The man ignored him and kept scanning the water. Mariel was just west of Havana, and was a smaller town made famous for the stream of criminals Castro had sent North in 1980. In all, 125,000 Cubans, many from jails and mental health institutions, had been released here to find their way to America. Most on overcrowded rafts. He had been one of those men, and despite the thirty-plus years, could still recall the ordeal. His anxiety increased as he waited and he thought about the man he was to bring to freedom … and the riches. Baseball was huge in Cuba, and the small island produced many major league prospects.
But the regime refused to allow them to leave the country except for international competitions, where they were closely watched.
For several years now, he had been smuggling players to the United States to play. It was fairly easy to find the players. With the right equipment, which his cousin had access to, he could hear and see Cuban radio and television in the Southern states. And with the proliferation of the internet, there was plenty of information.
But each mission was getting more dangerous. Norm tried to focus on the lesser known up and coming players to attract less attention when they went missing, but it was not a big country, and he suspected the government had taken note. Even with the extractions spaced months apart, he felt it was only a matter of time before he was caught.
The regime, more worried about saving face than saving their country, took the loss of the half-dozen players now playing in America as a major blow, and were sure to devote resources to stop it.
“There.” He pointed. The wake of a boat was visible in the moonlight as it ran fast toward them.
Jay grabbed a pair of binoculars sitting on the dashboard and focused on the boat. “Lucky bastard. It’s them,” he said as a light flashed twice from the bow. “I was liking the idea of watching you swim.”
The man ignored him and went to the cargo. He started to undo the lashings holding the tarp in place, wanting to make this exchange as quickly as possible. The sooner he could get away from the gringo, the better. “What’s this?”
Jay turned. “Underwater scooter and snorkel gear. That’s how you’re coming out.”
He turned and looked again at the cylinder with two handles and a small propeller. Hiding this contraption would be difficult, but he understood it would be safer to swim out rather than boarding a boat for the exchange. Even at night, there were always people watching, ready to report any suspicious activity to the regime.
Arriving by boat was safer. His clothes blended with the other men, and it was doubtful any watchers would remember how many men had left on any particular boat. His thoughts were broken when the other boat pulled alongside.
Jay spoke in Spanish to the driver, whose crew was busy tying lines to the bow and stern, securing the hulls together with fenders separating them in the three-foot waves. The boats drifted with the current as the exchange was made, and he was the last piece of cargo to board the older boat. A ball cap pulled low over his brow to hide his face, he went to the transom and leaned against it, waiting as the lines were freed and the driver pushed down the throttles and headed for the harbor.
***
Mac entered the house with the shotgun extended in front of him and Trufante trailing behind with the flashlight and machete. Ignoring the banging on the door where the women were held, they checked the house thoroughly before moving to the room with the women. A slide bolt had been installed on the exterior of the door, to prevent the occupants from leaving, and Mac hesitated before he unlocked it, knowing this was going to complicate things. In the end, he was unable to leave the women captive.
The bolt slid open and he turned the doorknob, entering the room with Trufante breathing on his neck. The women were clustered in a corner, clearly afraid.
Trufante slid past him. “Y’all are good now. Old Tru’s going to take care of you.” He went toward the women, but they tightened their grasp on each other.
“Back away,” Mac warned him. “We don’t have much time,” he addressed the girls. “One of you tell me what’s going on here, and we’ll try to help.”
“Damn right we’ll help,” Trufante piped in.
Mac glared at him and waited for the women, who were now whispering to each other. Finally one moved to the front.
“Please. We are being held here. Can you just get us off this island? We promise we won’t be any trouble.” She tried to smile, but he could see the fear in her eyes.
“Come on, Mac,” Trufante pleaded. “We gotta help them.”
Mac was about to snap at him to rearrange his priorities, but he knew he couldn’t leave them here. Whatever was going on was wrong, and if he had the ability to help, he knew he would. There was also the chance that he might get lucky and get some information out of them that could help his case. Maybe he could use them for leverage.
“Go pull the boat around. We can’t take them into the brush like this.” He stared at them—barefoot and dressed in skimpy silk robes.
“On it.” Trufante ran from the room.
“We’re going to get you out of here. Do you have anything more substantial to wear?”
All three shook their heads.
“Get what you can carry and head out to the dock. I’m going to have a look around.”
He left the room and went into the bedroom down the hall. There was no need for subterfuge now; the owner would know someone had been here once he saw the girls gone. So he pulled the drawers from the dresser and tossed their contents on the floor. Empty handed he left the bedroom and went toward two French doors further down the hall. But they were locked.
Without a second thought, he slammed the pistol grip of the shotgun down onto the levers and smashed the lock. He pushed the door open and entered a small office.
The desk top was bare, so he moved to the drawers, searching them one at a time. Finding nothing of value, he turned to the credenza behind him. The countertop had mementos of a life overseas, with several framed pictures. He glanced at the memorabilia, trying to find anything that would tie the man to his situation. One picture showed him in front of a statue in what looked like a government building, side by side with an older man in a suit.
The only clue so far, he grabbed it. Trufante should be back any minute, and he wanted to get out of there before the occupant returned.
He traced his way through the dark house, not wanting to turn on any lights, and found the front door. Outside, he followed the patio to the dock and stood by the girls in silence as they listened for the sound of an approaching boat.
***
The old wooden fishing boat had passed through the inlet and entered a small bay, staying close to the decrepit industrial pier on his right. The driver headed toward the lights of the town, staying in the deeper water before turning toward a dark area. There he’d stopped the boat a few hundred yards from shore and told the man it was time. He sat on the gunwale and spun toward the water as the other men on the boat handed him the scooter, mask, and fins. Carefully he slid into the water, hoping it would be solid ground below his feet and not muck. Attaching the lanyard from the scooter to his wrist and gathering the two sets of snorkeling gear in the other hand, he started wading through the knee-deep water toward land.
He reached the mangrove-lined shore near the brightly lit ball field and searched for a place to make landfall. A gap in the mangroves was to his right, and he headed toward the small spit of sand. Once there, he looked for a place to hide his gear. He found an old tree with its roots exposed by years of storms and erosion, mostly above the water mark, and slipped the gear into the opening in the roots. Then he went back to the tideline and gathered an armful of seaweed and leaves, brought them back to the tree, and concealed the scooter with them.
Satisfied the gear was secure, he pushed through the brush toward the lights and sound of a crowd. The branches opened into a large clearing he knew to be the town’s baseball field, and he walked under the bleachers. Waiting there was another man, who shook
his hand. Then the two men went up into the bleachers.
They sat and watched the game, making sure to leave several rows between them and the other spectators.
“That’s him,” the second man said. “He’s been in for a couple of innings now.”
“Got good stuff. Looks to be throwing in the 80s.”
“Only on a day’s rest, too. You let that boy get three or four days and he’ll be in the high 90s.”
The man relaxed and smiled as he watched the boy named Armando Cruz finish the inning. Maybe Norm was right on this one.
***
Mel guided them through the narrow channel, eased off the throttles, and allowed the boat to come to a stop at the pier. There was no sign of life, but she hadn’t expected any. Mac was probably up at the house, and more than likely asleep.
“Do you have a light?” she asked.
Marvin reached into his pocket and took out a lighter.
“Um, no. A flashlight.”
“Oh. Of course, there’s probably one below.” He went into the cabin.
The mosquitos had found them, and a small cloud had formed; probably attracted by his cologne, she thought as she waited for him. A minute later he emerged with a Maglite and a can of insect repellent.
“Bug bites are bad for the complexion.” He sprayed himself liberally and handed the can to her.
She took it and hesitated before spraying herself, loathing the smell and feel of the chemicals. But when a mass of bugs swarmed her head, she applied the repellent. Then, flashlight in hand, she slid off into the water—only ankle deep at the bow, now with the tide at its low point—and waded toward the beach. She turned to make sure Marvin was following, but he sat in a deck chair.
“You coming?”
“No, sweetie. You can do your nature hike, visit the boyfriend thing. I’ll be fine here.”
She turned and noticed that the trail was freshly trimmed as she went toward the clearing. The house appeared, dark in the moonlight, and she went up the stairs. The door was closed, which she thought unusual in the heat. Normally the screen door would be the only obstacle to entry. She opened the door and reached for the light switch to turn on the lights, but nothing happened.
“Mac!” she called out as she went to the bedroom, shining the flashlight in front of her. The room was empty as well; the bed not slept in. Something out of place grabbed her attention and she went to the nightstand by the bed and looked at the thumb drive and felt bag. It certainly wasn’t her father’s and she doubted Mac knew what to do with it. Curious, she put them in her pocket, left the room and went through the living room toward the front door. Standing on the porch, she shone the light at the shed and surrounding areas. Nothing was out of place, except a pile of gear near the shed door.
Maybe he had gone fishing; full moons were often productive at night on the flats. With nothing to do but wait, she climbed the stairs to escape the bugs and sat in one of the deck chairs. She was anxious about Mac, but knew he could take care of himself.
For the first time since Marvin had gone through the financials, she had the time to digest what he had discovered. She needed to figure out how Cayenne’s financial shenanigans could be used to help Mac. Leverage was the answer, call it blackmail if you wanted, but she could agree to keep quiet about the books if she would testify in Mac’s favor. But, she was not sure the woman would cooperate. Getting her to understand logic was like teaching a dog to meow.
Unable to sit still, she got up, went down the stairs, and headed back toward the water. She was standing on the beach when she saw the running lights from a small boat approaching.
Chapter 16
Mel did a double take as the boat approached. It looked like a ghost from the past, the hull showing a makeshift plywood patch in the moonlight,. She knew it had been sitting on the far side of the island since beaching and injuring her father several years ago, but who had fixed it? And why? She recognized Trufante first; hard to miss, between his height and his grin. As the boat closed, she could see Mac at the wheel and several other figures huddled behind the men.
Her smile turned to anger as the boat drew close enough to see that they were women.
Marvin appeared with two fenders in hand, which he placed over the side as Mac coasted toward the larger boat and Trufante tied the two boats together. Mel yelled from the beach.
He looked dumbfounded.
“Girls! Two days and you two go pick up women. And to think I was worried about you. No calls. No texts. Now this!” She turned to Marvin. “Untie them. We’re out of here.”
Mac jumped over the side and ran through the water toward the beach. “We just saved these girls. They were captives at a house on Sawyer.”
“Sure. And Tru looks like the cat that just caught the mouse. Come on, Mac. You expect me to believe that?”
“Tell her, Tru.”
She pushed away from Mac, stomped through the shallow water toward Marvin’s boat, and climbed onto the swim platform. With a look of disgust, she pushed the small door cut into the transom open and entered the cockpit.
“Start this thing and let’s go,” she said as she went for the lines, untying and casting them in the water.
Marvin finally stopped staring and started the engines, put the boat in reverse, and backed away. Before she could get to the wheel, though, the boat grounded. She crossed the deck in two strides and pushed Marvin away from the helm. Stepping into his place, she pulled back on the throttles, gently at first. Then, when the boat didn’t move, she shoved them back to their stops.
Frustrated, she looked behind the boat as the propeller shot sand and muck into the cut. Finally, the boat moved slightly. With her teeth gritted and a look of determination, she held her hand steady on the controls as the boat slid off the sandbar.
She almost waited too long, as the boat jerked backwards with enough momentum to ground the stern on the other side of the cut, but she was able to shift the boat into forward, bypassing neutral and causing a bang in the transmission. Free and in the center of the channel, she sped away without looking back.
***
Mac watched in horror as the boat moved into open water. Instead of taking action and stopping her to explain about the house and the girls, he had stood speechless and let her go. In truth, he knew from experience that there was no stopping her. When Mel made up her mind it was a done deal.
“Get them out of the boat and back to the house. I’m going after her,” he yelled and helped the last girl over the side. With a shot of anger and adrenaline surging through him, he vaulted the gunwale and went for the controls.
The larger boat was still visible in the distance, the moon reflecting off the polished chrome, and he thought he had a good chance of catching them as he reversed the engine and waited for the boat’s momentum to turn the hull. Finally it faced the exit to the channel, and he pushed down on the throttle.
The larger boat was much faster, and was distancing itself from him, but when he saw it turn west at the edge of the bank he knew they were heading toward Key West. They were up on plane, running on the outside of the barrier islands, and that was the most probable destination. Confused and upset about what happened, he continued to follow.
He was just past the Content Keys and approaching the Sawyer Keys, the white anchor light still visible in the distance, when he began to worry. He appeared to be closing the gap between the boats. Mel knew these waters well enough to run blind in a hurricane, and there was no reason for her to slow … unless something was wrong.
Suddenly another boat appeared, its red and green running lights indicating a collision course with Mel’s boat. He pushed down on the throttle in an attempt to reach the oncoming boat before the other craft, but his engine sputtered. He eased back on the throttle and the engine seemed to catch, but as soon as he asked it for more power it failed, and he was adrift. He went to the gas can and kicked it, knowing it was empty.
There was no way he’d be able to reach Mel in time to
prevent the collision.
The tide was moving the boat away from the action now, so he made the only move he had available and went forward to throw the anchor. It caught in the sand, and he tied it off, then went to the stern to check whether there was any gas left in the tanks he’d had Trufante stow. Even a quart would get him back to Wood’s Island.
But they were bone dry. Anything left had evaporated in the heat. When he looked up again, he couldn’t see the white light anymore. Unless something catastrophic had happened, Mel was further west and out of sight.
***
Cayenne was drunk. She was also incensed at the way Mel had treated her. She could have any man she wanted—gay or not—and how dare Mel say otherwise? As she wandered down Duval Street, weaving her way through the crowd, with one goal in mind … well two, actually, but she could only wrap her head around sex. Her mounting money problems would have to wait.
She’d had her eye on the man that had captained the boat she’d chartered the other day for a while, and after seeing him tonight in the oyster bar, her hormones were in the red zone. Hoping he was still there, she hailed a rickshaw powered by a bicycle rider and stumbled into the seat. The driver took off through the traffic, thick with cars, scooters, golf carts, and bicycles, jerking left and right to avoid the people overflowing into the streets. Traffic thinned as they turned off Duvall, and five minutes later the driver pulled up at the courtyard in front of the oyster bar. She fished in her purse to pay the driver and, finding only twenties, tossed one at him.
The bar was still full, although the restaurant had cleared out. At first she didn’t see him, but a couple moved out of the way and there he was. She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself, and went after him, pushing her boobs forward through the crowd.
“Hey, sailor. Come here often?” She didn’t care how lame the pick-up line was. The guy was fixated on her chest.
Wood's Wreck Page 11
