Straits of Fortune

by Anthony Gagliano

  The murmur of voices died down all at once, and every eye turned toward the head of the table, where the district attorney sat. He was a tall, lean black man in his midfifties, with salt-and-pepper hair. His name was Lloyd Caldwell, and his somber face was locked into the deliberate expression of someone who puts people in jail for a living. Caldwell coughed into his fist and pushed the wire-rimmed glasses he wore farther up the bridge of his nose. He studied me for a long moment and nodded. There was a crimson folder in front of him and next to it a yellow envelope. He opened the folder and scanned quickly through the contents, all the while drumming softly on the table with the longest set of fingers I’d ever seen. They were fingers for Chopin. After a few seconds, he closed the folder and leaned back in his chair.

  “For those of you who don’t know me,” he said, “my name is Lloyd Caldwell, and I’m the district attorney who’s been asked to preside over this meeting. I want to remind everyone here that what’s said in this room this morning does not go beyond the door.” He looked at me, then at Susan. “Does Mr. Vaughn understand that, Miss Andrews?”

  “He does.”

  “Good,” Caldwell said. “Clarity is very important, especially in such delicate matters, matters which if they became known to the public could further compromise an already seriously compromised investigation.”

  “I understand completely,” I assured him.

  Caldwell held up one of those square white envelopes used to protect CDs. “Your attorney was kind enough to provide us with some information you sent her a few days ago. The information came from the computer files of a man currently under investigation, a former client of yours, Colonel Andrew Patterson.”

  Caldwell never took his eyes off mine, but I just gave him the cold, blank stare of a confirmed idiot and didn’t say anything. The best thing to do when the cops are quizzing you and the stakes are high is not to give them anything they don’t already know, unless you know that what you tell them can’t hurt you.

  “We’ve had the Colonel’s house under surveillance for some time now. You were seen there last week. What was the nature of your visit?”

  “He asked me to come out to see him,” I said. “He was looking for his daughter. Her name is Vivian. We used to date about a year ago. He wanted me to help find her.”

  “There was a white yacht anchored a few hundred yards out from the Colonel’s mansion. He mention anything about that?” Caldwell asked.

  “Not that I can recall,” I said.

  “But you do remember seeing it?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Is it important?”

  He slid a photograph over to me. “This was taken from a plane the night before your visit to the Colonel,” Caldwell said.

  I picked up the photo and examined it more thoroughly than I needed to. It was an aerial shot of The Carrousel.

  “Is this the yacht you were talking about?” I asked innocently enough.

  He slid another photo over to me, and I examined that, too. There was not much to see, just a shot of open water.

  “This was taken at the same location two nights later. As you may notice,” Caldwell said, “the yacht is nowhere to be seen.”

  “Where’d it go?” I asked. My pulse had picked up considerably, and I could feel Hackbart staring at me from his side of the desk.

  “We were hoping you might shed some light on that for us, Mr. Vaughn,” Caldwell said.

  “Call me Jack,” I said. “Sorry. I have no idea what happened to it. Whose was it?”

  Caldwell seemed to be getting impatient. “It belonged to Randy Matson, another client of yours. Funny thing though,” he said, “it’s registered in the name of a phony corporation in the Cayman Islands.”

  “I know Randy,” I said. “He made porno movies. He didn’t have the money for a boat like that, not even close.”

  “Someone he knew did. Tell me this: Did you know a man named Harry Duncan?”

  “Never heard of him,” I said. “Oh, wait a minute. Agent Hackbart mentioned his name the other night when I was at Ms. Andrew’s place. Wasn’t that his name, Agent Hackbart?”

  “Cut the crap, Vaughn,” Hackbart snarled. “Everything leads back to you. What the hell did you do with that boat?”

  “I sold it on eBay, what else? Now, listen to me. If you can’t find the boat you’re looking for, then I’m sorry. But I have no idea what happened to it.”

  “Bullshit!” Hackbart barked.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Susan said. “Let’s keep it civil.”

  “You were pulled out of the Atlantic Ocean a few days ago by the crew of a coast guard cutter after a man in a speed-boat was spotted firing at you with what appeared to be a rifle,” Caldwell said. “You claim to have no idea who it was doing the shooting. Is that correct, Mr. Vaughn?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Just another psycho. You get them all the time.”

  “And you stand by that story now?” Caldwell asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “What about this? The Edgewater police found the body of a Sergeant Rudolph Williams on the beach a few days ago. He was an assistant to Colonel Patterson. I suppose you knew him.”

  “Rudy? Sure, I knew him,” I said. “Nice guy, quiet type. Never said very much. What happened to him?”

  “He had a broken neck,” Hackbart said testily. “As if you didn’t already know that.”

  “My client is prepared to cooperate with you, Mr. Hackbart. You don’t have to try to intimidate him.”

  “Intimidate him?” Hackbart said. “Lady, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “Mr. Caldwell,” Susan said, “the smuggling charge against my client won’t stick. He’s no more of a smuggler than you or I. Aside from that, are you prepared at this time to charge Mr. Vaughn with any other offense?”

  Caldwell didn’t answer her directly. He was back to looking at me again, and it was obvious from his expression that he wasn’t too thrilled with what he was seeing. After a moment of serious staring, he held up the envelope with the CD again.

  “How did you come by this information, Mr. Vaughn?” he asked.

  “Vivian gave it to me.”

  “The Colonel’s daughter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why would she hand this over to you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you know where the girl is now?” Caldwell asked.

  “No.” The lies were stacking up like a house of cards and one wrong move would send them all scattering across the big mahogany desk.

  Hackbart leaned forward in his chair like a man about to dive out an open window. “Just how stupid do you think we are?” he asked.

  I had an answer for that, but the ice was too thin for comedy.

  “Mr. Caldwell,” Susan said, “from what I’ve heard here this morning, you don’t have enough evidence to implicate my client in any way in your investigation. On the other hand, he’s provided you with what is, by your admission, some very valuable evidence in the Patterson case, a case far more important to everyone in this room than my client’s breaking out of the Krome Detention Center the other day. No one here is interested in Mr. Vaughn, and the fact that he has connections with several of the players is due to the nature of his job, which brings him into contact with a good many people, including, I might add, myself.”

  “Lucky you,” Hackbart said.

  Caldwell was silent for a long moment. I could see the set of scales inside his mind doing a seesaw act, with my ass in one pan and his investigation in the other. At last he looked up. He stared at me and almost smiled. Then he turned to Susan.

  “Very well,” Caldwell said. “We’ll proceed, then. We have here a very strange situation, Mr. Vaughn, but my colleagues and I, as well as other government officials, believe that the situation can be resolved with a minimum of difficulty, depending on what you say here today. By all rights, Mr. Vaughn, you should now be sitting in a jail cell for any one of several serious offenses, includi
ng obstruction of justice, and that’s just the beginning. These are all serious charges, and under normal circumstances you would most certainly be indicted. As you no doubt realize, Mr. Vaughn, you could spend the better part of the next ten years in prison. Are we clear on that, Mr. Vaughn?”

  “Very clear,” I said. I happened to glance outside through the floor-length window. The overgrown turkey buzzards with the serrated wings that fly around the courthouse were still circling in the bright morning sky, but I was no longer sure they were looking for me.

  Caldwell threw me one last hard stare, picked up the crimson folder and showed it to me, then set it down again. “We’ve assembled a little dossier on you, Mr. Vaughn. For the benefit of the others, I’d like to review certain aspects of your biography. You have a problem with that?”

  “My life is an open book, sir,” I said.

  Susan kicked me hard enough to make me wince. Caldwell saw it and allowed himself the slightest of smiles.

  “You were born in Ithaca, New York, after which your family moved to Manhattan. Married once, divorced once. You attended St. John’s University on a partial football scholarship and majored, oddly enough, in comparative literature. Your older brother, Matt, was shot down over Laos in 1972. For a time you taught English at a private school in Manhattan. In 1995 you became a police officer. You received a whole slew of commendations, were generally well liked by your superiors, but were prone to flippancy. Despite that, you were on the fast track to detective when you shot another officer in a stairwell up in the projects. He fired first. It was dark, and he was working undercover. A tragic accident. You were cleared of all culpability, received the mandatory counseling, and were returned to active duty. Six weeks later you resigned. Where’d you go after that?”

  “Nowhere in particular,” I said. “I bought a car and just drove around a lot. I drove all over the country. I even drove to Alaska. Then I got tired of the cold and came south. That’s how I ended up in Miami.”

  “And now you work as a personal trainer?” Caldwell asked.

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “You were a good cop,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You could be again. Even with all this,” he said, tapping the red folder. “It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Too dangerous.”

  Even Hackbart had to laugh at that. Susan kicked me under the table, but not as hard as the first time.

  “Miss Andrews and I,” Caldwell began, “have reached an agreement—an agreement, I might add, in which your record as a former officer of the law plays no small part.” He picked up the envelope and showed it to me. “This is a sealed indictment with your name on it, Mr. Vaughn. Whether or not it remains sealed depends entirely on you. It all comes down to this: Can you keep your mouth shut?”

  “Sir,” I told him, “I’ve got the worst case of amnesia you’ve ever seen, and it’s getting worse by the day. By the time I get downstairs, I won’t even remember this meeting. Is that good enough for you?”

  “I’m starting to like you, Mr. Vaughn. We understand each other very well. It’s a pity we never met prior to this occasion. Now, before you go, we have a few things we need you to sign—and yes, one last thing. It would be better for you if none of us ever sees you again. I hope you don’t take offense at that.”

  “None at all. I hope I don’t see you either. I’ve had enough of cops to last a lifetime.”

  “I’ve heard that said before,” Hackbart said. “But it never lasts.”

  An hour later Susan and I were at the Bayfront Marketplace. We were sitting at a café called the Lost Lagoon, watching a line of tourists filing on board a fake pirate ship that was moored in a wreath of floating garbage. We had finished eating, and I was drinking an early scotch while Susan sipped her cappuccino. A crescent of foam had found purchase on her upper lip, but I didn’t mention it. I thought it made for a nice accessory to the tailored blue pinstriped suit she was wearing.

  “Let me ask you a question,” she said.

  “Go ahead, Counselor.”

  “Vivian aside, Cortez aside, how come you never made a pass at me in all the time we trained together?”

  The question caught me by surprise, and I knew I had to be careful about how I answered it. I was edging back toward her good side, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  “That one’s easy,” I said. “I told you before. I’m a professional. All personal trainers have to take an oath when they get certified, and getting mixed up with clients is a no-no. Anyway, one woman at a time is enough.”

  “Is that the truth? Not the part about the oath, the rest.”

  “Mostly. But there’s more. I’m just not sure you want to hear it.”

  “Come on, tell me. You’re not going to hurt my feelings. Lawyers don’t have any. You know that.”

  “Maybe that’s part of it. You’re a little on the hard side, Susan. You’ve got that damned force field around you not even a rhino could get through.”

  “What are you talking about? What force field?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like some kind of invisible padding you wear. You like men—at least from the waist down you like them—and you like them to look at you, except that the moment they do, it’s like they’ve shown their hand, and you get disgusted.”

  “That’s not true,” she said indignantly.

  “Okay, then. I take it back. Besides, I couldn’t have handled both you and Vivian at same time even if it had come down to that.”

  “I doubt you could handle me at all.”

  “About the only thing I can handle right now is another glass of scotch.”

  “Well,” Susan said, “look on the bright side. At least you’re rid of that little bitch.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “One down and one to go.”

  So much for staying on her good side.

  A week later I came home from the gym and found an envelope under my door. It had no return address on it, but the scent of perfume told me who it was from. The letter had a postmark from Bimini and had been sent three days after Vivian and the Colonel left Williams and me standing on the beach up in Edgewater. I looked over my shoulder to see if Hackbart was sneaking up on me with a lasso, but there was no one there, so I locked the door behind me and opened the letter. It was written on stationery from a hotel named the Beachcomber.

  Dear Jack:

  Please write back to me as soon as you receive this letter. I am so worried about you. I know you don’t believe me, but I really do love you. I hope you can come and see me someday. What happened to Williams? My father is very concerned that he was picked up by the police. Please contact me as soon as possible.

  Love always,

  Vivian

  I read the note again a couple of times just for effect, then tore it up and flushed it down the toilet. Then I sat at the little table in the kitchen and wrote a reply.

  Dear Vivian:

  I’m doing fine, and business is great. I’m even training Susan again. You remember her, don’t you? Tell Dad I said hello and how’s his old hammer hangin’? Williams? I’m afraid his health has taken a turn for the worse. Tell your dad he’d better start looking for a replacement. Try the ape cage at the Havana Zoo. You might find somebody there with the right qualifications. Stay in touch, but not by phone—the cops may not be through with me yet.

  Love,

  Jack

  After things had settled down and nobody showed up to kill or arrest me, I decided to take a trip to New York, just to get out of Miami for a while before business picked up again. I decided to drive. I could have flown, of course, but I wanted to feel the distance. It had been five years, and while hardly anybody thinks of New York as a holy city, anyplace is holy if that’s where you were born, if that’s the first place your spirit will fly to when you die. I had the feeling that when my time came, mine would fly to New York, but
now I had business there. I was going home, and I wanted it to take a while. As it turned out, it took longer than I figured, because somewhere in the middle of Georgia, the T-Bird snapped a fan belt. That set me back a day, but I didn’t care. It was early in September, and most of my clients—rich, traveling bastards that they were—were still out of town.

  Despite the continuing protests of the Thunderbird, I made it to New York about eight o’clock on a Friday night, in the middle of a thunderstorm that would have done justice to Miami, so I checked in to a motel out in Queens, ate dinner at an all-night Greek diner that I remembered from the old days, and later on fell asleep watching the Jets give the Dolphins a good preseason whipping. Some things never change.

  I spent the next day visiting a few old friends, some of them from the college days and a few from the cop days. I went to a bar named Chauncey’s in the West Village where police and firefighters used to hang out and sat at the bar and drank one drink too many. All the old guys from my other life were still there, and they treated me like the prodigal son. The bartender still remembered me, and that’s always a good sign. Still, when I left the bar that night and walked through what’s left now of Little Italy, I understood for certain that I really didn’t belong there anymore. Sure, you can go home again. You just can’t stay there for very long.

  I wandered around Manhattan for a while looking for the New York I had known, but I couldn’t quite find it. It seemed always just out of reach, always a potential, a remembered scent, lingering maybe just around the next corner. Oh, most of the places were still there. The noise was the same, and the crowds and the pigeons were all there, but somehow I felt like a ghost. I walked a lot. I walked looking for a sense of nostalgia I couldn’t find, and I felt, finally, somehow traitorous for not having found it. I walked uptown to Fifty-ninth Street where Central Park begins, then turned east and walked over to the Plaza Hotel. There I sat on the edge of the fountain and watched the people go by. After a while I came to the conclusion that there were a few too many of them. Soon there would be one less.