Wood's Wall (5 page)

Once there, he lifted the board fin-first over the seawall and carried it to his rack. He'd chosen the touring board today — not as fast, but more stable than his 14-inch racing board. 

He let himself inside, and noticed the phone vibrating on the counter. Generally averse to electronics, except for GPS and depth finders, he picked up the smartphone. Alerts crowded the screen. 

His heart picked up when he read the texts and pecked out YES with his index finger — close to the limit of his texting skills. A quick shower later and he was in his ’82 Chevy truck headed south on US1. 

The drive to Key West was quiet, most of the traffic moving north as people pulled their boats back to their driveways, vacations over. He eased off the gas again. Anxious to get there he knew better than to speed. Mel was on his mind in a good way as he drove over the Stock Island bridge, entering Key West. He turned left and followed the bend around to the airport.

The tarmac was dotted with small planes. Although
international
was in the title, Key West International was a small field. He noticed his heart rate pick up as he saw her, standing impatiently next to a line of pink cabs. He moved into the right lane and stopped behind the last cab in line.

 She got into the cab of his truck. He leaned over for the expected kiss, but instead she smacked him on the arm.

"I was just about to rent a car or take a cab.” She pointed at the line up in front of them. “You got that phone, now learn to use it!”

"Sorry, babe." He pulled out from the curb. "I was fishing. Phones aren’t much use out there."

"Figures.” She pecked him on his cheek and closed the space, moving into the center of the bench seat. "Now turn on the AC.”

7

Pete wasn’t ready to head in yet. He had too much to think about. The highlight reel from the night before was interrupted by the image of the guy in the cigarette boat. Trolling the Gulf Stream steadied him. He looked back, checking the lines and glancing at Dan and Jeff. They had crashed in opposite corners of the boat, looking like bobble head dolls, their heads bouncing with the rhythm of the waves. Pete was deep in thought when the line snapped from the outrigger clip.

The fish splashed twice, way back in the spread. "Get up guys, it's big,” he snapped at his friends.

 Dan and Jeff lay unmoving - more like unconscious. Pete slowed the boat, allowing only enough speed to maintain course. With one eye on the compass, he quickly reeled in the short rods and the line on the port side outrigger. He pulled the last rod out of the holder and pulled back on the fish. It jumped again and sounded. One hand on the rod and the other on the wheel, he adjusted course and set the boat in neutral. He'd have preferred someone to drive, so he could chase the fish, but that wasn't happening.

He pumped the rod, slowly bringing the fish to the boat, then let it run when it needed. Sweaty fingers tightening the drag slightly, hoping the additional tension on the line would wear the fish out faster. He saw it for the first time as it swung, holding in the current like a flag. The hot blue was fading to green on its back, signaling that it was almost spent. One more run and Pete had him at the boat again. He eased the drag, set the rod in the holder, and grabbed the gaff. The fish was swimming with the boat now, both moving with the current. He gently wrapped the leader around his hand, guiding the fish closer while he set the gaff in the water. He pulled the gaff up, moving backward into the boat as he lifted. 

Dan's outstretched leg caught him and sent him to the deck. A small fish could wreak havoc in a boat. A thirty pound bull like this could do some serious damage. Pete regained his footing and grabbed the gaff while the fish slapped at the bodies, startling them awake. He moved towards the bow, kicking open the large fish box with his foot. One final swing and the fish was in the box. Pete was spent, but all grins as he pulled the gaff out and closed the cover. He left the lure in the fish, leader sticking out of the box, waiting for it to quiet before he extracted the hook. He sat on the cooler and thought about the hot streak he was on. 

It wasn’t going to get any better than this, he thought as he stowed the gear and headed towards the Sombrero Light House which marked the reef. As they crossed the reef line the water turned glassy calm allowing him to push the boat to the limit. They were all awake as they cruised into the channel toward their rental house. It was dead quiet when they pulled up, no sign of the girls. Pete docked the boat and jumped onto the old wood.

"I won't tell your wives what worthless pieces of crap you were out there today if you get off your butts and clean the boat and fish. I've got business to take care of.”

He headed to the house with a swagger in his step. The living room remained in disarray, absent of bodies. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and dialed Trufante’s number.

"Hey, man, talked to my buddies and they’re in."

"Good call. I'll call the dude and see what I can set up. I need to see the stuff so I can tell him what you've got. I'm sure it's his, just want to cover my bases."

Pete gave him the address. "How long?"

"Finish my beer and I'll head on over.” 

Pete sat at the counter, reality closing in on him. The euphoria of catching the fish was gone, Joanie forgotten, as he thought about the exchange that was going to happen. He was an insurance guy - risk averse. Exchanging a pile of coke with a drug dealer was not in his wheelhouse. 

***

Fifteen minutes later, Pete heard the roar of pipes as a motorcycle pulled in the driveway. He looked out the sliding glass door, checking that Dan and Jeff were still occupied with the boat; it looked like they were doing more drinking than cleaning, but they weren’t going anywhere. He had lost all the swagger from earlier as he went out to meet Trufante. They met in the driveway.

“Where’s it at?”

“Come on. It’s in the storeroom.” Pete led the way. 

As they rounded the corner, Trufante saw the two men cleaning the boat. “They know to stay away, right dude. They don’t need to know who I am or what I look like.” He flashed the grin. “And I tend to stand out in a crowd.”

“Yeah - they’re good.” Heat poured from the room as Pete opened the door. 

"Man, you need some air in here." They were in the storage room, door closed.

They were both dripping sweat as they moved the gear, uncovering the cooler. Pete opened the lid and took out a brick.

"Here you go. Had fifty, but my worthless buddies took one each. There's forty-seven now. One was different. I took it out. Don't know what it is — wrapped the same, but in some kind of metal box."

"If it was part of the bundle, I need that one too."

“All right - I’ll be right back. Pete thought about hopping in his car and going home. Trufante knew where the drugs were, he could extricate himself from the whole deal right now. Dan and Jeff would land on their feet - they always did. But he was still cocky from the fish and Joanie. He returned a few minutes later and handed the brick to Trufante. 

Trufante examined it carefully. "Don't know what this is, but if it's part of the bundle he's going to want it back.”

"I don't mind handing over drugs, but there’s something not right about this. I have a bad feeling about what this could be.”

"I'm a little curious myself. Here, crack ‘er open, let's have a look.” He handed the box back to Pete.

Pete removed the wrapper, exposing the dull sheen of lead. It had curved corners and a solder joint where the top attached. He ran his hand around the soldered seal. “Any ideas?”

Trufante took the box back and turned it in his hands. “Now you’ve got my attention. I got a buddy could probably open it. Maybe know what it is by looking at it."

"What about the rest of the deal?"

“Let’s see what this is all about first.” He shook the box causing Pete to jump. “Maybe raise the stakes some. I’ll call the dude when I get back.”

They walked from the room and closed the door, both noticing the drop in temperature once in the shade of the carport. Trufante glanced towards the dock. “No reason to tell your buddies about this.”

***

Al Green swooned Mac and Mel into a slow dance as they cooked dinner. Fresh snapper, barbecued with olive oil and oregano, with a side of jasmine Thai rice and some steamed veggies. They liked to keep it simple. A half-full bottle of white wine sat on the counter with a shared glass. The music and chemistry was moving them toward the bedroom when Mac’s phone rang. 

He glanced at the display and grabbed the phone. “It’s Tru. You mind? I want to see if he wants to fish with me tomorrow.” He pressed the accept button. “Hey.”

“Got something you ought to see.”

“Bring it by in the morning and I’ll have a look, then we can head out. I heard the stream’s running close and there are some big fish out there. Come by at six.”

“Rather do it now.”

“No way,” he glanced at Mel’s backside as she went towards the bedroom. “Be here at six.”

“You got the coffee, I’ll be there.”

The mood was only broken for a moment, and then the bedroom door closed behind them.

8

 Trufante stepped off the motorcycle. The palm fronds barely rustled. The light breeze would make for smooth seas, but would also make it hotter than ten hells. Daylight barely illuminated the path to the house as Trufante navigated it and let himself in. Mac’s house was the last building on a street of mostly manufactured homes. Each house had a postage-stamp lot covered in gravel, outlined by low cinder block walls, the decade of construction evident by the design of the wall and siding on the house. In most communities it would be just another trailer park in the middle of a city, but here each lot had a section of seawall, the boats docked there worth more than the houses.
 

Mac’s house was a two-story structure which towered over the adjacent manufactured homes. The exterior was clad in metal. The corrugated siding and roof showed a little rust, but was mostly indestructible, even in this climate. Inside the downstairs was set aside as a workshop and storage area, the upstairs the living quarters. An atrium added on later gave the house a unique look, separating it from the standard Keys stilt houses. The addition, built out toward the street, enclosed the old exterior staircase and upstairs balcony.

Mac and Mel were in the kitchen sharing coffee, both dressed for work. Mel had on an Armani business suit and heels. Mac was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. 

“Damn girl, looking good,” Trufante said as he went for the coffee.

“Got a court hearing in Key West this morning.” She got up and hugged Mac, ending the embrace with a kiss. Trufante got a smack on the shoulder as she grabbed her briefcase and Mac’s keys. “Sure you don’t need this?”

“No, we’ll be on the water all day. Good luck. Text me later. We’ll be out of range most of the day.”

“Text me later,” she mimicked him. She turned towards Trufante. “Six months ago he didn’t know what a text message was, now look at him.”

Mac ignored the jibe and they both watched her go. He turned toward Tru. “What do you want me to look at?”

He watched as Trufante reached into his pack and pulled out a paper bag from which he extracted the box. Mac reached for it.

“Let’s take this down and have a look. Lead cased - how’d you come across this anyway?” He was reluctant to even ask the question, but he had to know. Trufante had a habit for stepping in trouble every time he walked out the door. A lead box was not a good sign. Once downstairs they moved over to a large wooden workbench. Gear and tools were spread across it. Mac cleared a space near a large vise clamped to the counter. He moved a magnified light over and looked at it. “The lids soldered on too. How ‘bout that story?”