Love for Sail

by Charles Dougherty

  "What do we get for the million?" Murano asked, stalling for time. He knew what Giannetti would say to her proposal.

  "You and your buddy here might get to go home. But I'm not sure about him. I don't like guys that pick on women. Maybe we'll neuter him before we let him go. One of the guys coming is pretty handy with a filet knife. Other than that, the million would get Giannetti a chance to start clean with us."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means we'd guarantee his shipments through the islands. For 50 percent."

  "Fifty percent!"

  "Of street value."

  "That's outrageous!"

  "We could work on a sliding scale, maybe, if the volume's high enough."

  "I'd have to talk to Giannetti."

  "Be my guest, but I'd be quick."

  "I don't have any way to reach him; our cell phones don't work. Already tried."

  "Mm." Connie smiled and shook her head.

  Murano blinked several times. He chewed at a hang-nail on his right index finger, and scratched behind his ear as Connie studied him with an amused expression on her face.

  "Look," he said, "I can't guarantee what Ralph will say, but I'm pretty sure I can make it happen."

  Connie held his eyes until he looked away.

  "About the million," he said, "I can do that on my own account."

  She continued to stare at him, her predatory grin unchanged. She nodded slightly.

  "That's yours, no matter what Giannetti says, if you let me go."

  "Me, too, damn it,” Tony protested.

  Murano raised his eyebrows. Connie shook her head.

  "How much for me?" Tony asked.

  Connie studied him for a minute. "Fifty thousand."

  "Okay, I'll do it," Tony said.

  "Plus another nine hundred fifty if you don't want the free surgery, but I hope you'll let us help you. It would make you a better person." She smiled as she watched the sweat break out on his forehead.

  "Think about it, Tony. I'm still pretty upset with you; it would be better for you to wait and talk with my partner man-to-man. You'll still be a man after he gets here, at least for a little while. I think I'm going to just stick with my deal with Murano, here. You can work something out with my partners, or not."

  She turned back to Murano. "Now, about that million dollars."

  "What about it?"

  "You need to make that happen."

  "Tomorrow morning. First thing. Swear to God; the money's in the bank. I'll wire it wherever you say. Nine o'clock, Eastern time," he stammered.

  "I think you will. Let's have a drink to seal the deal."

  "Um, I er ...”

  "Don't trust me not to drug you, Murano?"

  "Well, uh ...”

  "I don't blame you. There's some nice red wine in the locker right behind your pet monkey. Pick out a bottle, and I'll get the glasses and a corkscrew." She rose from the table and stepped into the galley.

  As she opened the galley drawer, she heard Murano shifting the wine bottles.

  "Hey, Connie?" he called.

  "What?"

  "Okay if I call you Connie?"

  "Sure, Murano."

  "You can call me Mark."

  "I like Murano better. You were going to ask me something?"

  "Yeah. What about the cop?"

  "Paul Russo?"

  "Yeah. He crooked?"

  She thought hard about how to answer that, finally deciding that Paul was well-known to the criminals in south Florida. "No way. Not him. Why?"

  "What are you doing hanging out with him, then," Murano asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

  "You know who Joe Greco is?" she asked, winging it.

  "Yeah?"

  "Russo's on the task force that's prosecuting him. In fact, he put the cuffs on Joe."

  "I heard. So what?"

  "So Paul's my inside track on the Greco thing; we've got a big stake in Greco keeping his mouth shut."

  "But Greco works for Giannetti."

  Connie's heart was in her throat. She raked through her memories of Paul's comments about Joe Greco, one of the deadliest killers to come out of the drug culture in years.

  "You're not that naïve, Murano." She took three wineglasses from the locker beside the stove and polished them as she thought. "A guy like Greco, he worked for a lot of people. If Giannetti thought he owned Greco, he must have caught a case of the stupids from your pal Tony."

  "Ah," Murano muttered. "So Russo won't be coming tonight?"

  "I hope not. If he shows up, play it cool. I'll handle him."

  She was wondering where Paul was when she felt a subtle shift in the boat's motion. The rhythmical movement imparted by the waves had become part of the background. This was something else. She saw a flicker of movement in the dark outside the companionway and turned to see Paul peering cautiously below, a finger to his lips. His face was smeared with black camouflage paint, and he wore a dark-colored wetsuit. Raising his eyebrows, he extended one finger, then a second, then a third. He wiggled his eyebrows as he folded his hand closed. Connie held up two fingers. He nodded and turned away, rising from his crouch.

  "Connie?" Murano called.

  "Coming." She put the wine glasses and a bowl of salted nuts on a small tray and went back to the saloon.

  ****

  Connie put the tray on the table and slipped into the seat between the table and the port side of the saloon. She set a glass in front of herself and another across the table, indicating with a nod that Murano should sit there. He complied and she handed him the corkscrew. She looked over at Tony, still sitting where he had fallen when Murano hit him. Catching his eye, she raised a third empty glass. He shook his head. She smiled.

  "Smart. You're going to need your wits about you to get through this in one piece," she said, laughing out loud when his face went pale.

  As Murano filled the glasses, she saw Phillip and Sharktooth slip into position, one on either side of the door leading from the forward cabin. They must have dropped through the forward hatch into Paul's cabin. Phillip was wearing a dripping black wetsuit and camouflage face paint, just like Paul. They smiled at her and nodded.

  Murano raised his glass. "To a profitable partnership with a lovely lady," he said. Before Connie could respond, Paul and Freddy Johnson, Phillip's fishing buddy, stepped from the galley holding pistols with silencers attached.

  "Nobody moves; nobody gets shot," Paul said, as Phillip and Sharktooth entered from the other direction. The four men spread out to give themselves clear lines of fire.

  "I'll be damned," Paul said. "Mark Murano."

  "Up yours, Russo."

  "You know this guy?" Phillip asked.

  "Yeah. He's a spineless piece of shit that works for a hood named Ralph Giannetti. Who's the other one?" Paul looked at Connie.

  "Tony, but I didn't catch his last name."

  "How about it, asshole? Who are you?" Paul asked.

  Murano's mind was racing. Could it be that Ralph was right all along? Was Connie some kind of undercover cop? He looked at her, wondering.

  "The mon, he ask you a question," Sharktooth said, stepping within arm's reach of Tony.

  "I want a lawyer," Tony said.

  Everyone except Paul laughed, including Murano.

  "No lawyers here, I'm afraid," Phillip said. "You're on your own."

  "Bullshit. You guys are cops. I'm not sayin' nothin' until I got a lawyer."

  Freddy raised his pistol, pointing it at Tony. "Anybody think he knows anything worth hearing? Or should I just do it now?"

  "Wait," Paul said. "We can take them back to the U.S.V.I."

  "No, man," Freddy said. "Too much trouble, and the fish are biting. These two already caused us enough grief. Let's just waste 'em. We'll chop 'em up and put them through the chum grinder. Maybe they'll attract enough big fish to make up for the time we lost."

  "I want his name, first, at least," Paul said.

  "Fair enough," Phillip said. "Sha
rktooth?"

  Sharktooth grinned from ear to ear as a twelve-inch filet knife materialized in his hand. "Stan' up," he ordered Tony.

  Tony shook his head. "I want a ..."

  Sharktooth's big left hand closed over the top of Tony's head. Tony screamed in pain as Sharktooth lifted him to his feet. "Pants off," Sharktooth ordered.

  "Look out," Connie cried, as the razor flashed in Tony's right hand.

  Sharktooth was the faster of the two. He released Tony's head and caught his right wrist, stopping him in mid-slash. He put the tip of his filet knife just below Tony's left eye. "Now doan move," he cautioned as he squeezed his left fist, crushing the two bones in Tony's forearm with a grinding sound, followed by a crack. Tony screamed again. The razor dropped from his fingers, but Sharktooth held fast to his broken arm. "Now, the pants. Underpants, too. I know it's not much but it's all you got, so doan be shy. You gonna have to show us what you got befo' you lose it."

  "T-T-Tony F-F-Ferranti. Don't cut me, please. I'll tell you anything."

  "He doesn't know anything," Connie said.

  Murano had relaxed, realizing that these guys weren't cops after all. He could tell by the look on Russo's face that he wanted no part of what the big Rasta was doing. His blood ran cold when Connie said, "Murano's the brains, if there are any between the two of them."

  Sharktooth put his knife down on the settee and slapped Tony on the side of his head with his baseball-glove-sized right hand, knocking him unconscious and lowering him to the settee. He picked up his knife and turned to Murano, grinning again, a trickle of saliva running from the corner of his mouth.

  "Tell them," Murano squeaked, looking plaintively at Connie.

  "Tell them what?" she asked, smiling.

  "About our deal."

  "You haven't paid me. We don't have a deal. Sorry."

  "B-But, f-first thing in the morning. When the b-bank opens. A million dollars. You agreed."

  "I changed my mind. Woman's prerogative."

  "The fish are waiting," Freddy said.

  "Paul?" Phillip asked. "Your call."

  "I don't like it, but I can live with it."

  Freddy raised his pistol again, flicking the safety off with his thumb.

  "No! Wait!" Murano pleaded. "Russo, I can make it worth your while."

  "Good-bye, Murano. There's nothing you can do to make it worth my while."

  "Greco's boss! I can give you Greco's boss."

  "Greco is the boss. You're bullshitting me. Shoot him, Freddy. I'm retired. Besides, this is outside my jurisdiction."

  "No. Give me one phone call, and I'll call Giannetti. You can listen, and I'll prove to you that Greco was working for him all along."

  "Hold on, Freddy," Paul said.

  Freddy lowered the pistol again.

  "You still willing to hold them for a while?" Paul asked Phillip.

  "Freddy?" Phillip asked.

  "Sure. Get 'em aboard Fin Dancer and we'll hog tie 'em and gag 'em while we get back to the fish. Send us out a cooler of beer and we'll keep 'em long as the fish keep biting. Like I said, they'll always make good bait if we grind 'em coarsely."

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  Ten minutes later, Connie and Paul were alone on Diamantista.

  "What took ...” Connie started to say, as Paul spoke simultaneously.

  "Thank God," he said, the quaver in his voice betraying his emotion.

  They both smiled weakly and hugged one another.

  "You first," Paul said, patting her shoulder as she buried her cheek against the clammy neoprene of his wetsuit.

  "Yuck," she said, stepping back. "You smell like dead fish."

  "Sorry. It came from Freddy's boat. Everything there smells like dead fish. I need a shower; this camouflage face paint is bugging me every time I try to scratch my cheek."

  "I was sure you were coming any minute, and I, I ..." she sobbed. "Sorry. I'm so glad ..."

  "I knew something was wrong when I got back to the mooring about three o'clock. Took me about five minutes to piece together what happened from a couple on a nearby boat. They saw two men in a dinghy board Diamantista and leave in a hurry."

  "I was hoping you'd go online and check the satellite tracker. I forgot to turn it off when we got here."

  "I was hoping you'd forgotten it. That’s the first thing I thought of, and then I called Phillip. I went ashore and got online while they were coming to get me."

  "Were they far away or something?"

  "No. By the time I got through at the Internet café, they were idling in the harbor at Cruz Bay, waiting for me."

  "Then what took you so long? I've never been so scared, Paul." She sobbed again.

  He put his arm around her and pulled her into another hug. "The damned server was down."

  "What?"

  "The web server for the company that sells that tracking service was offline."

  "Oh. So how'd you find me?"

  "Freddy. He's plugged in to this whole subculture that makes a living off tourists -- charter boats, fishing boats, dive boats. He got on the radio and finally found somebody that had seen Diamantista at anchor; they were on their way into the marina."

  "What marina? I haven't a clue as to where we are."

  "We're anchored in the lee of Buck Island, off the southeast end of Tortola. There's a big bareboat charter operation in the marina about a half a mile west of here."

  "Is that were Freddy's boat is?"

  "No. We anchored in Fat Hog's Bay. It's about a quarter of a mile north of here, and there's a shallow sand bar that cuts it off from this bay. We took the dinghy to the sand bar and swam up."

  "You guys really dressed like commandos, or something. If I hadn't recognized you, I'd have been more scared of you than the assholes that kidnapped me. Freddy had all this stuff on the boat? I mean guns with silencers and everything?"

  "Yeah. Phillip and Freddy were in some kind of super-secret military unit years ago. I think Freddy may freelance a bit, or maybe he just likes the paraphernalia. They don't encourage idle questions, those two. You know, the old 'ask me no questions and I tell you no lies' cliché. Anyway, all three of them have done this kind of thing before -- more than once, and together, I think."

  "I don't think I want to know more, but I'm glad they were around to help you."

  "Me, too. You can't imagine what was going through my mind; I was crazed. It's a good thing they're such cool heads."

  "I thought you'd call the police or the Coast Guard."

  "Too cumbersome; you'd only been missing for a few minutes. I would have spent hours convincing them we didn't have some quarrel that caused you to ditch me."

  "I can see that. God, Paul, I was so scared."

  "Well, I confess I wasn't expecting to find you calmly drinking wine with a Miami mobster; I was worried that I was going to be too late."

  "You nearly were, but before I tell you my part of the story, can we clean up a bit? I'm in serious need of a long shower, no matter how much of our precious water I use, and you're stinking up the whole boat with that skanky wetsuit."

  "Sounds good to me."

  ****

  "After I watched you head into Cruz Bay, I came below to gather up the things I needed to fix the lock on the companionway door. It didn't take too long to repair it, and then I went below again to put my tools away. I guess that's when they came aboard. I don't have any recollection of that; the first thing I remember is coming to on the settee with a splitting headache. The engine was running, and I thought maybe you were charging the batteries or something. I'm sure I have a concussion; I've got a huge knot on the back of my head."

  "That's why you can't remember getting whacked, probably. Concussions will mess up your memory; usually it comes back after a while."

  "You sound like an expert."

  "I don't claim to be an expert, but I've been hit over the head a few times. What happened after you came to?"

  "Well, it's kind of fuzzy, still, but T
ony was below with me, watching for me to come around, I guess. How long would I have been out from a blow like that?"

  Paul shrugged. "No clue. I think that's one of the great medical mysteries. It varies from seconds to hours, for no reason anybody ever managed to explain to me. So Ferranti was there?"

  "Right. He was grinning at me, and he made some kind of 'Sleeping Beauty' remark and said something about maybe he hit me too hard. I can't remember exactly, but then he jerked me to my feet and threatened me with that straight razor. He made me undress, acting like he was going to rape me. I was scared, but I decided to go down fighting. I surprised myself, there.

  "I was measuring the angles, trying to figure out whether to go for his kneecap or his groin, but he flipped the razor from one hand to the other, and I watched it instead of him. He blind-sided me with a punch to my jaw that literally made me see stars. I always thought that was an exaggeration, but ... anyway, the next time I came to, I was stretched out face down on this table, with my wrists tied to the mast and my feet tied to that handrail on the bulkhead. I was stark naked, and every joint in my body ached, but my head was much clearer. The engine had stopped, and I could hear them talking up in the cockpit.

  "They were drinking beer, and Tony kept saying that the longer they left me, the easier it would be to make me talk, because my fear would build. Finally, just after dark, he came below and started dragging the blunt edge of the razor over my sides and back, telling me he was measuring the hide, or something. He spun this tale about how some friend of his would make something nice out of 'that beautiful skin,' or something like that."

  "You must have been ..."

  "What I was by then was furious. I'd been listening to the clock strike, and I figured that something must have gone wrong -- that your call had run overtime or something. I still figured you were coming, but I was running out of time. I decided I had nothing to lose by trying to run a con on them."

  "A con? What kind of con?"

  "Well, I'd been listening to them, plus I'd talked to Kirsten, and you'd given me some information, so I decided to sell them a ticket on the plane to heaven. I figured I could drag it ..."

  "Wait, wait. A ticket on the plane to heaven?"

  "It's just shorthand for a kind of scam. You figure out what the mark wants, and then you convince him that you, and you better than anybody else, can get it for him. You have to establish some credibility, and you have to demand some exorbitant fee for your service. Once he forks over the money, you give him something that's worthless, but you're long gone by the time he figures out what happened. The name comes from a scam where this preacher sells people reserved seat tickets on a plane that's supposed to take them to heaven."