Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (12 page)

Rio Dulce Yacht Club 

Dominican Republic  

Char climbed down to the yacht’s engine room just as Rodr
igo finished clearing out the coolant filter. Rodrigo had a puzzled look on his face. 

“Mister Char, what happened?” 

“Long story, Rodrigo, but I need your help.” “Digame, Señor,” he replied. 

“First do you have the phone number for Laura’s Nightclub?”

“Sure, I have them on speed dial―just press Number Two.” Rodrigo had been divorced for a while―his damaged eye was also a roving one. He and Char had become fast friends and running buddies during the week it took to repair hull damage incurred by scraping an uncharted coral reef the last time he and Michael had visited Rio Dulce. 

Char ducked into one of the unoccupied crew cabins located forward of the engine room and spoke with the owner, who sounded like she was just waking up. Laura, the club’s namesake, was a thirty-nine year old ex-prostitute turned Madam who ran one of the most upscale brothels this side of the capital. She was legitimate, but was known to do a favor for a friend if the friend paid her enough. Char figured that enough was going to be a lot, since this favor might just put an end to her business. He made another call and then returned the cell phone to Rodrigo. 

Char and Rodrigo walked out on the back deck where the agents sat. They had retreated to the shaded stern to escape the now-sweltering heat of the salon. Even in the shade, both still sweated profusely in the tropical heat. 

“The air conditioner, she is broken,” explained Rodrigo to the two feds.

“How soon will it be fixed?” asked Davis. 

He was wearing business casual attire: a polo shirt and khaki slacks. Rings of perspiration were already beginning to soak the armpits and neck hole of his shirt. 

“Who knows? A day or two, maybe longer. I need a part from Santo Domingo,” explained Rodrigo.

“Fuck, we can’t stay on this overpriced sauna for that long,” complained Davis. 

“Please be cool, Carl. Char has already got a solution. I think I can get the owner of the marina to comp us a villa until the boat is repaired. He’s done it before. All you have to do is agree to let Uncle Sam pay for the repairs.” 

Beavers didn’t hesitate.
“Why not? We will be auctioning off this boat in Miami anyways, so I will just wrap the cost into the reserve price.” 

“Okay, grab a bag and we’ll get settled in the villa, then do a supply run to the
supermercado, buy supplies for the boat, and grab a few steaks and lobsters for tonight. You guys can also buy some clothes more appropriate for the tropics,” said Char 

There was a high-end men’s shop a few steps away from the market. Davis and Beavers were soon outfitted in similar khaki shorts, leather sandals, and blue polo shirts, causing
Char to quip,

“Even when you guys are dressing down, you still want to be uniform.” 

The supermarket lavishly catered to its clientele--rich, mostly foreign, older white males interested in luxury on the cheap. The market sold inexpensive rum, cigars, meat and seafood. The one other luxury that lured travelers to this tropical island was the availability of hot young women desperately trying to earn a living in ways profitable, if not strictly legal. 

Char concentrated on getting what he would need for the journey, and
also what he would need to make the agents fat, dumb, and happy that evening. He purchased staples for the trip: cases of canned fruits, vegetables, and even meat, preferring Danish canned bacon to its refrigerated counterpart. For the evening meal, he selected three nice, thick, marbled rib eyes and potatoes, and then added three live lobsters and one pound of fresh shrimp for an appetizer. 

The liquor store was the best stocked part of the store and took up three full aisles. Char purchased two cases of Chilean wines, as they were the best and cheapest given the premium the Dominicans placed on wines from America and Europe. Still, he
had noticed that Beavers fancied himself a wine aficionado, so he purchased three bottles of a nice blended Napa Valley red named
The Prisoner
, which he would open for their farewell meal. He wondered whether the deputy marshals would find the name ironic. He also bought a bottle of Russian vodka, a twenty-year-old bottle of Macallan scotch, and a case of canned Presidente beer. Char thought it interesting that no matter how destitute the country he visited, they all managed to make a pretty decent beer.

He coordinated with the store to have the goods delivered to the yacht. Rodrigo was standing by to stow them, as he currently had little else to do while pretending to fix the air-conditioning. 

The villa Char had obtained was a corporate apartment that the yacht club maintained for their better-heeled guests. It was a three-bedroom townhouse with a gourmet kitchen, wet bar, and most important, a working air conditioner. 

The living room had a brown leather sectional couch and two locally made distressed wood and leather armchairs surrounding a fifty-two-inch flat-screen television and a small Bose wireless stereo system that hosted an MP3 player. The bedrooms co
ntained locally made California king bed frames with cushion topped mattresses imported from the United States that the owner had prudently placed inside a subtle protective sleeve. The bed was dressed with silk sheets and a down comforter that the girls coveted, as they were not used to sleeping in an air-conditioned house. Mirrors were attached to the ceiling and hung in multiple locations on the walls. 

One of the many value-added services the development pr
ovided was a personal chef service. For less than the price of a steak dinner for two at Outback, Char hired the chef from the yacht club to come by and cook the meals. 

The federal agents settled into the armchairs and Beavers fi
ddled with the TV, looking for the sports channel. 

“You’re more likely to find the porn channel. I think there are five of them total,” said Char with a laugh. 

“You’re shitting me?” said Davis, who Char suspected was either divorced or single. Either way, he was badly in need of female companionship.

“Nope.
It’s scandalous, unless you go in for that type of thing,” said Char with a sly smile. He retreated behind the wet bar to make a round of martinis. 

He made two strong ones and cut the alcohol on his with a heavy dose of olive juice. Davis drank his cocktail in one swa
llow and handed the glass to Char for a refill. Beavers found a satellite sports channel and settled in to watch a replay of the Yankees and Red Sox play at Fenway. 

By the time dinner was served, Davis had downed four ma
rtinis while Beavers was still on his second. Char appeared every bit the captive intent on exploiting his last opportunity to binge before returning to custody, yet he was mostly sober―what he was going to do required functioning brain cells. 

The chef, a portly and jovial Dominican in his sixties, grilled the steaks and lobster tail and accompanied both with a garlic butter sauce prepared thin for dipping the sumptuous lobster meat in and reduced for the steak. On the side, he served a rich hash of the potatoes with
patacones, red onion, and more garlic. Char served the wine. 

“The Prisoner?”
Beavers seemed to approve the choice.

“I thought it was appropriate,” said Char, causing both agents to laugh. 

The chef brought them a dessert of ramekins of flan de coco and served tiny cups of strong black coffee. Char went behind the bar, retrieved a small black bottle, and used it to fill little glasses with a twenty-year-old tawny port. 

When dinner was finished, the chef cleaned the kitchen and departed after Char slipped him a fifty dollar tip. Beavers and Davis sat in front of the TV, while Char brought out the Domin
ican cigars and Scotch. Soon they were all blowing streams of smoke towards the ceiling. 

“Turn on the porn channel, there, convict. It’s probably the last chance you’re
gonna get to see some tail for a while,” said Davis, somewhat caustically. Char perused the titles and selected a movie specifically to appeal to the possibilities at hand. Big Busted Latinas was soon being displayed larger than life on all fifty-two inches of the video screen. After about an hour of women with pendulous breasts having sex in groups of three or more, Char felt the moment was right to broach the topic.

“You know
guys, I could have a few ladies as good or better looking than those on the screen here in fifteen minutes or less.” 

“Sorry, Char, we can’t do that. Even this will probably get us in hot water,” said Beavers, holding up his glass of Scotch.

“Come on, Lou, it will probably be my last time in a while.

They’ll be here and gone before you know it.” 

“Yeah, Lou, no reason why we can’t cut Char a little slack. It’s probably one of his last nights of freedom,” pleaded Davis.

Lou appeared unmoved; he was a married man and was, at least in theory, faithful to his wife. Char felt the agent’s wall of resolve beginning to crumble, so he thought he would bring a metaphoric sledgehammer to it. 

“Hell, I’ll even pay the tab. How many do you want?” Multiple undulating bodies were just what he needed to distract the agents. Beavers looked at Char with sudden interest.

“A ménage de trios― no kidding?”
 

“Whatever you want, Lou.
Just consider me Kris Kringle and Christmas has come early,” said Char, with tacit knowledge that he had sealed the deal. 

The six women arrived about a half hour later. Beavers a
nswered the door and a line of young, perfumed, and exotically attired women filed into the room. One of them, a small, skinny blond the Dominicans called a Flaca, jumped into Char’s arms and planted a deep kiss on his lips.

“Aye,
Pappi, I missed you!” Another taller redhead with large breasts and jeans so tight they seemed painted on came forward and began kissing them both. 

The other four stood in the center of the room, cautiously eying the two federal agents, waiting to be chosen. “Go ahead guys, take the ones you like,” said Char magnan
imously between kisses. 

“Char, hate to be the wet towel here, but before we separate, we have to ensure you don’t take the opportunity to run off,” said Beavers.

“Come on, Lou, you know me. I’m not going anywhere on a broken boat, and she isn’t even fueled up,” Char lied. 

“Still, we need to secure you somehow. You’re going to have to do your loving with one hand.” 

“Whatever you say, Lou, but I’m hurt you don’t trust me.”

“Yeah, a lot of criminals tell me that,” replied Beavers dryly. 

Beavers lead Char into one of the upstairs bedrooms, thoroughly tested the strength of the heavy wooden bed frame, and seemingly satisfied, beckoned to Char with a gesture of his index finger. 

“Hold out your weak hand,” Lou ordered. He expertly snapped on a handcuff and locked the other to the bed frame. 

“It looks like you’re gonna be a bit handicapped for your tryst. I would call it a ménage minus a sixth.”  “Good one, Lou,” said Char facetiously. 

“Yeah, I missed my calling as a comedian. Now have a good night. I’ll be back in the morning. You can cook us breakfast.”

“Sure thing, Lou,” replied Char. 

Beavers left the room closing the door behind him. Shit. He had not anticipated this, but Char was nothing if not adaptable. He decided he needed two hands to give his beautiful babies the attention they deserved. He searched his memory for the Spanish word for bobby pin, but came up blank. Instead he beckoned to one of his companions and searched through her hair with his free hand, but found nothing. He repeated the process with the tall redhead and again found nothing. The women looked at him with a puzzled expression and then one nodded knowingly, opened her purse, searched for a moment, and retrieved a pin.

“Una horquilla?” Char nodded, and she quickly handed it to him. He bent it open, used the ratchet of the cuff to bend one end at a right angle, inserted that into the keyhole, and twisted while putting upward pressure on the cuff. It snapped open and both women applauded in amazement. 

“Un
magico!” the tall redhead exclaimed. He repeated the process with the cuff locked to the bedframe and tossed them onto a dresser.  

Even on the cusp of an escape, a man has to remember what’s important. He began a passionate sexual encounter with the two young beautiful women. One kissed him deeply while the other took him in her mouth. Engorged, he gently pushed the redhead to her knees and slipped it to her from behind while she orally pleasured the shorter woman. They rested for a while and then exchanged places; this time the blond received Char while she gave the redhead a loud, slurping tongue bath. He finished, got off the bed, and looked at the young twenty-something naked bodies draped across the bed and decided to let them sleep for a while. They all slept until the alarm Char had set on his watch woke him at four a.m. Another part of his body was awake as well. Rosita, the smaller of the two women smiled dreamily at him. Char smiled at her.