by G L Rockey
Chapter Thirty Seven
5:02 PM EST
Back at his The Boca office, his plan proceeding, convinced that his movements were being tracked, Zack checked his watch, 5:03 p.m. He went down to Ted’s office.
“Ted, how about let’s go over to the Jabberwocky, buy you a beer?”
“You serious?”
“Dead.”
“But”
“Come on, ride with me.”
“But”
At the Jabberwocky, Zack explained to Ted what was up. He swore him to secrecy, not even Mary was to be told.
Ted said, “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle son of a gun.”
“Good thinking.” He handed Ted his cell phone, “Keep this with you and give me yours.”
“You want them to think…” Ted paused, “I think I just saw Jimbo come in”
“No you didn’t, take these.” He handed Ted keys to Veracity and his car, locked eyes with him and said softly: “When I’m finished talking, leave, take my Subaru, drive to Pompano Marina, park, walk to Veracity, board, bang around, turn on the TV, stay the night. Sunday morning drive to The Boca, go inside and stay for awhile.” He handed him his cell phone, “Take this, ditch it in my office, then do whatever you do on Sundays.”
Chapter Thirty Eight
10:02 p.m. EST
As pre-arranged, Jim had exited the Jabberwocky by himself and five minutes later Zack met him in the parking lot at Jim’s maroon Corvette.
“You park your cell phone?” Zack said.
Jim rolled his eyes, “Yes.”
“Where?”
“My office.”
“Good.”
Jim driving, negotiating endless stop-and-go traffic, three military road checks, they arrived at Fisherman’s Marina an hour after the last rays of sunlight had flecked the calm water of Button Wood Sound.
Inside the Marina, greeted by Buddy Morganti, Zack promised, bartered and borrowed Buddy’s thirty-foot cigarette boat Top Gun.
Ten minutes later, Top Gun filled with fuel; Zack idled her out to deep water and gunned it.
Chapter Thirty Nine
10:30 p.m. EST
The backdrop a majestic deep purple, the moon hanging like a fat orange from a tree of stars, Top Gun skimmed over the dark, glassy water of the Atlantic ocean.
Zack gripped the wooden steering wheel, puffed a Camel and glanced at reflected slivers of silver moonlight slip past to his right. He checked the heading—east-northeast.
After a small correction, the engines whining, he read the craft’s speed gauges—38 rpm, 43 knots. He pitched his Camel overboard, pressed the, already at full speed, twin throttles of Top Gun and noticed, far off to the southeast, jagged streaks of lightning rip the sky, leaving huge cumulus clouds illuminated in eerie silence.
Zack glanced at Jim’s troubled face. “That storm is fifty miles away, Jimbo. Don’t look so worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You look worried.” Zack retrieved a pint of Glenlivet from his pocket and took a swig. Biting his front teeth, he offered Jim the bottle. “Have a drink.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You said that. Here, have a drink.”
Jim took the bottle. “Getting dead is my only worry.”
“We’re not going to get dead, relax.”
“We don’t even know exactly where we’re going, do we?” He took a quick gulp.
“Sure we do. Bimini Island, Browns’ Marina, due east, a little north, they know we’re coming, invitation only, remember?”
“How they know that?”
“The Tea Company owner, Jay Xzing, told me.”
“You ever think of hanging out with just ordinary people?”
“No future in it.”
Jim shook his head. “But why?”
“Jimbo, believe me, I feel something in my bones.”
“Skull and crossbones.”
“You said that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Relax.”
The propellers whined as they skimmed a small swell.
Jim said, “Ol’ crazy Joe Case doesn’t know we’re getting there like this, tonight, do he, Bwana?”
“And then we have to get back—Bermuda Triangle, missing Flight 19, close encounters.” Zack wiped salt spray from his face. “You worry too much.”
“Zackary, even though you may be enjoying this, I’m not.” Jim slugged the bottle again. “I’m a writer, a journalist, not Sherlock Holmes.”
Zack thumped the wheel with his fist. “Jimbo, this is real journalism.”
“Maybe I should have gone to law school.” He slugged Glenlivet again.
“Take it easy on that bottle, we have to think straight tonight.”
“Zackary, I couldn’t get drunk tonight if I drank two gallons of this stuff.”
“There isn’t two gallons, so take it easy.”
They shot over another swell. Jim braced himself.
“This can’t be true.”
“That is precisely why we are on this journey, friend, to find the truth.”
Jim gagged. “There’s an easier way.”
“Like what?”
“Make a few calls, talk, ask a few questions. Anything but this.”
“I’m not sure we weren’t being watched. If this thing has gone as far as it appears, they know what is going on everywhere.”
“They?” Jim shook his head. “If there is a they, then they know we’re here and they are going to blow our asses out of the water. Zackary, who is ‘they?’”
“I have a hunch.”
“Can you tell your death-mate?”
“Benny.”
“You really are sick. I feel sick.”
“Take another drink. Settles the inner ear.”
Jim drank then wiped a spray of saltwater from his face. “And I could have gone to law school.”
“Think about it this way. If you were a rich lawyer you’d be in some swank hotel suite, eating eggs Benedict”
“Don’t say that.”
“What?”
“Food.”
“But this is more important, this now, what you are doing, this time you are in, voyage to free the truth, slay the dragon…Joseph Campbell, Hero with a Thousand Faces”
“Oh, nooo.” Jim threw up over the side.
Zack studied the storm, raging now not so far off, more east than south. Over the din of the engines, he called, “You know, Jimbo, the President and his capitalist cronies, Senator Beno and her socialist movement, have and have-nots—the two ideas are clashing like never before. Something has to snap.”
“You already have.”
Zack took the bottle. “And what group, mostly male, wears snappy uniforms and hats with lots of little pins on them, is very frustrated these past few years with people like Beno threatening to take their toys away.”
“The Boy Scouts.”
“Benny’s pals—the generals.”
Zack took a quick swig. Jim gagged over the side.
“Kinda like a movie, isn’t it?”
Top Gun bounced off a sudden two-foot whitecap, became airborne then landed with a loud smack.
“What was that?” Jim said.
“Little chop. Nothing to worry about.” Zack saw the flash of what appeared to be a ship’s search light on the horizon and swung the wheel starboard, heading southeast.
“What are you doing? You’re going directly toward that storm.”
“That storm is fifty miles away. Relax.”
“You said that a few minutes ago. Why are we turning?”
“Somebody up there where they shouldn’t be. Could be one of Benney’s pals.”
“That’s funny.”
A large wave jolted them to starboard.
“What was that?”
“Not to worry, Jimbo, probably a great white.”
“Oh, that’s funny, real funny. Gimme that bottle back.”
“Relax, it was just a little swell.
” Zack handed him the bottle, checked the heading and turned to east-southeast. “We’ll turn north in a few minutes, should be seeing the lights of Alice Town very soon. Keep an eye out.”
“Zackary, I knew you’d figure out a way to get out on a boat this weekend, but this is insane.”
Chapter Forty
Sunday, 12:30 a.m. EST
With fifteen-knot winds buffeting the shore, the smell of a tropical storm filled the air. Slowed to five knots, Zack reversed the engines and Top Gun’s bow struck a Brown’s Marina dock with a bump.
“Nice,” Jim said.
“You do it next time.”
Out of nowhere two barefoot ladies appeared. Both with olive complexion, one about Jim’s height, the other shorter, wore purple T-shirts, white shorts, and black baseball hats with “Pi-3.14” on the front. Pony tails wagging through the back of their baseball hats, they quickly tied the craft off.
Spirited past a custom agent who seemed to be asleep, Jim said, “So much for passports,” and he and Zack were ushered to an ancient and rusted red pickup truck where they were invited to sit in the truck’s open bed.
Climbing in, looking at her hat, Zack said to the taller lady, “Three-point-one-four—pi, you two members?”
“Right.”
Zack turned to Jim, who was seated on the bed’s floor. “See, Jim, infinite possibilities.”
Jim closed his eyes, shook his head.
The shorter lady the driver, addressed Jim and Zack who were now crouched in the pickup trucks’ bed, “Hold on, guys.”
Underway, Zack calculated the humid night air gushing overhead–storm about an hour away. He turned his back to the wind, struck a match, cupped his hand around the flame and lit a Camel.
Exhaling, he said, “Wasn’t so bad, was it, Jimbo?”
“What?”
“Our little voyage to Bimini.”
The truck slowing, Jim said, “Now what?”
“Relax, looks like we’re gonna get a short ferry ride, must be going to South Island.”
“Great, just great, another boat ride.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Jim glanced at the moon and wondered if he would live to see the sun rise.
Minutes later, the truck’s tires thumping over a sand road, Jim, looking through a rusted hole in the truck’s bed, said, “The little lady better slow this piece of junk down or we may never get to see mighty guru, Joe Case.”
“Relax, Jimbo, enjoy the ride, want a cigarette?”
“You know I don’t smoke. You know that.”
“Thought I’d ask.”
“No,” Jim said as they hit a bump, “I think that lady who gave us the order to hold on is a sister. You see her eyes?”
“I thought it was more Mediterranean.”
“That was the other one.”
Zack laughed, and as he laughed he wondered how there could be humor in any of this. He laughed again.
Jim said, “What’s so funny?”
“All of this.”
Jim shook his head. “Why me, God?”
“If anybody is laughing, He has to be.”
“You really believe all this bull shit goings on is connected to Benny, don’t you?”
“Think about it.”
They bounced over another rough place in the road.
“Slow down!” Jim shouted then turned to Zack. “Zackary, what are we doing here?”
“Looking for the truth.”
“Looking for the truth?”
Zack felt the driver downshift the transmission. The vehicle slowed. “I guess we’re here.”
“Looking for the truth.” Jim closed his eyes and shook his head.
Chapter Forty One
12:55 a.m. EST
Zack noticed the pickup turn onto a soft sandy drive and inch forward. Ahead, lit by moonlight and the truck’s headlights, he scanned a small pinkish one-story stucco bungalow. As the truck got closer thick foliage grew to the left of the driveway. He sniffed the dense tropical air buffered by gusts of humid air. Tropical storm is nearer, he thought.
“Interesting little place,” Jim said, “Looks like a chicken coop.”
“What were you expecting, the Presidential Palace?”
“At least.”
Zack sniffed the air again. He could smell a good cigar a mile away, and there was definitely a good cigar around.
“Jimbo, we’re very close to a good cigar.”
“So gladwonderfulhow lucky are we.”
Ignoring the remark, Zack glanced at his watch then looked back to the house where he noted a light now on in a small rectangular window in the front.
“Light is on, somebody must be waiting for us,” he said.
“Firing squad.”
“Relax.” He crushed his cigarette out and flipped the butt over the side.
The truck came to a stop, the two ladies stepped out, the taller one looked at Zack, said, “Okay, this is it, follow me.”
“Let’s go, Jimbo,” Zack said.
“I think I’ll stay in the truck.”
“Come on.”
Escorted around the house to an iron-gate entrance, they approached a stout male with some funny-looking crystal thing hanging around his neck.
Zack, wondering if Jim might be right, nodded.
The stout male nodded back.
The lady escort motioned for the gate to be opened.
“I don’t like this,” Jim said under his breath.
“Looking for the truth,” Zack whispered.
“Like I said, there’s an easier way.”
The gate swung open and the lady escort said, “Follow me.”
“My blood is on your hands,” Jim murmured to Zack.
They walked through the gate and arrived at an unpainted wooden door. Zack sniffed the stronger odor of cigar smoke.
“We’re close, Jimbo.”
“That’s what scares me.”
The escort knocked. A familiar voice from inside called “Entrar.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jim said.
Chapter Forty Two
1:00 a.m. EST
The escort opened the door and stood aside. Zack entered but Jim paused. Studying the escort lady’s eyes, he said, “Say, are you a sister?”
She smiled as Zack tugging Jim’s arm, said, “Let’s go,” and he and Jim entered a low-ceilinged room. The escort closed the door and stood inside.
A single light hung from the cracked ceiling. The bare bulb illuminated the twelve-by-twelve space. The only furniture was an old wooden table and three folding chairs, two facing the table, one behind.
Zack sensed that magnetic presence he had felt so many times before.
After a moment of silence, Joe Case stepped out of the shadows. Smoking a cigar, he wore green army fatigues and a black Pi baseball hat. He walked to Zack.
They embraced.
Joe: “How are you, champ? Long time.”
Standing back, Zack said, “Case, how have you been?”
“Good, good.”
“How’s Kim?”
“Good, good.”
“You look great,” Zack said.
“You, too.”
Zack indicated the tiny room. “Modest space, Case. You live here?”
Joe smiled and with his cigar pointed to Jim. “Do I know this guy?”
“I don’t know.” Zack asked Jim, “You know Case?”
“Heard of him.”
Case puffed his cigar and studied Jim. “You look a little green, muchacho. Sea a little rough?” He smiled.
Not liking the muchacho reference, Jim said, “You look a little green yourself, boy.”
Case went behind the table, sat and suggested the two folding chairs facing him. “Have a seat.”
Zack sat and tugged Jim’s sleeve.
Sitting, Jim whispered, “For the record, this guy is wacko. Just want you to know”
“Noted and thank you, Massa,” Zack whispered back.
“Ah, excuse us
for the short notice,” Joe said.
Zack paused for a moment. “Joe, we’ve been wondering. Just who is us?”
Joe smiled and held out a cigar humidor. “Cubano?”
“Thank you.” Zack took six cigars.
“Think you got enough?” Jim mumbled.
Joe smiled. “Take all you want, plenty where those came from.”
Zack put five in his pocket, bit the end of one, lit it and said, “Good cigar.”
“The real thing.” Joe smiled and said, “So, Zackary, you received my fax.”
“Yes.”
Joe held up a small compact disc. “Zackary, remember I told you, the Pi people were putting some pieces togethergot an audio recording.”
Zack studied Joe, “I think I recall your sentiments, algo apesta en la pila de madera…so what stinks in the woodpile?”
“I think Benny is making his move,” Joe said.
Jim nudged Zack and muttered, “I told you he’s nuts. Let’s get out of here.”
Zack ignored Jim and said to Joe, “Is that why we’re here?”
“Yes. Listen to this recording. It’s garbled in places, some static, but with all we now know, the meaning is clear.” Joe blew cigar smoke toward Jim.
Zack exhaling smoke, “With all we now know?”
Joe said, “The events of the past few dayssince Friday. The so-called news story from Miami. The Channel 10 video of white cops brutalizing…”
Jim coughed on the cigar smoke and whispered, “This is insane.”
Joe put the audio stick in a small player on the table, paused, said, “This conversation was recorded aboard the President’s yacht three months ago, Sunday, May twenty-fifth. You’ll recognize the three distinct voices—Professor Leo Novak, General MacCallister and Dr. Barbara Lande.”
Zack: “Armstrong’s E.I.C.”
Joe: “You nailed it. With the events of this past Friday and Saturday the meaning is now unmistakable.”