Wood's Wall

by Steven Becker

  The space below the bench was full of gear. Mac was on his knees, pulling out tools, wondering why he could keep a boat so organized while his work space was a disaster. The compaction tester was all the way in the back, dusty from the years it had sat there untouched. He hadn’t needed the tester since he retired from commercial diving ten years ago. He lifted the compactor onto the bench and started to take it apart. The tester, called a nuclear densitometer lay in pieces. It held a small amount of radioactive material in it to test for soil compaction. The radioactive material removed from the unit, Mac lay the parts of the tester aside. The material from the tester was impotent compared to the brick, perfect for a red herring. A geiger counter reacted to radioactivity. It didn’t specify the type. The material from the tester would cause a reaction. It would take a nuclear engineer to realize it wasn’t the more potent plutonium he’d removed.

  Relieved, he cleaned up and took the lead ball out to the boat. He’d dispose of it in the morning. He was just placing the box back in the safe when Mel startled him.

  “Hey, whatcha doing?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  “My head hurts.”

  He went up to her, hurrying before she had a chance to come down. “Quite the binge for you. Surprised you’re even up.”

  “Sorry about that. I was so pissed at my boss. I came back and ran the old bridge to Pigeon Key and back. Still pissed.”

  “Four miles in this heat, and I know you didn’t take it slow. Just glad you made it back. Want to talk about it?”

  “Not now. I’m cool, don’t want to get all worked up again. Tomorrow.” She kissed him and headed upstairs.

  Still a little shaky from the work, he poured himself another Scotch and went out on the back deck. He was in over his head and he knew it. With any luck, Trufante could pass off the bricks without incident. He assumed the material was headed to a terrorist group. Who else would smuggle in plutonium? These groups were seldom highly trained. He hoped they wouldn’t notice the less potent material. Whatever they made with it would be harmless. He would hide the lead ball with the real material where no one would find it tomorrow morning.

  The phone vibrated on the counter, but he ignored it.

  ***

  “Where is the last brick then? I’ll deal with the gringos about what they have stolen and snorted.”

  The man in the apron dragged him closer to the chum grinder. He hit the power switch and the motor whirled.

  “Cajun. You going to answer?”

  Before he could answer the man grabbed his hand and stuffed it into the inlet. He struggled, but the man was more powerful. His wrist was buried in the intake when the blades found his index finger.

  “Alto.” Cesar yelled over the noise. The man started pushing harder - then restrained himself. He backed away, allowing Trufante to extricate his hand from the machine. It came out dripping blood. He grabbed for a towel and fell to his knees.

  “Well Cajun, do you have something to say?”

  “Shit, I would have told you without this.” He held up the mangled hand.

  Cesar ignored him. He said something in Spanish to the butcher, who quickly left, flashing a quick smile at Trufante on his way out.

  “Well?”

  “Give me my phone.” Trufante was sweating, dialing with his right hand as blood dripped from his left. He writhed in pain, waiting for Mac to answer, his pinkie finger missing to the knuckle.

  “Better find your friend there, or we’ll have to go deeper.”

  “He’s not answering. I don’t know what’s up. I need a freakin’ doctor.” He whimpered.

  “When I have my property back I will dump your sorry Cajun ass at the hospital”

  Trufante was desperately trying to save his remaining digits. Torture was not in his wheelhouse, and he would have caved in before losing the tip of his finger if the sadistic bastard in the apron hadn’t wanted to draw blood so badly. “We can just go over there.”

  “What about the driver, how do we find him? First we take care of that loose end, then we can go see your friend.”

  “Yeah, whatever, just get me away from this butcher shop.”

  ***

  Pete pulled into the parking lot of the bar where he’d met Trufante the other night, still shaking. He sat in the car, not knowing what to do. The deal had gone south — no money, no drugs, and some serious badasses were after him. He didn’t think they’d look for him in a bar, but he had to hide the car. He pulled out and headed around the back of the building, the driveway running parallel with the dock that serviced the charter boats. He carefully selected a space not visible from the road, parked, and headed into the bar.

  13

  Trufante’s finger, or what was left of it, throbbed. He’d controlled the bleeding by tying a piece of monofilament fishing line he’d found on the floor of the bait house around it and cinched it tight. A dirty rag was clutched over it, absorbing any wayward blood.

  “Don’t bleed in the truck, Cajun. I’ll make you ride in the back,” Cesar snorted from the front seat.

  Trufante didn’t answer. He had no idea how to get out of this. He’d willingly given up the address where Pete was staying — how else did you deal with these psychos, who cut off body parts first and ask questions later? Besides, Pete had ditched him as fast as he could, saving his own skin, and he figured that meant he had the right to do the same.

  They pulled up to the rented house and parked next to the Excursion in the driveway. The house was dark and quiet as they walked up the path. Trufante had begged to stay in the truck, but Cesar opened the door and grabbed his good arm, dragging him towards the house.

  “Knock.” Cesar ordered as he ducked out of view. Trufante knocked on the door and waited.

  “Maybe no one’s home.”

  “The car is here, and it’s not the same one as the guy who was with you. That means someone’s here, and I’m betting they know where my drugs are.” Cesar knocked harder, with the butt of his gun. Still no answer. He signaled one of his men to go around back while he waited in front.

  “Back door is open.” The guy’s voice came from around the corner.

  Cesar pushed Trufante in front of him as they made their way around the house. Cool air escaped as the sliding glass door opened. They entered slowly, the two men fanning out, checking the kitchen, bathroom, and garage. They concentrated on the bedrooms next. A closed door appeared on the right, two others on the left. One door was open, the room empty. They moved past the bathroom to the two closed doors.

  One swift kick from Cesar’s boot left the door hanging on one hinge. Two lumps in the bed shifted, but didn’t wake as they entered the room. Trufante stayed behind in the hall.

  “That’s my shit.” Cesar walked over and stuck his finger in the mountain of white powder on the table. He licked his finger, confirming his initial reaction. “These fuckin’ gringos are partying on my shit,” he screamed.

  He went to the bed and stared at the two sleeping bodies. Incensed, he grabbed the mattress and dumped it on the floor. The bodies landed on top of each other. They started to unravel themselves from the sheets when a booted toe landed on each of them.

  “Stay where you are.” He turned as he heard the other door open. “Jose, take these two into the living room.”

  “What’s going on here?” The man stood in the other doorway a woman’s hair visible behind him.

  “You enjoying my stuff too?” Cesar snapped. Turning, he pushed the newcomers into the living room as well.

  ***

  Trufante took one of the chairs. The two couples huddled together on the couch, obviously terrified. The women were weeping, the men wide eyed in disbelief. Cesar and his drug runner stood over them, freely waving their guns around.

  “I want my shit back and you will pay for what is missing.” Cesar started.

  “We found it, and who says it’s yours? We don’t owe you anything,” Dan said.

  Cesar went up to him and plac
ed the gun to his forehead. He pulled the trigger without warning, and blood and brain matter sprayed over the living room. Trufante looked on, the pain forgotten. Somehow he needed to get out of here and warn Mac.

  The women were screaming now, inching away from the body.

  “Whatever you want. Just don’t hurt us. I’ll get it for you,” Jeff said, starting to rise.

  “Now, that’s the kind of attitude I like to see. Sit right there. Jose will get it. Tell him where it is.”

  Jose went towards the bedrooms. He came back with two opened bricks, each with about a quarter missing. He started toward the kitchen, ostensibly looking for a plate to scrape up what was scattered around the house, but Cesar stopped him.

  Trufante watched on in horror. He’d been around commercial fishermen for long enough to know that his finger would heal. But, killing the dude was way out there. “They didn’t take much. Why don’t you take it off their finders fee?” He pleaded.

  “Ain’t no finders fee now. They’ll pay for all that. Don’t worry about it.” He turned back to the people in front of him. “Looks like you owe me a half a brick. That’ll be a hundred large.”

  “I don’t have a hundred grand.” Jeff put his hands out in front of him, pleading for understanding.

  Cesar shrugged, unperturbed. “That’s including my good customer discount. You have twenty-four hours to come up with it. I’ll take the women as collateral.”

  “Don’t let him do this!” one of the women screamed.

  Jeff moved to comfort her. “Donna, babe, It’s going to be ok. I’ll get what they want. You guys just keep cool” He turned to Cesar. “OK, but I need to go to Tampa and back. I need some more time.”

  “Drive fast, gringo.”

  Cesar motioned the women off the couch. They rose as one, clutching each other, and he nodded at Trufante, who rose as well. They looked like a funeral procession walking single-file to the truck.

  ***

  Pete looked around the bar. It was about half-full — quieter than the night before. He scanned the crowd for Joanie and Sue, but didn’t see them. Hoping they were regulars, he sat at the bar and waited for the bartender to make her way to him. He needed someone to talk to. His mind spun with the possibilities of what was going on now. What had they done to Trufante? What about Dan, Jeff and the girls? He reached for his phone and dialed Jeff’s number. It went to voicemail. He texted a message for him to call.

  “What can I get you, hon?”

  “I’m trying to find a couple of girls that were here last night. Sue and Joanie.”

  “Aren’t we all.” She winked at him.

  “Maybe you remember the guy I was talking to. Tall, thin, lots of teeth.”

  “Oh, that’s Tru. I can’t give out any numbers, but I’ll call him for you.”

  “I’m actually looking for Joanie. We kind of hit it off,” He said, knowing Trufante was in no position to answer his phone.

  “Don’t have her number, but I know she works over at Fisherman’s Hospital. Why don’t you check over there?”

  “Thanks. I will. How ‘bout a shot of Jack. Hell, make it a double.” Pete badly needed something to calm him down.

  She set the shot glass in front of him. It barely hit the bar top before he slammed the shot. He got up and left a ten on the bar.

  Back outside, he sat in his car and dialed. He took a chance and dialed Trufante’s number first which went straight to voicemail, and he hung up without leaving a message. Whatever had happened to the guy, he didn’t need some stranger listening to a voicemail that might implicate him in the wrongdoing. He pulled out of the lot and drove aimlessly towards US1. With no plan, he sat an extra minute at the stop sign deciding which way to go when he saw the black truck with the neon floorboards and ballyhoo stenciled on its sides. Steeled by the bourbon and not knowing what else to do, he backed out of the lot and followed.

  The truck was heading south, toward Key West. He tried to stay several cars back, but got nervous about losing them and crept closer. He was right behind them at the red light, his one working headlight revealing what looked like three heads in the back seat. It looked like one tall guy — possibly Trufante — and two women.

  The truck turned left on 15th Street. Halfway down the street, the driver cut the lights. Pete felt vulnerable now, and found a house with no cars in the driveway, where he could hide the car. He got out and followed on foot.

  14

  Mac jumped out of bed. He’d just dozed off when the sound of the front door being kicked in woke him. His first instinct was to grab Mel and get out. The extra 110 pounds didn’t slow him as he went out the sliding door onto the deck and headed down the stairs. They were at the dock when she came to, eyes wide and started to open her mouth. Mac put a finger to his lips. Just as he set her down the lights went on in the house. Mel went over the gunwale first and Mac followed wondering what kind of trouble Trufante had gotten him into now. This had to have something to do with the plutonium.

  They went into the cabin, and Mel sat on a bunk, naked. “What the hells going on?”

  Mac ignored her as he peered through the window. Seeing nothing but lights, he went for the revolver hidden behind an access panel in the main stateroom. Back on deck, he screened himself behind the winch and watched. Mel creeped up behind him wrapped in a towel.

  ***

  Trufante was the last in the house, nudged through the door by the barrel of Cesar’s hit man’s gun. The initial shock of the mauling had worn off, but his finger still throbbed incessantly. He was trying not to think about the fact that he’d have to live the rest of his life with only half a finger - if he lived at all.

  The two women in front of him were still sobbing hysterically. There was nothing he could do to comfort them with a gun in his back.

  “Jose’, stay down here with the gringos. I’m going to have a look upstairs.” He disappeared up the staircase, returning seconds later. “He’s gone. Cajun, I swear to Mary that I will take all your fingers off and feed them to the fish if you warned him.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve been with you the whole time. You’ve got my phone.”

  Cesar moved towards Trufante, took his hand and pinched the stub. Trufante’s eyes bugged out from the pain. “I’m watching you. Where is the last package?”

  Trufante stumbled as he went towards the workbench. He’d already noticed the box missing, but had no alternative than to go through the process. Cesar followed him to the spot where Mac had examined the box. “It was here the last I saw of it.” Cesar reached for his finger again, but Trufante saw him coming and jerked it back. “Let’s check the office, that’s where he would have put it.” He was running out of options.

  Trufante used his good hand to sort through the desk and shelves. Cesar stood in the door, watching. “Hurry up, Cajun.”

  “Give me a minute, there’s a ton of crap in here.” He moved toward the closet with the gun safe, and hid his surprise at finding the door open. Placing his body to block Cesar’s view, he grasped a gun. He could take down Cesar, but the other guy was outside, and would be on him as soon as he fired. He needed to work his way toward the back door before he shot, leaving himself an exit route.

  “Move Cajun,” Cesar barked. He’d obviously seen the safe, then, and guessed at what it might contain.

  Trufante let the towel in his hand fall loosely over the gun as he moved backwards, watching as Cesar couldn’t resist the lure of the safe. He went right for it and started searching the shelves as Trufante backed out of the room. He went towards the girls, who were huddled together and tried to move them slowly towards the rear door. Jose was staring at the office waiting for Cesar to appear as they started inching their way out. He eyed the office door hoping for a few extra seconds to get out and make their escape.

  “Got it.” Cesar yelled. He came out of the office with the brick-shaped box. He looked at the girls standing by the rear door. “Jose, we don’t need them anymore.”


  “Now?” Jose asked.

  Cesar nodded in the affirmative, and Jose shot them, execution style. They fell to the ground, still clutching each other. Trufante had to make his move now. He raised the gun, his hand shaking violently from the pain. The first shot got Jose in the leg, putting him on the floor. He whirled, looking for Cesar, and saw that the man had hidden behind one of the columns. Trufante took a shot at him, knowing it would miss, but hoping to gain enough time to make it out the door. He glanced at the blood pooling around the bodies on the concrete floor. Nothing he could do now - he had to move.

  As he dove through the door, both Mexicans fired, their bullets dinging the door jamb on either side of him. He rolled and shot back twice, then heard another shot. A bullet hit the doorjamb, but it had come from outside the house.

  There was another shooter outside somewhere. He prayed that it was Mac.

  Cesar ducked inside, taking shelter from this unknown threat, and Trufante scrambled farther out onto the dock.

  “Come on, move. I’ll cover you. Get the dock lines,” a voice muttered from the darkness.

  Trufante didn’t question the orders. He jumped on the boat and let the lines free as Mac started the engines and slammed the twin diesels into gear. Moments later, they were leaving the harbor, the engines pushing the boat as fast as it could go.

  ***

  “Shit. They got away.” Cesar quickly inspected himself and, finding no damage, turned to Jose. The large man was writhing in pain on the ground. “I’ll get something to wrap that. You’ll be ok.” He took off his belt, bent down and tightened it around Jose’s leg. “Can you get to the truck? I’ve gotta get rid of the bodies. Police find the same gun was used here as the other house, they’ll up the ante.”

  Jose nodded and started crawling toward the stairs. He used the railing to haul his body erect and limped out the door, a path of blood trailing behind him.