The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  “You explained a Mr. Jones, identity unknown, encouraged Mr. Pettis. Subsequent identification was obtained while hidden among the landscape in the pre-dawn darkness. With a very frightened Jordan Pettis.”

  “Stinnett freaked in the conference room. Ran like a rabbit.”

  “Your countenance, Mr. Lee. The lone individual not applauding. The operator look. An anomaly among that crowd and danger for any low-profile case agent.”

  “My look?”

  “I know it well. You do remember we crossed paths multiple times back in the day?”

  “And that’s the only reason I’m here.”

  My statement settled for a while. And then Marilyn Townsend offered a gesture I’d never forget. She raised her coffee as a salute, and nodded. It was sincere, the real deal.

  “I do not doubt your sincerity,” she said. “Yet those dots you referred to have tenuous connection.”

  “And the yacht? A line item on your black budget?”

  “Borrowed, leased, or confiscated during an operation.”

  “The pieces fit, Director.”

  Ten seconds, locked eyes, shared unblinking stares.

  “I will not discount your assertion, Mr. Lee. Not in the slightest, due to the gravity of the claim. Activities will be initiated tonight.”

  “You’ll find I’m right. The question is, what action will you take?”

  “Hardly your concern.”

  “Very much my concern. He will continue the attempts on my life. His other boss wants the loose ends tied. Pettis. Me. I have a lot more concern about the latter.”

  “Understood.” She drained her cup, placed it inside my unused one, and ensured the thermos top was screwed tight. When she reached for her cane, instant movement from nearby suits. They approached, I stood.

  “May I assume all communication regarding this ends here? Tonight?” she asked, rising. The cane tapped the concrete walkway twice. A signal or affectation or engagement of the weapon system—I’d never know.

  “You may. It’s Company business. Under the assumption you’ll handle it appropriately.”

  An agent scooped up the thermos and cups. Another extended a hand to assist her. She waved it off.

  “Know this, Mr. Lee. If facts present themselves as supportive of your claim, the situation will be handled.” We locked eyes a final time. “Handled most appropriately.”

  She turned and worked her way toward a nearby parked fleet of large black SUVs. I remained, and walked among the playground equipment. Hoped no Company wet workers lurked. I carried the uncomfortable awareness a long-range night scope could have me in its crosshairs the entire time. Fifteen minutes later I retraced my steps across the park’s cut grass. Helluva way to live.

  Chapter 30

  After the Townsend meeting, I spent the night in Chesapeake then caught a different Uber using a different account the next morning. Three hours to New Bern and the Ace of Spades. I couldn’t quell the Jules assertion that Townsend would flip Stinnett. Use him as a tool against China’s MSS. Which left me exposed. And aware Townsend would never communicate on the subject. Ever.

  It was three days travel toward Charleston, and I took my time. There was no word from Jules regarding Stinnett’s location. Expected. It required a deep, deep dive on her network.

  Salt marshes, rivers, hemmed-in canals—components of the Ditch. The days were warm and fine, the nights pleasant. At a small North Carolina Ditch town I tied the Ace at dusk and dipped into the lone establishment’s offerings. Ordered a burger and fries while I nursed a cold beer. Contacted Bo, curious and with mild worry.

  “How’s island life?” I asked.

  “A toehold. Solid so far.”

  “And JJ?”

  “A major contributor of the solid aspect. Where be ye?”

  “A recuperative spa on the banks of the Ditch.”

  “A reasoned choice. So tell me a tale, goober.”

  “Not much to tell. The Ace of Spades lifestyle, headed south.”

  A fair statement. The Ace. Lazy days, quiet nights. Home.

  “A fine path. And any hints on future directions?”

  He enquired about Stinnett and actions, if any, I planned to take. Good question. The Caribbean job lacked finality. A muddied end, nothing definitive. The lack of closure gnawed.

  “None. I’m letting the dust settle.”

  “Due to torn sentiments?”

  “In a way. I’m letting the universe drive.”

  We both laughed. “My Georgia peach learns. It has been years in the making, but solid improvement. I’m proud of you, laddie.”

  He sounded so much better. Back on his feet. Laughter rose from across the small barroom as old friends enjoyed a tale. The barkeep wandered over and lifted a chin, questioning whether another beer was in order. I nodded an affirmative.

  “Tell me a little about your path. You hanging in St. Thomas?”

  “I’m not allowed to flee. There’s an FBI agent demanding answers.”

  JJ’s voice, the words indiscernible, sounded across the line. As did the soft laughter of two brand new lovers. The sound tugged at old memories.

  “Well, tell her hi for me.”

  “You tell her. It’s inexplicable, but she wishes direct communication with your plodding self.”

  JJ came on the line. “Case? Tell me how you’re doing.”

  “All good. At a spa.”

  “And I’m brushing up for my quantum physics dissertation.” We both laughed. “Bo told me about your long wet stretch of home.”

  A slight alarm rang. I wasn’t fond of anyone outside my family and blood brothers aware of my living location—albeit one several hundred miles long. But if Bo shared this facet, what else was revealed?

  “Did Bo also mention it’s not something I want spread around?”

  She paused. I’d intended keeping my voice light, conversational. Her pause indicated my tenor contained a bite.

  “I understand. If it helps, this redhead ragamuffin is plenty reticent regarding you. Or regarding himself for that matter.”

  “Men of mystery, JJ.” An attempt at levity to bring the conversation back toward an even keel. “We don’t reveal our secrets.”

  “And you’re both doing an excellent job at it. Secrets aside, there is one thing I neglected telling you.”

  Again, whiffs of alarms. I was speaking with an FBI agent. The Company and its elements were one thing. Foreign affairs. But the feds impacted home turf. Turf holding more than a few past items that didn’t belong exposed.

  “Okay.”

  She hesitated again, perhaps perceiving my shields raised.

  “It’s not a big deal. Well, it is a big deal but not something to get your hackles up about.”

  “Okay.”

  “I never said thank you. And I should have. Multiple times. I don’t have any excuses for it, but maybe you’ll cut me a little slack. I was overwhelmed.”

  “An overwhelming experience, for sure.”

  “Amen to that. But thank you, Case. You’re a special breed. I suppose all your type are. Including this peculiar man alongside me.”

  “Peculiar may not be the most apt description,” I said. A conversational avenue led away from me, and I took it. “Unique, maybe. Different, for sure. And I should have left you the Bo-speak translation guide. You’ll need it.”

  We both laughed, a fine and good sound, relieving.

  “Send me a copy when you get a chance. It will cut down on the eye-rolling.”

  Delivered with a chuckle. And a muffled Bo response which prompted more laughter from their end. It resurrected more painful memories of my wife, Rae. Gotta learn to get over it, Case.

  “I’ll send it your way via sea cargo. It’s a massive book, unabridged.”

  “I believe you. And speaking of Mr. Cosmic Thoughts, he wants a final word. You take care, Case. I mean it.”

  “You too, JJ.”

  “A reminder,” Bo said. “One both short and sweet. If the
path leads offshore, you will not fly solo. Thought I’d reiterate a given, mon capitaine.”

  “Thanks.” I meant it, but this short stretch of conversation required a nail-down. “And this remains between you and me. Locked down tight.”

  If Bo and JJ remained together, her vocation constituted a relational element I’d have to get over. But in the meantime, concerns remained.

  “As tight as blood, my brother. Kiss your mom and CC for me.”

  We signed off. The jukebox sang of Tennessee whiskey, a couple danced in a corner, and I felt a lot older than my years. It wasn’t an altogether bad feeling. Perhaps poignancy-driven, introduced through Bo’s words. A yearning, undefined. But the moment, this place and time, rounded the track at a good pace, and I held no major complaints. Life was good, and the nagging pulls of incompletion and loss faded with each beer.

  Underway the next day on the Santee River, I skirted Bulls Bay and closed on Charleston. A thunder-buster blew in from the Atlantic and passed over Dewees Island and the Ace. Bursts of wind, thunderclaps, a deluge of pounding rain. The foredeck tarp snapped up and down, spilling rainwater. The La-Z-Boy throne received gusts of wet wind. The tomato plants leaned, recovered, leaned. The wheelhouse offered protection until I nudged against a marsh bank and killed the engine. Stripped of clothing, I stood at the back deck and received the full brunt of the storm. It was glorious. Rolling booms overhead, lightening cracked, gale force winds whipped rain. It did a person good standing naked among nature's violent elements. A strange emotional mixture—fear, awe, joy. And it helped place my world in context.

  Twenty minutes later it passed. Moved on. I drip-dried, face lifted, a smile of gratitude. Life rolled on and it was best to accept the road contained bumps and potholes. So be it. I'd deal with it.

  A couple of hours from Charleston the sun broke through and a cheese, onion, and tomato sandwich waited. With the sun, the steam bath started, and Marcus called.

  "What's the status?"

  It was hard changing old habits. Our former team leader demanded an update. I'd called him with an issue, a recommended course of action delivered, and now a follow-up. I couldn’t keep a large smile away.

  “What happened to deep concerns over my wellness?” I asked.

  “My apologies. How are you? Caught any new skin fungus from your rotting tub?”

  “That’s much better. I'm fine, thank you. And you?”

  “Waiting for a moron to give me answers. Thanks for asking.”

  “Will you remember them when I do? What with your encroaching decrepit state.”

  “You make me want to crawl through this phone.”

  “Have at it, Obi Won.”

  “Shut up and tell me.”

  I did. Marilyn Townsend’s name wasn't mentioned, but the pronoun “she” sufficed. I also added her commitment for action.

  “Good. Good,” he said. “Now the big question. Are you going to let her handle it?”

  “I’m vacillating.”

  “Understood. And I get it. Which leaves two options.”

  Here came the Marcus Johnson declarative express. Man I missed the guy, and the plastered smile remained.

  “Do tell.”

  “Don't be a smartass. Option one. Wait it out. Action on their part will take time.”

  “Okay.”

  “And stop with the okays. It irritates the fire out of me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Were you this big of an ass pain in Delta? I don't recall it.”

  “Old age, memory loss, the list grows.”

  He ignored my comment and plowed ahead. “Two. If you decide to take action, I’m coming.”

  “I appreciate it, Marcus. Sincerely. But Bo has already insisted the same thing. So you’d have to work with him again.”

  “A challenge, no doubt. But not insurmountable. How is our space cadet?”

  “He remained on St. Thomas. With a new girlfriend.”

  “Nothing new there.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. There’s plenty new there.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like she’s an FBI agent.”

  A short silence before he replied. “Great. Now we have to dodge flying pigs.”

  “They seem to click.”

  “I can’t even wrap my head around it. So back to item number two. Call me and I’ll head your way within hours. With or without our cosmic cowboy engaged.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t appreciate it. Do it.”

  Rare was the day when I didn’t contemplate how blessed I was with friends like this. Prepared to enter the gnarliest of situations—situations of my creation—and cover my back. I didn’t deserve such brothers.

  “Will do. Has it stopped snowing there yet?”

  “It’s summer. Are you on drugs?”

  “A Montana summer doesn’t preclude snow. Remember the pack trip into the Absarokas? Fourth of July? I’m pretty sure the white stuff we woke to was snow.”

  “The ranch isn’t at ten thousand feet.”

  “Sometime next month. Promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  We signed off. The Ace chugged past Fort Sumter and entered the Ashley River which ran alongside the Charleston peninsula. I would let Mom know my ETA, and insisted on taking her, CC, and her beau, Peter Brooks, out for supper. She would have none of it. We’d eat at home—restaurant fare lacked the appropriate recuperative powers. She revealed the menu and solidified her unyielding position.

  Crab cakes from fresh-caught blue crabs. Collards cooked with fatback, the translucent shimmer of the pot liquor perfect for dipped cornbread. And red velvet cake. Just because. Whatever might ail her only son—wanderlust or internal turmoil or relationship challenges—a home-cooked meal set a firm foundation for repair. Fine by me.

  I tied the Ace at one of three facilities I rotated through at random for each visit, avoiding patterns. The reunion was joyous as always. Mom hugged and kissed me, mussed my hair, shed a tear. Peter shook hands, his left draped over the handshake. CC, my mentally challenged younger sister, latched onto me, arm wrapped tight around my midsection. About as fine a feeling as you could want. Her dog, Tinker Juarez—a mutt of indeterminate lineage and CC’s constant companion—jumped, barked, and rubbed against my legs.

  Sanctuary. Beyond a concept and brought to full fruition in an old Charleston neighborhood. Where woes and troubles were sloughed off and love blanketed. A moment of respite, acknowledged and appreciated. An all-too-brief slice of time where the simple act of being held golden and joyous. A small slice of heaven.

  Chapter 31

  “Let me help.”

  We stood in the kitchen, the aromas rich, as Mom held court. Tinker Juarez parked at the sill of the room, entrance forbidden except for a pass-through to exit the back door. We’d eat on the screened-in back porch as an overhead fan moved humid air.

  “You can help by going out back with CC. And take Tinker,” she said. “He eyeballs me with too much intent when I cook.”

  “I’m happy to lend a hand cooking.”

  “Go.”

  “Peter’s helping.”

  Peter smiled and stood sentinel, prepared to perform whatever small task Mom asked.

  “He has a pass. Because he understands his role in this kitchen. You don’t.”

  “I’ll behave.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll do what I ask for a short while then give me palpitations fishing through my spice racks and asking questions. Speaking of which, tell me about Bo and this young lady. And why in the world are they on some foreign island?”

  I hadn’t mentioned St. Thomas as their location. The terrorist attack remained fresh in the world news cycle. A generic designation—a Caribbean island—was used instead. Even so, Peter caught my eye and raised his eyebrows. I returned a deadpan expression.

  “It’s a civilized island,” I said.

  “Barely at best, I’m sure. Is she as far out in the pasture as he
is?”

  “She has a government job.” JJ’s vocation would get probed at some point so I cast a benign cover early.

  “I didn’t ask about her job.”

  “At first I thought they were an opposites attract thing. But there appears to be a side of her that leans toward an expansive worldview.”

  “You mean weird.”

  “I mean in sync with Bo.”

  “Exactly. But I’ve included him in my prayers, and if the good Lord sees fit to move their relationship forward, I’m for it. I do love that strange man, as trying as he might be. Now get. Take the dog.”

  I grabbed a beer from the fridge and settled with CC and Tinker on the far side of the back porch where a large cushioned porch swing hung. CC and I added a slow pendulum movement to the swing while Tinker lay nearby, head toward the kitchen, nose working.

  “Maybe tonight,” CC said. “Maybe we’ll see.”

  “See what?”

  Her hand hold tightened and eyes widened. Her voice lowered, laced with awe. “Lightning bugs.”

  “Have you seen any?”

  “Soft, Case. If we say it too loud they may hide.”

  I adopted a whisper. “I understand. So did you see any?”

  “Sometimes. Not every night.”

  “Maybe tonight?”

  “Maybe tonight.” The lightning bug discussion over, her voice rose to a conversational level. “Tinker Juarez is mad.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He’s mad at another dog.”

  “Which dog.”

  “Mrs. Ellensworth. Her dog. Abe.”

  “Do Tinker and Abe fight?”

  “They do through the fence. When Tinker Juarez and I walk past.”

  “Maybe Tinker is protecting you.”

  “I don’t know. But they fight.” She lowered her voice again. “I hope they come.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Me too, my love.”

  Mom and Peter set plates, CC and I were instructed to sit at the table, and the four of us held hands while Mom delivered a prayer. Then I commenced overeating. The sun lowered, shadows lengthened. A breath of ocean breeze worked through the neighborhood and pushed a bit of the sticky air aside. The hanging moss along the limbs of the backyard’s old oak shifted with the air movement—nature’s wind vane.