Tuna Tango

by Steven Becker

  “Well,” Emerson started, “we’ve done it before, don’t suppose it’ll hurt.”

  Will smiled. “Want to take a ride and check it out?”

  ***

  Will sat on the seawall next to the building and checked his dive gear. He had spent the morning measuring and sketching the existing structure, using his paddleboard to float underneath to check the beam sizes and spacing. Now he needed to have a look underwater and check the condition of the piers that supported the structure.

  He spit in his mask and rinsed it from a bottle of water sitting next to him, put the fins on over his booties, and lowered the mask onto his face. Carefully, he kneeled onto the board floating next to him, and used his hands to paddle out to deeper water. He wasn’t sure what the bottom looked like or how dangerous it was, so he moved the board to one of the piers at the end of the building and tied the leash around it. Confident the water was at least six feet here, he slid off the board. His head slid under, and he looked around the murky water and drifted with the outgoing tide. A slack tide would have been better for visibility, but he was here now. Finning back toward the board, he reached onto it and grabbed the dive light.

  The beam cut through the silted water, showing the first pier. He raised his head out of the water and took a large breath, then dove to check the pier’s base. The pole was old, he saw, and covered with barnacles below the water line, making it impossible to see any decay without chiseling the mollusks off the wood. That would be difficult to do without tanks or solid footing so he moved on.

  The next line of poles were several feet closer to the seawall, and he encountered the same conditions. At the next row, he was able to kneel in the sand and place his face in the water, the bottom only two feet deep. Able to work without the strain of constantly surfacing for air, he took the dive knife strapped to his calf and began the tedious process of chipping the mollusks off the old wood.

  Slowly, the old, treated wood revealed itself. Scar marks from the knife showed clean, unblemished wood, and he was able to poke the knife directly into the pier now. With a picture of the main floor of the building in his head, he realized that this was one of the areas the floor sagged. His suspicions proved accurate as the knife slid easily into the wood, indicating that it was rotten. The building was sagging because its support structure was failing.

  As he was about to climb out of the water, though, something else caught his eye—the shine of chrome in the parking lot, visible between the foot-high gap between the floor structure and seawall. Mask pulled back on his head, he took off his fins and stood hunched in the small space.

  Two massive legs stared back at him.

  “What do we have here, Jacque Freakin’ Cousteau? Nobody in their right mid dives in that shit. You looking for old Jose Gaspar’s lost treasure, or what?”

  Will thought about sliding back into the water to avoid a confrontation, but his choice was made for him when he glanced up and saw two beady black eyes staring at him.

  “Come on out of there. I think me and you need to have a talk,” the guy with the eyes said.

  Reluctantly, Will crawled out from below the building, his only relief being that he could now stand erect. “Something I can help you with?” He looked past the man at the truck; it was the same black truck that cruised through the day before. He couldn’t help but notice the blonde hair blowing in the air conditioning from the passenger seat, almost translucent in the sun.

  “Me and you gotta reach an agreement here. You’re the same guy that was over here with the old man the other day. What’s he got up his sleeve?” The guy paused, and looked toward the girl in the truck.

  She caught his look and whined, “Can we go now? I’m hungry.”

  “Shut up, bitch. I’ve got business here.” He turned back to Will, who couldn’t avoid staring at the girl. “You want a piece of that? She’s yours. Now back to business. Old Lance has his timetable and I have mine. You see, I can get a little impatient about slow work.” He winked.

  Will was about to nod his head in acceptance when he glanced at the girl and noticed the piercing blue eyes staring at him.

  “Gregori, I thought you were the mayor,” the girl interrupted.

  “I already told you to shut up. I’m all the mayor you need.” He looked back at Will, his face and neck red. “Oh. So he’s got you to try and rebuild this piece of shit, eh? Just get it done. And I’ll be checking on you, if you get my drift.”

  Before Will could respond, he turned and walked toward the driver’s-side door of the truck and hopped in. The tail pipes roared as he accelerated out of the parking lot, horns blaring as he cut off several cars.

  Will stood there in his booties and board shorts, not sure what to make of the man, then gathered his gear and placed it in the large metal toolbox he had set inside the building. Surely the guy was just blowing smoke, hoping to scare him. He’d worked for impatient customers before but this kind of job wasn’t something you could rush. He checked his watch, changed, and locked up, hurrying to make his appointment with Emerson at the building department.

  ***

  As he drove, he planned his next step. Removing the old piers would be expensive and potentially dangerous, and the structure would have to be shored up while the pole was cut. Not a big deal in itself, but removing the fifty-year-old pile from the clutches of the seabed was another problem. His idea was to leave the existing structure alone, replacing only the exposed wood that was rotten. A new support structure would be built underneath it, oversize beams spanning between new poles. And that would be that.

  Chapter 3

  Will sat at the bar and nursed his beer, watching Sheryl as she worked the crowd. She cast a wary look his way when she passed by. Several weeks ago there had been an incident where he had a few too many beers and almost gotten her fired. Since then, she had forbidden him from hanging out. This time though, she had given him a pass in order to meet Kyle and Dick. But she clearly was keeping an eye on him. He had been there for an hour now, waiting for her shift to end. Ybor City, the old cigar center of Tampa, now converted to a nightlife hub, was just starting to get busy. The old brick buildings had been renovated into bars and restaurants frequented by the college students from nearby University of South Florida, as well as the local youths, and the area often turned into a drunken brawl on weekend nights.

  Will admired the feel of the place. The brick walls had been left intact, as well as the original ceiling framing. The bar was the old cigar counter, scarred with burns acquired over the years. His only problem as he watched the boisterous crowd work their way past the bouncer was that Sheryl had to work here. She had years of experience with government, and claimed she was fed up and burnt out on the bureaucracy—especially after being fired from the building department in Marathon. She was going to USF part time, looking for a career in marine fisheries. It wasn’t like she was sitting on the couch eating bonbons, either. Truth was, she brought in more money than he did.

  Tired from working on the fish house by himself all day, he had taken her up on her offer to find help. Two bar backs were due in any time now, and she’d told him that they were looking to supplement their current Friday and Saturday nights’ income at the bar. He was hesitant to hire anyone, though. Besides not having workers’ compensation insurance—something he couldn’t get without a license—he was used to working alone. Not one to give orders or teach, he preferred the solitude of the craftsman.

  But as he arched his back to ease the building stiffness from the day’s work, he knew he needed young blood to supplement his skills. If he didn’t get help, he wouldn’t be able to finish the job. And he needed the money.

  Lost in thought, he looked up to see two kids standing in front of him. “Can I help you guys?”

  “Hey, you Will, man?” the taller asked.

  Will chuckled to himself as he sized up the pair. They looked young. Really young. The taller boy had the gawky look of a teenager who hadn’t grown into his body yet.
The smaller—who was only smaller in height, as he was as wide as he was tall, with the build of a linebacker and a nose that had obviously been broken at least once—stared at him with an odd look on his face.

  Will looked at both boys’ bloodshot eyes and confirmed his suspicion—typical bar workers, they were stoned.

  “Yeah.” He sipped his beer.

  “Sheryl your old lady?” the taller one continued.

  “You’re full of questions. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Kyle, and this here’s Dick,” the taller one said. “If you’re the right dude, she said you were looking for some help. Some kind of construction thing.”

  Sipping his beer, he felt old as he looked at them. He was sure they were too young, but figured if they worked at the bar, they had to be at least twenty-one. They looked strong enough, although he wasn’t sure they could get out of bed in the morning.

  “I’m not sure this is right for you guys.”

  Dick moved his heavy frame toward him. “We can do whatever it is you want. Pretty much shovel shit and clean up puke around here. Don’t think we can’t handle what you have.”

  Will thought for a minute, and realized he’d better take what he was given. “Can you boys show up before noon?I need people that can get to work early.”

  They looked at each other, but before they could respond, Sheryl walked up behind them. “Of course they can. Just give them a chance. They work hard here.”

  Will could see that the odds were stacked against him, now, with Sheryl on the case. No choice but to give in, then. “I know it’s Friday night and you have to work late, but I want to work this weekend and get a head start.” His goal was to get at least one new pile set before Monday, to make sure his idea would work without the prying eyes of the building inspector on him. He suspected that in a small beach town word would get out fast about the project. There wasn’t much other construction going on and he was guessing the building inspector would be a constant visitor … invited or not.

  He caught the quick glance the two boys exchanged during his silence.

  “Yeah, we’re in. But can we start early?”

  Surprised, he gave them directions to the job and asked them to be there at 7am.

  Sheryl kissed his cheek. “Thanks. They won’t let you down. I’m out of here, you ready?”

  Will didn’t have to be asked twice. He fished in his pocket, left a twenty on the bar, downed what remained of his beer, and was halfway out the door before she caught up to him.

  ***

  George cut the lights as he coasted to a stop at the fish house, leaving the black truck almost invisible. He left the engine running to power the air conditioning to keep the cab cool as he waited. The truck was pulled into a space between a small square structure adjacent to the main building and the Pass-A-Grille Marina next door. Twilight had just finished its nightly stint, and it was dark now as he watched the waterway. Boats passed by slowly, moving through the no-wake zone, their presence identified only by their running lights. Most were small pleasure boats, returning from a day on the water. He reached into a cooler behind the seat and pulled out a beer, ready to settle in and wait.

  An hour passed and he was getting fidgety, the cool air conditioning the only thing keeping him calm. Getting more anxious as the minutes clicked by on the dashboard clock, he felt the wad of cash in his pocket and started running worst case scenarios through his head. If the fishing boat making the delivery was stopped and boarded, he might lose some profits, but he knew he had nothing to fear, these guys were loyal to him and wouldn’t talk. Normally he would have made the trip himself, but he’d just gotten back yesterday with the first bluefin of the season. It looked to be a promising year so he’d decided to recruit some fresh blood to supplement his income. There was always the chance that Fish and Game would try and run a sting operation, but he only dealt with people he knew—mostly childhood friends. In past years, it had been just him and a couple of buddies running the operation, and with the price for the prize tuna at an all time high, he had started to branch out.

  Finally a boat stopped and flashed a spot light three times at the shore—the signal they were ready to dock. He removed a flashlight from the console next to him and checked the parking lot. Satisfied they weren’t being watched, he flashed the light three times at the boat, then reluctantly turned off the ignition and left the comfort of the truck. He walked to the seawall, where he waited as the boat backed slowly into the tight space.

  Two men jumped off, both with lines in their hands, and tied the stern of the boat to two nearby pilings. A third man came from behind the wheel and tossed one of the men a line tied to a cleat at midship and then jumped onto the dock. The man scrambled forward on the decaying dock and tied it to a pile in front of the boat, to keep the boat from drifting backward.

  George and the third man, clearly the captain, looked on as the crew went back to reset each line. One at a time, they removed the lines, pulled the slack out, and tossed the ends back to the boat, where they were attached to the same cleat. This way, all the lines could be removed from the boat if a quick getaway was required.

  “Good. You still remember to take precautions,” George said to the man as he watched the crew work.

  “Always. Now let’s get this done.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the boat traffic. “I don’t like doing this on the weekend. Too much traffic.”

  “It’ll be worth your while.” George knew the timing was undesirable, but he had no choice. Originally, the delivery had been scheduled for Sunday night, when boat traffic would be much lighter; but a storm moving into the Gulf had accelerated the schedule.

  “What do you have?”

  “Four Jewfish, about a hundred pounds each, plus two coolers of snapper and grouper. Got a small marlin, too.” He signaled for the two crewmen to start unloading the catch. “Had a bluefin on, too. Must have gone four hundred, but we lost it. First one this year.”

  “Good. Let’s have a look.” George reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and removed a key chain. Selecting a key, he opened the padlock to the square building next to them. Cold air blasted from the freezer. He turned on the light and waited for the crewmen to bring the catch in.

  “What the hell? This is all supposed to be gutted and skinned!”

  “Got most of it, but it was too bumpy to finish. Can’t afford to have one of the guys lose a finger out there.”

  “Shit.” George stood to the side and watched as the men unloaded the contents of three coolers onto a tarp placed on the stainless steel floor. They went back to the boat and returned with another tarp carried awkwardly between them. Once they were inside, they unrolled it to reveal a two-hundred-pound marlin.

  George reached into his pocket and removed the cash he had been fondling. He peeled off twelve hundreds and paid the man, who grabbed the money and signaled his men toward the boat. George followed behind them, turning off the light and locking the cooler. He took a quick look at the street before climbing back into his truck and pulling out of the lot.

  He drove back toward US19 and turned left, driving automatically as he calculated the profits in his head. He was discouraged that they had lost the bluefin, but he’d lost his share as well. Catching the behemoths on rod and reel from a small boat was far from a sure thing. The fish they brought in would net him a five-thousand-dollar profit, and there would be plenty of bluefin as they moved into the gulf to spawn. It was good news that the bluefin were starting to run. That was what he waited for every year. A large bluefin tuna could bring in ten to twenty grand a fish.

  A smile crossed his face as he pulled into the crowded parking lot of the strip club and to the valet stand. Before he got out, he reached into the glove compartment and removed a gold Rolex watch. He put the watch on his wrist and admired it.

  The valet greeted him by name and George tossed him the keys as he climbed down onto the running board and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  **
*

  “Thanks for giving those guys some work. They’ve been complaining about only having the weekend nights at the club, and not having rent money.”

  “Let’s hope it works. I could use some help. Tomorrow will tell if they can actually show up and work.”

  Will leaned back against the headrest and watched the throngs of partiers packing the sidewalk. He jerked forward as Sheryl dodged a group j-walking with no regard for traffic. There had been no discussion about her driving after the beers he had. Leaning back again, he thought about how there had been no discussion about a lot of things, lately. His life in the Keys had been simpler, almost removed from reality. But that was gone with the hurricane, and he knew she was good for him … at least he hoped she was. It was his own lack of planning and insurance that had him in this spot.

  Now, she planned for both of them, and though that was probably for the best, at least financially, he felt imprisoned in his own body.

  “They’ll be there. Bet they stay up all night.”

  He hadn’t thought about that, but she was right. They wouldn’t get out of work until 4. Maybe that was what the glance he’d caught was about. The next morning would tell if they can hack it or not.

  “The owner asked me to work tomorrow night,” she said suddenly.

  Earlier in the week, they had fought over her working weekend nights. He hated the idea of her in that kind of environment. The money was good, but now that he had work, he figured she could just work during the week, go to school, and be happy. It really wouldn’t upset him if she quit altogether.

  He stewed about the additional night as she pulled onto the Crosstown Expressway and followed the signs to the Gandy Bridge.