Wood's Reef

by Steven Becker

  Behzad was fearful. He was terrified of not going to Paradise, though he didn’t have the backbone to adhere to the moral codes necessary for getting there. Many practitioners of Islam hedged their bets, much like the death bed confessions of Catholics.

  His answer was martyrdom at fifty - maybe earlier. Why not call it quits when he envisioned himself too old to party like a rock star. He saw no life after fifty, why not call it good and go to Paradise? The only praying he did was that the seventy-two virgins promised in Heaven were boys. Thoughts of the virgins and paradise faded as fragments of the night tried to re-form in his head, lubricated by the wine. His memory started to return … something about a bomb. He topped off his glass and moved over to his computer, suddenly thinking about Ibrahim. The two men had not been in touch for years, as Behzad’s lifestyle and Ibrahim’s fundamentalism drove a wedge between them. The passion had fizzled with time and distance.

  The last method of contact they had used to protect Ibrahim’s identity had been the anonymous email account. Although it had become commonplace in real life as well as novels, this setup was virtually undetectable. He logged into the old Hotmail account and entered their shared password. The home screen came up showing no messages. Behzad navigated to the draft window and started typing. When he was done, he saved the draft and logged off.

  ***

  Mel was back under the barbell. Her compact 5’3” frame easily handled the weight. Abs tightened and defined, the weight went overhead, her butt and legs tight. She did a few quick presses and dropped the bar after the last one, the bumper plates bouncing on the floor. A few breaths later she grabbed the kettle bell. Fifteen swings later, it was back to the bar. After five rounds of this, breath came in gulps and sweat pooled on the floor. Her stopwatch recorded the time. Sweat flew from her short blond hair, natural curls flattened by moisture. A text message displayed on her phone from her assistant with the flight times.

  It was quiet in the yellow Jeep. Now, finally alone, it hit her that her dad was in the hospital. Tears flowed down her face as the memories of their relationship overwhelmed her. It was her, mad at him for living on that island like a hermit and he, mad at her chosen career as an ACLU lawyer. Stubbornness ran deep in the Woodson gene pool, and neither would allow the other their own point of view. He had remarried shortly after her mothers premature death, to a mean, self centered woman who drove a wedge between them any time she could. She’d married her career, something he never understood. The train wreck of their pasts haunted her on the short ride back to her Georgetown apartment.

  Her apartment was in its usual state of flux. Home making was a clear second to her career. She pushed aside the pile of clothes on the closet floor to get her suitcase and began throwing clothes into it. Bag packed and ready to go, she checked her email and laid out the next day’s work for her team. Exhausted, and with a 6 am flight, she was in bed before ten. She tossed and turned ‘till midnight, when her pulsing muscles and adrenalin buzz finally wore off and allowed her sleep.

  Chapter 12

  Happy hour was in full swing when Jerry Doans slid onto the bar stool. He’d grabbed a quick shower and change of clothes, gorged on water, and headed directly to the upholstered seat in his favorite bar. The first shot and beer settled his nerves, but he kept glancing at the door, paranoid, waiting for some official to come looking for him. His description must have been issued to law enforcement, even if they didn’t know his name. If the police were on their game, they had followed his trail back to the boat rental outfit. They had copies of his drivers license and credit card, required for the rental. It was only a matter of time.

  The day had been a disaster, and he’d gotten nothing out of it. The wrecked rental boat he could walk away from. But the old man in the hospital could land him in big trouble. He knew the younger guy from poaching his traps. Suddenly unsure whether that knowledge was reciprocal he jumped every time the door opened.

  This time, the guy that walked in didn't look like a cop. He had shoulder-length blonde hair and a smile that could light up a dark cavern. He slid onto the barstool next to Jerry, nodded to his new neighbor, and ordered a beer.

  He watched as the barmaid approached the guy with the teeth. She lifted her chest, pushing it towards him. And that pissed off Jerry Doans. He’d had a crush on her for months now, and she wouldn’t give him the time of day. He didn’t understand it. He was better dressed, better looking, and didn't have that ridiculous Cadillac grill for a smile.

  For her part, Annie had that look that identifies long-time Keys residents, especially those running toward middle age. It was the au natural, been-in-the-sun-too-long, no-makeup, no-time-to-do-my-hair look. On some it made them look worn out, but on Annie it worked.

  Every time she came toward this end of the bar, she leaned over and had a quick, whispered conversation with his neighbor. Yeah, she was courteous to him, checking on his drink and giving a quick smile … clearly working for tips. But not giving him anywhere near the attention the other guy was getting.

  Jerry, ever the salesman, ego in hand, had to get into the conversation. He waited for Annie to move to the other end of the bar, then turned to the guy. “What's the secret with getting the ladies?”

  The guy’s smile dimmed. “What? Me and her, we're just old friends.”

  “That's not how I’m reading it. I can see how she looks at you, and it’s more than friendly. I’d take a piece of that if I could.”

  “Easy there, partner.” The guy turned toward him, scowling. “You don't need to be talkin’ that way. She ain't gonna have any interest in you. Besides, you look like some insurance salesman come down from Miami, looking for some action. Anyone from around here can read that a mile away.”

  Jerry looked into his drink. “That bad? I've been hanging around here long enough, thought I’d be fitting in.”

  “I’m not one to start givin’ advice, but you reek of a scam. I don’t know if it’s what you’ve just done or what you’re about to do, but my radar’s flashing red alert.”

  “No scam friend. You’re right, I’m from up north. Tampa, not Miami, for what it’s worth. I wholesale all the t-shirts and shells to the tourist traps.” He recited his well-rehearsed cover story, wondering if it would work. He’d tried others, but it was never a good idea to mention anything having to do with real estate, the water, fishing, or boats to the locals. They inevitably knew more than he did.

  The other guy relaxed. “That's a large step up from insurance sales.” The grin was back. “You want to get on with the locals, you got to chill a little. This may only be a few hours from Tampa, but it’s a whole different attitude. These folks here don’t care what you’re made of, just how you act. We all got some baggage or history. That’s why we’re here. Just lose that chip on your shoulder and loosen up. It’s all about a no-pressure, see-what-happens kind of ‘tude.”

  “I’ll have to work on that. Maybe try some meditation or something. I can run a little to the high-strung side.”

  The guy laughed, his smile big. “Tell you what, you work on that meditation thing and I’ll introduce you to Annie.”

  “I’d appreciate that. I’ve kind of had a crush on her since I’ve been coming in here. She just ignores me, though.”

  They sipped their drinks, watching Annie as she worked her way toward them. “Names Trufante, folks call me Tru.” He said extending his hand. “Maybe loose a little of the tude, chill a bit. You’d fit in better. “

  “How's this?” Jerry put on his sunglasses and hat. “Names Jerry. Buy you a beer?”

  ***

  Trufante did a double take, racking his brain for where he’d seen this guy before. Those glasses might have blended in with the people up north, but they sure looked Hollywood here. Said something like Roxy on the jeweled side bars. The hat was an old Tampa Bay Bucs hat, in their infamous bright orange from the early years. Something about it was nagging at him, though he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.

&nbs
p; “Sure, I'll take a beer. ‘Preciate it. I got to go check in with someone, see if I’ve got to work tomorrow. Can’t hear in here, I’ll be right back,” he said, in answer to the stranger’s question.

  Doans nodded and called the unimpressed barmaid over. Trufante went to the door and stepped outside into the cooling night. He pulled out his cell phone as he walked to the end of the building, out of earshot of the smokers near the entrance.

  Mac answered on the third ring. “Hey, you alive? Thought I would have heard from you by now. Looking to work?”

  “Yeah, I'm good. Listen, that boat that was out by Wood’s place yesterday, I think the guy running it is sitting next to me at the bar.”

  “That was a long way off. You sure you'd recognize him?”

  “It’s not him as much as what he was wearing. That old orange Bucs hat and those glasses — I could see them from a mile away. Pretty sure it’s him.”

  There was a pause, then, “Where are you? He must have seen something the other day. Might have been him that crashed on Wood’s place and tore up the old man. He’s in surgery right now down at Fisherman’s.”

  “No shit. I’m at Annie’s place, hanging out with him. He's trying to get some tips on picking her up. Good luck there, doesn’t seem to get it that she plays for the other team.”

  “Can you keep him there for half an hour? I’m on my way.”

  Trufante coughed, rethinking the situation. “Hold on, what do you have in mind? I don’t want no trouble in her bar.”

  “No, I’ll call you when I get there. We’ll figure something out.”

  Trufante walked back into the bar. He slithered sideways, working his way through the building crowd. Back on his bar stool he took a sip of the beer the stranger had bought him.

  Twenty minutes later, beers empty, Trufante watched as Doans pulled his money off the bar, left a modest tip and pocketed the cash. “Thanks for the advice, but she’s not interested. I think I’ll move on and see what else I can dig up.”

  Trufante paused, his mind obviously struggling for an excuse. “At least let me return the favor and buy you a beer,” he finally said.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m out of here.”

  Trufante was getting nervous. He would be pretty conspicuous trying to follow him on his Harley and Mac wasn't here yet. “You a gambling man?”

  “I’ve been known to take a bet,” Doans eyed him with renewed interest. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I got a secret that’ll tell you what’s up with that barmaid you’re hot after. A game of eight ball for the info. I win, it’ll cost you another beer.”

  Jerry had to know. It wasn’t a maybe — he needed this information to sooth his bruised ego. “I’m in.”

  Chapter 13

  “Look at you, designer jeans, button down shirt — untucked — dress shoes, really? You want to fit in around here, the whole look’s gonna have to change.” Trufante sent the cue ball toward the pyramid. The balls connected and the chain reaction sent them to all corners of the table, dropping two of them.

  “Looks like you’ve played this game before.” Doans took his turn after Trufante missed.

  “Not my first rodeo,” Trufante responded. He evaluated the play of his opponent, not sure if he was worth the effort. It would take a couple of hours and a dozen games to get any real money out of the guy, and all indications were that he didn’t have much. He decided to play him along ‘til Mac showed, and call it a tactical loss. If their paths crossed again, he could pick up the hustle where he left off. Besides, it would be fun to break it to him that Annie was gay.

  They traded shots, each sinking a ball, then missing.

  He looked nervously at his watch, waiting for Mac to call. There were only three balls left on the table. He juiced his next shot with a little too much spin and it careened off the corner of the pocket and bounced away.

  “Looks like it’s not my night,” he said as he watched Doans clear the table.

  “So what’s the big secret about the girl?”

  Trufante leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, and the stranger reared back angrily.

  “You son of a bitch. Why couldn’t you just tell me straight up?”

  Surprised by the reaction, Trufante started to walk away. As Doans grabbed his shoulder, his phone rang. Hoping it was Mac waiting outside the bar, he yanked the hand away and started pushing Doans in the direction of the door.

  “What’re you pushing me for. You wanna mix it up?” Doans was too far gone to stop now. He picked up a pool cue and smacked Trufante in the head.

  ***

  Mac entered the bar just in time to see the first strike. He shoved through the crowd but could only watch as Trufante fell, smacking his head on a table. People moved out of his way, sensing his urgency as he dragged Trufante to the side and faced the assailant.

  “Annie, call the sheriff!” he yelled over the hushed crowd. He turned on the man and gave a quick backhand strike to the face, followed by a side kick. The man staggered backward toward the wall. The guy got up, grabbed a bottle off the closest table, and went after Mac.

  A group of men now surrounded the two men.

  Mac easily dodged the strike. His furor increased as he recognized the man. He blocked upward and landed a fist, knuckles extended to Doans throat. He fell backward, and was caught by two of the onlookers.

  “Hundred a piece if you get me out of here.” Doans said.

  They put him down and went after Mac. He blocked the first strike, pivoted and blocked the next from behind. He turned again and landed a quick jab to the first man’s face. But the movement gave the man from behind time to recover. He grabbed Mac in a bear hug, waiting for his buddy to attack from the front. Mac put all he had into an elbow to the man’s gut, then grabbed his head with both hands, and flipped him over his shoulder.

  The first man started to back away, but tripped over Doans body, still sprawled on the floor. Mac turned to access the situation and saw Jules, the sheriff enter the bar. The crowd deferred to her uniform allowing her to approach the men.

  “Easy there, cowboy,” Jules said to the larger man on the floor as she zip-tied his hands behind his back. “Stand down, Mac,” she said as she approached the other man and quickly zip-tied him as well. “I know these two. Give me a hand getting them to the car and I’ll get your statement.”

  ***

  Doans slithered across the floor, out of sight of the sheriff. He moved to a corner of the bar, got up, and started to make for the door. He waited until the sheriff left the bar, escorting the first man to her cruiser. As soon as she turned away, he left the bar and moved toward the dock behind it. In seconds, he was away from the lights and out of sight.

  He moved carefully, staying in the shadows. Confident that the man from the island had recognized him, he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. Not sure if the dock dead ended he started looking for a hiding place. Towards the end a boat was in the shadows and dark. It looked more like a dive charter than a fishing boat. Jerry hopped over the transom and was quickly hidden.

  ***

  Mac and Jules escorted the men out of the bar. Trufante staggered out of the bar a minute later, weaving toward them.

  “Where’d the son of a bitch go?”

  “We got them both right here,” Jules said, pointing to the two men in the back seat of the car.

  “Don’t know who those guys are, but they ain’t our boy.”

  “What boy is that?” Jules asked.

  “The sorry MF that ran Wood over and put him in the hospital this afternoon.”

  “He can’t have gotten far. Take the dock, Mac. I’ll take the street,” Jules said as she called for backup.

  ***

  Mac started down the dock with Trufante several steps behind. The first few slips were well lit. Charter boats, their cleaned and polished teak and stainless shining in the glow cast from the flood lights on their fly bridges. Mac moved quickly past them. No place to hide the
re.

  The dock ran parallel to the street, and the further from the bar, the darker it got, dock lights spaced every twenty feet showing the walkway but leaving much of the dock in shadows. Mac cautiously checked each boat for movement as he passed. He was about halfway down the dock when he spotted something moving in the cockpit of a dive boat.

  “Hey,” Trufante yelled.

  Mac’s instincts directed him to stay low. He recognized the man as he emerged from the shadow of the transom, speargun in hand. He dove as the man braced his elbows on the boat and aimed.

  Mac went down prone on the dock. He heard a scream behind him as the spear embedded itself into Trufante’s leg. He looked up from his friend and saw the man jump onto the dock, moving quickly away from the parking lot.

  Mac chased him to the end of the dock. He stopped short as the man dove into the water, disappearing in the darkness. He knew it was futile to chase him in the water.

  His quarry lost, he went back to the injured Cajun.

  “You all right?”

  “Son of a bitch.” Trufante tried to move, and was able to get to his feet with Mac’s help, but movement was awkward with the spear sticking out of his leg.

  Mac shook his head, placed an arm under Trufante’s shoulder, and took the weight off the injured leg. Slowly they made their way back to the bar. Mac fumed as they walked. Having hurt two of his fiends, he’d have to watch his back now that the guy knew he was onto him. Cornered animals were unpredictable.