High Crimes

by William Deverell

  There seem to be hundreds of little boat and ship repair businesses along these waterways. And there are some that are big, with boat sheds like Boeing 747 hangars.

  If you can tear yourself away from the beach scene, take a stroll along the Miami River. It is a dark artery that pumps through the heart of the city, and it is ribbed with drawbridges. You will see rust buckets and junkers, shrimpers and long-liners, houseboats, tall sloops and ketches, and speedy little Cigarets and Magnums. (Many of these little things are dopers’ boats — they can outrun any cutter when they come in from their mother ships.)

  You look around at this floating carnival, and you wonder how many of these thousands of boats and ships earn a legitimate living for their masters. It is a smugglers’ haven, this river, this city. The Miami River has a mouth that sucks up hundreds of tons of Colombian marijuana every month. It is trucked by night into warehouses, and importers’ headquarters here are often as busy as your local stock exchange, with new crops being posted on the walls almost every hour during the season. It is called, of course, the high season.

  Two or three miles up the river, into the Miami Canal, is where we find El Mayor Juan Atrapa, bedraggled and sad under the tin roof of one of these huge ship-hangars. We cannot see her from the outside. We see just tarps and canopies, part of the pilothouse, and the radio masts.

  “When the Coast Guard released it, we had it moved inside this hangar,” Meyers says. “These fellows here,” he points to a couple of narcs lounging outside the marina office, “are hanging around to make sure no one tries to rob us. Aren’t you, gentlemen?”

  Neither of the DEA guys shows us any expression as we brush by.

  “If anyone walks out of here carrying a large package, make sure you search him,” Meyers calls back to them. “Los stupidos,” he mumbles to us under his breath.

  He explains to us that the marina business is bankrupt. His security service is guarding the premises. Inside the door a couple of his staff, mean-looking guys, nod to Meyers, who takes us through, out into the shipyard and the hangars. There are a couple of leaky old trawlers sitting low in the water near the Atrapa. Our ship is a wasp’s nest of action. There are guys crawling all over, working with paint brushes.

  The Atrapa had been a nice rust-red color. More rust than paint. Now it has become dark blue. This is the first of Meyers’s surprises.

  “I thought we might try to confuse things a little,” he says. “Blue gives better camouflage from the air.”

  I go up to where a guy is stenciling a new name on the bow. Alta Mar. “High Seas,” it means.

  “Bad luck to change a boat’s name,” Kelly says softly.

  “Bad luck not to,” says Meyers. “You will have to move out at night, of course.” He has not asked us whether we want to move out at all. We have not had a chance to discuss this strange business.

  “They will be looking for a vessel of this configuration, but with a different name and color. I have provided Portuguese and Panamanian flags, and you can fly one or the other at the stern. Lots of Portuguese ships near Newfoundland, I hear. Just to be safe, try to move out of aircraft range. Perhaps if you take a heading almost due east to about sixty or sixty-five longitude, you can then come left and go straight up to Newfoundland. That is where you’re going, isn’t it?”

  Pete says nothing, just looks at him.

  Meyers says, “The tanks are topped up. Another forty barrels for emergency are lashed onto the deck.”

  “We’ve got to talk abut this, Rudy,” Pete says.

  Meyers gives him one of his not so reassuring smiles. “I’m sorry about what happened,” he says. “When I saw the helicopter coming, it was too late. No damage has been done.”

  “They knew we were out there,” Pete says.

  “Then there is a leak,” says Meyers. “I will find it and plug it.”

  He takes us by the elbows, hustling us up the gangplank, one by one. He carries on as if there is no problem. Our arrest has been a minor irritant, an unimportant aberration in the grand scheme of things.

  There does not seem to be much free deck space left, with all the barrels of diesel and all the bultos of weed piled up under the tarps. The sack that the Coast Guard guy slashed open is still lying there, its contents scattered and tracked all over. There is three thousand dollars’ worth of female flower spilling out of this sack. It is ignored as if it is a pile of tree leaves.

  In the wheelhouse we are stunned. It now looks like the dashboard of a space module. Our old electronic gear has been stripped, and we are looking at an array of radios and navigation devices. They are being wired in by three guys chattering in Spanish.

  “The Russians trained them very well,” Meyers says. “They are skilled technicians. I pay them top dollars.”

  “Let’s talk about this,” Pete says again.

  Billy Lee and I are exchanging a lot of looks. Kelly is shaking his head. Marianne is very jittery. This pretty snowbird is pretty wired. I worry about her.

  “We junked your old Lorans,” Meyers goes on. “Put in a new Loran C. Also, over here, an Omega 1127 DC and a radio direction-finder. I’m sure you know how to use all this equipment. Nothing radical about it. The Loran and Omega charts are under the chart table.”

  He is talking very fast. “Now what do we have? Radar — a new Decca 101 to get you through the fog. Echo sounder. Radios: ship-to-shore, Regency Polaris VHF Transceiver. Try not to use the VHF, they can beam into it from shore stations, although you’ll be out of range most of the time. Larange Receiver. Titan Marine Radio UHF. Yaesu cb transmitter-receiver with linear amplifiers. I’ve given you a call number. If there’s an emergency, just try to patch through to me somehow. You’re running a cattle drive north, I’m the owner of the ranch. Just develop some code around that, so the ham operators won’t get nervous. Let’s see — a Zenith Transoceanic portable over here, a Sidebander II single-side band, twenty-three channels, and a Simpson 85 to complement it. Arkas Autopilot. Recording fathometer.”

  Meyers is beaming like a used-car salesman. “Okay, here’s something you may have to use. It’s an electronic counter-measures pod. That’s what the U.S. Air Force calls them. For jamming enemy radar. You won’t believe what this cost. It is not available on Civvy Street, gentlemen. Billy Lee will know how to operate it.”

  “These things are illegal, man,” Billy Lee says. “We can get busted if we’re caught with this.”

  “If they try to follow you out of here at night, jam up their radar. That will give you a good edge. There’s a lot of ocean out there.”

  He looks around to see if there is anything he has missed.

  “Oh, yes, I’m not sure if you are familiar with this handy item. Bearcat 250 Police Scanner. We’ve pre-programmed it so it locks onto any police or Coast Guard channel that happens to be broadcasting. They don’t scramble as much as most people think, and code confuses their simple minds.”

  He glances around, admiring the artistry. “A new gyro, and we’ve reset the magnetic compass as well, although you’ll have to adjust it again when you get out to sea.”

  Out to sea. I am thinking — why is somebody not telling this jerk that we have no intention of going back out anywhere on this ship? But all we do is make nervous jokes.

  “Where’s the automatic shoe polisher?” Billy asks.

  “You don’t suppose you could lay on a couple of destroyer escorts,” Pete says. “How about a nuclear sub?”

  “We’ve done what we can about the generators,” Meyers say. “I’ve had a couple of men working on the number-two generator all day. That’s the bad one. We’ll load you up with spares.”

  Billy Lee says, “And I take it you’ve attended to the wine cellar. I prefer a dry Bordeaux, although a 1976 Beaujolais would tempt me.”

  “There is booze in the storage, hard and soft. I don’t drink myself, so I don’t know any
thing about people’s brands. Lots of frozen meat in the locker. I threw out all that Colombian tinned stuff and substituted American. Better quality, fresher. I hope you won’t have to use them, but there’s a .30-.30 rifle and some handguns in the locker below the wheel. You may encounter sharks. Or pirates.” A pause. “As you can tell, I am very anxious to get this cargo moved.”

  We look at him. There is a silence. The silence seems to expand, to fill the cabin.

  “I am suggesting a midnight departure,” Meyers says to Pete. “You’re the captain, of course. But at dawn you will want to be eighty miles at sea.”

  “I’d like to talk about this, Rudy,” Pete says. “You got to admit things are sort of crazy.”

  “There is nothing to talk about, Peter. Nothing at all.” Meyers’s voice is barely above a whisper. He is from an old Peter Lorre movie. “You have a contract, Peter. A contract with me and Senator Paez. I want you to understand that your end of that contract is going to be fulfilled.”

  I am watching Pete’s face. The face says nothing. He says nothing.

  “If you do not bring these goods in, Peter, Senator Paez is going to be unhappy. Unhappy to the tune of over a quarter of a billion dollars. That will make him a very unhappy man.”

  Their eyes are locked together.

  “We’ll talk it over,” Pete says finally. “The five of us. We’ll be down in my cabin. We’ll let you know in half an hour.”

  Meyers gives Pete a punch on the shoulder, playful but hard. “Good man, Peter. I’ll be in the office making some calls.”

  ***

  We are all in Pete’s cabin but Kelly. No one is talking. Pete is staring into space, glassy-eyed.

  Kevin comes into the cabin, swings his packed duffle bag in after him.

  “I’ll meet you boys in Newfoundland,” he says. “If you’re lucky. I’ve been on some amazin’ trips, but this one makes the Guinness Book of Records. Miami is where this dumb Newfoundlander gets off. It’s women, children, then every sane man for himself.”

  “Well, Pete?” I say. I am expecting to hear some sense from this man. We have false passports, lots of different ids. We can try to find some work in the Caribbean.

  “I’ll take the load up by myself if I have to,” says Pete.

  I should have known better. Peter Kerrivan, the brave outlaw of the Butter Pot. Captain Ahab alone at the helm, with the odds favoring the whale. Randolph Scott strapping on his guns once more, going alone into the ok Corral.

  “I did make a contract,” he says. “Billy Lee?”

  “Wal, if this here weed don’t get moved, man, Senator Paez ain’t gonna be suin’ us in no court of law. I’m a gamblin’ man, like Pete. I say we go.”

  Pete looks at me with his penetrating gray eyes. “Johnny,” he says, “I won’t feel let down.”

  “Aw, fuck,” I say.

  I know I will go with him. He knows that, too.

  “You boys are stark mad!” Kelly yells. “Mad as Gomerils. Pete, Lord livin’ Jesus, boy, even the rats know when to abandon ship!”

  Exasperated, Pete slams his hand flat on the table, shouting. “For God’s sake, Kevin, fuck off! Take the next fucking plane back and take all your fucking doom and gloom with you!”

  Then he sighs and shakes his head, cools a bit. I know he feels he has lost control of this trip. “Sorry, Kev. Look, I was thinking of sending you back early, anyway. You’re going to have to help Bill Stutely get the landing crew together at Uncle Pike’s.” He starts to take charge of himself. “Have everybody there in ten days and wait for us. We’ll come in at night or first good fog.”

  “Pete, I’ll be sitting around that boat house with a gang of the boys ten days from now and this ocean-going shithouse will have wrapped it up somewhere, upside down and sending up bubbles. Or you’ll come in on a tow from the Canadian Coast Guard, with The Bullet holding a shotgun to your belly and smilin’ in your face.” His tone is urgent and pleading. “Pete, do you know how weird this is? They release this ship to this guy Meyers, who’s been playing both ends so long he don’t know which end is which. I mean, pick your brains off the floor. This trip is going down.”

  “Johnny and Billy Lee and I can take it in by ourselves,” Pete says. “With all this gear on board, the three of us can sleep all the way to Canada.”

  “The three of us,” says Marianne, who has been sitting on the edge of the table, watching, listening. “I keep hearing the three of us. Did somebody forget I’m here?”

  Then Pete says, “You’re not going. You don’t have a vote about whether you go.”

  “How damn democratic.”

  “He’s right,” says Billy Lee. “No point in takin’ a chance of getting your pretty ass busted. Too dangerous, Marianne.”

  “You can kiss my pretty ass, Billy Lee!”

  “You’ll get half a crew share, plus what Peddigrew pays you,” Pete says, becoming businesslike. “Kevin gets one crew share. I’m doubling Johnny’s and Billy Lee’s. Hang out with the old Cuban for a few days, Marianne. Kick back and wait for us.”

  She glares at Billy Lee and Pete. “Why don’t the both of you take a flying jump at a hole in the ceiling? The old Cuban, hey? He’s got more finesse in his little toe than both of you put together can supply working at it for the next hundred years.” This is the first time I have seen this lady angry. “Who do you macho twits think you are? You wave your cocks around like flags and think every woman twenty miles around is going to drip for you. The only goddamn one among you who’s got his male trip together is Johnny. What do you think, Johnny, do you think I’m a poor weepy, helpless, inferior female? Or what do you think? You never talk.”

  This is where The Hawk steps right into it. “First of all,” I say, “it’s dangerous. Inspector Mitchell and the RCMP aren’t concerned about the letter of the law, like the Americans. Second — how do I say this? — second, there’s just the simple fact of you and three guys on board a ship for a long time together. With you on board, Pete is liable as not to run us onto the Sable Island lighthouse. Too much electricity, Marianne, with three guys and a lady.”

  She is staring at me, her mouth wide open.

  “Johnny,” she says, “you’re the worst of the lot.”

  She looks us over as if we are pigs squatting in the muck. “How wimpy can you get? Three guys and a lady. What a load!” Her cheeks are lit with fire and her eyes are sparking. “I’m just damn happy to get rid of you, if you want to know the truth. I won’t have to be ducking out of the way of all the colliding male egos!”

  There is a long strained silence as she goes to the cabin to pack her things. When she comes back she throws Pete a roll of bills. “The rest of the expense money from James,” she says. “Christ, I’m going to score some coke and get happy.”

  Pete sighs. “Let’s try Escarlata’s whirlpool, folks.”

  “I’ll stay behind,” I say. “I’ll check out the engines, get everything warmed up for midnight.”

  Kelly scoops a bag of flowertops from the open bulto on the deck as they head for the gangplank. Then he turns to me. His eyes are damp as he gives me a bear hug. I return it hard. I am happy for him. “Give my love to Merrie and everybody else,” I say.

  “Le vaya bien,” he says.

  I watch them disappear into the office building.

  I am still standing at the railing. I have not slept for three days and two nights. Eventually from between the tarps I glimpse a taxi going over the swing bridge. It carries Marianne and the guys. The stoic Indian stands there for another half hour, staring at nothing.

  It is close to rush hour. Cars are buzzing over the bridge by the marina. In my exhaustion, I am given to hallucination. I think I see Inspector Mitchell pass by in a station wagon. Every time I see someone’s shining head, it is The Bullet. I think, God, I have to get out of this business.

  I will che
ck out the engines. I will have a shower. I will try to sleep for a few hours. This is my plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rudy Meyers gripped Kerrivan hard by the hand. “I knew you would continue the trip,” he said, “because you’ve got guts and you’re a man of honor.” He shook Billy Lee Tinker’s hand, too, and ignored Kelly, the defector.

  Meyers saw them to the door. “Incidentally, those two DEA agents outside — I think they’ll be looking the other way when the Alta Mar pulls out tonight. Money tends to distract one’s attention. I won’t be here when you get back, but my guards know you.”

  “I’ll call you when we get to New York,” Kerrivan said. “We can meet there. You bring the dollars. I will have the merchandise.”

  “Absolutely,” Meyers said. “No question. Piece of cake. Hasta la vista, Pete, hasta la vista.”

  Meyers watched from the window as Kerrivan, Tinker, Kelly, and Larochelle, in their taxi, disappeared up the street and over the bridge. Then he went into the inner office, closing and locking the door behind him.

  “I think it was a cheap shot,” Flaherty said. The others were standing, but she was leaning back on a swivel chair, her boots on the desk.

  “You didn’t have to be a part of it,” Meyers said.

  “I did. Direct orders from Washington — as conveyed to them, I suppose, by Inspector Mitchell, who just happens to be in charge of combined U.S.-Canada operations.” She shot a dark glance at Mitchell. “If it had been up to me, I would have been a thousand miles away.”

  She punched a cigarette from her pack, struck a wooden match, and lit it. “But I’m a good soldier,” she said. “I obey orders.” She blew a smoke ring over Meyers’s head and turned to Mitchell. “Is this how you Canadians usually run your operations? Entrapment?”

  “It seems to me you’ve had some experience in the area of entrapment, Miss Flaherty,” Mitchell said. “Didn’t we hire you a couple of years ago as a — how shall I put it? — an undercover seductress?”