Wood's Wreck (3 page)

“That’s the whole point. If they’re in the permit area the Feds aren’t going to look there. You sure she didn’t see anything?” His voice calmed slightly.

“She said she saw some structures in the sea grass, but didn’t get to the bottom. Visibility wasn’t great. I really doubt it.” 

“I’m in Miami now, be back in a few days. I’ll move them then.” 

The ceiling fan did little to abate the sweat dripping from her brow as Cayenne looked down at her desk and saw the meager balance on her bank statement. Several other letters were stacked next to her, mostly from the banks that held her loans. The once-healthy trust was almost depleted, and she was getting desperate. 

The illegal lobster traps, called casitas, that Jay had placed in the management area held the only cash she was likely to get her hands on. 

The word on the docks was that it was a terrible lobster year, and that made prices high. The illegal casitas, placed far from any other traps, were usually filled, and if she could get to the lobster first, it would bring enough cash to keep things afloat for several months. With the call on her line of credit due tomorrow, she had little choice. It was the last of many notices before the bank foreclosed. 

“Never mind. I’ll take care of it,” she said as she twirled her still-damp reddish hair and hung up. Setting aside the bank letter, she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out Mel’s resume. Her father had taught her to run a thorough background check on anyone she hired, and she had done that with Mel. The woman had come from DC, and she wasn’t sure where her loyalties would lie. There was always the possibility that she worked for her detractors. She knew she had enemies, every non-profit that tried to help the ecosystem did. Some worried that allowing non-profits like hers to exist was a slippery slope towards closing and restricting larger and larger areas of prime fishing and hunting grounds. Others believed these non-profits benefited financially from operating in protected areas. And in this case the latter group was correct. 

In the file was a brief about her boyfriend, Mac Travis. She glanced at the summary of salvage and commercial fishing business, and continued reading. Her memory proved accurate when she read the last paragraph about a wayward deckhand of his that had a penchant for trouble.

Chapter 3

Trufante stared at his empty glass, wondering if his credit would handle another one. He looked up at the barmaid and gave his best smile, revealing his thousand-dollar custom grill.

“Hey. I know you want another.” The woman smiled back as she looked over her shoulder and took his glass to the tap, where she refilled it. “Just don’t tell anyone.” She set it down in front of him. “Don’t worry. I got it.”

Trufante lifted the glass and toasted her. “‘Preciate that,” he said drawing out the first word with his Cajun accent.

At least there was one bright spot today, he thought, watching her butt sway as she walked away. But his overall state of affairs was troublesome. There were slow seasons in the Keys, but nothing like the drought Mac was now in. Usually the spring months were quiet as lobster and stone crab seasons wound down. The weather was sketchy and there were long spans where they were unable to get offshore for the dolphin fish that were just starting their early summer run. As the weather warmed, though, it was easier to get out.

But this year the fish hadn’t been there. Nothing to worry about in the big picture, but right now, it was bad. Ditto for lobster season … at least so far. Lobster would usually hold him into the fall, when stone crab came in season and the snapper and grouper came into the shallow reefs. This year it wasn’t happening. He had looked around for other work, but it was the same everywhere. Mac didn’t go out every day, like some of the other fishermen, but he paid well and didn’t mind if Trufante freelanced. 

He was deep into his beer when a long-legged woman pulled out the chair next to him. Turning toward her, he couldn’t help but notice her expanded chest. 

“Hello there, little lady,” he said, putting on his best accent. “Where’d y’all come from?”

“Well hello there, yourself,” she said as she slid onto the seat. “Buy you a beer?”

He drained his beer and grinned. Once in a while he could count on getting hit on by a tourist woman, out for a good time with a local. Something romantic about it, he guessed. The barmaid was coming back down the bar and he signaled toward her, allowing the woman to order. A minute later, the drinks were in front of them and she broke the silence. 

“I’m Cayenne,” she said, holding her hand out.

He took it in his callused palm. “Tru. Really it’s Alan Trufante, but my friends call me Tru.” He smiled. 

They huddled closer as one round became two, and soon the beer was the chaser for the tequila shots they were toasting with. 

“You know, I was thinking we maybe could have a time down in Key West,” Trufante said as he placed his hand on her knee. He had been more than happy to have her company and let her buy drinks. 

“That could be fun,” she giggled. “But I was really looking for someone to help me with a little problem I have.” She placed her hand over his. 

“Thought we were getting on fine. I don’t know if we should bugger it up with business.”

“Oh, please. We can still have a good time.” She slid her hand north.

“Well. What kind of help are you needing?” he asked.

“Just a strong guy and a boat.” She squeezed his arm.

“Well, I can maybe help with part of that equation, but I don’t have a boat.”

“Maybe you could borrow one?” she asked as she put her other hand on his other thigh and started walking her fingers up his leg. 

He wasn’t about to stop her now. This was leading in a very favorable direction. “You want to tell your new friend Tru what exactly you’re needing?”

Her hand inched higher. “I got a line on some lobster traps that are abandoned. Heard there might be some money in it. I’d be willing to split it with you.”

The alcohol and her boobs pressing against him, never mind the chance for a payday, must have altered his rational thought process. Abandoned traps were often loaded with lobster, and he could sure use the money. 

“Maybe we can work something out. I might be needing a little more encouragement, if you get my drift.”

She leaned closer. “I’ve got all the encouragement you need, baby.”

***

Trufante reluctantly pulled the sheet off and got out of bed. He glanced over at the sleeping body next to him, once again admiring her curves. They might not all be real, but they were fun. Moonlight showed through the thin curtain covering the single window in his room; no sunlight yet. 

He thought about waking her, but didn’t want her around Mac when he picked up the boat, so he left her where she was. Mac had been fine when he had called last night about taking the boat for service this morning. He hadn’t planned on checking his traps for a couple of days, he said. With the season this slow, it was better to save the time and gas money and let the traps soak longer. When things were hot, the commercial limit of 250 lobster per boat per day was easy. You could go out and check half your traps each day and pull those kinds of numbers, but the way this year was going, it took almost three full days of soak and pulling all the pots to limit out. 

He left a note on the bathroom vanity with directions to the boat ramp on the Gulf side, where he would pick her up in an hour. Ready to leave, he went back to the bed and patted her butt. 

“Wake up, sunshine. I left directions in the bathroom. Meet me in an hour.” He made sure she acknowledged him before she closed her eyes again.

Downstairs, he went out to his motorcycle and started the engine, allowing it to warm up for a minute before he climbed on. It was just getting light out when he started down the street. Several turns later he stopped at US1 and waited for the traffic, found a hole, and accelerated into the middle turn lane. He followed the highway for a few miles and turned left onto Mac’s street. 

“Why don’t you stop being an idiot and wear a helmet?” Mac asked as he pulled up.

“Shoot, injures the reputation,” he responded.

“Injures your brain is more like it, and I know you don’t have insurance.” Mac turned away and walked into the house.

“Breakfast.” Trufante smelled the bacon as he followed him through the door. 

“Mel’s upstairs. Go ahead. There’s a few things I want to get off the boat before you take it.” Mac started to walk through the downstairs workshop. The house, originally built on stilts, as were most houses in the Keys, had the bottom enclosed after the final building inspection, and now housed a small office and large workshop. 

Trufante turned and headed up the stairs into the living area. He found Mel deep into her laptop, muttered a quick hello, and went for the stove. After downing several pieces of bacon, he murmured something again and left, thankful that she had been engrossed in whatever her lawyer brain did. Theirs was a mutual-respect relationship, and that was mainly respect by distance. She was critical of Mac for still working with him after all the trouble he found himself in, and which usually involved her and Mac getting him out of. 

Back downstairs, he wandered through the workshop looking at the equipment scattered everywhere and walked out the door that led to the water. Mac was taking some fishing rods off the boat and placing them on the dock. 

“They said they could fix it while you wait?” Mac asked.

“Sure enough. I told them the windlass has been nothing but trouble since we installed it. I’ll hang out—got nothing better to do. You going fishing?”

Mac picked up the rods and walked toward the door, leaning them next to a small cooler. “Yeah, gonna take the paddleboard out and see if I can get into something.”

“Well, later then.” Trufante turned and walked toward the boat, climbed aboard, and started the engines. Mac came over and slipped the dock lines for him and watched as he pulled forward into the small turning basin at the end of the canal. He slowed, pushed one throttle forward and the other back, and waited while the boat pivoted on its center. Once it was turned, he pushed both throttles to their first stop and idled out of the canal. 

The narrow canal opened into a large harbor where he passed several moored sailboats and one wreck from a storm last year. Ten minutes later, he pushed the throttles forward and left the channel, staying parallel to the Seven Mile Bridge. At the fourth opening, he turned hard to starboard and went underneath the new span, crossed a small section of choppy water, and passed under the old span now used as a pedestrian walkway to Pigeon Key. The Gulf opened in front of him and he navigated past a sand bar, its top exposed by the low tide, keeping the single pole that marked it to port. He looked over at the shallow water barely covering the obstacle and turned east. 

He passed a few deserted islands and turned to starboard into a cove with a boat ramp and small harbor. There was the usual morning traffic on the ramp and he waited for the dock to clear before pulling the boat up and tying off. He had to admit he was a little surprised when he saw Cayenne waiting, and couldn’t help but smile, watching her bounce toward him, almost falling out of her skimpy top.
This might be a good day after all
, he thought as he offered a hand and helped her onto the deck, then grabbed her dive bag and tank. 

“You just make yourself comfortable and we’ll be right out of here,” he said as he coiled and stowed the single dock line he had used to tie off. Back at the helm, he pulled away from the dock. “You might want to give me some direction here.”

She came over to him and shaded the screen of her cellphone. “Here. That’s where we need to go.”

He squinted at the small screen, which showed a pin near an island. “That’s a little hard on the eyes. Can you read them numbers off so I can put them in the chart plotter?” 

“Numbers?”

“Yeah, the coordinates. You know, the GPS numbers. I’d help you, but my eyes ain’t what they used to be.” 

“OK, Give me a minute and I’ll figure it out. I know it’s out there.” She pointed to the open Gulf.

“Out there’s not as easy as it looks. There’s more sand bars and shoals than the bayou’s got backwater. You’re gonna need to be more specific.”

She was pecking at the screen with her finger. “I think I have them. One starts with a 1 and the other an 8?” 

He nodded and started to enter the numbers in the large screen set into the dashboard. When the last number was entered he pushed the
GOTO
button and the screen changed to a chart, centering on a pin dropped on a cluster of small islands. 

“Sawyer Keys? Sound familiar?” he asked.

“That’s it. They’re right off there.” She put her hand around his waist.

“You know there’s a sanctuary out there.”

“I’m sure they’re out of the boundary.”

“If you say so.” He pushed the throttles forward, the reaction of the boat caused her to grab him tighter, and he smiled to himself as the boat got up on plane and he checked the course. He looked down at the autopilot and thought about taking her down for a quickie, but knew the waters here were too dicey. Smiling at the idea, he decided to postpone it for when they got there. 

He set a course north/northwest to get into open water and, once clear of the line of barrier islands, turned west. The ride was easy and soon the GPS beeped, indicating their proximity to the coordinates. 

“There’s markers here.” He pointed at the buoys.

“They’re mine. We can tie up there,” she said.

“That’ asking for trouble,” he said.

“Nothing to worry about. No one’s out here.” 

He ignored her and moved closer to the waypoint before setting the boat in neutral. The windlass stalled as he tried to drop the anchor and he went forward to fix it. When he came back, she grabbed his hand and led him below.