Wood's Fury

by Steven Becker

  A shadow passed by the glassed-in wheelhouse and Eleanor entered the cabin. Sloan didn’t need to look outside to see that a layer of clouds had blown in. With no sun to laze in, she passed him by, and went to the galley. Taking a bottle of water from the refrigerator, she settled down on the starboard-side settee.

  “I thought we were going to anchor off Marathon tonight. You promised we’d go ashore to eat and visit the Turtle Hospital tomorrow.”

  This was her second trip, and Eleanor had proven to be observant. It was unfortunate she had learned the geography of the Keys so quickly. There was too much backtracking in his operation to let her stay aboard and risk her finding out what he was really doing. Sloan actually liked her, but it was too dangerous to let her in on his scheme. Deciding that once they reached Key West he would put her on a plane back to Connecticut, he pulled out his iPad and opened the browser to the Sea Turtle Conservatory and selected “Tilly” from the drop-down list. A map opened and he could see where she was located right now. His hope that the drugs remained with the turtle were quickly dashed when he saw her location. It looked like Eleanor would get her wish.

  The wide-open expanse of ocean seemed to close in on Trufante. Many days, you could spend hours trolling with no other boats in sight, but the second you hooked up, there was some kind of honing beacon or magnet that attracted every boat within miles to your location. After spotting a stopped boat, which usually meant they had a fish on, they swooped in faster than a flock of birds on bait, trying to lure the school away. One boat quickly turned to two, and then any boat within sight would pick up their spread and hustle over.

  This wasn’t a school of fish, but there were already several boats approaching. Trufante pulled the packages aboard as quickly as he could and got underway. He knew that in order to avoid the looky-loos on the other boats he would need to run at the standard trolling speed of six knots. Grabbing two rods from their holders under the gunwale, he stuck them into the rear-facing rod holders to further the illusion. Turning to the northwest, he steered a downwind course and, once the boat was running straight, left the wheel to check on his find. This wasn’t his first square grouper. The bayous of Louisiana in the ‘80s had been second only to South Florida in imports. A good day of fishing meant a limit and a bale—or two. They contained pot back then, but these packages were smaller and wrapped in dry bags, which sealed the contents as well as providing enough buoyancy to float the contents. He eagerly anticipated finding out what they contained.

  Checking the horizon for boats again, he nudged the steering wheel back on course and reached for the closest package. He examined the snap buckle, popped it open, and unwound the folds of the sealed dry-bag. Even before the last wrap was undone, the chemical smell assaulted him. It was the smell of money and his grin was back. Checking the water once more to make sure that no one was close enough to see, he removed the first brick. Sealed in a vacuum bag was what appeared to be a kilo of coke. Two-point-two pounds was a lot of grams times a lot of packages. The math came easy, but he had promised himself he was going to be smart this time and sell the whole lot to one buyer. That would seriously reduce his take, but with no cost besides the ten gallons of gas to get out here and back, it was all profit.

  After adjusting the course again, Trufante gathered up the packages and stashed them in the fish box. The top barely closed on the hundred-fifty gallon cooler. The question now was what to do with it.

  Trufante had been roaming the Keys for over a decade, starting after Katrina destroyed several of the dikes that his concrete contracting business had installed. In typical Louisiana fashion, the inspectors had been paid off and the tests fudged. There was no doubt the authorities would come looking for him. It was more a question of how long it would take for them to figure out the concrete was subpar.

  Taking the last of the cash from his office safe, Trufante had driven his pickup to the mouth of the Mississippi bought a sailboat and cruised the Gulf coast, heading to the destination for most people with more character than character—the end of US 1. With his reserves running low, he’d made several stops before his intended destination of Key West. Marathon had been his last stop and needing some quick cash, he started crewing on some commercial shrimp and fishing boats. Then he met Mac at a fuel dock in Boot Key Harbor. Mac had just lost his mate, and Trufante was thirsty—the rest was history.

  As the miles passed, he searched his head for someone whom he could sell the drugs to. Over the years, and with his penchant for trouble finding him, Trufante knew most of the shady characters on the hundred-twenty-mile stretch of two-lane highway that ran through the island chain. The “locals” were a small, tight-knit group. The problem was the large percentage of transients who attempted to subvert them, but in the capital of weird only the hard-core survived. For many of the lost souls and grifters that escaped here, the Keys were like a pinball game. The ball was put in play the minute you arrived, and there were all kinds of pitfalls and traps waiting to send you home. What Trufante needed was someone who had not only survived, but who could tilt the table, and it finally came to him. He knew just the man.

  Checking the fuel gauges, he estimated he had a hundred gallons, plenty of gas to get him to Key West. Before he started, he needed to cut a deal, and being several miles from cell-phone reception, he turned to the north and headed toward land. Reaching the reef, he stopped when he saw four bars on his phone. Scrolling through his contacts, he found the number he was looking for and pressed the phone icon.

  “Truuu-fante, what up, brother?”

  Trufante cringed, but there was little choice in the matter. If he wanted to be rid of his cargo and walk away with a pile of cash, Billy Bones was the man. “Dude, ran across some of them groupers out in the stream.”

  “You don’t say. Heard someone asking about some product. What’cha got?”

  Trufante looked back at the lid of the cooler. “I’m guessing fifty keys. Nice and white, like a ski slope.”

  “Quantity might be a problem, probably gonna have to discount it.”

  “One sale, man. You got someone or what?” Trufante asked, wanting the call to end. He was sure no one was bugging his phone. Billy’s phone, on the other hand, held the key to half of Key West’s underground economy.

  “Give me ten and I’ll have an offer for you.”

  Trufante disconnected and looked at the time on his phone. With the sky growing dark, he turned on the navigation lights, thinking there was no reason to attract unwanted attention by running without them. The green and red reflection on the water was visible from the bow, and he looked up to check the white light on the T-top. Catching bait meant working before the sun came up and lights were essential. His might not be the cleanest boat in the fleet, but it was mechanically sound. While he waited for the ten minutes to pass, he texted Pamela that he had some business, hoping that she would still be tied up at the Turtle Hospital.

  Springsteen’s E Street Shuffle signaled Trufante that Billy had an answer.

  “Be twenty large, if you can get it down tonight.”

  Trufante didn’t need to do the math; he knew that “discount” was too tame a word for the offer. “Fifty, and I’ll be there in two hours.” The line went silent and he hoped he hadn’t overplayed his hand.

  “Right on. Text me when you’re close.”

  “I’m on the boat. How about Robbie’s Marina?” Trufante scrolled the chartplotter to Stock Island, hoping the exchange could be made there. Otherwise, with the shallows on the southeast side of Key West, he would have to round the island, which would take another half hour and, more importantly, the marinas there were quite a bit busier.

  “That works. Give me a twenty-minute lead.”

  Trufante rubbed his chin. “Cash, Billy—no B.S.”

  “I ain’t asking for no front or nothing. Deal’s legit.”

  Trufante disconnected and pushed down the throttle, hoping the wind blowing on his face and through his hair would wash the unpleasant t
aste of dealing with Billy Bones out of his mouth.

  Six

  Waiting for Billy to text him back, Trufante sat outside the channel leading to the marina. As was par for the course with the wanna-be gangster, things hadn’t gone as expected and the deal had been delayed. Finally, he got the call and entered the dark cove.

  Finding an empty slip, Trufante reversed between the two pilings, setting himself up for a quick escape. Leaving the engine running, he tied off the lines with slip knots and waited.

  A bicycle-drawn rickshaw appeared. The tail of the driver’s unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt fluttering behind him, highlighted by the blinking LED lights, told Trufante that Billy had arrived.

  “Yo yo yo … “ Billy skidded to a stop just in front of the seawall.

  “You’re going to take it in that thing?” Trufante asked.

  “Gotta bring you along too, bro. I don’t have the security clearance to be doing this myself.”

  Trufante shrugged. He hadn’t expected it, but he knew no one was going to trust Billy Bones with that kind of cash. “Where to?”

  “Dude’s got a place over by Duval. Got to see the package and maybe a taste for old Billy Bones before we go.”

  Trufante was just about to retrieve one of the bags and show Billy, but being alone with Bones brought a little paranoia to the party. He looked around the deserted boatyard, realizing how easy a target he was. Spotting several security cameras, Trufante realized just in time that their actions was being recorded.

  He continued to survey the boatyard. Unlike the more popular, and expensive, marinas in Key West, Robbie’s was more of a working yard. Large steel buildings and shipping containers were scattered randomly across several acres of scarred blacktop. In between, boats of all sizes, and in every state of repair, were set up on blocks. The docks held a mixture of work vessels and some fishing boats.

  “We’re on TV,” Trufante said.

  “Yea, up there.” Billy pointed to a pole with a security light. Below it was a camera.

  “So, what? You gonna shimmy your skinny ass up there?”

  Billy waved his hand at the rickshaw. “Dude, I’m a business owner now. Got me a fleet of these bad boys. Can’t be seen with the likes of you.”

  “Shoot, you got a girlfriend that owns them is all.”

  Billy ignored the comment. Trufante was starting to feel like this was a mistake. “Let me check out that lift over there,” he said, and started toward the idle unit. It was common practice to leave the keys in heavy equipment like the scissor lift. Anyone who could operate one knew that each manufacturer only made a few key types, and even if you didn’t have one, hot-wiring it was about as easy as a ’57 Chevy. The lift started and Trufante inched it forward, increasing his speed as he acclimated himself to the controls. He quickly got the hang of it and maneuvered the lift behind the pole.

  Used to service the rigging on sailboats, the scissor lift had controls in the carriage. Once he had set the brake, he moved to the joystick and pressed it forward. The lift began to rise and Trufante could see that the camera’s field of view easily encompassed the dock where his center console sat. His arrival had been captured. The best he could hope for now was to minimize his exposure.

  The lift rose to just below the camera. Releasing the controls, Trufante reached down, grabbed a rusty wrench that lay on the wire mesh floor, and smashed the housing. Before he lowered the bucket, he did the same to the light. As the lot fell into darkness, a gunshot rang out. Ducking below the guardrail, he hovered inside the protection of the steel carriage.

  Another shot struck the crossbar by his head. Reaching up, he hit the lever to lower the unit, but nothing happened. Shots continued to strike the basket as he studied the wiring and hydraulic lines. It didn’t take a mechanic to tell that one of the bullets had grazed a hose. He was stuck, like a redfish on a flat at low tide.

  The shots continued, and he started to wonder why the shooter kept firing at him when the steel basket prevented a hit. It came to him in a flash, and he lowered himself, placing his stomach on the steel floor and peering out the small gap. Billy was running to and from the center console moving the packages to his rickshaw. A shot dinged the basket close to his head, but he had seen enough.

  The shots suddenly stopped. Trufante rose to a knee and peered over the edge of the basket. The battery-operated taillights of the rickshaw could be seen pulling out of the marina parking lot.

  The packages, and Billy Bones, were gone.

  Sloan was able to change course without backtracking by entering Moser Channel. Following the markers, he passed under the Seven Mile Bridge, and turned to the east, following the coast of Marathon until his chartplotter showed he was just outside of the small cove behind the Turtle Hospital.

  Sloan was anxious, but knew he had to be cautious and not overplay his hand if he were to fit into his role as a philanthropist. Following the tracker embedded in its shell, he knew the turtle was there. The whereabouts of the drugs remained an unknown, and he debated what to do. Eleanor had gone below to shower and change, giving him a few minutes of privacy to decide how to handle this.

  Settling on a spot a few hundred yards offshore, Sloan dropped and set the anchor. The anchorage was comfortable, with the landmass of Marathon blocking the light breeze blowing from the southeast. Though a slip would have been preferable, Sloan, unsure of his docking skills had decided against navigating the narrow channels at night. The high visibility of the unique boat also pushed the decision. The buffer from the island stopped the breeze, but would require the use of the generator overnight to mitigate the heat and bugs. With a planned fuel stop tomorrow in nearby Boot Key Harbor, he could afford to use the gas. Taking his phone to the deck, he leaned against the combing and searched his contacts for the director’s information. It was an ask to visit the hospital after hours, but both parties knew a large check would accompany the favor.

  The answer was as expected. The director would be more than happy to show them the facility, emphasizing that they had a brand-new guest. Sloan disconnected and went below to check on Eleanor and shower. She was ready, something on the pro side of the tally he kept in his head. More often than not, his girlfriends had many more negatives than positives; his prerequisites were superficial, and once a woman’s novelty had faded, her cons quickly piled up until she was dismissed. Eleanor was different. She was smart, witty, and had an innate curiosity. While others merely had gone through the motions of a relationship, waiting for the next bottle of champagne or expensive gift, she was actually excited to visit the facility. His only worry was that she was too smart.

  With the dingy alongside, Sloan lowered the pickup-style transom, allowing them easy access to the soft-sided boat. After starting the engine, Sloan pressed the button to raise the transom and headed toward the small cove. It was a short ride, and he was happy to see two uniformed employees standing on the dock ready to meet them. They helped secure the dingy and directed Sloan and Eleanor to a golf cart parked nearby.

  They passed a covered area housing different sized large black tanks. While the driver explained that the tanks held the resident turtles, Sloan fought his increasing anxiety about what had happened to the drugs. Eleanor wanted to stop and see the turtles, but the girl in the passenger seat bailed Sloan out, explaining to Eleanor that they were better viewed in the daytime. Following the road past the old motel section, they stopped while the electric gate opened, and pulled into a parking spot by the main entrance.

  Eleanor, adding to her growing list of pros, was not a shopper. She passed by the trinkets and T-shirts in the gift shop, more interested in what was behind the doors.

  “We’ve got a new addition today. Just came out of surgery,” one of the guides said.

  “I’d love to see it. What kind of turtle is it?” Eleanor asked.

  Sloan bit his tongue, already knowing the name, species, and every other detail available about the turtle.

  “It’s a hawksbill. Turns out she’s
part of the Sea Turtle Conservatory’s tracking program.” The guide left them to check on the status of the turtle.

  While they waited, Sloan tried to figure out how to broach the subject of the drugs. “How was the turtle found?”

  “One of our volunteers was along for the recovery. I’ll see if she’s still here.”

  It wasn’t going to get any better than an eyewitness account, but before the volunteer appeared, they were given the green light to see the turtle. An excited Eleanor eagerly followed the girl to the recovery area. Two attendants sat on the concrete floor next to the turtle, who was swaddled in wet towels. A large plastic-wrapped bandage was immediately apparent.

  “What happened?” Eleanor squatted down to get a closer look.

  “Its flipper got tangled in a rope.”

  Sloan looked up to see a tall woman enter the room. One look at her and he forgot about the turtle. Moving toward her, he extended his hand. “Sloan Reed.” The last name was another fabricated attempt at distancing himself from his father’s legacy.

  “Pamela.”

  His hand tingled when she touched him. Instinctively he looked back at Eleanor to see if she had noticed the electricity in the room. Her attention was fixed on the turtle as she helped the attendants wet the towels and try to comfort the animal. Turning back to Pamela, he asked her if she had been at the rescue.

  “Mac Travis saved her. Him and my boyfriend were out fishing and came across the poor thing all tangled up in a net.”