2 Green to Go

by John H. Cunningham

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “Coming! For crap’s sake …”

  I jumped up in nothing but my boxers and yanked the door open without looking through the peephole.

  “What!”

  “You gonna to make me stand out here, Reilly?”

  Special Agent T. Edward Booth pushed past me and flipped on a light switch. I blinked.

  “Put some clothes on,” he said. “You seem a little too excited to see me.”

  “You woke me—what the hell?”

  I went into my bedroom and pulled on shorts and a t-shirt. 5:13 in the morning!

  He held up a CD/DVD jewel case. “This was leaning against your front door, sleeping beauty. I trust you’re not bootlegging music or movies now too.”

  I yanked the case out of his hand. There was a sticky note attached with a message: “Here’s the video you wanted. Damn right you owe me. Curro.”

  Good grief!

  The Atocha Museum’s security video, taken or copied from the KWPD evidence locker and hand delivered by Booth, no less.

  “How come you’re not out in the Bahamas like I told you?”

  “It’s still dark outside!”

  I placed the jewel case in a drawer and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

  “You didn’t go out searching yesterday, either. Did you think I was joking, or that I wouldn’t check up on you?” Booth wore his trademark khakis, blue blazer, and penny loafers. His hair was cut short and his eyes were red. Probably drove all night down the Keys, or flew on a boondoggle government jet from Miami.

  “I was asking around, trying to learn something before I—”

  “There you go, playing junior detective again. Did I tell you to do that? Did I not tell you to keep a low profile?”

  He squinted and leaned into me, causing me to step back.

  “You have a learning disability, Reilly? On top of being an inside trader, fraud, and potential murder sus—”

  “Spare me the bullshit, Booth. I’m going out at six-thirty. I needed a spotter and couldn’t get Ray Floyd’s help until this morning, so just back off.” I turned on my coffee machine.

  “The Coast Guard and Marine Patrol haven’t found anything, and time’s slipping by. I need you out in places I can’t go, tout de suite,” he said.

  I gathered my gear while Booth updated me on how his promotion to Special Agent in Charge of the Southern Region was getting him a lot more exposure in Washington, and how he needed more high profile cases to keep his ascension going. Fortunately, the investigator extraordinaire didn’t realize he’d just handed me hot evidence I hoped didn’t feature my drunken self as the comic relief.

  “Am I supposed to give a shit about this, Booth?”

  He stared at me, eyes lowered to slits.

  “Don’t think I’m not aware of you being found drunk and passed out at the steps of the Atocha Museum, hotshot. If you weren’t pissed out of your mind last night you’d still be behind bars. So what’s good for me keeps the heat off you. Remember that.”

  I swallowed. Okay, he’s not as stupid as I thought.

  If Booth could get promoted out of Florida, maybe that would get him out of my life. In which case he was right, helping him would help me.

  “Why’d you come down here, since you already have me doing your dirty work?”

  “One, because you’re not my only asset, hotshot. Two, to give you these.” He pulled a cell phone out of his breast pocket, plopped it on the counter, then took a credit card out of his pants pocket along with a wad of cash.

  “And three, to keep my eye on you.”

  I hadn’t had a cell phone or credit card since I’d filed for bankruptcy three years ago. I couldn’t help but smile. There were also six hundred-dollar bills.

  “It’s not Christmas, Tiny Tim. This is for communicating with me, expenses and gas. I’ll also be able to track your GPS signal from the phone and receipts for fuel while you’re outside the country. Remember that if you get any stupid ideas.”

  I drank my coffee.

  “I need to shower and get moving. Do you have anything of value you can share with me, other than your personal advancement plan?” I said.

  “The museum contained no fingerprints of interest, with the exception of your boy, Truck Lewis. He’s obviously not the brightest bulb of that operation.”

  “What about the note?”

  Booth paused but did an admirable job of maintaining a poker face.

  “What note?”

  “The one that said: ‘This was never yours.’”

  A slow smile bent the corner of his lip for a brief second. “Impressive, but inaccurate. The translations off.”

  “Translation?”

  His smile returned. “The note was in Spanish. It said: ‘Esto nunca se intento para ti,’ which our linguists translated to mean: ‘This wasn’t meant to be yours.’”

  “What’s the difference? ‘Was never’, or ‘wasn’t meant to be’, so what?”

  “I’m not saying there’s a material difference, just that your read was off.” Booth took a long swallow of coffee. “Our people don’t have a line on that yet. Could mean—”

  “Former investors, pissed off competitors, disgruntled partners,” I said.

  Booth put the coffee down. “All right, Sparky, you get a cookie. My number’s the only one stored on that cell phone, and any other number you call will be tracked, so just remember, it’s for government business, not calling your cute little blonde downstairs.”

  Booth’s intel was off too. He didn’t know Karen was gone.

  “I’ll be staying at the Holiday Inn,” he said. “Call me at the end of each day. I may have you out for up to a week, but we’ll play it by ear. Now, get to work.”

  “After I shower.”

  I didn’t like that he was here in Key West, or that he’d come by the La Concha. I meant to tell him to keep my involvement confidential, but it wouldn’t make sense for him to tell anyone anyway, not that Booth’s actions ever made sense.

  After he left, I put the DVD in the machine. Another sticky note inside said: “Fast forward to 2:52.”

  As the machine sped ahead I could tell that the lighting wasn’t very good, and at 2:37, ghost-like figures raced across the screen. I slowed it down and watched as several men appeared all at once, then twenty minutes later started coming out, two-by-two, each group carrying boxes. I hit pause and tried to study their faces, but the picture was too grainy.

  At 2:52 there was motion in the foreground, and a leg rolled into view but only for a moment. Then, a couple seconds later, a puddle appeared on the sidewalk. If you weren’t looking for it, you might not see it. I rewound the video and watched the sequence three more times. My stomach dropped at the sight of a Tommy Bahama flip-flop, clearly visible, clearly my foot. I could also see the front wheel of my bike, with the reflector on the front wheel turning in circles as the bike lay in a heap on the sidewalk.

  Crap!

  A few seconds later, Truck and another man emerged from the foggy background and walked forward, their faces illuminated by the streetlights. I saw my hand wave briefly in front of them but not my head or face. The other man seemed to whisper to Truck, who a moment later drew his fist back and plunged it forward, off the screen. He then stepped back and the other man came forward and swung a club once before Truck grabbed his arm.

  Thank God. At least they didn’t want to kill me.

  Both of them faded back into the gloom.

  If it weren’t for me showing up and calling him over, it would have been impossible to identify Truck from the video. Unfortunately, there were enough flashes of me, my bike, and my puke puddle to confirm my presence there, along with my discussion with the thieves. It was circumstantial, but it was enough to accuse me of being an accomplice, a lookout, or the mastermind, for that matter. And with everyone else missing, I could be the one to take the fall. Assuming you overlooked the fact that I was dead drunk at the time in question.

  Beaut
iful.

  I had to run to meet Ray. Getting out of town now seemed like a really good idea. The hunt for Truck, the Sea Lion, and the Atocha treasure now had new importance. Not only were my treasure maps in the waterproof pouch at risk, so were my freedom and the few friends I had here in Key West. Time was my enemy, and the government unfortunately had come up with no other suspects in the twenty-four hours since the robbery.

  The mission for Booth, an inconvenient distraction from my salvage plans, was now critical to save my own skin.

  Flyin’

  for the

  Sea Lion

  12

  The airport was quiet, only a few employees and security types around. I carried my flight bag and a small backpack through the private aviation hangar and out onto the tarmac. Ray was down the row of planes next to Betty. The gas truck was parked in the taxiway behind her, but Chet, the driver, was inside the truck talking to Ray through the open window.

  “There you are,” Ray said. “I thought we were leaving a half-hour ago. I need to be back by three or four at the latest. Spottswell wants to have the Baron ready to get out of town before Fantasy Fest starts next week.”

  I stowed my duffel in Betty’s nose. “Hey, Chet, you fill her up yet?”

  Ray and Chet exchanged a glance.

  “Ah, well, Buck, we’ve got a little problem. Stephanie says you’re too far in arrears to get more fuel, at least until you can pay down your balance some.”

  Stephanie Baldwin was the FBO manager and had control of the fuel concession for the private aviation side of the airport. She’d been pretty good to me, and the truth was I’d strung her out and was woefully behind on my expenses.

  Ray climbed aboard Betty, probably to avoid embarrassment.

  Being broke was a humbling experience.

  “What exactly is my balance, Chet?”

  He held the clipboard close to his face. “It’s $2,287.51. Exactly.”

  He tried to smile, but grace is futile when someone owes you money and you have no confidence in their ability to pay you back.

  I reached into my breast pocket and removed Booth’s credit card.

  “Go ahead and pay it off, and charge this morning’s fuel too.”

  When I handed him the card his smile was just beautiful. Then he studied the card for a moment.

  “Ah, what’s South Region SAC?”

  Crap. It had been so long since I had a credit card, I hadn’t even thought to look at the name.

  “That’s the client I’m doing some work for. They said I could cover my expenses. All my expenses.”

  He turned the card over and looked at the signature block.

  “It ain’t stolen, right? I don’t want to get fired. Ain’t nothing else I’m good at.”

  “It’s fine, Chet, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  He nodded and hopped out of the truck. “Stephanie’ll be tickled, that’s for sure. Boy-oh-boy, can’t wait to tell her!”

  Ray, who’d listened to all this from the open cockpit window, stuck his head out the hatch.

  “All the scuba gear’s secure, Buck. You brought a spear gun?”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a fat grouper on the wreck.”

  Once inside, we settled into the cockpit and donned the headsets. I finished the pre-flight checklist and fired-up the twin Lycoming engines. They started smooth, ran smoke-free, and hummed sweetly. Four months ago the port engine would hardly run, and with what little money I had left, Ray had rebuilt them both, along with the props. Now she was good as new. Ray watched my expression and must have read my mind.

  “Damn I do good work, don’t I? This old Widgeon didn’t run this good out of the factory.” He was beaming. “I’m like a surgeon, I tell you. These hands,” he held them up, “these hands were touched by—”

  “They weren’t touched by grease remover from the look of them,” I said. “Don’t get that all over my interior. And yeah, you do great work.”

  Since the taxiway was so long, I locked the free-castoring tail wheel, kept the downwind engine at idle, and taxied until we turned toward the west at the end of the runway. After the run-up I added power, released the brakes, and we began to roll. A half-minute later we accelerated into a gentle climb that took us out over Smather’s Beach.

  “I figure it’ll take about thirty minutes to reach the wreck site,” Ray said.

  But he looked at me like he didn’t believe that’s where we were going. Did he know me that well?

  “Change of plans, Ray. We have to postpone the salvage operation, briefly I hope.”

  Ray waited. In his red Hawaiian shirt he looked more like a tourist than a crack aviation mechanic, but that was his signature style. Cover boy for Margaritaville.com. Plus-size edition.

  “Did you hear the Sea Lion’s missing?” I said.

  “Truck’s boat?”

  Omitting my cameo, I explained that the security cameras at the Atocha Museum caught Truck and the Sea Lion on tape, and he was now subject to an all-out manhunt by the Coast Guard, FBI, Marine Patrol, and Lou Fontaine. Ray was astonished but didn’t whine, and given that Truck was a friend, he understood the need to go look for him. I didn’t tell him about my encounter with Truck last night, either.

  “So where’re we headed?” His voice had risen an octave. A fastidious pilot and navigator, Ray didn’t like to make changes on the fly.

  “The Coast Guard’s headed to the southern Bahamian islands, which is where we were directed to look.”

  “Directed by who?”

  Way to go, moron. “I meant that’s the direction we’re headed. But if that doesn’t pan out—”

  “I have obligations, Buck. A schedule to keep—clients. Spottswell—”

  I handed him the cell phone Booth had given me. “Call and tell him you’re running behind. It’s Truck Lewis, Ray. He’s either committed multiple felonies and may do serious time, or he was kidnapped, may even be dead.”

  Ray took the phone. “Since when do you carry a cell phone?”

  “My client gave it to me to keep in touch.”

  “South Region SAC? What kind of company’s that, and why do they want you to look for the Sea Lion?”

  Ray had obviously heard every detail of my discussion with Chet.

  “Don’t worry about it, okay? Just pull out the charts and plot our course for the Bahamas. The Abacos, Nassau, and Freeport.”

  “Spottswell will not be happy.” He grinned. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t hit the casinos on Nassau.”

  “Hopefully we’ll find Truck fast so we can get out to Gutierrez’s speedboat.”

  I had no interest in wasting time or money in casinos, whether in the Bahamas, Vegas, or Monte Carlo.

  We searched the western Bahamian waters for the rest of the day. We saw watercraft of all kind but no hundred-year old schooner full of pirates, treasures, or friends named Truck. To placate Ray, we landed on Nassau at dusk, where at Odyssey Aviation we refueled and tied Betty down for the night. While he showered, I checked in with Booth to tell him where we’d searched and to confirm that the credit card he gave me would cover our room and dining expenses. He told me I had a $150 per diem. A quick call with Donny Pogue at Treasure Salvors revealed only that his insurance company had threatened to cancel their policy and they were riding him hard for answers. The Coast Guard had found nothing and was shifting their search even further south in case the Sea Lion was headed toward Puerto Rico.

  Was that based on the note having been written in Spanish? Or did they have new evidence?

  Smartass Booth said he’d been tracking me on the cell phone’s GPS, so he was glad my report matched what he already knew. While I showered, Ray inquired about casinos, and it was watching him throw quarters down the throat of a one armed bandit at the Crystal Palace that made me realize why my mood was so rotten. I hated being at Booth’s beck and call, and his tracking my every move called for retaliation.

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  I looked up
and saw a gorgeous, caramel-skinned woman smiling, not at me, but at Ray. A loopy grin came over his face.

  “Having any luck?” she said.

  Ray glanced at me, flared his eyebrows, and turned back to the vision in front of him. She had to be 5’10,” all legs, an orange mini skirt, and a white sequined top that had barely enough material to cover her breasts.

  “Not really,” Ray said.

  “Come find me if you want that luck to change.” She winked at him, looked me up and down, and sashayed away. Those legs …

  “Damn, Buck, she was flirting. With me!” Ray ran a hand through his hair and got it off his forehead. “Did I blow it? Should I go after her—”

  “She’s a hooker, Ray.”

  He snapped back toward me, his smile now a sneer.

  “Why, because she flirted with me and not you? That makes her a hooker?”

  ”Looks that way to me, but maybe I’m wrong.”

  I wasn’t.

  I BOOKED US A suite next door at the Wyndham on Cable Beach. Once Ray lost the rest of the hundred dollars he’d set himself as a limit for the night, we went to the hotel’s restaurant, Moso, and got a table facing the water. We feasted on seared Ahi tuna and whole Laine snapper. Between dinner and the room, we used up a week’s worth of Booth’s per diem.

  “I’m liking this client of yours, ” Ray said. “Even if South Region SAC sounds like some kind of government agency.”

  “Just don’t drink too many mojitos, we have a long day ahead of us to—”

  Past the beach, something caught my eye.

  It was a large sailboat. A schooner.

  On my feet, I tried to make out its features in the dark. Too much distance, not enough light.

  “What’re you doing?” Ray said.

  “Be right back.”

  I ran out the side door and down onto the powdery white sand and to the water’s edge. A firework shot up from the boat’s bow, and when it burst with a small pop, it illuminated several smiling faces on board.

  Party boat.

  Probably a sunset cruiser back from its circuit. Similar to the Sea Lion, but many of that genre were. Tourist cruisers were often old sailing ships that had no other contemporary use than to evoke the romance of old-time seafaring days.