Authors: Steven Becker
He wrote the coordinates on a hotel note pad, closed the email program and opened an incognito browser window where he entered the numbers and waited as the globe focused on the northern tip of a small Key to the west. Most people thought the Keys ended at the painted buoy marking the southernmost point of the continental US, but in fact the island chain extended another seventy miles to the Dry Tortugas. He had to assume whoever sent the satellite picture of the island also sent this email, and he had no choice but to go. In all likelihood, this was a one way email that would bounce any response. He could either show up or not, but the lure was too much to refuse.
In another window he googled the Key West to Havana ferry and scanned the first page in the results. The first trip, a landmark in the new atmosphere of cooperation between the US and Cuba, was due to depart in two days. The Obama administration had lifted travel restrictions to the island and the ferry was the first of several scheduled to run between Havana and Tampa, Ft. Lauderdale and Miami. But unlike many Cuban-Americans, he didn’t want the restrictions to be lifted just yet. He had other plans.
Right now, he needed to forget the last few days. He went to the mini-bar, took out two bottles of Scotch, poured them into a water glass, drained half and took the remainder to the desk. He closed the web browser and returned to the CIA portal where he navigated to the section on Cuba and the Caribbean. The window opened and he sipped his drink, scanning the latest reports and articles. He quickly bored of the research, finished his drink and set the alarm on his phone to three am, cursing whoever he was going to meet for the early hour, wondering what the urgency and secrecy was all about. He tossed and turned, then gave up sleep, checked his email one more time, packed his possessions and left the room.
It might have been morning to him, but the party still raged in Key West and tourists were streaming in and out of the lobby, keeping the night alive. It was easy to blend into the scenery until he reached the front door, where he grabbed the first cab he saw and gave directions to the marina.
FOUR
Mac saw the streak of blue in Annie’s hair from behind the cluster of palms and watched her mingle, waiting for an opening to get her alone. The barmaid sipped from a can of Coke instead of the beer bottles or red Solo cups the rest of the crowd had. He guessed she must be going to work. With the bill of the cap pulled down to hide his face, he made his move when she left the group she was talking to. Catching up to her on the way to the street, he looped his arm in hers and walked her back to his hiding spot by the mailboxes.
“I thought that was you,” she said. “Half the county’s out looking for your body and I got to tell you a lot of them don’t care if it’s dead or alive.”
“Nice to see you too,” Mac said, then decided there was no reason to antagonize her if he needed her cooperation. He changed his tone of voice. “Where’s Trufante and what’s with the party?”
“Heck if I know. Tru comes into the bar last night flashing a pile of hundreds. Buying drinks and talking large about this killer party he’s throwing.”
“Didn’t happen to say where he got the money?” Mac asked, although he already suspected the source.
“You know that no one asks questions around here.”
Mac nodded, knowing the unwritten code of the Keys. The island chain had retained its heritage of pirates and smugglers. When the fish weren’t biting or the economy was down, taking the tourists with it, the residents had to do what they had to do. “Where’s he at?”
“Made a run down to Key West for supplies.” She giggled.
“Crap. I need to find him,” Mac said, worried about damage control, rather than information. Someone would surely take notice of Trufante throwing money around and further increase the mess he was in. “Where’d he go?”
She shrugged. “I’d guess somewhere on Duval.”
Mac thought for a minute. “I know where he probably is. How long ago did he leave?”
“About half an hour,” she said.
He had just missed him. “Any chance you can help me out? I need to find him now. If you’re going to work, can I drop you and use your car?”
She looked at him, “Never could say no to either of you.” She was quiet for a minute. “Aren’t you going to ask about Mel?”
“I heard she was in intensive care. Not much I can do there. The minute I walk through the door of the hospital, they’ll lock me up and throw away the key.” He looked at the ground. “Wish there was more I could do to help.”
She left the concealment of the small palm trees and started walking away. “You coming?”
Mac looked around and went after her. They walked out to the road where cars were parked haphazardly on the grass shoulder in an attempt to avoid the puddles of rain water. He followed her to a ten-year-old yellow Jeep. She tossed him the keys. He got in the driver’s seat, adjusted it to fit his six-foot frame, and waited for her to climb in the passenger side. A more discreet car would have been better, but he wasn’t in a position to negotiate. He started the engine, pulled onto US 1, and drove the mile to the bar.
“Really appreciate this,” he called after her.
She turned, “Just bring it back in one piece. I get off around two.”
Mac waited until she was inside, and then started out of the lot. There was a moment’s hesitation when he thought about turning left, the direction of the hospital, but they would be looking for him. It hurt, but he knew he had to find Trufante, shut down the party, and figure things out. The Seven Mile Bridge appeared, its long spans disappearing into the water, and a strange feeling passed over him, relieved he was out of Marathon where he was well known. Although they were spread out over a hundred and twenty miles, the Keys were a small, tight-knit community. He and Wood had built many of the bridges connecting the islands and were known throughout the chain, but Marathon had been his home base.
It was OK to let them think he was dead. It might even be better. No one would suspect he was working to clear his name. His house had been destroyed by a rocket-propelled grenade, his boat confiscated, and Wood’s Island was on fire the last he saw it. Dead was probably better than alive for him right now. The pieces of the puzzle were moving around in his head and he almost forgot to slow down when he entered Big Pine Key, home of the Key deer refuge and biggest speed trap in the Keys. He drove through Little Torch, Ramrod, and Summerland Keys, watching his rear-view mirror the entire time. Once he reached Cudjoe Key, he relaxed and started to think again.
The CIA man was the missing link. He was the only one that had enough to lose, and enough juice to get his name cleared. He just needed to find the right lever to pull to get his attention. The man, he suspected, was not directly involved with Cannady and the smuggler, Jay, at least in the poaching scam. His particular sideline was smuggling baseball players from Cuba. So in the twisted world of deceit, there was no reason for them to be enemies.
He reached Stock Island and thought of Armando - that he might be the key. The Cuban player was the only one that could implicate the CIA man directly. If Mac could reach him first, he would have something to negotiate with. The detention center, where the men in the boatyard had said he was being held, was just south of Miami. He thought about turning around, but knocking on the door of a federal facility at midnight was not staying under the radar. Tomorrow would do. For now, he decided to keep the plan the plan and find Trufante.
He crossed the Stock Island Bridge and entered Key West, turned right and followed North Roosevelt past several new chain stores and the Garrison Bight Harbor. At White Street, he turned right again and entered an old residential neighborhood, the streets lined with the colorful Victorian homes the island was known for. He reached Eaton Street and turned left. The activity level picked up the closer he came to Duval and a few blocks short of the famous drag, he considered himself lucky when he found a parking spot.
Head down and cap pulled over his face, although he didn’t think he’d be recognized here, he walked to the entrance of the Turtle. The watering hole, a few blocks off the main street, was more subdued than the louder haunts over on Duval and favored locals over tourists. He entered and looked down the standing room only bar. Trufante stood out like a sore thumb; not only the tallest, he was also the loudest, and if neither of those features attracted your attention his teeth resembled the grille of a mid-sixties Cadillac when he opened his mouth and showed his thousand-dollar smile. Mac looked at him and gathered from the drawn look and rings under his eyes that this wasn’t the first night of the bender. Sideways, he squeezed through the crowd and stood in front of the Cajun.
“Mac freakin’ Travis,” Trufante greeted him, one hand on his beer bottle.
Mac was out of patience. He reached for Trufante’s empty hand appearing to shake it, but grabbed it, forced the elbow to bend and swung the arm behind Trufante’s back. The big man winced and Mac backed off slightly, but kept enough pressure to walk him out of the bar.
“Easy, buddy,” Trufante said once they reached the sidewalk. “There’s half a hundred sitting on the bar in there.”
Mac kept his grip and pushed the man into the alley adjacent to the bar. Near the back door and sheltered by the dumpster, he released his grip. “You need to tell me what’s going on right now.”
“Well, hell. You’re alive.”
“Was that party back at your house your twisted idea of a wake?” Mac growled. Trufante’s easy going manner could try his patience at the best of times, and these were far from that. “Where’s the money from?”
“Shit! That what’s up? Never mind then. You gave me Commando’s boat to lead the diversion, right. Told me to do with it what I could. Well, the last thing I need is for one of his buddies to see me running that boat, so I took off down here and sold it to a dude I know that chops them up.”
Mac relaxed slightly. Although he was throwing around the proceeds of the sale like a drunken sailor, he had to admit that selling the boat was a good idea. In the islands, where there were as many boats as cars, boat theft was not uncommon. The problem was that many boats were easy to identify. Commando’s was an eye-catcher with its three monster outboards mounted on the tail end of the cigarette-style hull. Similar to the shops that cut up cars for parts, underground businesses did the same for boats here. Swap the engines, repaint the hull, and change some of the noticeable features, like T-tops and rocket launchers, and you had a new boat.
“Maybe you did the right thing. But you can’t be throwing the money around.”
He nodded, but Mac was sure the reasoning was lost on the free spirit.
“What about Mel? Have you seen her?”
Trufante shook his head. “Went by there, but they got a new sheriff in town. Mean old boy come down from somewhere up North to take over for Jules. Big ol’ sucker was sitting right in front of her room. I took one look and high-tailed it out of there.”
“What happened to Jules?” Mac asked.
“Guess you haven’t seen a paper or heard the news. She resigned. Between the fires and the bodies, it was more than she could explain.”
Mac stared at the ground, thinking about the collateral damage to his friend. She had gone out of her way to help him and now was out of a job. “Where’s she at?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “The last thing I do is keep an eye on the law if the law isn’t keeping an eye on me. Probably holed up with that girlfriend of hers. Heard she got work in Miami.”
Mac remembered Heather. Maybe he should track her down and apologize to Jules. Or maybe it was better just to stay dead. “We gotta go,” Mac started walking to where he had parked.
“What about my bike?”
“Stash it. You’re in no condition to drive anyway. The last thing I need is for you to start singing the blues in jail.” Mac continued to walk, looking over his shoulder every few steps to make sure Trufante was behind him. They reached Annie’s Jeep and climbed in. “First thing is to shut down that party of yours before that new sheriff realizes it’s you and makes your acquaintance. I heard those North Florida crackers are some tough bastards.” It was hard for outsiders to understand, but the further north you went in Florida, the further south you got. Most towns north of Orlando, especially in the interior, were right out of
Deliverance
.
“What then?” Trufante asked as he tried to fit his frame into the passenger seat.
“Where’s the boat at?”
Trufante squinted at him.
“You did the right thing getting rid of it, but there was a bag I stashed on it that might come in handy about now,” Mac said. He looked at his empty wrist. “What time is it?”
Trufante took his phone from the pocket of his cargo pants and glanced at the screen. “It’s almost eleven. Figure this time of day it takes an hour and a half to get back to Marathon. Can’t afford any bad blood with my favorite barmaid.”
He almost laughed. The only time Trufante was punctual was when there was alcohol involved. “Where am I going?” he asked.
FIVE
Mac followed Trufante’s directions and pulled onto North Roosevelt, heading east towards Stock Island. Trufante directed him past Garrison Bight, the largest marina on the island, and they drove another quarter mile or so before pulling into the parking lot of a vanilla-looking commercial building. Mac drove slowly around back, cautious that he didn’t get too close if someone was still there. Despite the reputation of chop shops as being late night businesses, he doubted there was work going on this time of night. The noise would carry and attract attention. Parked in back were several boats on trailers by a large roll-up garage door. A sign above declared the business as Custom Boats and Watersports. There were no lights or cars, so they parked, got out of the car and walked to the office door, careful to stay in the shadows of the trailered boats, in case there were surveillance cameras.