Wood's Fury Page 7

  Nothing had come of it, but this was different. Scoring what had turned out to be fifty kilos of pure cocaine for the couple of grand he had given Trufante was almost too good to be true. But he knew boons like this always had a price attached, and JC stood there, white boots just touching the tide line, trying to figure out how much it was going to cost him.

  Ten

  Mel snored, if you could call it that, quietly beside him as Mac lay wide awake, trying to remember when he had crawled off the couch and made it to bed. Groggy, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Turning to Mel, he smiled at her; her breathing was so light and peaceful that even if he’d been asleep, she wouldn’t have woken him. Rolling onto his side, he slipped out of bed, pulled on his cargo shorts, and left the room. Worried about Pamela and Trufante, his sleep had been fitful even before the pages of the journal had fallen from the manual; after Mel had read the remainder to him, it had been impossible. Knowing that there was still a fortune out there, forgotten by history, only made it more interesting. Unfortunately, the last page was not the end of the story.

  Stories of treasure were woven into the history of the Keys. From the old-time wreckers of the seventeen and eighteen-hundreds to the latter-day salvors of the 1960s, the Keys had a high per-capita number of treasure hunters—here, that meant anyone with a boat. Mac’s arrival in the early ‘90s was just before the state had stepped in and started regulating the waters. He had been exposed to the good, the bad, and the ugly of the business. Salvage covered a lot more ground than finding Spanish gold, but for those with treasure fever, that’s what got the blood boiling; the rest of it paid the bills.

  For some it was a hobby, for others a business, and for a few, the path to wealth. Vince Bugarra was an example of how easy it was to prey on that fever. Irrational emotions led to irrational decisions. Bugarra had been the king of separating backers from their cash, but greed had gotten the better of him, and he was now sitting in prison. The kidnapping conviction had assured he did hard time, rather than serving his sentence in one of the fed’s country-club facilities.

  For Mac, it had always been the adventure that lured him. Solving the riddles that led to the find, not the end result. That interest had waned in recent years after the increasing lawsuits and state regulations. He liked to think he was comfortable in his own skin and his simple lifestyle suited him, but that often carried the label of “lazy,” or “living off Mel.” Both were incorrect and ate at his core. But, the story in the journal was riveting and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Taking a cup of coffee onto the wraparound porch, he sat and checked his phone. There were no new messages, just the ones from Pamela last night. It was just before seven, too early for her to be up, but with a pile of fish to clean, it was time to call Trufante. Not wanting to hear a recap of last night’s festivities, he texted him. There was no immediate answer, but by the time he had finished half his coffee, the phone pinged.

  The message was garbled drunk talk. He knew it right away from the flagrant misspellings with capital letters inserted randomly into words; too complex for the spellchecker to correct. Finding himself unable to decode the message, it looked like he would be cleaning the fish himself.

  The screen door opened with a squeak, taking him from his thoughts. Mel emerged, carrying a stainless steel decanter that she used to top his cup, then filled her own, and sat in the adjacent chair. Before Mac could say anything besides good morning, she was lost in her phone. Unlike him, she always had messages and emails to deal with. He watched her while he sipped, wondering if he should tell her or not.

  At first, he thought it unlikely that Trufante’s binge would affect them, but the minute he tried to rationalize it, he knew that it was a lie. When Trufante found trouble, trouble inevitably found Mac as well.

  “Hey.”

  Mel looked up. “Hey.”

  “I’m gonna run into town. Sell off the fish and see if I can find the boy wonder.”

  “What’s up with him?” They both knew who he was referring to.

  “Another binge.”

  “And that’s unusual? Y’all filled the boxes yesterday.”

  Mac should have noticed the red flag when Trufante didn’t ask for an advance. “I haven’t paid him yet, but there’s more.” Mac told her the story of the turtle and its extra baggage.

  “Now that adds a wrinkle. And with Pamela looking for you last night?”

  “Yeah.” Mac handed her his phone with the drunk text from Trufante. “At least we know he’s alive. I tried her phone, but it went to voicemail.”

  She sat back with the mug in her hands. Her lawyer brain was trained to see every side of a problem, and he let her plug in the facts, waiting patiently for her conclusion.

  “It was your boat, and the FWC guy wanted a statement. We need to talk to him before Trufante surfaces. If the drugs show up, it could be tied to you.”

  A loud beeping sound woke Sloan. He put the pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep, but the backup signal from the delivery truck in front of the hotel penetrated the foam. Slowly, trying to gauge the effect of his hangover on his system, he rose, and went to the window.

  From the calf-high socks and white tennis shoes on the men, and shopping-bag-carrying women, Sloan could tell a cruise ship was in port. It also told him it was later than he had planned on sleeping. Moving to the bedside table, he yelled as he stubbed his toe on the bedpost, then grabbed his phone. Relieved when he saw no message from Eleanor, he dove deeper into his messages and emails.

  The last email was the one he had hoped would be delayed long enough for him to find the drugs. This one was polite, but to the point, asking when the rendezvous could be set up. The man who had sent it knew the turtle delivery method was a reliable, yet unpredictable. In the never-ending battle between the DEA and the smugglers, innovations were critical. Using the turtles was just another shot at getting the puck into the net. There were, of course, some negatives, but one of the biggest pluses was that turtles didn’t talk. Losing the drugs was costly, but had few of the consequences of a human mule being taken. They inevitably talked, often revealing the supply chain in exchange for a plea deal.

  Sloan went to use the bathroom and brush the bad taste from his mouth, all the while composing a response to the email in his head. In the end, Trufante had flung around hundreds last night, and he watched as Pamela slowly slipped from his grasp. His credit cards were without limits, but there was something about hard cash that excited people.

  The cash confirmed that Trufante had the drugs. After replying to the troubling email, asking for a weather delay, he scrolled through his contacts until he found Dr. Johnnie’s name. Pressing the phone icon, he waited for the call to connect. Johnnie was not a medical doctor, but as the brains and the front for IVs on Duval, he faked it. A woman with a British accent answered and Sloan booked three treatments, then asked to speak to Johnnie. Sloan looked forward to his infusion of the Duval Crawl Cure All, the latest in hangover cures. Johnnie had dialed up a hydrating, B-vitamin-fused infusion for ninety-nine dollars. Sloan would be happy for his own treatment, but Trufante and Pamela would be getting some extra ingredients.

  “Sloan, ya old bugger.”

  Johnnie’s voice was altogether too loud for his present condition, but Sloan suffered through it, and explained what he wanted. The cost was high, but in-line with the risk. The only problem was that Johnnie needed a few hours to gather the ingredients.

  Losing the only guy who could tell him where the drugs were, especially after the morning’s email, was unacceptable. It had turned his stomach to have to pay for a room for Pamela and Trufante, but he had to put that aside. This was business; later, he would show Pamela who the real man was.

  Leaving his room, he entered the hallway, unsure for a second which room was theirs. A maid looked at him suspiciously as he tried to remember. He shrugged, knowing he wasn’t the first disoriented person in Key West. It came back to him and he knocked loudly on the doo
r.

  At first, no one answered, and he was preparing to approach the maid to open the door. She knew it wasn’t his room, but he figured a hundred would get him in. Just before he reached into his pocket, the door cracked.

  If he thought Pamela was stunning last night, she was even more so in the daylight. He’d never seen bed head work for anyone before. “Good morning. You guys want some breakfast?”

  “Hey. Let me ask Tru,” she said, shutting the door.

  Sloan’s blood started to boil while he waited, thinking he might want to call Dr. Johnnie and add a few more ingredients to Trufante’s cocktail. Finally, the door opened and the couple emerged.

  Mac’s anger built with every fish he cleaned—and there were a lot of fish from yesterday’s trip. He had well over a hundred pounds of tuna, and half that of dolphin. All he could think of as he bagged the fillets and set them in the coolers was how much he was going to dock Trufante’s pay. He could have taken the fish in whole and sold them for a discount, but one of the concessions he had made for his “relaxed” lifestyle was to maximize his profits when he did work.

  It was close to noon by the time he had finished cleaning up, run into Marathon, and unloaded the catch. He and Mel now sat in front of the FWC officer. The only bright spot was the payday. Barring anything unexpected, he had covered his nut for the next few weeks.

  With Mel sitting beside him, using either a tap on the leg or a sideways glance whenever he started to omit something, he told Warner the entire story. Sitting back in his chair, the FWC officer took notes on a yellow legal pad, probably for the report that he was going to file. Mac wondered if there was any way around that.

  “Of course, I have no idea what was in the packages. We were focused on saving the turtle.”

  Neither of them missed the interested look in the agent’s eyes.

  “Mr. Travis,” Warner started, drawing out the mister with his deep Southern drawl. “I know you’re a straight shooter, it’s Trufante that worries me.”

  “He worries me, too,” Mel added.

  Mac knew she was trying to lighten the mood and get Warner onto their side, but it had little effect on the deadpan officer’s attitude. Mac sat forward in his chair, wanting to rip the pad from Warner’s beefy fingers. He knew Warner wanted to be paid off and this whole meeting was a charade. Mel slammed her foot into his shin and he sat back.

  “Look, Officer Warner,” she started. “Mac brought the turtle in. That’s the end of the story. Whatever Trufante did or didn’t do was not in any way sanctioned by him.”

  Warner leaned forward. “He’s your crew.” He pointed a finger at Mac. “We’ll see about that, won’t we, ma’am?”

  Now it was Mac’s turn to restrain Mel. He knew how the disingenuous use of niceties got under her skin. Before he could do anything, she continued.

  “I’d like to see a copy of your report before you file it. I believe you are limited to the facts, sir, not speculation.”

  Warner acted like he had been stung, another bit of stagecraft. This wasn’t Mac’s first run-in with Warner, and he already knew what the agent wanted. The lone FWC officer in the Lower Keys ruled his domain with a tight fist on one hand and an open palm with the other. Reaching for Mel’s hand, he grabbed it and rose. “You know where to find me.”

  On the way out the door, Mac could hear Mel call the officer a prick under her breath. He ushered her outside and to the truck. “What’s done is done. Hopefully, he’s smart enough to let you see the report before he files it.” The last thing he wanted to tell her right now was that there would be no report. Warner expected a wad of cash.

  “He’s a freakin’ smug prick. Now I know why you avoid those guys.”

  That gave Mac some satisfaction, but not enough to make the meeting worthwhile. Hopefully, it had served his purpose. The only secret still out there was the question of what Trufante had done.

  Eleven

  Watching Trufante shovel the Blue Heaven Benedict with added bacon and avocado into his mouth, Sloan started to worry that the contents of his stomach would affect the chemicals about to enter his blood. He knew one of the benefits of the IV was that it subverted the entire digestive process, but he still had to wonder.

  Pamela ate sparingly, opting for a mimosa with her yogurt and granola. Of the three of them, she showed the least effects of the Duval Crawl. Sloan picked at his Rooster Special. He had been careful about how much he had drunk; enough to be a part of the party, but not too much to have it affect his judgment now. There was just too much at stake for an alcohol-impaired day. He also knew that Dr. Johnnie’s cure-all with some added vitamin B would take care of the effects he did feel.

  Finally, Trufante pushed his plate away and belched. Curious to see how Pamela handled his manners, Sloan was disheartened when she smacked his arm and summoned up a comparable sonata. After her refusal to stray, he was cataloging everything she did in an attempt for his brain to overpower his primal urge. He was ready to be done with these two.

  After paying the check, they started to walk down Petronia and were about to turn left onto Whitehead when a rickshaw pulled against the curb and stopped. He was about to call off the driver, when he saw it was Billy Bones.

  “Y’all looking worse for the wear and tear. Rough night?”

  Sloan glared at him. Last night he had rid himself of the remora-like parasite by ignoring him. Refusing to buy the top-shelf drinks Billy requested, it had only taken two well drinks to get rid of him. Before he could stop him, Trufante walked up to the bicycle, gave Billy a fist bump, and climbed into the carriage. Pamela followed, leaving him no choice but to join them. Fortunately Dr. Johnnie’s place was only a few blocks away.

  Billy pulled over to the curb. Turning back to the carriage, he looked at Trufante. “Shit works great, Tru. You’ll be a new man. I highly recommend it.”

  Sloan knew he was not just going away, and pulled a twenty out of his wallet.

  “I’ll be right here. You need anything, you can count on Billy Bones.”

  Without looking back, Sloan marched Pamela and Trufante into the front entrance. Two bright-eyed—and sober—employees dressed in white polo shirts greeted them. Trufante dropped into one of the comfortable chairs in the waiting room while Sloan checked in and asked for Johnnie.

  The dreadlocked proprietor came through the locked door by the reception counter. “Sloan, my brother, come on back.”

  Sloan knew the private reception was more for the cash exchange than anything personal. The knowledge barely affected him, having been brought up with his father buying off anyone in sight. Until he had reached Princeton, he had never known if it was what he did on his own, or how much his father paid out that greased the wheels for his advancement. At least, until now, his current operation was his own.

  His patience waning, Sloan refused the offered chair. “Did you get the sodium pentathol?”

  “Bra … I take care of you.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “It’s different for everyone, but twenty minutes should have him telling you more than you want to know.”

  Sloan opened his wallet and counted his dwindling reserves. But this was not a credit card transaction. Removing the ten folded hundreds he kept for emergencies, he handed them across the desk.

  “Bra, what about the girl? She gonna be any trouble?”

  “Just put her to sleep for the duration.”

  Dr. Johnnie held out his hand. “Same deal. Lot of risk going out of the box for you.”

  “I need an ATM. Get them started, and I’ll get your cash,” Sloan grumbled.

  “You’re too good a customer to have walking around like you are. I’ll give you the Duval Cure on the house first.”

  The concession was something, though the magic juice the doctor injected into his clients’ veins probably cost him only pennies. Johnnie called for a nurse, who led Sloan into a sterile-feeling room, where he found Trufante and Pamela. The couple were holding hands across the
space between two recliners that looked like dentist’s chairs. Each had an IV needle inserted into their forearms. They watched the clear liquid as it dripped from the IV bag, through the tube, and into their bodies.

  Sloan lay down in the chair next to Pamela and waited while the nurse placed a tourniquet on his bicep, swabbed his protruding vein with an alcohol wipe, and inserted the thin needle into his arm. Seconds later, the IV was connected, and he relaxed as the secret sauce poured into his body.

  The nurse disconnected the IV twenty minutes later, waking him by ripping the hair off his forearm along with the adhesive tape as she pulled the needle from his vein. Placing a gauze pad on the insertion site, she taped his arm, and released him. The couple next to him had released their hold on each other and were clearly asleep. Just as he was about to leave, Dr. Johnnie entered and changed the IV bag hanging on the rack above Trufante’s chair.

  “Twenty minutes. You bring me the cash, and he’ll be ready to talk.”

  Mac stood outside the building feeling as if Warner, the FWC officer, had just sucked the life out of him. Mel was the opposite. He could tell from the look in her eyes that she was ready for a fight. “How bad am I screwed?”

  She thought for a minute before answering. “I’d find Trufante and figure out what that fool’s gotten into this time, before these guys do.”

  Mac knew they could have had a conversation about whether the meeting with the officer had been a good idea or not, but he had learned to trust her. Yesterday, on the water, Warner had been clear that he wanted a statement. If Mac failed to cooperate, the agent had the power to revoke Mac’s commercial fishing license. Their island was no longer the secret spot that Wood had intended, and, though hard to find if you’d never been there, Warner knew the route and his twin engine FWC boat could be out there in less than thirty minutes. As Mac watched Mel calculating his options, he wondered if paying off the officer would be worth it.