Chasing the Son

by Bob Mayer

  He was surprised to see that Merchant Fabrou was in a wheelchair. The man was only in his fifties but appeared sick, with hair dyed dark, contrasted against a pallid face. However, his voice was deep and southern as he ‘greeted’ Dillon.

  “I only agreed to see you because Mrs. Jenrette requested it,” Fabrou led with. He didn’t extend his hand in greeting, nor indicate a seat for Dillon.

  “Thank you, sir,” Dillon said. Fabrou was seated to the side of a desk. Several plush chairs were scattered about the stateroom. Another hatch/door was across the way from the one through which Dillon had entered.

  Fabrou must have noticed him staring at the wheelchair. “Hip replacement,” Fabrou said. “Irritating as all hell. Had some complications. A damn infection.”

  “Sir, I—“

  “I told Rigney everything I know,” Fabrou said. “What do you want?”

  Fabrou’s reaction to his phone request for a meeting had indicated that Fabrou’s son had not called him to tell of last night’s activities. Dillon had thought that unlikely for several reasons, embarrassment being the primary one, but also because he had a feeling Preston wanted to play things close to the vest.

  Dillon decided to lead with a hand grenade since it appeared the field was already deeply mined. “Sir, I don’t think your son was honest with me when I talked to him about the event with Cadets Wing and Brannigan that led to the death of Greer Jenrette.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are,” Fabrou said, “coming onto my boat and saying that?”

  “I’m representing Mrs. Jenrette regarding her grandson’s death,” Dillon said.

  “Then find Brannigan,” Fabrou said.

  “I understand you’ve been asking around concerning that,” Dillon said.

  “I heard Farrelli, that wop who thinks he’s a gangster, was asking around about it,” Fabrou said. “I did Mrs. Jenrette the courtesy of giving her that information. Then I get Rigney showing up and now you asking me about it. And you saying my son’s a liar?”

  Dillon decided on a slight tactical retreat. “Mister Rigney said you were doing some checking about Harry Brannigan’s location?”

  “He’s with Doc Cleary,” Fabrou said.

  Dillon was surprised at the secret revealing itself so easily. “And where is Doc Cleary?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Fabrou said. He gestured about. “Somewhere on the ocean. Doc is one hell of a sailor. He could take that boat of his and go around the Cape if he wanted. Could be in Tahiti. I tell you one thing, Doc isn’t coming back with that boy until Mrs. Jenrette is no longer with the living. Doc’s a smart man. Unlike you, coming here and throwing weight you don’t have around. You expect to do business in the low country any time in the future, boy?” Fabrou didn’t wait for an answer. “You just pissed me off which means you pissed off the Quad. Which means you best not set foot in Savannah. And I’ll tell you something else, boy. We’re expanding. We’re moving north. Charleston aint as powerful as it used to be.”

  “Sir, I assure you—“ Dillon halted as the door to the wardroom which he’d come through was thrown open and Preston Gregory stood there, disheveled and mud-covered. He pointed at Dillon as he threw a noose on the deck. “That’s the son-of-a-bitch! He killed your son, Mister Fabrou!”

  * * *

  The harbormaster in Harbour Town (redundant in Chase’s opinion, despite the different spellings) wasn’t a guy; it was a woman. A lean, grizzled, middle-aged (or older?) woman who looked like she’d been baked twice-over under the sun. Chase foresaw many visits to a dermatologist in her future.

  “Yeah, I know Doc Cleary,” she said in response to his query.

  She was sitting at an old wood desk on the second floor of a building overlooking the boats that filled the harbor. A battery of radios sat on the long bench behind her. Various nautical gear, the purposes of which Chase didn’t know, hung on the wall. She had several charts on the desk, one pegged down with a coffee mug, a bottle of whiskey, an ashtray and a sextant. He thought the bottle might be for show, but it was half-empty, so maybe not.

  “How do you know Doc?” she asked.

  “I inherited his house,” Chase said.

  That got him one raised eyebrow as she lit another cigarette. “Really? Nice place. I’m Zelda, by the way.”

  “Chase.”

  “Just Chase?”

  “It’s what most people call me,” he said. “My first name is Horace but—“

  “We’ll stick with Chase,” Zelda said. “Doc set sail a while ago.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Year and a half or so.”

  “Do you know where he went?” he asked.

  “’Where he went’? Hell, he could have went anywhere. And kept going. I’ve talked in person and on the radio to folks who sighted him all over the place. Antigua. Panama. Hawaii. Doc could cut the water. Might be circumnavigating. Something he had on his bucket list.”

  “Did he have a young man with him?”

  “You mean Harry?”

  Chase put a hand on the edge of her desk. “Could you tell me about Harry?” For some reason this complete stranger meeting his son made it completely real.

  “Seemed like a nice kid,” Zelda said. “Only met him once, just before Doc took off. They seemed in a rush. Heard there was some trouble up in Charleston. But Doc never said much. Why do you want to find Doc?”

  “He’s still paying the utilities at the place,” Chase said. “I want to make sure I reimburse him.”

  “Right,” she said. “You wanna do the right thing. He gave you the place, and Doc wasn’t senile last I saw. If he’s paying the bills, he damn well knows it. Don’t worry about it.”

  “The boy is my son.” It was the first time Chase had said it to a strange and it felt strange and exciting and scary all at the same time. “I’ve never met him.”

  With the cigarette dangling from her lips, Zelda stared at him. “Well, hot damn. Were you in prison?”

  “The army.”

  “Sorta the same.”

  “I didn’t know he existed,” Chase said, a red flush spreading across his face.

  “Okay, there’s a story there and I’m sure it’s interesting, but I got to ask: is Doc keeping the boy away from you?”

  “No. As you said, he’s afraid some people up in Charleston mean him harm.”

  “Fucking Charleston.” Zelda reached out and picked up the bottle of whiskey. She grabbed two, not so clean mugs, then poured a couple of stiff drinks. She slid one across to Chase, who automatically picked it up.

  “To Harry, your son,” Zelda said.

  “To Harry, my son.”

  As he lifted the mug to his lips he saw that Zelda was tipping hers back, emptying it, so he did the same.

  She slammed hers down on the chart and Chase followed her lead.

  “Sad to say, my friend, I don’t know where Doc is. And you aint the first person to be asking about him. Some woman was here about a week ago asking.”

  Chase pulled out the copy of the picture of Sarah Briggs, which Parsons had given him. “This her?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Same as I’m telling you. No idea.” Zelda shook her head. “Cold bitch. Wouldn’t have told her even if I did know. Hope she wasn’t the mother of your son.”

  “She’s not.”

  “That’s good.” But Zelda was looking past him as there were several dull echoes, which Chase recognized as gunfire. “What the hell?” She grabbed a pair of binoculars then trained them on a yacht anchored outside the harbor, between the south end of Hilton Head and Daufuskie Island.

  * * *

  “He hung him, Mister Fabrou,” Preston said, “trying to make it look like suicide.”

  A pair of guards had accompanied Preston in, and both now had guns in their hands, trained on Dillon.

  Merchant Fabrou’s face was even paler. “Preston. I need the truth. Are you saying Jerrod is dead?”

  “Yes, sir, M
ister Fabrou. We were supposed to meet at the High Cotton. Where this son-of-a-bitch confronted us the night before. Asking questions about Greer Jenrette’s death. He didn’t like the answers and he went to the Institute, asking more questions. Then he must have grabbed Jerrod. Kidnapped him. When Jerrod didn’t show last night, I called, but there was no answer. I knew something was wrong. So Chad and I tracked the last location of his phone. On Edisto Island. And we found him—“ Preston paused and took a deep breath, putting a quiver in his voice—“and we found him, hanging from a bridge there.”

  “He’s dead?” Merchant Fabrou repeated. “My son’s dead?”

  Dillon knew an ambush when he was in one, although this was different from his combat experience. This wasn’t going to get better with time. He did as he’d been trained in Ranger School. Act even if it was the wrong thing.

  He darted for the door opposite where Preston stood, flanked by the guards. Surprised at the sudden move, the guards aimed, but didn’t fire.

  That gave him enough time to get through it and slam it behind him. He heard Fabrou screaming something and knew time was running out. Dillon ran along the side of the boat. The door behind him was thrown open.

  “Stop!” Someone yelled and there was the sound of a shot.

  He assumed it was a warning shot since he wasn’t hit; or the guards were bad shooters.

  He didn’t wait to find out.

  Dillon dove overboard, arcing into the Intracoastal while taking a deep breath.

  Behind him, both guards stopped at the railings and fired, bullets plinking into the water, the sounds of their guns echoing across the Intracoastal.

  * * *

  Chase had followed the direction of her binoculars and saw the man dive into the water, then what appeared to be two men shooting into the water. The sounds of their guns were muted at this distance, but recognizable to those who knew guns.

  “Someone pissed someone off,” Zelda said.

  “Whose boat is that?” Chase asked.

  “The Quad,” Zelda said without a pause. “Merchant Fabrou, out of Savannah.”

  “Going to call the cops?” Chase asked as he picked up a telescope off the wall and trained it on the boat.

  “You haven’t been here long, have you?” Zelda asked.

  Chase saw a dark spot appear, the swimmer’s head. He was moving fast, heading toward Daufuskie. The guards were firing, but the distance was growing greater, and their accuracy didn’t appear up to par.

  “Sheriff’s department’s got two boats,” Zelda said. “They use those to cite people in small boats for driving drunk so they can collect on the tickets. They don’t screw with people in big boats. You could slaughter a goat in a pagan sacrifice out there and no one gives a shit. You should see the party in the harbor during the big golf tournament week. Strippers on the masts doing their thing. Drugs being passed around like candy. The cops don’t mess with the golden goose.”

  “They don’t care if someone shoots at someone?”

  “Not if the shooter is rich.” She lowered the binoculars. “And they didn’t hit anything. No harm, no foul. He looks okay. Probably just some good ol’ boys fooling around.”

  It was obvious she didn’t believe that.

  “Why’s Fabrou out there?” Chase asked, still watching through the telescope.

  The guards had given up on target practice and disappeared inside. The swimmer was still heading toward the shore.

  “Land deal,” Zelda said. “They’re going to build up Daufuskie. I didn’t care much for all the golfers out there, but now it’s going to be just like this place. Overcrowded and built-up. Can’t say I wasn’t cheering when those golf courses went under. It’s a great island and I hate to see it turned to crap. But Fabrou and his ilk, they’ll do anything for a dollar.”

  “Any idea who just jumped ship?” Chase asked, not expecting an answer.

  “Young fellow,” Zelda said. “Was taken out there by Zodiac just a few minutes ago.”

  Chase watched the ‘young fellow’ reach the shore and walk out of the surf, onto Daufuskie Island. Things were growing more interesting by the minute. He put the telescope back on the wall.

  “If you hear anything about Doc’s or my son’s whereabouts, could you call me?” He gave her a card with his cell phone number.

  “Sure thing.”

  His phone rang and he saw it was Dave Riley.

  “What do you have?” Chase asked.

  * * *

  “Can I shoot them?” Gator asked. “A wound, nothing fatal.”

  “Let’s talk first,” Riley suggested as Westland drove her rental car down Pope Avenue and turned into the parking lot for New York Pizza and the no-name restaurant.

  Gator and Kono filled the back seat, blocking the rear-view mirror. They were both armed, and Kono had his machete jammed in between them. Gator wore his usual Ranger T-Shirt, the gold letters rippling over his chest muscles. His body always looked on the edge of exploding, the muscles lined with veins as if wired with det cord. Alcohol wasn’t the only thing the two of them smuggled and Riley knew Gator dealt steroids to the other body-builders in the various gyms on the island.

  Westland parked the car and glanced at Riley with a raised eyebrow. “We good?”

  “We’re good,” Riley said.

  The four of them exited the car. Riley tapped Westland on the arm, indicating that Gator and Kono should take the lead. Gator threw open the blacked-out door and the other three hustled in behind him.

  To find an empty restaurant.

  Riley pointed to a door leading to the kitchen.

  Gator took lead once more. As he pushed open the swinging door on the right, the one on the left swung in the opposite direction, with a no-neck guy, approximately Gator’s size, coming out.

  Gator was faster, sucker-punching the goon in the nose.

  Blood exploded from the broken appendage, spraying over Gator’s fist and the man’s face as the tumbled backward. Kono slipped by Gator, catching the bat that was swinging at Gator’s head with his machete, the razor-sharp blade slicing halfway through the wood, before coming to a halt.

  Kono twisted the machete, taking the bat with it, thus disarming goon number two.

  Gator kicked the man he’d punched and they could all hear ribs break. The man dropped to the floor moaning in agony.

  “Hello,” Riley said to Number Two.

  Westland had a pistol in her hand, the muzzle aimed at his head.

  “We’ve got a few questions,” Riley said. “About the recently departed Mister Farrelli.”

  “Fuck you,” Number Two said.

  “I think Gator is right,” Westland said. “Let’s shoot him in some non-fatal spot.” She lowered the muzzle. “Like his balls.”

  “Hey!” Number Two exclaimed. “Who are you people? You know who we are? Who we work for?”

  “Your worked for Farrelli,” Riley said. “But he’s dead. And you betrayed him. So don’t pull that ‘we work for the mob’ bullshit with me. I make one call to Jersey and you guys are swimming with the fishes.” He caught Westland’s slight eye-roll, but the goon didn’t. “We work for the government,” Riley continued. “The government that puts people in prisons that don’t exist. Where no one comes back from.”

  The goon’s eyes widened. “Hey. We didn’t do nothing.”

  “Sarah Briggs,” Riley said.

  “Who’s that?”

  Riley sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo. “Recognize her?”

  “Oh yeah, the dame.”

  Riley wondered how many mob movies this guy watched. “Yeah, the dame. She paid you, right?”

  The guy nodded. “Yeah. Ten large each.”

  Riley wondered if Farrelli had known his life could be sold that cheaply, but then he realized his life had been on the line for a paycheck that was much less than that every month.

  “She said he was gonna have a heart attack,” the goon said. “And he did. Pretty fucking smar
t of her to knows it was coming. She a doctor or something?”

  Riley realized the guy actually thought that Farrelli had had a heart attack.

  “’Never underestimate the power of human stupidity’,” Westland said.

  “You make that up?” Riley said.

  “I wish. Robert Heinlein.”

  “Did she pay everything up front?” Riley’s hopes rested on payment on the back end, where they could meet Sarah Briggs for the last time.

  “Yeah,” the goon said, crushing that hope.

  “When did she contact you the first time?” Riley asked.

  A deep furrow appeared in the goon’s forehead as he tried to remember. The guy Gator had punched tried to get up and Gator hit him on the side of his head with his fist. The sound was like a mallet hitting wood and the guy flattened, out cold. Kono pulled his machete out of the bat.

  “Like a month ago?” the goon guessed.

  “How did you talk to her?” Riley asked.

  He reached toward his pocket.

  “Whoa!” Westland warned.

  “Huh?” The goon was confused. “Just getting a phone.”

  “Go ahead,” Riley said.

  The goon pulled out a cheap cell phone, a burner. “She’s on speed dial. Number one. She told us not to use it for anything else.”

  Riley took the phone. He looked at Westland.

  “You never know,” she said. “Stranger things have happened.”

  Riley punched in number one on the speed dial. It rang, then rang, then just as the third ring began, a voice he recognized answered abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Sarah,” Riley said. “How you doing?”

  She laughed. “I know that brogue. A mixture born in the Bronx, muted by a career in the Army, and twisted with too long in the Low Country. Dave Riley. How are they hanging my friend? You just can’t enough of me.”

  “I’ve had more than enough of you,” Riley said. “Why’d you kill Farrelli?”

  “He was disagreeable,” Sarah said.

  “Regarding?”

  “Our business arrangements. A man should keep his word.”