“Pretty much. Doing it for money.”
“And now you want our help?”
“They find me, they’ll kill me. Way I see it, we could help each other.” Eddie looking at Beck, saying, “Figured you being a cop, me knowing what I know.”
“Ex-cop,” Hattie said.
“How would that go,” Beck asked him, “helping each other?”
“Say I point you to the sub and the lodge.”
“Yeah, and you get what?”
“I get even. Take you right to them, the lodge just out past Hope.”
Beck thought a moment, asking, “How much you steal?”
Eddie hesitated.
“Their dope, how much?”
“Enough for a new start.”
“Enough to get you killed,” Hattie said.
“Make a hell of a bust, no?” Eddie asked Beck.
“And how do you see this playing?” Jimmy asked.
“All I know for sure, it’s got to be real soon. I can point you to the sub, to the lodge, too.”
“And you walk away?”
“I keep what’s mine. All I do is point.”
Jimmy looked at Beck.
. . . DRAGLINE
From behind the maple, Billy Wall didn’t get a good look, but he was pretty sure it was Eddie Soto, the kid getting yelled at and bounced around. Billy tucked into the shadows, thinking he had them all in one spot: Beckman, the naked chick and Eddie Soto. Looked like Beckman’s buddy from this morning and a couple of others. Could step across and shoot them all right in the parking lot. Thought about it, deciding to wait till the others were gone, catch Beckman alone or with the woman on the other boat, Billy checking the time on his cell.
Digger from the East Van chapter and a new patch were waiting to unload the Chinese guns from the container waiting to pass inspection. They’d load the crates in a van and get them aboard Digger’s Boston Whaler. The three of them would make the run up to the bay off Gambier, doing it in the dark, trade the guns for the rest of the coke and get it out to Hope. Billy wanting to give Smiling Jack something to smile about.
Be a bonus if Billy could catch Eddie Soto alone, make him spill where he hid the bale before he killed him.
. . . EDDIE ON ICE
“They got some woman they’re smuggling out on the sub,” Eddie said. “Taking her back to Mexico.”
“Hooker?” Jimmy asked.
“Uh-uhn. Some terrorist chick off the most-wanted list.”
Ashika Shakira. Beck felt like the kid just slapped him. Could be a set-up, sending Eddie to lure Beck into an ambush, these guys wanting to finish the job. Beck playing it from all angles.
“Could just go take a look,” Jimmy said to him.
“How much you take?” Beck asked Eddie.
“About fifty pounds.”
Jimmy whistled.
“Understand, I’m doing this for my uncle,” Eddie looked from one to the other. “Guy who raised me, knew me my whole life.”
“Stole more than you could carry, and you hid it, likely close to the lodge,” Beck said. “Knew I was a cop, figured I’d go storming in —”
“Ex-cop,” Hattie said again.
“I go kicking at their door, you go grab your shit. I risk a bullet, and you get rich.”
“Not the taking-a-bullet part, but yeah, something like that. I point to the spot, you get the glory.”
Could call Danny Green, toss him a bone. Danny calls in the emergency response boys, bags a cartel sub and takes down a hunt camp full of scumbags. Danny moves up the ladder, Beck gains some points back with the department.
“Glory’s not going to replace his boat,” Jimmy said.
“Look, the shit in the bunker, it’s yours. Turn it in, keep it. I don’t care.”
Beck looked at Jimmy, the wheels were turning, both girls looking pissed, hands on their hips.
“Map’s in here.” Eddie tapped his temple, knew he had them. “The rest is up to you.”
Vicki caught hold of Jimmy’s sleeve, saying, “You off your nut?”
Jimmy put his hands on her shoulders, saying, “We’re just talking here, babe.”
“Want to talk, talk to the cops,” Hattie said to Beck, looking at Eddie’s hand, telling the kid if he had any brains he’d be on his way to the emergency ward.
“Looks worse than it is, really,” Eddie said, waiting on Beck.
“Assholes do owe me a boat,” Beck said.
Jimmy nodding.
“What are you gonna do, sell their dope on eBay?” Hattie dashed the rest of the tea at his feet. Turning, she walked back to her boat.
“They love ex-cops in prison, right?” Vicki said.
Beck looked at Jimmy, said, “Let me sleep on it.” Turning, he followed Hattie, Griff right behind him.
Eddie saying, “Hey, what about me?”
“You’re with me,” Jimmy said, thinking he’d find him a bunk on the anti-whaler.
“Don’t let him sign you up,” Beck said.
Jimmy grinned, asked Eddie what he thought of the name, giving him some options, flipping the keys to the hybrid, Vicki following, Jimmy explaining about the cause, then started talking about sailing to the Southern Ocean, nobody seeing the man in the shadows past the far end of the lot.
. . . DIM, DIM THE LIGHTS
Hauled from the water, what remained looked like she had bled out, water draining from the hull, Triggerfish up on a trailer, set to one side of the boat ramp. Made Beck feel sick looking at her in the early light. The cabin gutted by flames, the hull charred and blistered, the top gone, the fiberglass pulpit looking limp, the railings blackened and the smell flipping his stomach.
Bought her through a broker, a guy named Paddy Simms, only a hundred and fifty hours on the rebuilt Yamahas. Taking care of the inspection, Simms had her titled, arranged the delivery, had a hand in working the financing. All Beck had to do was get her insured.
Checking the time, thinking Jimmy would be there soon, Beck reconsidered, not sure this was the best way to play it, Hattie giving him royal shit last night, taking his cell from him, looking up the number, making the call for him, telling Danny Green Beck had something to tell him, asked him to come down to her boat, Danny saying he’d be there first thing. Promising to sleep on it, Beck stretched out on her deck, lying awake most of the night, hearing Griff snore down below. Beck sneaking off early.
Now he watched the guy in the Moores suit pull up the knees of his pants, kneeling and placing a filter mask over his nose and mouth, tapping his knuckles against the hull like he was checking for ripeness, duckwalking and twisting his head and looking underneath, a clipboard in his hand, eyes magnified by the lenses of the tortoiseshell frames.
“Who the fuck are you?” Beck said, stopping on the ramp, startling the guy. Seven o’clock in the morning.
Bumping his head on the underside, the guy rose and slipped off his mask, tucked the clipboard under an elbow, swiped at his pants and stuck out his hand. “Malcolm Ross Reid. SeaSmart Refitters. Senior appraiser. Like to get an early start, a jump on the competition.” Tugging a card from behind the pens in his shirt pocket, he handed it over, saying, “And you’d be” — read off the form on the clipboard — “Rene Beckman?”
“It’s just Beck. Yeah, just meeting somebody down here, thought I’d . . .”
“Say goodbye?”
“Something like that.”
Taking a retractable four-color ballpoint from the assortment of pens and pencils sticking up from the pen sleeve in his shirt pocket, going for the red ink, Reid marked an X on his form. “Truly a shame about your boat, Mr. Beck.” Saying, while he had him down here, he could use a signature on the form, to speed thing up with the insurance, handing Beck the pen, clicking it to black ink, adding, “Grady-White makes a fine boat.”
“Gue
ss you’re going to tell me you can turn her back into one.” Beck took the fat pen, clicking it.
Reid looked at him, doubtful, saying, “Anything’s possible, Mr. Beck.”
Beck looked out to the water, wondering what was taking Jimmy.
Reid pointed to where Beck had to sign, saying, “Form just means you’re aware an assessment’s being performed,” Reid asking who the insurer was, clicking his teeth when Beck told him he might have let that lapse. Then Reid was asking about a home address, Beck telling him Triggerfish was it, signing the form.
“Could send the paperwork care of the marina,” Reid said, taking it from him, telling Beck he’d be attaching the fire marshal’s report to his assessment. Said someone would be in touch in about a week, pointing at the security camera on the dock post. “Shame it wasn’t on.”
“Way my luck’s been running . . .” Beck said, turning. A man stood at the top of the ramp. The guy with the boots.
Billy Wall didn’t see Reid at first. He walked to the top of the ramp, grinned, motioning with his thumb for Reid to take off, Reid forgetting Beck had his pen, saying he had what he needed, hurrying up the ramp past the big man, saying his work was done here.
“Hard man to catch alone,” Billy said. With Griff onboard First Light last night, Billy’d had to wait.
Not at the best vantage, Beck stood lower on the ramp, he dropped the pen and made his move. Ducking under the straight right, Billy sent a hammer into Beck’s ribs, pushing Beck back. Folding, Beck threw a shovel hook, not much on it, catching some chin, Billy skipping back a step, shaking it off.
“You the fuck playing with matches?” Beck said, timing the rush.
Billy grinned, his own straight right stopping Beck, Beck sidestepping the follow-up, throwing an uppercut, Billy feinting to the side, landing a hook, blocking and throwing a counter, Beck’s nose erupting, blood across his face. Not only big, the guy knew how to box. His moves light despite the boots. Smiling at Beck, saying, “Gonna see your girlfriend right after.”
Everything blurred. Sure wasn’t going to get it done with his fists, Beck ducked a looping right, scraping his shoe down Billy’s shin, catching mostly boot leather. Jimmy and Danny both supposed to meet him down here.
Billy was coming in, leading with a right, his tat flashing Pain is temporary. Beck taking the blow, staggering back, a couple more and he’d be done. Another left tagged him and stars shot like fireworks. He stumbled right, the ground coming up. Beck trying to keep his hands up.
Didn’t see the boot coming, feeling the spearing in his ribs. He rolled on the ramp, avoiding a stomping. Then his hand found the pen, and he was up, wobbling, took another punch and fell the other way. He started to push up, Billy clutching for Beck’s throat from behind, Beck driving the multi-barrel pen in his fist, stabbing it into Billy’s thigh. The big man howled, letting go, clutching the leg, blood gushing out. Beck was punching, giving it everything, trying to put the man down, but Billy was limping off. Beck collapsing, rolling on his back, sucking in air.
Next thing he knew, Jimmy crouched next to him, looking him over, asking if he was alright.
“I look alright to you?” Beck sat up on the boat ramp, spitting blood, assessing the pain, looking around for Billy. “Fucker knows how to throw a punch.”
“Guy with the boots?”
Beck nodded. Touching his ribs, hoping nothing was broken, he let Jimmy help him to his feet, seeing Reid at the top of the ramp, saying to him, “Forgot your pen.”
“Got a box at the office,” Reid saying he called the cops.
Then Danny Green was walking past Reid down the ramp, hands out wide, like what the fuck.
Danny saying he went over to First Light, like they agreed. “When a call comes in, a disturbance at the marina office. Just had to be you, right?” Looking at Beck all beat up, blood on his face and his hands, then looking at the mess of a boat. “Still got a knack for making friends, huh?”
“Yeah, a regular people person.”
Jimmy grinning, remembering Danny from out front of the Bay, Jimmy now offering his hand.
Danny shook the hand, saying to Beck, “And the naked chick out front of the Bay, you and her . . .”
Beck pointed at Jimmy, said, “She’s with him now.”
“And the guy who did this . . .” Danny looked at the boat, then at Beck’s bloody face. “He her old man?”
“Nothing like that.”
“You owe the wrong people money?”
“AmEx is maxed, but so far they just been sending notices.”
“So whoever took your boat for a joyride a couple days back, left her out back of the Market . . .”
“Talking to Hanson, huh?”
“Guy likes to talk.”
“Guy’s a dick.”
“And you’re not saying squat.”
“All I know, somebody took her out, left her tied out back of Granville Market. And last night she got torched.”
“So how come I’m down here seven in the morning, looking at you all beat up?”
“Hattie’s idea, really.”
“The lady on the First Light?”
Beck nodded, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Jimmy’s phone rang. Taking it out, he turned down the ramp, the Sea-Doo at the edge of the water. He said something, then turned and handed the phone to Beck, saying Vicki wanted a word.
Beck took it, saying, “Don’t start.”
“Captain Angus’s throwing a shindig.”
“More vegan cheese?” Beck spitting more blood, Danny checking his pocket for a tissue.
“It’s tonight,” she said. “A kind of farewell.”
“You’re really going?”
“We sail in three days, and I want you there. Hattie and Griff, too.”
He waited, then said, “I’ll be there.”
“You call the cops yet?”
“Talking to my old partner right now,” he said, taking a tissue from Danny.
“Cop from out front of the Bay?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell him to come along, bring his partner and her ticket book.” Vicki getting serious, saying, “Want you to keep Jimmy safe.”
When he hung up, he wiped with the tissue, looked at Jimmy, saying, “Didn’t mention you were sailing off in three days.”
“I get a chance?”
“They come up with a name yet?”
“Ship? Yeah, we settled on the SS Suzuki. Going to paint on the letters first thing.”
Danny interrupted, looking at Beck. “Want to tell me why I’m here?”
It was Billy’s ambush that had Beck making up his mind. He looked at Danny, saying, “Want you to come to a party tonight.”
. . . DOWN THE BARREL
Seventy-four feet of Kevlar hull. A good craft, in spite of lacking a head. What this thing could use was an attack periscope, a torpedo in a tube. Ismael imagined taking a bearing on some navy boat, setting course, range and speed, angling his bow and hitting the button. Blow the hell out anybody interfering with his business.
Diego was due a bullet, Ismael sure Topo would give him the word. The sub hidden since Friday night and still no word on the guns, Ismael laying the fuck-ups on Diego.
Ismael checked the time — ten minutes later than he was told — and stuck in the battery, switching on the sat phone. It was ringing right away, Diego sounding pissed when he picked up, saying he’d been trying for ten minutes, Ismael saying they should have been gone from here two days ago.
Diego said he didn’t need any more of his shit, yelling how he sent Amado after the naked guy, and he ended up dead. Ramon dead, too. Fifty pounds of coke missing. Topo Quintero ordering him to bring a terrorista on board, sneak her back home. He asked Ismael if he got rid of the Colombian’s body. Ismael saying for that he ne
eded deeper water, asking if Diego was trying to spruce up the place on account of the chica coming on board. Diego saying again he had enough of his shit, telling him Busch and one of the bikers were taking the coke south of the border, the other biker searching for the naked cop. Saying he was waiting on word about the three hundred guns.
“Who the fuck is in charge?” Ismael asked, and Diego cursed and threatened to shoot him on sight. Ismael laughed and hung up, answering when it rang again, Diego saying he was on his way, told him to be ready.
“Better ask Topo for permission first,” Ismael said and made kissing sounds, Diego hanging up this time. Ismael thinking with all Diego’s fuck-ups, the cartel boss would be ordering him to tie Diego’s hands and feet, chop off the fingers first, then the hands and feet. His manhood. Leave his head on a pike outside his mother’s house. It was kinder this way, just shoot him on sight. Then Topo would appoint Ismael captain, put him in charge of the next run.
Ismael was still laughing, going down the rungs. He slit his blade across a corner of one of the bales, inhaled the powder off the knife. Waited for the buzz. Feeling good.
Branches and debris hid the sub tethered to old pilings in water barely deep enough. Stepping over the body, past the box of grenades, Ismael got the twelve-gauge bullpup, sucked more coke up his nose and got something to eat, going back up, setting the pump-action shotgun across his lap, a dual-tube magazine, lining the tins of food on its stock.
Carlos was getting riper by the minute down below. Place could use an air freshener, Ismael laughing as he got his knife out and cut open the tin, thinking about Diego bringing a terrorista on board.
His feet dangled down the open hatch, Ismael ate from the tin of Bumble Bee tuna, scooping it with his fingers. A warm can of Dr Pepper forced a belch, watering his eyes. Americanos with their food in packages, drinks in cans, their drive-thrus and ice in their urinals. What does any man need to piss on ice for?
The fish in the tin wasn’t much, and the Big Stick pepperoni set his chest on fire. It’s what Ramon had on the tugboat when they hid the sub, that and a bag of Doritos, all Ismael had to eat since Friday night. Tapping the last one from his pack of Winstons, he lit up, the warning on the side of the pack said smoking would make him impotent. “Vete a la chingada.” Crushed it in his hand and blew smoke.
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