by Jay Giles
We shook. I introduced myself, Su. “I’m bringing her north for a bank. She was pristine when we left Rio but we ran into come complications. The bank’s not going to be happy.”
He chuckled. “Happy bankers? Ain’t that a whatchamacallit—an oxymoron?”
In Sloane’s case, it was. I nodded toward his prosthesis. “Iraq or Afghanistan?”
“I.E.D. Fallujah. You in-country?”
“No. I’m an attorney and worked with vets who had head trauma or lost limbs and weren’t getting the attention they needed. Always pro-bono. My way of saying thanks for what you guys were sacrificing for us.”
“Appreciate it,” he said sighing. “Lot a guys hurting worse than me.” He shook his head. “Well, let’s get a look at this engine of yours.”
We made the trip to the engine room. He took one look at the engines, rocked his head back, and let out a howling laugh. “Easily the oldest engines I’ve ever seen. They should be in a museum somewhere.”
I wasn’t about to disagree.
“Start ‘em up and let me hear ‘em.”
I sent Su to the bridge. The port engine started-up and ran. The starboard sputtered a couple of times. He got a wrench from his tool kit and banged on it. To my surprise, it ran for a few seconds before sputtering out.
He turned to me. “Fuel pump, that’s your problem. You can shut ‘em off now.”
I relayed the message to Su.
Engines off, he got out tools, bent over the starboard engine, and began removing the pump. “There’s a chance I can salvage it,” he said over his shoulder. But when he got it off and studied it, he said, “Nah, nothing I can do. It’s toast.”
“Can you replace it?’
He thought for a second before answering. “I don’t think there’s anything on the island that’ll work. I’m going to have to get on the internet, see what I can stir-up on the parts consolidation sites.” He got a shop rag from his toolbox and wrapped it around the pump. “If I find something, the good news is they can send it overnight.” His gaze met mine. “You have internet aboard?”
I shook my head.
“That’s okay, I’ll go back to the shop to search, call you when I find something.”
“Thanks,” I said and reached out my hand. We shook again.
He chuckled. “Thank me when I’ve got good news for you. Old as those engines are, I might not find anything.”
It was almost four that afternoon before we heard from him. “Good news and bad news,” he said cheerfully. “A place in San Diego has a rebuilt one, he says it’s in great shape. He wants $1,350 for it.”
“Is that the bad news?”
“No. The price is fair. The bad news is it’s going to be two days getting here.”
Another delay. Sloane would be livid.
“Have him send it. Will an extra charge get it here faster?”
“No. This is a two-flight deal and we can’t make the connection.”
“Will you put it in as soon as it arrives?’
“That I’ll do. So you know, my labor’s going to run this up to about $2,300. That okay with your banker bosses?”
It was going to have to be. I made sure he took plastic, rang off, called Sloane and delivered the bad news.
“Totally unacceptable,” he groused loudly. “Everything scheduled; I can’t go and change everything, now.”
“Ban, I’m not trying to cause you trouble. I’m getting it fixed as fast as I can.”
“Can you make up the time?”
“I doubt it. The mechanic that’s replacing the pump said these engines were antiques. Push too much and something else will break and it will take longer than the two additional days.”
“Damn it. You don’t realize how much trouble this is causing me.” With that, he hung up.
Trouble?
Selling a boat was trouble? Why? To my way of thinking any buyer who wanted this boat would wait two more days. I had the feeling the problem wasn’t an iffy buyer; the problem was my not arriving by some deadline I didn’t understand, causing something bad to happen.
But what?
Chapter 6
Sloane’s outburst bothered me enough that it got me thinking about his on-again off-again sense of urgency.
He’d had me leave for Rio so quickly I’d barely had time to get from the meeting to the airport. Yet, a day later, when I informed him about the delay the stolen documents was going to cause, sure, he’d been annoyed, but he hadn’t thrown a hissy fit. Once I took possession of the Venetian and we got underway, he’d been reasonably laid back about our timeline and uncharacteristically accepting of my lapses in communication. No guilt. No threats. Considering I’d broken his strict edict of Thou Shall Call Every Day that was beyond surprising.
In fact, it wasn’t until we retook the Venetian from the men-in-black that his normal obnoxious self reappeared. He was all Mr. Urgency from that moment on.
I ran it around and around in my mind, but had no aha moment. Sloane was puppeteering this trip, for sure, but I didn’t know where the strings went, yet.
Jamie arrived two days later at eleven in the morning. He boarded the Venetian, grinning, and held up the fuel pump with his good hand. “She’s a thing of beauty.”
Forty minutes later, he had it installed, had us fire-up the engines, did a bit of fine-tuning, and pronounced us good to go. Before he left, I had him look at the other engine, bilge pumps, and the bent propeller shaft.
“It’s all crap,” he said wiping his good hand on a red shop rag. “It’s all old. It’s all been poorly maintained. And, I hate to tell you this, engine, pumps—” His gaze took in the hull’s wooden planks. “Even the hull could fail you.” He grimaced. “This whole boat is problematic in my opinion. Someone put lipstick on the pig, but that layer of gloss is all that’s holding it together.”
I thought back to Pena and how proud he’d been of his work. “Really? Someone reputable did the work. I distinctly remember him telling me he’d worked on the hull.”
Jamie snorted. “See those?” He pointed at boards on the starboard side. I nodded. “They’ve been replaced.” His hand shifted to point at lower boards. “Those should have. They’re marginal.” He shook his head. “My guess is he did what he could for the budget. Boats like this suck money worse than old houses.”
“Yeah, but this boat’s worth money. There’s historical value. She once belonged to Eva Peron.”
He looked blank.
“You know, Evita. First lady of Argentina. They made her life into a Broadway musical.”
“If that’s the case,” he challenged me, “why don’t your bankers have you taking her to Argentina? Nobody in the States is going to care about that.”
He made a good point. Sloane was intimating he had a stateside buyer, but you’d think Argentineans would be the ones who’d pay big bucks for the Venetian.
I cast an appreciative gaze on Jamie. A mechanic with an intuitive mind would be an asset on the rest of the trip. “You wouldn’t want a free ride to Florida, would you?” I asked with a smile.
His eyebrows shot up. “On this? Oh, no.” He left laughing.
We pulled-up the anchor and left the harbor for San Juan. Once we’d cleared the channel markers, I used the sat phone to call Sloane. “Thought I’d let you know we’re leaving St. Thomas,” I said when he came on the line, “and I have a question for you.”
“What?”
“You knew this boat supposedly belonged to Eva Peron, right?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Wouldn’t you have gotten more money for the Venetian in Argentina?”
“The buyer here is of Argentinean extraction.”
Who says of extraction?
“That’s why it’s important you get the boat here as I promised so he can see it.”
Ah, back to guilt. “I’m working on it.”
“You better be. How much did this delay cost me?’
I filled him in. He started lecturing me, ab
ruptly stopped. “Listen, I’ve got another call. Call me tonight.” He rang off.
I slid the sat phone in my pocket of my cargo shorts, feeling unsatisfied by the call. Sloane was always guarded with what information he shared with me, but from the start of this trip he’d been less than forthcoming. His answer about the Argentinean buyer had been too glib.
I didn’t agree with Jamie’s assessment that the Venetian was worthless, but he raised a good question: if she wasn’t worth that much, why this intense need on Sloane’s part to get her back to the States? This was feeling like more than getting back at Cabrera.
You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to deduce that if it wasn’t the boat, it had to be something onboard the boat. Coming from South America, drugs were the obvious contraband. Just the thought annoyed me.
I wasn’t about to be played for a mule.
I pulled out the sat phone and started making calls. It took me a dozen or more to learn there were two organizations in San Juan with drug-sniffing dogs—the Coast Guard and the Transport Security Administration at Luis Munoz Marin International Airport.
I opted for the Coast Guard, figuring they’d be more accessible and more used to dealing with boats. The lady who answered their phone seemed to think I was calling to turn myself in. The more I tried to clarify the situation, the more suspicious she became. I finally rang off, convinced any meeting I had with the Coast Guard would involve being placed in cuffs.
The call to the TSA went better. I talked with Walter, who was a supervisor, and after hearing my plight, said, “Officially, I can’t help you. Unofficially...well...I could have George—” The way he said it, George wasn’t his real name. “—and his dog sweep your boat, after their shift ends. Cost you $450.”
I knew I could be walking into a trap with this, too. But Walter sounded sincere. This seemed to be a risk worth taking.
At eight o’clock that evening, I met George, who turned out to be Walter, at a dock in San Juan harbor.
He was a beefy man with wavy brown hair brushed to the side, multiple chins and a missing lower front tooth. He was a little knock kneed so there was a swish, swish from his dark blue Carhart pants as he walked down the long ramp to the dock. On a leash, a brown and black German Shepherd was sniffing the dock.
Up close, sweat ran down from Walter’s hairline. His breathing was labored. He gave his right hand a quick wipe on the side of his pant leg and held it out. “Mr. Taggert, I’m Walter. We talked on the phone.” He nodded at his companion who was sniffing my sandals. “That’s Thunderbolt. Bolt for short.” His gaze darted up to Su who was looking over the Venetian’s rail at us.
“I’m Will,” I offered and nodded up at her. “That’s Su.” I led Walter and Bolt up the gangplank talking over my shoulder as I went. “Here’s the deal. I know there was Cocaine on this boat. It’s gone now. But before I deliver the boat in Ft. Lauderdale, I want to make sure she’s clean.”
“Got it.” Walter huffed. “If there’s anything left, Bolt’ll sniff it out. Best way is just to go room to room. Before we start, we agreed to $450.”
I paid him and watched him carefully count the money and place it in his wallet.
Bolt was sniffing the aft deck like crazy. Walter gave her more leash and watched her move from spot to spot. All those suitcases had been on this deck. She kept going back and forth, finally stopped, lifted her head and looked at Walter.
“She’s telling me drugs were on this deck. They’re gone now, but she smells the residue.”
“What if it’s not residue? What if it’s under the decking?”
“She’d be barking,” Walter said simply. He reached down and patted her on the shoulder. “German Shepherds have about 225 million scent receptors. You and me, we’ve got a measly 5 million.”
Bolt was sniffing the area where Ollie and Nestor had died. Su and I had scrubbed the blood off the deck, but Bolt smelled it. Walter watched her intently. “She’s smelling something, not drugs, though.”
“Let’s go inside,” I suggested and led the way into the salon.
Bolt had her nose down, sniffing away. The burnt carpet didn’t seem to bother her. Walter, however, was looking around, eyes wide, taking it all in. Bolt sniffed her way across the room, did a quick sniff of the dining room and galley and headed for the staterooms. She sniffed her way to the closets where the drug suitcases had been stored. At each one, she sat and gave Walter that look.
“So it was kept in the closets,” Walter said, summing up. “Not there anymore. I’d say this floor’s good.” We made our way to the crew’s quarters. I was particularly interested to see if Bolt found anything in the rooms Ollie and Nestor had occupied. She didn’t. In fact, she didn’t let out a single bark.
Back on the aft deck, ready to depart, Walter said, “You don’t have to tell me, but it looks like you got yourself sideways with one of the drug gangs. Your boat’s clean, but when you get to the States, the look of her is going to cause the authorities to want to know what happened.” He grinned at me. “You’ll have to tell them. Better have a plausible story ready.”
I shook his hand, patted Bolt on the back. “All they’ll get from me is the truth,” I said. “Whether they’ll believe it is the question.”
That had him chuckling as he and Bolt made their way down the gangway to the dock.
Watching them disappear into the deepening darkness, Su put her arm around my shoulder, leaned her head next to mine. “I don’t understand you. You act like you’re sorry he didn’t find anything.”
In a way I was. This trip would have made more sense if Bolt had found the bulkheads filled with Cocaine or sniffed out a false floor filled with the stuff. “Just trying to protect us,” I said vaguely. “I don’t want to get arrested for something we didn’t know about.”
She gave me a squeeze. “You worry too much.” She headed inside.
She was partially right. If I had worried more, earlier, we might not be in this position now. I’d taken too much on faith and was behind the curve. To catch up, I was going to have to go into overdrive worry mode.
We left San Juan early the next morning bound for our last stop before the States, Nassau in the Bahamas. It wasn’t the easy leg I’d been expecting. The skies clouded over and the wind picked up. The storm hit us in the early afternoon with waves big enough to have the Venetian wallowing her way forward. I stayed on the bridge, watching the weather, running through scenario after scenario as to what might be going on. I reshuffled people, places, events, getting most—but never all—to fall into place.
Something kept eluding me. Something I knew. The harder I tried to get it to pop out of my subconscious, the more frustrated I became.
We arrived in Nassau in a pouring rain late that evening. There was no sense going out in it, so we had a late dinner at the island in the galley and called it a day. In the morning, we woke to find the bad weather had passed. Skies were blue. Fishing charters and pleasure boats were out. On shore, tourists were walking the belvedere, heading in and out of shops, queuing up for tables at the harbor side cafes, snapping photos of anything and everything.
I got the Venetian gassed up; Su did some provisioning. By eleven, we were under way. The last leg of the journey. The thought of finally being home lifted my spirits. I was ready for this trip to be over.
The Venetian had other ideas. An hour out of Nassau, the port engine started missing then conked out all together, the same thing the starboard engine had done earlier.
Jamie had rapped the starboard fuel pump with a hammer. I headed below to see if that would do anything for the port engine.
I never did find a hammer. Instead, I found something better.
What had been eluding me.
Chapter 7
In my practice of family and immigration law, a case might turn on a single fact. Once you knew that one key fact, you had a lens with which to understand the events that transpired.
This wasn’t a fact. It was an object, the rubber
mallet I found on the galley island when we retook the Venetian in Laranjeiras. I remembered during our tour of the Venetian at the Pena boat works, workers had been using a rubber mallet to assemble the art deco dining room table.
Put the mallet together with a different kind of table—a timetable—and things suddenly made sense.
Contraband was intended to travel to the States secreted in that art deco table, but there must have been a problem with the contraband’s arrival. That problem might have been because Ray Nunez had been killed or it might have been why he was killed. Whichever it was, the Venetian’s departure needed to be delayed.
To buy time, they stole my laptop and briefcase of documents. Without that paperwork, I couldn’t take possession of the Venetian. They gained several days, but it still wasn’t enough time. Even though the contraband still wasn’t ready, they had no choice but to get the table to the Venetian before my tour so that I’d accept it as part of the ship’s furnishings. It arrived at the last minute. I remembered Pena commenting that the table had been delivered that very morning.
The actual placement of the contraband in the table had to have taken place in Laranjeiras. They’d used the rubber mallet to disassemble the table, place the contraband inside, and put it back together. If they hadn’t been sloppy and left the hammer sitting on the counter, there wouldn’t have been any evidence of what they’d done.
I felt my jaw clench as I realized my fun week in the pokey had been staged to buy additional time. It also meant Su had been in on it. She’d tipped off the men-in-black to the location of the Venetian then blissfully gone grocery shopping, knowing they’d arrive to cart us away at gunpoint. Since she was in cahoots with them, she knew where to rescue us when enough time had passed. No wonder no one came after us when we retook the Venetian. Now that the contraband was onboard, they wanted us to get away.
