The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  "Neither mysterious nor loose nor, as of today, expired," Jules said. She cocked her head. "Middle name."

  "Middle name?"

  "William Jordan Pettis. Your search attempts would fail using such overly focused parameters. Our Mr. Pettis uses his first name for public endeavors and formal business settings. His middle solely for personal connections. Particularly when raising funds. A ‘Please call me Jordan’ gambit."

  "Okay." That hurt. I should have searched Pettis and tagged an assortment of qualifiers such as business ventures or overseas investments. Stupid.

  "A member of the venture capital class. Sand Hill Road, California."

  Melinda Whitmore's words flashed back. California. New rich.

  "How does he tie?" I asked.

  "Here is where it becomes most interesting. Are you comfortable, Mr. Dickerson? I want to ensure my guests are accommodated."

  "All good, thanks. And we should give a pass on the middle name misstep."

  "Not exactly a misstep," I said and glanced at my brother sprawled across the hard wooden chair. Yeah, it was. But I’d gotten defensive. A simple Bo and Jules meet-and-greet, gather Clubhouse information, wrap the job. The train wasn’t headed that direction.

  "Oh, I have Mr. Dickerson. Be most assured. Passed over with tender mercies. For such things are outside his bailiwick."

  "But a good man. Brave and true."

  "Of this, I have no doubt."

  "Although linear by nature,” Bo said.

  "And a needed place for such people amongst our ilk. Truly."

  "Could we get back to Jordan Pettis?" I asked.

  "But as I understand the situation, layers are involved," Bo said, bypassing my question.

  "Exactly!" Jules tapped the desktop for emphasis.

  "Layers and dimensions and flows of influence," Bo said, nodding.

  "Back to Pettis, people."

  "Most astute, Mr. Dickerson," Jules said, ignoring me. "Most astute. Layers and flows and relationships."

  "I smell big players," Bo said. "Global. Shadowed."

  He didn't mean multi-national corporations. No, he alluded to spooks and clandestine operations and a world at the other end of my ten foot pole.

  "You can both slam the breaks on that line of thought,” I said.

  Jules cast a knowing smile toward Bo. He reciprocated. Under normal situations, both acts would have irritated the fire out of me. But this setting fell well outside normal’s realm. A fly buzzed near the spider's web, and whatever plans Jules might have for Bo, she first would ensure capture. Unbeknownst to Jules, this fly flitted well beyond constraints—webbed or otherwise.

  "Those types of players don't send amateurs,” I continued. “Nassau was amateur city in the murder-for-hire department."

  "Layers," Bo said.

  Jules chuckled. "We make our resident Braveheart uncomfortable, Mr. Dickerson. Let us plow ahead, straight line."

  "Linear,” Bo replied.

  "Precisely. Now, dear," she said, addressing me, puffing smoke and tilting her forehead my way. "A bit of backstory. A tale which will cement your perception of business affairs gone awry."

  "Okay."

  “And a treat for you.” She opened a drawer, the wood on wood rasping, and produced an index card. Slid it across the desktop. It contained the name Jordan Pettis and his cell phone number. I memorized it—index cards were allowed viewing at the Clubhouse, but never an exit. Hotel California. I slid it back to her. It disappeared back into the drawer, and Jules began her dissertation.

  "You are familiar with the Panama Canal?"

  "Not a schoolkid, Jules. And you two can stop the Case Lee critique."

  Bo gripped my arm and said, "Levity, my brother. Chill. You're my hero in oh so many ways. Don't forget that."

  "And mine," Jules added. "A stalwart individual, undaunted. There is much to admire there. Lower your hackles, Odysseus."

  They'd had their amusement, riffed off my personal tendencies. Enough.

  "Then slap the reins on the mule, Jules. Plow ahead,” I said.

  Her chair protested as she leaned back and contemplated the ceiling. "Talk. Talk and chatter and little action regarding a competitive Canal alternative. A dry canal, if you will. Highways, rail lines. Unload containers from the Pacific, reload on the Atlantic side. Overland pipelines for crude oil transportation. It is proposed one might perform the transfer functions faster and with less of an economic bite than traversing the Panama Canal.”

  "Okay."

  “Costa Rica is the clear option for such endeavors. A stable government, peaceful residents.”

  Both Bettencourt’s and Whitmore’s maps detailed the route. I never connected the route with a Canal alternative. Man, I had to up my game.

  "Highly lucrative if successful,” she continued. “A financial disaster if it were to fail. Hence the lack of action toward realization."

  "And Pettis pulled together funding? A California venture capitalist?"

  "A commercial peculiarity within the sea to shining sea landscape.” She puffed the cigar and paused, tossing the Jules version of an appealing smile toward Bo. Welcome, said the spider to the fly. Then she returned focus my way.

  “The west coast, it would seem, dominates bits and bytes and social media and entertainment. As you well know."

  I nodded as response.

  "Massive infrastructure endeavors, on the other hand, have an old money appeal. Expectations of quiet financial returns for decades. Economic positions solidified through political and inherited influence. Power wielded over a lifetime or three. Such funding sources tend to reside on the east coast. Quite a dichotomy between the two."

  "So our Mr. Pettis dipped the bucket into the deep well of old money,” I said. “Put together a deal, for lack of a better term."

  "A deal which would compete with the Panama Canal. A dry canal."

  "So whose ox gets gored? The big Panama Canal player?"

  She cocked her head, shifted her eye from me to Bo and back again.

  "Why, our large Asian friend. In a major and concerted and very, very serious manner."

  I stared back, unblinking. She inspected the cigar’s lit end.

  "The Chinese, dear. The Chinese.”

  Chapter 13

  Not what I wanted to hear. The Chinese did business at this scale as an arm of their government. Serious stuff. I glanced toward Bo. He shrugged, above the fray. Well, I sure wasn't above it given two attempts at taking me out. And if the initiator of those little efforts nested with the Chinese government, bad news all around. The Russians were already plenty pissed at me and wanted my head on a stake. And now the Chinese after my butt. Just freakin’ great.

  "So let me clarify this. You’re saying the Chinese thought it a wise idea using Jack Tilly, insurance adjuster, as target practice. In Nassau. And Long Island."

  "You take this far too personally," Jules said. "Your tenure in the game is sufficient for a more detached perspective."

  "Yeah, well, two murder attempts personalizes perspective."

  She fished another kitchen match from her front pocket. The cigar had died out. "If it is any consolation—and it should be," she paused, struck the match, and puffed the cigar to life, "they would not directly engage with such activities."

  "Layers," Bo said.

  "Precisely, Mr. Dickerson."

  The AC hummed. I shifted position, crossed my arms, and sat back. The revealed road was Spookville bound. Time for a detour.

  "This is going the wrong direction. I’ll buy the Costa Rica dry canal thing. The maps with both Bettencourt and Whitmore. Fine. Toss in Jordan Pettis, dealmaker. Fine. But forget the Chinese. You’re discounting other possibilities.”

  “Hmm.” Jules smoked and waited.

  “Another competitor for the Costa Rica play. A direct competitor.”

  “A possibility, of course.”

  “And the whole mansion of debauchery thing. There’s a Bettencourt trust fund in the Bahamas. Who kn
ows where the fund manager plays in this?”

  “And Mr. Pettis?” she asked. “How would he play into the paradise island mix?”

  Not well. Not well at all. Straws grasped, although the direct competitor angle held water.

  “Let’s stick with motivation, Jules. Motivation to whack an insurance adjuster from Omaha. Two attempts.”

  “I must have another.” She laid the cigar on the desk, the lit end suspended over the edge. “May I indulge myself?” she asked Bo. Her finger tapped the licorice tin top.

  “Why celebrate deprivation?” Bo asked. He tilted his head, the benign smile still pasted.

  She plucked another candy and sucked it, eye closed. I shifted again, and the chair protested.

  “A bridge, Monsieur Lee.” Her eye opened hooded and focused my way. She continued working the licorice. “One we must cross.”

  “Not too sure about that.”

  "Perhaps a dash or two of added impetus, dear. Allow me."

  I did. Jules detailed China's Panama Canal involvement. To counter competition, China invested billions in port facilities on both sides, Atlantic and Pacific. And they invested billions in the Canal itself. Increased carrying capacities, enlarged the system of dams and locks. Big money. But their goods, which filled US shelves, were valued at half a trillion dollars per year. Serious business, indeed. About as serious as it gets.

  But competition for the Canal’s services did exist. Several large shippers already headed west from China, loaded with Chinese goods, and used the Suez Canal. Through the Mediterranean, across the Atlantic, and unload on the US east coast. An added couple of days travel, but doing so they also bypassed the hefty Panama Canal transit fee—as much as half a million bucks. No small chunk of change.

  "Why not mandate their ships use the canal?" I asked. "No Costa Rica dry canal, no Suez Canal, no competition."

  "Because, dear boy, they do not own the most shipping vessels. Far, far from it. And those large shippers—French, Danes, Japanese, Swiss, South Korean—will utilize the fastest, cheapest route from point A to point B."

  A disconnect wide and deep remained. Take a leap of faith and assume China’s hand in the demise of Bettencourt and Whitmore. But going after an insurance adjuster? Too discordant, a bridge too far.

  “So back to that bridge,” I said. “I’m not hearing anything definitive. Could be, might be. And the thread between China and an insurance adjuster is too thin to see.”

  "A legitimate view," Jules said. She inspected the cigar’s end and blew on it. A few sucking puffs ensured it remained lit.

  "So let's whittle this thing down. The basics,” I said.

  "Do not disregard the shavings," Jules said.

  "Nuances," Bo said, his lone conversational contribution.

  "Subtleties," Jules concurred.

  "Yeah, well, let's flush nuances and subtleties for the moment. Concentrate on yours truly as target practice for the Chinese government. Not buying it."

  "Again, brave Ulysses. Not them. No. A third party. A third party assigned the job of stopping a competitive project. A layer of separation. And nothing personal about it."

  "You don't know that."

  "I do, dear. Experience drives such perception. And the third party sent less than qualified individuals to dispatch you in Nassau. Having learned, the same third party upped the ante, or professionalism, on Long Island. It makes perfect sense."

  "Fine. But they—whoever the hell they are—still don't know who Jack Tilly of the Providence Insurance company is. I want to keep it that way."

  "As well you should. But the layer in question, if one considers the Long Island miscreant, may well have a view of you beyond the insurance impersonation.”

  She intimated I was made. A happenstance I was unwilling to accept. It opened way, way too many doors.

  “Long odds, Jules.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’ll grant you someone on Abaco could have taken a photo of me. Passed it to their boss. Which set up the Long Island hitter. Okay. Got it. But plucking Case Lee from a cell phone photo requires deep resources. Clandestine resources.”

  She puffed her cigar. Her expression neither adamant nor resolute. The Jules version of empathy. I gave a sigh, a head shake. It was possible I’d brushed against clandestine operatives. So what?

  "Doesn't matter. The job is over. Except for one last thing. I’ll contact Pettis. He's on the hit list."

  "Then do so, dear. And disappear down your watery trail."

  "So my client’s report will tie Bettencourt and Whitmore and this Pettis guy together. Commercial endeavor. A dry canal through Costa Rica. One investor dead from poisoning. The other dead under suspicious circumstances. Plenty of unknowns, but that's okay."

  “Okay indeed,” she said. “Tempering such an outlook with the one big item.”

  Enough. I turned toward Bo. “You ready?”

  “Ready.” He smiled.

  Jules shifted focus toward Bo. "What a delight conversing with you, Mr. Dickerson. We shall exchange contact information. Our Sir Galahad shall provide you the rules of communication."

  "Cool." Bo beamed.

  “And perhaps our next little tête-à-tête shall involve the future. A future together. Welcome to the Clubhouse.”

  One large disconnect remained. The abacus, untouched. I'd provided Jules valued information, and she'd provisioned me. The balance for this discussion accepted, whichever side of the ledger it fell. But, very unlike her, the device remained unused. I lifted a chin toward it, raised an eyebrow. She waved a dismissive hand.

  "Your introduction of Mr. Dickerson constitutes sufficient payment. Let's not soil this grand and glorious acquaintance with such considerations."

  I turned toward Bo. "Let's hit the Ditch, bud."

  "Let’s do it. And you, Madame," Bo said as he stood and delivered a slight bow. "You have been a surprise and a joy. The appropriate whale identified, the harpoon sharpened for our hero. Bravo and a tad intimidating, and I like your hair."

  Jules palmed the tips of a few bright white spikes, smiling. She may have blushed. Mercy.

  She captured Bo's phone number and asked me to provide him her contact information. Downstairs we collected our weapons and Bo's groceries. We maintained a quick pace toward the docks as I held a strong hankering to get underway. Our quick dance with the land of shadows was over and it was now adios time.

  “You got pissed at me,” Bo said.

  “A little irritated. I didn’t appreciate the dissection. Particularly when you have Jules as a scalpel-wielding ally.”

  “It wasn’t that.”

  “Do tell, mister savoir faire.”

  “The Clubhouse is your private domain. I represented an interloper. It was understandable you’d get protective.”

  “Protective about Jules?”

  "She loves you," Bo said. "I know why."

  "Don't think she loves anyone or anything. She's Jules. Period."

  "No, my brother. No. She dons a knobbly mask but underneath, love. You represent brightness and truth. A rarity in her world. You are lucky, and should consider reciprocating."

  "I'll think about it. You good now? I mean, with meeting her?"

  "Better than good. Insights, observations. A new channel opened. Now let us sally forth, my Georgia peach. Sally forth and adopt a more languid pace and place in the universe."

  We did. I released the Ace and cruised down the Elizabeth River, the diesel’s low rumble fine and steady underfoot. A solid and pleasant late afternoon as the sun lowered inside a clear sky. Friendly waves were cast toward the few workboats plying the river—the kick-off for a relaxed several days traveling. A fine evening lay ahead while a Charleston visit with Mom and CC sat on the horizon. Then the danger klaxon sounded, loud and shrill.

  Chapter 14

  They had staked the Clubhouse. An educated guess on their part, playing pre-guided odds. Whoever wanted this investigation into Bettencourt, Whitmore, and Pettis cleaned he
ld inside information. The Clubhouse location—an open secret—was known among clandestine players world-wide. Hence the shotgun greeting. Jules was a nondenominational procurer and dispenser of information. With a heavy thumb pressed on the US homeland concerns side of the scale. But she was well known. And when Bo and I exited and jabbered while strolling toward the Ace, they trailed us. Followed on foot and now followed as we cruised. I’d let my guard down. A stupid mistake, no excuses.

  “Hey, Bo. Take the wheel for a minute.”

  He occupied the throne and surveyed his cosmic kingdom as we tooled down the Elizabeth River at the Ace’s cruising speed of twelve knots.

  “No worries. Did you fix the turn signal? I may want to make a few course corrections.”

  “Keep her straight and steady for the moment. Potential target. Trailing.”

  Step one—define danger as the target. Place the bullseye on them, not us. Bo joined me in the wheelhouse.

  “How rude,” he said. “And just when a fine day was ending.”

  Zeiss binoculars helped identify a sport fishing boat. Their large outboard engine matched our speed. Cranked up, their vessel would fly. It maintained a discrete quarter-mile distance. A few other boats occupied this stretch of the Elizabeth, moving both directions, but they each presented common activities and attributes. This trailing boat didn’t.

  “A bit late for a fishing trip,” I said, handing Bo the binoculars. “And no rods evident.”

  Sport fishing boats in this area were equipped with fishing rod holders. Four or six rods, pointed skyward, a typical configuration when headed toward the fishing grounds.

  “Four dudes,” Bo said.

  We turned east—a cut-through toward the North Landing River.

  “And they aren't planning an overnight stay.” Their boat wasn’t designed or built for night cruising. A sport fishing boat was built to get the occupants into fishy waters and back home.

  They took the east cut-through as well and maintained their distance.

  “Four dudes modeling khaki fatigues. Perhaps a photo shoot awaits,” Bo said. His voice inflection lacked any pretense of humor. This was more than potential danger. It was an affront, a rude incursion on our sedate trip down the Ditch.