by Glenn Trust
Surprised, Sams turned to Moya, a question on his face.
“He says he will handle it,” Moya said, leaning against the side of the deckhouse, smiling.
Forward, a second man hopped to the dock and worked the bow line. They stood waiting for Sams to give the order to cast off.
“You didn’t mention your men are seamen,” Sams nodded with respect for their apparent skills.
“It was not important for you to know.”
“Lots of things can be important out on the water,” Sams replied. “Would have been good to know up front.”
“Would knowing have changed what we are doing tonight?” Moya’s eyes narrowed.
“I suppose not,” Sams nodded and reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He lit up and stood for a minute in the center of the deck, feeling the gentle tidal swell come up the river to rock the boat. “Wouldn’t have thought there were many sailors where y’all come from.”
“There are many types of people where I come from,” Moya said matter-of-factly, amusement on his face. This dumb gringo must think everyone below the border rides donkeys and wears sombreros. “Some are sailors, like these two. All need money, and we have money. So now, they work for us.”
“And him?” Sams persisted, nodding at the fourth member of their party.
Moya turned his head toward the man standing in the middle of the deck. “Julio?” He nodded and folded his arms across his chest. “Julio has special skills … for later.”
Moya offered no further information. Sams took a deep puff on the cigarette, flipped the butt overboard and stepped into the deckhouse to start the engines. He let them idle for a few minutes to get the oil circulating, then leaned out and waved at the man on the stern line.
His Mexican—no Honduran, he reminded himself—deckhand released the last turn on the line, and with a nimble flip sailed the line to the boat’s deck and hopped aboard after it. He turned and nodded, lifting a hand at the forward deckhand who released his line with equal agility and took up his watch in the bow.
Sams saw the forward deckhand say something to Julio who nodded and moved to stand amidships beside Esteban. Probably told him to get the hell out of the way before he got hurt, Sams thought, smiling. He reversed the engines and turned the wheel, sidling the trawler away from the dock with gentle touches on the throttles.
The engines thrummed and rumbled through the deck boards as he idled along, working his way out of the port and into the St. Mary’s River channel. He watched with appreciation as his two new deckhands coiled the lines by the starboard cleats. By the time they passed Cumberland Island, he figured he’d had worse crews in the past.
He wondered where they had gotten their experience. Probably deep-water fishers, maybe on the big tuna or salmon trawlers out on the Pacific, he thought.
Now, they worked for a drug cartel. How did that happen? What had they done to earn their way into that life? He’d heard stories. The two men standing watch on the deck didn’t seem the type to be cold-blooded killers. But then, who did? For now, they were his crew, and they were beginning to earn his respect. That was enough.
Warm salt air blew through the deckhouse. Tully Sams smiled and nudged the throttle up as they pushed into the Atlantic swells.
An hour before sunset, he motioned to the two deckhands, calling them to him. They left their posts in the stern and bow and came amidships, obedient and deferential.
“We gonna be working together. I reckon we should put names to the faces.” He patted his chest “Tully … Tully Sams.”
The two sailors nodded. One, older shorter and darker than the other nodded, and pointed at Sams saying, “Capitán.”
“True enough,” Sams nodded. “But out here you can call me Tully … long as you mind what I say.”
Esteban Moya poked his head out from the galley dayroom, and said something in rapid Spanish to the men, then looked at Sams. “I told them to call you Capitán. They don’t need to know your name. They don’t need to know anything about you. They do what I tell them. For that, they will be well paid.”
“If that’s the way you want it,” Sams said with a shrug. “Gonna be kinda tough giving them instructions when we’re underway if I can’t call them by name to get them doing what I need done.”
Moya frowned, said something to the men, and disappeared back inside.
The short man patted his chest and said “Hermilio.” He pronounced it Hair-mee-lyo.
Sams gave it a try, twisting the name around on his tongue. The man laughed and tapped his chest again, saying. “Hermie.” Hair-mee.
“Hermie,” Sams repeated the Americanized version of the nickname with a grin. “Reckon I can handle that.”
The other man, as tall as Sams and thin, tapped his chest and nodded, saying his name, “Paco.”
“Good.” Sams nodded. “It’s a good start. Hermie and Paco … names I can remember.” He gave each a friendly slap on the shoulder, indicating they were now part of the team. “Good sailors too.”
They understood that word at least. The two fishermen grinned their acknowledgment and nodded emphatically.
Hermie patted his chest and said, “Sí, Capitan. Buenos marineros … good sailors.”
The Sara Jane was an eighty-two-foot trawler and had been in the Sillman fleet for thirty years. Sams put in two months hard work, refurbishing her Cummins diesel, going over every inch of wiring, couplings, and fixtures. Happy to be doing something after losing his wife, he threw his heart into the project.
It mattered little to him what their cargo would be. It mattered a lot that when the Sara Jane sailed from St. Mary’s she was a credit to JJ Sillman who had given him a second chance at life.
The empty days after his wife’s death were gone. No longer was he some forgotten piece of sea trash washed up on the shore, waiting to die. He had a purpose, thanks to Sillman, and Tully Sams would repay the favor. His boat would be as ship-shape as one man could make it.
He turned to the east, heading offshore, to deep water, feasting his eyes on the expanse of ocean stretching to the blue-green horizon. In the bow, Hermie grinned at him and Sams realized it was because he was grinning too.
Tully Sams threw his head back and laughed. You old fool, you’re grinning like a damned idiot, he thought. Why not, his mind shouted back? You’re alive! Out on the big water!
The high bow of the trawler sliced through the waves, rising and falling on the swells, keeping tempo with the thrum of the engines. He felt his sea legs returning, knees flexed to absorb the movement while his eyes remained focused on the horizon.
There was freedom here. Freedom in the movement, in the rise and fall of the bow, in the rumble of the engines, in the wind blowing fresh and salty through the deckhouse. He relished it all and thanked God for JJ Sillman.
Not everyone on board was as thrilled as Tully Sams. Cruising the river and the sound past Cumberland Island was one thing, but once the first swells lifted the bow, the trawler began to rock like a cradle. Esteban Moya and Julio with-the-special-skills made their way to the deck, pale and sick. They clung to the supports around the deckhouse to keep their balance while they worked at keeping the contents of their stomachs from spewing out in front of the others.
Moya leaned against the deckhouse door, face pale, eyes clenched shut. He wasn’t giving orders now. The Capitan of the Sara Jane grinned wider. Out here on the big water, Tully Sams was in command.
30.
Dirty
“Your press conference is getting attention. It’s all coming together just the way we planned!”
We planned? Wilson Bettis was gloating over his good fortune. Sillman could visualize him on the other end of the call, rubbing his hands together, counting his share of the money that would soon flow their way. At some point, he would have to remind the little peacock of his place. Nothing had changed. He was an aide, not a partner, and any share of the profits was thanks to Sillman’s benevolence, nothing more.
; That would come later. For the now, Sillman asked “What kind of attention?”
“Just had a call from an Atlanta cop. He’s putting together a law enforcement group to get behind your anti-drug efforts.” Bettis chuckled at the irony. “He’ll be here in a few minutes to go over plans and see how they can support us … I mean you.”
“So soon?” Sillman was suddenly uneasy. Despite Elizondo’s fascination with Sun Tzu’s Art of War, deceiving the cops shouldn’t be so simple.
“I guess they watch TV too,” Bettis replied.
“Just seems a little convenient.” Sillman rubbed his jaw, thinking it over and reached for the ever-present glass of bourbon beside his chair.
“Relax,” Bettis reassured him. “Our friends wanted misdirection and deception. They sure as hell got it.” Unlike his boss, Bettis was thrilled. He had to give Bebé Elizondo credit. “They bought it, boss … hook, line, and sinker. With you leading the anti-drug charge and the cops backing your legislation, they will be looking everywhere except at us. It’s perfect.”
“I suppose so,” Sillman said, uncertain but trying hard to feel the same exuberance. It was easier for Bettis to be excited and sure about things. He hadn’t stood in a corner and watched while Bebé had a man strangled.
“Gotta go, boss,” Bettis said, excited anticipation in his voice. “He’s here. I’ll call you after and let you know how it goes.”
Bettis was gone. Sillman could picture him bouncing out to greet the Atlanta police officer. Things were moving fast. It might be best to go to the office and check in with Bettis after his meeting with the police officer.
Sillman stood and went to the bedroom to retrieve the tie and suit jacket he had discarded after returning from the press conference. He was sliding the jacket over his shoulders when the knock came at the door.
*****
In a downtown high-rise not far away, Bettis marched across the reception office, hand extended to the tall, plain-clothes detective. “Wilson Bettis,” he said, introducing himself.
“Randy Travis,” the detective replied as they shook hands. “Thanks for meeting with me, Mr. Bettis.”
“Glad to do it, and call me Wilson.” Bettis smiled and leaned toward Travis, lowering his voice. “Interesting name you have.”
Travis nodded. “Been told that a lot.”
“Any singers in your family?”
“Nope,” Travis shook his head grinning. “Not a one.”
“Me neither,” Bettis said. “That’s something we have in common.”
“Yep. We have that.”
It was the routine opening for Travis. His name coupled with his black face had broken the ice more than once before he dropped the investigative hammer on an unsuspecting head.
“I guess I was expecting someone in uniform,” Bettis said as he led the way to his office.
“Sorry.” Travis nodded and smiled. “Forgot to mention that I’m a detective.”
“Narcotics?” Bettis asked, a look of hopeful excitement in his eyes as he stood aside for Travis to enter the office in front of him.
“No.” Travis shook his head. “Nothing that glamorous. Major Crimes Unit. Not a problem, is it?”
“No, no. No problem. Always glad to have support from the law enforcement community.” Travis nodded and motioned to two upholstered side chairs facing each other across a small coffee table. “You have a uniform though, right?”
“Yep, with a badge and everything,” Travis said, amused at Bettis’ obvious disappointment that he was not decked out in APD blue.
“Good. If we get to where we want to do publicity events … promos, public service announcements with the Senator, that sort of thing … it might be good to have you and some of your colleagues standing with him in uniform. You know, for the visual effect.”
“Sure, I get it,” Travis said and sat in one of the chairs. “If we get to that point. First, we need to understand a little more about what the senator is promoting and what his initiatives will be … so we can determine how we might help.”
“Absolutely.” Bettis plopped down in the chair across from Travis, crossed his legs and leaned forward.
He was expansive, bubbling with excitement and information about the legislation Sillman planned to introduce. The plan was three-pronged.
First, there would be immediate, mandatory increases in the lengths of prison terms for those convicted of trafficking in narcotics. Next, Sillman planned to decrease demand by helping users break their addiction, funneling unheard of amounts of federal money into local programs for counseling and addiction rehabilitation.
“And most important,” Bettis said, leaning forward, his eyes intense, staring earnestly into Travis’. “We will end the import of narcotics across our southern border.”
“How?” Travis asked, flipping a page in the notebook he had filled as Bettis expounded on Sillman’s plans.
“By sending troops to the border. We are going to lock the fucker down once and for all.” Bettis leaned back, having spit out this last bit of information with orgasmic delight.
“Not sure that’s legal,” Travis said mildly. “Lock the border down, sure, but using federal troops. That will get a lot of opposition.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Bettis shook his head. “We have a president who will do it. We need the legislation to give him the authority. That’s what Senator Sillman is trying to do … give him what he needs to get the job done.”
It all became clear. It was all bullshit.
Sillman would introduce legislation, make speeches, appear in television spots and get his name out in front of everyone, supporting a popular president. Most important, voters would take note. Even those who might disagree with him on other issues would be drawn to his holy crusade against drugs.
That Congress could never pass into law what he was proposing, or that challenges in federal courts would tie it up for years was irrelevant. Like most politicians, the only result that concerned Sillman was the vote count, and he would no doubt garner votes for his initiative and support of the president.
Travis found the pretense distasteful. He put his feelings aside. Sillman was a politician, no different from any other.
It was time to get to the real reason for the visit. He flipped to another page in his notepad and tossed the question out without any preliminaries.
“Wilson, I was wondering if you could tell me why you were meeting with Bautista Ortega a few nights ago.”
The uncontrolled twitch in his jaw and the color draining away from his forehead told Travis that it was true. Bettis had met with a suspected drug trafficker. Sober or not, Luis Acero had hit this nail dead center on the head.
“I don’t …. I mean … I didn’t …”
Bettis shook his head, his mouth agape like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar saying, ‘Who me?’
“Video cameras, Wilson,” Travis said with a sigh. “The club has video cameras.”
He did not mention they were useless. Bettis’ face twisted, the pallor replaced by red cheeks that grew darker as the seconds ticked. He struggled—almost strangled—trying to come up with what he would say next. Travis waited, content to let Bettis stew until he filled the uncomfortable silence with whatever bullshit spewed from his mouth next.
“I mean,” Bettis stammered. “You see, it’s like this …”
Travis repressed a laugh, and looked solemnly into the man’s eyes where the truth was revealed. Bettis was blinking fast, eyes darting from side to side, a caged animal seeking an escape. There was none, and his mind whirled, trying to come up with a plausible explanation.
“Okay, right …” Bettis put his hand up as if to ward off a blow. “So, yeah …” His head bounced up and down. “I met with Bautista Ortega the other night at Eruptions. It was a brief meeting, just sat down with him for a few minutes. I mean I wasn’t asking for a donation or anything like a bribe or something to get Sillman … I mean the Senator … you know, to back off from his legislati
on. That would be illegal, right?”
“Right.” Travis nodded. “That would be illegal.”
The attempt at misdirection was almost laughable. Randy Travis wasn’t just any questioner, and he had never asked about bribery or even implied it. In his clumsy way, Bettis was trying to throw him off the scent … of something. But what?
“Okay, so you need to know that this is all completely innocent.” Bettis paused and licked his lips as he gathered his thoughts. “So I was doing research … all part of the anti-drug initiative.” A light came on in his eyes. He’d found the angle he would use. “You know … looking for support for the Senator’s initiative in the Hispanic community. That’s not illegal is it?”
“No. That’s perfectly legal.”
Travis had to hand it to Bettis. He was overcoming his shock and trying his best to recover.
“So, Ortega’s not wanted for anything, is he? I mean if he is, I didn’t know about it, and I certainly wouldn’t have …”
“He’s not wanted,” Travis cut in.
Bautista Ortega—El Toro—had managed to keep his hands legally clean through the years because his hands never touched the drugs his organization peddled. He let others do that for him and serve the time when necessary.
“Not wanted,” Bettis continued, “So, it was perfectly legal for me to meet with him and try to get his support for the Senator’s program. I mean he’s a prominent member of the Hispanic community. You understand I was just …”
“Never said it wasn’t legal.” Travis smiled.
“Good. I want that to be clear.” Bettis had the relieved, gut-sick look of a man who had driven off onto the shoulder and almost over the cliff before pulling the car back onto the pavement.
“What did he say?” Travis smiled again.
“What?”
“Bautista Ortega,” Travis looked down at his notebook, pen poised as if to record Bettis’ response for posterity. “What did he say to your proposal … your request for support?”
“Oh … he …” Bettis was suddenly at the cliff edge again, straining to keep things together, frantic, tugging at the wheel. “He … uh, he said he would take it under advisement … talk to others in his organization and get back to me.”