Salty Sky

by Seth Coker

  “What’s up, Ashley?” His eyes working now, Cale sat up, not sure how long he’d been asleep. Not sure if halitosis crept in. If this visit was designed for more than a forgotten shoe, Cale would need to sneak some Listerine.

  “Have you seen Joe?” she asked.

  “I have. He stopped by. Why?”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  This visit wasn’t destiny after all. A missing Joe instead of a missing shoe. This old life kept on forcing you to learn to live with large and small disappointments.

  The two of them went inside. Bahama number two walked in the front door uninvited. Ashley introduced him as Tony. The men nodded from a distance. Tony kept his cell phone in his hand, and Cale noticed he wasn’t looking too trusting of him.

  As requested, Cale retold the story with Gino on the dock. He convinced Tony and Ashley that Joe wasn’t buried in the marsh with a small pickup on top of him. Cale’s car was on the other side of the state, so they got in Tony’s borrowed car to continue the search. His nap over, Cale found no reason to wait around for Rodrigo, Carlos, José, and Pepe to pay a visit. Radcliffe, the treaty, and Escobar in Georgia were surely just a set of unrelated coincidences. Stop being a ninny, he told himself.

  They drove the most likely route toward the marina and plugged a spotlight into what predecessor models labeled the “cigarette lighter.” Cale remembered station wagons without cup holders but with front and back ashtrays. The front—OK, that made sense. I mean, Mom needed her little helper. But young Johnny rolling around the backseat?

  Cale clipped the spotlight onto the passenger window and lit up drainage ditches as they passed. No small trucks in view, but there were a few deer undeterred by the weather conditions. The deer froze when the light hit them.

  Ashley asked, “Why do you have a spotlight that plugs into a car?”

  Cale pretended not to hear the question, because he didn’t want to share the answer. He knew she wanted to hear it wasn’t for spotlighting and shooting deer. She asked again. The movie Bambi did society a great disservice. What was so sweet about deer? Besides their hind shanks slow-cooked in a vinegar-based barbecue sauce. For goodness sakes, they carried Lyme disease, ate your azaleas, and wrecked your car. If you get a case of Rocky Mountain spotted fever, with a headache that blurs your vision, don’t blame the tick, blame the deer that dropped the tick in your yard.

  But since she kept pressing, he provided a nonanswer answer. “I had credit card points expiring, and the merchandise options were pretty limited.” Inane answers could get the most interesting topic dropped. Of course, inane answers wouldn’t enhance his value proposition with Ashley.

  They made the main road without luck. They travelled slowly, circling every parking lot with cars. At a roadhouse bar that frequently changed names but neither employees nor owners, they found several possibilities. Cale assumed the name-changing was to skirt alcohol violations or lawsuits.

  Their search was stymied by the fact no one knew exactly what the truck looked like. Cale was the only one who’d even seen it. Tony left a couple of voicemails, trying to get the plate number. They pulled up close to a little truck and shined the light in.

  First one head, then a second came into sight. Tony said to the windshield, “Oh, excuse me, sir. Oh, and ma’am. I didn’t mean to interrupt you…. Oh, I mean and other sir. I really … we’ll just get going…. Carry on.”

  They tried another. Maybe. And another. Could be. They shined the spotlight into a fourth and saw a phone in the front seat. Tony dialed Joe’s number. The phone lit up. Aha! Mystery solved. Look at the big brain on Tony.

  Who should run in and get him? Well, with not a lot on the evening’s agenda, it couldn’t hurt for the whole gang to have a celebratory one. Personally, Cale was curious to see what was inside that held Joe’s interest for so long. They parked and splashed inside.

  Business was booming. To paraphrase Twain, a storm was one of life’s greatest luxuries, as long as it wasn’t too severe and didn’t stay too long. The guy-to-girl ratio, however, was more favorable on an aircraft carrier. Maybe the fairer sex didn’t appreciate the luxury fully.

  Who cared? thought Cale. He was in the bar with the best-looking twenty-something he knew this side of his own children. (Man, how did he let that thought slip in?) He got Tony’s and Ashley’s orders and headed to the bar while they scouted for Joe.

  Alone, Cale leaned against the bar with three drinks. He scanned the room, looking for Joe but inadvertently doing a double-take on anyone resembling an Escobar. After a couple of minutes, he locked eyes with Tony and Ashley and got the I dunno look from both of them. So he asked the barkeep, “You seen an older guy named Joe? Yellow rain jacket. Dark hair. Dark skin. Probably got here midafternoon? New York accent.”

  “Look straight out of central casting for The Sopranos?”

  “Yes.” The comparison was off, but Cale couldn’t find the appropriate analogy in his memory bank. More Brando than Gandolfini. But not exactly Brando either.

  Fortunately, the barkeep continued, “He got in a fight with a couple of deckhands. Left with the police, cuffed.” He wrinkled his forehead, saying cuffed as though that conveyed extra significance.

  “For his protection or the deckhands’?”

  The bartender leaned close and whispered, very conspiratorially, “Look, don’t repeat this. I don’t want the girls in here freaking out. But the police pulled a gun off him.”

  The comment about the girls distracted Cale, because there were … uh, so few. He wondered how much of his own product the bartender had sampled today. Then the heavy thought: This dude, Joe, just came to his house with a gun! Tony and Ashley didn’t mention that. So he wasn’t crazy; Colombians and Italians were both on the hunt. Maybe their conversation went better than he had thought.

  He waved Tony and Ashley over. Having spent his first career in law enforcement, he knew how to handle the situation. Granted, he’d never arrested or interrogated anybody, but he’d surely picked up something via osmosis. So he decided to start on Tony with a deft feint—a light touch, build rapport, work his way to the question at hand.

  “Tony, why the fuck was Joe packing heat when he came to see me?”

  A feather tickling. To enhance the subtlety, he slammed the side of his fist on the bar hard enough that several folks stepped back, and the bartender gave a warning look.

  Tony didn’t know. Well, Cale thought he could tell Tony was telling the truth, but there were plenty of good actors out there.

  Cale’s mind drifted down an alley on the actor thought. Why did actors get paid so much if so many folks could do it? Didn’t that violate both the law of supply and demand and the correlation between risk and reward?

  Back to the moment. He liked Tony’s response: “Why do you think he was packing heat? If you were a seventy-three-year-old going to confront the man who just put Hercules in the hospital, what would you take with you? Me, I’d take the cavalry.”

  Yes, Tony, investigate these almost superhuman achievements further. The big oaf did flatter Hercules, didn’t he? Mere mortals should fear me if half-gods can’t handle me, thought Cale.

  After Cale relayed the barkeep’s story, Tony left to make phone calls. Ashley wedged herself next to Cale at the bar.

  “Do you think he’ll be OK in prison? Do they separate prisoners by age? Or race? I hear in prison, gangs are all race based. Do you think there is an Italian gang in prison like in that old movie Goodfellas?”

  Goodfellas. That was closer. Not sure what she meant by “old movie.” It wasn’t black and white. Was she born when Goodfellas was made? Joe was sort of Ray Liotta with a clearer complexion.

  “I guess there are Italian gangs in prison. But Joe is in the drunk tank, not prison. The door shuts heavier in prison. He might deal with some aggressive flatulence and sleep apnea–induced snoring, but that’s about it. If the storm doesn’t keep the courts closed, he’ll make bail by noon, and y’all can sail by one.”


  They settled into their drinks facing the bar. This had been a long weekend, with more drinking than Cale was used to. Oh well, one more couldn’t hurt … much. The first sip felt like drinking a bag of rusty nails. Weren’t the aftereffects of bachelor parties grand? Cale forced a second sip. It improved to drinking chipped glass. A third. Not too shabby. His right foot dug into the stirrup as he threw his left leg over the saddle.

  Tony returned nearly an hour later, and although he was a likeable fellow, Cale hadn’t missed him. He’d taken in enough talking with Ashley that he forgot why they were there. I think she digs me, he thought. What do you think, Maggie?

  Tony said, “You were right. Joe’s in jail. The charges are carrying a concealed weapon without a permit and carrying in a place that serves alcohol. I was able to get ahold of his personal attorney. He got me in touch with a criminal defense attorney who got me in touch with a local criminal defense attorney.”

  How important was Joe for Tony to get the attention of three attorneys on a Sunday night? Cale was glad they weren’t referred to as consiglieres.

  “What’d they say?”

  “A lot. They bill in six-minute intervals, you know. But here are the main points: The local guy said that, normally, a magistrate would set bail tonight, but the storm has things stirred up. So he put me on hold and talked to the DA. Comes back on the line and says he’ll make bail in the morning for $10,000. Says if Joe was local, he’d only have to put up ten percent, but since he’s from out of state, he’ll have to put up the whole ten grand. I tell him no problem; Joe’s cleaning lady finds that much cash in the washing machine each week.”

  Was that a Mafia joke on money laundering? Or was Cale just being sensitive because Uncle Sam was letting a billionaire psychopath hunt him for sport? Why did he even think Francisco knew he existed? Well, there was one burning reason. (Was that a pun on Jim’s death? Lovely.) But if the Escobars wanted to know about Jim and Cale, they had to be capable of finding out. Given that he’d seen on the Internet what the secretary of state thought about the Russian prime minister’s breath, Francisco could find out who killed his brother. Were the documents recording those days still classified? Could they be released with a simple Freedom of Information Act request? If so, were the names redacted?

  Tony continued, “So our guy and the DA get back on the phone and broker the charges down to misdemeanors, plus a fine. Conveniently, the fine amount matches the bail bond amount. Kind of like a speeding ticket—profiting off the tourist. It’ll cost Joe ten times what it would cost a local boy.”

  Ashley asked, “So what can we do to help?”

  “I’ll meet our guy at the courthouse at nine forty-five. The judge will bump Joe to the top of the docket starting at ten. He officially sets the bail-slash-fine amount. I give the clerk of court the $10K. They’ll check Joe out. We go down to the jail magistrate’s office from there, and they hand him back all his stuff. Oddly enough, including the pistol.”

  It worked the same for any inner-city youth assigned a public defender. Two felonies reduced to misdemeanors, bail, and fine set on Sunday night. Cale pictured the judge with a pipe, a smoking jacket, and slippers conducting his business in a wood-paneled study, a fine bourbon in a decanter on the right upper corner of his desk. In any event, for the three of them, it was like the aircraft carrier banner said: Mission Accomplished.

  Tony kept the group entertained for a few minutes. He ordered everyone another round before Cale finished the one in front of him. Tony took his refill and walked the room, and Ashley and Cale returned to their banter. Was he smiling more than normal? Slightly more animated? She twice flipped her hair to the other side of her neck. Not that he was looking for signs. Or counting them. But that was a good sign—two, actually.

  Before he could order a fourth round, nature called. Cale excused himself. On his return, three guys surrounded Ashley at the bar. Where had he seen this before? Did his jaws just clench? She saw Cale coming, hopped up, and grabbed his hand. She led him to the small dance floor. A preemptive strike? That was the Bush Doctrine. And how did that work as foreign policy? No matter; it worked well domestically tonight.

  Because of the lack of women and the men’s apparent disinterest in dancing with each other, they had the floor to themselves. Cale was sober-ish, and there was no crowd to hide in. Fortunately, Ashley’s dancing was lovely, just like she was. So he said, “Mademoiselle, your beauty is only outshone by the beauty with which you move.” Of course, he didn’t actually say that. He was concentrating too hard on not putting his teeth on his lower lip. He supposed that if he said that, it would have felt a bit old-fashioned. Like a wallpapered kitchen. Old-fashioned was not the feeling he wanted to convey. Should he mention all the daddy–daughter dances he’d attended?

  They danced; Cale stayed on beat, moved smoothly, and smiled. The smile was important. Ashley led. There was even a song that required clapping on the two and the four beats. He congratulated himself on ignoring his natural Caucasian male instincts to clap on the one and the three for the whole song.

  They were alone for three dances. Somehow—perhaps a few spare ribs were involved—a smattering of women appeared. Partners joined them. Tony was doing the hustle—dunt dunt dunt da dunt da da dunt dunt—and his partner seemed pleased. With the extra dancers, the space tightened. They danced closer, more hand holding. More elbows above the shoulders. More body contact. It was incidental on Cale’s end, of course. He figured she did it intentionally. They sweated. Smiled.

  22

  THAT NIGHT, THE rain continued but the wind lessened, and they began their hunt. The three men took the black Suburban to Mr. Coleman’s house. He was not home, but they knew he was nearby. In fact, Alberto had chartered Coleman’s plane under an alias and made a deposit for Tuesday morning. Francisco found this a small expense to ensure the trip bore fruit.

  Francisco had recognized Coleman’s twin turbo prop’s call sign at the FBO when his G5 landed. If he did not so strongly wish to personally watch Mr. Coleman suffer and also realize his physical presence at the man’s death would add to his legacy, he’d have rigged an explosive to the plane. Instead, he would avenge his brother directly, and in a spiritual manner, he would avenge his mentor, Tío Pablo, too. But most important, Francisco was building the legend of timeless vengeance to right wrongs. When his tale was told around the law enforcement water coolers, would this change the norteamericanos’ behavior? He was not sure, but he was sure it would be reinforced in the minds of any new strategic partners.

  In person, Mr. Coleman house’s was as suitable a location for the end of the man’s life as it had appeared on the tablet. The significant physical separation from his neighbors was privacy he must normally enjoy; on a windy day, no noise, even that from a gunshot, would reach his neighbors’ ears. Coleman would be surrounded by things he loved, providing him no comfort in his darkest hour, thought Francisco.

  The three men entered the back screen door. Alberto prepared to kick open the back door, but the Cuban turned the unlocked handle first. Alberto stepped in and jumped back, quickly shutting the door. “Dios mío,” he gasped.

  A dog the size of a burro padded across the room, silent except for its footfalls. The dog stood on its hind legs. Its steady, unhurried growl competed with the rain splashing. The dog’s eyes narrowed as it looked directly into the men’s eyes through the glass of the half-light door. The low growl vibrated the door’s window where Alberto’s hand rested.

  Alberto pulled his hand from the window and drew his Glock. The dog would be little trouble. He started to turn the knob. The dog felt the door knob turn, hopped down, and got in position to come out the door. Francisco put a hand on Alberto’s arm.

  The Cuban asked, “Alberto, what happens after we shoot the dog?”

  Alberto answered, “We will go inside as we planned.”

  Francisco was embarrassed to have to finish teaching Alberto what the young man, relatively new to his employ, knew intuitively. I
f they shot the dog, they would have to stay and wait for Mr. Coleman; otherwise, he would come home to find his dog dead and be forewarned. If they let the dog live, they could return at a time of their choosing.

  This was a lesson Francisco learned from the norteamericanos of Delta Force when they hunted El Capo. The Delta Force officers coordinated the hunt for El Capo while Colonel Hugo Martinez coordinated the Colombian military police effort. Colonel Martinez showed no desire for wealth or a fear of death. Some called him a patriot, but more called him an errand boy for the norteamericanos. He led his men in the hunt even after his more pliable superiors ordered his replacement. Delta Force showed patience, knowing that when you find a place where your quarry will return, you leave them every reason to return to it.

  For El Capo, it was family to which he always returned. Even after buying his wife and children’s asylum in Germany, there was still family like Francisco to visit.

  For Mr. Coleman, perhaps the dog and the house would do for a lure. If not, Francisco was sure, like the norteamericanos had done with Pablo, he could move to Coleman’s family.

  Francisco looked through the glass past the dog. He disliked the interior’s finishes. Wood floors. No marble. Not enough ceiling height for a dramatic chandelier. Photographs instead of paintings on the walls. But the utilitarian house would work for the utilitarian purpose Francisco intended.

  The men walked through the rain across Coleman’s backyard to the water’s edge, where the wind still gusted. They noted the boat raised on the lift and poked their heads into a small shed filled with surfboards and fishing rods. With nothing more to learn, they left.

  Francisco told Alberto to call their pilot. Have the plane arrive in the morning. They would return to the house at dawn. It was always easiest to catch them asleep. How many judges were dragged out of their homes, screaming, as their bleary-eyed families slowly awoke? There was something about taking a victim away in front of his family that both excited and nauseated Francisco.