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  Wood’s Wall

  © 2014 Steven Becker dba The White Marlin Press

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Author’s Note:

  Fiction often asks the reader to “suspend your disbelief.” I ask you to do the same, but not as much as you may think. The “Square Grouper” the book is based on is a trued story (minus the extra packages inside!). Two friends and I found this floating in the Gulfstream while fishing. Yes, they are out there.

  Steve Becker

  1

  Pete looked over his shoulder at the spread. The fishing lines glistened in the sun as they trailed behind the 24-foot boat trolling southwest through the light chop of the Gulfstream. The wind was light, the water glassy with a gentle swell. Satisfied the lines were running true, he returned his focus to the water. He looked over at his friends, lulled into a state of semi-consciousness by the motion of the boat and the beers they’d drank. They’d been hammering beers all day. He wondered how it had taken this long for them to pass out. It’d been a good day with plenty of Mahi Mahi in the fish box. He was thinking about calling it a day and heading back in.

  “Birds at one o’clock!” he yelled. He had been scanning the water for any sign of life; birds and debris were the ticket for bait which led to bigger fish. Dan and Jeff popped awake. “C’mon guys - one more - let’s go.” Pete steered toward the birds while Jeff checked the lines. The three friends had fished together long enough that they had the smoothness of a well-oiled machine, each knowing their jobs. The boat moved closer to the birds, clearly working some bait on the surface. The three men watched as the birds crashed and soared, intent on the bait below, as the boat pulled through the bait pod.

  The clicker buzzed as one of the reels gave line. “Fish on!” Pete continued the course and speed to set the hook and see if they could get another fish to hit one of the four remaining baits. “It’s pretty good size. Let’s pull in the other lines.”

  Dan grabbed the rod with the fish and held it high to keep it clear of the other lines. He left the drag loose, letting the fish take some line off as Jeff brought in the rods. Pete circled the boat around as Dan reeled. The fish jumped, revealing itself, then crashed and sounded. Dan continued to bring in line. The fish was close now but was startled when it saw the boat and pulled harder, the drag whizzing as line came off the reel. Dan let it run, sweat dripping from his brow, waiting for the inevitable as the fish jumped and crashed sideways into the water, irritated by the hook and the pull of the line. This was the crux of the fight. The fish would soon lose energy.

  They went back and forth, the fish jumping, Dan patiently bringing it closer. “He’s ready!” he finally yelled.

  At that, Jeff grabbed the gaff and stood by Dan at the side of the boat as Pete drove, watching the water; keeping the fish parallel with the boat. The boat moved slowly through the water, the exhausted fish, its electric blue color now half-green with fatigue, slid next to the boat. Jeff lowered the gaff into the water and, with a swift pull, set the point into the fish. He hefted it quickly onto the boat, and then into the waiting fish box, and the struggle was over.

  “Damn boys! Must go a little over 30 pounds,” Dan said as he closed the box and offered up a round of beers. High fives and can tabs popping marked the end of the bout.

  ***

  They were stowing gear and spraying off the deck, removing the fish blood before the tropical sun baked it on the deck. “Give it another pass?” Pete asked.

  “Something in the water over there!” Jeff called out, pointing to the starboard side of the boat. Pete scanned the water, following Jeff’s gaze. He changed course and directed the boat toward the object bobbing in the waves. Debris was common in the Gulf Stream, and a great fish attractant. In their experience, anything in the water could hold fish, even something as small as a crab trap buoy with a piece of line attached might hold fish.

  The object took shape as they got closer, the sun reflecting off the brown plastic, shining in the sun, wrapped tight around a square object.

  “That’s not trash,” Dan said from the bow. They were fifty feet from it, but it was already obvious that they were looking at something more than a crab trap or piece of flotsam. “Looks fresh in the water, too. Let’s grab it and see what it is.”

  Pete slowed the engine and coasted up to the package. Maybe two feet square, it hadn’t been in the water long. Dan leaned over the gunwale and gaffed the package. He struggled with the weight to get it over the side. Finally it landed on the deck and sat there, undisturbed. The three fishermen stared at it.

  “That’s a square grouper. Let’s open it and see what we’ve got.” Jeff said.

  “Make it quick,” Pete said, scanning the horizon. The level-headed one of the group, he wasn’t seeing this as treasure, but as danger. If it was out here, someone was looking for it. Waterproofed packages didn’t just appear in the Gulf Stream.

  Jeff slid the knife through the outer wrapping, opening it to reveal white paper known as house wrap in the home building industry. As the waterproof fabric opened, small bundles individually wrapped in brown plastic revealed themselves. The size of bricks, neatly stacked, they spilt onto the deck.

  “Open one up,” Dan said, excited at the prospect. “It’s either drugs or money.” He reached for a brick.

  “We ought to throw them back. This looks like trouble to me.” Pete continued to scan the horizon.

  “Oh calm down, you freakin’ pussy. Figures you’re an insurance guy. This has been in the water overnight at least. There’s no one here.” Dan slit one open, ignoring his friend. “Yes.” He held up the opened package for Jeff and Dan to see. Cocaine sparkled in the sunlight. He brought it down to examine it. The white powder, caked into a brick had the initials DV pressed into it.

  Pete leaned over Dan’s shoulder, staring intently at the item. “Well whoever DV is, he’s gonna want this back,” he said. Before he could say anything else, he was interrupted by the radio.

  “Coastguard Station Key West to …” Pete jumped and scooped several bricks into his arms. He was about to start tossing bricks back in.

  But Jeff stopped him. “There’s no one here. The radio call was not about us. Calm down and let’s figure out what to do here.”

  “Party is what we do here,” Dan said. He took a knife and carved a corner of the brick. Powder fell off onto the blade, and he raised it to his nose and snorted. He laid his head back waiting for the drug to take effect. “Whoa, that's amazing.” He passed the knife to Jeff.

  Several long minutes passed as they sat on the deck, staring at the bundles. Dan had counted and stacked them into ten piles of five bricks, each about a pound. Jeff, the numbers guy, tried to do the math in his head, breaking the pounds to ounces, then to grams, multiplying by one hundred - the street price for a gram. In the end, though, the calculation was too much for the number of beers he’d consumed. He just shrugged, saying that whatever it was, that much cocaine was worth a lot of money.

  “We gotta move.” Pete said as he scanned the horizon.

  Four boats were coming at them. Not that it was any surprise; any boat sitting still in the Gulf Stream was like a magnet. Other boats thought they were hooked up and headed toward them, hoping to draw the school of fish away … or at least pick up a straggler. The boats were getting closer, some running at full speed. Two of the boats were clearly fishing charters, their fly bridges visible from a distance. Another smaller fishing boat’s outriggers dipped, almost hitting the waves, as it cruised towards them. The
last boat was different. A custom paint job, yellow hull with red highlights, its shape that of a cigarette boat.

  All three men were starring at the racing boat now. “Get some baits out. Start trolling,” Pete said as he set the boat in gear and steered a course away from the yellow boat. “They all think we’re on fish and that cigarette boat doesn’t look like he’s got a rod on it.”

  The fishing boats turned away as soon as they saw the boat deploy lines and resume trolling. Whatever they thought might be there was probably gone. The yellow boat maintained it’s collision course.

  “Cover that thing.” Pete yelled.

  Dan and Jeff grabbed the bricks and tossed them into the fish cooler. They had just stuffed the packaging into the trash bin when the boats passed, only feet separating them. A tall dark skinned man eyed each of them individually, then scanned the boat. He made a pistol with his fingers and fired and imaginary shot at them. Satisfied he pressed down on the throttle and moved on. A collective sigh came from the men.

  “That’s one scary dude - and you know what he was looking for.” Pete said.

  “Well he’s gone now.” Dan said as he went for the cooler and grabbed the open brick. He huddled with Jeff again each snorting off the knife.

  “He knows what we look like. I say we toss all this and call it a good fishing day. Nothing but trouble’s going to come out of keeping it.” Pete said hoping the others would agree.

  “No, don’t think so.” Dan said as he looked at Jeff who was nodding in agreement.

  The two men repacked the bricks in the fish box, below the ice, and covered it with fish.

  2

  Two women came through the sliding glass door of the rented house as the boat pulled up to the dock. They wore bikini tops and shorts; each carried a tall glass. Pete waved at them and wondered how many they’d had. “Think we can keep this quiet?” he asked Dan and Jeff. Silence answered his question as they finished their beers.

  “You boys got dinner?” Penny asked. “It’s kind of late.”

  “Yeah and then some,” Dan responded. Pete tried to stare him down. “We did well. How about mixing us a couple of those?” He gestured to the drinks.

  “Sure thing, hun.” The girls went back toward the air-conditioned house.

  The women were barely out of hearing range when Pete whirled on Dan, furious. “Dammit. We’re not back thirty seconds, and you have to start laying on innuendoes. “Can you please keep this quiet until we figure out what to do with it.” Pete pleaded. He looked at Dan carefully, noting that he was grinding his jaw and his pupils were dilated. “How much of that did you do, anyhow? You’re a mess.” Pete regretted picking up the package. There was no telling what Dan was going to do.

  “Never mind.” Jeff said. “He’s ok, probably just needs a couple of drinks to take the edge off.”

  “Well I’m gonna grab the cooler from the carport. We’ve got to get this off the boat before anyone sees. I don’t know about you guys, but that guy in the cigarette boat scared the crap out of me.”

  As Pete walked away, Jeff and Dan looked at each other. Then, without saying anything, each grabbed a brick and put it in their backpacks.

  “Getting laid tonight,” Dan muttered, smiling. They high-five’d and set the packs to the side. “Screw him.”

  Pete returned with the empty cooler. He set it next to the fish box, neatly stacking and counting the bricks as he set them in. Dan and Jeff provided cover by unloading the fish onto the dock. Suddenly the sliding glass door opened, the sound startling Pete so much that he lost count around forty. As the girls approached, he quickly finished his work and closed the lid.

  At that point, Dan made a production of laying out the day’s catch, hoping to distract them. The women did the ‘ooh, ah’ thing, as expected, and Dan told them how they’d caught the fish, embellishing each story. “Help me with this,” Pete called to Jeff as he lifted the cooler onto the dock.

  The house was built on concrete piers to protect it from the storm surge brought by hurricanes. Although not permissible by the building code, most houses had small apartments and storerooms built underneath them. They carried the cooler each with a hand on a handle into the cluttered room. Jeff started moving gear until a space opened in the corner. They set the cooler there and carefully used the gear to hide it.

  “You’ve got to get a handle on Dan,” Pete said as they finished. “He’s blown out of his mind. He won’t listen to me, but maybe he’ll listen to you.”

  “I can see that. You know how he gets when he wants to party — there’s no stopping him. Donna will be right there with him, too.”

  “And what about you?” Pete asked.

  “I had a little but haven’t touched that stuff in years. Got no desire.” Jeff lied, imagining the all-night scene he hoped would play out in the bedroom later.

  Pete looked over at him, “What do you think we should do with it?”

  “I’d say we’ve got a couple options - and dumping it’s not one of them. I know it scares you, hell, scares me too - but it’s a major score. We can’t just pass it up. I know a guy back in Tampa who might be able to help out.”

  “I don’t know.” Scenarios ran through Pete’s mind - none of them good. “It’ll be like having a dead body in the garage, having that stuff around.”

  “Let’s sleep on it and talk tomorrow. We’ve got fish to clean.”

  ***

  Cesar pulled the cigarette boat up to the seawall. In neutral, the boat stopped in place at the dock, held in place by the wind. He tied off, grabbed his cell phone, and headed for his truck.

  The heat from the truck hit him as he opened the door. He reached in, turned on the ignition and opened all the windows to let the air blast for a few minutes waiting for the super-heated interior to cool before he got in. The truck cooled quickly, and he got in, dreading the call he needed to make. The truck was cool now, but sweat continued to drip from his brow. He picked up his phone and noticed there was a text from Diego, received over an hour ago; no content, just a signal to call back. It could only mean one thing, and Cesar was terrified of the repercussions.

  He drove the two miles to his house in a panic, wondering how to explain this to Diego. He pulled in the driveway, got out and let himself into his house. In the hallway, he pulled down the attic access ladder and climbed several rungs until he could reach his hand under the insulation. The baggie was there, just where he’d left it. Inside was another cell phone — a burner, prepaid and untraceable. He went to the recent calls screen and pushed Diego’s number.

  Three rings, four rings … he waited patiently, hoping for voice mail when the sound changed. His hopes were dashed when the line suddenly connected.

  “Yeah. You got it, mi hermano?”

  Cesar took a deep breath. Now came the part he’d been dreading. “We got a problem. I got four of them. The fifth wasn’t there. I can’t pick up a signal from the beacon, either. I’ve been out all day looking, but there’s so many fishing boats I can’t search without looking suspicious.”

  There was a long, toxic pause on the other end, and Cesar closed his eyes. Diego was one of the most powerful men in Mexico, and Cesar had spent most of his life fearing the drug lord. It had been chance that led him to this position as runner, and there were times when he wished he’d become a sugar cane farmer instead.

  Now was one of those moments.

  “Was it the special package?” his boss asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

  This was the question Cesar had feared most. “Yes, patron.”

  He could almost see the scene on the other end of the phone. Diego was infamous for his temper and what he did with it. Scarface had nothing on the trail of bodies tied to him. If he wanted, he could end Cesar’s life - and every member of his family’s.

  When he spoke again, he emphasized each word. “Find it, Cesar. Or you and all you hold dear will die.” He paused, “I don’t think I need to tell you how.”

  “Yes, patron,�
�� Cesar mumbled.

  The call disconnected and Cesar put the phone down, his hand shaking. No, Diego didn’t need to tell him how he would die. He’d seen it before, when men had failed the drug lord. Their screams still haunted his dreams.

  He replaced the phone, went to the refrigerator and put his hand toward a cold beer. Changing his mind, he quickly moved it to a bottle of water. Alcohol was no cure for the disease he now carried.

  3

  Pete wanted nothing more than his bed, but the party at the house was in high gear for Dan, Jeff, and the girls. Music was loud and hips were grinding while he looked on, planning his exit strategy. The only single one of the group, he didn’t often feel like a fifth wheel. Except when they were partying.

  He rubbed the callus on the base of his ring finger. Regret about his situation didn’t visit often, but when it did, the melancholy was unbearable. Divorced for three years, he was lonelier than he would admit to himself. He watched the couples interact with each other and saw through the effects of the drugs and alcohol. He saw the connections. Realizing there was no rest to be had here, he decided on a change of scenery.

  Unnoticed, he slid from the room and out the front door. He looked at the car, but chose the bicycle instead. Although nowhere near the level of intoxication of his friends, he’d had a few, and didn’t want to risk it. A DUI would totally screw his custody situation.

  He pedaled out of the driveway, wobbly at first, but quickly gaining confidence. Maybe he’d had more to drink than he thought. He rode through the neighborhood and turned left at Sombrero Golf Course, heading towards the Dockside bar. He glanced at the boats moored at the seawall, most dark and empty, wondering if he might have to crash on one. The bar was half full when he entered; a solo guitar player strumming Jimmy Buffet covers was the only one who looked at him - showing him where the tip jar was with a nod. He sat down at the bar, as far away from the crowd as he could get and ordered a beer. The barmaid set the cold bottle in front of him. He lifted it, took a sip and sat back as he reflected on the day’s events and wondered how he could stop his out of control friends from getting them all killed. He could sneak back and dump the drugs in the canal while they were all partying, but he feared Dan’s reaction - especially if he were still high when he found out.