by Ridge King
Maybe it was time to think about ditching Raven. It was always one miserable experience after another with Raven. (Except when they were in bed, where she always redeemed herself, and where her violent personality and passionate emotional explosions found a suitable release.)
As Raven’s boyfriend, whenever she attended certain social events, he had to go with her. And it never ended well. The last time they’d had dinner at Flagler Hall, he’d had too much to drink and took a swing at Jack—they’d both ended up falling into Biscayne Bay. Not a pretty sight for the dinner party to come out to see the Secret Service pulling them out of the water like two dueling hard-dicked teenagers fighting over—nothing.
But how could he leave Raven?
With all the negative baggage that came with her, she had totally won him over with her exotic allure, her wild passion, the slightly kinky sex. He found himself wondering when they were in bed if she’d done the same things to Jack that she did with him. (Like the creative ways she used the three different-sized dildos she kept in the freezer…)
The very thought of it drove him mad, so that when he was with Raven, the two of them became wild animals clawing their way toward each other’s bodies.
Yes, she was jealous. He knew that’s what had driven Jack away. But Skye liked it when Raven was jealous over him. It drove him mad with desire.
When she got into bed with that attitude, she was like an ancient Greek goddess with a score to settle.
Sometimes those scores ended badly for the object of desire, which, Skye thought with some sense of trepidation, in this case just happened to be him.
* * *
From the bridge, Rafael watched through his binoculars as Big Fish IV trolled lazily along, the fisherman sitting in the seat aft occasionally winding in his line and letting it out again in that endlessly repetitive, rhythmic manner that went with any kind of fishing.
Going through the motions, he thought.
The thing that seemed strange to Rafael was the direction the boat was taking. It was heading back toward the Keys when this early in the day the captain would normally still be pushing out to deeper water.
“Excuse me, sir?” said Ensign Doheny.
“Yes?”
“Are you seeing something I might have missed on the charter boat?”
“No, just curious, Ensign. Why would anybody set out to fish with a two-day old bonito in his fish well? Could it be bait?”
“The bait would be in the bait well. The crewman snatched it out of the fish well to show me what they’d caught.”
“Well, then, if they’re out here with two-day old catch to show people like us, what the hell are they really doing out here?”
“There’s no contraband on that fishing boat, Lieutenant,” said Doheny, “unless it’s built into the gunwales or underneath the boat itself.”
“Which would have nothing to do with the go-fast boat. The report said the two boats were only together three or four minutes.”
“Maybe they handed off something to the go-fast boat,” said Doheny.
“Or the go-fast boat handed something off to them,” said Rafael.
“But what? We were here just a half hour after getting the position from HITRON.”
“Guess we’ll never know,” said Rafael.
Doheny went back to his business.
Skye had set a course back to Miami and while Rafael wanted to track Big Fish IV for a while, he didn’t dare issue an order countermanding his paranoid, angry captain.
He went back to the radio shack and got them to put him through to HITRON central command based at Cecil Field in Jacksonville.
He identified himself as the executive officer of Fearless.
“What can we do for you, Lieutenant?”
“The go-fast boat your chopper followed. I want to know where it ends up if they follow it that far.”
He knew chopper pilots usually pulled back from their pursuit if the boat was this far out at sea and heading away from American waters rather than into them. But it was worth a try.
Back on the bridge, he called out to Doheny.
“Yes, sir,” said the eager ensign.
“That boat, the Big Fish IV?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m assuming its home port will be somewhere in the Middle or Upper Keys.”
“That would make sense, sir.”
“You got the ID number off the bow. Find out where it’s berthed and let me know, OK?”
“Yes, sir.” Doheny hesitated. “Shall I enter that in the report, sir?”
“No, not necessary. I’m just curious is all.”
“Very good, sir.”
Chapter 8
ROLLING THE DICE
About the time Ensign Doheny went back aboard Fearless, Derek Gilbertson stopped to pick up Howard Rothberg waiting for him on Brickell Avenue in front of Dade International Bank.
“Hop in. We’re running late,” said Derek.
“Yeah,” said Howard as he settled his large frame into the passenger side of Derek’s Jaguar XJ, mounds of fat rolling over his belt until the belt disappeared. Derek took off, heading for South Beach across the MacArthur Causeway. Howard was one of those fat characters who, while shamelessly obese, maintained a vanity over what was left of his hair. The few remaining strands of were meticulously plastered over his scalp and secured with gel.
“Did Vlad say what he wants to meet about?” Derek asked.
“He did. It’s about the Oyebanjos’ $27 million Flores was going to take to the Bahamas before Vlad killed him.”
Derek laughed with a grunt.
“You always did cut to the chase, Howard.”
“With all the bullshit one finds in this town, Derek, I take that as a supreme compliment.”
“I guess.”
“How do you think we ought to handle Vlad?”
“That’s rich, coming from you. You’re the one who told him about the money in the sub,” Derek sneered.
“He was squeezing me on another matter. I had to throw him something.”
“And the other matter?” Derek glanced at the fat banker.
“Is something that doesn’t concern you.”
“It’s something that ought to concern me since it got me saddled with Vlad and his crew of thugs.”
Howard turned to face Derek.
“Listen, Derek, just because we do white collar crime doesn’t make it any less of a crime, OK? I can’t tell you everything when it doesn’t involve you.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry to bust your chops, Howard. I just don’t like the guy.”
“I don’t like him, either. But it may turn out that he’s a better guy to deal with than Omer Flores ever was.”
“Especially since Omer was fucking us on our share of the money in the sub.”
“Or was trying to fuck us before Vlad put a bullet in his ugly Cuban head.”
“Yeah,” said Derek. “Let’s just bring him in on the whole Oyebanjo thing and see how it goes. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. Let’s roll the dice with these mobsters.”
“Yeah.”
“What have we got to lose, really, in the end?” Howard mused.
“Nothing. And maybe he’ll figure out a way to get hold of the guy that got the money out of the sub before we did.”
“Right under our nose,” added Howard, Derek thought unnecessarily. There had been no way to anticipate what happened down in the Keys, that someone had been watching them so closely that they knew everything about the sub.
“What do we tell the Oyebanjos about Flores. Like, where is he?”
Howard turned to Derek with a sly smile.
“Make something up, Derek. You’re good at that.”
Sometimes, Derek thought, Howard pushed a little too hard with his sarcasm. One of these days, some guy like Vlad was going to slap Howard so hard his fat wobbly jowls would wrap around his neck and strangle him.
Derek p
ulled his Jaguar into a spot on Washington Avenue. He was dreading having to face Wilma, who’d called him twice that week to get together. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to call her back, texting his excuses instead.
He and Howard got out and went into the Kremlin Club.
The place was closed this time of day, of course, and besides the cleaning crew working in the big main room where the dance floor was located, no one was to be seen except for Wilma Kassman, general manager of the Kremlin, in the middle of the foyer. She gave Howard a kiss on the cheek, and he passed on up a ramp into the spacious lobby. Derek got a kiss on the lips.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she purred.
“No, I haven’t, Wilma, I promise I haven’t.”
“I don’t like to get texts from guys I’m fucking.”
“Wilma, I—”
“Not when I want to fuck them again,” she said in a low, serious voice that was more threat than it was seductive.
He had to admit she was an alluring sight: her long black hair and alabaster skin that had never seen the sun’s rays on South Beach stood out against her black outfit. Wilma always wore black. In the daytime, she favored a simple black blouse with black jeans and a little silver jewelry (never gold). At night, when she was working, she invariably wore versions of the same outfit that looked like a thick black patent-leather one-piece bathing suit decorated with lots of stainless steel studs, looking like she’d just graduated cum laude from Dominatrix School, complete with black fishnet stockings. Her look did not encourage anyone to say “No” to her.
But Vlad seemed to have her under control, somehow, even though he hadn’t been the one to hire her. Jonah Lomax was the original owner. He’d brought in Napoleon LaPierre from Marseille, part of some underground crime network, and LaPierre had brought in Vlad Kucherov, as anxious to bring illegal cash into the U.S. as Derek and his people were to get it out. Napoleon and Vlad had quickly marginalized Jonah. Wilma’s position as GM, however, had only become stronger.
“This week, I promise,” Derek said to Wilma.
“How about tomorrow at the Tides. Our usual room?”
“Tomorrow’s fine.”
“At one o’clock.”
“One o’clock it is.”
“OK, preppy boy. You can go now,” she winked, a long sultry eyelash covering one of her deep dark eyes. “Vlad’s waiting for you in the Cigar Room.”
She walked away and Derek turned to look at her move away toward the office, her sensuous hips swaying.
He had just fucked Lucy Azzinaro the day before up in the Biscayne Inn flophouse, their usual meeting place. She hadn’t had any more to tell him about Jack Houston St. Clair and his snooping around his wire transfers, transfers he’d stopped making once Lucy had told him Jack was poking around. It would be great to be back in the arms of a sexual predator like Wilma Kassman, a tigress in the sack. And in a swank joint like the Tides Hotel on Ocean Drive where they gave Wilma her room by the hour, or, as she once told Derek, “two hours in your case, preppy boy.”
In the Cigar Room, Derek took deep breaths as he enjoyed inhaling the air, thick with the scents of the finest tobaccos in the world.
Howard was already there.
“Hiya, Derek?” said Jonah.
“Jonah. Guys,” Derek nodded at Napoleon and Vlad.
“Got some Starbucks if you want coffee, Derek,” said Napoleon.
“Thanks, I’ll take some.”
Vlad was behind the bar picking up one of the Starbucks cups.
“Here you are, Derek,” he said, handing Derek a paper cup with the java.
“Let get rolling, boys,” said Howard. “I’ve got a big meeting in an hour and a half.”
“We just want you to set up a meeting with the Oyebanjos,” said Vlad.
“So we can pick up where Flores left off,” added Napoleon.
“OK,” said Howard. “Let’s do it. We got a lot of business to do together.”
Howard looked at Derek, who took a sip from his Starbucks and pulled out his cellphone and punched in some numbers.
“Hi, Aricela, it’s me, Derek. Yeah, I want to set a meeting with you and Severo as soon as possible.” He paused while she spoke. “Yes, I know you’re in a hurry to move the product, but we’ve had a little issue. Our friend Omer, you know was with the DEA, and they’ve unexpectedly sent him out on an undercover assignment in Italy, so I want you to meet the new guys that’ll be handling the product for us. Really great guys. You’ll get along fine. Right. No, tomorrow’s not too soon. Where do you want to meet?”
Derek saw Vlad notion to him and put the cellphone against his chest.
“Same place they met before,” Vlad said in a low voice.
“Same place we met before OK with you, Aricela?” said Derek. He nodded as he listened to her. “OK, see you tomorrow at ten.”
He touched a button ending the call.
“Good,” said Howard. “It’s all set.”
“At Enriqueta’s on Second Avenue,” said Derek.
“That was good, what you said about Flores,” said Vlad.
Again that sly smile from Howard.
“Yeah. Derek’s good at making things up.”
* * *
Jack had just poured himself another cup of coffee in the St. Clair Agency offices on Kane Concourse in Bay Harbor Islands when Sean Walsh strode through the front door.
“Hey, Sean? What’s the latest?”
“Plenty.”
Sean poured himself a cup and looked over at Adele, the office manager, sitting behind her desk working away on her computer.
“Hi, Adele.”
“Hey, Sean.”
“How old is the coffee?”
“Old enough to put hair on your chest,” Adele said without bothering to look up.
“Just asking.”
“There’s a Starbucks on the corner.”
“There’s a Starbucks on every corner,” said Sean.
Jack went into his office and took a seat. Sean came in and sat down across the desk.
“One of our guys following Aricela Oyebanjo saw her pick up a guy down in Tavernier and bring him back to Hialeah.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s the same guy we spotted with them at the meeting at Enriqueta’s that day, the Cuban agent, Pozo.”
“Tavernier? What you suppose he’s doing down in Tavernier?”
“Beats me,” said Sean. “She got him at the Tavernier Creek Marina.”
“Sure, I know it—right under the bridge there.”
“Yep. She took him to a patio furniture store in Hialeah.”
Jack leaned up and rested his elbows on his desk.
“Now what the hell kind of business would a top operative in Cuba’s Dirección de Inteligencia be doing at a patio furniture store out in fucking Hialeah?”
“Beats me.”
“Or even at the Tavernier Creek Marina.”
“Beats me.”
“Adele?” Jack called out through the open door.
“Yes, Jack?”
“Bring in another couple of guys for surveillance.”
“OK.”
To Sean, he said: “Put these guys on the furniture store and have them follow Pozo. I don’t want any of our people knowing who he is. That’s not the kind of word you want leaking out.”
Jack had met with Gargrave that morning to get his report on additional feedback from the inquiries Gargrave continued to make as he followed the money in the wire transfers sent by Derek all over the world. Each new report that came in merely reconfirmed the pattern Gargrave had discovered: the money was all headed into the Cuban national banking system in Havana.
“No,” said Sean, “you don’t want people knowing about Pozo. We’ve got like fifteen guys following people now, right?”
“At least that many. We’re starting to look like a small government agency.”
“Yeah.”
“I already told Adele that we’ll be paying our surveillance
people in cash. We have all that money from the sub—might as well get rid of some of it this way.”
“Sure. No 1099s this year for these guys.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” said Jack.
“Oh, for sure.”
“Your bonus this year will be a little bigger than last year’s,” Jack said with a smile.
“Yeah?” Sean’s face lit up.
“Yeah—also in cash. You won’t be declaring it.”
“Thanks for the tax advice,” Sean smirked.
“I’m heading back to Washington this afternoon. Norwalk has called Dad into a meeting at Camp David and he wants me to go up with him.”
“Putting a lot of miles on the plane, huh?”
“Every second day it’s back and forth with me. Babe thought it was fun at first. Now she’s getting”—Jack searched for the right word—“cranky.”
“I bet,” said Sean carefully. He knew as well as anyone how volatile those Fuentes sisters could be—not just Raven, but all of them.
“I can’t wait for January to come—we get a new President and more important, we get all this shit behind us,” said Jack.
“Yeah.”
Jack thought this made a pretty picture: the son of a future President telling his staff not to declare their bonuses derived from the $65 million he’d recovered from a narco-sub and now had stashed in a bunker below his house on St. Clair Island. If any of this ever got out, his dad would be ruined.
As he took another sip of coffee and admired the stunning view of downtown Miami across the Bay, he reaffirmed that he’d make sure none of this business had any type of adverse effect on his dad’s situation.
He wanted to wrap up plans for the Christmas trip to Miami. He’d already heard from Bedelia Vaughan that she wanted to bring Lord Ellsworth along. It would be good for Gargrave to spend time with his uncle. He reminded himself to have Gargrave call and order a bigger plane for his party.
* * *
Pozo watched as Aricela drove away in her lackluster Ford Escape, just the kind of modest car he wanted his people driving. As a habit, he scanned the area with his practiced eye as she drove into the distance. Traffic came and went. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.