Skim
Gil Lindback felt uncomfortable talking about his friend the way he did but he felt he had an obligation to Roberto. Jobs like the one Alazar had given him were not easily gotten and he wasn’t going to chance a thing.
“I just want to say, Gil, that you used your head and got us all out of a big jam,” Roberto said to his subordinate, who was sitting in a couch across from him.
“Mongi couldn’t believe it when a damn ambulance rolled into his backyard,” Gordo said.
“Now, what was it you wanted to talk to us about?” Roberto asked.
“First, I need to say that Kevin has a lot of problems. Ever since he got mixed up with this guy Kal Boggas, he has been saying crazy things, like he’s not getting paid enough, and you guys are ripping him off. He parties too much and I think he’s been taking a lot of drugs so you have to promise me that after I tell you, he won’t, like die or anything,” Lindback made sure of, as both men laughed.
“What do you think, we’re killers Gil?” Alazar asked.
“Just please promise me because I’m having a real hard time with this, okay?”
“No problem Gil. We will not kill Kevin. Now tell us what is going on,” Gordo said.
“He has been skimming the bales. Just a little from each one, but enough to make a difference,” Lindback uneasily stated, still unsure of himself.
“How much?” Alazar asked.
“About twenty pounds,” he said.
“Well, well, that’s not good. Something will have to be done,” Gordo declared in an intimidating tone.
“Stop scaring the kid!” Alazar commanded.
“Look, Gil, I’m human and with that it means I am not beyond making mistakes. Kevin is also human and the same applies to him. He has been a valuable worker and he can continue to be a valuable worker,” Alazar said looking Lindback in the eyes. “Will you help us teach Kevin a lesson? God forbid he does this to someone who is not so understanding.”
“Anything. What can I do?”
•
On a lone stretch of road between Long Key and Marathon, two men stood next to a large ten-wheel utility truck, the type with a hydraulic boom mounted to the top. This boom could elevate a worker as high as thirty feet with the truck’s steel outriggers fully extended. Kevin Pinder helped his chubby partner into the swiveling Fiberglas bucket. After the man secured his tools and strapped himself in, Kevin walked over to the control panel mounted on the side of the truck. The electric pump whined as it moved hot hydraulic oil through a series of rubber pressure hoses to a chrome-plated ram piston mounted on the boom. The bucket rose skyward inching its way to the wires above. Kevin watched his partner overhead as he carefully shifted the levers at his waist. Up, then over, he moved the bucket to a cylindrical transformer mounted on the pole. The bucket stopped and Kevin set the lock, securing the rig until it was ready to be moved again. His partner began to work as Kevin sat on the rear bumper.
In the distance, a blue Oldsmobile appeared traveling on the Overseas Highway towards them. The man in the bucket noticed it first but paid no attention until it slowed and approached the truck. Kevin stood to his feet recognizing the car. It was Gordo and he was not alone. The man in the bucket stopped his work for a moment as he watched the car pull up to the rear of the truck below, disappearing for a second in a cloud of dry dirt.
“Gordo, my man! ¿Cómo Estée Lauder dude?!”
“Kevinito, how are you doing?”
“Hey did we get paid man? My rent is due and I’m broke again.”
“Yeah,” Gordo said, “can you take it now?”
“Eight grand? Right here? I bet it’s in fives and tens again. But if I’ll have to, I’ll hide it on the truck.”
“Sure Kevinito, hide it on the truck. Here follow me, it’s in the trunk.”
As the two walked around the side of the car, Del grabbed the keys from the ignition and joined them at the back. As Gordo turned the key, the trunk lid sprang open exposing the terrified face of Kal Boggas, Kevin’s companion at the clavo the night before. Boggas’s eyes were wide open like dishes, staring at the three in a desperate panic. Kevin froze in place and then turned away from Gordo, only to come face to face with the meaner Del. A blade of sunlight gleamed from the highly polished nine-millimeter Beretta he held, aimed at Kevin’s abdomen.
“Where’s my shit asshole?”
“Kevinito, you know Del. That stuff you stole last night belongs to him and I think he wants it back.”
“What stuff? What are you talking about man?”
Del began to grow more aggravated.
“Look you skinny fuck, I’ll do you without a second thought. That shit you stole was mine. Where the fuck is it?”
Del’s beady eyes pierced through Kevin’s panicked smile.
“Look, I thought if I had some of the stuff I could spread it around, you know, sell some for Roberto.”
“Well, Roberto doesn’t remember making you an authorized agent of the product, so how about you return the sample and we’ll be friends again. Okay?”
“It’s at my house.”
Del looked at Gordo who instantly nodded.
“Now get in.”
“What?”
“You heard me, get in, and don’t forget to buckle up.”
Kevin crawled into the tight trunk with Kal as Del slammed the lid over the two. The smell of Kal’s shit-drenched pants quickly engulfed the air in the tight space. The lineman, now stuck elevated in the bucket, began to yell at the car as it drove off spinning loose gravel at the parked truck. Del waved politely as they made their way north.
* * * * *
Dementia
The return flight from Atlanta was smooth and relaxing, a pleasant reward for a hectic, first week of duty. The time he spent with his sister was refreshing. Jhenna had been a supporting part in his life and he always looked forward to the time they spent together. The food was also something he had missed while in the Keys. Her home cooking was the best he had ever tasted and he wondered what it would be like to have someone in his life who could cook like his sister, who paid close attention to the smallest details and tried to make every meal a special occasion.
The Plantation Key Colony apartment was quiet as he lay in a half slumber. He had the uncomfortable feeling that there was another presence in the room. He was half asleep though, and maybe he was dreaming. Still, he detected another respiratory cycle besides his own, one with a faster rate and a slight wheeze to it. Then it hit him. He was back in the Keys. His two days in Atlanta were over. His assignment did contain a moderate amount of danger. With that, he sat straight up in bed and found himself face to face with an old, gray-haired woman. Behind her stood an elderly man, bald and dressed in a white muscle shirt and Bermuda shorts.
Joel shook his head a few times before wiping the sleep from his eyes. She stood without making a sound or moving a muscle. The woman’s face was weathered and her body hung on her bones like a tired suit on a wire coat hanger. The opposite could have been said of the man behind her who looked as though he didn’t miss many meals.
“Hello,” she said. “The door was partially open.”
“Is he dead?” the man asked loudly as though he suffered from a hearing deficit.
“It was?” Joel asked, pulling the sheets up over his underwear-clad body.
“You must be Owen’s new partner.”
“Yeah, we met a few days ago. You’re Betty Sands, Owen’s mother,” he reminded her.
“I’m Betty Sands. I’m Owen’s mother. And this is Mr. Phipps, my next-door neighbor and special friend. He came and got me when he found your door open. Mr. Phipps is the complex’s unofficial security guard, if you know what I mean.”
“False alarm I guess. I thought he was dead,” Mr. Phipps said loudly.
“This is great!” Joel answered sarcastically.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming in but I thought you might be in trouble, what with the door open and all.”
“You did get in kind of late,” she added.
“Yea, well, my plane was delayed and then there was the drive from Miami.”
“Well, don’t let us bother you anymore. Go back to sleep, and I’ll let myself out,” she concluded as she backed out of the room, pushing Mr. Phipps ahead of her.
Holy shit! he thought, as he laid his head back on the pillow.
* * * * *
Catalyst
Roberto Alazar, with Del and Gordo at his side, walked into the open bay door at the Indian warehouse on 188th Street. Immediately, Alazar’s eyes started to water, irritated by the airborne residue of resin. Alazar tried to keep his meetings with Scott Roberts short and sweet. Even the shop’s air-conditioned offices did not provide shelter from the toxic fumes.
“Scotty, how are you doing my friend?”
“Roberto, I guess you got my message. I have something to show you.”
“I hope it’s a finished hull. I’m starting to get anxious.”
The three walked between several unfinished boats and upright sets of molds toward the back of the shop where Julio had the new 42-footer propped up on an oversized boat cradle. The side of the hull reflected like a mirror. The highly polished mold made for a perfect impression.
Alazar was visibly impressed as he ran his hand across the freshly released hull.
“Scott, you’ve outdone yourself. This is magnificent. What is next? When can we put the deck on? I really want to see her lines.”
“The next thing we have to do is install the power. It’s much easier that way. Then we can do most of the hull and string bound wiring, install the fuel tanks, sewage and water holds. After that we will be able to glass-in the cap and deck.”
“Well great. What are we waiting for?”
“The engines are at the terminal. I’m going to need some more money. They’ll need a check and I need some time to put it into my account so we don’t have to fill out any tax forms. I can only put in ninety-five hundred at a time.”
“Gordo…” Alazar said, taking a brown paper sack from his right hand.
“I brought forty. This should keep things going for a while. I should be back before you need any more.”
As Roberts took the bag, he surveyed its weight to be about six or seven pounds. Forty grand, it had to be fives and tens again, he thought to himself.
“Before you go, there’s something else I want to show you.”
Alazar and Gordo turned to follow Roberts who walked ahead at a proud pace.
“I picked this up at the Customs auction in Brunswick, Georgia.”
As they approached the other side of the warehouse, Alazar could see the reason for his friend’s excitement. Although the boat was beat up, Alazar walked over to it, briefly touching his fingers on the spot where the letters U.S. CUSTOMS used to be.
“I know this boat and Gordo really knows this boat don’t you, brother?” Alazar said as the three laughed.
Roberts began to explain, pointing to the large cardboard boxes overflowing with the parts that Felix had removed earlier.
“I’m just in the stages of separating what’s original and what’s not.”
Alazar walked around the boat taking a good look. He was definitely not the aficionado of vintage offshore craft that Roberts was but his interest in the boat was as a captured tool of the enemy. Alazar remembered the Cuban MiG that was flown to Key West by a defecting pilot in 1962. The aircraft and its onboard systems were under the microscope of U.S. officials for several weeks after. They covered the aircraft with a fine-toothed comb before shipping it to the U.S. Navy’s Airfield in Miramar, California, for dismantling.
As Alazar walked around the transom, he noticed something that caught his eye. It was the two black boxes, each one not more than eight-inches-square by three-inches-deep. They were connected by a gang of multicolored wire and, by the looks of them, had been beaten up. Judging from the scratches, which exposed the metal case under the paint, the damage occurred when they were removed from the boat. Somewhere in his travels, Alazar had seen a similar device. Gordo joined him at the face of the workbench picking up half of the device and looking his cousin in the eye. The two became very quiet.
“What is it?” Roberts asked.
“Did this come out of this boat?”
“I guess so, I was getting ready to throw it away. What the hell is it?”
Alazar looked very carefully at their find.
Judging from the Motocom decal on one of the boxes, it had to be something dealing with electronics, probably the boat’s communications system.
“Scott, would you mind if I took this with me. You know just to have a look-see?”
“Sure! Shit yeah, no problem man,” Roberts said, holding the grocery bag with forty thousand dollars of the man’s money.
* * * * *
Entourage
It was estimated that over sixty thousand people lined the shores of Key West’s Harbor Pier, a long seawall that embraced the emerald water of America’s southernmost port. On its opposite ends scaffolding was erected, supporting TV cameras that were pointed toward the ensuing action that would pass before them as over forty world-class offshore powerboats raced though the chute. Banners featuring the familiar logos of ABC Sports, the new cable sports news channel SPORTSNET, beer distributors like Budweiser and Michelob, and boat companies like Mercury Outboards were draped on the neighboring seawalls. The crowd was in a frenzy. The three-race series, which had started the preceding Tuesday and continued on Thursday, was now culminating on this day. The points were well distributed between several of the leading teams. Michelob Light, Benihana Restaurants and Damn Stiletto all held equal points for third place but the first place slot was a draw between Guerillmo Morales’s Miss Miami Coatings and England’s Prince Henry in his Don-Cat named Foolish Pleasure.
As the pace boat climbed up on plane flying a yellow pennant, the starting line of racers jockeyed for position, each next to one another speeding up and slowing down, trying to stay as far up front as possible without passing the pace boat. Like other motor sports, offshore racing utilized a running start. The pace boat was usually a stock version of the racers themselves and was usually provided by one of the manufacturers who wanted to promote their product line. Chris-Craft boats, a newcomer to the high performance side of the industry, supplied the official pace boat for the competition, lending one of the boats used in the new television series Miami Vice.
The competition director, seeing that all of the boats were on plane and ready to race, fired a bright green flare from the pace boat’s cockpit. Simultaneously, one of the crewmembers replaced the flying yellow pennant with a corresponding green one. Like a switch had been thrown, the forty boats powered up and roared past the pace boat, heading down the chute that was Key West Harbor. Offshore powerboat racing was best seen from the air. Thirty-seven helicopters, each one filming their own version of the race, followed the pack of boats like a swarm of bees. The SPORTSNET chopper led the aircrafts, getting the best shot by flying sideways so its cameraman had an unobstructed pan of the action. In the background was the descending bright green bolt of light of the start flare, leaving behind a trail of smoke. This national coverage would boost ratings and help promote a sport that was in need of public attention. Unlike other motor sports, offshore racing was not a spectator sport. It had grown from the friendly competition between rumrunners in Florida and Michigan, smugglers who competed with the same boats they ran their rum and cigars in. The courses traveled through open water in seas that would send anyone else back to the dock.
The crowd, which had waited patiently, was now on its feet as the boats passed both SPORTSNET land-based cameras. They focused in on the pack of hulls that were trying to outdo the other. Bullet-shaped hulls extended from the sheets of white spray that formed from each boat. The thunder of the engines shook the pier and
the ground below the bleachers. In their wake, a filmy mist covered the white patches of water that remained. Overhead, the rhythmic beat of helicopter blades circulated the smell of exhausted racing fuel lingering in the air.
The first boats to pass the breakwater on their way to the open sea were, as expected, Guerillmo Morales and Prince Henry, each one running nose-to-nose with the other. As they headed into the deeper, rougher water, Morales’s deep-V hull sliced through the rough water maintaining its speed while Henry’s Don-Cat had to slow, putting him in a distant second place. The proud prince pushed his craft to the limit trying to catch up to his Columbian nemesis. Throughout his hometown in the United Kingdom, the tabloids had touted him as an irresponsible child because of his racing exploits. Public opinion was fifty-fifty on whether the successor of the throne should be racing around the world like a gallivanting playboy, especially when things were not all that well at home. Henry prayed for a victory; one that would identify him as a true professional in the sport and would make his people stand up and take notice. He had ordered his Don-Cat with the biggest motors available and to give him an edge, he hired Aaron Donaldson himself to race in the boat with him. Unlike many other motor sports, offshore racing utilized crews of two or three to man the racing craft. The primary member would drive, the secondary would throttle, which is to control the engines while the boat is leaping in and out of the water, and the third, if any, would navigate. As a former world champion driver, Donaldson knew his way around a race boat and preferred to throttle.
Despite the fact that this was only their third race together, tension was already erupting. Henry was very abusive during the first two qualifying races on Tuesday and Thursday. Donaldson wrote it off as pre-race jitters, something he had seen many times before. Henry looked over at his throttle man. He wished they’d go faster but Donaldson knew better. The seas were too rough and this was a Cat. If Henry wanted the championship that bad he should have bought a matching deep-V like the big teams, Donaldson thought to himself. A deep-V could have cut through the seas they were encountering. The Cat had a tunnel that filled with water every time they hit a large wave, crashing against the flat ceiling of the tunnel and slowing the craft down, not to mention the damage it did to the Fiberglas hull. Cats were made for flat water, the type of race seen on the west coast of Florida or Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans. Key West was a different venue, one of the roughest of the season, which is why it was saved for the year’s culmination, the World Championships. Key West was a true ocean race like Bacardi Rum’s Miami to Bimini Run or Benihana’s Point Pleasant Race along the New Jersey coast. Most large offshore teams owned two boats, one deep-V for the rough water and a Cat for everything else. Politically, Prince Henry could not afford such luxuries. Sure he had enough money, but the press would have crucified him even more so than they were doing already. While praying for a victory, Henry pleaded to God for Cat water.
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