Pardners

by Roy F. Chandler

  In recent years, Malcolm had turned more to golf and travel, and the thirty-four foot boat bounced alongside Malcolm's condo, safely tied off in its private berth but rarely exercised. The small yacht was named the Noisy Oyster and Byrne planned on using it to make both he and his partner more financially secure than either could have hoped.

  When he approached Malcolm requesting to rent the Oyster for a few months of cruising with a buddy—to celebrate ending their army careers, Malcolm had waved them into the boat's center cockpit, to lounge in comfort beneath the Bimini's shade.

  Malcolm scrubbed at his balding head that did not comfortably endure the Florida sun. He seemed to mull over Byrne's request, but when he spoke he was clear enough.

  "We've had some good times on this old bucket, Donny."

  "Yeah, we have, and we could have more if you would give up trying to break one hundred."

  Malcolm pretended insult. "Hey, I shoot in the low eighties."

  Byrne grinned, "That is for nine holes, Malc. I've played with you, remember?"

  Malcolm got down to business. "As far as I know, the Oyster is in great shape." He looked across the boat, "Needs a little cleaning, though, doesn't she?"

  "She needs to be run a lot, Malc."

  Malcolm nodded, "And I'm not going to do that anymore, I am afraid."

  He again studied the younger man. "Look, Donny, if I rented out the Oyster, I would have to fiddle with the insurance. Not worth it. You can take the boat anywhere you want to for as long as you want her."

  Malcolm sighed, "When you get back, we should talk about you owning the boat. I'd give it to you right now, but at this stage in your life, I doubt you have the money handy to pay the upkeep, even the fuel—although you could keep her here at my dock for as long as you wanted. I won't have another boat."

  Byrne was clearly stunned. To Malcolm, the value of the fifteen-year old sailboat was pocket change, and having moved on, he might actually be relieved to have the craft off his hands, but to Byrne? The Noisy Oyster reeked of travel and adventure. Don Byrne ached to own such a boat. What young man would not?

  Of course, Malcolm was right; a boat ate money. Owners joked about their boats being holes in the water into which they dumped money. Still—he would talk seriously to Malcolm when he and Shepard returned.

  Byrne responded, "My gosh, Malc, the Noisy Oyster is worth a lot of money, I couldn't take a gift like that. I couldn't . . ."

  Malcolm brushed Byrne's words aside. "That will wait until you get back from your cruise. Where are you planning to go, anyway?"

  Byrne fought his mind back to his plan.

  "Tom Shepard and I intend to cruise down to Cancun and Isles Mujeres—maybe visit southern Mexico a little. Then we will swing around the Yucatan Peninsula and poke through the Caribbean a bit. We will want to be back before the hurricane season starts in earnest, but we don't want to hurry.

  Malcolm figured in his head. "That'll be three to four thousand miles, I would guess. To do it right with lots of stops that could take most of the winter. What a great trip."

  He raised his head to meet Byrnes' eyes. "Do you have enough money for that long a cruise, Donny?"

  Byrne grinned, "No, but we're splitting the cost, Malc. Together we've got enough, and we won't be flat broke when we get back." Byrne's chuckle was rueful. "We might be a little bent, but we won't be completely broke." They laughed together.

  Malcolm shook his head ruefully. "I should have taken long sailing cruises like that instead of loafing around on cruise liners." He shrugged. "Too late now, I like the comforts of home too much."

  It was that easy. Malcolm said, "Take the boat when you want her. Drop me a note or call me when you can, I'll be interested."

  A week later, Byrne moved the Noisy Oyster to a small, rarely used, community dock on the east side of Lyons Bay near the Venice, Florida inlet. There he could work without curious eyes watching him.

  Preparing the sailboat for this special trip required more than fueling up and checking the rigging. Byrne's plan called for concealing millions of dollars so completely that the closest inspection would find nothing.

  Sailboats were as guilty of dope smuggling as the fast powerboats, and it might be that more of the sailing attempts had been successful because sailors' pointless wanderings and slow travel made dope smuggling appear less likely.

  But, the many national coast guards learned, and they knew how to inspect sailboats. They knew to drill in the peaks of the bows that were often foamed closed. Dogs could smell cocaine laid behind interior furnishings—especially behind stoves and refrigerators.

  If a boat was suspected, it was not unheard of to rip open and examine the fresh water tanks, the sewage holding tanks or even the fuel tanks. Inspection lights could look inside masts and booms.

  One hundred dollar bills would not set off the drug-sniffing dogs (unless the money had been thoroughly handled by individuals who also fondled dope), but neither Byrne nor Tom Shepard cared to risk their single chance of becoming wealthy to casual preparations or simplistic hoping that things went well and no one looked too close.

  The Noisy Oyster was a shallow draft boat, and its steel-shod keel ran from near the bow to under the rudder. If grounded, no protruding rudder or propeller hung down to dig into sand or to destruct on coral. Even if run aground hard, the immensely powerful diesel engine below the boat's center cockpit could almost always back the craft off without damage other than paint loss from the boat-length steel plate. The Oyster was a motor sailor. A Cummens Diesel of 220 horsepower lay beneath the cockpit and spun a large self-feathering prop. Under power, the unusual boat could pop up on plane and cruise at nearly twenty knots. Many a powerboat skipper had eaten his liver as the Noisy Oyster slid past his struggling semi-displacement hull.

  Although self-feathering, the big prop did nothing positive for sailing. Under ordinary sail of genoa and main, the Oyster sailed solidly if uninspiringly, and the boat's tacking could best be described as matronly. Going downwind under sail, Malcolm's Noisy Oyster was glass smooth, but struggled to gain ground when hard on the wind.

  At one time, the boat had boasted a centerboard that greatly improved upwind sailing, but Malcolm was fearful of shearing off the board in the thin Florida waters. He removed the centerboard, and when he added the strap iron skid to the boat's keel, he sealed the centerboard well. Don Byrne planned to reopen that well (from the inside) scoop out the foam filler and leave the compartment empty until the money had been recovered.

  Malcolm claimed the Noisy Oyster was unsinkable because he had added inches of foam including filling the bilges and thickly coating all bulkheads, floors, and overheads. The flotation of the foam, plus the immense fuel and water tanks had not been tested, but Byrne believed the packing might just barely keep the boat afloat—which was comforting in a craft occasionally scraped across coral and often grounded on sand. Otherwise, the thick foam insulation made the boat astonishingly quiet and stabilized cabin temperatures.

  To get to the keel, Byrne lifted the glued-down cabin carpet and used a saber saw to remove a section of fiberglass deck within the main cabin. As expected, everything below the floor was foam filled.

  Digging the foam free was a sweaty task that required the use of a dry wall saw, a foot long wrecking bar, and a lot of transferring of jagged foam chunks into buckets to be hauled to a nearby dumpster.

  How much room would he need for six moneybags? Byrne chose to clear more than enough. The boat would carry extra cans of foam mix, and when the moneybags were in place against the keel, the new foam would be stirred and poured into the remaining empty space where it would expand filling all voids and completely disguising everything hidden within.

  Byrne saw to the stowing of full cans of the two-part expanding foam mix, more than enough fiberglass cloth, epoxy resin and hardener, and the rest of the gallon of floor paint. He added a gallon of glue to again refasten the carpet and believed he had that part of the job finished.

&
nbsp; Alpha carefully replaced the sawed-free section of deck and strengthened and disguised the joint with ten-ounce fiberglass cloth epoxied in place. He repainted the entire cabin floor and allowed it to dry for two days. Even knowing where to look, the patch was difficult to detect, and the floor did not bounce when walked upon. Good job. Byrne re-glued the carpet.

  What next?

  Guns? Any cruising craft could be expected to have one gun aboard. Malcolm kept a slightly rusty Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun under a bunk mattress. That weary but never failing piece would have to do.

  Men like Alpha and Bravo always thought of guns. Neither would choose to simply hope no one mean came aboard, but on this trip great care would be taken not to arouse interest.

  There was enough fishing and snorkeling gear aboard to disguise the sailors' real interest, and there was plenty of scutwork and more stocking of the boat.

  In loading the boat, Byrne pretended that all he and Shepard would be doing was exploring and enjoying the Central American coast. If their crossing of the Gulf of Mexico were routine, they would have only five or six days at sea and that would be the longest passage without coming ashore. Byrne did not pack away food supplies for months of cruising. What they did not have, they would buy at their ports of call. They were sightseeing, after all—and that illusion would have to be impeccably maintained.

  Byrne did purchase a collapsible, two-wheel cart with coolie bars to transport any large plastic bags they might encounter.

  Chapter 5

  Mister Tom Shepard arrived burdened with packages. He struggled along the dock, cursing his load and sweating in a long sleeved shirt.

  Seated in shaded comfort beneath the cockpit's Bimini top, Alpha was unsympathetic.

  "Well, you won't have to don a disguise. You are the perfect snowbird tourist. God, Tommy, you've even got the sweating down. A long sleeved shirt? Didn't you know that Florida is hot and humid? What a rube."

  Bravo dropped his loads in the cockpit. "Shut up, Byrne. You've been loafing down here for months while I soldiered on. Where's the cold drinks?"

  "Well, I usually keep them in the refrigerator, Tom. You might try there."

  Shepard dumped a pair of laundry-type bags ahead of him and disappeared into the main cabin. Moments later he reappeared, stripped to the waist, holding a dew-covered can of Diet Coke. He slumped onto a seat opposite his friend, swilled at the cold drink, and sighed contentedly.

  "OK, Byrne, I am aboard. You can cast off and steer us to our secret hoard."

  Byrne frowned in pretended irritation. "On this boat you are the crew, Bravo. When it is time to move, you will cast off. I, the skipper, navigator, planner, and . . . some other things, will man the helm. I command. You, you peasant, will humbly comply."

  Bravo drank and nodded. "I quietly submit, oh noble commander." Then he twisted his face into a menacing mask, "But once I am rich, watch out. I may seek vengeance, and a Shepard riled is something to fear."

  "Hmm, a riled Shepherd? There is something oxymoronic about that picture." Byrne was clearly unimpressed. He nudged one of Shepard's bundles still in the cockpit. "What on earth is all this stuff? Are you moving permanently to Mexico?"

  Bravo emptied the large sailbag. "Here we have six bags exactly like this bag they came in—a total of seven excellent zippered sail bags each of which could carry one of the money bags we hope to locate. You, I assume, have loaded an appropriate cart to carry our wealth?"

  "Loaded and stored, as well as many packs of penny balloons."

  The scheme was to inflate the sailbags by filling them with balloons. If questioned, their explanation would be that the bags ensured that any small boat they rented would not sink with them aboard. Mexican watermen who heard would surely snicker behind their backs, but when the fearful Americans returned from their fishing, no questions would be asked about the bulky sailbags.

  Seven bags? One of Alpha's thrown bags had struck the dead tree. It could have broken open, and repacking the money as tightly as had the undersink trash compactor seemed doubtful. Better an extra bag than not enough.

  Byrne studied Shepard's still sweating form. "You all clear of the Army, Tommy? Nobody wearing a trench coat close behind?"

  "Nobody was the least bit interested in where I was going or what I was going to do. Once they were sure that I was not reenlisting, they all went for coffee, and that was the end of it. Unless Charlie is lurking behind a palm tree down here, we are good to go."

  Byrne studied his watch. "I have one stop that I want us both to make before we leave, and there is no sense slipping out of here during the dark of night. We'll recheck that we have everything we need, meet with my friend Malcolm who owns this boat, and shove off in the morning when we feel ready."

  Byrne examined Shepard's pale form. "First, you had better lay on a thick layer of Hoffman's Sun Tan Lotion. You look more pale than the walking dead, and we don't want to have you suffering with sunburn or sun poison or something even worse."

  "I know sun, Byrne. I grew up in California, you might remember."

  "You don't know Florida sun, Tom. Lather on the Hoffman's. It's full of Aloe Vera juice, and that is what protects you."

  While Shepard lathered, Byrne continued.

  "I have to tell Malcolm more or less what we intend doing. I am putting his boat in danger, and I ought to be square with him."

  Bravo groaned. "This late in the game you have to confess everything to an outsider, Byrne? That is about the worst idea you have had recently."

  Byrne shrugged, his embarrassment showing.

  "You're right, Tommy, but I feel bound to explain that he might lose his boat. I should have hinted at the dangers before, but I didn't. I will do it now, and expect that Malcolm will not change his mind about our using his yacht."

  Shepard signaled acceptance, but added, "You sure this is a yacht, Don? I thought yachts were long and white, and women were aboard in small bathing suits."

  Byrne made his explanation short.

  "What we plan to do, Malc, is power up a river in Mexico until we begin to run out of water. Then we will rent a sort of John boat and go up further. On a river off to a side we hope to recover some money from a failed drug deal. Then, we will float back out of there, and deposit the money in a friendly foreign bank."

  Malcolm said, "Holy hell." He licked his lips, scratched as his itchy scalp and said, "Why didn't you do things like this when I was young enough to go, Byrne? What an adventure. Can you find the loot? What will you do if you get caught with it? How will you explain having a lot of money? Is it American money, or gold, or Pesos? Whose loot is it?"

  Byrne grinned. "It belonged to a drug gang, and it is American currency. Our plan is not to get caught because if we do, we won't have any believable explanation. Two American sail bums with big money? Anyone would immediately think drugs, and south of our border, that would put us in jail forever."

  "How much is there?"

  Byrne had expected the question, and he answered truthfully, if not completely.

  "We don't know, but it should be enough to make the risk worthwhile. We will be traveling slow and inconspicuously, and we won't come near the U S of A until the money is in an offshore bank that will not report a large deposit to anyone."

  Malcolm nodded understanding. "I have friends who do that with funds earned in Europe. A couple use Bahamian accounts, and one has an account in Panama. I have heard that the Cayman Islands are safe, but I've got to admit I'm not up on the details."

  There was little more. They shook hands, and Malcolm urged them to be cautious. He asked, "When will you sail?"

  Byrne grinned and said, "On the morning ebb, of course. That's when pirates always depart."

  Malcolm laughed. "With the engine in the Oyster you won't worry much about tides." He shook his head in sorrow. "How I would like to go on such an adventure."

  Then he smiled, "When you are deep in the bowels of some Central American hell hole, sneak me a message, and I will do my
best to bail you out."

  He shook his head in pretended disgust. "I had better begin training a mercenary team because you two will surely get caught, tortured, and buried in a local Devil's Island prison."

  The adventurers left on that upbeat note. Byrne said, "And with that, we are off, pardner. The mother lode awaits us."

  Tommy Shepard nodded, but added, "I hope so, I've worried about a brush fire ever since you mentioned it. Thanks for that, Byrne."

  Chapter 6

  Alpha set their southwesterly course to safely clear the tip of Cuba. Then he held that course allowing the ferocious currents between Cuba and Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula to slide them to the north. As they cleared the Yucatan currents, they turned dead on course for their river, and the excellent fishing it offered.

  Breasting the Yucatan's steady chop in a following wind made a rough crossing with unrelenting pitching and rolling. Bravo's stomach revolted. There is nothing humorous about seasickness, and Byrne did not make light of his friend's misery.

  For three days Shepard lay in the cockpit irregularly heaving his guts over the rail and occasionally suggesting that his partner simply tie him to an anchor and drop him over the side.

  Then, they were across. The wind clocked to the south, and the Noisy Oyster reached westerly enjoying smooth seas that offered little more than an occasional white cap.

  Each day, Alpha ran the boat's engines for an hour to recharge batteries and to keep things lubricated. Bravo like motoring. Even throttled back, they covered more miles, and after the Yucatan current, he had lost interest in sailing. Bravo just wanted to get there, and he encouraged Don Byrne to pour on a little power and get down the road.