Under Full Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 7th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean

by Charles Dougherty

  "Gator Jaw?" Kilgore asked.

  Gator Jaw cut his eyes to his left, looking at Kilgore. "What, boy?"

  "Is it true?" Kilgore asked, beginning to pick at his thumbnail.

  Gator Jaw continued to look sideways at Kilgore, but didn't answer him.

  After several seconds, Kilgore added, "About Senator O'Toole?"

  "What about Senator O'Toole?" Gator Jaw asked, turning his attention back to his fingernails.

  "You his friend?" Kilgore asked.

  "I might know him," Gator Jaw said, still focused on his fingernails. "Why?"

  "I got some information he needs to know."

  "Then why ain't you talkin' to him?" Gator Jaw asked. "What're you doin' takin' up my time?"

  "I ain't the kind of person a senator's gonna want to be seen with. I got some connections might be embarrassin' to him, like."

  "Uh-huh," Gator Jaw said. "That where you got this information? One of your connections?"

  "Yessir."

  "What's it got to do with Senator O'Toole?" Gator Jaw asked, yawning.

  "Word is somebody's tryin' to put out a contract on him."

  "Who?" Gator Jaw asked.

  "The Senator," Kilgore said.

  Gator Jaw heaved a sigh and looked sideways at Kilgore again. "Who's puttin' out the contract, son?" He shook his head. "Not who's gettin' hit."

  "Oh," Kilgore said. "I'm not sure who's behind it. I picked up on it from a guy I do some business with down in St. Lucia. He mentioned a couple of names, but not like they were orderin' the hit. More like they might be targets, see."

  "What were their names, boy?"

  "Steve Canaday and Bert Holsclaw," Kilgore said.

  Gator Jaw nodded. "That it?"

  "Yessir. That's all I know. I thought the senator might ought to know."

  Gator Jaw closed his pocket knife and dropped it back into the center drawer of his desk. He put his feet back on the floor and swiveled his chair to face Kilgore. He put both palms down flat on his desk and leaned toward Kilgore. "What's in this for you, Mr. Kilgore?"

  "A man in my line of work can always use some goodwill. Never know when I might be able to use a little help, see."

  "Uh-huh," Gator Jaw said. "You ain't in trouble are you, boy? Don't need help right now, do you?"

  "Oh, no sir. Favors are kinda like money in the bank, I reckon. Can you pass this along, Gator Jaw?"

  "Shit, boy. I reckon I can, if I happen to run into the senator. I'm sure he'll appreciate it. I don't mean to rush you, but I gotta get down to the courthouse here pretty quick."

  "Yessir. Thanks again for seein' me."

  Gator Jaw nodded as he watched Kilgore leave his inner office. Once the door closed, he took a prepaid cellphone out of his center desk drawer and pressed a speed dial key. When the other party answered, he asked, "Can you meet me at the fishin' pier in thirty minutes?"

  Diamantista II surged through the swell on a close reach, making nine knots. Connie was at the helm, adjusting the autopilot. They had just come out of the lee of St. Lucia and were entering the St. Vincent Channel when she heard their satellite phone ring. As she took it out of the small locker in the steering pedestal, Paul came up into the cockpit.

  "Want me to take the helm?" he asked.

  Connie nodded and shifted to the port, giving him room to slide in beside her. "Unknown caller," she said. She pressed the green button, accepting the call, and raised the phone to her ear as she said, "Hello?"

  Paul saw the emotions play across her face in a rapid sequence: curiosity, doubt, and then anger.

  "Who the hell are you, really?" she asked, her dark eyes flashing. She switched the phone to speaker mode so that Paul could hear both sides of the conversation. She put a finger across her lips as she caught his eye. He nodded.

  "Really, I'm Leon Contreras. I know it's been a while since I — "

  "Bullshit," she said. "I don't know who you are, but Leon Contreras is dead."

  There was silence for a few seconds. Just as she decided the connection had dropped, they heard, "You got that from your FBI connection, I'm sure. Please hear me out. There's a good — "

  "Why should I hear you out?"

  "First, I didn't do you any harm last time we spoke, did I?"

  "No," she said, "but you can't be my cousin. Who are you?"

  "Did your mother ever tell you about their kitten?" the man on the phone asked.

  Connie's face paled. She stared at the phone, but held her silence.

  "The one she and my mother had, when they were little?" he asked.

  "What about it?" she asked, after a couple of seconds.

  "It was black, with white feet. Except the left front one. They called it Medi."

  "Medi," she said, confusion on her face. "Why Medi?" she asked.

  "It was short for Medianoche."

  "Like the sandwich," she said, a gleam in her eye as she looked at Paul.

  "No," the man on the phone said. "You're testing me. That's a colloquial Cuban meaning. I don't blame you for trying to trip me up. But they called it Medianoche because it came in through their window in the middle of the night the first time they saw it."

  She was silent for several breaths, looking at Paul. She raised her eyebrows and nodded. "Okay," she said. "Maybe you are my cousin. But I don't understand why the FBI — "

  "Not on the phone, please," he said. "I'll explain later, somehow, but it's too dangerous right now. I have something important that you need to know. That's all. I don't want anything from you, but I need to pass along some information about your recent castaway. Okay?"

  "Okay," she said.

  "There are some dangerous people looking for him. Two different factions. One wants to recover a lot of money that he stole from them. I'm not sure about the other party's motive, but both are on your trail. They're planning to get you to tell them where he is and what he was doing with you. They've already killed the lawyer in St. Lucia, Victor Murphy, and a couple on a boat named Windsong that's in your neighborhood. They aren't working together, and I'm not sure how much they know about each other, but both of them are planning to intercept you today somewhere between St. Lucia and Bequia. I wanted to warn you. One of them mentioned St. Vincent, but I don't know who they are, just that they're working for a guy named Oscar Jefferson. Mean anything to you?"

  "No," Connie said. "Who's the other one?"

  "The other one is SpecCorp, if you remember them."

  "Yes. Who're they working for?"

  "I can't tell you, but it wouldn't help you anyway. The important thing is not to let your guard down."

  "Th-thanks," Connie said. "How did you — "

  "Now isn't a good time, Connie. I'm sorry, but I know your husband would understand my situation. That's all I can say right now, but when this is over, I want us to meet face to face. I'll tell you my whole story. You're my only living relative."

  "Yes. How can I reach you?"

  "You can't. I'll be in touch when I can. Godspeed, cousin."

  "Are you ready, Graciella?" Montalba asked.

  "I was born ready. You know that. Why are you asking?"

  "Because it's almost time for you to step in. Kilgore's springing the trap I set for him. Have you gotten everything you need from him?"

  "Ciertamente," she said. "I've been living with the moron for three long months. He has no secrets from me."

  "Humor me," Montalba said.

  "Always, mi hermano mayor. Qué quieres?"

  "The names and numbers of his runners, the combination to the safe in his office, access to all the records. Everything Manuel will need to take over south Florida for me."

  "I have it all, Guillermo. Just tell me, and I will take care of Kilgore for you. It would be my pleasure. He is a pig."

  "I'm sorry, but I have other plans for him. I'm using him to set up O'Toole. If I'm right about the senator, Kilgore will be feeding the alligators soon."

  "Even alligators deserve better," she said.


  "I'm sorry to have subjected you to his perversions, Gracie."

  She laughed, the charming, melodious laugh that Montalba enjoyed hearing. "No, you aren't," she said. "But that's all right. He's a pervert, for sure." She laughed again. "He does things that even I have never imagined. One time, he brought home this snake, and a homeless girl, and we — "

  "Graciella, please. I am your older brother. I don't want to know these things, okay?"

  "But Guillermo, I did these things for you, for us."

  "Graciella, stop. I order you."

  She laughed again. "You know I enjoyed every bit of it, don't you?"

  "Graciella! I told Mama I would take care of you."

  "Silly boy," she said. "Mama knew. Where do you think I learned all these things men like me to do?"

  "Basta!" he said.

  "You are embarrassed, aren't you, big brother? You are blushing under all that makeup, I bet. Why do you paint your face up to look like before? You looking for girls? You know Gracie will always give you what you want. You don't have to wear all that stuff. I like the scars; they excite me."

  She moved to sit beside him on the couch and began to pick at the theatrical makeup that covered the scars on his face. He slapped her hand away.

  "Don't! I have to go out again; I cannot be recognized."

  "Pobrecito," she said, stroking the undamaged skin on his neck. "I still remember how you screamed when she poured the acid. You should have just told her that it was my fault; I was the one who encouraged you, not the other way, like she thought."

  "It wouldn't have mattered, Gracie. She wouldn't have spoiled your looks. She had other plans for you."

  "Yes. Well, I made her pay for what she did to you, didn't I?"

  "Yes, I'd say so."

  "How much longer, Guillermo?"

  "Longer?"

  "Before I marry the senator and we make him the president?"

  "We may have to reconsider. I'm not sure he can be trusted. That's what the Kilgore thing is all about."

  "He can be trusted as long as we have his cojones in our hands," she said.

  "Exactly," Montalba said. "When we have a video of him killing Kilgore, we will know he is ours."

  "And how will we get this video?" she asked.

  "I've made arrangements for that, and for Ryan, too."

  "What do you mean, for Ryan, too?"

  "Mr. Ryan is a liability, considering our plans for the senator. Once he and O'Toole have taken care of Kilgore, Mr. Ryan is going to be overcome by remorse. I think he's already suicidal, in fact. Then it will just be you and the senator."

  "And mi hermano mayor, the sexiest, smartest man in the world," she said, snuggling against him.

  28

  “We got a problem, Willie." Gator Jaw Ryan was leaning on the railing at the end of the fishing pier near O'Toole's office.

  "I've got more than one problem," O'Toole said. "What's botherin' you now?"

  "Kilgore came to my office just now."

  "Dick Kilgore?" O'Toole asked, alarm in his tone.

  "Yeah. He's a slimy lookin' piece of shit. I never seen him before. I can't believe you got somebody like that workin' for you."

  "He doesn't know he's workin' for me, Gator Jaw. Was he lookin' for a lawyer? He in some kind of trouble?"

  "He came because he said the word was you and me were friends, and he needed to get word to you about somethin'."

  O'Toole frowned. "Why the hell would he want to get word to me about anything? As far as he knows, I don't even know who the hell he is."

  "You sure about that, Willie?"

  "Yeah. Schultz was the last one left who knew about me. I figure that was why that scar-faced son of a bitch had Kilgore kill him."

  "You still don't know who he is?" Ryan asked. "The scar-faced one?"

  "No. We both want it that way. It suits my plans. I'm better off that way, when time comes for the nominating committee to start askin' questions. I can't lie about stuff I don't know, so I can't get caught, see."

  Gator Jaw chuckled and shook his head. "And people think lawyers are slippery," he said. "So that's why Kilgore killed Schultz? I been wonderin' about that."

  "There could have been other reasons, but that's the one that mattered to me."

  "You discuss that with Scarface?" Gator Jaw asked.

  "I tried, but he blew me off. I didn't push it. The less I know, the better. He's makin' good numbers, and I'm clean, now. Reckon we're both happy. Back to Kilgore, okay? What did he want?"

  "You know somebody named Holsclaw?"

  O'Toole's eyes narrowed to slits as he looked at Ryan. "Bert Holsclaw?"

  "Uh-huh. That's the one. Who is he?"

  "A friend of Steve Canaday's," O'Toole said. "And he's been bangin' Canaday's wife for years."

  "You get this from them SpecCorp people?"

  "Yeah. Why? What's Holsclaw got to do with Kilgore?"

  "I don't know, Willie. Kilgore came to me because he picked up some gossip from a fella he knows in St. Lucia and he thought you ought to know about it. The fella told him there might be a contract out on Holsclaw and Canaday. Or maybe they put out a contract. He wasn't too clear on that." Gator Jaw turned toward O'Toole, studying his face.

  "That makes some kind of sense," O'Toole said. "They're both in St. Lucia, or were the other day, anyhow. But why did he think I ought to know that?"

  "He said the guy told him there was a contract on you, too. That was definite, from what Kilgore got. Holsclaw and Canaday were mixed up in the hit on you, somehow, but he didn't think either one ordered it."

  O'Toole chewed at the inside of his right cheek and squinted at Gator Jaw. "Kilgore say why he wanted me to know he passed this along?" he asked.

  "Yeah," Gator Jaw said. "I pushed him on that. He said a man in his line of work could always use a friend, and favors were like money in the bank."

  "You think he knows?" O'Toole asked. "About me and Pinkie, I mean?"

  "That ain't exactly far-fetched," Gator Jaw said. "But it don't explain what he's up to."

  "No," O'Toole said. "I think maybe it's time to feed the alligators."

  "Kilgore's workin' for Scarface, you said. You gonna talk to him first?"

  O'Toole frowned, hesitating for a few seconds. He looked over at Gator Jaw and shook his head. "No. Let's you and me just handle it. Like old times. It's got nothing to do with my new partner."

  "What should we do, Paul?" Connie asked. "I'm at a loss."

  "He said they were going to hit us between St. Lucia and Bequia," Paul said. "That's a lot of territory. They must be coming from one of the islands, though."

  "That makes sense," Connie said. "But so what?"

  "We should go somewhere else," Paul said.

  "Run, you mean?"

  "Not exactly. I'm guessing they're going to catch us; for all we know, they're tracking us right now. But if I were going to board us, I'd choose a spot where nobody's likely to notice."

  "Like out there in the St. Vincent Channel?" Connie pointed off their bow.

  "Yes, or maybe between St. Vincent and Bequia. Defensive behavior says we should make them attack somewhere besides where they planned to. It throws an attacker off, at least a little bit."

  "Let's turn around, then," Connie said. "We can go back and head for Martinique. There's help there, too, if we need it."

  "You're thinking of Phillip? Or Clarence?"

  "Yes. Let's call Phillip."

  "Let's ... uh-oh," Paul said. "We may be too late. There's a go-fast boat coming our way about a half-mile off the port quarter." He stood up and ducked below to the galley, coming back up with an ice pick and a chef's knife. "Your choice," he said.

  "Ice pick," she said, reaching for it. "I'll stay behind the helm and distract them. You try to get behind them. How many?"

  "Looks like two," Paul said.

  She nodded, glancing over her shoulder as she slipped the ice pick into the front of her shorts. She pulled her T-shirt over her head, rev
ealing a bikini top. She unsnapped the clamp that held her ponytail. "Ready," she said, grinning as the wind caught her hair.

  "That's not fair," Paul said. "You're distracting me."

  "A girl's got to use what she has," she said, winking at him.

  "They're almost here," Paul said. "Thirty seconds."

  "If they scratch the topsides, I'll kill them," she said.

  "We're likely to have to kill them anyway," Paul said.

  "Yes, but if they mess up the boat, I'll enjoy doing it."

  The bright yellow speedboat pulled up a few feet off their starboard quarter, matching their speed. One of the two men fired two warning shots from the pistol he held. In one fluid motion, he leapt from the bow of the boat, landing on Diamantista II's gunwale with both feet as his free hand grasped one of the mizzen shrouds.

  "Don't move!" he said, holding the pistol on them. He swung first one leg and then the other over the lifelines and shuffled down the side deck as the man at the helm of the speedboat brought it in close alongside.

  The big orange fenders that hung over the side of the speedboat squealed as they absorbed the shock of the two moving boats coming together. The man at the helm tossed a line to the one with the pistol and killed the speedboat's engines as he jumped for the lifelines and scrambled aboard.

  Connie and Paul watched as the speedboat fell away, the bow line paying out smoothly as the second man took it from his partner and crouched to tie it off to a midship cleat. By the time the line came under a strain, the speedboat was riding 50 feet behind Diamantista II.

  "Well done, boys," Connie said. "You've had practice, I see."

  "Shut up, bitch. I'll tell you when to talk." The first man had moved closer to the cockpit, still covering them with the pistol. "Turn this fuckin' boat through the wind and heave to. Try anything funny and I'll shoot the old fart."

  Connie disengaged the autopilot and spun the helm, following his orders. She suppressed a smile as the main boom almost knocked his partner over the side.

  "Shit!" The second man flailed around until he got a grip on one of the sheets and caught himself. "Shoot that sumbitch now! Bitch did that on purpose."