Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

“BC?”

  “Yeah. Look, I don’t have time to chat so here’s the deal. I need a big favor.”

  “Sure. Anything. What?”

  “Immigration knows my passport is forged so they’re looking for it under the reissue number. Only way I’m going to get back is to use a different passport. Park still has my original, but my old expired one is in the desk at home. Think you could get it for me and have Michael bring it tomorrow on the Clipper? If they don’t look too closely, I might be able to slip through with it.”

  Wayne let out a long slow whistle. “You honestly think they’ll let you board with an expired passport?”

  “Don’t have a choice. It’s my only shot.”

  “Man oh, man. Well, hell, guess it’s worth a try. I’ll be happy to bring it.” But didn’t sound encouraging.

  “No, have Michael bring it.”

  Wayne hesitated a beat. “Why?”

  Was the phone still bugged? It had to be for his plan to have any chance of working. “Because the Avengers know who you are. Bet you they have no idea who Michael is.”

  Another pause. “Got it.” But still uncertain. “Tell me where to find it and how to get in your house. Michael will be there tomorrow.”

  Jon gave him instructions. Just before saying goodbye, he added, “Be sure Michael has a cell phone with him just in case I’m delayed.”

  “I know you have this number so I’ll give him my phone instead.”

  “Perfect.”

  57

  NIGEL FEIST COLLECTED his change and round-trip ticket from the cashier before melting into the buzz of tourists. Already the weather promised a gorgeous day for a water trip. Across Puget Sound, in the western horizon, the ragged white Olympic Mountain peaks towered above Bainbridge Island, spearing cloudless azure sky. Shrieking kids chased each other through scattered clots of adults.

  Ahead of him, the little fag’s partner, Michael, leaned on the tubular metal dock railing alongside of the moored Victoria Clipper, a long, white, multi-deck boat with a bright Union Jack painted across the stern quarter. The fag had on black designer jeans, a tan cotton sweater over a white shirt, complete with a windbreaker draped over his shoulders like a fucking tennis pro in a Rolex ad. No socks, topsiders, a black Tumi messenger bag at his feet.

  Well, at least the fag brought enough clothes. One thing Nigel learned growing up in a sea town was that no matter how warm a day appeared to be, it could get damn cold out on the water, especially in a moving craft. Best to err on the side of too many layers. In contrast, most of the tourists in the crowd—the ones toting cameras or holding maps—dressed too lightly. Five minutes after casting off, they’d be huddled inside the cabin complaining.

  Nigel blended in well, he thought. Levi’s, a black T-shirt under a gray hooded University of Washington sweatshirt, Reeboks, and a scalpel-sharp ceramic knife securely strapped to his right ankle. The beautiful thing about ceramic was the toughness of steel while being total immune to metal detectors. Now, a body scanner, on the other hand . . .

  A crew member unclipped the chain across the gangplank, allowing passengers to swarm aboard, racing for prime window seats. Nigel shuffled into line, making no attempt to gun for a good seat, figuring: best to not draw attention to oneself.

  THE MILLION DOLLAR SCRIPT was a beauty. Teak decks, blue canvas canopy over the flying bridge, all the expensive electronics a skipper might lust for. After a quick tour, Klein advised Jon, “Stay below deck until we’re well clear of the harbor. I’ll call you when it’s safe come topside.”

  Without argument, Jon moved into the main saloon and settled in on a blue cushion, content to listen to the idling engine and dream about setting foot on United States soil. The cabin carried that dry boat smell of overcooked vinyl and stale bilge water from too many days each year battened down without good ventilation.

  With well-practiced harmony, Andrew and Susan cast off. Jon felt a subtle clunk as Klein shifted the driveshaft into reverse, followed by the initial movement as the boat slowly began backing away from her temporary slip.

  Thirty minutes later Jon sat next to Andrew on the flying bridge, the wind whipping his hair as the sun warmed his face. Susan stretched out on a cushion on the forward deck reading a Kindle, a wide-brim straw sun hat tied securely under her chin. Jon asked Andrew, “Out of curiosity, what’s the drill for clearing customs when you island-hop like this?”

  “Pretty easy, actually. I have a special permit that allows me to call Canadian customs on my cell three hours before I arrive. Then, on the way back, I call US Customs. They ask who’s on board. I tell ’em. Simple.” After a beat, he gave Jon another look. “Then again, they always have the option of inspecting the boat at anytime, anywhere. Which is something they do at random, just to make sure. Lot of drug-running through these waters.”

  Jon decided to change subjects. Although he always hated it when people asked him this question, he couldn’t resist, “What kind of work you do?”

  Andrew laughed, corrected the course slightly. “Right now, nothing.”

  Jon watched the compass swing to the new heading and decided not to push for an answer.

  Andrew continued with, “Actually, I’m taking what you might call a mini-sabbatical. We escaped LA a couple years back. At the time, I planned on taking some time off. Six, maybe nine months tops. Turns out I haven’t worked in two years. But I’m getting ready to start back any day now.”

  An actor? Could be. His face carried a handsome ruggedness but didn’t look familiar. Susan appeared to be the quiet artist type, maybe a painter.

  Jon was going to ask him if the boat’s name meant what he thought it did when suddenly Andrew muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” and came close to pounding the wheel with a fist.

  The sudden outburst startled Jon. He jumped. “What?”

  “Look to the port side of stern.”

  Aw Jesus! A white Coast Guard cutter, easily identified from the diagonal red stripe across its bow, was barreling straight for them in what appeared to be an intercept course. Susan Klein shot her husband an I-told-you-so look. Panic gripped Jon’s chest. He asked Andrew, “What do I do?”

  Andrew thought for a moment. “By now they’ve already seen you, so trying to hide will only raise suspicion. Guess we’ll just have to see what they want. Stay put and try not to be nervous. Hey, look at it this way: they catch you, at least it’s the Americans.”

  The Coast Guard boat throttled down and pulled alongside, perfectly matching Andrew’s speed. From the bridge, a uniformed officer raised a red bullhorn to his lips. “Cut your power and prepare to be boarded.”

  58

  ONCE HE WAS CERTAIN Michael whatever-the-fuck-hislast-name was on board the Victoria Clipper, Nigel snagged a window seat and relaxed. No sense following him around like a puppy dog. Where the hell was he going to go? Besides, wasn’t worth the risk of being identified. Especially if the bugger was smart enough to check for a tail. But more than that, Nigel didn’t want to look at his face just in case he had to kill him.

  He didn’t much fancy killing Ritter, but he knew he had to do it. Didn’t much fancy killing Michael either. Neither one had actually done any wrong other than be the wrong person crossing paths with another wrong person. Which, in his business, was usually the case. For reasons he couldn’t identify, damaging people’s lives began to bother him. As a younger man, he didn’t buy into the karma concept. Now, nearing retirement, the concept of ‘what goes around comes around’ had begun to creep into his consciousness and resonate. Especially during the increasing stretches of early morning insomnia when every little goddamn thing on your mind grows disproportionately important.

  This definitely would be his last job. Snuff Ritter and be done with it. Might be a tad shy of the number his financial planner projected to maintain his present lifestyle the rest of his years, but close enough to suit him. Might mean one or two fewer trips to Vegas each year to get laid. But hell, the older you got, the less pussy you wanted anyway.
Least, that’s what he’d been told.

  Temple pressed against cold the window, he stared out over the Striates of Juan de Fuca, breathed the pleasingly familiar smell of brine and boat oil as the rhythmic vibrations of the engine lulled his mind. More and more lately he fantasized about long road trips on his maroon Harley flathead. Nothing better to connect you with Mother Earth than being surrounded by the smell of cattle and freshly threshed hay, road heat, raindrops splattering your visor, surface imperfections in the road vibrating up through your spine. Travel for miles, stopping only at appealing sites or towns. Stay one week or one hour depending on how it struck your fancy. Yeah, soon as this fucking job ended. . . .

  The Victoria Clipper’s scheduled arrival was 11:15 a.m. with a 5:30 p.m. departure. By 8:30 this evening he’d be done with this job and back in Seattle. First thing tomorrow he’d be at the airport to catch the first available shuttle to LA. Soon as he was home, he’d start preparing the Harley for his first retirement trip. Yeah, he’d really do it. A road trip.

  JON REMAINED ON THE flying bridge as Andrew and Susan climbed the stairway down to the main deck to help two Coast Guardsmen and one German Shepherd board. He heard one man introduce himself as Lieutenant Cosgrove and ask, “Sir, you just embarked from Sydney, did you not?” Jon’s gut tightened.

  Andrew answered, “Yes.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience, but we need to do a quick search of your vessel.”

  “If you don’t mind, what are you looking for?”

  “Explosives and firearms, sir. OHS just put an increased threat level into effect. Now, if you don’t mind, the sooner we start, the sooner you’ll be under way.”

  Andrew pointed to the cabin. “No problem. Have at it.”

  A few minutes later an African American male Guardsman came up the ladder, said, “Excuse me, sir. I’ll be out of your way in a moment.” Glanced around the flying bridge, opened the only compartment, rummaged through flares and three life vests. Apparently satisfied, he secured the door. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” and climbed back down.

  NIGEL FEIST MADE SURE he cleared the gangplank well before the queer did. Slowly, he walked the pier toward a stone retaining wall and the looming Empress Hotel, watching for Michael to pass him. And that’s exactly what happened. Feist was leaning against the wall at the shore end of the pier when the little bugger pranced by. Nigel fell in behind him and followed. In a few minutes they’d meet Ritter and the job would be finished.

  WITH THE SAME ALACRITY and precision as in Victoria, Andrew and Susan moored the Million Dollar Script at a large marina on Lopez Island. With four bumpers in place and all lines cheated, Andrew told Jon, “This is as far as I take you. Man, if you get busted on your way to the ferry it isn’t going to be in my car.”

  Jon shook Klein’s hand. “Thanks. I think you realize just how much I appreciate this.” He paused to swallow the emotional lump in his throat. “You have my name. Next time you plan to come down to Seattle, call. I’d love to take both of you to dinner.”

  “Have to think about that one.” Andrew laughed. “First, I figure to play it safe and let some time pass, make sure you’re not being hunted by al-Qaeda or some other group before being seen with you.”

  Jon put a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “Ciao.”

  Jon jumped to the concrete dock and stood still a moment, legs adjusting to a stable surface. He breathed in warm salt air. Creosote and drying seaweed never smelled so beautiful in his life. In fact, at that moment the marina seemed to be the most beautiful place in the world. He started walking slowly along the dock toward the parking lot, fighting to control the emotions bubbling up from within. The moment he reached shore, he dropped to his knees, bent down, and with tears streaming from his eyes, touched his forehead to the warm asphalt. Home at last!

  “Wow, guess you weren’t kidding when you said you’re happy to be back.”

  Shielding his eyes from the sun, Jon squinted up at Andrew’s silhouette. He swallowed, cleared his throat. “You have no idea.”

  Klein offered his hand, “C’mon, you convinced me.”

  Jon waved it away the help, preferring to stand on his own power. The police could arrest him now. He didn’t care. At least he’d have a fighting chance to defend himself.

  “I’ll drive you to the ferry. Hell, no one’s going to risk picking you up looking like that.” He chuckled. “They’ll peg you for some sort of a psycho trying to hijack their car and probably run you down instead. Then it’d be on my conscience. I don’t need that kind of grief. Besides, the dock is on the other side of the island. Way too far to walk.” After a quick glance at the pier, he added, “Give us five minutes to close up the boat.”

  Struck dumb for words of gratitude, Jon settled for, “Thank you.”

  59

  JON STOOD ON THE porch to the Landing, a shanty of rough-hewn siding and moss-laden shingles perched on a curvy hillside road snaking down to the ferry landing. The small building played dual service as short-order café and waiting room for walk-ons. The clock behind the dusty window showed thirty-minutes before the next scheduled boat to Anacortes, the small ferry terminal town on the mainland. Once again he mentally reviewed the plan in play. What flaws was he missing? Would it backfire? Well, he’d find out. He opened the new cell phone purchased in Victoria and dialed Fisher.

  Jon asked, “Did Wayne get the new cell phone?”

  Fisher said, “He did.”

  “What’s the number?”

  After Fisher recited the number Jon programmed it into his system, said, “So far, so good. How about your end?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Call you later.” Jon disconnected and dialed Wayne’s new cell.

  “Where the hell are you?” Wayne demanded.

  “I’m going to catch the ferry to Anacortes in about an hour. Is it possible for you to meet there?”

  “Absolutely, but what the hell’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain when I see you.”

  Wayne sighed, said, “Okaaaayyy. You want me to meet you at the ferry dock?”

  “No. How familiar are you with Anacortes?”

  “Haven’t been there in about a hundred years, but I suspect I can find it. It’s somewhere north of I-5 and south of the Canadian border. They haven’t moved it, have they?”

  Jon laughed, still giddy from crossing the border without being arrested. “No. It’s still there. Here’s the deal, there’s a marina on the east side of town right off the main drag as you come in. There’s a marine supply and yacht sales office in the complex, lots of boats. Meet you there.”

  “Lemme see . . . should take about two hours to make it there, especially with afternoon traffic and all. What time do you think you’ll be there?” Jon checked the schedule taped to the inside of the store window. Four o’clock. He told Wayne, “Five o’clock.”

  THE FUCK’S GOING ON? In a Starbucks down the street from the Empress Hotel, Nigel Feist nursed a latte and watched Michael read a paperback on a park bench facing the harbor. Now mid afternoon and not a goddamned thing happened. A suspicion began to nag, a feeling of having been in this situation before. Not déjà vu really. Rather, a misgiving . . . of being set up and fucked with.

  If Ritter were meeting Michael, he should’ve shown by now. He checked his watch again, then looked back at Michael. The little bastard slowly turned another page, uncrossed his leg, and crossed to the other one. Fucking color-coordinated faggot. Nigel rocked his cup back and forth, checking the contents. Only dregs. Now what? Can’t very well sit here for fucking ever.

  THE ANACORTES FERRY slip ends a long curving road on the western shore of Fidalgo Island where slightly over three miles of two-lane asphalt connects the landing to the town’s central business district and marinas. Jon caught a taxi outside the terminal and asked to be dropped two blocks north of the marina entrance. Now, sitting at a wood table with a thick coat of Verathane in a fish and chips dive, he stared thr
ough greasy glass. Across the street a cyclone fence enclosed a large rectangle of cracked asphalt packed with boat trailers and vehicles.

  For the past fifteen minutes he nursed a cup of abysmal overcooked coffee while monitoring the minimal activity in the lot. No suspicious vehicles or people entered the lot. At the far end two men power sanded a cruiser hull up on blocks. They’d been working when he arrived and paid little attention to anything else going on around them.

  Time. He slipped from the booth and out the door, crossed the street, into the fenced-in lot, worked his way between parked cars and a random assortment of empty, rusting boat trailers looking for a good spot to watch and wait. Found one behind a dented green Dumpster reeking of garbage and fresh paint, the location providing an unobstructed view to the front door of Fidalgo Yacht Sales fifty yards away.

  At nine minutes to five Wayne’s silver Mercedes e320 slowly turned into the parking lot and crept directly toward the yacht brokerage. The simple sight of Wayne sent a wave of relief through him. Had to force himself to stay put and watch, to make certain Wayne hadn’t been inadvertently followed. Wayne parked the car and waited patiently inside. After several minutes he stepped out and slowly turned a complete circle. Apparently puzzled, he walked to the sales office, cupped both hands to the sides of his eyes and peered through the window, shrugged and returned to the car, climbed in and closed the door to wait. After all, he was a few minutes early.

  Convinced Wayne hadn’t been followed, Jon trotted over to the car.

  Wayne saw him coming and jumped out again, cocked his head to one side, looked him up and down, said, “My my, don’t we look like a complete mess.”

  Jon gave him a quick hug. “Not one of my better weeks. Thanks for coming.” He quickly scanned the area one last time and, to his relief, saw nothing changed from a minute ago. He opened the passenger door to climb in. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here.” If his plan was working, Feist was safely in Victoria. And if Fisher has done his part, an RMCP undercover officer was keeping a protective eye on Michael.