Wood's Wall

by Steven Becker

  He whipped through the remaining fish and added them to the cooler at his feet, then washed the cleaning table and knife, and finally de-slimed his hands. The sound of a fresh beer cracking indicated that his work day was over. He grabbed his phone and went toward the table and chairs outside the house. He checked that Mac was still on the boat. Out of hearing range, he dialed the number from memory. Not a good idea to have a drug dealer’s phone number in your contact list.

  “Cesar, you missing something?”

  “That you Cajun? What you talkin’ about?”

  “Maybe somebody picked something up in the stream the other day. Maybe it’s yours.” Trufante dangled the bait.

  “I’ll play along with your game. Supposing I did lose something, and supposing you know where it is, what would you want to return it to its rightful owner?”

  “It’s not me, man. If I had it I’d run it right down there and trust your benevolence.” He sipped his beer, letting the tension build.

  “Come on. Let’s have it or I’ll come up there and force it out of you.”

  Trufante set the hook, “See, I ran into this dude in a bar, told me a story. Checked it out and it’s legit. Believe it - fools think they can piece it out and get rich. Told the dudes you would take care of them for returning it.”

  “Absolutely,” he lied. “Where can I meet these guys?”

  “You got an offer I can take to them? There’s one that wants to take the stuff and sell it piecemeal. I don’t know how easy they’ll roll over.”

  “Ten large do it?”

  “I’m thinking not. They know what the stuff is worth. And like I said, there’s one dude that is going to be a hard sell.” Trufante paused waiting for this to set in. Sure they had decided to go with his plan, but Cesar didn’t know that.

  “Fifty then. Tell those motherfuckers if they try and sell that stuff anywhere in this state, I’ll find them and the consequences will not be pretty. Understand?”

  “Hey, man, I’m trying to help you out here, no need to go off on me.”

  “I appreciate that, and I will not forget your efforts. Take the offer to them and let me know. I’ve got some guys breathing down my neck to get this back. I’m going to head up there. Let’s do this tonight.”

  ***

  Mac walked up the path as Trufante disconnected. “C’mon inside, I’ll settle up with you.”

  “Good deal, man. I could use a shot of that rum you got, anyway.”

  “You seem a little shaky.” Mac wondered what the phone call was about. “Come on up. I only keep that crap for you.” Mac led the way upstairs. He turned on the fans in an attempt to cool the place.

  “You know you’re the only dude down here without AC.”

  Mac ignored him and went to the kitchen. He poured two fingers in a glass and handed it to Trufante. “Don’t like AC. The fans work ok for me. Three hundred-dollar bills came out of his billfold and were quickly swallowed up by Trufante’s eager hand. “Should be more coming. I’ll take it to the market in the morning and let you know.”

  Trufante showed his teeth. “Good deal, man. What about that other thing?”

  Mac reached for the bottle of Scotch and poured a matching amount for himself. He held his glass up in silent salutation. “I’ve been thinking about that. He picked up his phone.

  “Hold on there. What’d you have in mind?”

  “I’m calling Jules. Let the sheriff’s office handle this. She can call in whoever she wants.”

  “Man, put that away. You see…” He drained his glass, “I’m in a situation here. The stuff’s not mine. I got this dude comin’ up to take it and that box is part of the package. See these dudes ran across a square grouper and …” He paused and held the empty glass towards Mac. “You can’t go there. He’ll put a freakin ice pick through me or something.”

  Mac looked at him, “That’s what the secret phone call was about. I knew you were up to something.”

  “It’s a harmless deal, man.” Trufante went for the tequila bottle, but Mac knocked his hand away.

  “Harmless? You get with some guys that find a square grouper with some radioactive shit mixed in and it’s harmless?”

  “Just trying to make a buck. Guess I jumped the gun.”

  Mac stared at him until the Cajun blinked and shied away. “No way can that stuff get to where it was intended. OK. I say we stash what’s in there and refill it with something else. I got a compaction tester that has some radioactive material in it. We can mix that stuff with sand or something and unless these guys really know what they’re looking at it’ll pass a first inspection. It’ll test positive with a geiger counter. Any luck it’ll get far enough down the line before they figure out what happened. They won’t be able to trace it back to you.”

  “As long as I can pass it off, I’m good with that.”

  Mel came through the door then, breathing heavily, her clothes stuck to her, sweat dripping from her hair.

  “Set it up. I’ll do the package up tonight,” Mac whispered as he watched Mel climbing the stairs. “Not a word to her.” He said as the door opened.

  “You’re one crazy lady, running in this heat. It’s hotter than nine hells out there,” Trufante said.

  “Thanks for your concern.” She went for the refrigerator and grabbed a beer.

  “Hey, babe, maybe grab some water first.”

  She gave Mac the famous Melanie Woodson FU look, and finished the beer like a college kid on spring break. Then she crushed the can and tossed it in the trash.“Pour me some of that,” she said, motioning toward the Scotch.

  “Easy, girl. You’re gonna hurt yourself. Guess the hearing didn’t go well.”

  “The Davies and the ACLU set me up, that’s all. I’m so done with them. If I could just get justice for dad, I’d quit right now.”

  Mac had been waiting for these words for a long time. He felt her frustration but there was more than that at play. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was jealous. She was gone all the time. He knew they had no agreement; both had ducked from that curveball. She still lived in DC and travelled constantly, wherever her cases took her. Knowing how the alcohol would affect her, he poured a small shot.

  She drank the shot and pushed the glass toward him, clearly not satisfied. Mac held the bottle and debated his options. He’d seen her drunk once before, after they’d scattered Wood’s ashes over his island. It wasn’t pretty, and he didn’t want to go there again. He put a flat hand over the glass. “I’ll have another waiting for you, but please drink some water and take a shower.”

  Just for spite, she grabbed the bottle and took a shot directly from it. “Fine.” She stormed off toward the bedroom, turning before she was out of sight. “And, we’re going to have a little chat about why you won’t help me out as a witness.”

  “Got your hands full there, bud,” Trufante said as he finished his drink and left.

  11

  “My buddies - they want to meet you,” Pete hesitated anticipating the reaction. He paced the patio outside of the rental house. Every time he passed the glass door he saw Jeff and Dan sitting at the bar watching him.

  “No freaking way. I got my neck stuck out too far on this already. This dude we’re dealing with is a little south of stable,” Trufante said.

  “I don’t know if I can get them to go along without some assurances. We’re pretty much trusting you. I don’t even know you. You have to believe they’re skeptical.”

  “Listen, dude, this isn’t a bake sale. I’m trying to save your asses here. We’ve gone past the point of no return just telling him it’s found, and now he’s on his way to Marathon. It’s a small town - he’ll find you.”

  Pete put the phone down an uneasy look on his face. He thought about the guy pulling the trigger on the imaginary gun. “He won’t meet you. Says he’s too involved already.”

  “I’d like to be too involved, and collect $12,500 for a few phone calls. That’s all he’s doing.” Jeff said,

  “Ye
ah, I still say we keep it and sell it over time. No way he knows,” Dan said.

  “After seeing your little party the other night, I vote no on that one. It’s not going to end well. Remember Scarface — the first rule is not to use your own stuff. You’ve already violated that one.” Pete said.

  Dan stood up, looking like he was going to get aggressive.

  “Enough. Pete, go make the exchange, we’ll wait here.” Jeff said.

  Dan was in Pete’s face now. “You pushed this on us. I’ve reconsidered. You guys return your share. I’ll take mine and do what I want with it.”

  “Sit down,” Jeff starred at Dan, “Time for some tough love. Pete’s right. Selling drugs is not in your wheelhouse. You’ll end up taking us down with you. It’s not a ton of money, but it’s something and we can wash our hands of this thing.”

  Dan sat down. They took his silence for acceptance.

  ***

  Pete waited for Trufante outside the bar where they first met, the cooler loaded in his trunk. He’d taken a few extra minutes to restock the bricks in the cooler trying to make forty-seven bricks look like fifty. With any luck the guy would just glance at the cooler and not count every brick. Trufante pulled up on his motorcycle and parked next to him. Without a word, he opened the passenger door and got in.

  “Howdy, partner. We ready to go get us a payoff?”

  “A little nervous. What if he counts them.”

  “Just gotta keep a poker face.”

  “Yeah sure,” Pete said reluctantly. “Let’s go.”

  “No worries man, we pull this off and go back to Sue’s. Joanie’s hanging with her, says she’d like to see you again.”

  Pete’s worry lines eased slightly. “OK, what do we have to do?”

  “All you’ve got to do is drive, pop the trunk, and look down. Don’t get out of the car. Don’t look at the dude.”

  He started the car and backed out of the parking spot. “Where to?”

  “Monster Bait. Turn right out of here and go about 200 yards, take a left. You’ll see the place on the left.”

  Pete drove in silence, apprehensive about the exchange. This was not just a little out of his comfort zone; as an insurance man, it was a lot out of his comfort zone. They drove in an uneasy silence. Pete tried to concentrate on the road as Trufante rattled on about their day fishing. They turned into the lot, crab and lobster traps stacked on both sides of the drive.

  “How do we know where he is?”

  “He’ll let us know. Pull up here and hang tight.”

  Pete felt like he was being watched. He fidgeted while Trufante sat calmly, still messing with the radio, like he’d done this a hundred times before. A few minutes later, a truck’s lights flashed three times from a pile of traps about 100 yards down. Pete looked over at Trufante, who nodded, and pulled the car forward slowly, stopping when he saw the truck, its lights illuminating the scene. The truck was lifted with meaty tires, polished chrome sparkled and neon lit the floorboards. A fluorescent ballyhoo was stenciled on the side with Monster Bait’s logo underneath.

  “Remember, just stay here and keep your head down. Pop the trunk.”

  Pete popped the trunk lid and sat quietly while Trufante extricated his large frame from the car and strode over to the truck. The two men talked for a few minutes and Trufante headed back to the car, giving a discreet thumbs up as he approached. Then the trunk lid lifted and he extracted the cooler, his long arms easily reaching both handles.

  As Trufante approached the truck, two men emerged from the trap piles on either side, AK-47s pointed at Trufante.

  “Just be cool and set the cooler on the tailgate. Nobody needs to get hurt,” Pete heard them say through the open window.

  “Thought we had a deal, man. What’s with the munitions? This ain’t cool.”

  “Do it.”

  Pete watched, his eyes large and unblinking as Trufante set the package down and stood uneasily as the leader removed and counted the packages. His stomach rolled and he felt sick.

  “Forty-seven. Motherfucker, you’re short three.”

  “It ain’t on me. Look Cesar, like I told you, I’m helping you out here. Ask the jerk-off in the car. He’s the one that found it.”

  Pete looked up. Trufante had told him to keep his head down and everything would be alright, but he’d just thrown him under the bus - and drove over him. Nervously, he jiggled the keys in the ignition thinking about starting the motor and making a run for it.

  The gunman glanced at one of the riflemen, communication unspoken, and the guy took off for a nearby shed. A motor started.

  “Just the chum machine,” Cesar said. “You’re a fisherman, you know how it works. Big things go in and little things come out.”

  Trufante started to back away, hands in the air. “Lemme go talk to the dude.” He took a step back towards the car, tripped over a buoy line and landed on the ground. One of Cesar’s gunmen was on him instantly, barrel pointed at his chest.

  “You’re not going anywhere Cajun. Cover that guy in the car, too,” he yelled.

  Knowing that he was no longer invisible, Pete looked up and saw the gun pointed at Trufante, still on the ground. His heart stopped beating when he saw the other gun pointed at him. Panic took over and he started the car. But instead of reverse, he stuck it in drive and hit the gas. The car shot forward. The brakes engaged right above Trufante’s body, and the gunman jumped to the side. It took a second to react from his mistake but he was quicker than the gunman. He slammed the car in reverse and floored the gas pedal. The car squealed backwards into a trap pile, causing an avalanche. Some of the higher traps fell on the car, though most of them blocked the road.

  Gunshots blazed through the traps — the only obstacle between Pete and the drug runners and he floored the gas pedal again, continuing in reverse, until he hit the main driveway. There he swung back and into forward, tires screeching and shooting the crushed coral surface into the air.

  One headlight was shot out, but he didn’t think the radiator had been hit. At least he hoped not. He hit the gas pedal again and accelerated out of the fishery’s entry, terrified. Behind him, he saw the truck’s headlights coming after him.

  ***

  Trufante lay on the ground in disbelief. How could easy money go so wrong? The barrel of a pistol looked down at him, Cesar’s right eye lined up behind it.

  “Get up, you piece of Cajun trash. Let’s take a little walk.”

  Cesar kept the gun pointed at Trufante as he got up, and brushed himself off. He motioned for one of his guys to pick up the package. Then he motioned Trufante toward the shed, the motor getting louder as they approached. As they entered the shed, he caught the glint of gold from the mouth of a very large man, wearing a rubber apron and gloves.

  “You got two choices, amigo. You go in live or you go in dead. Either way, you’re going in. Be feeding yellowtails for fat touristas on the reef in a couple of days. Now, tell me a story.”

  12

  Mac watched Mel’s face as she slept. This was the only time she wasn’t full of vigor and passion, and she looked almost angelic. She had showered and fallen immediately into bed, a towel under her still-wet hair. It was the best possible outcome — sleep. She could handle a glass of wine, but sharing his glass was usually enough. Her little binge earlier was way past her threshold, and it had knocked her out cold. He covered her with a light blanket and left the room.

  Downstairs in his shop, he went to the workbench and turned on the magnifying light. The box, recovered from the office safe, sat on the table. He stared at it wondering what to do. It would have been too easy to turn it into the authorities. He knew Trufante was a magnet for trouble, either through karma or desire he wasn’t sure. In any event, he realized that he was here now and he had to help his friend. His brain swirled with the task ahead. The radioactive material in the box was more than dangerous. If it was what he thought, it could blow Marathon and half the Keys with it. He took a deep breath and took contro
l of his thoughts. His first priority was to make sure the terrorists didn’t get the real material.

  A welding apron, gloves, and mask protected him as he clamped the box in the vise and drilled a larger hole in the same spot as the pilot hole he’d drilled earlier. He poured the contents onto a plate.

  Lead was the preferred medium to protect against radiation. He scrounged around the shop and found a milk crate with an assortment of diving weights, then pulled out a large propane burner he used to cook stone crabs and took them outside. He stood over a large burner, moving an old pan back and forth over the flame, watching as the two sacrificial weights melted into a puddle. Then, the heat adjusted to keep the lead molten, he went back inside, searching for something to make a mold.

  A crab buoy caught his eye. Worried that the styrofoam would burn away, however, he tested a small piece. The lead smoked against the styrofoam, but didn’t burn it. He sawed the buoy in half and scooped out an area large enough to hold the material, half from each side, then whittled the buoy so there was a half - inch of material around the chamber. That should be enough of a shield to encase the plutonium. Put together, it was now the size of a softball. Back at the bench, he poured the material into the chamber and joined the halves, holding them together with hot glue.

  The ball rolled in the pan, slowly turning grey as the lead adhered to it. He rotated the ball until the molten lead was used up and set it aside to cool. Geiger counter in hand, he ran it over the lead cased ball. The needle stayed in the green, indicating that it was safe. That was good enough for now, he thought. Next, he needed to fill the lead box and reseal it.