Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  “Wow, does this mean I can start playing tennis over here?” Del asked, taking the laminated ID.

  “I wish buddy, but we had better keep a low profile for right now. Only come and go as you absolutely have to. We don’t want you to be a fixture. Got it?” Gold said, with a sterner tone.

  * * * * *

  Annex

  Fred Gold was her confidant, her shoulder to cry on, and, most importantly, the father figure she never had. Because of this, she followed his lead without hesitation or second thought.

  Lynn walked through Hector Aroyo’s small, dingy office that looked like all the other travel agencies in the Pan American Annex of Miami International Airport. With the walls in dire need of paint and the bulky computer screens with glowing green text filling the room with distracting blades of light, Aroyo sat behind his desk going over some papers with a customer who had his back to her.

  “I’ll be with you in a second,” he said, diverting his attention away from his customer who was turning to look at the attractive blond. “Wait…what’s your name, hon?”

  “Lynn. Fred sent me,” she answered.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, here, have a seat,” Aroyo offered, pointing to the empty chair next to the customer. “I guess you don’t know each other,” he said with a smile.

  “No, we don’t,” she responded.

  “Lynn, this is Del. Del, this is Lynn. I now pronounce you man and wife,” he declared as the two men laughed. Lynn just smiled and shook her head.

  “Fred Gold, what have you gotten me into?” she said softly.

  “Sorry about the introduction,” Del said, holding his hand out to hers. “Fred told me he was going to arrange a traveling companion, but I never imagined he would do such an outstanding job.”

  “Thank you Del. Please bear with me - I’m a little new at this.”

  “Everything is going to be fine. My main concern is that you feel comfortable throughout this entire trip. If you’re not at ease, like someone on vacation, you’ll stand out like a sore thumb. So, I want you to relax and enjoy yourself. We’re going to have a great time,” Del assured her.

  “That’s sweet.”

  “I’m sorry - I don’t want to interrupt you lovebirds, but my officemates have gone to lunch and I need to get the passport stuff done before they get back. So if we could…” Aroyo said.

  “Of course,” Del answered as the three stood and walked through a curtain that led to a single, square office where a camera, backdrop, and a set of studio lights were set up.

  “Lynn, ladies first,” Del suggested.

  “That’s not fair,” she said, fumbling through her purse for a small hairbrush.

  “I guess I could go first then,” Del offered.

  “No, give me a second,” she replied, studying her hair and blotting some powder on her nose and face. “I can’t be reflecting,” she said as the two men watched her primp.

  “Okay, ready,” she announced.

  Del watched as she took her position behind the camera. She was beautiful, he thought to himself. With all the events since his release from Eglin, he hadn’t had the time to devote to meeting a woman much less date one. While this was supposed to be strictly business, he couldn’t help but think, what if?

  CLICK-FLASH

  “Okay, next,” Aroyo said.

  “Wait, can’t I proof the shot?” she asked.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Aroyo answered.

  “But…”

  “It’s a passport photo sweetheart, not the cover of Vogue,” Aroyo answered insistently. “Del...are you ready? Need some powder, makeup?”

  “Wait!” Lynn exclaimed, walking over to Del with the hairbrush in her hand. “Here, let’s make you handsome,” she said, brushing his black hair to the side.

  CLICK-FLASH.

  Thirty minutes later the two were in Del’s Bronco headed towards 36th Street and the Palmetto Expressway in West Miami.

  “Dr. and Mrs. Peter Gray,” she read, looking over the manufactured documents. “Wait!” she said, startling Del who was trying to keep his eyes on the heavy traffic.

  “Where’s the rock?” she asked.

  “The rock?” Del replied.

  “Wedding rings, and I need to start wearing a bridal set again.”

  “Okay, now you’re starting to scare me.”

  “No, we have to look the part. I have my old rings from my first marriage.”

  “First?”

  “Well, my only marriage, not counting this one.”

  “This one?”

  “We have to go check out some pawn shops for you when we’re done here, okay?”

  Del nodded as he pulled the Bronco into the parking lot of M and M Distributors, a wholesale warehouse set up for retailers who were looking to increase their inventory with a wide variety of items. Del and Lynn entered the large open bay door of a warehouse. Fred Gold had told him that M and M would be able to help by getting some of the luggage they would need at a cut rate price and avoid the inquisitive eyes and questions of a department store salesperson. Luggage was an important part of the plan. In a location like Turnbush, it was commonplace to see several pieces of designer luggage being unloaded from the boats after the extended trips. The clients who chartered the forty thousand dollars a week yachts had large amounts of the best luggage money could buy. As a cash buyer, Del wanted to avoid going into Saks or Macys and walking out with six eight-piece sets. As they walked in, Lynn noticed the boxed items lined up around the two, all sitting on wooden crates. She looked over the classic cherry wood furniture while Del’s eyes immediately fixated on a Mitsubishi rear projection TV, the same one he had seen at Video Concepts in the mall the week before. He was excited to think that he could buy one at a reduced price.

  “They don’t come any bigger than that, and the price is right too. What brand are you looking for?” asked a man who was short and about a hundred pounds overweight. Gold chains were slung around his neck and white discolorations of salty sweat stained both of his armpits.

  “Yes, I do, but first I need to look at some of your wholesale merchandise. Fred Gold sent me over. He says you have some good deals on luggage.”

  “Why yes we do. Did you have any particular style you would prefer?”

  “Well actually,” Del improvised, “it’s not for me personally. We are sponsoring some foreign businessmen who are interested in investing in a Bahamian development. We will take them on a two week charter of the area and the luggage is a token of our appreciation.”

  “How innovative,” the fat man answered, finishing a bite of a sandwich he had been working on.

  “Six sets should do and I need for all of them to be nested.”

  “Nested? Okay, you need the small ones to fit into the bigger ones, right? An eight-piece set can be stored in the one largest bag. I got it. You need some of my better stock...Polo, Gucci, Pierre Cardin maybe?”

  “Exactly, you read my mind. Variety will be very important, I do not want one set to match another.”

  “This I understand. Will you need the luggage delivered or will you be picking it up yourself?”

  “We will send a truck,” Del answered.

  “I see, and how will you be paying for this?”

  “Do you take cash?” Del asked.

  “Hey, like they say in that Cheech and Chong movie: Does Howdie Doodie got wooden balls?”

  “Then I can expect the standard cash discount?” Del asked, this time with a more serious tone.

  The fat man’s chuckle turned into a monotone one.

  “You guys are always busting my balls, but since Fred sent you…well, here follow me. This should make you happy.”

  The three walked to the back of the warehouse where, hidden by stacks of tires and other crates of merchandise, was a twenty-foot container. Posted on both rear doors of the steel box were a series of U.S. Customs red seizure tags.

  “I bought this at a Customs auction. They said buyer beware, sold sight unseen, so
I took a chance.”

  He opened the door and inside were stacks of luxurious luggage, just the type Fred Gold had asked for.

  “If my manufacturers knew about this I could lose my distributorship license. You can’t tell the difference from the real stuff. This shit was smuggled in through Port Everglades from Mexico. The Feds were looking for drugs and found this counterfeit luggage. This is some kind of world we live in, isn’t it? Those idiots must have fumbled their storage documents because they sold the shit outright. Why, if I had the mind to, I could cause one hell of a stink in Washington, I’m sure. The idiot that let this stuff go to the street will cost the trademark owners a small fortune.”

  “All this sounds great, but will the stuff hold up, especially on a boat around the water? My investors can’t have all of their belongings spilling out all over the airport.”

  “The quality is very good - I think that your people will be very satisfied and unable to tell the difference. These copies are very durable and at the price I am going to give it to you for, you will save at least sixty percent off the wholesale price. In the end, everyone will be happy.”

  * * * * *

  Rehab

  The motor yacht M/V Jolene Marie sat moored to the end of a solid concrete pier that also acted as a breakwater buffer for the seaport of Puerto Barrios. The decks were clean and the teak oiled. Her sixteen-cylinder power plants had been rebuilt, tuned, lubricated, and were running flawlessly. Ninety-six feet of white aluminum and Fiberglas glistened in the sunlight from the highly polished, stainless steel bow-mounted anchor to the bright waving American flag flying from the transom. She was a real yacht again, looking completely different from the day six months prior when she cruised into the small Guatemalan harbor.

  The Jolene Marie was a pathetic sight when Fred Gold had bought the boat from a bank in West Palm Beach after the previous owner defaulted on the vessel’s mortgage. When she was first delivered to Turnbush, he made sure she stayed at the back end of the marina, close to the other boats needing repair, far from the view of club members who would complain about her appearance. Despite its neglect, the small ship was not in any major disrepair. She just needed some attention, attention the Turnbush dockmaster didn’t have to give her. One of the drawbacks of Turnbush was that the club sat below a frequently used final approach path for the nearby Opa-Locka Airport. Nothing stained a boat’s finish worse than putrid jet fuel and the detailers at Turnbush were always busy keeping the glossy white finishes of the scores of yachts in the marina clean and waxed.

  Gold hired marine contractor Tony Milner and his favorite captain, Regis Sprigs, to tackle the revitalization of the 96-footer. A small utility cart was filled with industrial cleaners, two one-gallon jugs of teak oil, three lengths of white non-marring water hose, and a case of elk skin shammies. After a week of work, Milner announced that the boat needed more extensive care and would need to be dry-docked to address some serious electrolysis that had corroded most of the underwater running gear.

  The two made the voyage south to the Clearwater Boat Works shop in a record three days. A crew of fourteen Guatemalan men attacked the boat with vigor. The runoff of soiled water was evidence that the layer of built-up soot was slowly being removed. A rainbow formed in the water around the boat created by the residue of jet fuel from above. The industrial cleaners Milner had brought with them for the cleaning portion of the job seemed to be working. Four days into the rebirth, Milner stood at the bow and looked back. From under a blanket of dirt, an ordinary, rundown boat was being transformed into a yacht again. The white paint began to glisten in the bright sunlight as Regis hosed off the superstructure with one of the non-marring water hoses designed especially for yachts so it would not scratch or mar the deck’s surface. On the fifth day, the last of the gray-tinted jet fuel had been washed away. The boat was then hauled out of the water in a large set of railways that extended deep into the harbor. The brass and stainless underwater gear were fixed, black anti-fouling bottom paint was applied, and the upper hull was painted with a polyurethane aircraft finish that would do a better job of warding off the elements, including any future exposure to jet fuel. A diesel mechanic from Fort Lauderdale was flown down, accompanied by two crates of engine parts. His part of the job took five weeks, transforming the older power plants into rebuilt versions with modernizing kits installed that gave more horsepower and used less fuel.

  Regis, being the cook he was, would prepare a wide variety of meals, oftentimes treating the whole Guatemalan team to a variety of creative American cuisine. Over the six-month term, a bond had emerged between the Clearwater crew and the Americans.

  In the end, Fred Gold had invested just over three hundred thousand of his own money into the yacht. Combined with the one hundred and eighty thousand dollar purchase price, Gold stood to triple his investment with the Jolene Marie’s sale to Morada Boat Leasing for 1.5 million. This is why Gold was so motivated to make this deal work. For him, everything was on the line. He had made some significant promises to his contacts at IFC and to Gus Greico himself. The Jolene Marie had a foolproof compartment, he preached during numerous meetings, not to mention his secure destination, the Turnbush Club. If this trip paid off, there would be many more.

  * * * * *

  Honeymoon

  The TACA Air flight from Miami to Guatemala City was filled to capacity. Del and Lynn took their first class seats as the stewardess provided them with pillows and blankets to keep them comfortable during the two-hour flight. As the Boeing 727 taxied towards the main runway, Lynn made a confession.

  “Del, I hate to fly.”

  “What? I thought you were part of the jetset,” he said, raising his eyebrows with skepticism. “Whoever heard of a jetsetter who hated flying?”

  “I always have. Ever since I was a little girl.”

  “It’s okay,” he comforted, patting her hand with his.

  She was getting used to the comfortable way he was making her feel. As the plane turned onto the main runway, it gunned its three tail-mounted engines, pinning all the passengers into their seatbacks.

  “Del…” she whispered, grabbing his hand in a tight grasp.

  •

  Two hours later, the amber light of a setting sun blasted through the jet’s cabin, entering the portholes on the right side and waking Lynn who had fallen asleep. The plane was on its final approach to Guatemala City, a Central American metropolis that was perched atop a five thousand foot high mountain. Del watched out his window, looking down into the deep ravines that separated the tall mountaintops that were covered with tropical vegetation.

  Del looked down at Lynn’s hand that was tightly grasped to his. The two had been locked together since they left Miami and her grip squeezed even harder as the plane dropped altitude, rotated back and touched down on the heavily patched blacktop strip.

  After retrieving their bags and clearing customs, the two took a quick taxi ride to the La Fiesta Hotel, the city’s only four star lodging. Fred Gold had made the reservation himself and the two were equally apprehensive about where their faux marriage ended, and the reality of two attractive people enjoying a Caribbean vacation began. Del was the first to look inside the room as the bellboy unlocked the door revealing a single queen-sized bed covered in rose pedals and a chilled bottle of champagne resting in a bucket of ice on the bedside table.

  “El honeymoon suite, señor,” the bellboy declared, like a magician revealing a new act for the first time.

  “Gracias muchacho,” Del answered, giving him two U. S. dollars. “I can sleep on the floor,” he offered after the young boy left the room.

  “Or not…” she said, pulling him into a tight embrace that preceded the softest kiss Del had ever felt.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said.

  “I know,” she answered with her forehead against his chin. “I hardly know you, but this just feels right,” she admitted.

  •

  The next morning Del was w
ide awake as the sun rose over the mountains to the east. The bright rays of light illuminated Lynn’s blond hair as she slept. With his head propped up on his hand he looked over at her, perplexed that he was in bed with such a beautiful woman. At the same time he was concerned that he was repeating some of his earlier life mistakes. His first love was a model and a student of fashion design at the Bauder College in Fort Lauderdale. Marcia was, to him, the typical high-maintenance trophy wife that his friends warned him of, but she was irresistibly beautiful. Lynn, on the other hand, had more sense, was independent, and significantly more attractive. With that thought he smiled and stood to make some coffee with a small two-cup machine. As he fumbled with the paper filter and the water, Lynn awoke feeling his warm, empty side of the bed.

  “How do you like your coffee?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making coffee, how do you like it?”

  “Strong…please.”

  “We’ve got to be at the airport in ninety minutes.”

  “Okay, slave driver.”

  “Hey…you okay?” he asked tenderly.

  “I’m fine, better than fine actually. You?”

  “I’m good. Just stressed about today,” Del said.

  “It was the best night I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Wow, you’re going to give me a big head,” he replied.

  “I didn’t mean, you know, like that. It was just…nice,” she admitted.

  “Yes it was very nice. Now we have to go to work.”

  “Ugh…you’re impossible!” she said, sitting up in the bed with a crooked smile.

  Ralph Linez pulled back on the yoke belonging to the twin engine Turbo Commander that was screaming down the main runway at La Aurora International Airport. After rotating, the ascending plane climbed like an eagle caught in an updraft, pointing to the sky, piercing through a thick layer of clouds. From an aft window, Del watched the morning skyline of Guatemala City disappear in the early morning dusk of gray while Lynn sat in the seat across from him, grasping his hand that was dark red and numb from a lack of circulation. The sharp, leading edges of the high-mounted wings cut through the white patches of gentle cotton that hung suspended for as far as his eyes could see.