He stood and looked at the pictures on his wall. A few were of family, but many were baseball players. One of the only perks about being stuck in the office was finally having a permanent residency and season tickets to the Washington Nationals. The team was in the hunt this year, and desperately needed a late inning relief pitcher. The Nationals had only made the playoffs twice since 1969, but this year looked promising … if they could only straighten out their bullpen, they could make a playoff run. With salary cap woes on the mound, the team was stuck, but Norm had a solution. In the past he had been a little more speculative on the players he smuggled out of Cuba. He knew if he went after the big names that Castro’s watchdogs would notice. But by taking lesser-known players with promise, he had stayed under the radar.
The problem was that evaluating talent in Cuba was hard. They didn’t have the competition that even the single-A ball leagues had here. You never knew if they would make it or not. Pitchers were even more of a gamble, as they typically got less rest and, as a result, barely broke the coveted 90-mph mark for their fastballs.
But all said, skimming ten percent off their salaries was making him money. And the information he had on his desk—for a new player—was higher profile than most of the players he dealt with. Which meant it would surely be noticed when he went missing.
But the reward was worth the risk—especially if he could save the Nationals’ season.
He got up and paced the room, ignoring the view. Then picked up his cell phone, hit the icon for Snapchat, and typed in the message to Jay. Upon delivery, the message would be scrubbed from both his phone and the server. The irony made him smile, how an app developed for teenagers had revolutionized the espionage business.
A minute later, the phone chirped and he looked at the reply: Tonight—loading now. The junior man had worked for him for years, and was a good operative, although he had tendencies to go off the rails occasionally - especially when women were involved. But he was the only one Stone trusted to run the off-the-books operation in Cuba, running guns and money to the island state and bringing back political refugees and players.
Norm didn’t understand a large part of the world—something else that troubled him about his appointment—but two things he did understand were Cuba and baseball. A second generation American, his parents had left Cuba in the late 50s, right before Castro took over, and had instilled in him a love for the country and an equal love for the sport. Why not hurt the regime at the same time as putting some money in his pocket and helping his team?
He wished he was back in the field and could control the operation himself. Both Jay and the man he used to extricate the players, were becoming increasingly difficult to control from behind his desk. The man named Alvarez, had grown up on the island, and emigrated in the Mariel boat lift of the early 1980s. Over the years he had performed well, but had grown accustomed to the vices of a capitalist society and Norm was hesitant to send him back. Alvarez was becoming unpredictable, but he had the connections and local knowledge to sneak into the country and bring the players out. And Jay was Jay - he needed to be watched.
He thought for a second about how he would justify the expense. As head of the CIA, there was no way he could drop off the grid - at least as himself. He lifted the phone to ask his secretary to call for his plane to be ready and file a flight plan to the Marathon airport, but hung up before she answered. After unlocking the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a passport and ID in another name and placed them in his pocket. Better to go off the grid for this trip.
Relieved that he had decided to take action, he left the office and headed out of the building, once again passing the statue of Wild Bill and wondering why this couldn’t be more like the old days before congressional hearings and bullshit inquisitions. He often felt powerless to make any kind of change in the world, but with the Nationals there just might be a chance.
***
Mel was getting more uncomfortable as the bar filled. Cayenne and Marvin were engrossed in a conversation, neck and neck, sucking down rum drinks, and she was left to the side, watching the crowd. They were getting louder and more animated as they drank and she was starting to get a headache. She had tried to leave several times, but Marvin had ordered another drink and reminded her of her promise to hook him up.
She tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. I can’t be your wingman if you’re going to sit there and talk to her all night. I’m getting a headache.”
“Oh, sweetie. Don’t get bitchy. Maybe we could get a bite to eat and that would make you feel better. Then we can cruise for some boys.”
“Deal. At least the first part.” She got up from the stool and went for the door. When she reached the entrance, she turned and saw that Cayenne was following like a little puppy.
Why me? she thought as the trio decided on the Half-Shell Oyster Bar. They walked along Duval Street and turned onto Caroline, where they marched the four blocks in the early evening heat to the restaurant. The air conditioning was almost non-existent as they entered and walked past the bar, crowded with charter captains whose boats were moored behind the restaurant at the Key West Bight Marina. The rustic bar, with its happy hour specials on both drinks and seafood, was a popular after-charter watering hole.
A man nodded at her as she passed. She thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t place him, so she looked away and followed the hostess to their table by the open windows. A few minutes later she sat with a glass of ice water, peeling shrimp and watching the animated conversation going on between Marvin and Cayenne. They were gulping beer and slurping oysters, a large part of the juice falling into Cayenne’s overgrown cleavage.
When Marvin went to lick it off Mel got up and excused herself.
After a quick trip to the ladies’ room, which she had only used as an excuse to get away, she stopped at the bar to check her phone. Mac still hadn’t called or texted and she was starting to get worried. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear, and he was not one to just say hi, but it had been almost forty-eight hours since they’d parted. She should have gotten some kind of message.
The man at the bar was still there and she covertly studied his face, trying to remember where she knew him from.
It finally came to her as she started to walk away that he was the captain of the boat that had taken them to the coral farm.
Chapter 13
The light was fading fast and Mac flipped the toggle switch for the running lights on the off chance they would still work. Surprisingly, they did. It was a bit of good news, as a vessel without lights was both dangerous and suspicious. The boat had run well so far, and they had gone by a couple of his traps to pick up some lobsters. He still had his license, and before he was forced to abandon his gear, or worse, make a deal with Commando, he might as well fill up the freezer.
He looked down at his blistered hands. They had pulled about twenty lobster from a half dozen of his traps without the aid of a winch, and having to handle the lines—encrusted with crustaceans—without gloves had torn their hands apart.
“How far to that spot?” he asked as half the sun dipped below the horizon, the other half following swiftly behind it.
Trufante pointed to a small island in the distance. “Over there.”
The Sawyer Keys were only a mile away, close enough to make before they lost daylight. Mac put the boat in gear and was quickly on plane, following Trufante’s signals and trusting the Cajun wouldn’t run them aground. The man had a way of getting in trouble, but he was good on the water. Minutes later, they arrived by one of the buoys. He had grilled the Cajun about his day with the red-headed woman and hoped if he saw the operation for himself he could figure out a way out of his mess. “So this girl is growing coral here?” he asked.
“Yup, ain’t seen that part of the operation, but them casitas were over there.” Trufante pointed toward a spot in between two other buoys.
“Wish I had some dive gear. I’d like to take a look and see what’s got me in so much trouble,” Mac
said as he started searching the boat, looking for a mask and fins. Finding nothing except some empty beer cans, he closed the hatches and went back to the wheel. Just as he was about to start the motor, though, he stopped.
“What?” Trufante asked.
Mac put a finger to his lips. Trufante started to ask again when the sound of an engine stopped him. They both scanned the horizon, looking for the source, and finding nothing. Suddenly a cigarette boat appeared from a clump of mangroves less than a hundred yards from them.
“Down.” Mac pulled Trufante to the deck with him.
“What?”
“It’s Commando. Hard to believe it’s a coincidence that he’s right here, but I don’t want him to see us.” Mac raised his head and peered over the transom. “Looks like he’s gone.” He rose and looked at the boat speeding toward Big Pine Key. “Pretty dark and it’s not my boat. I don’t think he saw us. Or if he did, he didn’t recognize us.”
“Probably going back to pick me up,” Trufante said.
“Wrong way, buddy. Looks like he ditched you. I think you’re stuck with me ‘till morning. If he even comes back. Running that boat of his at night is a bullseye for the law to come after him.”
“Well, what now?”
Mac looked at the clump of mangroves where Commando’s boat had emerged. He was curious; from this vantage point there was no place for a boat to exit. “Let’s go have a look at where he came from. This is all too much of a coincidence for my liking. First the casitas, and now Commando.”
He went to the wheel and pushed the throttle forward. At idle speed, he moved closer to the mangroves, one eye on the depth finder, the other on the shore. They reached the spot he was sure the cigarette boat had emerged from, but all he could see was mangroves.
As they got closer, a small light became visible through the branches, and then a small inlet suddenly appeared. It was barely wide enough for a single boat and looked deep, like it had been dredged. He passed the inlet to look from the other side, and it vanished. The light was low now, but he could see in his mind the artfully crafted entrance. Cut parallel to the shore line and deep enough for a single boat to enter and turn, it would look like a small cove from one angle, and be virtually invisible from any other. Perfectly hidden.
Mac swung the boat around and headed toward the entrance.
“What are you doin’?” Trufante asked.
“I’m going to see what’s in there. This is professionally done, especially for a Key’s camouflage job.” The backwaters of the Keys were legendary for smuggling whatever the current rage was: liquor from Cuba during prohibition, drugs for the last fifty years, and whatever else was in vogue and illegal in between. Smugglers and pirates had holed up in these mangrove-covered, mosquito-infested islands and unmarked flats for centuries.
“It’s got to have something to do with the casitas,” he told Trufante. “And the only way I’m gong to clear my name and get my boat back is to figure this out myself.”
“I’m just sayin’, this was the bayou, you don’t go unannounced, or unarmed into a spot like this.”
“This is the perfect cover. Two tourists lost in a rental boat.” Mac followed the small inlet and turned right at the blind turn, which switchbacked onto another narrow pass. “Someone spent some money doing this.”
“Well if they spent money building it, don’t you think they’d spend money guarding it?” Trufante whined.
Mac steered through the second turn and found himself in a small lagoon. A dock jutted out into the water, where another cigarette boat and a smaller center console were tied up. In the background he could make out a dimly lit house.
Satisfied for now, he started to turn away. But suddenly a gun fired, and he felt the whistle of a bullet flying by his head. Trufante was already on the deck when he pushed back on the throttle, reversed and spun the boat. He slammed the throttle forward hoping the engine could take the sudden shock and sped through the tight turns. Several shots followed, but they were increasingly off target and he relaxed as they hit open water. He turned the running lights off and headed toward deeper water, wanting to put as much distance between them and the gunman as quickly as possible.
They reached the channel leading to Wood’s place fifteen minutes later, and he had Trufante tie off the boat to the piling. It was starting to look crowded here with both boats and he worried it might attract attention. The motor-less skiff was tied to the pile as well and he thought about putting it up on the trailer to hide it but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. If someone had followed them he would have to hide both boats, but he had seen no pursuit. Tired and hungry now, he looked at the buckets on the deck.
“Let’s go cook some of these up. Be nice to have a cold beer, too.” He hopped over the gunwale and dropped into the water, his cut hands stinging when he grabbed the buckets of lobster from Trufante.
“Maybe this’ll work,” Trufante said as he slid into the water holding a half-full bottle of rum above his head. “You only found the empties. Me, I can sniff this out from a mile away.”
***
Mel looked around the bar and was about to turn and talk to the captain about running her out to Mac’s. The hours were ticking by and still no call or message from him. Just as she was about to catch his eye, Marvin grabbed her arm and pulled her away.
“Sweetie, let’s go get some guys,” he said, jerking her away from the bar.
She looked over at the man, but he had turned the other way. “I’ll give you an hour.” She went to the door, ready to pay off her obligation when Cayenne came running through the bar, boobs bouncing and tripping on her heels. “Do I really need to deal with her?”
“You were the one looking for information. Ply her with alcohol and I’ll bet you’ll learn something. If not, just throw her in front of the first tourist with a Rolex that comes along and she’ll be gone,” Marvin said as he held the door open for the women.
Mel was glad to be out of the bar. “Where to, then? Clock’s ticking.”
He gave her a look like she was clueless. “Aqua on Duval,” he said, and started toward Duval Street.
“That place is so cool,” Cayenne said as she chased after them. She held up a hand and flagged a cab. The pink car pulled to the curb and they got into the air-conditioned interior. “Time’s a wasting, and I can’t walk in these things.”
Mel sat back and watched the scenery as the old Victorian homes turned into T-shirt shops and restaurants. There must be a cruise ship in port, she thought as she watched the masses of people wandering the sidewalk. Several blocks later, they pulled up to a turquoise art deco building illuminated with neon in the fading twilight. Cayenne paid the driver, and they exited the cab and headed toward the open doors.
Both bars adjacent to the doors were full, and she waited as Marvin scanned the crowd. She looked at the handful of bodies on the dance floor and wondered if she could really get him hooked up and out of here in the hour she had threatened. Her head started to throb again from the rum drinks, made worse by the pulsing music coming from the back of the club. Marvin was looking back and forth like a kid scanning a candy display until finally he chose and headed toward the larger bar on the right, where he took an empty stool and sat.
“What’s with you?” she yelled in his ear. “You can’t just sit here and make me do all the work.” Mel looked at him and noticed his body language had changed. Gone was the cocky guy she had watched earlier. In his place was a nervous boy.
“I get a little nervous lately, doing this kind of thing.”
“I can see that. OK. I promised. You order a drink and let me see what I can do.” She walked down the bar, trying not to look intimidating. Some women caught her eye in an attempt to communicate, but the men ignored her. At the end of the bar, she spotted Cayenne leaning into a man sitting by himself and moved toward them. The man was obviously a tourist, and here alone. Perfect, she thought. Now all she had to do was to pry Cayenne’s boobs off his chest.
; “Aren’t you James?” she asked the man as she approached and winked.
“Who me?” he answered, trying to extricate himself from Cayenne.
Mel was about to give up the ploy when he must have figured out that she was here to help.
“I know you. From that conference last fall,” he said, appearing to catch on. He pushed Cayenne to the side and went to Mel.
They exchanged air kisses and she leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Name’s Mel. I’ll help you out here if you let me introduce you to my friend down there.” She pointed at Marvin, then turned and faced Cayenne. “You know the guys in here don’t want to play with you, right?”
Cayenne pushed past her and stormed out of the bar. Mel walked the man toward Marvin, who looked awfully nervous sitting by himself sipping a drink.
“Hey Marvin,” she said.
He looked up and smiled. “Sweetie. What have you brought your friend?”
“You two have a little chat, OK? I’m going to see what Cayenne is up to.”
***
The boat was packed and the load covered, ready to leave, when Jay saw the boat enter the cove. It wasn’t the first time tourists had wandered in here, but a few shots wouldn’t hurt to keep them from getting too curious. He ran to the house and retrieved his rifle from the safe in his office, ran back out, and let loose on the boat, purposefully aiming high. Maybe he’d get one of those annoying birds, and he didn’t want any dead bodies floating around before he had to take off. The boat picked up speed and disappeared.
He had one last thing to handle and he would be out of here. The palm trees rustled overhead and he looked up at a large cumulous cloud illuminated in the moonlight. With a new urgency, he walked into the house and went toward the bedroom. The last thing he wanted was to start the trip in a storm. From the look of the cloud and the direction of the breeze, he had a good thirty minutes before it got here. Once he was underway he could easily outrun it.
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