The bar was filling up, nine o’clock Saturday night and things were getting into gear. He felt alone, sitting by himself, nursing a beer. A rotund tourist and his equally rotund wife vacated the seats next to him. Hoping they would be filled by someone he could talk to, he slowly sipped his beer.
The teeth were the first thing he saw. Way too large for the face that presented them, whiter than any middle-aged man’s teeth should be. Even the tall frame and long hair couldn’t disguise the size of the grill in his mouth. Fifty-seven Chevy came to mind as the man pulled out the stool and sat down.
The barmaid pecked the man’s cheek over the bar and placed a cold beer in front of him without asking. Not only a guy, but a local, Pete thought. Great. He took a big sip of his beer, thinking about escaping from here too. Then he took another gulp and coughed, beer spewing from his mouth.
“Easy there, partner.” The big guy signaled the barmaid for a glass of water. “You ok, there? No need to be rushing things.”
Pete collected himself, blood rushing to his face in embarrassment. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks.”
“No problem. Name’s Alan, but most call me Tru, short for Trufante.”
“Pete.” He extended his hand.
“No worries, man. Let’s get you another beer and settle ya down. He picked up the bottle, “More backwash in that than beer.” Trufante called down the bar, and a fresh, cold beer arrived a moment later.
They sat quietly for a few minutes, each enjoying his space. Pete was grateful for the silence, not really wanting to get in a discussion with a local. Locals and tourists didn’t often mix well. He watched as Trufante smiled again as the door opened and an attractive brunette dressed in scrubs walked in. With a sigh he turned away as the woman approached, clearly making for Trufante.
Trufante got up and placed her between his stool and Pete’s. They kissed rabidly, then turned to Pete.
“Sue, this is Pete. He’s down here looking a little out of sorts.”
“Hey, good to meet you. You down here by yourself?” she asked, looking Pete up and down.
“Fishing with a couple of buddies who brought their wives. Started feeling like a fifth wheel, so I came down here.” He mumbled.
“Hey, what about we set him up with Joanie?” Sue said, turning to Trufante. “She’s feeling a little down. Maybe head down to Key West.”
“Sweet.” The smile lit up his face again as Pete wondered what he had walked into.
“Maybe I ought to just head home.”
“No way dude,” Sue said. We’re gonna fix you up and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
***
An hour later, Pete was in love. The backseat of Sue’s Camry was just small enough to initiate body contact every time she hit a pothole. And Joanie giggled every time they touched. Pete thought it a nervous thing, but kind of cute anyway. The rest of her was cute to match. Petite, with red hair and some scattered freckles, even on the top of her cleavage, which was displayed by her low-cut top. He was entranced, as they jiggled with every bump. She didn't talk much, though, just giggled and jiggled.
Sue found a parking spot a few blocks off Duval Street, and they headed toward the noise of Saturday night, Trufante and Sue several steps ahead. Pete felt Joanie intertwine her fingers with his. His hand almost moved away as his heart jumped at the touch. But he smiled and relaxed.
They settled into a rhythm of drinking and dancing and, at some point, he realized that Trufante had disappeared. Pete didn’t notice until he found himself dancing with two women. It was the stuff of dreams; he looked around for Trufante’s six foot plus frame and smile. He didn’t see him anywhere. Sue and Joanie sandwiched him and started grinding, and soon all else was forgotten.
They were back at the bar, Pete ordering drinks for the girls and one for himself that he probably didn’t need when Trufante strutted back in, grin a little wider, if that were possible. Pete saw him hand something to Sue as he hugged her. Seconds later, the girls made a bee line toward the lady’s room.
“Got some stuff if you want to keep partying.” Trufante leaned into him so he could hear over the music.
“No, that’s ok, thanks. I really like that girl, though. Can’t thank you guys enough.”
“No worries.” Trufante slapped Pete’s back.
Something was pinging in his head, though. Trufante seemed to be well known and connected here. He obviously knew where to score, and seemed pretty nonchalant about it.
4
Cleaning his gun calmed him. It was like meditation — the ritual, the order. Always the same, no thought. Cesar liked the routine, the smell of gun oil and gunpowder. The feel of cold, clean steel.
He sat in the kitchen, the house quiet, noise filtering in from the street. The proximity to Duval Street was a double-edged sword — good for business, bad for quiet. Cleaning the guns settled him. Something he needed especially now, when he needed to think.
He'd had several visitors tonight. A little slow for a Saturday, but it was still early. He glanced at his watch. Not even midnight yet. The gun reassembled, he put the cleaning materials away and loaded it. Then he settled into his chair by the door, reached underneath, and placed the gun in the holster fastened there.
The opaque curtains next to him filtered the street light, but allowed him to see ghost-like images of the foot traffic. The curtains were a compromise. He needed privacy, but also needed to see if anyone was approaching the house. In his line of business, surprises were not welcome. He reached over for the TV clicker and turned on a soccer game.
He couldn't concentrate on the game, though. Diego and the missing package weighed heavily on his mind. He'd grown up with the man in the Tabasco region of southern Mexico. Always underneath him in the cartel structure, he’d witnessed his violence many times, fortunately never being on the receiving end. The idea that he might be the victim this time terrified him.
The chime for a new text message startled him from his thoughts. He looked down at the phone, read the message, and typed OK in response, hoping it would be a big sale. He had some time to kill before the deal. At his computer he went to the NOAA website and found the ocean current screen. He entered the coordinates for the drop from memory. The screen showed an icon 1 mile southwest of Wood’s Wall. If he could calculate the current and wind, he might be able to establish a search area. Cruising aimlessly in the Gulf Stream was not going to do anything but waste gas. He stared at the wavy lines on the screen in vain.
The drop was in the Gulf Stream, the huge ocean current running up the North American coast, like a river running North in the middle of the ocean. It didn't take a rocket scientist to calculate the current running at six mph times twenty-four hours. The package could be 200 miles north by now, past Palm Beach. Without the locator, it could ride the swift current of the Gulf Stream for another week, ending up somewhere near Greenland, and they’d have no way of finding it. He sat back and put his head in his hands. The search area was huge.
***
Pete was entranced with giggles and jiggles on the way back from Key West, as Sue slowed through Big Pine Key, the biggest speed trap in the Keys, and maybe the country. The entire island was a protected area for the Key Deer; the speed limit dropped to 35 MPH at night. It wasn't a question of if there were a state trooper waiting; it was more a question of how many. You could get away with a little swerve here and there as long as the speed stayed down. There were always enough speeders to keep the cops busy and the drunk tank full.
Once over the bridge, though, the speed limit picked back up to 55. At that rate, Pete figured he only had about fifteen minutes before they reached Marathon. It was pretty much now or never for those freckles. He was hesitant but she made it easy for him as he moved towards her. They kissed the length of the Seven Mile Bridge
"Where should we drop you?" The voice snapped him back to reality.
"He's going with me. Don't y'all worry,” Joanie said.
The parking lot of the bar was de
serted when they pulled in. The couple in the back seat disengaged and exited their separate doors, only to reengage as soon as they were out of the car. Then, just as the car was about to pull away, Pete ran up to the driver’s side window.
"Let me get your number,” he said to Trufante. “I’ve got something that can maybe help us both out."
Trufante smiled and recited the digits while Pete punched them in his phone.
***
It was 79 degrees at five am. Mel looked at the thermometer in disgust as she headed out the door of her Georgetown apartment. Clad only in a sports bra and running shorts, water bottle in hand and cell phone in a band on her arm, she set off at a slow jog. It didn't take long for sweat to start beading on her forehead as her stride loosened in the early morning heat and humidity. Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the boathouse on the Potomac River.
Outrigger canoeing had quickly become her new passion. Her boyfriend, Mac Travis had introduced her to stand-up paddle boarding in the Keys. Though she liked it, she was more of a team player and had joined the outrigger club on her return. The combination of technique in the stroke, along with the endurance, power, and camaraderie had come together and ignited her.
Even at this early hour, the boathouse was busy. The sun had risen half an hour earlier, the water glistening in its rays. Rowers and paddlers tended to prefer the early morning, as the wind was calmer, the water flatter, and — most importantly — there was an absence of speed boaters. In the middle of the day on a hot Sunday in May, the river would be entangled with all sorts of watercraft in a few hours. In the early morning, though, it was relatively deserted.
She watched as several rowing shells moved out into the calm water, excited as the crew assembled. Their combined passion about training and racing had placed them in the top three of the early season race series.
She set her phone down on a pile of their belongings, uncharacteristically without a glance at the screen, and they all headed for the canoe. Once on the water, they quickly assembled the ama, the outrigger that stabilized the boat, and set out, their paddles synchronous in the water, each member working hard to match the stroke of the lead paddler.
Their stroke rate and intensity increased after ten minutes. The canoe moved quickly through the water as the paddle blades reached out and grabbed water. The only sound was the Hut and Ho every fifteen strokes, as the paddlers changed sides. The pace lasted for a brutal thirty minutes before they took a water break and turned back towards the boat house.
***
An hour later, as the sun was gaining altitude, the sweat covered paddlers exited the water and returned the canoe to its place. Then, plans made for the next session, they headed their separate ways.
Mel went for her phone first and saw the two texts and three missed calls, all from her boss. Really, she thought, this time on a Sunday morning, what could be so damn important? She was trying to extricate herself from the web of Davies and Associates, and this latest example of her boss’ neediness was just one more reason. The passion was all but gone, and the spotlight and large paychecks no longer compensated for the lack of that zeal she’d previously felt toward their causes. But really, she knew, it wasn't the job so much as it was Mac.
She drank from her water bottle, trying to decide if she should get home, shower, and put on her lawyer skin before calling back. Conscience overcame her, though, and she sat down, scrolled to the recent call screen, and pressed the name.
She listened intently as her boss spoke, her brow furrowing as she became engrossed in the conversation. After listening for several minutes, she asked several quick questions and ended the call with a promise to meet at a local coffee shop in an hour. Her Sunday now ruined, she put the phone back in the armband, grabbed her water bottle and headed up the hill toward her apartment. She moved faster now, anger replacing the elated feeling from the paddle.
5
The sun was glaring through the window when Pete woke, Joanie purring beside him. He watched her sleep for a few minutes before getting out of bed. She had brought some things out in him last night that he thought were buried forever. He hoped last night’s partying was not the norm for her. That would be a deal breaker if she was into that scene.
He dressed quietly, doing his best not to wake her. In the kitchen he found a pen and a notepad and sat down to leave a note. He agonized for several long minutes about whether to leave her his phone number or if it were better to just say thank you and disappear. Settled on the phone number and then, a moment of panic, wondering if she would call, he left with a smile. Downstairs, he stayed in the shade of the building. The sun was high, temperature pushing ninety. Relief washed over him as he turned on his phone and saw no notifications on the screen. At least nothing bad had happened with Dan and Jeff last night he thought. The memory of the night before was replaced by trepidation about the drugs. They had to go. It was only a matter of time before Dan would do something stupid. Why not give Trufante a shot at it. His number was in the notepad app where he’d left it last night. He copied the number into his key pad and hit call.
Trufante answered on the fourth ring. “Huh.”
"Tru, it's Pete, from last night."
"Hey." He’d clearly been asleep, and wasn’t ready for a conversation, but Pete jumped in anyhow. Better now than never, and the sooner he could move that package they’d picked up, the sooner he could get on with his life.
"Listen, I need to talk to you.”
"Dude, it's early."
Pete looked at the sun, surprised that it was near it’s apex. “This could make us both a lot of money."
There was a pause, and then: “Well it's not that early. What's up?”
"Pick me up at Joanie's and I'll lay it out for you."
"Got to get these old bones moving. Be there in a few."
Pete waited by the road, wondering about his fortune. He hadn't thought this through as much as he'd have liked. Usually a methodical person, the kind of guy who listed the pros and cons on a piece of paper before making a decision, he'd gone off the tracks. A party night in Key West and now trying to offload a ton of coke to someone he barely knew was not his style; he felt adrenaline running through him, experiencing things he’d never felt before. First Joanie last night and now the unknown feeling of a deal about to go down. He didn’t know what it was but he kind of liked it. Phone still in hand he opened the calculator and did some quick math while he waited. Fifty pounds at sixteen ounces each was eight hundred ounces at twenty eight grams each was twenty two thousand four hundred grams - at a hundred each - he looked at the screen and staggered backwards. Sold off by the gram their package was worth over two million dollars.
After about ten minutes, Trufante pulled up in Sue's Camry. "You know they've got taxi's here,” he muttered no sign of the signature smile.
"It's not just a ride I need." There was a pregnant pause. He was unsure how to start, but noticed Trufante getting antsy. “Listen, me and some buddies found a square grouper yesterday - coke.”
"No shit. Hop on in.” Trufante was wide awake now. “I’m guessing you brought it back or you wouldn’t be talking now. How much you say you got?"
"There were fifty packages. Probably about a pound each."
"Describe the wrapping, everything you can think of."
Pete leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes as he recalled the package. He described the outer wrapping, the inner wrapping, and how the bricks were individually wrapped and stacked. The initials embossed on the powder got a quick reaction.
"DV? You're sure about that?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Got an idea I know who that might belong to. No transmitter or any electronics on it?”
Pete answered in the negative, and Trufante nodded.
"Real unusual for them to drop that much without a transmitter. Must have fallen off." He scratched the two-day-old stubble on his face and rubbed his eyes. "What kind of idea you got that might involve me?"
"I was just thinking that it might be easier to get rid of it down here than to take it home. A lot safer, anyway."
Trufante shook his head, his face suddenly serious, and Pete’s heart dropped. “There's nothing safe about what you got. I’ll guarantee there's some mean-ass folks looking for you guys right now." It was quiet for a few minutes while Pete tried to engage his brain.
Finally Trufante sighed. “Got an idea that might work. Make all of us look good. Thing is, you're not going to get what you think for it. You get greedy with this thing, it's not going to go well for you guys."
"I'm open. It's pure profit anyway. We just got lucky."
"Let's not call it lucky ‘til you’re back home with the cash stuffed in your mattress. I think I know whose those initials are. If it's his stuff, we just return it and trust his generosity for a reward. We all look good and get some cash."
Pete was silent. He was sure Dan had a number in his head - probably breaking the whole thing into grams and selling it like that - over a half million each. That was how the alphabet agencies gave street value - the lowest salable amounts brought in the most money. Selling it off in grams at a hundred bucks a shot would net much more than a reward. But the risks of doing that were astronomical. One or all of them winding up dead or in jail was not a long shot. This made sense to his logical mind. Just take the reward. "What would you be expecting out of this?"
"I set up the whole deal. You and me take it together. I don't want to meet your buddies. Cut me in for a full share and I'm good."
Wood's Wall Page 2