by Robert Lane
It was a question, but she threw it down as a warning.
“She’s in the middle, and I didn’t put her there.” The speed of my reply took her by surprise. But like tennis—a fast serve equals a fast return—when you launch a rapid question, you better be prepared for the answers to zing back at equivalent speed. She played again with her utensils and this time actually foul hooked a small piece of fish.
“You’d like her, Morgan,” she said, changing tack, but I knew we weren’t done. “She’s got a heart the size of this bay and plans to raise one hundred thousand dollars for churches to give away next Christmas.”
“I believe I’ve heard of her efforts. Dishes out money to local churches with no strings, right?” Morgan asked.
“That’s her. It’s as good as anything is, without any pretense or ulterior motives.”
“It would be a pleasure to meet her,” Morgan said.
“Perhaps when this is over,” Kathleen said and gave me a glance. Her message was loud and clear. Sophia Escobar wasn’t a concern to me. Kathleen Rowe, however, was the world to me.
I ached for a glass of wine, but kept to water. The sunset charter boat Magic glided past the end of my dock with four people on her bow and a few on the aft deck. I heard Barbara’s screen door close and knew she had let Francine out for the final trip of the day. I made a note to take over some of Kathleen’s dish tomorrow. We had more than we could eat.
Morgan started talking to Kathleen about the moon, just about his favorite topic in the world to discuss. Garrett rose and took an armful of dirty plates into the house.
And I? My eyes were locked on the pulsating red channel marker beacon as if it were trying to send me a signal and answer questions that my brain could not shake. I was stuck on Garrett’s and my earlier conversation.
How did Theodore Wayne Sullivan die twice?
CHAPTER 18
We lowered the flag around 3:00 a.m. Nothing had happened except we nearly died of boredom. Welcome to life on the edge. Intense points of waiting.
Not so the next night.
We floated Impulse at 10:15, and as with the previous night, Morgan took us to Escobar’s, cut the engine, and we poled in close. Garrett and I both wore our wet suits and we brought along the red spinnaker bag. The bag had belonged to Morgan before we commandeered it and christened it our grab bag. It contained satellite phones, extra ammunition, currency, guns, knives, and a first aid kit that was the envy of ER vans. Last time out, it was a lifesaver. Last time out was the night on the beach that Kathleen took a bullet. Garrett, Morgan, and I, that evening, were out fishing at midnight.
That is correct. Kathleen was being kidnapped while I was whistling and casting for gag grouper. Not a day goes by that I don’t remind myself of three hard lessons I learned: 1) I am capable of, and will make, stupid decisions, 2) never underestimate your enemy, and 3) I am capable of, and will make, stupid decisions.
It was Garrett who insisted we bring along the red spinnaker bag. When she was abducted, Kathleen managed to sneak out an old EPIRB, emergency position indicating radio beacon, that I had given her as a gag gift. No relation to the fish. Without the bag, we would have been defending her with light tackle, paddles, fists, and, based on brief conversations that we overheard between her abductors, a superior vocabulary.
Without the bag, there would be nothing fake about the headstone above Lake Michigan.
“Same spot as before?” Morgan asked.
“Same spot,” I said.
I spread black paint on my face, put on my Vibrams, and dropped over Impulse’s starboard side. Garrett didn’t waste time with paint and went off the back by the engine. He positioned himself by the end of the stucco wall at the south side and I camped out in two-and-a- half feet of water by the docks. The house had the same lights on as the previous night.
For an hour I didn’t move.
At 12:26 the lights went out and indistinguishable voices floated from the house.
I crept away from the dock and off to the north side by mangroves for a better view. I stumbled upon a large jagged piece of concrete underwater and struggled not to fall down. It was most likely left from when they poured the retaining wall. I froze for a moment after I made my splash to make certain no one heard me, but the conversation seemed uninterrupted. I settled in, partially shielded by the mangroves, and looked through my ATN night binoculars. Elvis and two men with shotguns quickly approached the dock.
“You think he’d give us more notice. He’s gotta know when he’s getting there,” a stout guy with a blue bandana on his head said. I lowered my binoculars.
“I’ve told you, Cruz, it’s all security. Anthony doesn’t want to be anywhere too long and he doesn’t want anyone to know about his plans any longer than we need to,” Elvis said.
“Fuck Anthony,” Cruz said and spit onto Sophia’s paver bricks. “I don’t trust him any further than I can see in the night.”
“Than you can spit, dumb-ass.”
“I can spit across the Gulf to fuckin’ Mexico.”
“Corpus Christi, you idiot. Mexico is further south.”
“Fine. I can spit to the dead Christ.”
“Is that what that place means?” the third man asked. He was the tallest of the three and trailed them as if he were along for a nightly stroll.
“Sure, Victor,” Elvis said. “Whatever you want to believe, man.”
Victor went straight to the lift box and hit the switch, while Elvis and Cruz stepped into the boat. They had a routine. I was afraid that I would lose their conversation once the engines started and thought of going under the dock so that I would be directly underneath them. Too risky.
Cruz approached the cuddy, unlocked it, and disappeared inside. Elvis was at the wheel, and the third man, Victor, with his gun in both hands, stood on the starboard side looking out into the night. They vanished into the night. I had no idea whether they would be gone for an hour or five. Satellite photos never showed the boat gone during the day, so I had reason to believe they would return that night. I trudged back through the shallow water to Impulse, about fifty yards to the south. Morgan had anchored her behind a small mangrove island that provided a natural shield from the house. Garrett was already on board when I pulled myself over the port side.
“Two guys with Elvis, one named Cruz, the other Victor. Heavy guns,” I said. “Let’s see if we can make out what they haul back. If he’s bringing in drugs, and the jail time that drug smuggling brings, he’ll crank out the letter in a second.”
Garrett said, “Regardless of what comes back in the boat, what I just saw is not what I envisioned from your description of Escobar.”
“How’s that.”
“Whatever he’s into makes strip clubs and blackmailing a congressman look like craft time at the old folks’ home. The two guns with Elvis weren’t from the security firm; they were from the old country. You can see it in their walk. Whether we know what he is into is a moot point. He knows what he’s into. No way would he press charges and risk scrutiny.”
“I agree. Let’s see what the old country hauls in from the sea. If it’s a bigger rumble than we signed up for, we’ll adjust.”
A faint smile leaked out of the left corner of his mouth.
Fifty-eight minutes later we heard the throttle down of 1,400 synchronized draft horses slowing over the surface. James Watt wanted a measurement to quantify steam engine production to that of a draft horse. He arrived at a horse exerting 550 pounds per second, or the rough equivalent of 746 watts. One horse=746 W. It’s not that simple, but again, nothing ever is.
Garrett and I again slunk over the side. I moved quickly, avoided the submerged concrete, and was in position well before the boat homed in on the lift. I wanted to be in about five feet of water. There wasn’t much of me exposed at that level, and if they made me, I could easily submerge and not come up till I was on the far side of the mangroves north of the dock. I had a clear view of the dock and, unless they turned the lig
hts on, was in total blackness. They were out about seventy feet, around twenty-one meters, and closing. Garrett had taken a position in the shallow water to the south under mangrove branches. He had his SASS sniper rifle with him.
The dock lights were off and the boat came in without running lights. They planned to unload, assuming they had picked up their shipment, in total darkness. Even the house lights were still off. Something nibbled at my leg. Back in the food chain. The soft whirl of the lift motor started when they were still thirty feet out. The boat settled into the lift and then heavy footsteps were on the dock above me.
“In the garage,” Elvis said.
“Ramon gonna take them all?” Cruz asked.
“We’ll see. He’s waiting in the garage. These aren’t wetbacks paying their own way, and I don’t know about those two, especially that one. That’s why I called Escobar and he wants to see them. We were told that this shipment was ‘modified,’ and Escobar went ape shit on the phone.”
Six figures got off the boat.
Girls.
An unbridled rage came off the water’s floor and took possession of me. All of me again in one direction.
Raydel Escobar smoked Cuban cigars, drank dark rum, and listened to Herb Alpert and the fucking Tijuana Brass. He married a caring and loving wife, who generated as much money for charity as anyone else on the west coast of Florida. He was a respectable blackmailing strip club owner. In America’s Wild West capitalistic structure, he was capable of a highly rated TV reality series as long as no one looked in the shadows. For there, in the soft Florida nights, he imported young girls and sold them.
Dirty money and good deeds—the strangest bedfellows to ever emerge from the invention of coinage.
Muffled and confused young voices filled the conversational lapse. I fought the urge to take my knife and drop Elvis and his Oakwood boys and storm the house with Garrett.
Elvis said, “Let’s go. Get them around to the garage.”
“Move it, nina chiquitas,” Cruz said.
“What now, Maria?” It was the clear and high voice of a young child. If there really was a God, he was deaf, for the child’s voice didn’t belong in the same universe with the sound of the men. You Neanderthals.
“Stay with me, poco Rosa.” Slightly older, but still young.
“I am scared, sister. I—”
“Shut up,” Elvis said.
I had to get closer to the house. I took a deep breath and silently sunk into the black water until I was flat on the bottom. I moved underwater and used the abrasive concrete I had stumbled upon earlier as a guide to where I was and surfaced next to the mangroves without taking a breath. There were five diminutive dark figures—and a sixth one notably smaller—walking down the long dock silhouetted against the even darker night. Elvis was already on land and Cruz brought up the rear. I had Victor still on the boat and a guy named Ramon in the garage plus the security guard.
Too risky for a shootout. I thought of the concrete below the surface and envisioned my emotions sinking there until I called for them. I slowly blew my breath out.
Visualize an anchor for your emotions, the shrink had instructed, that way you’ll maintain some control, learn to cope, and channel it for a proper time. What’s the purpose if you just harness it, tie it down, I had countered. I had taken his advice, however, on more than one occasion.
The bizarre parade marched around the side of the house, and I lost sight because of the stucco wall. I crawled around the south end of the wall toward the front. I wanted to see if they drove out the front gate with the girls after leaving the garage. I wondered why the hell Escobar was using his house as a drop point. I took a position behind scrub bushes in the vacant lot across the street where I could see through the wrought iron gates. I heard Garrett’s low whistle from the other side of the property. I had the better view. We had to wait.
We.
My mind, which I constantly struggle to keep off of shuffle, flashed to the dinner we had at Escobar’s. Kathleen referred to us as “we.” I wondered what “we” were. I wondered if I truly loved someone, and acted in her best interest, if I wouldn’t keep her away from me. If my life was conducive for sharing with someone else, and if not, what choice would I make?
I blew the air out of my lungs in hope that it would take my thoughts with it, but knew it didn’t work that way. I focused on Escobar’s garage.
CHAPTER 19
Escobar
“What the hell is this?” Escobar demanded of Elvis, the words tumbling out progressively louder.
Escobar stood in his garage with Elvis, Cruz, Victor, Ramon, and Ramon’s two men. He looked at the six frightened girls, who stood like frozen lawn ornaments in a single line in the order in which they had entered. He marveled how effortlessly events had spun out of control. There it is, he thought. All your plans turn into a shit show before you know what hit you.
“It’s what he gave us. I told him—”
“What? That we take girls? You think they paid for this?”
“He said this is what he was told to bring.”
Escobar cut Ramon a glance. “You know it was girls this time?”
Ramon smiled and gave a slight shake of his head. “It don’t matter to me whether it’s men who end up nailing shingles or chicas that someone pays to nail. I just move and unload them. But that one,” he nodded his head toward the smallest one, “I’m not taking her,” Ramon said. “My guy won’t take one that young. Not even as domestic help. She’s your problem, Raydel. She can sweep your floor till she’s old enough to blow. Then you can pay her to swallow, like an allowance. Extra paga.”
Escobar suppressed a flush of embarrassment from such language in front of young girls. He didn’t like Ramon standing on his property. He didn’t like Ramon wherever the fuck he stood. He wondered how he ended up in business with such an offensive mouth.
It was only supposed to be one time.
A couple of months ago, Henriques had asked him to do a favor. Sophia, at that time, was staying with her sister for a few days. In retrospect, he wished she were at home. It would have provided him an easy excuse, a negative reply, to Henriques’s request. Instead, Escobar had said “sure.” After all, they were business partners. Henriques said he had men who wanted to get in the country and were willing to pay a hefty price. Henriques arranged transportation. Henriques had told Escobar that it was high-end service, not some coconut raft operation that ended with a mad dash to touch US soil. Bring them all the way up to Tampa, not the usual South Florida drop points that the Coast Guard suffocated with surveillance. Escobar thought it was a risky business for Mendis to be involved in, but realized he was far enough up the food chain that the only part of the hot operation that Mendis rubbed against was the cold cash.
Escobar had bought the Intrepid at half price—a mortgage broker had fallen behind on payments—and used it a few times to bring in rare, and stolen, Persian rugs. But he was nervous. It wasn’t his game, and after a few shipments, he shut it down. The night at Mendis’s house, he thought. I ran my mouth on what a great deal I got on the boat and how fast she was. He saw now that Mendis and Henriques had played him.
But young girls? When Elvis had called and told him that instead of grown men, the usual rug shipment was a “half-dozen virgins,” Escobar was livid. He realized that Mendis had been building up to this. Mendis’s modus operandi, he thought. Get some idiot like me to take a shipment, and then sneak sex slaves, domestic help, or whatever you want to call them. Ten times the money. The big payday, daddy. And they need a sucker like you.
Escobar had told Elvis to bring them into his garage. He wanted to see them. The garage held four cars, but only Escobar’s black 2010 XJL Jaguar was in the bay. Now he wished that he had insisted that Elvis leave them on the boat. He had the strangest sense of relief that his car couldn’t talk or judge him, and he pretended that he didn’t know why such a ridiculous thought played in his brain like a song he couldn’t shake.
&
nbsp; Escobar watched a slow smile form over Ramon’s face. He knows, Escobar thought. He knows that I’m the last one in this room to figure it out. How much I hate this.
The six girls, with the exception of one, stood with their heads down. They wore simple dresses, and the thinnest of sandals separated their feet from the smooth concrete. The smallest had a lump sticking out from her dress. She was holding the hand of the girl to her left, their bodies touching. It was the girl whose hand she was holding that had her head raised and was scanning the men.
Escobar looked at the girl whose eyes darted from one man to another while she grasped the hand of the younger girl. Defiant. As if clutching the younger girl’s hand thrust upon her a confidence and responsibility that she now looked to unleash. But on whom? Her eyes rested on Escobar. She searched no further. Escobar quickly looked away.
“Like hell, Ramon, you know the arrangements,” Escobar said.
“I don’t take what I can’t unload, and no one’s handling that one,” Ramon said, nodding to the smallest girl. “You need to tie a block around her and drop her off a bridge like a goddamn cat. I’ll take the five.”
Escobar took appraisal of his surroundings: five men holding guns, and he was sure that Ramon had one as well. Enough ammunition to restock the Alamo.
“I tell you what, Ramon, you want to sink her like a cat, you go do that. But you’re taking all six and getting the hell out of my house,” Escobar said.
“Put the men and the bigger girl in the van,” Ramon said to his men while he held Escobar’s eyes.
Elvis raised his gun up slightly and Cruz did the same.
“Elvis, put them back on the boat. We’ll tell Henriques that Ramon declined to accept shipment,” Escobar said.
“Let’s go, chiquitas,” Elvis said and started to move toward the girls. He never took his eyes off Ramon.
“OK, Raydel,” Ramon said with a smile, “everybody just calm down. We’ll do what’s called a compromise. Ever hear of that, Raydel? I’ll take all six. No problem. But I can’t have my people thinking that I’m making their lives hard for them, dumping my problems on them, like you’re doing to me right now. We all share a little heat and move on to the next shipment. Load them up, Carlos. Kill those lights before the door goes up.”