A Black Sail

by Rich Zahradnik

  Standing still for the short time it took to survey had already stiffened his left leg. He went as quickly as he could down the driveway to the docks, which were reached by a long wood and metal walkway that bobbed with each step he took. Lucco must be somewhere in here getting a boat ready. Taylor couldn’t rule out the planes, but no one was over there. “Gangster Escapes by Seaplane.” Make a nice enough headline. “Mobster Arrested for Murder” worked better for Taylor.

  Shit, I’m an idiot.

  He cut an obvious profile—make that target—with the sun behind him and Lucco trigger-happy. He stepped into a small runabout to his left to crouch low. He didn’t need to make things easier. Of course, with all the shooting, every FBI agent, cop, villain, hell, even homeowner, had a trigger finger too twitchy for anyone’s good tonight.

  Laughing, talking, the clinking of glasses drifted over the water from different directions. People were on their boats in the marina enjoying a cocktail hour before dinner.

  He was clueless and plan-less. What he should do is find a phone somewhere in the marina and call the cops. He couldn’t go all the way back to the house. He’d lose Lucco.

  “That’s not your boat, mister.”

  Middle-aged and rotund, the man held what looked like a .22 hunting rifle. Taylor, still hunkered down, slid his revolver back into his jacket pocket.

  “Christ, does everybody have a gun today?”

  “It’s the Bronx, mister. Step out of that boat that isn’t yours and come with me to the office.”

  Taylor climbed out. “There’s a man in the marina—”

  The guard turned Taylor around and frisked him, pulling the .32 from his coat pocket.

  “Guess everyone does have a gun.” He pointed with the rifle. “We’ll talk in the office.”

  The office turned out to be a cabin cruiser, tied two boats farther out. Taylor walked on the slip alongside the boat and started to step onboard. A dog, some kind of hound, growled as he did. Taylor almost lurched over backward into the water.

  “Don’t worry about Mooch. That’s how he says hi to everybody.”

  Recovered, Taylor set his right foot, then his left down gingerly onto the boat. Pain shot up the leg. He limped to the deck chair the man pointed out. The rear of the boat was cluttered with tools and battered marine gear. Hooks held ropes, chains, fenders, a couple of small buoys. Three small anchors were piled up in one corner. The cockpit had no wheel but at least three radios with lights winking and speakers crackling unclear bits of nautical chatter.

  The cabin below threw up a light. A woman stirring a pot glanced at Taylor and stepped out of view.

  The guard took a plastic beach chair. He set the rifle across this lap. “You look like you went overboard.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Taylor didn’t look at the man, instead watched the marina for any sign of Lucco. At the end of a concrete pier, an orange windsock on a pole danced, pointing toward Queens.

  “I like long stories. What were you doing in Ricotta Delight?”

  “Excuse me.”

  “The boat. What were you doing in it? What are you doing in the marina? You don’t rent a slip.”

  “Did someone come in before me?”

  “Answer my question.”

  What was worse than no plan? This colossal waste of time. He was going to lose Lucco.

  “Just let me use your phone?”

  “What for?”

  “Did you hear the gunfire back over in Country Club?”

  “Heard something a little while ago. You involved?”

  “I’m a reporter. A murderer got away from an FBI raid. I need to call the cops.”

  “Still want to know why you’re soaking wet.”

  Is this guy stupid or stalling?

  “Look,” Taylor pulled out his ID, “press pass. I’m working a story.”

  “Reporter who needs a gun, huh? Who do you think is in the marina?”

  “A man named Nick Lucco.”

  “Mr. Lucco?” The fat guard gave a big smile. “He’s a great customer. If he came through, I must have missed him.”

  “He’s a mobster.”

  “Now, mister, we don’t like to be judgmental about what customers do by land. We’re all sailors out here.”

  “You fucking kidding me? He murdered two people. Just escaped from the FBI.”

  “None of my business. My business is to let those that got slips onto their boats. And guests, of course. We welcome guests. I know you’re not a guest.”

  “Is Lucco at his boat?”

  The man took a quick glance down the dock. “Like I said. Don’t believe I saw him.” The guard turned back the other way, and this time his eyes went wide as he stared onto the shore.

  Three dark-suited men, near-black cutouts against the setting sun, approached the walkway. No way to make out faces, but donuts to the dollars in Taylor’s paycheck, the FBI had shown up. The silhouette in the middle signaled. Immediately, one of the others, pistol drawn, moved toward the seaplanes. The third jogged left to the farthest set of slips. The man in the middle came down the main dock toward Taylor and his captor.

  “You’re not going to be able to keep those men out.”

  The guard rose from his chair. Mooch whined. The right leg of the man’s dungarees was hitched up. Stuck in his sock was the top of a hundred dollar bill—more than one bill. Had Lucco paid off this poor schmuck to take on the FBI?

  The agent was about thirty yards from the guard’s boat. The two other feds were almost at their destinations.

  A burbling rumble from behind Taylor, farther out on the main dock.

  The sound caused the guard’s face to tighten.

  The agent coming their way broke into a trot.

  A speedboat five or so slips away kicked up water. A figure worked to untie the line holding the front of the boat to the dock.

  Gilly stopped a dozen yards from Taylor and the guard, his own gun out. “I’m in pursuit of a federal fugitive. Drop the rifle or I will shoot.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but do you have a warrant?”

  The next instant, the guard dove for the deck, and Gilly fired at where the man had been standing.

  Goddammit, enough with the shooting.

  Taylor went over the side on to the slip opposite Gilly, trying a one-footed landing that succeeded in protecting his left calf. Didn’t mean it stopped hurting. He ducked next to side of the craft.

  The rifle went off.

  Across the water, the agent at the seaplanes turned and sprinted back toward the boats. Taylor took off down the dock—at this point ignoring the pain because there were two armed men behind him going at it. A stray shot would hurt a whole lot more.

  Stay focused on each other long enough for me to get to Lucco.

  The mobster’s long, sleek speedboat floated parallel to the dock instead of in a slip. Tied by one last rope. Lucco had only to get it off and he’d be running fast out into Long Island Sound. After that, god knows where he’d end up.

  Lucco spun the rope off the cleat. All his concentration was on getting away.

  Taylor took two more steps and jumped for the boat. He landed—his worst in a day of bad landings—and crashed into the controls. Lucco ignored him. Untying the boat was everything.

  Taylor grabbed the silver control that looked the same as the throttle on Novak’s boat, prayed to the Greek Orthodox God of his mother that’s what it was, and shoved it forward.

  Hard.

  Chapter 26

  The boat, one line still tied to the dock, swung in a fast arc at those opposite.

  Its bow scraped three of them. Loud as the noise was, the grinding didn’t drown out Lucco.

  “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

  Down the dock, Gilly sprinted toward them, his arms swinging like a track star’s. The agent who’d been at the seaplanes flew past the guardhouse boat on his way to provide backup.

  Finishing its arc, the boat slammed into the side
of the craft tied behind it. The rope stretched out taut as piano wire. The engine strained to send the craft leaping forward right into the middle of the marina, while the collision sent Lucco, already off balance, crashing to the deck. His gun slid to the left, halfway between him and Taylor.

  Taylor throttled the engine back to about a quarter of whatever. He had no idea if the rope would hold and didn’t want to fly at top speed into all the other boats. He kept hold of the silver handle. The throttle was his only weapon right now—and not an accurate one. He could be the one thrown to the deck—or overboard. They could hit another boat hard enough to sink or catch fire or do one right after the other.

  Lucco regained his footing and flicked a switchblade.

  Great, now it’s West Side Story.

  Today’s chase had been so magnificently insane—high speed on the highway, gunfight, backyards, armed homeowner, dogs, a pool. Why not a switchblade?

  Instead, Lucco turned from Taylor and sawed at the rope. Cutting them loose would not do. Taylor gunned the throttle and threw the wheel over the other way. The boat swung back along the same arc, tearing at the hulls of the same three boats and smashing against the dock where it had started.

  Somehow, Lucco kept his feet this time.

  Gilly was almost to them. “Kill the engine!” the FBI agent yelled. He leveled his revolver and fired.

  The rope snapped with a whipping twang. The boat jumped off like a racehorse out of the gate. Instinctively, Taylor caught hold of the wheel and kept the craft from crashing head on into the boats it was racing past on either side. He wanted to stop Lucco, but he didn’t want to die doing it.

  With the craft gaining speed, Gilly ran past three boats and leapt from the dock, missed and splashed into the water.

  The boat kicked up a wake and flew past a cabin cruiser hosting a crowded cocktail party at the end of the dock. A woman screamed, men yelled obscenities, and glasses crashed to the deck.

  Lucco laughed grimly. He planted both feet and waved the knife a little. “I’ll take the wheel now we’ve lost the fed. Thanks again for the help.” He took a step toward his gun.

  “How about we go back to the marina first?”

  Eyes on Lucco, Taylor threw over the wheel hard—his stomach lurching in the opposite direction—and they made a tight fast turn.

  “You stupid fuck.”

  Lucco dove for his gun as it slid across the deck toward the other side, grabbed hold of it, and rose with it aimed at Taylor. His mouth gaped wide and he pointed with the weapon. “Look out!”

  Taylor twisted around. They were heading straight for a yacht coming in from the bay—four levels worth of luxury cruising. It blew its horn and altered course. The big thing was too slow to get out of the way. Taylor spun the wheel, and the speedboat responded instantly, snapping into the new course, hitting a rise in the swell at the same instant. The jolt knocked Taylor off balance. His left foot hit a wet spot as he flailed to keep from falling. He fell anyway. His head found something on the boat to hit.

  Black.

  A hangover. A terrible hangover. What else would make his head hurt this much? And his stomach this sick? The answer came slowly. Something worse than a hangover. A boat racing on the water after he’d cracked his head.

  He opened his eyes and groaned.

  Lucco looked over his shoulder from the wheel. “Back among the living? That’s too bad.” He waved the revolver in the air. “Don’t worry. Not too much longer.”

  Taylor lay up against the side of the boat near where he must have fallen. Lucco hadn’t taken the time to tie him up, couldn’t—not and keep speeding from the FBI. Not if he wanted to avoid collisions. Taylor had almost caused a crash, knocking himself out in the process. Head pounding, he slowly inched up to get an idea of where they were. The southern end of City Island passed by on the right. He hadn’t been out long. The water off the island was even busier than around the marina, thick with sailboats and motorized craft. The tinkling sailboat noise and the laughter of folks enjoying a relaxing evening on the water. It wasn’t the soundtrack of the evening Taylor was having.

  Lucco checked behind him quickly, searching out something. “The boat the feds grabbed isn’t fast enough. If I make a change on the other side of City Island, I’ll be out in the sound and they’ll never get me. Won’t find what’s left of you either.”

  “They’ll know everything. They have the tape.”

  Why not lie? Nothing to lose.

  “All the more reason to shoot you. Or cut you. Or both. You got a preference?”

  Taylor turned to peer back over the water. The very effort of staring set his stomach roiling even more. Was there a boat coming along the same course? Way back there? Too far back.

  Lucco brought the speedboat around the tip of City Island, passing within hailing distance of the two huge seafood restaurants opposite each other at the end of City Island Avenue.

  He steered up the eastside of island, where the harbor was located.

  City Island streets, ending at the water, sped past. Taylor had walked Mason on those during the months last year he’d lived here in a friend’s dry-docked boat. He’d liked the odd charm of a seaside resort grafted onto the Bronx. He’d loved the food. After today, he wasn’t sure he’d be left with any good memories of the place. Or any memories at all.

  The booms protecting the half dozen or so floating docks in City Island Marina came into sight. Lucco was making straight for them. He must be changing there to the boat he planned to escape on—something bigger and set up with supplies.

  The mobster would need to navigate the narrow gap between two of the booms that served as gateway into the docks. When Lucco was focused on the maneuver, Taylor would take his best shot. He wasn’t ending up out on Long Island Sound with this thug.

  One chance. He ignored the fear. Couldn’t do the same for the nausea.

  He inched up the side of the boat a bit more.

  Lucco cut his speed and adjusted course to line the speedboat up with the opening in the booms.

  A cabin cruiser was coming out. Lucco killed the engine to let the bigger vessel pass. He held his gun by his side. “Yell anything and it’s a bullet in the face. For them too.”

  The cruiser passed. A man and woman waved. Lucco gave a quick salute back and moved his boat forward.

  They approached the opening.

  The harbor was busy, with other vessels preparing to head out to Long Island Sound. Who had time for boating on a Monday? It was summer, after all. People took vacations. There was something Taylor should consider. A vacation. Christ, he’d love a vacation from the pounding head, pulsing leg, and upset stomach.

  They eased through the opening between the yellow barriers. Lucco leaned forward, concentrating. He had to make a hard left as soon as the boat cleared the entrance. Two other craft were coming down the harbor’s main channel to go out to the sound. Lucco started into the turn.

  Taylor readied to spring.

  Got to do it.

  He couldn’t.

  God, no. Not now!

  He leaned over the side and threw up.

  Lucco chuckled. “Seasick too. You’re a fucking piece of work.”

  The first boat leaving moved past them as they crept into the crowded harbor. On either side were rows and rows of slips with motorized craft of all types. Lucco was standing at the helm, still focused, looking for something, most certainly his boat. Both his hands were busy. The gun sat on the dashboard.

  Taylor forced himself to stand. He wiped his mouth. He tightened his stomach muscles against the nausea. At this point, he’d lost his aversion to collisions. Anything would have to do. He charged at Lucco, slamming into his broad back as hard as he could, and went for the throttle one last time.

  The boat lurched forward, throwing Lucco back onto Taylor. The wheel turned on its own, sending the craft toward a bunch of others in slips. People screamed.

  Lucco got off Taylor, and Taylor came straight after him again.<
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  Lucco backhanded him, sending Taylor to the side of the boat, where he caught hold of the gunwale and fought to keep himself from going over. The gun was in Taylor’s other hand. The boat jerked left again as Lucco turned it out of its collision course.

  “Lucco!”

  His hand shaking from cold and pain, he fired and missed. Aim still sucks. Lucco turned, surprised. He advanced with the knife like a gun couldn’t stop him.

  Obscenities from a passing cabin cruiser. The boat thumped against the cruiser, jarring Taylor as he fired again and shot Lucco in the foot.

  The man screamed and fell over the seat toward the controls.

  This time it was Lucco who pushed the throttle. Taylor couldn’t see, but he sensed it. The boat jumped forward. It smashed the cruiser again, harder, and bounced off.

  Taylor, against the pain and the seasickness, struggled to get forward and avert another crash.

  Before he could get his hands on the controls, Lucco wrapped his hands around Taylor’s throat. He was strong.

  Over Lucco’s shoulders, a rank of moored boats approached rapidly as the speedboat gathered momentum. Taylor stopped trying to pull Lucco’s hands off his throat and relaxed his legs. He couldn’t speak. He pointed. The man’s eyes got big in recognition. He turned in time to see a red cabin cruiser.

  The collision threw Lucco across the front of his boat and onto the deck of the cruiser.

  The speedboat twisted sideways and drove itself up onto the dock.

  Taylor tumbled in the air.

  Water.

  Water for the second time today.

  Plunging.

  No bottom for his feet.

  Taylor came up gasping, barely able to tread water with a dead left leg. People ran along the dock, Lucco’s boat resting on it like some crashed missile. The red cabin cruiser’s side was caved in.

  Somebody yelled to Taylor. To grab hold. He slipped the first time, got an arm around an old-fashioned lifesaver. A piece of candy floating in the water. Two or three men—he couldn’t tell—strained to get him up on the planks of the dock.

  Taylor threw up again.

  Taylor blacked out again.