Off the Chart

by James W. Hall

  “Daniel Salbone, how about that name?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Daniel was Vincent Salbone’s only son.”

  “Why the hell should I care?”

  Webster said, “The father, Vincent Salbone, orchestrates a good portion of the organized crime south of Fort Lauderdale. Trucking, sports books, an escort service, beer distribution. Not to mention cocaine and heroin on the side. Daniel is his son. Mid-thirties. Tall kid. Very suave. You sure you don’t know him?”

  Thorn stared into Webster’s eyes but said nothing.

  “Okay, so you don’t know him. That’s fine. I believe that. It doesn’t matter really.”

  Webster rose and stepped out of Thorn’s line of vision and aimed the remote at the slide projector.

  With the desk lamp on, the new image was slightly washed out but clear enough for Thorn to see an overhead shot of the deck of another large ship. Some kind of tanker with more bodies strewn across its deck. The photo apparently taken from a helicopter hovering a few hundred feet above.

  “Look closely, Thorn,” Webster said. “This is the Rainmaker, an oil tanker that was making its regular run from Alaska to a refinery up the Mississippi River.”

  On the bright screen the dead bodies strewn across the deck were different from the ones in the previous shots. These men were dressed in solid black clothing and they were taller, heavier—Americans or Europeans. Automatic weapons were scattered about near their bodies.

  Webster advanced the slide and said, “Notice the men at the rear.”

  It took Thorn a second to spot them. A half-dozen crew members hog-tied in sitting positions, their backs against a bright yellow container. A couple were slumped forward, maybe dead, maybe passed out.

  “Six of the thirteen crew members survived. The other seven died of dehydration.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Last month the Rainmaker was found adrift several hundred miles off the Nicaraguan coast. From the reports the surviving crew members gave, a squad of well-trained men boarded their ship early in the afternoon on April sixteenth, tied them up, and lay in wait until approximately two in the morning of the seventeenth, when the Rainmaker was boarded by two boatloads of pirates. The mercenaries or soldiers or whatever they were then proceeded to ambush the pirates, slaughtering most of them. As far as we know for sure, two of the pirate gang managed to escape. Then the mercenaries left the ship without releasing the crew. Two days later the ship was sighted by a passing freighter and the surviving crew members rescued.”

  Thorn said, “I must be dense, Jimmy Lee. None of this seems to have one fucking thing to do with me or Sugarman or Janey’s kidnapping.”

  Webster seemed not to have heard, his tone unaltered as he continued.

  “We know for certain those mercenaries weren’t with my organization, although we’ve mounted several similar operations in the past year. So that part remains a mystery. But from identifying the corpses, and from other physical evidence gathered at the scene, we’re certain the pirates who attacked the Rainmaker were led by Daniel Salbone.”

  “The son of the Mafia guy.”

  “Yes.”

  Webster strutted in front of the screen, back straight, head tilted upward like some haughty professor choosing his phraseology with fussy care.

  “I’m sure you remember the afternoon when I came to you, asking for your help, Thorn, that day you dismissed me so rudely.”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Did you tell Mr. Sugarman about our encounter that afternoon?”

  He shook his head no.

  “I thought that might be the case. So my friend in the other room is letting Mr. Sugarman know the details of that meeting. I thought he might find it noteworthy that you’d refused to help. And that this refusal is part of the reason why we’re here.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s the connection with that and all this pirate crap?”

  “Anne Bonny Joy is the connection.”

  “Anne?”

  “Yes, Anne,” said Webster. “Last February, shortly after she served you at the Lorelei restaurant, Anne Bonny Joy waited on Daniel Salbone, who was lunching at the same restaurant and at the same time as you and your group. Subsequently, Ms. Joy and Mr. Salbone spent three weeks together in seclusion at the Cheeca Lodge. From what we could determine on our audio pickups, they had a highly charged sexual encounter. You see, we’ve been working on this case for some time, trying to harden our evidence on Salbone. And when I came to you asking for your help with any information you might have about Anne Joy, it was because your name had just emerged in the pillow talk at the Cheeca Lodge.”

  Thorn stared down at the floor and shook his head.

  “What kind of bullshit is this, Webster? You think I’m involved with these goddamn pirates?”

  “Hardly,” Webster said, making it sound like he would’ve found Thorn more admirable if he had been. “I came to you asking for your help that day because you seemed to have intimate knowledge of this young woman, and had you been more forthcoming on that occasion, we might not be standing in this room in the predicament we find ourselves.”

  “Wait a goddamn minute.” Thorn bulled his chair forward. Zashie made a move, but Webster waved him back. “You’re not blaming this on me.”

  The small man let a bit of smugness creep into his smile.

  “No, no,” Webster said. “Just because you blew me off that day, it doesn’t mean you could’ve prevented any of this from happening. But then again, we’ll never know what quality of intelligence you might have provided, something you didn’t even know the relevance of. Something we could have used to move on Salbone and stop him dead that very afternoon.”

  “And why the fuck haven’t you moved on him? You know he’s a pirate. You bugged his hotel room. What the hell’s keeping you from arresting the son of a bitch?”

  “There’s more to it, Thorn. Trust me, when we have the information we need, we’ll move.”

  “And now?”

  Jimmy Lee Webster’s lips twisted again into that miserable smile.

  “Now you’re going to help us, Mr. Thorn, whether you want to or not. The safe return of Mr. Sugarman’s daughter absolutely depends on it.”

  Fourteen

  “Is she all right?” Thorn said. “Tell me, goddamn it. Tell me the truth. Is Janey all right?”

  Webster said she was fine, just fine, she was doing quite well, given the circumstances. A smart, resilient young lady, she was handling the difficult situation extremely well. But Thorn read something in his eyes that was lagging behind the words, a disconnect, either outright dishonesty or some tricky evasion of semantics that amounted to the same thing.

  “Where is she, goddamn it?”

  “How many times do I have to say it, Thorn? We have that situation contained. The girl is under our control. No harm will come to her.”

  “The United States government is aiding and abetting the kidnapping of a child? Tell me you’re not serious.”

  “Listen to me, sir. From this point forward the fate of that girl is inextricably linked with your own actions. Is that clear?”

  “Where is she?” Thorn repeated the words with a level of menace that brought a smile to Zashie’s lips. Another bone-crushing opportunity.

  “There’s one way and one way only that girl is coming home,” Webster said. “It’s very simple.”

  “You don’t have her,” Thorn said. “You don’t know where she is.”

  “You’re going to perform the one task you manage so well.”

  “I am, am I? And what would that be?”

  “You’re going to rekindle your romance with Miss Joy.”

  “The hell I am.”

  As Webster’s lips came apart in a grin there was another gluey pop.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, you are.”

  “And what would that accomplish?” Thorn glanced at the screen, at those huddled crewmen, hog-tied and dying of thirst.


  “It might interest you to know that one of the people who escaped that night from the Rainmaker was your old friend, Anne Joy. We know with a high degree of certainty that for over a month she played a leading role in Salbone’s crew and was involved in several acts of piracy before the final incident.”

  “Anne Joy, a pirate?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Thorn.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You’re free to believe what you want,” Webster said. “But it’s true.”

  Thorn stared at the screen, the corpses of ordinary seamen, those ghostly crews.

  “The other person who escaped that night,” Webster continued, “was a man we believe was acting as Salbone’s chief lieutenant. His name is Marty Messina.”

  Thorn watched the screen. The haunted look in those seamen’s eyes.

  “As you already surmised,” Webster said, “Marty Messina has recently joined forces with Vic Joy.”

  “Yeah, I surmised it all right.”

  “That Messina should turn up in Key Largo only a week after his escape from the ship and successfully worm into Vic Joy’s inner circle, I have to say, this caught us off guard. But finally, the more I considered it, the more it made sense, and the more it became clear that what we were witnessing was a carefully orchestrated plan. A little sleight of hand that almost threw us off the hunt.”

  Webster snapped the remote and the screen filled with the face of a man in his thirties, darkly tanned, with swept-back hair that was a thick, glossy black. His milky blue eyes were a dazzling contrast to his hair and his sun-darkened skin. Sensuous lips, almost girlish lashes. He had a finely molded jaw and a nose that hinted of Roman nobility. It was a magazine face, no doubt considered exquisitely handsome by a certain type of woman. Equal parts rugged and debonair, but with a lurking tinge of insincerity somewhere in the curl of his lips and the sharp spark in his eyes.

  It was tough to find its exact location, but Thorn saw in that mix of features a man he knew all too well. This guy was a fixture at certain local bars and nightclubs. A charmer so used to trading on his looks, he’d lost a measure of respect for those who surrendered to the spell. Over time, Thorn had seen that lack of respect toward the very women who found him irresistible could turn into quiet disdain. It was a lot to base on a snapshot. First impressions, of course, could be wildly off the mark. But Thorn had run into plenty of these dreamboats, many of them rich kids with flashy cars and boats, heavy gold on their wrists, diamond studs in their earlobes. Blessed by bone structure and dreamy eyes, more than a few of these playboys wound up forever doubting the authenticity of affection that was lavished on them. And what was once pride and genuine relish in their own good genetic fortune soured over time into spite and sometimes even a streak of hatefulness that could be dangerous to all involved.

  Webster advanced the projector. The same young man was piloting a long, sleek speedboat with the Black Swan inscribed in gold script on its stern. The young playboy was sandwiched between two over-blown blondes in matching blue thongs.

  “Daniel Salbone?” Thorn said.

  “The man of the hour,” Webster said. “The rogue who has brought us together tonight.”

  At last Thorn thought he was untangling the snarl of Webster’s narrative. A knot or two left, but most of it starting to clarify.

  “You believe Salbone also escaped the Rainmaker,” he said.

  Webster smiled indulgently as if his slow child had finally spoken his first word.

  “All we know for sure is that after the events on the Rainmaker Salbone’s body was not recovered, and he’s dropped out of sight. It’s possible he was killed that night and his body lost at sea. Or as you say, he might have escaped, which could mean that right now he could be out searching for the people that attacked him. Or simply plotting his next move.”

  “Does Anne know this?” said Thorn. “Or does she believe he’s dead?”

  “What’s your guess, Thorn?”

  “If the guy’s still alive, maybe he left her in the dark to protect her while he’s off seeking revenge. Or maybe for other reasons. Maybe he’s not sure how he feels about her and he’s making up his mind, or else he’s dumped her. Who the hell knows?”

  “Good, good. You’re very intuitive. I like that.”

  “And then there’s Marty Messina,” Thorn said.

  “Yes?”

  “Marty’s still working for Salbone,” Thorn said. “He came back to Key Largo to be Anne’s guardian angel on Salbone’s behalf.”

  Webster punched the air in an ironic salute to Thorn’s intellect.

  “What a surprise. Zashie. Our insouciant young man who pretends to be so dense and full of disregard for world affairs isn’t at all what he appears to be.”

  But Zashie was finding none of this amusing. He was fondling his blackjack as if it had nerve endings linked to his own brain.

  “Where does Janey fit in?”

  “I think the more relevant question, my friend,” Webster said, “is where do you fit in?”

  “All right, where?”

  “The pillow talk I referred to earlier, you remember?”

  “When my name came up.”

  “Yes, you came up because, as I said, Daniel Salbone happened to be at the Lorelei restaurant the same afternoon you were. Apparently he witnessed Anne Joy kissing you in public. A fluky bit of good fortune for us.”

  Thorn remembered the moment vividly. Alexandra’s cool reaction. Her qualms about Thorn’s disreputable past.

  “Well, it seems that during the first weeks of their romance, Salbone questioned Anne extensively about you and that kiss. She claimed to have no feelings for you, but Salbone wasn’t buying it. It appears the man has quite a jealous streak.”

  Webster clicked the remote and a wide-angle shot appeared. A two-story creamy yellow house with a wraparound porch and gingerbread trim along the eaves. The ocean spread blue and ancient before it. Off to the southern edge of the property was a small redbrick house, squat and ugly. Along the sandy shoreline, two men stood looking out to sea.

  “Marty Messina and Vic Joy,” Webster said. “Savoring the gentle trade winds wafting off the Atlantic.”

  “Okay.”

  “So this is Vic Joy’s estate in Islamorada. Marty’s living there with Vic and now Anne has moved in as well. If Marty’s job is to spy on Anne, then this arrangement makes it quite simple for him to carry that out.”

  “But you don’t know any of this for sure. You don’t even know if Salbone is alive, so maybe this is all wishful thinking, Marty spying on Anne.”

  “That’s correct. We don’t know for certain. Thus we’re forced to make certain assumptions. And certainly there is some wishfulness involved. I won’t deny that. But our operating theory at the moment is that Salbone staged the ambush on the Rainmaker and left the crew behind as witnesses to the event.”

  “So he could drop out of sight,” Thorn said.

  “That’s right. We believe this charade was executed to throw us off his trail. He sensed we were closing in.”

  “He hired a second crew to kill his original one?”

  “Exactly,” Webster said. “Several of these men who died on the Rainmaker had been loyal to Salbone for years, taken great risks on his behalf. And he slaughtered them as casually as one might dismiss an employee. This is the kind of man we’re dealing with here, Thorn.”

  “Okay,” Thorn said, taking a moment to absorb this. “Either way, you don’t need me. If Salbone is alive and Marty’s communicating with the guy, use some of your high-tech shit and intercept the transmissions and go get him.”

  “That’s just the point, Thorn. So far Marty has not attempted any kind of communication.”

  “So maybe Salbone’s dead and your theory’s full of shit.”

  “Maybe he is,” Webster said. “Then again, maybe he’s alive and Marty Messina simply hasn’t seen anything worth reporting.”

  “So why am I here?”

&
nbsp; “Because,” Webster said, “we are going to give Marty something to report. He’s going to see Anne Joy and that well-known Casanova Mr. Thorn together, their old affair heating up again.”

  “I seduce Anne and just like that, Salbone pops out of hiding?”

  “Maybe,” Webster said. “Or maybe, as you say, we’ll get lucky and get an intercept between Messina and Salbone and capture the man before he has a chance to make his move.”

  “And Vic is going to let me waltz into his compound?”

  “Vic wants your land. You’ll go to him, dicker over the price, string him along, and while you’re there, you and Anne will puff on the embers of your old romance.”

  “And Vic’s going to let me woo his little sister right in front of him?”

  “Yes, he will. He most certainly will. I can assure you Vic Joy will be most cooperative.”

  Webster clicked the remote and the projector began to flash the remaining slides one after the other, holding for a half-second and moving on. Like some macabre disco, a light show from hell, the screen filled with image after image of shipboard slaughter, men sprawled on decks, decomposed bodies snagged against rocks, ghost ships adrift in empty seas, a half-naked woman, her body spread-eagled on the bow of a gleaming white yacht, apparently raped, murdered.

  “Vic’s working with you. He’s on your payroll.”

  “That would be an imprecise description of our relationship with Mr. Joy,” Webster said. “Let me put it this way. My esteemed colleagues in the Justice Department were kind enough to suspend their prosecution of certain of Mr. Joy’s unlawful business dealings in exchange for his cooperation in our project. A project my colleagues in Justice were forced to admit was a far more serious matter than Vic Joy’s minor offenses.”

  “Minor offenses like murdering five people.”

  “That was an unfortunate circumstance,” said Jimmy Lee.

  “Unfortunate?” Thorn looked away from the screen and regarded Webster with quiet loathing. “My friend’s daughter was on that boat and was a witness to what happened out there. Wherever she is, she’s terrified. She’s been traumatized and because those assholes know she can identify them, she’s probably also in extreme danger. And this is the guy you’re making deals with, a minor offender? This fucker is a killer, a mass murderer. A kidnapper of children.”