Water from My Heart (9 page)

Around ten o'clock, I finally called Colin.

The doctors had slowly weaned Maria from her medications and brought her out of her medically induced coma. He lowered his voice. “A couple of times, we've gotten behind the pain curve. Had to play catch-up.” A pause. “It's been…difficult.” He whispered, “Especially on Marguerite.”

I explained the situation with the house along with an assessment of the damage. Colin listened in silence. When I'd finished, he asked, “Any idea where he's gone?”

“I think he's chasing waves up and down the Nicaraguan coast with a group of guys who sell dope to support their surfing habit. First stop is a party in a little town called León.”

Central America is a sliver of land that connects Mexico to Brazil on the northwestern tip of South America. It is bordered on the southern side by the Pacific Ocean and on the northern side by the Caribbean Sea, which fans out into the Atlantic. The countries of Central America are comprised of Guatemala and Belize on the northern tip bordering Mexico. Moving south, travelers reach El Salvador on the Pacific side and Honduras on the Caribbean. Nicaragua sits squarely in the middle with borders on either coastline before turning more due south and bleeding into Costa Rica. The last stop south is Panama—the most narrow of all the Central American countries, which explains the presence of the canal. Surf junkies had been known to chase waves from Panama to Guatemala. Nicaragua was a known surfing mecca and an obvious next stop.

“You know León?”

“Used to do business there in a former life.”

“Any idea how he intends to get there?”

“Well…no, but he stole your truck so…” When Colin bought the house, he also bought a Toyota HiLux diesel four-door four-wheel drive truck and installed surf racks and oversized tires with a more Baja and aggressive grip. He and Zaul had used it to chase bigger waves up and down the coast.

I heard him mumble to himself, “I liked that truck.”

I continued. “And there are no surfboards in this house.”

He was quiet a minute. “Call us when you can.”

“Might be a few days.”

A long pause. I heard Marguerite talking in the background. Speaking over the phone, Colin picked up a conversation with her in the midst of ours. His voice lowered even more. “She does?” I heard some shuffling and Colin returned to me. “Maria wants to say hello.”

More shuffling, then a garbled “Uncle Charlie?” Her voice sounded thick with sedation.

“Hey, beautiful girl. How you doing?”

“I'm—” There was a pause. Followed by some muffled cries. I heard the word “hurts” and Colin again.

“Hey. She misses you.”

“How's she doing? Really.”

Long pause. “Not too good.” He was hurting inside. “Charlie?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not constantly telling me that this is my fault.”

“That's 'cause it's not.”

A chuckle mixed with the hint of a muffled cry. Disbelief evident in his tone. Colin was holding it together by a thread. “It's not?”

“No.” I stared out across the ocean. At the emptiness staring back at me.

“Then whose is it?”

If there was honor among thieves, Colin and I at least shared that. “It's ours.”

C
olin lived in Miami. He explained that he owned a fragrance company as well as a wine and spirits import company. This line of work brought him in contact with the Miami elite—athletes, movie stars, pop divas—who were often at his house. As a result, he'd turned his house into a bit of a museum and party destination. Said it was good for business. People liked to “ooh” and “aah” at his toys. He intended to put the skiff on display in his boathouse. The one stipulation to the deal was that I ferry the skiff to his house in Miami. I looked at Hack who coughed, spat, and nodded. “For that much money, we'll paddle the sucker over there.”

The following weekend, Colin sent his captain and first mate to lead us to his boat. We quickly learned that Colin kept a sixty-foot sportfisher yacht moored in Bimini. He used it to entertain clients that he would helicopter over from the mainland. While he liked boats and was attracted by the power and shine, he didn't know much about them or how to maneuver them, so he'd hire a captain and first mate to take them just offshore to find blue marlin, wahoo, tuna, et cetera.

Hack and I used the marina's crane to lift the skiff onto a specially built platform, which we anchored to his bow using some really heavy-duty tie-down straps. The following day, for the first time in almost three years, I returned to the coast of Florida.

We crossed the deep water, then through Stiltsville, Biscayne Bay, and into the lagoons that led to Colin's house. Hack sat up front, wrapped in the cloud of his own smoke, the view of the mangrove trees, and all the girls sunbathing in bikinis.

I dangled my legs over the edge and enjoyed the view of the world I'd left. Pulling up to Colin's house, Hack's eyes grew wide. It covered what looked to be three lots and must have had forty rooms. Hack flicked his cigarette out into the water. “You should've asked for more money.”

I doubted he was worth more than Marshall, but he certainly did a better job of flaunting it. “Yep.”

Mingling around the pool on the terrace above us, a party was in the early stages of getting cranked up. Beautiful bronzed women clad in string bikinis clung to hairy-chested men, some with massive biceps, wearing dark glasses and too many gold chains. A DJ had set up on the lawn beneath a tent and was performing a soundcheck. One girl, directly above us, leaned over the railing and winked at Hack. Hack shook his head and smiled. “I am definitely in the wrong business.”

We lowered the boat and then set it on rollers that allowed us to move it at will. Same sort of idea that piano movers use. Colin's boathouse was larger than most homes and, as I would learn, was a bit of a museum for boats that other people valued. The inside was custom cedar from Canada and the lighting had been crafted like an art museum's. Inside, steel rafters had been hung that served as sliders with rollers and large hooks. He could move any boat in his house, in almost any direction. Up, down, sideways. Walking into his boathouse was like walking into the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. There were boats hanging everywhere.

He met us at the door, shook our hands, and gave us a tour, explaining his boats, their value, and what prompted their purchase. I quickly learned that my skiff was the least expensive—by a lot. I said, “You spend a lot of time in your boats?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

Finished with setting up the boat, Hack and I were loading back up on the sportfisher for the return trip when Colin asked, “You guys hungry?”

Hack stared at all the girls. “Starving.”

I laughed. We made our way through the buffet, and while my eighty-year-old buddy introduced himself to every girl at the party, Colin introduced me to his wife and two kids. With black hair and eyes, Marguerite was a Spanish knockout an inch taller than Colin. She was also a concert pianist, which explained the Steinway in the acoustically perfect auditorium built as a wing on their house where she gave private concerts. Colin had met her at the Miss Universe Pageant where she'd been a contestant. Gonzalo, or “Zaul,” his ten-year-old son, was wearing a T-shirt that read
I'M WITH THE BAND
. He was handsome, had his mom's eyes, shook my hand, and then disappeared to the backyard, where he shadowed the DJ. Colin then introduced me to his four-year-old daughter, Maria Luisa. The apple had not fallen far from the tree. She was wearing a princess dress, lipstick, her mom's high heels, and a tiara. And while Zaul's smile warmed me, Maria melted me and stole a piece of me. I knelt down and straightened her tiara, which had slid to the side. “Hi.”

She had the most beautiful smile and blue eyes I'd ever seen.

Colin and Marguerite gave me a tour of the house while Maria slipped her hand in her dad's and gave me color commentary about “her” house. When we reached the theater, Colin convinced Marguerite to play. She sat and her hands rolled across the keys, producing quite possibly the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard, while Maria twirled onstage beneath the spotlight.

Later, we ate lunch and laughed at Hack, who was surrounded by every girl at the party. Late in the afternoon, Colin tapped me on the shoulder. “Got a second?”

This was not my first rodeo. I knew there was more to this tour and boat delivery than met the eye. A guy like this could have had his people deliver this boat with a snap of his fingers, but for some reason he wanted us, and I suspected me more than us.

He led me to the boathouse, where we climbed the crow's nest to the third floor and stared out across Key Biscayne. Below us, the DJ was getting the party cranked up. He was covered in rings, gold, and tattoos. Colin said, “He's a rapper. Known as ‘Liv-ed.' That's devil spelled backward.” Colin shook his head. “His real name is William Alfred Butler, and he's currently number one on the charts. We're rolling out his fragrance line this week.”

“You like rap?”

Colin shook his head. “No, but”—he pointed to the people attending his party—“they do.”

“How'd you get him here?”

“Same way I got you.”

I decided to skip all the BS, so I said, “You always buy your friends?”

“My friends? No. But the people at this party? Yes.”

On the lawn below us, William Butler was instructing Zaul how to hold the microphone, how to wear his hat, and then what to do with his hands while he screamed into the mike. Most gestures gave the indication that he was angry and had something to do with adjusting his groin. His hat sat off to one side and his pants had been lowered down below his buttocks. Whenever he wanted to make a point with emphasis, he held his hand up in the air, like he was holding a gun turned on its side and pulled the trigger. Zaul mimicked as best he could. I watched in mild amusement. “What's the name of his fragrance?”

“Incarceration.”

A moment passed while the breeze dried the sweat on our skin. I figured I'd take the lid off. “What's the real reason you've got me three stories up staring down on the world you created and yet the one you care very little about?”

A smirk. “Perceptive.” He pointed at Marguerite and the kids swimming in the pool. “They're the only ones I really care about.” He waved his hand across the landscape below us. “The rest of this is just noise.”

“Why do you listen to it?”

“It's necessary.” He shrugged. “Which brings me to you. I don't know you from Adam's house cat, but I've a pretty good idea you didn't set out in life to build skiffs. You're running from something, and from what I can tell, you're really good at the two parts of that vocation.”

“What parts would that be?”

“The first part is cutting all attachments.”

I pointed at Hack, who now had a six-foot blonde sitting on his lap. He was liberally rubbing suntan oil on her shoulders. Others were waiting in line for him to do the same. “Except him. And the second?”

“The ability to keep a secret.”

“How do you know that?”

“I'm pretty well connected on Bimini, and yet I can find no one who knows anything about you, other than that—after almost three years—you seem to get along well with the island legend there and that you keep to yourself. No friends. No girlfriend. No family.”

I didn't respond.

“Am I right?”

I chuckled. “Answering that would sort of negate the idea behind it.”

He paused. “Let me cut to the chase.”

I waited.

“I'd like to hire you. On the side. Won't interfere with anything you've got going on with Hack. And you'll make more money than you can spend.”

I didn't look at him. “Money is not a carrot to me.”

“How about adventure, fast boats, and helicopters, seeing different shores and getting away with something.”

“That would depend on the work.”

“Well, to begin with, it's not legal.” He waited. “Are you opposed to illegal?”

“I'm opposed to jail.”

He chuckled. “Me, too. If you don't want me to go any further, you're free to enjoy the party and the guys will take you back whenever you like.”

Between the bronzed girls with long legs; Hack's easy laughter; the lobster; the smells of coconut oil, rum, and spent diesel; the flashy boats; the movie stars; and pop divas walking around below me, I was drunk on the atmosphere, intrigue, and mystery.

“I'm listening.”

“My dad came over from Cuba. Started with one corner grocery store. Built several. Then moved into distribution. Trucking. Warehousing. He owned everything from the field to the table. He kept his costs low, smoked out inefficiencies, and made a pile of money. He brought me in early, taught me the business and how to deliver a good product to people. I have no college education, but I know how to run a business. My dad left me $50 million, and because people like to smell good; drink fancy liquor, wine, and champagne; and suck white powder up their noses, I'm now worth close to twenty times that. I don't need money, but I do like the life and the people, and to be honest, I like the identity that comes with it. I've been poor, and given the choice, I prefer wealthy.” A shrug. “That said, my business is a mix of legitimate and not. I need a runner. Someone I can trust in a business where no one is trustworthy.”

His story intrigued me. I watched Marguerite walk across the backyard carrying a plate of food to a guest. “She know?”

He nodded. “I have no secrets from her.”

“How is it that your father was legal and you're not?”

“You're assuming he was legal. My father started with one grocery store, and for my first few years of life, we lived in the back of it. I can remember sleeping in the big walk-in refrigerator where we kept all the produce during the August heat. Then my dad figured out how to import rum from his brothers and sell it out the back door. Soon, we were selling it out of the back of his truck, then trucks, then stores—plural.” He smiled. “Dad was mostly legal. More than that, he knew how to make a dollar.”

“Cocaine and rum are two very different things. That doesn't bother you?”

“If you're a drunk, don't blame the man who sold you the alcohol. I'm an entrepreneur. I provide a service. If not me, then someone else.”

The problem with his line of thinking was that I completely agreed with him. “How's it work? Pragmatically. Like what's your business model?”

“Spoken like a man with an education.”

So I showed Colin one of the cards I was holding close to my chest. “Harvard MBA.”

He smiled and nodded. “Those people down there are just junkies with money. They think their money insulates them. Only difference is that they don't want their bad habits paraded across the front page of the newspaper, so they pay me to provide them what they want and keep their secrets. And they pay me a premium to keep it that way. They place an order, a minimum of fifty thousand—some are much higher—they transfer the money to an offshore account, and I make the delivery. Or drop. I have several runners in major cities across the country. I need one around here and up the East Coast.”

“What happened to the last one?”

He pointed at a tall, thick Mr. Clean sitting off to one side with an Amazon on his lap. “He's moved into trucking. Wanted to own and run his own business, so I set him up. Sent him on his way.”

“No hard feelings?”

Colin shook his head and offered nothing more.

“How about competition?”

“Competition exists when others know what need you are meeting. Others don't know of”—he waved his hand across the crowd—“their need. So, I have little—if any—competition.” He shrugged. “I don't sell on street corners. Don't employ men with guns.”

“If you, in fact, operate this way, then your buyers trust you.”

“It also means that if I don't deliver on what I promise, that my boutique model will come crumbling down. While I possess what they want, they possess the ability to tear down my house of cards with just a few aptly spoken words. It's a”—he weighed his head side to side—“delicate relationship. So, I do what I can to massage it and make them feel at ease with me. Reassure them that they can trust me because they trust very few people. My legitimate business provides us with a fine life. All the money we want. My illegitimate business provides us with the lifestyle, entertainment, and adventure that my wife and I enjoy.”

“What would I do? How would you pay me? I imagine I wouldn't see you too often.”

He set a cell phone on the railing in front of me. “I'll get you a new SIM card with every drop. It'll either be in the boat or some place we designate. You'll never make two drops with the same SIM—”

I interrupted him. “That might make it difficult to remember the number.”

“I didn't get this good and stay in this business this long by getting lazy or being stupid. The law around here knows that I exist, but that's about it.”