Neither girl had boarded yet and both were carrying big duffle bags. The goth girl still wore black, but the clothes were new and snazzy. I didn't like them, but they were probably the latest fashion if you were into apocalyptic music and general doom and gloom. I'd heard of goth girls sleeping in coffins, not waiting until they were dead and forced to. It probably wasn't so cool then.
"You have a piece of paper?"
"Are you kidding?" She laughed. She handed me one, and the pen she kept handy. I wrote down what to say. "Okay, lock up."
We got out and walked to the long, massive port. I picked a phone booth far away from the long lines that had formed. People were eager to board the Love Boat and chart a course for adventure and romance. I handed Caroline the paper. "I'm going to dial a number. The cop named Sanchez who was outside the hostel. Just say exactly what's on the paper. Don't answer any questions or let Sanchez talk."
"Okay, I'll do my best," she said, staring at the paper. I dialed the number and when I heard Sanchez answer, I handed the phone to Caroline.
"Hey, something really weird's going on at the loading dock for Fascination! A couple of weird looking girls, one a crew member and the other like those, what do you call them? Goth? All in black. In their twenties. They've got two big duffle bags and one dropped hers. It fell open a little. I swear I saw guns! The whole thing is full of guns! They got all nervous and closed it in a hurry! I'm not getting back on that boat until the cops check it out! I'm scared!"
Caroline hung up. She'd sounded scared, probably because she had been a plenty nervous. She didn't want to mess up. Sanchez tried to interrupt her a few times but she hadn't let him. She was terrific.
"You were awesome. You sure you weren't some super-spy or secret agent and just forgot about it?"
"Oh, stop!" But she was laughing and blushing and I knew she felt useful, and maybe a little thrilled at being involved in an adventure. Who says crime fighters can't have fun?
"Now let's go watch." We headed back to the Jag. I remembered seeing a small pair of binoculars in the glove box with the Smith and Wesson and took the binoculars out. I would have to remember to ask Flo why she kept both items in the glove box of the Jag the next time I saw her.
I watched as the slim lesbian put her cell to her ear. She looked around, then hung up. She whispered in the chubby goth girl's ear and they both got out of line and walked away, gesturing as though they'd forgotten something. They walked all the way down the massive pier to the parking area. They stopped at a Ford Escort and placed the bags in the trunk. They shut it and walked back toward the ship.
Sanchez had tipped them off. There would be cops all over the place soon. A big show. Cops, dogs, the whole nine yards. Shock and Awe signifying nothing. I wasn't sure why I cared but I did, and I needed to work fast. Sanchez would secure whatever they were smuggling while the other cops were busy checking out the false alarm. Probably one of the binging college kids playing a practical joke, like yelling "Fire" in a crowded theater.
Caroline drove into the parking lot, big-eyed and excited. We stopped behind the Escort. I waited until a couple walked by and were well-clear of the vehicle and then got out. The trunk was easy to pop with a handy dandy little tool I kept in my pocket for such occasions. I quickly threw the bags into the back seat of the Jag and shut the Escort's trunk. "Go."
While Caroline drove I leaned across and opened one of the bags. I moved aside a few clothes and found the last thing I'd been expecting to find.
"Holy cow!" yelled Caroline.
"Watch the road!"
"Sorry. I've never seen that much moola before."
"Me either." And I hadn't. The second bag was full of money, too. They were big duffles. It had to add up to a couple of million, easy. I couldn't give it to the cops and I couldn't chance keeping it aboard Stella. I had a good hiding place and it was doubtful they'd risk a search for something they weren't supposed to know existed, but it wasn't a chance I could take with Harry's life. I could only think of one way.
"We need to go back."
"Are you crazy!"
"No, not back there, I mean back to San Miguel. So we can get rid of this money in a way no one can do anything about."
She nodded, then turned to me and smiled. She took her right hand off the wheel after making the U-turn and held it up high, placing her thumb and forefinger close together. Smiling, she asked, "Can we keep just a itty-bitty bit? I haven't had a new pair of jeans in sooo long."
"You girls," I said, grinning, "it's always about you, isn't it?”
Twelve
My plan made on the fly was to drop off the duffle bags at a church I'd driven past in San Miguel. It stood tall and regal, washed in ivory with a bright white cross at the apex imbedded into the stucco. A tall archway ran from the ground to a spot perhaps two feet below the cross, drawing attention to it. Between the recessed entryway and the top of the arch a stained-glass depiction of Christ tending sheep in the fields reminded those entering that they were loved by someone.
I wondered not for the first time what it was about Spanish churches that gave them a reverence often lacking in others. Was it because those who attended them were usually poor, and more reliant on faith to see them through? Was it the symbols which gave parishioners a reminder of faith rewarded?
In a city as glamorized and jaded as Miami I could always identify a Spanish church without looking at the architecture. The crowds entering and leaving them would invariably appear happy, talking amongst their friends, laughing. A stark contrast to the sour expressions on the faces of those milling outside other churches as people waited to enter. The cars parked around Spanish churches in Miami would sport the logos of Ford, Chevrolet, and Buick, rather than Ferrari and Lamborghini. Perhaps poverty and modesty lent itself to faith -- thought the man pulling up to the side of a church in a Jaguar full of stolen money.
Locals and vacationers milled about the streets of San Miguel but few were heading for church in the late afternoon on a weekday. We sat tight, watching and waiting for an opportunity to present itself. It took almost twenty minutes and I was getting restless, considering abandoning my plan. Then an old Buick Regal pulled up in front of the church. A lovely Mexican woman in her mid-to-late thirties, all soft black hair and dark eyes, smooth cinnamon skin and dangling jade earrings, tight jeans accentuating a heart-shaped ass worth more than a cursory glance, large, beautiful breasts and low-cut, peach color blouse to tastefully draw attention to them, got out and walked around to the rear of the car.
The Regal's trunk was stacked with gift baskets and she began taking them inside two at a time. I knew the first trip would take the longest because the woman would need to inform the priest she had arrived. After some quick chit-chat, he would either come out to help her carry them into the church or send someone else.
"Start the car and be ready," I said. I hopped out and grabbed both bags as Caroline idled the Jag, and walked quickly over to the trunk, setting the bags down gently on top of the gift baskets. I ran back to the car and we were on the move before I even had the door shut. We drove around and made a pass in front of the church. The woman emerged from the vestibule with the priest on her heels. Caroline looked at me and smiled.
"That felt better than a new pair of jeans. I wonder what they'll do with all that money?"
"Who knows? It has to be better than whatever the money was intended for."
"What do you think it was for, Seth? Drugs?"
"Probably. Could be weapons, but it'd have to be some heavy-duty armory to warrant that kind of price. Surface-to-air, that kind of stuff, and a lot of them."
"I'm almost sorry." She turned to me for a moment, her expression suddenly burdened. "Cozumel has been my home for so long now, Seth. Ever since…"
She took a deep breath and audibly exhaled. "Momma's gone. Nancy was murdered. All that money and whatever else is going on. Cozumel doesn't seem so innocent any longer."
"Welcome to my world, beautiful."
She took her eyes off the road to smile at me because I'd called her Beautiful this time. Her face was bright, revealing that wonderful openness to all life had to offer. I wanted to do more than just hold her now, I wanted to crawl up inside her and let her know how truly wonderful she was, and very soon.
"We have one more stop to make," I said, holding up a banded stack of bills I'd removed from one of the bags. She looked at me and knew before I told her where we were going. She whispered, "Margarita." Caroline hadn't known Margarita was momma's sister, or at least hadn't remembered. She'd looked through her notes while we'd watched the children playing soccer in the park, but couldn't find any reference to it. Maybe Rosita hadn't told her.
The cafe had its CLOSED sign facing out. Margarita was probably over at the hostel by now, or at the morgue. I let Caroline take the stack and push it through the mail slot with a note that read: For a thousand lunches.
We stopped at the bank to cash the check Mr. Fernandez had written to me as cover and then stopped to fill up. The generator would be low on fuel and so would fresh water. While Caroline filled up both the Jag and a big gas can with fuel I walked across the street to purchase the largest plastic containers of water I could find. I bought six and wiped out the shelf. I walked them across the street in three trips.
By the time we made it back to Stella, just over an hour remained before we flew the friendly skies. Harry was out on deck but I didn't see the Vespa. "I was afraid you got rich and forgot about your old pal, Harry," he joked. "Looks like it's a pretty girl you found instead. Better 'n money any day."
"Harry, this is Caroline. She was a friend to Nancy."
Harry stuck out his grizzled, liver-spotted hand. "Any friend 'o Nancy's a friend of mine. Gonna miss that girl somethin' fierce. Already do." He blinked twice, quickly.
"Nice to meet you, Harry. Nancy told me all about you. I have it written down."
"I'll explain later," I told him, answering his puzzled look. "Caroline and I are going to Miami but I'll be back soon. Help me walk the water down and I'll explain things."
Caroline carried the big fuel can and in two trips Harry and I had the water on board. This was the trade-off for not mooring at a proper marina, with all the facilities.
I told Harry everything that had happened, except for the money. I'd tell him about that after it was all over. What Harry didn't know couldn't get him in any trouble should Sanchez and Carillo came nosing around.
I asked Harry about Delana. She had come and gone again. She'd bought him a big Hawaiian shirt and a bottle of Ron Bacardi Anejo. She'd left again to get him a special surprise, she'd told him.
I had to wonder if despite her outward easy acceptance of Caroline, her pride hadn't been just a bit wounded. It was really my fault, but you can't help who you love, or how quickly it can sometimes happen. I'd been on Delana's end more times than I cared to remember, left wondering how in the world that had happened. Ron Bacardi made an elixir to cure such second-guessing. At least for a few hours.
I told Harry we had to boogie or miss our flight. Harry was no fool. He'd seen the way Caroline and I interacted, and even though he didn't know her well yet, he knew me. "You're always welcome here with us, Caroline. I could use some help lookin' after Seth. Gettin' too old to keep him honest all by myself."
She laughed that bright, spectacular laugh free of pretense, and kissed his cheek. Although I was standing right behind them, she whispered conspiratorially, "We won't tell him. He thinks he's looking after us."
Harry slapped his leg and hooted. "You got a good one here, Seth. She knows the score."
"That's what I'm afraid of." I jumped down to the dock, or what remained of it after the explosion. "Take care, Harry. And watch your back. I don't know just what's going on yet."
"I'll keep the six-shooter close by. Besides, Delana 'll be back soon."
"I know. Just keep an eye out. That goes for her, too. Tell her."
It didn't take us long to reach the airport. Cozumel International Airport is small compared to most airports handling the big ones. It is located just north-west of San Gervasio, right on the coastline, maybe two miles from central Cozumel. We paid the fee for storing the Jag safely and twenty minutes later the sea was below us as the late afternoon sun dipped lower toward the horizon. Caroline looked big-eyed out the window.
"Did you fly out here before?" I asked her.
"I don't remember. So maybe I haven't ever flown. It seems really exciting, and a little scary."
I smiled. "Wait'll you taste the food."
Thirteen
Dinner Key Marina is located in Coconut Grove, just south of downtown Miami. It is the largest wet-slip marina in the sunshine state and in days of yore had been the base for Pan Am's Clipper Fleet. The old Pan Am terminal still stands, in fact, and has been converted into Miami's City Hall. It is one of the few historical landmarks remaining as developers have destroyed almost every vestige of Magic City's past. One day even the Glades would be no more. When politicians continually campaign on saving something, that's when you can be absolutely certain of its demise.
Sonny's slip, number 147 of the available 582, had been home to Candida for nearly a year. She was moored on the end farthest from land, closest to the outlet to sea; a coveted spot. Sonny had stashed away enough ill-gotten gains to do it, and now that he had his charter business going great guns, he had become a fixture around Dinner Key. Once he had gone legit, he'd gone legit all the way. Well, almost.
Dinner Key is located a mere six miles from the airport but because I wasn't certain if I'd need wheels or not, we cabbed it to where I always stored my car. She was a beauty. Her former owner had been a mid-level drug dealer. He met his bloody end sitting in the front seat while waiting on the light to turn green. Unfortunately for the Barracuda, the gunfire had come from both directions, and riddled the beautiful body of the '71 Plymouth convertible until there were more bullet holes than metal.
Despite being a scarce classic, restoring the 'Cuda's body promised to be a daunting and expensive task which discouraged all but the most serious collectors. I got some help when the cop placing the announcement for the auction got his dates crossed and advertised it for the day after it was held. By pure coincidence he had owed me a favor.
The guy who did the body work for me owed Sonny a favor, and having Sonny call in the marker only cost me the loan of the 'Cuda when Sonny wanted to impress some girl on dry land. The rest of the time, the rare Plymouth Barracuda was my toy to play with. A 726 Hemi engine that had 425 horses capable of 0-60 in five-seconds made her very fun indeed. I'd been told only fourteen or fifteen of them existed. One of the great muscle cars, designed before people became frantic over fictional global warming and society had become so ecology conscious they refused to cordon off a square mile or two within millions of acres and drill, baby drill. The fact that there was gold in them thar hills, black gold, Texas tea, didn't matter.
You rarely saw the celebs protesting anything of substance. The Glades weren't a sexy enough cause, but give the latest blonde-haired twenty-something who'd just hit it big on TV six or seven horn-tailed, red-spotted, sticky-beaked, pigeon-toed, multi-striped tree-owls who might occasionally fly over the two-mile zone pumping millions of barrels of oil out of the ground, and suddenly she began to feel a stronger connection to the land than the Ancient Ones, the Anasazi.
Two months later of course, the only red-spotted, sticky-beaked creature in sight would be the little blonde's flush face when she made it on TMZ for failing a breathalyzer test and cursing the cop arresting her, shouting the typical Hollywood star mantra: "Don't you know who I am?"
Yes, baby, we know. We just don't care, because you're an ill-informed, self-important, spectacular-assed, sweet-chested but empty-headed foulmouth nitwit who drinks and drives.
Cops would confiscate an unregistered weapon from her car as well, even though she'd recently been seen in a public service announcement advocating stricter gun laws. The ad itself
was less than persuasive, considering she'd just starred in an ultra-violent film raking in millions at the box office. Unfortunately, baby, your kind will never become extinct, no need to worry.
I paid the cabbie and punched in the code which made the roll-up door of the storage unit open. Even with the car cover draped over it, you could sense a certain style about the Barracuda's lines.
"What is it?" Caroline asked.
"Another sweet ride." I pulled off the protective cover. The Plymouth was no worse for the wear, still clean and waxed. I'd painted her sea-blue, the sexy hood-scoop a flat black. The antique-white interior was retro.
Caroline's face turned bright even under the fluorescent lighting. "It's gorgeous."
I smiled, thinking not for the first time that it was one of the differences between men and women. Things of beauty -- cars, boats, etc -- were always she to men. Females didn't have a gender for pretty toys. It's a beautiful boat. It's a gorgeous car. Never, ever, He's gorgeous.
Caroline's expression when I handed her the keys was priceless. She was gorgeous. The kind of girl who didn't need a new pair of jeans to impress; her soul made her beautiful. "Let her idle a bit before you drive her out, she's been sitting a while. I'll shut off the light and roll down the door after you're clear." She got in and that sexy growl only ever heard in American muscle cars echoed off the walls.
Caroline looked small sitting behind the wheel, a vulnerable angel too sweet for this world, like Nancy. But somewhere hidden in her sweet heart and adorable frame there existed resilient steel. Curled up in a ball, shivering in agony at the discovery that the world was a place of malevolence as well as wonder, her present and future hopes had been shattered almost beyond repair. Yet somehow, she had walked and crawled to Rosita's doorstep, desiring to live. Steel had warped beneath the strain, damaging memories and pieces, and with them the future she had planned, but Caroline had survived. That was strength, the real kind. I wonder how many of those self-professed "strong" women, which all too often simply became a translation for "bitch" because of its misuse by pushy, in-your-face prima donnas with attitudes, would have survived such a blow. Not many. Maybe not any.
The Turquoise Shroud: A Seth Halliday Novel Page 9