Wreckers' Key

by Christine Kling

  “In a way, it is. The news just keeps getting better. The bill for the insurance on your boat just arrived.” I had a post office box for my business, and Jeannie was handling my mail during my absence. “They’ve nearly doubled your premiums. I’m sure it’s a combination of all the recent hurricanes here in Florida and the increase in boating accidents. I thought I’d ask if you want me to check around, see if I could get you a better rate somewhere else. We don’t have much time. The policy renewal date is only a couple of weeks away.”

  “Geez, Jeannie, almost double? Already it seems like I work a good week each month just to pay that bill. This business. Red must be rolling over in his grave.”

  “You had your father cremated, Seychelle.”

  “You know what I mean. It’s not like the old days when he built Gorda and started the towing business. Back then, he wasn’t getting ripped off every time he turned around—both by clients and by his insurance company. Hell, most of the time Red probably didn’t even have insurance.”

  “Times have changed.”

  I exhaled into the receiver and didn’t say anything for several seconds. I could hear Jeannie breathing on the other end of the line. “I know. There’s too much change for me sometimes.” I wanted to add, and too much death. Then it started again. Whenever someone died, there were the many days of having to tell people over and over what had happened. Both my parents, Elysia, Neal—and now I had to add Nestor to the list of those I had loved and lost. And I had to tell Jeannie without turning on the tears again. I was tired of tears. “Make the calls, Jeannie. See what you can do. But before we hang up, I’ve got to tell you about what’s happening down here.”

  Ted Berger’s room at the Hyatt was bigger than my whole house. Granted, I live in a little converted boathouse, and I don’t normally frequent the homes or hotel rooms of the rich and famous. But just the living room of his suite could have held my whole combined living room/kitchen and the tiny bedroom that I called home. Berger was sitting at an ornate desk in front of a laptop computer. Over his shoulder was a fantastic view looking out over the harbor, and I could just make out Gorda anchored in the lee of Christmas Tree Island. She stood out among the many cruising sailboats.

  Berger looked up over the top of a pair of half-glasses. “What the hell is wrong with you? How can anybody live today without a cell phone?”

  I held my hands out in a gesture of surrender. “You want me to work for you, you take what you get.”

  “Goddammit,” he said, whipping off his reading glasses and throwing them on the desk. Then he stopped, and his face broke into a smile. “Shit,” he said. “It’s been a while since anybody’s talked to me like that. Sit down.” He gestured to the small armchair on the opposite side of the window.

  Berger was dressed in khaki pants and another nearly neon Hawaiian shirt. This one was electric blue and yellow. Brand-new leather boat shoes completed the outfit. He ran a hand down the side of his head, smoothing his trim white hair.

  “Seychelle, what happened yesterday was a tragedy. No doubt about it. Nestor was a good kid. But we’ve got to press on. I called an agency up in Lauderdale and I’ve already hired a new captain. He’s flying down tonight. I want you to meet him in the yard tomorrow.”

  “No problem,” I said, but I thought that Ted Berger was a mighty cold son of a bitch. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours. “I assume you’ll let Catalina Frias stay aboard until we get back to Lauderdale?”

  He tapped his pen on the desk and didn’t answer right away. His eyes were unfocused, staring at something only he could see, and a shadow of a smile played on his lips. I was preparing to walk out of his office if he said no. “I might be an asshole, but I’m not sending a pregnant widow home on the bus. Look, it’ll take a day or so for the new captain to familiarize himself with the boat, and today’s Monday. Do you think you could be ready to leave by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest?”

  “I can leave whenever the weather permits. Right now the forecast is looking good for a midweek departure. A little front came through yesterday, and they’re predicting a period of calm weather through the end of the week. But if something changes between now and then, weather-wise, I reserve the right to say whether or not we leave.”

  He laughed. “Damn. Do you always boss your clients around like this?”

  “When it comes to moving boats around? Yes, I tell them what I expect them to do.”

  He shook his head. “Here I am stuck between you and Pinder.”

  When he saw the puzzled look on my face, he continued. “Neville Pinder is the asshole who owns Ocean Towing. I take it you’ve never met him?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Seen his boats around, but haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Pleasure!” he said. “Ha!”

  “Ocean Towing’s only been in business in Broward a little over a year, but when he came on the scene, he came on big. He’s got lots of boats and lots of gear. Can’t miss those bright green boats of his. They’re everywhere. He’s not much into the New River business, though—he mostly works the emergency calls.”

  “I hate to think of what’s going to happen to my insurance when I get out of this thing. He’s trying to stick me for twenty percent of five million—in other words, a million bucks for just pulling her off the reef and towing her in.”

  “And he’ll probably get close to it, too. That’s not totally unreasonable.”

  “Not unreasonable? For towing the boat a couple of miles? It’s fucking piracy!”

  I sighed. People never understood the salvage business. “Mr. Berger, there is a huge cost difference between towing and salvage. Sometimes the line between the two isn’t very clear, but in your case there was no question. That was a salvage job. Towing is paid for by the hour, but salvage is a different story. Maritime law states that in order for a case to be considered salvage, it must meet three criteria. First, the vessel has to be in peril. Your boat was sitting on an endangered reef, unable to move due to the damaged props, and the weather was worsening. Nestor agreed to it, so it was voluntary on all parts, and that’s the second criteria. Finally, it must be successful. Salvage is a ‘no cure-no pay’ business, so if Ocean Towing worked for three days to get your boat off, then your boat sank when they pulled her into deep water, they would have been entitled to nothing.”

  “A million bucks for twelve hours’ work is a far cry from nothing.”

  “But they risked getting nothing if they weren’t successful. A salver can work for a week to free a grounded vessel, and if she sinks when he pulls her free, he gets zilch. It doesn’t matter how many hours or days the salver put in. But if he is successful, he’s entitled to a percentage of the value of the boat that he saved. See, you don’t just pay for the hours that a salver puts in on your job. You pay to keep him in business, to have his boats there waiting and ready twenty-four hours a day so when you do need him, he’s there. You pay for the radio gear that takes the call. You pay to have him go out and risk his boat and his life through the afternoon and into the dark hours, even when the weather is forecast to worsen. As I understand it, Ocean Towing deserves a fair claim. I don’t know about twenty percent, but I’d say he might be looking to get several hundred thousand in this case.”

  “I’d say I’m in the wrong business, then.”

  “It doesn’t look to me like you’ve done too bad for yourself,” I said. “Besides, salvage awards like this are few and far between, but every time there’s a big one, another half a dozen guys decide to jump into the business. It’s growing very crowded out there. There are too many boats trying to make a living in this line of work and not enough big wrecks.”

  “Glad I could make a contribution,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  I laughed. “Look, I’ll go have a talk with Pinder for you. See if I can convince him that this whole thing will stay out of arbitration if he’s just willing to be a little more realistic. Then we’ll get your boat safely back to Lauderdale, the insu
rance company will pay Ocean Towing, me, and the yard bill. And soon, you’ll have your boat back good as new.”

  “Oh goody,” he said.

  VII

  The streets of downtown were jammed with tourists and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. Hordes of pale people in shorts and tank tops jostled their way past the shop windows on Duval Street. The weather had warmed up considerably from the day before, and though the temperatures were only bound for the low seventies, unlike the places most of them called home, here there was no snow in the forecast, so they were thrilled.

  I kept thinking about what Berger had said—that Pinder was some kind of pirate or rip-off artist. That was what this business had come to. I’d made a career change several years ago from being a beach lifeguard to taking over my dad’s salvage business. Back then I saw the two jobs as essentially the same thing—saving people’s lives and property. It was getting paid to be a Good Samaritan. I was doing something clear and honorable that I could feel proud of. Today it had become a question of gear and equipment and electronics. I understood that cell phones and chart plotters and GPS could be wonderful tools, but I didn’t trust them. First Nestor and now Berger—both had chastised me for not jumping into this electronic mess. The truth was, it had done neither of them any good in the end. The End. In fact, his wife believed that it was Nestor’s reliance on these bits of metal and wire that had caused his end. Granted, I did own a small GPS handheld, but I’d prefer a hand bearing compass, parallel rulers, dividers, and my paper charts any day.

  Still, there was a huge difference between what I believed and what would help me make a living. Could I compete with my little tug? Probably not. How long would it be before the VHF radio went the way of adding machines, eight-track tapes, manual typewriters, records, videotapes, loran, wringer washing machines, hell, even steam engines? How long before a radio call was no longer the way of the salvage business? But I hated being lumped in with guys like Pinder who saw this industry as a way to build an empire and go for exorbitant claims. Maybe this was just another sign that it was time to think about a career change—again.

  After nearly getting stepped on as I tried to look in a shop window, I ducked into Sloppy Joe’s Bar, slid onto a stool, and ordered a draft beer. I was alone at the bar, but there were a couple of tables full of rowdy college-age guys. When the bartender, an older guy with a long gray ponytail, brought the plastic cup and set it in front of me, I asked if he had a phone book.

  “No,” he said, spreading his hands on the bar. “But what’re you looking for?”

  “How about the offices of Ocean Towing?”

  He squinted at me. “What would a pretty girl like you want with that rat bag?”

  “I take it you know Neville Pinder?”

  The man reached deep into his pant pocket and produced a small container of Skoal tobacco. He opened the tin with one hand and took a pinch with the other. Once he had packed it firmly under his lower lip with his tongue, he started to speak. The bulge was apparent right there on his chin, but it didn’t impact his speech in the least.

  “Yeah, I known him.” He reached his hand across the bar and I shook it. “Call me Sam,” he said. “I’ve known him and his family awhile. First sailed over to the Abacos in ’69. Neville—he’s from there—was just a kid at the time. There’s lots of Alburys and Pinders and certain family names over there. Those families go way back. White Bahamians, Loyalists. First settled in the Bahamas around the time of the Revolutionary War. They wanted to stay loyal to the queen.”

  “I’ve read about that.”

  “Lots of Pinders’ve come to Key West through the years. Probably six or eight families by that name here now, all with ties to the islands and none of ’em wanting to have much to do with our boy Neville. His family’s on Man O’ War Cay. Don’t think Neville’s been back to the islands in years now. They don’t want him back. Family more or less kicked him out.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He always was a troublemaker. Petty stuff. Stealing, public drunkenness, vandalism, mischief. Lots of those islands are dry, you know. They’re religious people. They didn’t take to Neville thinking that anybody’s skiff should be his for a joyride just because he drank a few beers. That’s how he got those scars.”

  “What scars?”

  “On his right arm. He’s missing a couple of fingers, too. Actually, it’s kind of a funny story. Neville got drunk, stole this fella’s boat, and went fishing in the middle of the night all by hisself. Caught a good-size barracuda, then, trying to take the treble hook out, he snagged his own arm with the hook, and the fish bit down on his hand. He ended up with a couple of furrows plowed down the skin of his arm. Doc had to amputate two of his fingers when the infection got so bad it almost killed him.”

  “So how does a guy like that end up head of a big company like Ocean Towing? I mean, hell, they’ve got boats and bases from Stuart to Key West.”

  “That is the question, isn’t it? And you aren’t the first person to ask it. There are a few of us old-timers around here, still living aboard our wooden boats out in the anchorage. Not many, that’s for damn sure. Most cruisers now have mini Winnebago plastic boats with generators and microwaves and toaster ovens. But a few of us were around back in the ’60s and ’70s, and we remember when everybody knew everybody over in the islands and you couldn’t get away with much.”

  “I know what you mean. I wasn’t around back then, but I heard about those days from my dad.”

  “So somehow our friend Neville got himself some backing and now he’s fleecing the yachties and superyachts. The goddamn salvage people are even worse than the cruisers now. You get in trouble, you don’t dare take a line from anybody. They’re just out to steal your boat from you. Not everybody’s got insurance, you know.”

  “What’s the name of your boat?”

  “The Osprey. She’s a thirty-four-foot yawl.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for her.” I dug into my bag for a card. “I’m on the tug Gorda,” I added, handing him the card. “I’m one of the goddamn salvage people. Thanks for filling me in on Pinder.”

  He stared down at my card for a few seconds, then the only thing that shifted in his face was his eyes. They slid from the card back to me. “Sorry if I got kind of carried away there,” he said.

  I raised my hand to stop him from going further. “No apology necessary. Most of the time I refer to folks in my business the same way. Like you said—things are changing, and I don’t like the changes any more than you do.”

  Down the bar the waitress hollered, “Sam, I got an order.”

  “Excuse me,” he said and went down to mix her drinks. I drained the last of my beer and dug in my bag for money. When Sam came back, he waved my money aside.

  “This one’s on me,” he said. “I enjoyed talking to you. You want to find Neville, he has an office over on Fleming Street. Just head up Duval to Fleming, turn left, and you can’t miss it. It’s past Fausto’s.”

  “Thanks, Sam,” I said.

  Sam had been right when he said I wouldn’t be able to miss the offices of Ocean Towing. They painted all the boats in their fleet the same bright yellow-green color that some local fire engines had now adopted. I supposed it was the latest color to signify emergency services of some sort. The little office that stood in a block of attached offices was the only one painted that same blinding shade.

  The receptionist who sat behind the desk in the front office of Ocean Towing was a very buxom young woman wearing a tie-dyed, gauzy skirt and a white tank top. She was braless, and I could see the outline through the thin fabric of the metal stud that pierced one nipple. It made me shiver. She had been working on the New York Times crossword puzzle when I came in, and it looked like it was nearly complete.

  “Hi there, can I help you?” she asked. She sounded like Elmer Fudd. I wasn’t sure why.

  “Yeah, I’d like to speak to Mr. Pinder if he’s available.”

  She frowned. “I d
on’t know if he’s available or not.”

  I understood then why her speech had sounded so strange. Her tongue was pierced, and she was trying to avoid touching the stud to the roof of her mouth.

  “Do you think you could find out?”

  “Sure.” She got up and disappeared down the back hall.

  The office had some threadbare chairs and a rack of brochures outlining the Ocean Towing fee-based towing plan, but little else. I grabbed one of the brochures, sat down on a worn chair, and had started to read when the girl reappeared.

  “Sorry,” she said and it sounded more like sowy. “I forgot. What’s your name?”

  “Seychelle Sullivan,” I said. “Of Sullivan Towing and Salvage.” I crossed the room and handed her a card.

  She glanced at it, then spun and bounced back down the hall, swishing her skirt with her hand as she walked. From where I was now standing, I saw her enter the last door on the right. I didn’t even have time to retake my seat before she poked her head out the door and said, “Come on back,” waving her hand. I circled her desk and headed back to the door she held open for me.

  Neville Pinder was seated behind his messy desk when I walked in, but he rose and came around it to shake my hand. To say he was a big man would have missed it by half. Pinder had to be about six-foot-five with the massive lumberjack-size hands and feet that would fit a man that tall. And he wasn’t fat, just big. I guessed he was in his mid-forties, and though his hair was shaggy blond, his sideburns and mustache were streaked with gray and his brown leathery face was covered with a web of fine lines. He was wearing shorts and a yellow-green Ocean Towing T-shirt that showed the deep brown skin on his legs and forearms. This was a man who had spent most of his life outdoors.

  When he extended his right hand, I saw the raised pink scar tissue that ran down his forearm in twin parallel lines. The hand itself was missing the pinkie and ring finger, but because his fingers were so huge, his grasp felt more than ample.