by Storm, Buck
Her words confirmed his fears. “You go, Doc. Figure it out. Then call me and tell me what happens. Visit me in LA sometime. I want to hear all of it. And thank you for everything. Really, I mean that.”
Doc reached deep for words, but they slipped through his fingers like water. His lungs emptied, the reason clear—Paradise Jones gave him breath. Before she walked into Shorty’s, life had been nothing but hazy black and white. Like some dark Raymond Chandler film noir. But she was 1939 The Wizard of Oz—bursting forth in blazing Technicolor. Stars had shifted. The world had changed. He’d changed. And this woman was responsible for all of it.
Lan spoke from the deck. “Guys, I hate to break up a good thing, but your buddies are back. Picked us up somehow. Persistent sons-a-guns, I’ll give them that. Paradise, maybe you need to go back to La La Land, but not with those two Neanderthals. Get on the boat.”
Sure enough, the Hummer, right fender caved in, sped across the gravel lot and jolted to a stop behind the Lincoln. Hollister and Crystal hopped out and headed in the direction of the docks. A shout of recognition rang out, and the two broke into a run, Crystal leading the way.
“Get on … now!” Lan said.
Doc threw the bags onto the deck. “Paradise, they’ll hurt you. Let’s get out of here and talk this through later when you’re safe.”
Paradise hesitated, lips tightening, but she reached for Lan’s hand. Doc helped from behind and jumped on after her. Lan hurried to the wheel and gunned the throttle as the man he called Easy let loose the bowline and swung himself aboard with an athletic leap. The boat shuddered slightly, then started forward in slow motion. The couple from the Hummer still ran, only fifty feet or so separating them from the end of the dock.
“You got any more juice in this thing, Lan?” Doc said, his throat tightening.
“Relax, junior. Ol’ Lazarus won’t let us down. Been in tighter spots than this, believe me.”
Short seconds later Crystal, with Hollister just behind, stopped at the dock’s edge, breathing hard. Only six feet or so separated them from the rail of the boat. For a second, face-to-face with the woman’s wide-eyed, crazy grin, Doc thought she’d jump, but Hollister grabbed a fist full of her shirt and pulled her from the edge.
“Don’t you want to play, princess?” Crystal called.
“Shut up, Crystal,” Hollister said, his face unreadable. His eyes met Doc’s. Was there a touch of empathy in the man’s expression?
Crystal shot an elbow back, catching Hollister squarely in the ribs. “Old man moron.”
The man replied, but several yards now separated the boat from the couple, and Doc could no longer make out the words over the chug of the diesel. The couple turned and headed back up the dock at a fast trot, the man pulling a phone from his pocket and stabbing in a number.
Paradise took a seat on a bench against the rail behind Lan. Doc crossed the deck and sat across from her. Forward, near the bow, the man called Easy moved with the quick, practiced grace of a seasoned deckhand, stowing loose items and coiling line.
Doc studied Paradise “You okay?”
Tears touched her eyes. “I don’t know anymore. It’s all upside down. Like a dream but not a dream at the same time. Where are we going?”
Doc reached for her hand, but she pulled it back.
The harbor mouth lay straight ahead, and Lan stood relaxed at the wheel. Once through the opening, he brought the craft left and throttled back slightly. “Might as well get ready to hoist sail, Easy.”
“Yes, boss.” The small deckhand moved nimbly, removing canvas sail covers with quick hands.
A short time later, Lan brought the craft left again and entered a wide channel. The boat began to rock slowly back and forth.
Lan turned toward Doc and Paradise. The wind tugged the big man’s beard and hair, giving him a wild look, like some time-traveling Viking. He moved his index finger in a wide circle above his head. “This is the Brazos Santiago Pass we’re motoring through. That’s the Gulf of Mexico dead ahead.” Deep lines creased the corners of his eyes—a man in his element. “Welcome aboard the Lazarus, amigos.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Pirates and Idiots
Burt Simmons stared through his plate glass office window above Beverly Hills. The day spread before him clear as a bell, unusual for smoggy Los Angeles.
Clear day … offshore winds … blah, blah, blah … who cared? The problem with dealing with idiots—and most people invariably turned out to be idiots—was that you received idiotic results. Forty thousand dollars? What a waste.
Oh well.
Burt leaned back against the cool leather of his oversized office chair and allowed his eyes to close. Exhaustion blanketed him from head to toe. He hadn’t slept well in days. Not since the night in the pool house when the trampy brat hit him with the lamp. Who did she think she was? He’d practically spoon-fed the girl.
Business suffered as well. He’d begun to cancel appointments and spend long hours staring at the LA skyline through the office window.
Staring, but never seeing.
Her face—that’s what he saw. Couldn’t get it out of his head. What a laugh. The shrink needs a shrink. Among his colleagues, he’d become a joke. Burt never heard them, but he knew they talked about it. And they probably got a good laugh gossiping about his Panamera sailing over the cliff.
Well, they were idiots, too.
Who cared about them? And who cared about the car? Insurance had already replaced it with a newer model anyway. No. It was her stupid, beautiful face—the tramp-brat. That’s the thing that wouldn’t leave him alone—the thing that brought torment. He had everything he wanted … except for her.
And she was the thing. When had it started? Not at first, certainly. The girl was just an awkward kid when he’d married Eve. Nothing much to look at. And he wasn’t a pervert, right? He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when, but sometime in her teens—the budding beauty, the aloof work of art. The dresses, the swimsuits … Paradise Jones. Right under his roof and a million miles away. Sure, maybe there were times his hugs had lasted a little too long, or his pats and brushes had “accidentally” strayed a little, but he’d never crossed the line … At least not one he was drawing. But things were different now. She was an adult. They were both adults. What was wrong with her?
And why her? Why was it her face that tortured him? It wasn’t for lack of available women. Even young ones. He could have women any time he wanted. Had had them, in fact. Nah, in the end, it came down to one sad, simple truth. He ached for what he’d never possessed.
Story of his life.
True, he couldn’t care less about the car, but speaking of newer models … Eve came to mind. Talk about needing a trade-in. The woman hovered around the house like a wraith, reeking of booze, expensive perfume, and depression. Almost as if she blamed him for her daughter’s exit. Talk about nuts. Well, all good things must come to an end, including Eve. The divorce papers were already in the works. Hey, maybe he’d even marry Paradise?
Burt pressed his hands together to stop them from shaking.
Yes, lack of sleep. That’s what it was. That’s what caused his thoughts to ricochet around his brainpan like bullets in a cave. The Spanish coins dropped in and did their own brain dance. What about them? An afternoon of web searches had educated him quite well on the subject of the legendary treasure story. He could practically write a thesis. Hey, who knew? Maybe—just maybe—a stash of Spanish gold would be the pot at the end of the proverbial rainbow.
Get the gold and the girl. Every pirate’s dream.
It was like playing with children. Burt knew people that knew people; that was the thing. He was a doer. Even his people knew people that knew people. He’d had one of them contact the priest at the museum in Arizona—another idiot, by the way. It had been almost too easy. A phone call to hire a couple of actors—have them pose as college professors from the U of A—arrange a visit to see the coin—one distracts the priest while the othe
r snaps a few pics with his iPhone… and presto. Burt opened his top desk drawer and pulled out two glossy, color photos of the second coin. One front shot and one back.
People that knew people … Also not hard to hire the best of the best to compare cipher and key and crack a three-hundred-year-old Spanish code.
The beauty of being Dr. Burt Simmons—a few calls and you’re two moves ahead in the game. Easy. Especially when you played with idiots.
He picked up his phone and scrolled his contacts. Hollister’s gravel voice answered on the second ring. “Yeah?”
“So I’ve been thinking.”
“Good for you. Give the man a prize.”
“Where are you now?”
“Sittin’ in the sun, cracking crab legs at a joint called Dirty Al’s. Where are you?”
“Shut up. You have your passports with you?”
“Always. Why?”
“Because—the tramp and her entourage—they’re headed for Mexico. That’s why they got on the boat.”
“Yeah, I thought Mexico at first. But shoot, it’s a boat, man. Why not somewhere else in Texas? Or Florida? Or the Carib? They could go to Antarctica if they want.”
In the background, Crystal said something about a moron.
Burt dropped the photo back into his drawer. “Because I know. It’s Mexico. And now you know. And that’s all you need to know till I tell you more. Now shut up, get in your car, and drive south. To the Yucatan. Town called La Dia Perdido. Check into a hotel if they have one and call me when you get there.”
“All right, whatever. Mind telling me why?”
“Just do what I tell you. I’ll meet you there.”
“Wait, you’re coming?”
“See? There’s that brilliant deduction skill. I knew you still had it. Listen, Hollister, I might need your muscle, and Crystal’s particular brand of crazy, but now you’re going to have an actual brain with you. It’ll be a new sensation. Now get down there.”
“You’ve got a lousy bedside manner for a doctor. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Just do what I tell you. You want the rest of the money or not?”
“Yeah, okay. Whatever. See ya there.”
“La Dia Perdido. You better write it down.”
The line went dead.
Burt pulled another picture from the desk drawer. This one of Paradise. It had been taken at a dance of some sort, maybe her prom. No date stood next to her. It was a cameo, snapped as she laughed at something off camera. So beautiful she tied his insides into square knots. He thought of her out on that boat with that man—Morales—and the picture shook in his hand. He rubbed the spot on the back of his head where the lamp had connected. It throbbed the same rhythm as the blood pounding in his temples. He glanced again at the picture but saw a crumpled wad of paper. When had he done that? He threw it at the Los Angeles skyline, but it bounced off the plate glass and rolled back between his feet.
You think you can run, Paradise? Enjoy it while you can. Because I’m coming.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Lost Tacos
Paradise felt alive. Really alive. And not because of Arnie’s big news, she realized with no little surprise. The sun and ocean and the rolling boat—a completely new experience—sent a thrill through her body. How strange that she’d grown up next to the ocean but had never sailed. Not that this could officially be called sailing, she supposed. Just motoring, really. But she could love this.
Not that she could say the same for Doc. The poor guy lay against the rear rail of the boat, his face a pale green color.
Truck Stop Jesus remained above it all, securely fastened with industrial-strength Velcro above the narrow doorway that led to the cabin. He dripped with salt spray and gave his cheerful thumbs-up to the distant horizon, head moving and jiggling with the slap of the waves and the roll of the deck.
“Why do you call your boat Lazarus?” Paradise asked.
Lan, hands firm on the boat’s wheel, threw her a glance and raised a bushy eyebrow. He waved at Easy. “Easy, come take the wheel, would ya?”
Easy stopped turning a crank long enough to look up and reply. He sported a wide grin, one that never seemed to leave his face. “Yah, boss. You want to hoist the main?”
“Not now. We’ll just motor a while. I think the wind’ll die before long.”
Easy nodded, then coiled a loose line.
“Where did you meet him?” Paradise said.
“You’re a curious cat, aren’t you?”
“I’m just interested.”
Lan adjusted the wheel slightly to the right. “Little reprobate tracked me down in a bar in Costa Rica back in ’81. I needed a deckhand, and he was in bad need of a job. He challenged me to a game of checkers, bought me a Red Stripe or two, and by the time the sun came up, we’d shaken hands and come to a temporary agreement. He’s been with me ever since.”
“That doesn’t seem very temporary. You seem more like friends than employer and employee.”
“Maybe. The pirate still beats me at checkers. I keep him around hoping for a little payback.
“Why do you call him Easy? It’s a strange name.”
“Given name’s Eztli—a Mayan word—hard to pronounce for us Americans. I started out calling him EZ. Then Easy, and it stuck. He likes it, and don’t let him tell you different.”
Easy finished with the line and jogged back to the cockpit, nimble as a mountain goat. He slid behind the wheel as Lan stepped back.
“All right, just hold her on course.”
“You got it, boss,” the little man said.
Lan motioned Paradise to follow. “Let me show you something below.” He led her through the cabin doorway and down some wooden steps into a wide, well-appointed salon.
Paradise’s feet stopped of their own volition, and she gazed in wide-eyed wonder. Polished brass shone. Wood, thick with layers of varnish, surrounded her. Plush couches lined the walls. Forward, a galley stood ready for service, complete with a dining table that could have accommodated a small army—or large crew.
Lan put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You like my little hideout?”
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It really is!”
“I never get tired of this boat. She’s been a faithful friend for a long, long while.”
“She? Then why Lazarus? It’s a man’s name.”
Lan waved a dismissive hand. “Not much for semantics. More about the meaning. Come over here.” He led her forward to where a mast came through the ceiling and down into the floor. “Look at this.”
A brass plaque adorned the thick beam. In engraved script it read, “The Banana Coast, Paramount Pictures, 1934.”
“The Banana Coast? Paramount? As in the movie?” Paradise said.
“You know it?”
“Of course, I know it! Who doesn’t? Clive Granger and Madaline Lemieux. They were the biggest stars in the world. The rumor was that they fell in love making that movie.”
“Yeah, good-hearted but degenerate rum runner sees the error of his ways, thanks to the influence of the Mosquito Coast missionary lady. Classic shmaltz. And it wasn’t a rumor. They fell in love right here. Filming on this boat. She was the Gladys Myrtle then. Can you believe that? Who’d name a boat the Gladys Myrtle? The captain married them right where we’re standing. Just a few close friends and crew, all sworn to secrecy. Clive bought her the next day—the boat, not Madaline Lemieux. Let me show you something else.”
Lan led Paradise back down a hallway past a couple of closed doors to what must have been staterooms. The short passage ended at a master suite built into the rear of the boat. Built-in drawers and closets lined the walls. A writing desk faced one of several oversized portholes with views of the sea. A large bed stood as the centerpiece to the room.
Lan pointed to a beam above the bed. “Look there.”
Another plate of brass and more graceful engraving.
Clive + Madaline
&nbs
p; Our Love is a Shoreless Sea
Paradise’s breath caught in her throat. “You’re kidding me.”
“Ain’t no joke, kid. That’s the real deal. Been there for eighty years.”
“So this is actually the boat from Banana Coast?”
“Yup. A more faithful old girl you’d be hard pressed to find. Keel laid in nineteen-oh-three. Launched in oh-five. Ninety-five feet stem to stern. Gentleman’s yacht—cruised the Keys and Bahamas mostly till the studio needed a boat and bought it. Clive and Madaline honeymooned on her before they took off back to Beverly Hills. I think they flew down to the Carib and visited her once or twice after, but that’s about it. Busy life, I suppose—stardom and all. Not much time for the simple things. The things that matter.”
Paradise searched his face for motivation behind the statement—nothing showing.
“What did Paco tell you about me?” she said.
Lan laughed. “Not much. I think he’s got a little crush. Very protective.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“He told me he wants you to be safe.”
“Still not an answer. How did you get it?”
“Get what, a crush? Sorry girl, I’m out of your league.”
Paradise smiled, liking the man. “No, the boat.”
A glint came to his eyes. His boat was clearly something he enjoyed talking about. “Ah, that. Found her dry-docked at an end-of-the-road Puerto Rican boatyard about a million years ago. All blocked up and falling to pieces. Nobody’d touched her in years. Clive was long dead, and as far as I know, Madaline was holed up somewhere in Vegas doing the Howard Hughes and vodka thing. The boat had been through a few different owners, but the last one died, and I guess he didn’t have any relative ambitious enough to come all the way down to claim a crumbling relic. The yard had a lien on her, but three cases of Bacardi rum delivered to the yard manager made it disappear. The rest is history.”
Paradise ran her hand over the smooth wood. “I can’t imagine her ever being run down.”
“Ha! Trust me, sister, she’d been rode hard and put away wet. And after that, she’d sat baking in the sun for who knows how long. I spent three years of my life right there in that boatyard before I even got her in the water again. Did it right, though. And I’ve kept her up. She’s old, but state of the art. I even rigged her so she can be handled by just a couple of seasoned sailors.”