole of a guy, and—”
“J-three?”
“Jo Jo Jeffries. Late thirties and real churchy, always quoting the bible.”
“What about Shaniqua?”
Lenny sighed and shook his head. “Fine as wine, ain’t she? Looks just like my Cuban aunt.” He saw my expression and said, “Willy didn’t tell you?”
“Now what?”
“Shaniqua’s my cousin, man. She’s all Willy’s got left. Aunt Evelyn died of cancer last year.”
“Willy’s your—”
“Uncle. Little slow on the uptake this morning?”
Willy’s wife was Cuban? The memory of Shaniqua’s caramel skin stirred my increasingly uneasy mind. “I guess that explains it… .”
“What, why I’m here? Damn straight, man, Shaniqua’s like my little sister.”
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