Love for Sail

by Charles Dougherty

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  "What did the lawyer get out of that girl?" Ralph Giannetti asked.

  Murano took a sip of the strong, syrup-like, Cuban coffee from his thimble-sized cup, thinking about his answer. "She claims to know nothing about the money, but ..."

  "You believe that shit?"

  "No. She was with Jimmy when Tony's guy made the drop. He saw her. Tony said she damned well had to know about the money; she unzipped the duffle bag when Jimmy picked it up."

  "What'd I tell ya?"

  "I know. You called it, Ralph." Murano didn't buy that for a second; it still didn't make sense that the women would have brought Jimmy's body back. Besides, there was the matter of that phone call from the Greco task force to the Coast Guard. "There's more to it, though."

  "What more? Wait a minute ... that girl, what's her name, again?"

  "Kirsten Jones."

  "Yeah, Kirsten. She could screw you over pretty bad if she decides to talk to the cops."

  "It'll be taken care of, Ralph."

  "It better be."

  "Listen, we've got a bigger problem than ..."

  "We, my ass," Ralph interrupted. "You got a problem, not me."

  "I got to wondering why the women bothered to come back to shore and call the Coast Guard after they killed Jimmy. I would have dumped him over the side and kept going," Mark said.

  "Yeah, well, who knows why women do the shit they do?"

  "It turns out that they didn't call the Coast Guard."

  "Then who the hell did? Why'd they come back?"

  "Somebody on the Greco task force tipped the Coast Guard about drugs on the boat."

  Ralph sat bolt upright. "You better be shittin' me, Murano."

  "I wish, but that's what happened."

  "But how the hell ..." Ralph paused.

  "I've got the P.I. firm checking on this Barrera woman. So far, she looks clean."

  "Where's she from? She from down here somewhere?"

  "I don't know yet. All I've got besides her name so far is a picture one of Tony's guys took, but we'll have something before the day's out, I ..."

  "Lemme see the picture."

  Murano pulled up the shot of Connie on his cell phone and handed it over.

  "She's a looker, that's for damn sure." Giannetti scrolled with his thumb. "Wait a second! I know this guy."

  "What guy?"

  Giannetti returned the phone, Paul's picture on the screen. Glancing at it, Murano said, "We think he's her boyfriend. He spent the night on the boat. You know him?"

  "You dumb-ass! Yeah. His name's Russo. He's a Miami cop -- retired, but I heard he's been helpin' on the task force, like some kinda consultant. He was still workin' when they busted Joe Greco, though. He put the damn cuffs on him."

  "You think ..."

  "Shut up for a minute."

  Murano held his peace, taking the last sip of coffee from his tiny cup.

  "Want another cup?" Giannetti asked.

  Murano shook his head. "No, thanks."

  "What were you gonna ask me?"

  "You think Joe Greco or one of his people gave us up?"

  "None of them even know who I am, except Joe. He ain't gonna talk."

  Murano waited.

  "Nobody but you and me knows Greco was workin' for me. You didn't tell Tony or Willie or somebody?"

  "Ralph, you know me better ..."

  "I'll tell you what I know, college boy. I know you better straighten this mess out -- and quick." Giannetti stared at Murano until Murano nodded and dropped his eyes.

  "Get outta here and get your business under control."

  ****

  Connie let her eyes roam over the shelf of cookbooks in the quaint little bookshop in downtown Beaufort. She was in a mild state of panic, having realized that she was going to be the only woman aboard Diamantista for a two-week voyage with two strapping men. Phillip, although handsome enough, was an average sized man, but Sharktooth was a giant. They would doubtless expect to be fed, and most men just assumed that women could cook. In her experience, men thought culinary ability was some kind of secondary sexual characteristic, like breasts.

  She had taken one of the cars that the marina kept as loaners for their guests and driven to the nearest grocery store. She stocked up on canned soups and stews, as well as several dozen eggs and two cases of Ramen noodles. She loaded the buggy with sandwich meats and packages of sliced cheese, proud of herself for remembering mustard and mayonnaise. Recalling how good a peanut butter and jelly sandwich tasted in the middle of a night watch, she rolled the cart through the aisles until she found peanut butter.

  As she put six huge jars in the cart and reached for the jelly, it struck her that bread would be a problem. It wouldn't keep for the length of the voyage unless she froze it. She made a quick estimate of how many loaves would fit in the tiny freezer compartment and clenched her jaw in frustration. She had learned to service the diesel and maintain the house battery bank, but baking bread was as big a mystery to her now as the Immaculate Conception had been when she had found herself briefly attending a parochial school at the age of thirteen. She had tossed several bags of flour into the cart and checked out. Back at the boat, she had stowed everything in the galley lockers and resolved that she would damned well learn to cook -- and fast, too. She skipped lunch in favor of a trip to the bookstore

  She jumped, startled that someone was tugging on her shirtsleeve. She spun on her heel, raising her hands in a defensive posture to confront a short, round, gray-haired woman with a worried look on a face that looked better suited to smiling.

  "I'm so sorry, ma'am," the woman said. "I didn't mean to startle you, but when you didn't answer, I thought maybe you were hard of hearing or something. I just wanted to know if I could ..."

  Connie put a reassuring hand on the little woman's shoulder, shaking her head and smiling. "No, I'm the one who should apologize. I'm completely freaked out, and yes, I'd love your help."

  The woman nodded uncertainly. "With a book, I meant, but anything I can do, I'd ..."

  Connie giggled. "Yes, with a book. I'm looking for a cookbook."

  The woman gave her an encouraging nod, smiling again. "Tell me what you like to eat," she said. "Then I'll be able to recommend something."

  Connie explained her predicament to the woman, who then led her to another shelf that displayed several books that were written for someone planning to feed a hungry crew on an offshore voyage. She picked one up and thumbed through it with Connie, pausing to discuss the dishes that she had tried. Taking a pad of note paper from the pocket of her apron, she tore off small strips and inserted them into the book, marking her recommendations for Connie's reference. She flipped to the back of the book and then backed up a few pages. "Here. This is what I was looking for; it's kind of a shopping list, to help you figure out how to provision for a trip like yours."

  "Great," Connie said. "Just what I need; I'll take it. Thanks."

  ****

  "Beautiful boat," Phillip said as the three of them walked down the dock toward Diamantista later that afternoon.

  "Thanks."

  "Diamantista," Sharktooth said, running an appraising eye over the rig as they approached the boat. "Good name. 'Diamond-cutter,' right?"

  "That's right. You speak Spanish?"

  "Speak everyt'ing. Mos' people dungda islan's speak some Spanish, little of the French. Depends on the islan'. Some place more one, someplace the other. Got some Dutch mix in, too, 'long with buncha African words. You speak the Spanish, Connie?"

  "Not much; I picked up a little when I was growing up, but it was kind of corrupt. Border Spanish, I guess. I had to look up Diamantista."

  "Mm-hmm. I guess at the cutter part, 'cause of she be cutter-rigged. The 'diamante' I know. The 'tista' part I guess at."

  "Sometimes, it means diamond merchant, too," Phillip added. "I guess either one could fit, depending on whether it means you or the boat."

  "I didn't know that,
" Connie said. "I wanted something to do with diamonds in her name, and like Sharktooth said, she's a cutter, so ..."

  Scrambling over the lifelines, Connie made a welcoming gesture. "Come on aboard, and thanks so much for bailing me out."

  "I'd never pass up a chance for a sail like this," Phillip said.

  "Yeah, me, too. Maureen, she the mos' beautiful woman in the worl', but she decide I been eatin' too good. She put me on the diet; I come sailin' so I can get my strengt' back."

  Connie swallowed nervously, looking at the size of Sharktooth and trying to remember all that she'd read in her new cookbook. "I thought I'd treat you to a big dinner ashore tonight, if that's all right."

  "You don't have to do that," Phillip protested.

  "But I'd like to, please."

  "Le's do that, Phillip. Give me a little time to find my way 'roun' the new galley befo' I go to work." Sharktooth misinterpreted the look of surprise on Connie's face. "Sorry, Connie. Your boat; you the captain. I love to cook, an' Maureen, she doan let me so much, 'cause she like to cook, an' she rule the kitchen. So I hope you let me cook some; when you doan feel like it, mebbe? Jus' sometime?"

  Connie doubled over, laughing uncontrollably. Sharktooth cast a worried glance at Phillip, who shrugged. Connie stood up, her eyes running with tears of mirth, and threw her arms around Sharktooth. Feeling his muscles stiffen with shock, she backed away. "Sorry, Sharktooth, I just got carried away."

  "It's okay -- all right," he said, looking perplexed.

  "I'll explain over dinner," Connie said, beginning to laugh again.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  "She was a partner in this bogus diet clinic; it was really a money-laundering scheme."

  Giannetti's eyebrows went up at that. "Musta been a scam."

  Murano looked surprised. "Yeah. They claimed to make up special diets for people where the color of the food had to match the palette of their skin tones, or some shit like that. How'd you know?"

  "Know what?"

  "About this chromatic nutrition bullshit."

  "I don't give a damn about that."

  "But you said it was a scam, Ralph."

  "Yeah. Had to be a scam the Feds were runnin', don't you see? If she was dirty, she wouldn't be workin' with the Greco task force now. She musta been undercover then. That bitch is some kinda cop."

  "I don't get what you mean." Mark frowned.

  "I mean the money-laundering. She musta been setting somebody up for the cops."

  Murano shook his head, thinking. "I dunno. The thing went to shit, and the cops shut it down, all right."

  "See. What did I tell ya?"

  "It was pretty complicated, Ralph. What actually got the cops in to begin with was her partner's murder."

  "She kill him?"

  "No. No, a guy named Taglio's doin' life for that," Mark said.

  "Taglio? Never heard of him. Where'd this happen, anyway?"

  "Up in Savannah."

  "Georgia?" Giannetti asked.

  "Yeah, that's right."

  "I did some business for a while with a guy that came from there. He was laundering money for a bunch of us, but he was down here. He had this deal goin' with diamonds, but he got busted."

  Murano thought for a minute. He wanted to get Giannetti back on track. He tried to think of a way to steer the conversation back to the Barrera woman.

  "Sam Alfano," Giannetti said.

  "What?" Murano snapped to attention.

  "Nothin'. Just thinkin' out loud. Sam Alfano was the guy's name."

  "How'd you know that?" Murano asked.

  "Because, dumb-ass, I just told you that he laundered money for me for a while."

  "You laundered money through that clinic?"

  "Pay attention, college boy. Sam Alfano had a money laundering scheme that used smuggled diamonds, but he got busted. Some shit with his partner in the Bahamas, I think."

  "He was the guy that Taglio ratted out for the murder up in Savannah, Ralph."

  Giannetti took a puff on his cigar and then held it out, studying the ash for a moment. "So this broad was hooked up with him?"

  "Apparently. She had a piece of the clinic until it all came apart when Alfano had Taglio kill her partner. Some crooked doctor, it was."

  "Alfano's doin' life in some federal pen. Find out where and get somebody in to talk to him. Let's see what he knows about Barrera."

  "All right. I can do that," Murano agreed. "So you think she's a cop?"

  "Must be. What I want to know is how she got onto your guys up in Baltimore. Find out everything Alfano knows about her. Then I want every damn detail of her life from the time she was born. Before we kill her, we need to pick her brain good. You need to know everything she knows."

  "We can't waste her, Ralph. Not if she's a cop."

  "Bitch set you up; she killed your boy, Jimmy, and she stole my damn $250,000. She's dirty; dirty cops are fair game. We just gotta have all the goods on her so we can get a good story out there, keep the cops from turning up the heat on us."

  "Okay," Murano said. "She's gonna take the boat back out to sea, headed for the Virgin Islands again, based on what she told the cops up there in Beaufort. They want her for a witness when they try Jimmy's girl for the murder."

  "When's she leaving?"

  "I don't know, but we still have the tracker left on the boat. Tony says it'll work for around a month. Last time he looked, it was sitting still in Beaufort, so we got a little time."

  "Yeah, but don't waste it. I want that boat hit while she's at sea; we can take it apart and find the money while somebody works on Barrera, and then just sink the whole mess. It's a perfect setup, Murano."

  "Okay."

  "Okay, my ass. I want to know who you're gonna send out to question her, and when and where. It's gotta be far out to sea. You got that?"

  "I got it, Ralph."

  ****

  Paul sat on the pool deck at the Miami Yacht Club, nursing an after-dinner drink and admiring the pastel colors of a reflected sunset. He was facing east, looking out over the Venetian Islands toward Miami Beach. The reddish-gold light came over his shoulder and gave a wonderful, soft glow to the vista in front of him. He glanced at his watch and decided that it was late enough to call Connie. Phillip and Sharktooth should have been there long enough to get settled, and they should have finished dinner by now. He slipped his phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial number for her cell phone, assuming she'd be using it rather than the sat phone.

  "Hi, Paul." He felt a smile spread across his face.

  "Hi, yourself. Your crew get there okay?"

  "Yes. We just got back from dinner. Phillip's checking over the boat, getting familiar with everything. He's so thorough; I'm feeling really good about this. Thanks for lining them up for me."

  "No big deal; all I did was mention it. What's Sharktooth up to?"

  Connie laughed. "Did you know?"

  "Know what?"

  She laughed harder this time. "You did, you rascal. You let me worry for nothing."

  "Connie?"

  "What?"

  "I'm glad you're happy, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Cooking."

  "Cooking? What about it?"

  "You didn't tell me he'd cook for us."

  "Sharktooth?"

  "Yes, Mr. 'Butter Wouldn't Melt in His Mouth,' Sharktooth."

  "He's going to cook for you? I didn't know he could cook."

  "Well, it turns out that he loves to cook, and his wife doesn't let him."

  "I see," Paul said, frowning.

  "Yes. He's going through all the provisions now, making a list of things we need to pick up before we leave tomorrow."

  "Okay. Connie?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm glad you're okay with that, if that's what he wants. I mean, I know how women are about their kitchens. I hope ..."

  "You ninny! You know I can't cook, damn it! I was worried about how I was going to feed the two o
f them."

  "Oh. I didn't realize you couldn't ..."

  "Why did you think I wanted you to be the cook?"

  "I just thought you knew I loved to cook and you figured it was a way to entice me to be your crew."

  "You're such a tease, Paul. You knew I couldn't cook, didn't you?"

  "No. No, I didn't. Honestly, I thought all women could cook."

  He held the phone away from his ear until her laughter subsided. After a second, he put it back to his ear. "Connie?"

  "I swear, Paul, sometimes you can be such a, a ... man!"

  Taken aback, Paul thought for a second. He sensed from her tone of voice that he had screwed up somehow. Searching for a neutral topic, he asked, "So when are you thinking about leaving Beaufort?"

  "We've got a great weather window for the next several days. We're heading for the grocery store first thing tomorrow morning. Once we get everything stowed, we're out of here."

  "Great. So I'll call on the sat phone tomorrow, then. Have a great sail, and stay safe."

  "Paul?"

  "Yes."

  "I wish you were coming. It was great to see you yesterday."

  "Even if I'm a man sometimes?"

  "I know you can't help it. Call me tomorrow, please?"

  "I wouldn't miss it for anything. Give Sharktooth and Phillip my best."

  ****

  Tony Ferranti sat back in the shadows of the dim, smoky bar in Morehead City, just across the river from Beaufort. He studied the hard, coarse features of the rough-looking, bleached-blonde across the table. He was certain that she thought she was dressed to kill, with the tight, black sequined dress that hugged her overly generous curves and squeezed her big, blotchy breasts until they threatened to ooze out over the low-cut neckline.

  He had suggested that she shouldn't wear her uniform to their meeting, worried at the time about somebody noticing him in her company. Now he was more worried that she had misconstrued his intent, given the way she was coming on to him. He realized that she was talking, tuning in just in time to catch the end of whatever she'd said.