***
Trufante walked up to the patio and greeted his guests, flashing his big white smile at them. He was king here — these were his people. There were three men and two women sitting around in assorted chairs, using an empty wire spool for a table. Each had a beer that did not look to be their first. He grunted a greeting as he headed for the refrigerator by the back door and, two bottles in hand, returned to settle into an empty chair.
The truth was, he had more money than Mac. Just didn’t have the inclination to do anything with it. It was an easy life hanging with his buds, drinking beer, and riding motorcycles. Katrina had forced him to make a quick move out of New Orleans. He’d been a big-time concrete contractor working on the dikes that held the Mississippi at bay … until they didn’t. Not really sure if the law was after him, but he had the sense to know that he’d never get another contract. The Keys were an easy place to blend in and hang out. There were all kinds of characters here that made him seem common, except for his smile. Two thousand dollars of bright white teeth, oversized for his mouth, gleamed whenever he grinned.
But there were no payments on the house or the boat, which was currently out of commission, and his life was pretty easy. You didn’t need much to subsist here.
“Y’all having a good time drinking my beer,” he heckled the group. “I feel like riding. Any of you sorry bastards up for Key West?”
The group was past the point of reorganizing their party an hour west. Looks were averted, and no one answered his call to action.
“Never mind then. I’ll go myself. Hang out if you want, but leave a few for me.” The king had to be gracious to his subjects.
***
The wind whipped his shoulder-length hair behind him. Bugs nested in the cracks of his thousand dollar grin. He took in the view from the top of the Seven Mile Bridge. An hour later, he crossed through Boca Chica, then Stock Island, and headed toward Duval Street. This time of night, Key West was rocking. The cruise ships were gone, the families were tucking their kids into bed, and the crowd was looking for a good time.
He slid the Harley into a spot and strolled down the street. Despite his 6’5 frame, shoulder-length hair, and big white grill, he didn’t attract many looks. Key West was the freak capital of the world after the sun went down … probably before, as well.
Music came through the open shutters of the bar. He slid through the group of smokers hanging by the front door and headed in. A packed house greeted him, close to 10pm on a Friday night. The Turtle was more of a locals’ spot than the trendier Sloppy Joe’s or Hog’s Breath, where the tourists hung out. That meant it was friendlier. He spied a seat down at the end of the bar and slid into it with practiced ease.
He looked both ways, scoping out the neighborhood, and caught the eye of the bartender. She came toward him, pecked him on the cheek, and placed a cold beer in front of him. He sat back and enjoyed the scene.
Chapter 6
Mac idled past the public mooring buoys, heading toward the maze of channels that constituted Sister Creek. He had a house on a canal off Boot Key, but he wanted no part of other people right now. The truth was, he rarely wanted any part of other people. They all wanted something. There were few in his life who he could count as friends, knowing they wanted nothing of him.
Women were especially in the outlawed class. Currently he was a platinum member of the Little Rascals “He-man Women Haters Club.” Not that he didn’t like women, he did. But time and experience, mostly bad, had made him wary of their charms. Two divorces, both bitter, revealed too much of where the female mind could go. Not all that interested, was his state of mind about social entanglements.
The wake of the boat was the only movement on the water as he coasted to a stop. Ten feet from shore, he dropped anchor and let the current turn the boat so that he could set the hook in the sandy bottom. He let out some scope on the anchor line and shut down the running lights, leaving the white anchor light on top of the wheel house as the only sign he was there.
The cold fronts coming from the north every week or so started at about this time of year. Late October offered the best weather of the year — it still got hot during the day, but early mornings and evenings were pleasant. The rainy season was all but over, hurricane season quickly winding down.
He went into the galley and poured a couple of inches of scotch from his well-hidden stash into a tumbler. The bottle remained well hidden because Trufante could smell alcohol from a distance, and had a habit of drinking anything he found. Leaving the cabin door open with only the screen to keep out bugs, he went back on deck.
The scotch began to work its magic halfway through the drink, the adrenaline of the day receding. He knew sleep would not come easily tonight, not that it usually did. The questions started to move through his mind now that it had finally shut down enough to let them work themselves out.
Nukes didn’t show up every day, and now that one had, what the hell to do about it? Truman AFB was still manned outside of Key West. Wood surely had some contacts there. The old man had run the construction on half the bridges in the lower Keys. Many of the newer spans adjacent to the old bridges had his fingerprints all over them. These same bridges had been the bulk of Mac’s work life as well. Trained as a commercial diver, he’d worked for Wood in the late ‘80s and most of the ’90s. They had built a close bond over those years. As Wood said, “Dependable help in this spit of sand is hard to find. Better you stick around.” Indeed, most of the labor in the Keys came and went with seasons and storms. Mac, on the other hand, showed up one day and never left. And now he hoped to use that relationship to solve this problem.
He thought the Navy was the logical choice. After all it was theirs, but his distrust of authority and his guess that Wood knew something about it had stopped him from reporting it right away. But, maybe the Navy was the best choice after all. They’d take it and he could wash his hands of the whole incident.
Satisfied with his solution, he drained the last finger of scotch in one swallow, as if to put the entire day in the past.
***
Alan Trufante was still glued to his barstool at last call, the smile from his fake choppers bigger and whiter than ever. He’d been pretty conservative on the beers, figuring he would have to drive back. Locals and experienced drinkers knew that the Keys were no place to drink and drive. The entire 120 miles of US1 was a two-lane speed trap. Big Pine Key was the worst at night, with its 35 mph speed limit to protect the Key deer. It was a rare occurrence to drive the stretch of US1 from Key West to Marathon after dark and not encounter at least one cruiser. He’d been taking it easy for that very reason.
At last call, the lights turned up to full, and the bar began to empty out. The bouncer calling out, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
Lisa, the barmaid came over to Trufante and took his beer off the bar. “Sorry, babe, got to dump it. You can hang out for a while if you want, but no drinks.” She turned away to start her cleanup routine and Trufante admired the tight cutoff jeans barely covering her thirty-year-old bottom. Maybe he’d get some of that tonight, he thought, his grin widening.
“Got a pretty good party to hit if you want to hang out.” Lisa was cleaning the bar near him.
“Why hell yeah, little girl, don’t have to be back ‘till day after tomorrow. I’m up for some party. Be needin’ a place to crash, though.”
“No problem,” she said, bumping her butt against him.
The big white smile got even bigger. Evidently she’d been thinking the same thing. “Lead on.”
It was almost 4 am when they left the bar, and Duval Street was still packed and rowdy. Drunken catcalls and hoots rang out over the cacophony of music streaming from the open shutters of most bars.
***
They walked several blocks to what had to be the gaudiest house on the street. It was an accomplishment to stand out in Key West. Gingerbread moldings hung heavy from most of the Victorian houses, and Caribbean co
lors were the norm. No muted earth tones here. The lights were all on in the two story Victorian. The house was painted purple with pink trim. The attic window in what could be the third floor glowed with a backlit stained glass pattern of a couple embracing. It was in a modest state of disrepair, common to the party houses. Overgrown landscape partially blocked the walk and drive almost completely hiding a dilapidated detached garage. The white railings were streaked with rust spots from the weather eating away at the old nails.
The party was just getting going when they knocked and walked in. The host ran to the door, hands flapping, bells on his slippers ringing. “Lisa love, you made it.” He kissed her on both cheeks and gave her a quick hug. “And, who’s your friend?” he asked, giving Trufante’s long, lean frame the once over.
She moved closer to Trufante, as if to protect him from the onslaught she saw coming. “This is Tru. Babe, this is Behzad.” She put her arm around him as she introduced him. “He’s a friend from Marathon.”
Behzad seemed to get the message and slid across the room to embrace several other guests.
“What the hell was that?” Trufante asked. “Never seen an Arab looking gay dude before. I thought they whacked heads off for that.”
“He calls himself Persian. I think he went to school here and stayed. He’s fun, though, and just wait ‘till you see the stuff he gets.”
Trufante fingered the lone hundred left from what Mac had given him. He’d been saving it for just that sort of fun. Now he was looking forward to the rush soon to come.
The party was just getting into high gear, at about 4:30. Trufante had started to get a buzz on from the coke and ecstasy he’d scored from Behzad. He’d ended up in a group of half a dozen people laying lines out on a mirror, and was now kicking back and enjoying his beer as he listened to the music and chatter of the party. It was the usual Key West mixed bag — you never knew who would show up to these parties. All kinds of folks lived in Key West, and the really interesting ones tended to work the night shift. That meant they came to parties late. He reached for the mirror and laid out the last of his coke.
He looked at his host as he handed him the mirror. Even in Key West, he looked a little out of place. All fancied up, looking Middle Eastern for sure, and most certainly leaning toward boys. Trufante wondered what his story was. The curiosity ended when Behzad took two vials from his silk pocket. He handed everyone a pill from one and tapped the other on the mirror, releasing its white powder.
Trufante, too, was feeling gracious and more than a little buzzed. He had the gift of the storyteller, and now felt he owed his host a story.
“We had a hell of a day out there. Ya’ll will never believe what me and Mac pulled from the bottom today. We were out there lobstering about twelve miles into the bayside, pulling traps, when Mac decided to dive for some grouper.
“Over the years, we’ve pulled up all kinds of stuff from the bottom, but nothin’ like this. God damn if it wasn’t a whole Navy bomb. Looked kind of weird, not like the stuff you see in the movies at all.”
As he told the story, Behzad leaned closer.
Chapter 7
The tide had just started to rise when he pulled anchor. The trawler moved through the maze of mangrove-lined channels, Mac’s hand on the wheel, steering from memory, as it retraced its course back to the gulf side. Once under the Seven Mile Bridge, he headed east toward the fish market to unload his catch.
An hour later, Wood’s place came up on the horizon, after an easy run through the bay waters. Mac pulled up to the single piling he had tied up to the day before and secured the boat. He scanned the shoreline and called out for Wood. Seeing no sign of him, he hopped over the side of the boat and waded ashore.
There was a well-disguised trail off the beach, where a mangrove branch dragged across the opening acted as a gate. Mac removed the branch and followed the trail inland. It was a small atoll, roughly 100 yards by 50 — close to the size of a football field. Only half of it was dry. He slapped mosquitos from his face and neck as he worked his way past the mangrove swamps on his left, wondering how Wood could live among these creatures in peace. For Mac, mosquitos were the biggest downside of the Keys, besides the tourists.
The trail followed a serpentine path for 100 feet before he reached the clearing where Wood lived. The site was carefully crafted, allowing the maximum use of space with minimum visibility. The small house was elevated ten feet above the sand below. This served several purposes; it allowed the breeze to reach the shuttered windows and porches, as well as keeping the mosquitos below. It would take a major hurricane packing a direct hit, with the moon and tides in perfect alignment to create a storm surge big enough to reach the living quarters. The main roof was made of woven palm fronds, with a steep pitch to shed water. The porch faced southwest, with solar collectors on it for power and open basins for water. The house was accessed by stairs leading to the porch. Once inside, the finishes and craftsmanship belied the location. Mahogany flooring and wainscot, with built-in bookcases and hand-plastered walls, provided an old-world feel below the palm frond ceiling.
Though rustic in outward appearance, the house was also in excellent repair. Put this up on the internet with a few good pictures, and this place would rent out as a vacation dream spot. Then the renters would see where it was and back out.
Mac saw no sign of his old boss. He climbed the stairs and sat down in one of the chairs on the deck to wait.
Half an hour later, he heard the sound of a small outboard motor pulling up to the beach. He went to the beach and watched as Wood gunned the engine, gaining just the right amount of speed before hitting the kill switch and tilting it out of the water before the propeller hit bottom. He aimed for the two trenches cut into the beach. Close to the high water mark, an old truck axle with mismatched tires stood waiting. The boat came to a rest with the bow a foot from the axle.
“Get the tide right and I can hit that thing right on,” Wood muttered.
He hopped over the side of the skiff and headed toward the mangroves, where the tracks disappeared, moving several branches out of the way to reveal a small clearing just large enough for the boat. At its end, anchored in a large concrete block, was a winch. He put it in free spool and dragged the cable to the boat.
Mac knew the drill, and went to the winch. As he turned the crank, the boat slid easily onto the axle and moved along the tracks toward the clearing. The mangrove branches were replaced, effectively screening the craft from site, and the two men headed up the path toward the house, Wood carrying an old milk crate he’d taken from the boat.
He dumped the contents of the crate onto a fish cleaning table adjacent to a small shack that served as a storage shed. Stone crab claws gleamed in the sunlight. He dug through the shed removing a large propane burner and pot, and Mac filled the pot with water from a hand pump. “Haven’t used this sucker since the season ended last March.”
“Nice catch. All’s I’ve heard are dismal reports since the season opened last week,” Mac said. “Dammed jewfish eat those things whole. Idiots in Tallahassee have no idea what they did when they protected them.”
“I’ve got a couple of secret spots where I can usually pull some out. The pots have been soaking extra, since the season opened, ‘cause of that storm.”
They watched the boiling water change the crabs’ color from dark brown to bright red, and Mac’s mouth started to water at the thought of them. He was a lobster fisherman. Which meant, of course, that he preferred the taste of crab. “What are we going to do about the bomb?” he asked.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about that. It can’t stay here. Too much risk of someone spotting it. I’ve been thinking the best way to sink Joe Ward’s campaign and dispose of the beast at the same time. I keep coming back to the Navy. Loose lips sink ships and there’re a lot of those around there. Especially the base commander. Fellow named Jim Gillum. Remember him from that bridge deal down by Sigsbee Key?”
“That jackass?
He couldn’t manage a peanut stand”
“Words bound to go running to Ward now that this is out in the open. I’d like to see that son of a bitch run scared. At the same time, maybe the demolitions unit down in Boca Chica can deal with the nuclear core.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about your deal with Gillum and Ward. I’m more concerned about that thing ruining the ecosystem than taking down a presidential candidate and a Navy captain.” Mac said. “You seem to know more about this than you ought to. Is that it?”
“Like I said yesterday, me and that bomb got some history.” He turned off the propane burner. “I think we ought to take a ride down to Boca Chica and go see someone there. First we’re gonna eat.”
Chapter 8
Mac watched Wood from the driver’s seat as the uniformed guard gave the man in the passenger seat of the old pickup a cockeyed look. He didn’t get many folks drive up in an old pickup, rusted out from the harsh climate, and ask for the Base Commander by name, Mac thought.
“I asked you to call up Captain Gillum, son,” Wood repeated.
“I heard you the first time, mister. What business should I say you’re here on?”
“All you need to do is tell him Wood is here.”
The man looked hesitantly at his partner. Mac knew the look. He suspected the men were discussing how they didn’t get much traffic here, especially from the locals. Tourists asked directions thru the windows of late-model rental cars, but not often an ’80s pickup with what looked like two fishermen. Keys residents were notorious for avoiding authority.
“I’ll call up for you, but this better not be some kind of hoax.” He returned to the guard station and picked up the handset.
Several minutes later, the gate swung open and the soldier waved the old truck through. “That boy sure changed his tune once he talked to your friend,” Mac said.
Wood's Reef Page 3