Rising Tide

by Wayne Stinnett

  It just made common sense. Streetwalkers weren’t the same as high-dollar Las Vegas call girls. Those who turned tricks in a filthy alley to get drug money probably wouldn’t spend more than ten minutes with a client. I had no idea what the going rate was but would be surprised if it was more than twenty bucks.

  “Paul, there’s a Publix a couple of miles from here. Get an Uber and head over there. Stock up with enough to last us a few days, okay?”

  He nodded, scooping up a stack. “About $101 worth of groceries?”

  I grinned. “Probably three times that, but yeah, break as many bills as you can.”

  “We could probably use a car,” Tank suggested.

  “Billy’s tied up,” I said. “But why don’t you go with Paul and have the Uber driver take you to the nearest car rental after dropping him off at the Publix. You can pick him up on the way back.”

  Tank and DJ picked up a stack of bills and we exited the boat, each heading in different directions. I went to the marina office and paid cash for three nights. It came to a little over $400. Then I stopped at the fuel dock on the way back and asked if the hose could reach the Revenge at the end. The dockmaster said it would reach the whole face dock.

  “I’ll need about three hundred gallons,” I told him.

  After that, I went back to the boat and powered up the laptop while I waited for him to unroll the hose.

  I had an email from Chyrel and one from Jack Armstrong. I opened his first. In it, he explained that work was going well on the ship, but the cabin renovation might take a little longer. He said to not plan on arriving until the following Monday.

  I wondered at the necessity of it. Odds were that whatever happened with Alberto, he’d be gone from us in a short time, and there was little that Savannah or I could do about it.

  In the email from Chyrel, she said that they were at the Rusty Anchor but would be underway shortly. The time stamp was several hours ago, so they were likely halfway to Fort Myers already.

  She went on to list nearly a dozen rehab centers in the Fort Myers area, which surprised me. Looking at the addresses, I immediately dismissed half of them—they were too close. Then I noticed one that was in Fort Myers Beach, well out of town, out on Estero Island.

  “Ahoy Gaspar’s Revenge,” a voice called from outside.

  I stepped out into the cockpit and saw the dockmaster there with the fuel pump hose. I opened the access hatch and removed the cap, then took the hose from him.

  “About three hundred gallons?” he asked.

  “No more than that,” I replied. “We’re at about half a tank now.”

  “Roger that, Captain,” he said. “I’ll start the pump and set it to shut off at three hundred. It’ll probably take a good ten minutes. How do you plan to pay?”

  “No hurry,” I replied. “I’ll pay with cash.”

  He disappeared back toward the little shack in the center of the dock. I squeezed the trigger on the nozzle and wedged the cap under the trigger to keep it open.

  When the pump stopped, I removed the nozzle, closed the fuel cap and door, and set the nozzle up on the dock. I could see the dockmaster was busy bringing in another boat, so I went.

  I searched for the facility on Estero and called them. I gave the woman my name, then lied and said I had a friend who needed their help and asked how I could go about setting up and paying for her treatment.

  “You’ll need to bring your friend in for an assessment,” the pleasant-sounding woman named Audrey said. “We have plenty of room just now, but the doctors only take new patients on a case-by-case basis.”

  “Can I come in and meet with the doctors before I bring her in?”

  “Well,”—she paused—“that’s a little out of the ordinary. We usually prefer to meet with the patient.”

  I wasn’t going to be dissuaded that easily. “I think when the doctors meet with me, they’ll understand why this is necessary.”

  “Let’s see,” she said. “I can probably schedule it for next Wednesday.”

  “I was thinking more like this afternoon,” I said.

  “That’s out of the…”

  “I’ll pay two thousand dollars for ten minutes of their time.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look,” I said. “This is very important. Can you arrange for the doctors to meet me at fifteen hund…er, three o’clock? Whether they take my friend as a client or not, I’ll make a two-thousand-dollar donation on the spot, before we talk.”

  “This is very unorthodox, Mr. McDermitt.”

  “What can I say? I’m an unorthodox sort of guy. Can you do it?”

  There was a short pause. “Not at three,” she said. “But all three doctors will be in a conference at three-thirty. Can you come then? They’ll only be able to give you ten minutes.”

  “That’s perfect, Audrey. I’ll see you then.”

  I ended the call and went back out to the cockpit just as the dockmaster was walking up to the boat.

  “Three hundred gallons, Captain,” he said, moving the nozzle to the center of the dock.

  “What’s the damage?” I asked.

  “That’ll be $947.70,” he replied.

  I grinned. “Perfect. Hang on a sec.”

  I went back inside and took another eleven bills from the open bundle. I handed the dockmaster ten of them and told him he could keep the change if he’d break the other bill into tens for me.

  “Can do, sir,” he replied, then hurried away.

  He was back before I finished wiping down the insides of the access hatch.

  “Does the marina have a loaner car?” I asked, taking the bills from him.

  “Two, actually,” he replied. “Need to get some groceries?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Is it available twenty-four hours?”

  “No,” he replied. “Just while the marina’s open.”

  I studied his features. He was average height and slim. Though he was probably only in his thirties, his face was lined from squinting in the sun and the short hairs at his neck were darker than on top. The patch on the front of his shirt said his name was Mark.

  “You live aboard, Mark?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “A Hunter 27.”

  “One of the guys I’m with has one,” I said. “He named it Whole Nine Yards. Yours a twin keel?”

  He grinned. Boaters liked to talk about their boats. “Cool name. Yeah, the twins make her a pig pointing to windward, but the shallower draft lets me get into gunkholes where a lot of monohull sailboats can’t. She’s not real big, and she doesn’t go fast, but she’s comfortable and gets me where I want to go. Plus, when the tide goes out, she sits upright on the sandy bottom.”

  “How’d you like to make a hundred bucks a night for the next couple of nights?”

  He eyed me suspiciously.

  “Nothing illegal,” I assured him. “I just need a car and driver to ferry people over to Estero.”

  “What time?” he asked.

  “Come aboard,” I said. “If you have a minute.”

  He dropped down and leaned against the coaming.

  “Are you aware of the gang war that’s going on here?” I asked point blank, to gauge his reaction.

  He nodded somberly; a sour look on his face. “Hard to ignore,” he said. “This marina’s just a stone’s throw from some pretty seedy neighborhoods.”

  I dug into my pocket and took out a little metal card holder that had the seal of the Marine Corps engraved on it.

  I took a card out and handed it to him. “I’m a private investigator. My associates and I need someone we can trust locally.”

  He nodded at the metal card holder. “You a Marine?”

  I saw the look in his eyes. A fire born of more than two hundred years of history. I’d met another Jarhead.

  “Retired twenty years ago,” I replied. “Infantry.”

  “Oh-four to oh-eight,” he said. “Arty.”

  I grinned. Cannon-cockers were a tight
bunch. “There are few problems that liberal doses of high explosive artillery can’t resolve.”

  “I have my own car,” he said. “But I can’t get involved in anything that would jeopardize my job.”

  “I understand completely. We’re here to try to put an end to the problems those neighborhoods are having. And hopefully find out what happened to a little boy.”

  “What do I have to do?” he asked.

  On the flybridge, I watched boat traffic out on the Caloosahatchee while I waited. It was hard to believe that just a few blocks away, rival gangs were fighting over territory, people were being killed, and drug addiction was being fed by the almighty dollar.

  I’d grown up here. Dad had taken me and Mom with him whenever he was stationed somewhere that allowed it. I’d lived a short time up at Camp Lejeune and out at Twenty-Nine Palms. But Dad always thought a stable home was important, and he’d bought a house not far from Mam and Pap’s place. They’d lived out on Highway 80 in the Fort Myers Shores neighborhood.

  Pap had bought land on the Caloosahatchee soon after he returned from the war in the South Pacific. He’d built a modest home on it, mostly by himself. He’d gone to college under the old GI Bill and earned a degree in architecture and design.

  When Dad followed in Pap’s footsteps as a Marine, Pap had given him the down payment to buy a house in the neighborhood that had sprung up around his home. Dad married soon after and began to put down roots.

  Mam and Pap’s old place stood just sixteen miles upriver, and the house Dad had bought was just a few blocks away from it. The dark water flowing past was no different now than it had been then. I’d played along the river’s bank, swum in its water, and later, as a teen, explored every inch of shoreline from here to Labelle by canoe.

  I pulled my phone out and called Billy.

  “I was just thinking about you, Kemosabe,” he said, without greeting.

  Billy and I had always had a deep connection. We’d grown up together in this area, and even though our homes were separated by several miles, we were of different cultural backgrounds, and two years apart in age, we’d been awfully close friends.

  “I’m sitting on the flybridge watching the Caloosahatchee flow by,” I said.

  “That explains it.”

  “How are things there?”

  “A bit of excitement last night,” he replied. “But quiet today.”

  “What happened?”

  “A van loaded with gangbangers stopped by for a visit,” he said, his voice subdued. “A couple of them needed help walking back to their van and one will have a little trouble hearing.”

  I grinned. Billy wasn’t prone to bragging, so I took what he was saying to mean he’d hurt several MS-13 members pretty badly. I knew it was a waste of time to ask if he was okay, but I did anyway.

  “Nothing a few ibuprofen can’t fix,” was his reply. “Why are you here?”

  “We’re coming at the problem from a different angle,” I replied. “MS-13 is having problems with a rival gang. I have a few snake eaters with me, and we plan to make life miserable for both sides.”

  He chuckled softly. “Playing both ends against the middle, huh?”

  “Keep your head on a swivel,” I told him, as Tony and DJ came walking down the dock.

  “And my ear to the ground,” he said. He laughed at some inside joke, then ended the call.

  “Come on up,” I called down to Tony and DJ. “Everything go okay?”

  “No problem,” Tony said, pulling a wad of small bills from his pocket.

  “Just hang onto that,” I told them both. “Tonight, we’re going shopping. I have a second car and a driver.”

  “Who?” DJ asked.

  “One of the dockmasters,” I replied. “A guy named Mark. He’s a former Marine gun bunny who offered to carry our guests down to a treatment center on Estero Island.”

  “Where’s that?” Tony asked.

  “Ten miles south of here,” I replied. “Across San Carlos Bay from Sanibel Island.”

  “Ya know,” DJ began, “rousting the gang’s hookers won’t amount to much of a disruption.”

  I grinned at him. “Which is why I’m glad you’re with us, DJ.”

  His features turned wary. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Drug dealers would be pretty suspicious of me, just based on my looks,” I said. “Same with Paul and Tank.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Tony said. “All three of you look as straight as the proverbial arrow. But I can pull it off in certain neighborhoods.”

  I nodded and clapped DJ on the shoulder. “But DJ here, he looks the part better than any of us.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks,” he grumbled. “Um…” He paused.

  “You have a question?” I asked.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “I don’t mean anything personal by it. But Tank? How old is he?”

  Tony looked over at DJ. “You don’t know who he is, do you?”

  “Just met him a little while ago.”

  “In 1970, that old guy saved the lives of more than a dozen men in Vietnam,” Tony said. “They were pinned down in a minefield and Tank brought them back to the helo. Those who could walk followed in his footsteps through the minefield. Those who couldn’t walk, he carried. He was later awarded the Medal of Honor.”

  DJ’s eyes went wide. “You mean I’ve been sittin’ here talkin’ to this guy and none of y’all thought to tell me that?”

  “You don’t have to worry about Tank,” I said. “If the shit hits the fan, there’s nobody I’d rather have with me.”

  “You have an idea?” Tony asked. “About how to drop the feces into the oscillator?”

  I nodded. “Tonight, while Tank and I are busy rounding up prostitutes, you and DJ are gonna rip off as many drug dealers as you can.”

  “Simple as that, huh?” DJ asked, rhetorically.

  “It won’t be simple,” I replied. “We’ll only have one car.”

  “No, we won’t,” I heard Tank say from the dock.

  I looked down to see him climbing aboard alone. “Where’s Paul?”

  Tank came up the ladder and leaned on the rail. “I got to thinking,” he said. “I couldn’t see how we could hit them hard enough with just one set of wheels. As it turned out, the nearest car rental was Enterprise. You know their slogan?”

  Tony grinned. “We’ll pick you up?”

  “Yep,” Tank said. “I rented three cars and had one dropped off at Publix and the other delivered here. The agent on duty sent a fourth car to pick up the other two drivers.”

  “I should have suggested that myself,” I said.

  “You were just a gunny. Master gunnery sergeants get shit done.”

  DJ laughed somewhat nervously.

  “So, what’d I miss?” Tank asked, sitting next to DJ.

  “DJ and Tony are gonna use two of the cars to drive around and rip off as many drug dealers as they can find.”

  “Finding them might not be easy,” Tank said. “I doubt they’ll have a neon sign over their businesses.”

  “Not as difficult as you’d think,” DJ said. “I’ve been offered all kinds of drugs just sitting in a bar or walking down the street.”

  Tank looked at him. “Is that right? Never happened to me before.”

  “Understandable, sir,” DJ said. “You don’t look like a user. I do.”

  “What’s this sir crap?” Tank asked. “You on drugs now, son?”

  “I don’t do drugs,” DJ said. “Well, maybe a joint now and then.”

  “Then you can shitcan the sir,” Tank ordered. “I was an enlisted man, just like you. Or was that sir crap a reference to my age?”

  “I think DJ’s a little hero-struck,” Tony said. “He didn’t know who you were.”

  Tank’s eyes bored into DJ’s. “Wanna know what I think?” he asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. “In the last couple of decades, I started hearing about World War II guys being the
greatest generation. They did, in fact, save the world. But if you ask them, and I served with a bunch of ’em, they’ll all tell you what I’m about to say. That’s hogwash. Those guys did what needed to be done, when it was required, short and simple.

  “What makes a man stand up against overwhelming odds isn’t generational. We’re all born with a sense of right and wrong. I was just in the right place at the right time to make a difference. If I hadn’t been there, someone else woulda done it. Look at you. I understand you got a Silver Star in exchange for that peg leg. You think you were any different than the guys you saved?

  “No,” DJ replied.

  “I’m no more or less a man than you, son. You read me?”

  “Yes, sir,” DJ said, with a grin. “And that one was in deference to your wisdom.”

  “Let it be the last,” Tank said. “Now tell me about that gimp leg.”

  DJ told his story, short and sweet. He’d been part of a team that was clearing houses in Fallujah when a grenade landed in their midst. Without thinking, he’d knocked the rest of his four-man team to the ground and tried to kick the grenade out the door.

  “I was only partly successful,” he said.

  “When this is over,” Tank offered, “I’ll drink to your leg.”

  DJ grinned. “And I’ll drink to your knowing where the mines were.”

  Tank roared with laughter, then started coughing. Finally, he slapped DJ on the shoulder. “I didn’t have any idea where those mines were.”

  The VHF crackled and I thought I recognized Savannah’s voice. I reached over and turned it up.

  “Go to one-seven, Sea Biscuit,” the dockmaster said.

  I switched channels with them, and Mark told Savannah he had her on the inside of the same dock we were on.

  “Will you need assistance?” he asked.

  I keyed the mic before Savannah could answer. “Negative, Landings Marina. She’s expected. We’ll get down there and tie her off.”

  A few minutes later, Sea Biscuit turned around the end of the face dock and Savannah maneuvered her boat into place. Chyrel was on the foredeck and Alberto was up on the flybridge with Savannah. He was beaming from ear to ear.

  Later that afternoon, Savannah and I took one of the rental cars and drove the short distance to Fort Myers Beach. It had grown up a little over the years; newer businesses here and there and a lot more homes, but it was still basically the same.