The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  “Robust and sterling. All aspects,” I said. “Let’s get your stuff.”

  He carried one rucksack, the other checked as baggage. The entirety of his worldly possessions. We waited at baggage claim and stood separate from the other travelers. Close, heads bowed, low and gentle tones. Our private world.

  “You worried me,” I said. “Tone and texture of your phone call. You down?”

  “You have a keen ear, my brother. A bit down. Just a bit and nothing earthshattering. Maybe all that’s required is a home base for a while.”

  “You got it. From now until old age. You know that.”

  He returned a wry smile and scratched his scalp. Then lips pursed, he squeezed my upper arm. “I’m spinning in the blues, my brother. I’ll reveal what I believe to be source, the driver of this malaise, once we’re situated. But spring no alarms nor gather any troops. It’s a Bo issue, and one not worthy of any great concern.”

  “No worries. Spin with me till it stops.” I meant it. And relief flowed at the indicators this was Bo’s way of handling a touch of depression. Bo hoisted all the sails with the cosmic winds, and the occasional running aground on rocky shoals was to be expected. There was no crisis indicated and whatever the issue, we could talk it out.

  “I’ve been seeking signs and answers and don’t know if it’s the right tactic. And maybe, just maybe, active seeking hinders the universal flow.”

  “I’d suggest a reset. Leverage the Ace’s slow rumble as Ditch life flows past. Take your time and reset the situation.”

  Silence. A relaxed, tension-relieving silence filled with acceptance and non-judgment and palpable love. All good and needed and as solid as a continent.

  Luggage rolled past. His eyes brightened. “And that’s why you draw me, brother. A potent dose of rational stability. A perspective both mundane and holding little imagination, but the universe requires this in small doses. To support the likes of me.”

  “Helluva compliment, outback boy. Mundane and lacking imagination.”

  “Playing to your strengths.”

  “Bite me.”

  We both laughed low chuckles, squeezed arms and shoulders, and snagged his rucksack. Back on stable ground.

  “You have a plan no doubt,” Bo said as we left the airport.

  “Get situated on board. I’ve got a Clubhouse appointment this afternoon. Then we leave. Ditch time.”

  Bo stroked uneven chin growth. “Jules.”

  “Yeah. Jules.”

  Bo pursed his lips, an unwanted trail sniffed. “This is a potent marker placed smack-dab before me. It could be significant.”

  He meant my afternoon Clubhouse visit. A potent marker. He smelled an exploration opportunity. An opportunity to check out this happenstance. A Jules visit prior to our departure. Nothing potent about it, Bo. And a bad idea for you to attend.

  “Mundane stuff. As you well noted. Back in an hour.”

  “You’ve told tales, bucko. Tales of her.”

  I’d mentioned Jules more than a few times with Bo. And Catch and Marcus.

  “I’ve got to visit her and wrap up a job. Rehash a few items. Nothing new. I thought we’d get into North Carolina tonight and anchor.”

  Instant regret. The Uber driver, a nice enough woman, was now privy to our travel plans. And privy to someone named Jules. Bounty paranoia blossomed. Two million bucks occupied the Ford’s back seat.

  “But later, Bo. Later. Tell me about Oz.”

  He did, the conversational shift recognized with a wink. The ensuing twenty minutes covered the tale of a man tooling across the outback on a BMW motorcycle with sidecar as dust filled the air. A good tale, but without anchors or purpose or epiphanies. The driver dropped us a quarter-mile distance from the Ace. I handed Bo a small .45 Kimber pistol as we started the walk. An appreciative nod returned and the weapon slid into his jeans’ front pocket.

  “I sense reticence, my brother. The Clubhouse oracle and me,” Bo said. We strolled past decrepit buildings and warehouses. I toted one of his rucksacks.

  “It’s a poor fit between you two. Pretty simple. Besides, she asked about you and Catch. A recruitment endeavor. Hardly your cup of tea.”

  “The fit isn’t our choice. And perhaps I’ve taken a shine to tea. Organic.”

  “Okay.” A wide smile and head shake. Bo’s cosmic interplay logic bubbled toward the surface.

  “I do see the timing as a marker. A signal of sorts.”

  “Okay.”

  “As for recruitment, perhaps she requires a consultant. A trusted advisor.”

  “Don’t think she’d cotton to the concept, bud.”

  “Such concerns aside, a wave of energy washes. What it portends, a mystery. The confab, set. We will move forward and meet our fate.”

  We slowed and sidled alongside a warehouse filled with broken glass and hunks of rusted metal. The Ace lay below us, tied. We held five minute reconnoiter while the discussion continued.

  “She points a shotgun when you enter.”

  “A tribal custom from the clandestine world. Spooks, as you too often say.”

  “And makes you empty your pockets. Which better have little other than money.”

  “We all have personal affectations and quirks. Does she have any passions?”

  “She likes licorice.”

  One person walked the pier, dragging a hose toward a weekend sailboat.

  “Fine. I’ll make an offering, then allow goodwill free reign.”

  “It’s not a sound idea, Bo.”

  “Let’s allow the cosmos to make such a decision, my brother. Now, shall we enter the domain of the Queen Mary?”

  With that, he strolled down the small rise, headed for the Ace. I followed. The aft cabin was his, a storage spot. He’d sleep on the foredeck, hammock strung near the throne. The atmosphere was right and tight. Bo on board. We’d cruise late today. Ditch life.

  I sent a Clubhouse message, deep web. Today’s appointment. With red-headed stranger?

  Jules was irascible, and exhibited a strong dislike for changes in Clubhouse schedules. She might even cancel the meeting. But the encrypted response arrived within a quarter hour.

  Bring him.

  All righty then. We’d traipse toward the Clubhouse in a few hours. Bo settled, sandwiches were made, two cold beers opened. Bo asked about the current engagement, as always, interested. He absorbed the tale and peppered the high-level framework I’d delivered with questions.

  “The texture of Abaco? The mansion?”

  “Sad. Soiled.”

  “And those kids?”

  “Heard from one of them. A sister in the Caymans landed her a job. Hotel maid.”

  “A flint strike on positive tinder. The others may also fare well.”

  “How’s the sandwich?”

  “The tomato is sublime. Which one?”

  He lifted a chin toward an array of black plastic pots aligned along the railing for full sun exposure. Each contained an heirloom tomato plant.

  “Black Krim.”

  “An admirable pastime, your small-scale agriculture.” He took another bite, chewed. “The red dot hitter in Nassau. Did you consider capture?”

  “Yeah. After the fact. During the fact required a split-second shot.”

  “The trailing boat as you exited the scene casts possibilities.”

  “I’ll never know who or why.”

  “Don’t speak with such surety on the matter, goober. Answers may yet reveal.”

  I rehashed, again, the final act of this engagement. A Clubhouse visit and then adios. Bo brushed aside the assertion.

  “For a plodder, you lack patience. Allow for a ripening process.” He lifted his chin again toward the tomatoes and smiled large.

  “End of the gig, Bo. No ripening.”

  “That was a cool move in the junkyard. You exhibited restraint. Allowed the hitter sufficient rope. I’ll assume the finale quick and violent, without discourse.”

  “I yelled freeze. He didn’t.”


  “A poor choice on his part. You have skirted over the palatial Hampton estate owner. Melinda, was it?”

  “Fine, fine woman. Another time, another place.”

  “Maybe it was the time and place. You fought it.”

  “I don’t move among the opposite sex with the insouciance you do.”

  Bo attracted women. Period. The guy didn’t try—quite the opposite. He avoided overt signals. I’d never evidenced any such efforts. He focused on the person. Passions, joys, tribulations. A weird mix of joyful acceptance and camouflaged bad boy. Whatever the mix, they drifted his way, enveloping.

  “You might stop focusing on the movement,” he said. “Adopt acceptance.”

  “Standby while I get a pen and paper. Capture these pearls of wisdom.”

  We both laughed, wiped breadcrumbs off ourselves, finished the beers. The day turned warm and sticky. The overhead tarp provided needed shade. His beer bottle rapped the foredeck with announcement-like vigor.

  “I should follow my own advice, laddie.”

  “Do tell.” Man I missed him.

  “The subject of partners. It was driven home when hanging with Catch and Willa.”

  I lacked a grip on this. My brother never exhibited issues meeting women. Hell, they sought him out.

  “You don’t have issues with female companionship. A mystery to me given the mess you are.”

  “This is deeper and of greater import than companionship.”

  “Okay.”

  “A partner and soul-sharing mate and lover. A fellow traveler sharing the same path. That’s the fulcrum of this dilemma.”

  “You’re having a personal crisis over a lack of a mate?”

  “Shared experiences tied with solid love. But a bit of firmament is required on my part. I think. Hence the spin.”

  He twisted in the hammock and rooted around inside his on-deck rucksack. Produced a small clay pipe and smaller container of pot.

  “You’ll catch a buzz before a Clubhouse visit?”

  “I feels appropriate.”

  Oh man. Bo and Jules. My unease at the meeting cranked up.

  “Let’s get back to firmament,” I said.

  “A partner requires a semblance of stability. A nest. I had one not long ago.”

  Bo’s old houseboat illegally anchored deep within the Dismal Swamp, south of where we sat. Burnt to the waterline during a firefight with bounty hunters and a brother gone bad.

  “You’ve got the old farmhouse.”

  Across the highway from the Dismal, Bo owned a seen-much-better-days shack and a rickety barn where an old pickup sat parked. He hadn’t visited the place in a year, and never lived there. He preferred Dismal Swamp deep immersion.

  “That shack holds bad vibes,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Poor atmosphere.”

  “Just so I’m straight, in my plodding manner, you have an existential hole. Hopefully caulked and filled with a loving partner. Well, I could join you in that quest.”

  To some degree I was relieved. A slip-slide into the blues, a bit of depression over past deeds and activities and extreme violence required areas of solace, I feared, well beyond my abilities. All I had to offer—often sufficient—was the healing power of time, wrapped in non-judgmental love.

  “You have family,” he said, voice low and wistful.

  Bo had no siblings, and both parents were buried back in Oklahoma. And he was right. Mom and CC were part of my world. It meant more than a lot.

  “Point taken. So, still plodding along, you first require a place. A nest.”

  “Maybe. It’s unclear what the universe spins for me at the moment. Maybe a place. Maybe a partner first, then a place.” He took a hit and exhaled toward the overhead tarp. “How are you on deciphering smoke signals, kemosabe?”

  “Damn poor,” I said, chuckling.

  The mental machete, at this moment, was inadequate to slice through such thick and longing vegetation. A path best cleared over time. So I endeavored assurances that time aplenty awaited.

  “But know this, my brother. The Ace, and yours truly, are here for however long it takes. Even if it means another throne and lots of gray hair. Although it’s unclear whether that mop of yours turns gray.”

  “Time.”

  “Roger that. All the time in the world.”

  A tiny change displayed, near impossible capturing. Bo performed a mental exhale, unhooked from worry, and truly relaxed. And it filled my heart to the brim with relief and joy. At least, maybe, I could do some things half-right.

  Chapter 12

  I reviewed Clubhouse rules and protocols as we walked, keeping it succinct—edicts and stipulations weren’t Bo’s strong suite. Chesapeake’s old industrial section segued into an equally old and rundown retail area. Liquor stores, auto body shops, small appliance repair. Bo steered us toward a chain drugstore.

  "Supplies, old son," he said.

  "So nothing but cash allowed. Cash and index cards with hand written information. What supplies?"

  "Our pistachio stock. Is the larder well stocked?"

  "No. And we leave our sidearms with the Filipinos behind the dry cleaner counter. And your cell phone if you brought it."

  "How about body wash?"

  "Got soap. You listening to the rules? Jules is prickly about such things."

  "Botanical body wash is crucial. How are we set with body butter?"

  We walked lockstep, Bo’s eyes scanning, mine locked on his profile.

  "Did I just hear one of the most fearless Delta Force warriors ask about body butter?"

  "And a spiral notebook. I may start journaling. Scatter breadcrumbs. A tool, perhaps. With a black cover for added gravitas."

  "Did you bring your cell phone?"

  "I'm running clean. Pistola. Cash. Open mind."

  The drugstore outfitted Bo with the necessities plus a small tin box of specialty licorice. His offering. We waited a moment outside the dry cleaner and ensured there were no customers. I pushed aside how weird this felt. Bo and Jules. A mixture for the ages and discomfort was my prime emotion. But they both wanted this. I would focus on closure. Complete the Caribbean job. The other two could do their dance. If incompatible, no loss. And no hard feelings. Maybe.

  The door handle bell rang, expressionless Filipino faces greeted us. The air was hot and steamy—the dry cleaner used no air conditioning. Two handguns placed on the counter, both covered with dropped-off laundry and backed with deadpan expressions. Bo's sack of supplies were covered up as well. He kept the licorice tin. Through the obscure side door. The first stair step, as always, creaked.

  "Happens every time, every step," I said. "Can't avoid it."

  Delta members, current and former, weren't fond of creaking stairs. They announced arrivals. Bo brushed past. The first two steps gave their wooden protest. The third less so. And the remainder dead quiet as he climbed. No clue how he did it. But he always did it—part and parcel of the remarkable ability to approach his objective with spooky silence.

  "That pisses me off a little," I said, hands on hips and staring upward. A small window at the landing provided the sole light for the flight of stairs. A sunshine square backlit wild red hair as he cast a Cheshire cat grin. I joined him. Each step made noise. Two knocks and the remote controlled lock mechanism of the steel door clanged. We were expected.

  "Honored guests," Jules said, squinting her one eye along the shotgun’s double barrels. "Enter! Enter and present yourselves."

  Pockets emptied, we both performed a slow turn. I hated this part, but Bo smiled and spun on the tiptoe of one foot. Pirouettes completed, I closed the door. The AC hummed, the room cool. Jules rested the shotgun after a gesture with the weapon’s business-end toward the two chairs.

  "Sit. Sit, dears."

  We did. Bo glanced at the Cirque Du Soleil poster. "Tout le spectacle."

  I spoke Spanish, Portuguese, and Arabic. Not French. Bo did.

  "Ils sont remarquables," Jules said. Clearly s
he did as well.

  He placed the tin of special licorice at the desktop edge. Using his index finger, he eased it toward Jules.

  "Mine?" she asked, her eye twinkling.

  "I hope so," Bo said. "Unless my associate snatches it away. I like the blade. A statement?"

  He referenced the desktop-embedded KA-BAR knife.

  "A declaration, perhaps. May I?" she asked and pointed a bony sealant-covered finger at the tin.

  "I would be hurt if you didn't."

  He smiled. She cackled. The tin was opened, a select piece of black candy inspected, sniffed, and dropped home. Leaning back, eye closed, she sucked and chewed and hummed the La Marseillaise. We remained silent until her chair squeaked forward. She rested elbows on the desk, clasped hands, chin on hands. Welcome to the freakin’ Clubhouse.

  "Mr. Dickerson. How marvelous. It is a joy to finally make your acquaintance, and to salute your taste in confectionary gifts."

  I'd never mentioned Bo's name when discussing the past with Jules. But she knew. Of course she knew.

  "Case directed my path. I'm a follower in this regard."

  "And little else I would venture."

  They both smiled. All righty. Bo and Jules. An auspicious start.

  "So, to business," I said. "Back from Long Island. Would you like an information dump?"

  "That would be grand, dear. May I assume Mr. Dickerson has been informed?"

  "And has provided cosmic insights," I said, smiling at my partner.

  "A valued perspective," Jules said. "One I'd be most interested hearing."

  Full recruitment mode. A potential new client. A gatherer of information. I wasn’t too sure the victim was buying it.

  During my operational review, she pulled a cigar from her desk drawer and spun the sealed tip against the embedded knife. Fishing around her work-shirt pockets she produced a kitchen match and fired it along one of the chair’s arms. The unruly shocks of white-spiked tips remained, the look still a tad disturbing. Bo sat, legs extended, hands across his belly. He listened, a benign pleasantness painted over his countenance. He declined contribution to the tale. Jules's abacus remained static. That wouldn't last for long.

  "The only loose end, or dead end, is the mysterious Jordan Pettis," I said, ending the summation.