Westfarrow Island

by Paul A. Barra

  Brunson grunted out a quick grimace. “Agnes, Agnes. God, she never lets it go. Can you believe it? She filed a complaint with security. I couldn’t even get on the backstretch after that. It took me a fucking week to get the order rescinded and even then I had to agree not to visit their stable. She’s going to ruin my reputation.”

  “I’m going to ruin more than that if you bother her again.”

  Jack Brunson nodded his head and put the bottle down with a clunk. Still leaning his elbows on the table, he looked over his shoulder at Tagliabue.

  “I know what havoc you can wreak, Anthony, but I’ve got to tell you that Agnes worries me more. She’s a vindictive woman. Tell her, will you, that I have no more designs on her filly? She’s a fine racehorse and I’m sick about losing her in the divorce, but I can see that I’ll never get her back. I am going to put my money on her every damn time she runs though.

  “And let her know that I won’t try to see my son again. That was some kind of stupid inspiration or something, and I was sorry I did it. He does look like he’s growing into a man without me, and I’m going to keep it that way.”

  Promises from Jack Brunson meant little, but Tagliabue knew he had done what he could to keep him away from Agnes Ann and Jesse. The muscle was out in the front parking lot, still trying to stem his nosebleed. That would be another man to keep an eye on, he and Brunson both.

  Tagliabue got up and left. On the drive back to Agnes Ann’s farm, he thought over what he’d learned. Jack Brunson had hired protection and was carrying. He didn’t seem worried about a threat from Tagliabue and had promised to leave Agnes Ann and Jesse alone. That probably meant that hiring the muscleman to protect him had to do, somehow, with the assignment from The Clemson Project. He was now more convinced than ever that Brunson was the local guy who might get in the middle of his assignment from Giselle. Tagliabue didn’t figure Brunson as Giselle’s confidential informant; however, he could very well be the guy mentioned by that CI.

  He had hoped to separate the two aspects of his dealing with Agnes Ann’s ex and figured he had done that. Now he could concentrate on his job, fully anticipating having to deal with Brunson and Broken Nose again. He just didn’t know when or in what capacity. One of the things he liked best about working for Giselle was the lack of predictability in her assignments.

  Maven was at the old pier in front of the farm, a dowdy working woman resting from her labors. Tagliabue felt a tug of affection for the boat as he walked down to her and stepped aboard. The diesels started on the first try, as they always seemed to do. He let them warm up while he took in lines and coiled them on deck. The boat drifted out into the stream. When she was far enough, Tagliabue pushed the throttles forward and set sail for Westfarrow Town.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tagliabue met Serge Poklov, the harbormaster for Westfarrow, halfway down the pier from where he had docked Maven. The men shook hands.

  “How long you staying, Anthony?”

  “Couple days, maybe. You got room, Serge?”

  “Til the weekend, then we got some reservations. You want to stay longer, it’s okay. I can work around your boat.”

  “She’s going to stand out among all the yachts.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Adds color to the place, know what I mean?”

  Tagliabue laughed. “Okay, thanks. I’ll give you as much notice as I can.”

  He shopped in town and brought the groceries back to his boat, settling in for supper in the day cabin and galley that lay forward and below the conning station. He had set the space up as his berth and dining area. Once on shore power, Maven had air conditioning and music. Tagliabue poached a piece of bluefish in scallions and chicken broth to go with a baguette and slaw as Chopin tinkled from the speakers below deck. Life in a hotel couldn’t be better than this, he thought.

  Tagliabue and his mate spent many nights in the same cabin, although when Joshua cooked it was more often grilled meat topside. His death was beginning to look as if it was caused by the conflation of physical men and colliding mores, lit off by alcohol and past grievances, not too unusual in Tagliabue’s world. Joshua’s murder and the holing of Maven may have been part of a plan to recapture Agnes Ann’s horse, probably instigated by Jack Brunson. That scenario seemed unlikely to Tagliabue, a scheme too convoluted to work. Brunson was up to something that affected more than a boat and a horse. Joshua may have been no more than collateral damage.

  That night, after the parties ended and most people were back from their dinners and drinks, Tagliabue opened the portholes in Maven’s cabin and turned off the A/C. The only sounds were those of the anchorage: stays chiming in the breeze, fenders scrubbing against the soft wood of the dock, and oily harbor water slurping hulls. The salted air wafting into the cabin smelled fresh and clean. He sighed and lay back on a bunk.

  When he woke, it was still black outside. Something had changed. Maven wasn’t moving. The wind was quiet. What had changed?

  He slipped from under the blanket and moved silently to the cabin door, pulling his Glock from the wall pin where it hung. He listened. A faint sound, maybe someone catching a breath on the main deck aft of the cabin, reached his ears. He moved forward slowly on bare feet, not wanting to rock the beamy boat, staying to the middle. Unscrewing the hatch to the fo’c’sle in slow turns, glad he kept it lubricated, he pushed it open. Hinged on the forward side, the hatch opened so that he could see down the length of the cabin roof. It also meant the back of his head would now be in the sights of any intruder behind the cabin or in the conning station.

  Climbing out, Tagliabue duck walked to the conning station and jerked back the slide of his gun. The clashing metallic noise was loud in the quiet night.

  “Shit,” came a sharp whisper from the stern. “Don’t shoot me, Anthony.”

  Tagliabue still could not see anyone.

  “Stand up, slowly,” he said.

  A shadow rose up into the starlight, arms in the air.

  “It’s me . . .”

  “Quiet.”

  Tagliabue listened, peered hard into the darkness. He could hear only his heart pounding in his chest and could see nothing moving on board Maven. He crawled down the catwalk of the port gunwale and dropped into the conning station soundlessly. The station was open to the stern, so he could see the shadow of a figure standing with his arms raised. When he flipped a toggle switch and harsh light flooded the outside of the deck, the figure cringed but did not duck.

  “Kill the lights, Anthony,” he whispered hard. “I don’t want nobody to see me, man.”

  Tagliabue switched off the lights.

  “Come to me slowly, Timmy. You’ve got me nervous.”

  Timothy O’Brien moved forward quietly, placing his feet with care. His night vision was shot. Tagliabue’s was almost as bad, but the spots had been trained on the intruder and he had closed one eye when he threw the switch, so he could see the man approach. When he was certain it was Timmy, Tagliabue sat in the port chair in the pilothouse, his weapon on his lap, a round in the chamber. He pointed at the other chair. The young bartender sat. He left his backpack on.

  “What are you doing here, son?”

  “Peter sends me over in July. This joint here is packed every day and they need my help.”

  “What’s your wife think of that arrangement?”

  “Oh, she loves it, Anthony. The job comes with an apartment. It ain’t much but the kids are outdoors all day anyway. It’s like a vacation for them.”

  “Why aren’t you home with them now? It’ll be light in an hour or two.”

  “I’m the closer, so we don’t shut down until three and cleanup takes me another hour at least. I don’t get no days off this month, but I don’t go in until nine at night. I’ll take a nap when I get home, then we’ll all go out for pancakes. I’m taking Frances and the boys to dig some quahogs and maybe fish off the pier.”

  His smile threatened to light up the cockpit as he spoke. Tagliabue took his hand off the
Glock. Before he could ask Timmy why he came aboard Maven at four in the morning, the bartender began to speak. The words came out low and in a rush.

  “I’m working the stick tonight and these two guys come in. I never seen them before. They sit at the far end and talk to each other, so I leave them alone. But when I’m serving someone close to them, I hear one guy mention Mr. Brunson. After that, I make a point of paying attention when I can. I hear the other guy, the Indian, say something about the Maven—at least I think that’s what he said. Both guys are kinda shady-looking, know what I mean? So I figured I better warn you since your boat’s tied up here and all.”

  O’Brien looked expectantly at Tagliabue, who nodded.

  “Can you describe these guys, Timmy?”

  “Yeah. The Indian is kinda tall and built. Young. Long black hair in a ponytail. Dark skin. Nose kinda like a hatchet. The other dude is older and running to fat. Greasy hair and not much of it. Needs a shave. Average height. Chews cigars and looks kinda like one of Peter D’Annunzio’s boys but I didn’t recognize him from the Pelham East. Talks like a tough guy. Oh, and I think he’s got a gun stuck under his shirt.”

  “What did the Indian sound like?”

  “I actually didn’t hear him say much, but he sounded kinda choppy, something like old Juan in the kitchen over on the mainland.”

  Juan Gonzalez was a dishwasher and general handyman at the Pelham East. Everyone suspected he was an illegal but nobody cared. He showed up every day and worked hard at a job no one else wanted.

  Tagliabue nodded. “Thanks, Timmy. You did me a favor telling me this. Next time call, eh?”

  “I ain’t got your cell number, Anthony. I didn’t want to wait in case they were up to no good and you here sleeping without warning or nothing. Course, now I know they ain’t about to sneak up on you, sleeping or not.”

  The young barman had a sheepish look on his face, a smile on his lips, and a frown in the corners of his eyes. Tagliabue gave him a card with his number on it.

  “Buzz me if you see them again, could you? Don’t talk. If I see your number, I’ll know what the message is. Okay?”

  “I’ll do that, Anthony. You take care of yourself.”

  As he got up to leave, he turned back and said: “You know what you need, Anthony? A dog. A little dog you can carry around who’ll bark if anyone comes aboard.”

  He was laughing quietly, in a snuffling manner, as he stepped ashore. Tagliabue was smiling widely himself as he watched his friend move quickly and quietly across the dim yellow patches that barely reached the planking as they bled from the hooded and rusted lamps of the city marina. He wondered briefly how Polly and old Tom Sharkey were making out. He promised himself that he would visit them when he returned to Bath.

  A faint line of light painted the horizon between the clear gray sky and the black ocean. Daybreak was less than an hour away so he decided he’d not get any more sleep if he hit the bunk again. He went below and secured himself in the cabin. Placing the locked and loaded Glock on the table in front of him, he worked the dial of a thin paper safe hidden in his chart drawer and slid out his notes on the mission he was currently assigned. The notes were a series of marks and symbols he felt confident no one else could begin to decipher. That, he thought, covered the ultimatum from Giselle to commit to memory the details of each assignment. This one was too intricate, and too important, to rely on his brain cells alone. For the first time, written details of the mission seemed important, if not the names involved or the code phrase and reply. He looked the hieroglyphics over for the third time, reminding himself again that the go-day was forty-eight hours away. The course and speed to arrive at the target coordinates on time were penciled on the chart table, but he still needed updated data points and he had no means of communicating with The Clemson Project. He was in-harbor at Westfarrow to meet his contact, not knowing who he was or what he looked like. The contact was supposed to meet him at Pelham East and identify himself, or herself.

  The daylight hours passed, a perfect summer day with brilliant sunshine reflecting off calm seas. Tagliabue worked topside on his boat, smelling the warmed tar from the marina pilings and the coconut oil slicked on holiday shoulders. He bought a tomato can of worms from a small boy for two dollars and jigged a flounder off the side of Maven. He grilled it whole on a hibachi and ate it for supper with a hard roll and a can of V-8 juice.

  As he was cleaning up in the galley, his cell phone rang. Once. He reached for it and checked the caller’s number: Timmy. He showered in the tiny head and dressed in a fishing shirt and jeans. Slipping into his sandals, he strolled down to the Pelham Island. There was a line outside the place and the bar section was full. Every stool at the long mahogany bar was taken, including one by a Latino man in a brilliant white linen guayabera. Tagliabue worked his way through the loud crowd until he was to one side of the man in the Cuban shirt. The bartender caught his raised hand and came over.

  “Una cuba libre, por favor.”

  The barkeep nodded, glanced at the Latino man with a wry smile, and reached into the speed well. The man in the white shirt said: “Tha’s a good drink for theese weather, señor.”

  “Indeed,” Tagliabue replied. “I think I’ll drink it outside where I can breathe.”

  He went out to the restaurant’s dock and leaned against a bollard under a string of colored lanterns and tasted the rum and limed cola. A sea breeze swept away both the mosquitos and a lot of the people noise from the restaurant. Other folks drank at benches that lined the Pelham’s seaside property. Some ate fish and chips from cardboard boats. They looked relaxed and touristy. He could detect no immediate threats.

  When the man in the guayabera came outside, they walked down the dock looking at boats tied up alongside.

  “You are surprised to find a Mexican as your contact, señor? I can call you Antonio?”

  “Please. I was very surprised. I thought it was going to be the guy with you last night.”

  “Oh, no. I came a day early to look the place over. When I see he is carrying, I figure I better see what he’s up to.”

  “You think it was me?”

  The Mexican laughed.

  “Oh, no. I knew absolutely what you look like.”

  “That damn Giselle,” Tagliabue said. “She’s always one step ahead of me.”

  They both laughed at that.

  “What’s your name, amigo?”

  “I am Carlos.”

  “Your English is good, much better than when you were at the bar.”

  “Thank you. No one expects an illegal alien to be a US spy, eh?”

  “Are you really an illegal?”

  “Yes. The Clemson Project recruited me from a cell in Brownsville. They look always for the unusual, in everything they do. So, here we are. Come aboard and we can finalize plans, eh?”

  They were standing by a twenty-one-foot Carolina Skiff with a dark blue hull and an enormous four-cycle engine on the back. Carlos stepped aboard, the wide craft barely rocking, and stood in the cockpit under a Bimini top. Tagliabue looked at him, a dark muscular man maybe six feet tall, with shiny black hair tied in a ponytail. His Inca blood showed in his high cheekbones and chiseled face. His chiseled, expressionless face.

  “This your boat?”

  “Mine to use.”

  “The rescue vessel.” Tagliabue said it as a statement, not a question. He began to see the possibilities in his mind. He boarded the fishing speedboat and sat in the stern sheets. The cushions were just beginning to pick up some moisture from the balmy night air.

  “This should do nicely.”

  “Si. She’s full of pockets in the fiberglass so they can’t sink her unless they get to use their big gun. We must avoid that.”

  The two operatives sat facing each other and spoke quietly. The plan was to hide the skiff alongside the Maven as they motored out to the rendezvous point, take the defector on board the smaller boat, and spirit him away in it as the Maven provided cover. The skiff drew
less than a foot, so Carlos was to make for one of the hidden coves inland from the vast fishing grounds off Maine fed by an estuary and drive the small boat upriver to safety. They decided to work out the details on Maven the next day. First, they had another problem to deal with.

  “Who’s the man with the gun you drank with last night?”

  “Don’t know. He wouldn’t give his name. Thinks he’s a wise guy. You know, talks tough, carries a nine on his belt so I can see it. A Glock. Nice gun. Him, not so nice.”

  “He threaten you or anything?”

  “No, no, Antonio. I just act like a migrant, you know. He treats me like a niño. So I let him run his mouth. He drinks too much. He says he muscle for a guy name of Brunson. I think that’s a lie too. He’s too old for that job. And he acts more like a jefe, a boss. You know?”

  Carlos saw that Tagliabue recognized the name. “He involved with this op?”

  “I hope not, but if he is, he’s not with us,” Tagliabue answered. “Maybe I better talk with him some more.”

  “Maybe. Before we go tomorrow night. We don’t need any interference from ashore.”

  “No, sir. We have our hands full with the Russian ship, I think.”

  “Why don’t you take him for a boat ride?”

  The Mexican smiled. “Good idea.”

  Back in the busy bar, Tagliabue didn’t see Jack Brunson or the man whose nose he had broken the day before. He and Carlos had separated on the dock, so he ordered another Cuba libre and waited for his partner to enter. The bartender took his second twenty. “Thanks,” he said. “You Anthony?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Timmy’s in the kitchen. He don’t come on for another half hour, but he wants to see you.”

  “Okay, pal. Thanks.”

  Tagliabue knew the kitchen layout from his deliveries, so he went out the front door of the bar and worked his way around back. He found Timmy O’Brien chatting with a waitress on a smoke break near the back door of the kitchen. O’Brien slipped something into his pocket as she smiled at Tagliabue from her seat at a card table on a concrete pad under a spreading chestnut. The air smelled vaguely of wet garbage and mud flats. The waitress blew a stream of smoke straight up in front of herself. “You wanna eat with the help, big guy?”