"I can't take that," she said, pushing the money back.
"Kayla," I looked into her eyes, "do you know why Tristan sent you to me?"
"You're his friend."
"No, we aren't friends. We're more than that," I explained. "He knew I would take care of you. We were brothers. I owe him my life. So, don't insult that by not taking this."
A smile crossed her lips as she nodded. She slipped the bills into her pocket. She lifted Abbie from her lap and put her in a chair. "Here, honey, Mr. Gordon bought you some chicken fingers. What do you tell him?"
Abbie beamed, "Tankoo, Mista Godon."
Winking at her, I said, "How about you call me Chase. Even Uncle Chase is fine. I'm no 'mister'."
Abbie nodded. "Tankoo, Shase."
"How old are you, sweetie?"
The girl held up four fingers. She tried to lower her pinky finger, but it kept straightening. Finally, she used her other hand to hold it down and display three fingers.
I added, "If it's alright with Mommy, we do have some ice cream."
"Oh, you don't have to," Kayla insisted.
"If you don't eat it with me, I have to eat it by myself."
Abbie looked to her mother, imploring with her eyes.
"Eat your chicken, and we'll see."
Abbie began dipping the chicken into the carafe of honey mustard. She growled like a lion before chomping her teeth into the chicken.
"Abbie, baby," Kayla said, "chew with your mouth closed."
The girl's head bobbed in time with the open mouth chewing.
"Do you know where Tristan usually went for these pickups?"
"I don't. He never told me anything. He wanted to pretend it was legit with me, I think."
"Where does he berth his boat?"
"It's down at Boynton Inlet. The marina there."
I sat back. "Do you mind if I go take a look at the boat?"
"Not at all. Do you think it will help?"
I shrugged. "Maybe. I doubt it, but maybe. What kind of boat is it?"
"It's a Bertram. Her name is Kristol."
4
My head was reclined against the cockpit cushion with my eyes closed. A King's X song was drifting from a boat three slips down. Two guys were moving about the deck of the Pearson earlier. They had arrived during the afternoon while I was still at the Manta Club. I didn't mind, so far. Both had been extremely congenial when I returned to the boat. The music was at least good and barely audible, and they seemed to be settling in the cockpit with their beer.
A glass of dark rum with a splash of pineapple juice, borrowed from the bar, rested on the gunwale. Well, mostly, there was just ice in the glass. The rum and juice had disappeared as I pondered what kind of trouble Tristan might have. The problem was going to require a bit more rum.
The wind carried laughter over the water from a small group on a houseboat across the marina. It was probably the SeaHorse. They were retired and loved their sundowners. They had an open invitation if they were on deck. Steve retired from real estate in Indianapolis, and Mariane was a former accountant. Both loved their beer and wine, respectively. They were what I call twice-a-weekers at the Manta. They popped in for one drink and dinner about twice a week. They preferred to drink on the SeaHorse with friends.
A refill seemed in order. But the rum was sitting on the counter in the galley, and I was quite comfortable where I was. The stars were a great deal dimmer here than when I was anchored in the Exumas, where each distant star could be made out clearly as they trailed and traced along the constellations. Even now, though, with the pollution of light from the shore, the night sky was something to marvel. Or maybe to just stare at while I mulled over the problem with Tristan.
If I was right, Tristan might be up to his eyeballs with a drug distributor. From what little Kayla told me, I guessed that he might have been boarded, which his employer would likely not like. While I don't have any first-hand knowledge, I imagine that there isn't a lot of understanding and compassion in that business. I suppose that point of view could make sense. Anyone could claim to be forced to dump their cargo before being boarded when, in fact, they got a little too greedy. Drug dealers have an image to uphold.
Trying to take advantage of that kind of situation seemed stupid enough for Tristan to think he could pull off. He would see a big payday, and Tristan thought he was smarter than most people. He wasn't, as is often the case for people like that.
My mind kept thinking about Kayla and Abbie. How does someone leave his loved ones in this position?
Tristan's childhood resembled that, though. His father walked out when Tristan was eight or nine. According to Tristan, his father found a new family. I took that to mean that he married a woman with children. He always thought that his father just forgot about Tristan and his mom. When we served together, he had no qualms about showing his disdain for his father.
After that, Tristan began to get in trouble. He once told me about the first time he went to jail after being arrested for shoplifting a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice. Jail never taught him anything, and he ended up bouncing through the juvenile system in Birmingham, Alabama, until he was 18. His PO pushed him to join the Marines, hoping that he would turn around with a little discipline. While he served under me, he seemed to be fine. Not exactly level-headed, but at least not self-destructive. After our unit dissolved, he got back into trouble. When he was bounced out of the Corps, I guess he never landed on his feet. Didn't know how to, I surmised.
Not a skill one should be missing when there are a wife and baby at home.
"You look like you need another drink," Missy said from the dock. She smiled down at me. She had changed into a thin white sundress that fluttered around her knees. Her hair was pulled back, save two to three blond stands that danced in the Atlantic breeze.
Lifting my empty glass, I said, "I do, but the damned rum is all the way below."
"It seems active down here," she commented, looking toward the boat three slips over.
"They got in this afternoon. They are staying quiet."
"What are they listening to?" she asked.
"I don't know this one," I answered, listening to an electric guitar reverbing in the air. "It sounds like the 80's metal they were playing earlier, though."
"May I come aboard?" she asked demurely as if my answer mattered.
"Aye, lass. Step aboard." Standing, I extended my right hand to her and waved an invitation with my left.
She grasped my hand for support and stepped down. Carina shifted and rocked as Missy's foot pushed the side of the boat down. The gentle rocking subsided. Missy bent over me and kissed my lips before she took my glass from me and disappeared below deck.
"Where's Michael?" I asked with only a slightly judgmental tone. Missy's visits to Carina seemed to only happen when they coincided with one of Michael's trips, usually to visit wherever his current girlfriend lived. While I obviously didn't have a problem with the moral ambiguity about my relationship with Missy, I struggled to understand the one between her and Michael. The two were usually civil but never loving.
"He drove up to Orlando. Said he had a meeting, but I'm sure he's visiting that teeny bopper."
"The Disney princess?" I asked.
"She's not a princess anymore," Missy rebutted from below. "She's a concierge now."
"You stalking her on Facebook?" I asked.
Appearing at the companionway, Missy handed me a fresh drink. "Just enough to make sure he can't screw me ever. Better to know more than he does."
The cocktail was stronger than my first two. The woman was a heavy-handed pour or trying to get me drunk.
"Just wait," I said, "he'll be suggesting you need a new concierge for the Tilly."
"That'll be a cold day in hell," she snapped.
"You do sound jealous," I joked. "That might be a bit hypocritical."
"Not at all. Michael can stick it in whoever he wants. That's his business," she said. "But, the Tilly is mine."
; "At least if she worked at the Tilly, you could keep an eye on her."
She rolled her eyes.
"Who knows, he may have the boat wired for video," I joked. "He might feel the same way."
"If he is watching us, then he needs to start taking the initiative to learn a thing or two from you." She slumped onto the other cockpit bench.
"Long day?"
She nodded. "Yeah, we have a group coming in tomorrow, and there's an audit by the bankers."
"See, you might need a new concierge."
She shot me a look that said, "Shut up." Maybe it was a little harsher than that.
"Who's home with Paige?" I asked.
"She's seventeen," Missy said. "She doesn't need a babysitter, although she'd probably love you to babysit her."
"That might be awkward." I drank the cocktail.
"She's got a huge crush on you," Missy teased. "Last time she saw you, she talked about you for an hour."
I laughed. "Who doesn't feel that way about me?"
"It is a little weird hearing my daughter go on about you," she commented.
I smiled, "I hope you know that I have no intentions with Paige."
"Too bad. She'd love to take you to prom," she joked before she added, "Looked like you have had your share of female admirers lately."
"What?" I asked.
"The girl today," she said. "The one with the baby."
"Oh, Kayla. I think that baby was like three or four."
"Yeah, still a little rugrat. Not yours, I hope," Missy commented.
I glanced at Missy. "No, that's not my style."
She shrugged. "You never know. You gave her a wad of cash."
Shaking my head, I said, "I didn't think you were the jealous type."
"I'm not. Just better to know more." She lifted her knee and let her skirt slide up her leg.
"It's not like you didn't have kids before we met."
"Kid. Just the one," she said. "That was the girl from the message, right?"
I answered, "Yeah. Kayla's the wife of an old Marine buddy."
The ice jingled in the glass as Missy took a drink. "Where was your buddy?" she asked. "He know you are having lunch with his family?"
"Missing. She hasn't seen him in a month."
Her face grew somber. "Oh, I see."
"She hoped I knew where he might be. Tristan told her to come see me if there was ever an emergency."
"Do you?" she asked. "Know where he is?"
I shook my head. "No, he's in trouble. He's always done stupid things. He is one of those people that leaps before he looks, but he has a heart of gold. I can't imagine he would leave his family without a good reason."
"Like what?"
"I'm scared to find out," I said as I drained the rest of my cocktail. "But I have an idea." The rum was working its way to my extremities, but it wasn't making me feel any better about Tristan. The question that continued to run through my head was what was the only thing that would keep him away.
"You're going to help her," she said. "You feel obligated because he said you would help? That doesn't make sense."
"When I was in Afghanistan," I began, "our unit was sent in to extract a target. A warlord in the Taliban, supposedly. Who knows? We infiltrated a building. I was on point, meaning I lead the men in."
"I know what 'point' means, asshole," she snapped.
"Sorry, I just over-explain, I guess."
"Whatever," she waved off my comment. "It's called 'mansplaining.' Go on."
"I thought the first floor was cleared. I was about to move upstairs. Tristan opened fire on a door behind me. A nine-year-old kid with a Kalashnikov assault rifle aimed at me. He killed the kid, and the group upstairs came down hot. We were lucky to get out of there."
"Damn," Missy whispered.
"Tristan took it hard, killing that kid. He saved my life, and I don't doubt he'd have done it again. But I know it messed him up."
"You think you owe him," she said matter-of-factly.
"Over there, you owe everyone in your unit."
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
I rested my glass on the cockpit table. "Not sure. According to Kayla, the kid was smuggling drugs on his boat. That seems like a good start."
"His boat," she asked, "or the drugs."
"I guess the boat. I have no idea who he was smuggling drugs for."
Missy set her glass down and moved across the cockpit to my lap. "I'm sure you'll find him, but how about we do something else tonight?"
Her lips touched mine, and I tasted the lime from her cocktail. Her hands stroked my cheeks as she kissed me; I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her firmly into my lap. She breathed heavily as I kissed her neck and moved my hands under her blouse. Her skin was soft and cool. My mouth moved down her neck to kiss the top of her breasts, peeking through the loosed button.
"Down below," I mumbled.
"What?" she breathed.
Pulling back and looking her in the eyes, I said, "I want you down below."
She shifted her weight to her feet and ran her hand over my shorts. "Oh, me first, this time," she said with a smile and slipped down the companionway.
I rolled to my feet and followed her, leaving the two empty glasses sitting in the starlight.
5
I don't own a car anymore, not since I bought Carina. When I decided to spend months cruising, a car seemed like a ridiculous expense. The marina has a complimentary car for transients to run to the store. I promised Randy that I'd get the oil changed today while I was out. I squeezed out of the Toyota Corolla. Living on a boat should make me used to cramped spaces. I think it does the opposite. I love my space, and most days I spend my time on deck, stretched out in some fashion.
The parking lot for the Boynton Marina was raised about twenty feet above the waterline. Boynton Inlet is a gap in the barrier island protecting most of the towns along east Florida that opens up to the Atlantic Ocean. The marina is situated on the west side of the barrier island. The slips were mostly filled. Not surprising for mid-morning on a Thursday. Tomorrow the boats would be heading out for the weekend. Today, the docks were quiet.
The walkway rocked as I walked across it. There was no breeze; the bluff stifled the Atlantic breeze. Florida heat can hide behind a coastal breeze, but when the air is shielded, the heat becomes oppressive fast. Ironically, that works for the mosquitoes too.
Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I thought that four years in Afghanistan would have made me immune to the heat. That didn't seem to matter. I drip sweat all the time. I wiped my brow, the first of many times I was sure while I traipsed among the docked boats. Marinas are notoriously hot. They are usually protected from the wind and waves, a perfect storm for still, humid air. When I'm out cruising, I try to stay far away from them. Luckily, the Tilly's marina faced the bay inlet, and the breeze remained consistent.
A few retired liveaboards were moving about on deck. Flicking my wrist, I gave one man a one-finger wave of acknowledgment as he cleaned the deck of his Beneteau sailboat. The transom was embossed with the name C'est Vie. He responded with a smile and a nod.
"G' day," he said as he scrubbed the cockpit.
"Hi," I responded. "Can you give me some directions?"
"Sure thing," he said, straightening up.
"Looking for the dockmaster," I said.
"The office is over there," he said, pointing toward the west. "Store's open, but I don't think Nick is there."
"You know where a Bertram might be berthed?"
"I know of two here," the sailor said. "There's one over there." He pointed toward the south.
My eyes followed his fingers, but I didn't see the boat.
"The other is toward the other side of the marina, in one of the covered slips. You know her name?"
"Kristol, I think."
"Ah," he said knowingly. "That would be the one on the south dock."
"Thank you," I said.
"Is it for sale?" he
asked warily.
I shook my head, "I don't think so."
"You with the bank?" he questioned.
Smiling congenially, I answered, "No, it belongs to my friend."
He lifted an eyebrow curiously. "It's in need of some TLC," he said sharply.
"Are you getting her ready to head out?" I asked, diverting the conversation.
The brown face cracked a smile, "Just got back from Cuba."
"Sweet," I whistled. "That's on my agenda soon. I rolled in from the Exumas a few days ago."
He perked up, "I'm going back across next month. What do you have?"
"Tartan 40."
He nodded with a smile.
The next few minutes were passed as we discussed our different vessels and places we had both been. He was a retired part-time cruiser like me, which meant we had a few things in common.
After a few more minutes and a divergence toward crabbing techniques and great anchorages, I thanked him for his time and headed toward the second Bertram. Call it a hunch, but knowing Tristan, I guessed that he didn't maintain the same maintenance protocols that kept Carina and C'est Vie shipshape.
The sailor was right; the Bertram required care. The ultraviolet rays had cracked and faded the gel coat, and the brightwork was gray and begging for some teak oil. The lettering on the stern read Kristol.
The green buildup that seemed inevitable on the water was covering the gunwales and cockpit. Nothing that several hours with a pressure washer and some elbow grease couldn't remove. My stomach turned at the thought of what the bottom might look like.
Even with Kayla's permission, I did a double-take over my shoulders to see if anyone was around before I stepped across the gunwale. The companionway was locked, and I didn't have a key. When Kayla didn't have the keys, I figured I'd get the opportunity to practice my lock tumbling skills. I was adequate at picking locks, something I picked up as a teenager. It was a summer job helping a local locksmith, not a misspent youth.
Eight minutes. That's how long it took me. Like I said, adequate.
A musty smell washed out when I opened the companionway as I stepped into the salon of the Bertram. The inside was a mess. Maybe a sort of statement on Tristan's life in general. However, the navigation table was open, and charts were scattered on the floor. It was the charts that were out that got my attention-one for the coastline around Panama City and one for the Texas coastline. No matter how messy he might be, those two charts were beyond useless here. Whether it was Tristan or someone else, the navigation table had been rifled through.
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