Wood's Wreck (10 page)

Mel started with a brief history of Coral Gardens.

“Cayenne Cannady … you mean Big Boobs Cannady?”

“Yeah, that’s her.” She waited for him to elaborate.

“Sweetie, that girl has issues, and if tell you someone has issues …” He put his hands out.

Mel wasn’t sure she wanted to hear about Cayenne’s seedier side, at least not until they’d had a few drinks. Knowing your enemy was one of the crucial tenants of her success and she didn’t fail to notice that this was the first time she had referred to her that way. 

Trying to get the conversation out of the gutter, she took the papers from her backpack and laid them on the table for him. As soon as the IRS letterhead on the tax forms caught his eye, his interest perked. For several minutes he shuffled papers, going back and forth in the stack after sorting them into their appropriate years. 

Finally he looked up. “Seems our girl runs her business about the same as her sex life—sloppy, sweetheart, sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.”

Mel was getting impatient. Marvin must have sensed it, because he continued in a serious tone. “The books are cooked to about a medium-well, but that’s not really the issue.” He tapped the pile of financials. “These are unaudited statements and pretty much worthless in a court of law. The tax returns, on the other hand—” He tapped a tax form. “This is Form 990, filed by non-profits.” He turned the page to section A and put his index finger on line 5. “Here’s the deal. This line is for what the IRS calls significant diversions. Non-profits are typically money sieves. All full of good intentions, but nobody’s counting the pennies, or even watching the dollars. Fraud and theft are common, but the IRS chooses not to ask questions. Line 5 here is where they ask if anything has been stolen … for any reason.” 

He pulled out the previous year and put the returns side by side. “Two years in a row, the number here matches the cash withdrawals. As long as you fill in the paperwork correctly no one cares, so I’m guessing no one checked up on this.”

“You mean she’s admitting to taking money?” Mel asked.

“No. Her accountant is talking to the IRS through this line, saying that something has disappeared, but he’s not sure what it is. Just enter the figure there and every one walks away, no questions asked.”

Mel stared at the papers and the sizable figure entered. It’s money laundering. Taking the cash for the lobsters and putting it into the account, then withdrawing it. “What about all the cash deposits with no paperwork?”

“Nothing there—it’s a dead end. As long as they are under ten grand.” He scanned the journal. “And they are. So the IRS could care less about reporting income. If they were more than ten thousand, the banks would report the transaction and it might raise a red flag. But not here.”

She had a lot to digest, and clearly owed him an hour or so as his wingman. Fortunately, from experience, she knew it wouldn’t take much more than that to get him hooked up. Her phone showed 5 o’clock. If she got rid of him in an hour, she would have plenty of time to rent a stand-up paddleboard and if the wind held, get some downwind time. A good paddle would clear her head and put things in perspective. The pieces were there, she just had to put them together. 

“Well, girlfriend. I guess it’s party time.”

Chapter 11

Trufante hadn’t moved from the barstool for several hours, and his brain—as well as his credit—were both close to maxed out. He put the stub of his missing finger against the cold bottle to cool it down. Whenever he got stressed out, this was the first place he felt it, and right now it was burning. Of all the things he could have gotten sucked into, this was about the worst case scenario. He was used to living life in DEFCON 2.5 but this was looking like an Armageddon fuck-up. 

But losing Mac’s boat because of a woman, with a handful of greed tossed in, was about the worst thing he had ever done. Besides breaching his friend’s trust and lying about taking the boat, he’d managed to get his vessel impounded, and in an island community, boats were more important than cars. Especially when both of their incomes relied on it. 

The next thing they would do, if they hadn’t gotten there already, was pull Mac’s commercial license. Then they would be two broke homeboys. 

He shook his head and finished the beer, wondering if the woman behind the bar would extend his credit for one more. Before he could ask, someone smacked him on the shoulder. His reaction was slowed from the night in jail and the beer, and when he turned he saw a gold smile staring at him.

“Trufante.”

“Commando. Son of a bitch.” He fist bumped the man, who moved to the empty barstool. 

Commando pulled up his low riding shorts and pushed his wide-brimmed cap back on his head. “Yo, Tru. How ‘bout we get you a beer?”

Trufante smiled at his luck. Commando had a small fleet of boats that went out in the mornings for bait. It wasn’t the highest-paying work around, and nothing like the generous split that Mac gave him, but any kind of work right now was good. “That’d be good, man.”

They sat and waited for the beers to arrive. When she set them down, he held up a finger for her to wait. 

“You want a shot too?” Commando didn’t wait for an answer. “Two tequilas.”

After the barmaid poured the shots, they toasted and downed them before each took a sip of beer. Commando broke the silence. “So, word on the street is that you and the man got in a little bit of trouble.”

Trufante looked at him and shook his head. “Damn shit, if you ask me. Feds took his boat for some stupid thing he wasn’t even there for.”

“That doesn’t put either of you in a very good position, does it?” His gold teeth showed as he smiled. 

Trufante looked at him, trying to decide where this was going. Mac didn’t like the man. He always said that the second- and third-generation Cubans who wore their pants low and inked up there bodies had no respect; that they were punks. Trufante knew there was some history with Commando and the law, but he was standing here and buying beers. The least he could do was hear him out, and maybe get another beer out of him. 

“You got something on your mind?” He drained the beer.

Commando signaled down the bar for a replacement. “
Mi amigo.
Maybe I can help you both out, here. You know, I hear things. Heard you scored big the other day.”

Trufante waited for the beer. “Come on, man, spit it out. You know Mac don’t care for you.”

“That’s a nice way to put it, but I can help both of you. They’re probably going to pull his license any minute now, and without the license and boat …” He paused. “It’s lobster season, and if his traps are bringing in numbers like I heard you scored yesterday, I’d be willing to cut him in for his numbers and equipment.”

Trufante looked at him, waiting for the rest.

“And there’d be a pretty large finder’s fee in it for you. Work too, if you want.”

Trufante soaked up the offer with another sip of beer. It wasn’t a bad deal really, and probably the only one Mac would get. He didn’t guess there was any point in telling him about the casitas, though—that would just devalue the offer. Let him keep thinking that everything came from their traps. 

“Well?” Commando motioned for two more beers.

“Tried calling his cell before, but it went right to voicemail. Texted him too, but it didn’t go through. Bet he’s out at old Wood’s place. Phone’s probably gone dead.”

Commando raised his glass to toast. “So do we have a deal, then?”

Trufante reluctantly tapped bottles. “It ain’t my deal to make, but I’ll take a ride out there with you and see what he says.”

***

It was late in the afternoon by the time Mac got the second coat of resin sanded. He eyed the patch; not his best work, but it looked like it would hold water. The rest of the hull had been inspected, and although it was dinged up pretty badly, he didn’t see any obvious leaks or weak spots. 

While the resin had dried, he’d started work on the engine. The prop still turned, reassuring him that it wasn’t frozen, which would make the engine unrepairable. One piece at a time, he took the lower unit apart, spreading the parts on a tarp he brought from the shed. Once separated, he cleaned and lubricated each one before reassembling the unit. 

Now he moved on to the motor, first draining the oil and checking the flywheel. There was no new oil in the shed so he went to Wood’s jug of old oil and used that. The old man had been religious about oil changes, and his used oil looked much better than what had come out of the engine after sitting for two years. 

Just as he was about to check the battery and fuel, he heard the rumble of a boat in the distance. He reached down for his jug of water and scanned the horizon. As he drank, he watched a small dot turn into the outline of a boat, and then become a cigarette boat. 

It was coming right at the beach, and he wondered if he shouldn’t go grab Wood’s shotgun from the house. Then the boat veered around a sandbar known only to a few locals. He looked again, shading his eyes against the sun, and saw the unmistakeable grin on the man sitting in the passenger seat. Besides his six-foot-plus height and long blonde hair, Trufante had a smile that closely resembled the grill of a Cadillac. Mac recognized it immediately.

The boat came closer and slowed as they reached the lone pile. When it stopped, Trufante slid over the side with a rope in hand and tied it off. Mac was looking at the boat and its driver when he noticed several crates piled against the transom. Trufante distracted him when he vaulted the gunwale and landed in the water. 

“Yo, Mac. What’s shakin’?” Trufante asked as he waded toward the beach where Mac stood staring at the boat.

“You’re the last person I want to see and whatcha bring him out for?” Mac asked, his voice low so as not to be heard by the man waiting in the boat. 

“Shoot. Ain’t no way to say hey.” Trufante patted his back.

“‘Shoot’ is what I ought to do to you. Don’t you realize this is all your fault?” Mac was close to losing his temper at the mild-mannered Cajun. 

“Ok. I got that. But hear the dude out. He’s got an offer that could help us both.” 

Mac squinted into the sun at the man on the boat. “Nothing he has to say is going to help me.” He turned to his work and started fiddling with the engine. Commando was trouble. Came from a family of trouble that had somehow run every bait fisherman out of town. He was so angry that Trufante had brought him here, and was concentrating so hard on the engine, that tunnel vision took over, preventing him from hearing the man approach.

Mac jumped back, startled.

“No worries, man. I just want to talk,” Commando said.

“Did anyone give you permission to set foot on this beach? It might be the middle of nowhere, but it’s still private property.”

He backed into the water. “Mean high tide is public. Mind if I stand here?”

“Guess not.” He shrugged in resignation. The only way the man was leaving was at gunpoint, or if Mac heard him out. Feeling cornered, he said, “You can state your business from there.”

Commando stood in the knee-deep water. “Do I need to restate your situation? It’s only a matter of time until Fish and Game suspends your license on top of all the other shit you stepped in.”

Mac looked down at the engine in pieces on the tarp, thinking it resembled his life right now.

Commando picked up on his body language. “I guess you didn’t think all this through.” His gold tooth glinted in the sun.

Mac looked at him warily. “Go on. What do you have to say?”

“I can help you out here. Just give me your permission and the GPS numbers for your strings and I’ll take them over. Give you ten percent off the top. This is going to take you months to clear up, and they’re gonna be watching you even if your ass doesn’t end up in jail. You leave those traps untended all winter and they’ll be trashed by March when the season closes.”

Mac knew the man was probably right, but there was no way he was giving in this easily. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Whatever. Got an errand to run I’m leaving dufus with you.” He started wading towards the boat and turned back, “Change your mind, and I guess you will, the deal stands.”

Mac could only guess what kind of an errand he would have to run out here and looked back at the crates on the boat. Smuggling. If it would get Commando off his beach he would deal with Trufante. “Well, come on. You got me in this mess. The least you can do is help get this thing started.” He walked back to the boat. A minute later the engines started and he heard the boat pull away. 

Trufante walked over to the hull. “That’s the boat that boy wrecked out here and almost killed Wood with,” 

Mac ignored him, reached over the side, and tried the key. Silence prevailed, and he smacked the steering wheel. “Yeah, it is. Go back to the shack and get a battery off the solar system. I’ll deal with the fuel.”

Trufante disappeared down the path and Mac went to the motor-less skiff. He looked into the cockpit, but the gas can was gone as well. Must have been stolen with the motor, he thought as he went to the bushes and pulled a red can from the clutches of the mangroves. Back at the boat, he cut a beer can that he had found on the boat in half and poured gas from the red can into it. 

From the color, he was sure that there was oil in the gas—ready for use in the two-cycle engine. He waited a few minutes to see if a layer of water would show as the mixture settled. It looked good, and he was about to pour it back in the can when he heard a loud boom.

He ran toward the house and saw a smoke cloud coming out of the shed. It cleared as he got closer, and he watched Trufante stumble out of the building with a battery held between his hands. 

“Shit. Didn’t tell me you had the sucker wired for 110.”

Mac just shook his head. The shock he had probably taken was only a fraction of what he deserved. “Give me that.” He took the heavy marine battery from the Cajun. “I got it, go get yourself cleaned up.” 

Trufante headed for the hose behind the building while Mac took the battery down the path to the beach. His arms burning from its weight, he put it into the cockpit of the boat and sat on one of the wheels to catch his breath.