Diamond Reef

by Douglas Pratt

  I picked up the loose charts, looking through them as I rolled them back up. On the corner of the Texas chart was a phone number scrawled on the corner. Ripping the corner, I tore the number off. Folding it up, I slipped it into my pocket.

  The galley would have been nice, but it needed some updating. A microwave was installed in one of the cabinets. I opened it to find the inside looked like a crime scene.

  "Cover a damn dish, kid," I whispered.

  The small refrigerator had developed a mold collection. The little food that was in there was mostly staples. Some butter, sliced American cheese, and a couple of cans of Busch beer. Inside the oven was a small toolbox.

  Opening the little red toolbox, I found a handheld GPS chart reader along with a battery-operated VHF radio. It was a trick a lot of sailors used. Even I did it. It always seemed more important on a sailboat, but I suppose even powerboats could use it. The idea is that if lightning strikes the boat, or even near it, the electronics can often get fried, and using the toolbox inside the oven created a simple Faraday Cage. Ideally, the backup will be protected from an electrical overload.

  I returned the electronics to the toolbox and the toolbox to the oven. Venturing into the front cabin, I found piles of clothes where Tristan had shed dirty clothes and forgotten to take them for laundry. My lip curled at the thought of having to live in this derelict.

  The boat shifted as someone stepped on board. I turned aft to see two men stepping through the companionway. Both were Latino, but I couldn't guess their exact ancestry. The second thing I noticed was that each one had a 9 mm Glock in their respective hands.

  "Hello," I said with some trepidation. They were blocking the only way out of the Bertram.

  "Who are you?"

  "Dockmaster," I lied. "The owner asked me to pick up his laundry."

  The one in front wore a black linen jacket and cocked his head. He had two thin lines of facial hair along his jawline. His hair was short and styled in little spikes with a significant amount of hair gel. The other was bigger. His face was rugged, and he spent more time working to build his biceps, triceps, and everything else than he ever spent on his hair.

  "Try again," Spiky Hair said. "Where is Tristan Locke?"

  I lifted my hands slowly. "I wish I knew."

  "Where is Locke?" he repeated.

  "I don't know," I said. "I'm looking for him."

  "What are you looking for?"

  "Certainly not clean underwear," I said.

  "You think you are funny," Spiky snarled and stepped closer.

  Too close. My hand flicked forward and snatched the barrel of the gun out of his hand. My other hand grabbed Spiky by the forearm and pulled him toward me.

  Facing the real muscle, I had the 9 mm leveled at him with Spiky Hair's neck caught in my elbow.

  "Let's be reasonable," I said calmly. "This is a marina, and every boater you passed watched the two of you."

  Muscles stared at me. I pushed Spiky forward, using him as a shield.

  "What do you guys want with Tristan?" I asked.

  Muscles didn't answer.

  "What about you?" I asked Spiky as I tightened my arm around his throat.

  "You'll regret this," he choked out.

  "I already do," I said. "You got hair gel all over my shirt."

  For a split second, I saw the corner of Muscless mouth twitch. I turned Spiky so that Muscles was now forward, and my back was to the companionway. Spiky started thrashing, and Muscles' pupils dilated. I pulled the trigger, grazing Muscles' shoulder enough that he jerked his arm down. My hand slapped against the side of Spikey's head, and I shoved him into Muscles.

  Turning, I scrambled out of the companionway as two gunshots rang out behind me. My foot hit the bench and launched me up and over the side of the Bertram's cockpit. I hit the water and kicked down. The water was murky and brown, but I swam away from the sunlight. The shadowy, dark shapes were, I hoped, created by the dock's walkways.

  My arms made several butterfly strokes, and I came up under the dock walkway. Grabbing a support beam, I pulled my head up between two black flotation platforms. The slimy algae that coated the beam, as well as everything else under here, oozed between my fingers.

  Muffled voices were above me. The splashing of the ocean and the creaking of the dock made deciphering anything they said impossible. The walkway rocked as they passed over my hiding spot. One of them was almost shouting as they walked past. I could make out those words; unfortunately, they seemed to imply my relationship with my mother was much closer than it should have been.

  A small school of cichlids swarmed as I dislodged the algae growing about me. A few nipped at my legs, grabbing dead skin cells. I hung on the beam letting the fish school around me for another few minutes before I submerged again. My head popped back up a second later in the sunshine. I stroked over to aft of the Kristol.

  The boarding ladder was still upright, and I pushed myself up out of the water until I could grasp one of the cleats on the side of the Bertram. I tried to grab the ladder, but it was tied off securely. I wasn't going to release it easily. Instead, my free hand grasped the dock line. I put my weight onto it, and the Bertram pulled toward the side of the slip. I threw my leg up against the dock and pushed my body up toward the Bertram's cockpit. Once I got my fingers around the stainless-steel railing, I was able to pull myself the rest of the way onto the boat.

  "That seemed like a lot of work," a voice said.

  I looked up to see an auburn-haired woman smiling at me from the dock.

  "You know there is a ladder at the front of your boat," she said. She pointed toward a ladder on the other side of the Bertram's nose.

  "No, I didn't," I confessed.

  She laughed at me.

  6

  Gin and Tonic was ordering his third round. His girlfriend, Frozen Strawberry Margarita, was still working on the first one. Thankfully, I hate making frozen drinks. I think it's a rule among bartenders, but in South Florida, it's a necessary evil. The Manta Club isn't set up like so many of the tiki bars around the coastline. There isn't a big machine that churns out frozen daiquiris, margaritas, piña coladas, or whatever other frozen crap tourists like to drink. Instead, I worked out of a two-quart mixer, which means my icy cocktails are actually hand-crafted. We even carry fresh citrus and fruits instead of the frozen jugs of mixes that are half sugar.

  I might hate making the damned things, but at least, I make good ones.

  Kristy was talking to a table near the fireplace. She was taking their drink orders, and I watched, trying to guess what they were wanting. The man was a bottled beer kind of guy. Though, the woman struck me as "just a Diet Coke" type.

  The dinner rush would be hitting soon. I had Bobby the barback stock the beer and load up the ice.

  Hunter was ready to leave when I got here, but I couldn't fault him much. I was running late after having spent a half-hour trying to get the smell of algae and dead fish off me. My wet clothes were draped across the lifelines on Carina, waiting for me to do the laundry I was supposed to do two days ago. The last thing I wanted was to let the cabin start smelling like the bottom of a marina. I made a mental note to do my laundry when I got off tonight.

  "I need a Malibu and Pineapple and Macallan neat," Kristy said from the service station.

  I was wrong again. "Please tell me the Malibu is for her."

  Kristy smiled at me and didn't answer. She might be warming up to me now.

  "Did he specify which Macallan?"

  She shook her head.

  "18-year," I told her.

  We had the 18-year and the 25-year Macallan. Both are on the back shelf. Reaching over the three other rows of liquor, I grabbed the 18-year-old scotch and poured a couple of ounces into a short glass before returning it to its nesting place. Scooping some ice into a tall glass, I added an ounce of Malibu Rum and topped the rest of the glass with the pineapple juice that Bobby had juiced earlier. I dropped a cherry and a paper straw into the glass
.

  "Thank you," Kristy said as she trayed the drinks up and took them back to her table.

  Leaning against the bar, I checked the wadded ball of paper that I left under one of the lights. The phone number that I had torn from Tristan's chart had not weathered the dip in the sea as well as I had. I had forgotten about it until I was in the shower. I pulled it out of my pocket to find the thin paper had meshed together in an asymmetrical ball. Several attempts to unwad the mess were unsuccessful. Short of an archaeological laboratory, I didn't see very good chances of salvaging it.

  I consoled myself with the fact that it was probably a long shot. The charts could have been used, and that number was over 20 years old.

  I would work the paper a little at a time. If I get something, then good. If not, I wasn't going to dwell on it too much.

  Kristy was back at the computer plugging the couple's order into the system. Her eyes flicked up over the monitor at me before they went back to the screen.

  I circled the bar to check on Gin and Tonic and Frozen Strawberry Margarita. She asked to see a menu, and I pulled one up from under the bar. She smiled at me.

  Stephanie Akins, the anchor for Channel Six News, popped up on the television that Gin and Tonic was watching. "Another home invasion near Hillsboro Beach, tune in at 5:30."

  Wilson Peterson walked through the door. He saw the screen and rolled his eyes. I acknowledged him with a nod as he moved around to sit at the other end of the bar.

  "Can I get the crab cakes?" Frozen Strawberry Margarita asked cheerily.

  "Absolutely," I answered. I asked Gin and Tonic, "Anything for you, sir?"

  "Those firecracker shrimp look good. Are they?"

  "Very," I said, "but they are hot."

  "Sounds good."

  I passed Peterson and asked, "Want a martini?"

  The mayor was always a dirty martini drinker. He probably thought it made him seem worldly when he first started drinking them.

  "Yeah, Chase," he answered. "Thanks."

  I keyed the couple's appetizers into the computer. Then I grabbed the Ketel One Vodka from the shelf to start Peterson's martini.

  "You still like it really dirty?" I asked him.

  "Pornographic, as you say."

  I added a heavy dose of olive juice from the condiment tray into the cocktail shaker. After a vigorous shaking, the metal shaker began to frost on the outside. I strained the salty, olive-colored vodka into a frozen martini glass. Ice crystals floated on the surface, and I dropped a frozen olive into the glass.

  "Thank you," Peterson said as he took the first sip. "No one does it quite as good as you do, Chase."

  I shrugged. The process wasn't exactly rocket science. Maybe thermodynamics, but I'm not even sure what that is, so who knows.

  "I got a call today," Peterson said in a hushed tone. "I am supposed to make the drop tomorrow."

  I nodded. "A call?" I asked. "Do you have the number it came from?"

  Peterson nodded. "I had it checked. It's a prepaid phone that was bought in Fort Lauderdale. No way to find out who bought it."

  "How did you check it?" I asked curiously.

  "I am the mayor. I have plenty of officers looking to curry favor," he responded with a smug look.

  "When will the drop happen?"

  "I'll be told tomorrow. I'm supposed to be ready at any time."

  Wiping the bar in front of him for the second time, I said, "I'm off tomorrow. I can go anytime."

  "Thanks, Chase."

  "Wilson," I said, "you need to reconsider calling the cops. There is no guarantee that they will do what they say."

  The mayor pursed his lips and said, "I know, but it's complicated."

  "I understand complicated," I assured him.

  "This means a lot to me, Chase," he said.

  "You want some food?" I asked.

  "Olives are food," he said.

  "Then, enjoy your dinner," I quipped.

  Bobby opened the beer cooler and looked at the fully stocked fridge.

  "I got a firecracker and crab cakes in the kitchen," I told him.

  "Got it," he said, grateful for something to do.

  A man stepped through the door and strode to the bar. He was wearing a cheap suit that hadn't been pressed in a couple of wearings. He was graying on both his head and in the five o'clock shadow that was coming in patches. A pair of wire-framed bifocals were pressed against the bridge of his nose.

  "How's it going?" I asked as I approached him. "What can I get you?"

  "Are you Chase Gordon?" he asked.

  The hairs on my neck stiffened. Another quick examination of him screamed bureaucrat. I couldn't decide what breed he might be.

  "I am," I said slowly.

  He pulled his wallet out and flashed an identification. "Van Kohl. DEA." He was pocketing his wallet before the last syllable left his lip.

  "You mind if I take a closer look at that ID?" I asked.

  He peered over the top of his glasses. His left middle finger pushed the glasses back on his nose. He was wearing a shiny gold wedding ring on his ring finger. He removed his wallet again and reopened it.

  "Mind taking it out for me?" I asked. It's a question I get to ask a lot as a bartender. Always easier to spot the fakes when they are in my hand. I didn't doubt that he was DEA, but at this moment, he was in my bar. That made me in charge. We both needed to know that right now.

  His face twisted a bit. It wasn't a question he got much, I guessed. He pulled the card free and let me read it.

  I know what all the state cards look like, but a card for one of the alphabet agencies was not something I saw much. It certainly looked real-no novelty stamp or cheesy fake name that floated around the internet.

  I handed it back to him. "What can I do for the DEA?" I asked.

  "Mr. Gordon, were you at the Boynton Marina earlier today?" he asked as he slid his Drug Enforcement Agency card back into his wallet.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Are you going to make things difficult?" he narrowed his eyes as he asked.

  "Just want to know what is going on."

  "I could make this official. Walk you out of here in cuffs, and we can go somewhere and have this conversation there."

  "We could," I said, nodding. "That conversation would consist of me asking for my lawyer and waiting for you to file some charges. Since you would have to take me out of here, it would be a little public. The whole thing would be very counter-productive on your part. On my part, I would lose a day or two in your holding facility. When I get out, then I would talk to my friend, Stephanie Akins. Do you know her? She's the anchor on Channel Six."

  I don't actually know her, but since her name was fresh in my mind, it seemed like a good one to drop.

  "On the other hand," I said, "you could be a little more forthright and tell me what is going on. Then I can decide if I want to talk to you."

  "You were identified in an incident at Boynton Marina. Two witnesses have picked you out as having been there."

  I smiled. "Was one that cute brunette?"

  "Were you there?" he asked.

  "I was."

  "What were you doing there?"

  "I was checking on a friend's boat."

  "Tristan Locke?"

  I stared at him for a full second before I nodded.

  "Where is Mr. Locke?" Agent Kohl asked.

  "I don't know. I was there at the bequest of his wife."

  Kohl looked at me.

  "How are you involved with Mr. Locke?" he asked.

  "Since you were able to identify me before you arrived, you already pulled my service record. That means you already know the answer to that."

  Kohl glared at me. "When did you last talk to Locke?"

  "I don't know. Few years ago."

  Bobby walked into the bar carrying a tray with my firecracker shrimp and crab cakes. He set the tray on the bar for me.

  "Agent Kohl, I don't know where he is. If you don't mind, I'm working. If you aren't
ordering, then I think you should move along."

  He laid a card on the bar. "I'm looking for Locke. He needs to talk to me. It's in his best interest."

  I picked up the card and read it.

  "What is he into?" I asked.

  "Maybe read the card," Kohl snapped as he stood and walked out of the bar.

  I tossed his card onto the cash register next to my wadded ball of phone number. Grabbing the two appetizers, I took them to Gin and Tonic and Frozen Strawberry Margarita.

  Placing two sets of silverware rolls next to them, I asked, "Do you need anything else?"

  "Another round," Gin and Tonic said.

  "Can I get a water too?" Frozen Strawberry Margarita asked.

  When I mixed their drinks and dropped them off, I stopped in front of Peterson.

  "I have a question," I said.

  "The answer is 'yes, I need another martini.'"

  Smiling, I said, "Okay, but my question is different. You have officers looking to curry favor. Do you know anyone that deals with the drug trade around here?"

  Peterson cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah, Tom Schilling is the detective that leads that up."

  "Does he work with the DEA much?" I asked.

  "All the time. Probably much to his own chagrin."

  "Think you could ask him to talk to me?"

  "Sure, can I ask what's going on?" the mayor queried.

  "That depends," I said, "can I ask what's on the tape?"

  Peterson nodded. "Fair point. I'll give him a call."

  7

  The settee in my salon was piled with clean clothes. After closing the Manta down, I spent a couple of hours hanging out in the marina's laundromat with a stiff drink and the latest David Berens novel. At half-past two, I dumped the load onto the cushions and collapsed into my berth. As the water for my coffee heated, I stared at the pile. I'd separate later, but for now, I could pick through and find something for today.