Wild Ocean

by Tripp Ellis

  We ordered a couple of beers. When Catherine returned, she asked us if we’d had a chance to look over the menu. I decided it was time to get right to the point. “We’d like to talk to you about Jeremy?”

  “What, are you guys cops? I already spoke with the sheriff earlier.”

  “We just have a few follow-up questions,” I said. I didn’t bother to tell her we weren’t cops. No crime in that.

  Her face tensed.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” I suggested.

  She hesitated, glanced around looking for her manager, then slid into the booth beside JD.

  “When was the last time you saw Jeremy?” I asked.

  “The morning he…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “I pulled a double here, so I was out of the house by 9am. We are open from 10am to 2am.”

  “So you closed here that night?” I asked.

  Catherine nodded.

  “What was your relationship like? Were you having any trouble?”

  “I really don’t see what that has to do with anything?”

  “I know it’s a difficult time, but this is really important.”

  Her alibi was easily verifiable. The restaurant was on the other side of the island from Diver Down. It's unlikely she could have snuck out during her shift, killed Jeremy, then made it back to serve the crab cakes.

  “It’s kind of embarrassing, but things were kind of rocky. I think he was fooling around on me.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you know with whom?”

  “Yeah that little blonde floozy who runs Diver Down!”

  JD and I exchanged a doubtful glance. There was no way Jeremy was having a thing with my sister. She was way out of his league.

  “Are you sure about that?” I asked.

  “He spent damn near all his free time over there. I told him not to go over there again.” Her eyes brimmed, tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “How did that make you feel when he kept going over there?”

  “Mad as hell.”

  “Mad enough to kill him?”

  Her eyes sharpened as they flicked to me. “I didn’t kill him. I loved that silly bastard.”

  The manager noticed his employee was in distress and he swung by the booth. “Is everything okay here?”

  He was a thin man with wavy dark hair, dark eyes, and a thick unibrow that was in desperate need of tweezing.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” Catherine said, wiping her eyes. “These officers are just asking about Jeremy.”

  “She doesn’t have to answer any of your questions without an attorney,” the manager said.

  “We’re just trying to get to the bottom of things?” I said.

  “It’s okay,” Catherine said. “I don’t mind.”

  “Can I see some type of identification?” the manager asked.

  JD pulled out his wallet and flashed what looked like an official ID. Most people don’t know what law enforcement IDs actually look like. A confident flash of something remotely similar will usually do the trick.

  The manager frowned, then reluctantly let us continue our interrogation.

  “Did Jeremy have any enemies?” I asked.

  Catherine shook her head. “He got along with everybody.”

  It was the Keys, so I had asked. “What about drugs?”

  “Jeremy never touched the stuff. All he did was drink. Maybe a little too much sometimes, but…”

  “Did he owe anybody any money?” I asked, feeling like I was grasping at straws.

  “Jeremy didn’t have two nickels to rub together. He had to borrow money from me to pay rent this month.”

  “So, you two don’t live together?”

  “We had talked about it. And it would have saved us both money. It seems like he spent everything he had at Diver Down. Between that and his poker game, he was usually always scrounging for money. He wasn’t working as much on the boat as he had been.”

  “Tell me about this poker game?” I asked. “Was it a game among friends? Or something else?”

  JD gave me a look like he knew where this was going.

  Catherine hesitated. “I’m not gonna get in trouble if I tell you something, am I?”

  “No. You’re not going to get in trouble,” I assured.

  16

  “Tony Scarpetti? Are you sure?” JD asked.

  “Yeah, that’s what Jeremy said,” Catherine replied.

  I could tell by JD’s look that something didn’t fit. “What is it?”

  “Scarpetti runs a big game,” JD said.

  “Like, how big?” I asked.

  “$10,000 buy-in.”

  Catherine’s eyes went wide. “Jeremy didn’t have that kind of money.”

  The manager glared at her, clearly frustrated that we had occupied a much-needed member of his waitstaff. The restaurant was pretty busy.

  “I’ve got to get back to work. Please let me know what you find out.”

  “We will,” I said as she slipped out of the booth.

  JD had a grim look on his face.

  “What’s the deal with Scarpetti?”

  “He’s not a guy we want to cross. He’s connected, if you know what I mean.”

  “I really don’t care who he is.”

  “I know. That’s what bothers me.”

  “I think we should pay him a visit,” I said.

  “You certainly don’t want to make it to old age, do you?” JD said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  “Not particularly. Have you been to an old folks' home recently? No way. Not for me. I want to get out clean.”

  “At the rate you’re going, I have no doubt you will achieve your goal,” JD said.

  “I just need to stick around long enough to…”

  “Long enough to what?”

  I didn’t feel like going into detail about my brush with the afterlife. “Nothing. Tell me about Scarpetti?”

  “He’s been running a high-stakes game for years. He’s like a local institution. He runs a couple games a week. Like Catherine said, the cheapest buy-in is $10,000. If that’s not rich enough for you, and you’re someone special, you might get invited to his $100,000 by-in. His clients include celebrities, tech giants, you name it.”

  “That’s highly illegal.”

  “Only if he takes a rake. He’s been doing it long enough, I can guarantee you he’s got people on the payroll.”

  “You mean like Sheriff Daniels?”

  “And probably some feds. You don’t move that kind of money without raising eyebrows.”

  “He sounds like the kind of guy who could have Jeremy killed.”

  “Sure. But no way Jeremy could buy his way into a game like that,” Jack said.

  “Maybe he saved his pennies?” I said.

  Jack’s eyes narrowed at me, catching my subtle jab. “You’re right. Maybe he did.” He sighed. “The question is, how many feathers do you want to ruffle to get to the bottom of this?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve never been afraid of ruffling feathers. How do we get close to Scarpetti?”

  “How good of a poker player are you?”

  We decided to indulge in the crab cakes and a few more beers. After we had our fill, JD drove me back to Diver Down. He sped away into the night, and I strolled into the bar. I asked Madison about her relationship with Jeremy one more time, and she denied any involvement.

  Madison was anything but a liar.

  We talked for a while, then I ambled down the dock to the Slick’n Salty. I still had to look over my shoulder. The cartel was still after me, and I was never able to totally let my guard down. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to completely relax. Situational awareness is part of the fabric of my being.

  I climbed over the transom and pushed into the deck house. I watched a little TV before crawling into bed and passing out. It wasn’t like we had an exhausting day, but I was dead tired.

  Jack called me the next morning and said, “Put on your poker face. I’m going to stake you in the next game.”
r />   I grinned. “Can you afford that?”

  “If you don’t lose,” he said. “And if you do, I know you’re good for it.”

  “You’ve grown trusting in your old age.”

  “No. I just know how to pick horses.”

  I appreciated the confidence. Getting into the game would give us a look at Scarpetti’s operation, and with any luck, I’d get a few words with Scarpetti. A man like that wouldn’t talk about his business, but he might let something slip if I baited him well enough.

  Bluffing my way through life and death situations was something I was quite familiar with. A poker game wasn’t going to raise the needle on my blood pressure.

  17

  I fixed a pot of coffee, stepped into the cockpit, and took a deep breath of fresh air. The waves gently lapped against the hull of the boat, and the warm rays of morning sun hit my face. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glance of something I didn’t expect.

  The bratty brunette from the charter sauntered down the dock. She wore a blue bikini top that hugged her all natural endowments, frayed jean shorts, and a pair of designer Steve Madden sneakers. The breeze blew her hair perfectly, like this was a fashion photo shoot. The dock was her catwalk.

  I cringed.

  She was probably going to complain about the service, or demand payment for the phone.

  As she reached the back of the transom, she pulled down her sunglasses, revealing beautiful blue eyes. With a bright smile she said, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I responded, hesitantly.

  “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?” She had a sheepish tone.

  “Why would I be mad at you?” I said with a trace of sarcasm.

  “Well, I was kind of a bitch to you,” she said, cringing.

  I could tell she was embarrassed. She waited for my response, but I was hesitant to speak my mind.

  “You don’t have to pretend I wasn’t. I had too much to drink, and I was acting like a spoiled brat. I’m sorry.”

  Usually I disregard apologies. For the most part, they’re meaningless. People just say I’m sorry to make themselves feel better and to stay on amicable terms so that when they need something from you later they can ask.

  But then she did something I didn’t expect.

  She added the only thing that can make an apology valid—an offer to make things right. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

  It was said with innocent intentions. She wasn’t throwing herself at me or offering sexual favors. It seemed like she genuinely wanted to atone for her sins.

  I thought about it for a moment. “You just made it up to me. I owe you an apology as well. I overreacted. I shouldn’t have thrown your phone in the water. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  She smiled. “I got another one.” She pulled it out and displayed it, then slipped it into her back pocket. “Besides, you saved my life. That’s worth a hell of a lot more than a phone.”

  She paused for a minute, pondering the situation. A mischievous grin tugged at her luscious lips. “Me and my friends are flying back to New York tomorrow. How about I take you to breakfast?”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said, regretting the statement the minute it slipped from my mouth. This girl was adorably cute.

  “Oh, come on. It’s the least I can do.”

  I sighed, as if sitting across the table from her would be torture. “Okay. I guess I can let you take me to breakfast.”

  A bright smile flashed on her face. She bounced slightly as she cheered, “Yay!”

  My eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to her jiggling…

  I turned toward the deck house. “Let me put on a shirt and I’ll be right out.”

  “Shirtless is fine by me,” she said. She bit her lip and ogled me as I slipped into the deckhouse.

  I felt like a piece of meat. It felt good.

  I didn’t bother grabbing my pistol. I didn’t think I’d need it. That was a mistake.

  I pulled on a T-shirt, scurried through the boat, climbed the transom, and escorted the beautiful brunette down the dock. We caught an Uber over to Ziggy’s. The restaurant was known for their breakfast, and you could get it all hours of the day and night.

  Ziggy’s was a patio restaurant ensconced by palm trees. They offered vegetarian and gluten-free entrées as well as regular fair. A guy with a guitar strummed Bob Marley songs. It was never to early to order a Margarita. If you weren’t in the mood for breakfast, they had barbecued shrimp, Jamaican jerked chicken, beef tenderloin, and an assortment of seafood items. I went for the French toast, bacon, and hash browns. My stunning companion ordered blueberry waffles, fresh fruit, and scrambled eggs.

  We got reacquainted with one another, this time under better circumstances. She told me her name was Aria. I’m sure she had mentioned it when I first met her on the boat, but it went in one ear and out the other.

  She took a picture of her breakfast when it was served. It looked appetizing, and the presentation was perfect. She posted it to her followers and had a thousand likes within a few seconds.

  “JD says you’re some type of Internet celebrity?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I guess. Whatever that means.”

  “How does that work?”

  She shrugged. “I just post pictures of me and my friends on fabulous vacations and at exclusive parties. I mean, you’ve seen my friends, they’re hot. Companies pay me to wear their bikinis and their lingerie and post about it. I do traditional modeling jobs as well.”

  “So, let me get this straight. Companies pay you to go on vacation and post a few pics?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “I don’t want to ask… but it obviously pays well.”

  Her eyes grew big. “Very.”

  “Sounds like a sweet gig if you can get it.”

  “It’s not something I planned for. I was going to go to med school, but then this whole modeling thing took off, and, well, here I am.” She smiled. “What about you? I’m sorry I got you fired. But it looks like you got your job back, right?” She said, hopeful.

  I hesitated. I always hated lying to people, but I couldn’t exactly tell them I was a covert agent. “Yes, I got my job back. JD and I are old friends. So, I’m helping him out on the boat while I get situated.”

  “It seems like a fun job… when you don’t have to put up with spoiled brats,” she said with a wry smile.

  There was a moment of silence between us.

  “So, what’s your dream job? If you could do anything in the world you wanted to do, what would it be?” she asked.

  The only thing I wanted to do was redeem myself. I needed to leave the world a better place than I found it, even if it was for selfish reasons. I had no intention of going back to hell. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure that out. I just want to make a difference.”

  “Me too. I don’t know if posting pictures of me wearing a bikini is making a difference, but maybe someday I’ll do something meaningful.”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure your bikini photos are bringing joy to millions of men.”

  “Are you saying you like the way I look in a bikini?”

  “Maybe,” I said, teasing her.

  We finished breakfast and caught a ride back to the Marina. We exchanged numbers, and she kissed me on the cheek and told me to look her up if I ever found myself in New York. I figured I would never see her again, but it was a hell of a way to start off the day.

  I strolled down the dock with a little extra pep in my step, fantasizing about things that might have been. I hadn’t enjoyed a nice breakfast with a woman in a long time, and it reminded me that I was still alive, and that life could be worth living.

  I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that I didn’t pay much attention to the guy with a fillet knife in the cockpit of the Ships & Giggles. He had his back turned toward me, fiddling with something in the bait prep area. An instant after I passed by, he leapt over the transom and attacked.

  1
8

  The metal blade glimmered in the sunlight as he stabbed at me. I had sensed him behind me and spun around in time to deflect the strike.

  I blocked his forearm and grabbed his wrist. With my free hand I jammed his elbow toward the sky, twisting his arm. At the same time I bent his wrist well past the point of pain.

  The knife fell from his grasp and clattered against the deck. I kicked it into the water. It plunked through the surface and sank to the depths.

  In a continuous motion, I did an arm-bar take down. Bones cracked. I dropped down, planting my knee in his back and twisted his arm even farther.

  The man groaned in agony.

  Gang tattoos extended beyond his collar.

  “Who sent you?” I didn’t need to ask. He was from the cartel.

  He didn’t respond, so I twisted his arm again. I heard more pops and crackles. He screamed again.

  I frisked him as best I could and found another pocketknife, which I tossed in the water. He had a cell phone, and I told him to call his employer and tell them the hit had been completed.

  He was reluctant at first. But with a little subtle persuasion, he agreed. He didn’t have much choice. The old me would have snapped his neck and neutralized the threat. But I was trying to scale back my use of lethal force to situations that were absolutely necessary.

  I don’t know who the man called. He could’ve been calling his uncle for all I know. But I had put the fear of God into him. I could hear the other man’s voice filter through the tiny speaker in the cell phone. He sounded pleased that the job had been accomplished and hung up the phone.

  This is when I would have killed the man. Instead I used his cell phone to dial 911. I held him on the dock until the deputy sheriff showed up and arrested the man.

  I told Deputy Perkins that the gang member attacked me, probably trying to steal my wallet. By this time, a crowd had gathered on the dock. Perkins slapped the cuffs on him and carted him away, and the crowd erupted with cheers.