Wood's Wreck (11 page)

A few minutes later, he climbed over the side and hooked up the battery that he hoped had a full charge from the solar system. Next he hooked up the gas tank, opened the vent, and primed the bulb. The only thing that might stop the boat from starting was a gummed-up carburetor, but with the motor sitting at the angle it had been, he expected the gas had drained out of the bowl before it could evaporate, leaving the solids that caused engine trouble. 

Trufante reappeared, shirtless, just as he was about to try and start the engine. Mac turned the key and the starter engaged, but the engine refused to start. He pushed the key in to open the choke and tried again. 

This time it coughed. 

The lower unit would need water to cool the engine, but he could get a sense of the condition of the engine with a dry start. One more time, and the motor sounded like it might start. But he’d have to get the lower unit into the water before he would know for sure.

Chapter 12

Mel had to admit she was having a good time, despite her regret over not paddling tonight. She sat next to Marvin at the open air bar, soaking in the atmosphere and the rum drinks in front of them. Though not much of a drinker, she had to admit the day’s special was really good. The mixture of cucumber, lime juice, rum, and ginger beer was going down fast; she was almost through her first and Marvin was cruising through his third when she looked at the mirror behind the bar and saw a flash of red hair walk through the door. 

“Shit. That’s her,” she said as low as she could, over the music. 

He peered around her toward the door. “Yes it is, and her boobies are leading the way.” He giggled and sucked more of the concoction through the straw. “Chin up, sweetie. Here she comes.”

“Why Mel, look at you,” Cayenne said as she slid aside the empty stool and stood next to Marvin. She pecked his cheek and looked toward the bartender. 

“Cayenne Cannady. Don’t you look delicious,” Marvin said as he finished the drink and set the empty glass on the bar top. “Sweetie, you’ve got to try one of these.”

“Didn’t think I’d see you in a place like this,” Cayenne said to Mel after she ordered a round. 

Mel ignored the barb. “Marvin here is an old friend from DC. I promised to be his wing man for a while,” she said, nursing the rest of her drink. “Oh we can get our boy here hooked up. What fun!” Cayenne said as she drained her glass and looked at Mel. “Going to drink that?”

Mel nodded no and Cayenne reached for the glass. She was getting uncomfortable; not because of the surroundings, but because of the company, which had her on edge. Given an hour and a crowded bar, she could easily have fulfilled her obligation and had Marvin dancing with the boy toy of his choice, but looking over at the grotesque figure of Cayenne, she knew the task would not be so easy now. Even the pot-bellied, middle-aged tourists ignored her. 

She looked toward the street, trying to estimate how much daylight was left, and whether she had enough time to ditch the pair and get her paddle in. But the sun was already blocked by the building across the street. Resigned to her fate, she raised her hand to attract the bartender and ordered another round. There was always the chance that she could get her companions drunk enough they wouldn’t notice her exit. 

***

The tires crunched in the sand as the boat slid backwards into the water. As soon as the bow splashed the axle came free and Mac had Trufante hold it in place while he slid the boat off. He stood in the water as Trufante hooked the old axle to the winch cable and cranked it back onto the beach.

“Here.” He tossed him the line. “Hold onto her. I’ll get in and see if she runs.” He jumped onto the gunwale and pulled himself into the boat. At the helm, he closed his eyes, willing his energy into the wiring, depressed the ignition, and turned the key. 

The motor coughed and died. 

He tried again, this time without pressing the key in to open the choke. The motor spun, and just as he was about to turn the key off, kicked to life. A large black cloud floated behind the boat as he pressed the throttle and gave it gas. He backed off and let the engine idle. It was a little rough, and he would probably have to clean the plugs, but it was serviceable. 

“Come on,” he yelled to Trufante, and waited while he tossed the line in the bow and hopped in. Gently he pulled back on the throttle, cringing as the gears ground against each other as they tried to shift the transmission into reverse. He gave a little gas, but the boat hesitated, as if it had forgotten what to do. Finally it started to move backwards through the water. 

“I’m gonna run it for a bit. Can you watch the patch in the bow and check the bilge for water?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer and pushed the throttle forward. But the boat jumped and died. 

“Shit,” he mumbled as he pulled back on the throttle and set the boat in neutral. It restarted easily, and this time when he punched the throttle down it reacted and pushed through the water. He looked at Trufante for confirmation that all was good, and got the boat on plane. 

Cruising at about 25 knots, he started to test the steering, turning the boat in quick right and left turns. It was a little sticky at first, but soon the self-lubricating cable connecting the helm to the engine did its job and the boat turned easily. Next he started to circle, submerging the patch into the sea. This would be a true test, to see if it was water tight with the added pressure of the water from the boat’s forward momentum. Satisfied, he pulled back on the throttle and the boat coasted to a stop, bobbing as the wake passed by it. 

“Looks good,” Trufante said.

“For now. Still going to have to pull the plugs and clean her up,” Mac said. He was exhilarated from the ride; the feeling of taking a wrecked boat and fixing it had temporarily put his problems from his mind. 

Now he looked at Trufante, and they came flooding back. “That place where you pulled those tails. It’s not far, is it?”

“Nope.” Trufante smiled.

***

Norm Stone looked around the well-appointed office, wishing he wasn’t there. Every day he spent in the confines of the Langley, Virginia headquarters of the CIA killed him a little at a time. Walking past the statue of Wild Bill Donovan dressed in his fatigues made him yearn to get back in the field. An administrator he was not, and had been surprised when the president asked him to take the position several months ago, and even
more
surprised when Congress had given him a pass and confirmed his nomination. 

Maybe they were scared of blowback by rejecting the first Cuban-American nominee for a major office. Whatever the reason, which he suspected to be tied to the president’s agenda for Cuba, he was miserable. 

He stood and looked at the pictures on his wall. A few were of family, but many were baseball players. One of the only perks about being stuck in the office was finally having a permanent residency and season tickets to the Washington Nationals. The team was in the hunt this year, and desperately needed a late inning relief pitcher. The Nationals had only made the playoffs twice since 1969, but this year looked promising … if they could only straighten out their bullpen, they could make a playoff run. With salary cap woes on the mound, the team was stuck, but Norm had a solution. In the past he had been a little more speculative on the players he smuggled out of Cuba. He knew if he went after the big names that Castro’s watchdogs would notice. But by taking lesser-known players with promise, he had stayed under the radar. 

The problem was that evaluating talent in Cuba was hard. They didn’t have the competition that even the single-A ball leagues had here. You never knew if they would make it or not. Pitchers were even more of a gamble, as they typically got less rest and, as a result, barely broke the coveted 90-mph mark for their fastballs. 

But all said, skimming ten percent off their salaries was making him money. And the information he had on his desk—for a new player—was higher profile than most of the players he dealt with. Which meant it would surely be noticed when he went missing.

But the reward was worth the risk—especially if he could save the Nationals’ season.

He got up and paced the room, ignoring the view. Then picked up his cell phone, hit the icon for Snapchat, and typed in the message to Jay. Upon delivery, the message would be scrubbed from both his phone and the server. The irony made him smile, how an app developed for teenagers had revolutionized the espionage business.

A minute later, the phone chirped and he looked at the reply:
Tonight—loading now
. The junior man had worked for him for years, and was a good operative, although he had tendencies to go off the rails occasionally - especially when women were involved. But he was the only one Stone trusted to run the off-the-books operation in Cuba, running guns and money to the island state and bringing back political refugees and players. 

Norm didn’t understand a large part of the world—something else that troubled him about his appointment—but two things he did understand were Cuba and baseball. A second generation American, his parents had left Cuba in the late 50s, right before Castro took over, and had instilled in him a love for the country and an equal love for the sport. Why not hurt the regime at the same time as putting some money in his pocket and helping his team? 

He wished he was back in the field and could control the operation himself. Both Jay and the man he used to extricate the players, were becoming increasingly difficult to control from behind his desk. The man named Alvarez, had grown up on the island, and emigrated in the Mariel boat lift of the early 1980s. Over the years he had performed well, but had grown accustomed to the vices of a capitalist society and Norm was hesitant to send him back. Alvarez was becoming unpredictable, but he had the connections and local knowledge to sneak into the country and bring the players out. And Jay was Jay - he needed to be watched.

He thought for a second about how he would justify the expense. As head of the CIA, there was no way he could drop off the grid - at least as himself. He lifted the phone to ask his secretary to call for his plane to be ready and file a flight plan to the Marathon airport, but hung up before she answered. After unlocking the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a passport and ID in another name and placed them in his pocket. Better to go off the grid for this trip. 

Relieved that he had decided to take action, he left the office and headed out of the building, once again passing the statue of Wild Bill and wondering why this couldn’t be more like the old days before congressional hearings and bullshit inquisitions. He often felt powerless to make any kind of change in the world, but with the Nationals there just might be a chance.

***

Mel was getting more uncomfortable as the bar filled. Cayenne and Marvin were engrossed in a conversation, neck and neck, sucking down rum drinks, and she was left to the side, watching the crowd. They were getting louder and more animated as they drank and she was starting to get a headache. She had tried to leave several times, but Marvin had ordered another drink and reminded her of her promise to hook him up. 

She tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. I can’t be your wingman if you’re going to sit there and talk to her all night. I’m getting a headache.”

“Oh, sweetie. Don’t get bitchy. Maybe we could get a bite to eat and that would make you feel better. Then we can cruise for some boys.” 

“Deal. At least the first part.” She got up from the stool and went for the door. When she reached the entrance, she turned and saw that Cayenne was following like a little puppy. 

Why me?
she thought as the trio decided on the Half-Shell Oyster Bar. They walked along Duval Street and turned onto Caroline, where they marched the four blocks in the early evening heat to the restaurant. The air conditioning was almost non-existent as they entered and walked past the bar, crowded with charter captains whose boats were moored behind the restaurant at the Key West Bight Marina. The rustic bar, with its happy hour specials on both drinks and seafood, was a popular after-charter watering hole.

A man nodded at her as she passed. She thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t place him, so she looked away and followed the hostess to their table by the open windows. A few minutes later she sat with a glass of ice water, peeling shrimp and watching the animated conversation going on between Marvin and Cayenne. They were gulping beer and slurping oysters, a large part of the juice falling into Cayenne’s overgrown cleavage. 

When Marvin went to lick it off Mel got up and excused herself. 

After a quick trip to the ladies’ room, which she had only used as an excuse to get away, she stopped at the bar to check her phone. Mac still hadn’t called or texted and she was starting to get worried. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear, and he was not one to just say
hi,
but it had been almost forty-eight hours since they’d parted. She should have gotten some kind of message. 

The man at the bar was still there and she covertly studied his face, trying to remember where she knew him from. 

It finally came to her as she started to walk away that he was the captain of the boat that had taken them to the coral farm.

Chapter 13

The light was fading fast and Mac flipped the toggle switch for the running lights on the off chance they would still work. Surprisingly, they did. It was a bit of good news, as a vessel without lights was both dangerous and suspicious. The boat had run well so far, and they had gone by a couple of his traps to pick up some lobsters. He still had his license, and before he was forced to abandon his gear, or worse, make a deal with Commando, he might as well fill up the freezer. 

He looked down at his blistered hands. They had pulled about twenty lobster from a half dozen of his traps without the aid of a winch, and having to handle the lines—encrusted with crustaceans—without gloves had torn their hands apart.