“Is he okay?” Doc asked. “I'm Bob Talbot, First Mate.”
He handed my papers back and we shook hands. “Name's Jesse,” I said. “Jesse McDermitt. I run a fishing charter in Marathon and my boats being refitted. Guess that's why Carl had Charlie call me.”
“Welcome aboard, Captain,” he said. “We should be ready to be underway in half an hour. We're going out to New Ground.”
“No, we're not,” I said, surprising Doc. “We'll go on out to Rebecca Shoals, before bedding down.”
Doc looked up at the crew, who were all standing at the rail watching us. One crewman looked over at the man by the post, then back at me. Gotcha, I thought.
“You’re the Captain,” Doc said, then headed up the gangplank.
The man by the post started forward and said, “Excuse me, Captain.”
I turned to look at him. He was a small man, with dark hair and eyes. His face was pocked with old acne scars and his front teeth were crooked.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Did Captain Trent tell you that I would be here?” he asked. “I work for Carlos Santiago.”
“No,” I said and started to turn. He placed a hand on my shoulder and I stopped. I half turned and looked down at his hand, then into his eyes. “You have something against that hand?” I asked. “Cause if it ain't off my shoulder in half a heartbeat, I'll feed it to the sharks.”
The man yanked his hand back, like he'd touched a hot stove. “I work for Senor Santiago. As does Captain Trent. I'm here to give him the GPS coordinates for the pickup he, and now you, are to make.”
“Pick up what?” I asked.
“Trent picks up a small package every week, for Senor Santiago. Since you are el Capitan this week, the responsibility for this week’s pickup is now yours.”
“You're talking about drugs, aren't you?”
“Si,” he replied openly. “You will have to make Trent's pickup this week. If you do not, bad things might happen.”
I slowly set my sea bag on the dock at my feet. Then in a fast, fluid motion, I straightened, grabbed the man by the collar and lifted him up, so that his feet were dangling. I growled into his face, “How much?”
“Is only five hundred pounds, Senor,” he whined. “Please, put me down.”
“No!” I snarled. “Cuanto dinero, idiota.”
“Please, Senor, I am only the carrier. When you bring the package in on Friday, I will be waiting and give you five thousand dollars, for you and the crew.”
“I take all the risk?” I asked. “For only one percent of street value? Not likely, amigo. Call your boss and tell him if he wants this Capitan to be his gopher, the price is tripled.”
Then I shoved him backwards, picked up my sea bag and went aboard. Every set of eyes was on me. At the top of the gangplank, I turned to the man, now sitting on the dock and said, “We leave in thirty minutes, culo botin!”
I turned to Doc and said, “I'll be on the bridge, getting familiar with the boat. Where's my bunk?”
“Main deck, Captain,” he replied. “Aft the wheel house. We'll be ready to be underway shortly, sir.”
I left Doc and the crew standing there, went along the starboard side and through the wheel house to Trent's quarters. It was a tiny room by any standards, but functional and accessed only through the wheel house, I noticed. I dropped my sea bag on the bunk and went back into the wheel house, to familiarize myself with it. Trent had given me a pretty good run down on how the boat operated and where everything was, so this was mostly for show.
A few minutes later, Doc stuck his head in and said, “Are you sure, you're not a pirate? Drug runner, maybe?”
“How'd the crew react?” I asked.
“Mixed feelings,” he said. “Two are like me, they want nothing to do with drugs. The other four are excited that they'll get a bigger cut, with you on board.”
“Who was the bag man on the dock?” I asked.
“Goes by the name of Raphael. Don't know if that's his first or last name. He's a scary dude. Word on the street is, he's done some wet work for Santiago. You sure had him pissing his pants.”
“Think the word on the streets is accurate?”
“Some,” he said. “Probably pumped up a bit.”
I considered the possibility that I’d made a dangerous enemy, then discarded it. I’d made dangerous enemies before.
Changing the subject I asked, “Was that Nikki I saw leaving on a motorcycle?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s an ‘03 Indian Chief.”
“I thought they went out of business before I was born,” I said.
“They did,” he said. “They reopened a few years ago and went bankrupt almost immediately. I got one of the few 100 cubic inch Chiefs built. I’ve been hearing rumors they’re going to start back up production soon.”
He turned at the sound of commotion on the dock, then said, “Oh shit. Santiago's already here and he don't look happy.”
“Go on out there,” I said. “Yell when he wants to talk to me.”
Doc went back to the work deck and a minute later I heard him yell, “Captain! Someone wants to see you.”
I went to the cabin, retrieved my Sig from the sea bag and put it down the back of my pants, pulling my shirt over it. Then I walked out of the pilot house and menacingly moved across the port side, toward Santiago.
“Talbot!” I said authoritatively. “Did you give this 'visitor' permission to board my vessel?”
Doc turned to me, bewildered. “Um, no sir.”
“Mister,” I said as I strode across the deck toward Santiago. “I don't know who the hell you think you are, but boarding a vessel without the Captains permission could get you turned into shark chum.”
“My name is Carlos Santiago,” he said with the arrogant air of someone used to people cringing at the mere mention of his name. “And this is not your boat to be giving anyone permission to board.”
“Santiago, huh,” I said. “I was hired to skipper this vessel. That makes everything on it, and in it, mine until I relinquish command back to the owner.” Then I lowered my voice and hissed, “Are you the weasel that's been paying shit wages to Trent to smuggle dope?”
He looked up at me, perplexed first, then angry. He looked over at Doc and started to reach into his jacket pocket, probably for a handkerchief or maybe a smoke, but I moved faster. I reached back, pulled the Sig and had it under his chin in a flash.
“I asked you a question, senor,” I hissed. “Es usted el jefe, o no?”
“I'm the man that can make you rich,” he said defiantly. “Or arrange to have your wife disappear,” he added, noting the ring still on my finger.
“Eres demasiado tarde, senor,” I growled. “Some other punk murdered her four months ago. So, here's the deal. You got nothing to threaten me with. I got no family. I don't know, nor care about one single man aboard this boat and if you have me killed, you'd be doing me a favor. Now, since I'm the one holding a 9 mm under your chin at the moment, maybe you'd like to talk about that first option. Making me rich.”
Little beads of sweat were starting to form on his brow from the sudden knowledge that he had no sway over a man holding a gun on him.
“Podemos hablar en privado, el Capitan?”
“After you,” I said, motioning toward the wheel house.
I had to credit the man, he recovered quickly. He walked straight and tall along the port rail to the wheel house, as I followed. Only when we were inside, did I put the Sig back into my waistband.
“I know 225 kilos of grass has a street value of about half a million bucks, Santiago,” I said. “You've been paying Trent only five grand. That ain't enough. You want me to haul it, it's gonna cost you four times that. That's twenty grand. Paid on delivery. Not negotiable.”
“Raphael said three times as much,” he said.
I smiled, knowing that I already had him back peddling. “That was before you boarded my vessel without permission and tried to undermine my authority in f
ront of my crew. Take it or leave it. Either way, you're off this boat, most riki tik.”
“I like you, Capitan McDermitt,” he said. “I think we might have a future together.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes, I will pay you the twenty thousand. When your job for Capitan Trent is finished, perhaps you might consider working for me? I can use a man that can't be threatened.”
His eyes were slightly red, no doubt from the night’s partying at the Blue Parrot. His clothes were a little rumpled, probably from having to come down here in a hurry. Still, I could tell they were top of the line. He had a thin scar on the side of his face, just below the hairline. Hardly noticeable, except when he smiled. He was smiling now.
“I'll consider it,” I said. “But, I ain't cheap.”
“I can make it worth your while, Capitan. Do you know Miami?”
“I hate Miami,” I said. “I know my way around well enough though. Why?”
“Conoces la Habana? Have you ever been across the Straights?”
“A few times. Again, why?”
“I usually travel with a body guard,” he said. “He got himself killed in Little Havana just last week. Asesinado, for the money in his pocket. I need someone of your, let's say, stature and demeanor to take his place. I travel to Cuba once a month.”
“Have a number in mind, when I get back,” I said, with as menacing a grin as I could muster. “We'll talk.”
“Si, Capitan. Tengan un bien viaje.” He handed me a piece of paper and added, “The time and coordinates for your pickup. The boat will be the Salty Parrot and he will come alongside to barter beer for your by-catch.”
As he turned to walk out of the wheel house, I looked at the paper and said, “This looks to be east of where I plan to fish, Santiago. Tell your pickup man he can find me on Rebecca Shoals, same day and time.”
“That’s a lot further west, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Fewer people around.” He nodded and left the pilot house.
I waited until I was sure he was off the boat, then went out on deck. Two crewmen were lowering the hatch over the hold and Doc turned and said, “Ready to get underway, Captain.”
“Get the crew together in the galley,” I said as I turned and went down the ladder well. I took a seat at the far end of the large dining table, as the crew filed in. I waited until they were all inside and stopped fidgeting, while I measured each one with a hard eye. I'd been a Gunnery Sergeant in the Corps, in charge of a whole company of Infantry, at one time. I knew how to measure men. I easily picked out the two that Doc had said were against hauling pot for Santiago by their body language.
I stood up and said, “My name's Captain Jesse McDermitt. Captain Trent was in a diving accident yesterday and he hired me to run the boat in his stead. I just renegotiated Trent's take on his little side business with Santiago, tripling it. That's a guarantee of $1600 to each of you, $2000 to Mister Talbot and $5000 to Captain Trent, on top of our weeks catch. Be warned, I don't condone drug use on board. I catch anyone lighting up a spliff, you'll swim back to Key West. Also, I demand instant obedience to any and all orders. I won't be trifled with. Do I make myself clear?”
Each man nodded, including the two on Doc's side. Then I pointed to the man on the far left, who was the one in Santiago's pocket and said, “Sound off with your name and primary job.”
“John Lupori, deckhand,” said Santiago's man.
“Paul Laudenslager, cook,” said the second man. “Phil McWhorter, deckhand.”
“David Williams, engineer.”
“Jan Sims, navigator.”
“Bob Talbot, First Mate.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let's get under way. Any questions?”
“Yes sir,” McWhorter said. “I overheard you tell Bob, we were going straight to Rebecca Shoals. We always start at New Ground. Just wondering why.”
“Because, McWhorter, that's where every other boat in the Key West fleet starts. We're going further west and working our way back. Now, if there's no more questions, let's rock and roll.” The men all filed out, except for Doc, Williams and Sims.
“Captain,” Williams said. “We're not comfortable with running drugs.” I looked at Doc and got an almost imperceptible nod, meaning he vouched for these two men.
“Close the hatch, Doc,” I said. When he'd closed it, I continued. “Everything that just happened in this last half hour was for Lupori. I'm not comfortable with it either, and am aware that he’s also working for Santiago. I'm here to get Santiago off your back. With any luck, maybe off the backs of everyone in Key West, too. Doc vouches for you two and if he trusts you, I do too.”
“I thought I recognized that tattoo,” Williams said noting that I’d called the First Mate, Doc. “My kid's in the Corps. Afghanistan. My eldest recently left the Corps.”
“I have a daughter in the Guard,” said Sims.
“Can I count on you guys to help us out?” I asked. “All I can tell you is we're not alone. I can't tell you who’s going to be helping us, but they cast a big shadow.”
Just then, Laudenslager knocked on the hatch and opened it. “Skipper,” he said. “There's a lady at the dock wants to see you.”
“I'll be right there,” I said and he closed the hatch. “Well?” I said.
“I'm in, Skipper,” said Sims.
“Me too,” said Williams.
“Okay then,” I said. “Let's get this boat moving. Mister Williams, how’s the engine?”
“All set, Skipper,” he said. “Ran a complete diagnostics early this morning. Anytime you’re ready, you can fire her up.”
“Good, I'll be right back.” I went through the hatch, expecting to see Tina on the dock, but was surprised to see it was Julie. I looked around the docks and on the street, to see if Santiago or Raphael were still in the area and didn't see either of them.
Julie was holding a briefcase and was dressed like some kind of secretary, in black slacks and a dark blue blouse. I walked down the gangplank and said, “What are you doing here?”
“The office sent me, Captain. I have some papers for you to look over.” Then under her breath she added, “That'd be Russell. Take this case. There's a satellite phone inside.”
I took the briefcase and said, “Anything else?”
“That's it,” she said louder, obviously enjoying the secret agent game. “Just look those papers over and get back to the board members when you can.” Then she turned and walked away. I watched her all the way to the corner of Simonton Street, where she got in Alex's yellow Jeep and drove away.
I walked back up the gangplank and went to my cabin, behind the pilot house. I left the briefcase with my sea bag and went forward, into the pilot house. Trent’s boat was a 66 foot custom trawler, built by St. Augustine Marine Center in 1978. Trent had taken good care of her, it looked like. I turned the key and the engine immediately fired up.
Doc came in through the hatch and said, “We’re all set, Jesse.”
“Tell the crew to cast off,” I said. This was going to be my first test. Depending on how I maneuvered out of port, the crew would either accept me as the skipper, or not.
Doc gave the orders over the loudspeaker and the crew wrestled the large hawsers aboard. When we were free of the pier, Doc nodded his head and I checked the wheel to ensure the rudder was amidships and put the Charlie in forward. I nudged the throttle, to start the big boat moving then brought it back to idle.
It had been a while since I’d piloted a boat this big, but I guess it’s like riding a bike. We cleared the docks and I managed to get her around the pier and into Key West Bight, heading west, without incident or running over anything.
“Radar’s clear, Captain,” Doc said. “No cruise ships in the channel. We’re clear to enter.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said. “Maneuvering with twin engines is a lot easier.”
“You made it look pretty easy, Jesse,” he said. Then he gave me a lopsided grin and added, “Now, just
stay between the big green and red markers.”
I maneuvered the big boat around and into the channel, heading southwest between Tank Island and the cruise ship docks. When we were off the southwest tip of Key West, I started a slow turn to the north and entered Northwest Channel. As soon as we were through the narrows, I bumped the throttle up to 1800 rpm and the big boat slowly accelerated to ten knots. Being already familiar with it, I knew the big Cat engine would get its best fuel economy at that 1600 rpm, but I wanted to get out ahead of the other boats, before we made New Ground.
There were two other shrimp boats ahead of us and another just coming out of the harbor. Doc reached up and turned on the UHF radio. Then he keyed the mic and spoke into it, “Gang way, fellas. Miss Charlie’s coming into the channel with a new Skipper at the helm.”
A voice came over the radio, “Morning, Bob. Where’s Carl?”
“That’s Charlie Hofbauer,” Doc told me. “He’s the Skipper of Morning Mist, just ahead of us.”
Keying the mic he said, “Morning Charlie. Carl had a little scuba diving accident yesterday and will be in the chamber up in Key Largo for a day or so.”
“Sorry to hear that,” came the voice over the radio. “Who you got taking his place?”
“Captain McDermitt,” Doc said. “He runs a fishing boat out of Marathon.”
Another voice came over the radio, “Jesse, this is Al Fader, on the Night Moves. Thought I recognized you at the dock. Sorry to hear about Alex. Went out on the flats with her about two years ago. Nice lady.”
I took the mic and said, “Thanks Al. Haven’t seen you around the Anchor in a while.”
“Got married last year,” he said. “The old lady won’t let me out from under her thumb. Maybe we can get together out on New Ground and have a beer in the morning.”
“We’re going on out to Rebecca Shoal today,” I said. “Should be back on New Ground by Wednesday. Save me a Carib.”
“You got it, man,” Al said.
We motored on northward, slowly gaining on, then passing the other two shrimp boats. I was playing a hunch. I know fish, but don't know much about shrimp, except that fish like to eat them. Certain fish in particular, like Spanish mackerel. The night before, I studied the fishing forecast, past years fishing reports, weather forecast, and water conditions in the shrimping grounds north and west of Key West. From a fisherman's point of view, everything I read said that Spanish mackerel fishing would be good on Rebecca Shoals early this week. Since fish go where the food is, and Spanish mackerel feed primarily on shrimp, the past fishing reports pointed to an abundance of them, and therefore shrimp, further west.
Fallen Hunter (Jesse McDermitt Series) Page 10