“By the way, you might warn your guys to stay away from this. The guy I rent it to has a mean streak.”
Will walked Lance to his car and shook his hand again. He was grateful for his understanding in Dick's trespass, and he did seem concerned about the fish.
He walked over to the fish house and locked the door. The boats docked at the marina next door caught his eye as he went to his truck. Why not take a walk, he thought. Sheryl was working tonight, so he had no reason to rush home.
He walked by the three-story steel building and peered inside at the boats sitting four high on steel racks, then headed to the dock, where some of the sailboats were tied up at a series of piers. One boat caught his eye; a for sale sign taped to its cabin window. He went toward the boat, looked around, and hopped on. The sailboat looked to be about twenty-eight feet with a tiller. The companionway was locked, but he walked around the deck and looked inside the small windows. There was a small kitchen and a v-berth in the bow. Back in the cockpit, he sat down on one of the benches and stared out at the water.
The fish in the walk-in freezer and Lance's reaction were still bothering him. Although he’d seemed concerned, Lance had not been as proactive as Will would have liked … almost like he was reluctant to do anything. It was only Saturday afternoon, so why hadn’t he said he would call someone now?
He thought again about taking matters into his own hands, but was conflicted; poaching violated his moral compass to the point that he almost didn’t care about violating Lance’s trust. But as it had all too frequently lately, it came down to money.
The best compromise he could make with himself was to try and gain some information to pass on. If he hung around and kept an eye on things, he could see who picked up the fish and have that information to give to Lance, they could set up a sting and catch the guy off the property. That would keep the heat off the building project and stop the poaching.
He looked back toward the fish house and freezer, realizing he had the perfect vantage point to observe any activity from the boat. It was comfortable sitting here, since the marina building was now blocking the setting sun, placing the deck in the shade. Will relaxed and couldn’t help but close his eyes.
***
Headlights flashed across face and woke him from a sound sleep. It took a few seconds for him to realize where he was and what he was doing. The sun had set, apparently long ago, from the height of the moon in the sky. Living in the Keys and fishing for a living had provided him with a built-in clock in his head for tides and the moon. The lights turned away as the truck parked, illuminating the cooler now.
Will got up slowly and stayed low as he moved off the boat and onto the dock. He crept toward the seawall, doing his best to stay in the shadows. A curse in a strange language startled him, and he figured the missing lock had been discovered. The light went on and the silhouette of a large man moved inside.
Will didn’t dare get closer, but crouched down in the darkness and watched. The man motioned toward the truck, and two figures emerged. They went to the cooler and started loading the fish into the bed of the truck. A few minutes later, the light went off and the cooler door shut. The two helpers were back in the truck, but instead of following, the larger man went toward the fish house door. He tried the lock and turned away, staring right at Will’s truck.
“Fucking contractor,” he muttered, heading back to his truck.
He waited, not sure what to do. There was no way he could follow them—the truck would be long gone before he could even get out of the parking lot. He leaned forward and tried to get a better look at the truck and maybe get the license plate. As it backed toward him, in a flash of recognition, he realized the man was the same guy that had threatened him the other day.
Back in the shadows, he waited for his heart to slow as the truck’s tires screeched and it pulled onto the street. He cursed himself for leaving his truck here—now he was guilty by association. The confrontation and threats from the other day replayed in his head. Whoever that guy was, he meant trouble. And now he knew—or at least suspected—that Will had been in his cooler.
Shaken, he saw the neon sign down the street for a bar, and figured a beer wouldn’t hurt. Maybe a local could tell him something about the guy in the truck.
He decided to walk the quarter-mile to the bar, figuring if the guy came back, he would think the truck was parked for the night and Will was gone. Five minutes later, he reached the bar and pulled the door open, letting a blast of cold air out . It was Saturday night, and the place was pretty full—a typical beach bar, with an exposed rafter ceiling, unfinished concrete floors, and a bar front covered with corrugated metal.
He went to an empty spot at the bar and stood waiting for the bartender to come over. Suddenly two men came toward him.
“Hey, aren’t you the guy working on the fish house?” one asked.
Will swallowed, not knowing if they were the men that had loaded the fish. “Yeah, that’s me,” he mumbled.
“Cool, man. I’m Doug and this is Marty. We saw that some work was being done there. Glad for it, too. We own a couple of stores down on the beach side, and having that building back in service would be great for the area. Any way we can help, let us know.”
Will swallowed again, relieved. “Buy you guys a drink?” he asked.
“Sure.”
The three men went to a table in the corner, and a waitress with the shortest shorts Will had ever seen came over to take their order. A few minutes later, she was back with three beers. They clinked bottles and drank, the men asking Will about his background, fascinated with his stories about the Keys.
Several beers later, Will got the courage to ask about the man. “You guys know a big guy, drives a lifted black truck?”
They exchanged glances. “That’s George Borkowski. Not one of our better residents. He give you trouble?” Doug asked.
Will told them of the exchange and threats from the other day, leaving the details of the fish out.
“Yeah, he’s a bad dude. Thinks he can bully everyone around and get things his way. Lots of rumors about him, too, although no one’s ever proven any. Best to steer clear of that one,” Marty said.
Will sighed, wondering if he would have a choice.
***
Ybor City on a Saturday night looked more like Manhattan at rush hour than an old cigar town. The area had been built in a different era, not designed for the massive traffic caused by the influx of bars. Will navigated carefully, trying to find a parking space. Normally he would have taken pains to find a free spot, but with a half-dozen beers in his system, he was over both his own limit and the law’s, making him anxious to get off the road.
Finally, a spot opened and he backed in. Car horns blared as he missed the mark on the first few attempts, all but stopping traffic on the narrow street. He opened the door; realizing he was still two feet away from the curb but not caring, he stepped out and locked the truck. The crowds became thicker as he made his way toward the main drag and the club. Groups of twenty-somethings were out in force, spilling off the sidewalks and forcing foot traffic onto the street. He slid sideways around people and parked cars as he made his way toward the bar.
There was a short line at the door, but a quick word with the bouncer and Will was allowed in. The action on the street was nothing compared to the bar. Music assaulted him as he eased between the mass of people, trying to make a path to the waitress station on the far side of the bar. He spotted Sheryl as she worked the crowd like a running back, a tray full of drinks hoisted above her head, her free hand extended in front to clear space. He knew she would be upset. They’d already had the talk about him hanging out at the bar while she worked, and he knew he was only supposed to pick her up when she got off.
But after the beers, he knew if he went home, he would crash and probably not hear the phone.
A small space by the brass rail separating the wait staff from the customers opened, and he slid into it. The bartender working the service bar sp
otted him and nodded, bringing a beer on his next trip. Will stood and watched the crowd; the packed dance floor was indistinguishable from the rest of the place, as everyone seemed to be moving to the beat of the band playing on the far side of the building.
Sheryl spotted him on her next trip to the bar, her face gleaming with sweat and her look exasperated. In line behind another server at the bar, she took a minute to talk before collecting her drinks and heading back out. “Will, what are you doing here?”
“I had a few at a bar by the job. Figured if I went home I would crash, so I came down here.” No harm in the truth; she had a way of finding things out, anyway.
She threw a look at him, her green eyes that he loved so much now dark with anger. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The waitress in front of her moved away, her tray full of drinks, and Sheryl filled in her spot. The bartender leaned over and took her order.
“Please don’t get drunk. Last time I almost got fired.”
He knew he had been out of line before, but she had been right there with him. It was the night the bank had finally foreclosed on his house in the Keys. The end of all the last-ditch efforts to save it had started him on a binge that he was just emerging from. That night had been the worst. He had come to pick her up from a day shift, and they’d stayed late into the night drinking. He couldn’t really remember much more than being escorted out.
Will turned away from her, thinking about leaving, but she would be off work in an hour. He could nurse the beer until then, probably have to listen to a rant on the way home, and then it would be over. Maybe he could use some of the money in his pocket to buy her a car. That would take a lot of the stress off their relationship. That word again stuck in his head, he turned away from the bar, contorting his body to avoid the guy behind him and lifting the beer over his head.
The guy moved forward to take his spot at the bar, and knocked Will off balance.
“Shit, you asshole!” screamed the girl next to him as he grabbed her to stop his fall, his beer splashing her face and dripping into her cleavage. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Some guy, maybe her boyfriend stepped between them and pushed Will towards a waitress just leaving the bar who spilt her tray of drinks and screamed loud enough to attract the attention of one of the bartenders, who made a motion toward a bouncer. Inside of thirty seconds, Will had his arm cocked behind his back and was being paraded out the front door. He walked quickly from the bar, hoping that Sheryl hadn’t seen him, but a second later she was on the sidewalk yelling his name.
He didn’t turn around.
Chapter 6
Will’s eyes hurt as he forced them open. The sun glared through the windshield of the truck and glinted off the empty pint of tequila in his lap. His phone, long ago turned off, sat on the seat next to him. He wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and tried to put some reality on his situation.
The texts had started an hour after he left the bar—a stream of How could you turned into You asshole after he didn’t answer. Finally, he had just turned it off. The truck was parked in front of the fish house. He had nowhere else to go, and thought he might get in some work today, laying out piers and framing. If he kept the noise down, he hoped that the work would fall within the city’s guidelines.
He got out and went toward the freezer, its shiny new lock catching his eye as he passed. Behind the box, the view was obstructed, and he relieved himself. Head banging, he went toward the hose, coiled up from yesterday, took off his shirt, and doused his head. His fingers combed through his hair as he emerged into daylight and looked around, trying to figure out where to start. The for sale sign caught his eye as he put his shirt back on, and his recently single status cut through the haze of alcohol, giving him an idea.
Why not buy the boat and stay out here? That was more his style.
His stomach grumbled, and since it was too early to call about the boat, he made a material list and headed for Home Depot, the only supplier open on Sunday. He was just about to pull out of the lot when he noticed a small skiff moving slowly toward the fish house probably after the fish, drawn to the underwater structure. There was good fishing to be had around the piers, as he had witnessed on his dive the other day, especially in the low light of early morning and late evening.
Something nagged at him, though, and he turned to look at the small boat as it slid underneath the structure.
***
Will sat in the restaurant, drinking his second cup of coffee, the empty plate pushed to the side. He sucked in his breath as he turned on the power to the phone, wincing as the onslaught of texts and voicemail messages from Sheryl bombarded him. It was easy to delete the voice mails, but fragments of the texts caught his eye as he tried to delete them before he could read them … and none of it was good. Even though it was over it still bothered him, after all it was his fault.
Finally the screen showed no messages or voicemails. He fished in his pocket for the paper with the phone number of the boat owner, entered it into the screen, and hit dial. Several rings were followed by a grunt. It was almost 10, but apparently he had woken the owner. He almost hung up, but figured sailboats were hard to sell, and his call would be welcome.
“Hey, I saw the sign on your boat at the Pass-A-Grille Marina.”
The voice changed from gruff to welcoming. “That’s right, are you interested?”
“I am. Can you give me some details?” Will asked him about the size, sail inventory, condition, and engine. He also inquired what the dock fees were at the marina. They agreed to meet in an hour, and Will quickly shut the power off and put the phone in his pocket. He finished his coffee, paid the check, and left the restaurant.
Back in the truck, he planned out his bargaining strategy. Sailboats weren’t the movers that power boats were, and this guy was paying a hundred and fifty-five a month to dock the boat there. He was sure to be motivated, though it was a good deal at the $2,400 he had listed on the sign. Will was sure he could get him to $2,000.
He drove back to the fish house with a smile on his face. He knew it wasn’t practical, but owning a boat felt good to him. Maybe he could take it on a sail this afternoon, put out a hand line and catch something. The lot was empty when he pulled in and he walked to the boat to wait for the owner. Just as he arrived, a head emerged from the cabin.
“You Will?” the head asked.
“Yeah. Can I take a look?”
The man showed Will the boat, started the engine, and went through the sails and controls. Everything seemed in order, and Will offered him $1,800 to get the negotiations going. They went back and forth, finally agreeing on $2,100 and the rest of the month’s dock fees the owner had already paid.
Will counted out the hundreds and took the keys to the cabin. He was on his way to the marina office to change the name on the paperwork, title in hand, when he saw a car pull into the lot. Sheryl got out of the passenger seat and went to the trunk. She opened it, took out a bag and a few boxes, and set them carelessly next to his truck.
Feeling euphoric after the boat purchase, he went toward her. “Can we talk?” he asked as he approached.
She turned to look at him, dropped the box she was carrying, and went toward him.
This was not the greeting he had hoped for, the look on her face telling him it had been a mistake to confront her. “I can explain.”
Her eyes bored into him. “I had to plead for my job after what you did. I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to hang out there while I was working.”
“Please listen for just a minute, then you can go. I just turned around and the guy next to me knocked the beer into the girl. That’s all. It was like dominos after that.”
“Will, you don’t get it. If you weren’t there it couldn’t have happened. Can’t you understand that?”
“I understand that you want me to do whatever you say to do. I can’t have my life run like that. Maybe I should just stay here for a while.”
“Where
are you going to stay?”
“I got that boat over there.” He pointed to the slip.
“You got a boat. Of all the irresponsible things you could do. Will, you can’t be thinking about yourself all the time. The money you spent on that could have bought another car. Now what am I supposed to do?”
He hadn’t thought about that. If this was what getting divorced was like, he wanted nothing to do with marriage. The remaining cash was still in his pocket. Out of guilt or some obligation—he wasn’t sure—he pulled out the cash, took a couple of hundreds off the top and handed the rest to her. “This is all I have. Take it.”
She didn’t hesitate.
He took one last look at her, wondering if he was doing the right thing. It wasn’t her fault things had imploded in the Keys. Her green eyes stared blankly at him; their previous fire having died out. Would life be better without her? He didn’t know, but the way things were, he couldn’t continue.
“Goodbye,” he said as he walked away. He felt her there, even without looking, and knew exactly the pose she would be in. When he reached the seawall and set foot on the dock, he heard a car door slam. Seconds later, he turned around and the lot was empty.
He breathed a sigh of relief, went back to the building to pick up his belongings, and took them to the boat.
***
The sun was high in the sky and a glance at his phone confirmed it was just past noon when he decided to take the boat out. By the way the palm trees swayed in the breeze, he judged the wind to be about 10 knots. Just right for an easy sail to check things out. He boarded the boat and started the mental checklist of the tasks he needed to perform. The five-gallon gas tank was full, and he figured with the small 20hp outboard, that would last about five hours if he needed it. He topped off the fresh water tank and checked the bilge. The engine started on its first pull, and he let it idle while he readied the dock lines.
Tuna Tango Page 4