Fallen Honor: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 7) (3 page)

Now, under cover of daylight, he needed to find a few distributors for himself to get his fledgling operation off the ground. He also needed to find a job of some kind, knowing the quarter million dollars’ worth of coke in his room wouldn’t last long down here. With a part-time cover job, though, he could easily stretch it out much longer.

Hurrying past yet another bar with no awning, this one having roll-up doors beneath big arched windows, one of Michal’s brand-new flip-flops broke and he stepped right out of it, the concrete suddenly very hot on the bottom of his foot. Picking it up, a cold blast of conditioned air from inside got his attention. He hopped on one foot into
Irish Kevin’s
bar, examining the broken strap. One of the little rubber buttons on the bottom had actually melted and pulled through the rubber sole, which was now frayed and sticky around the edges.

“Leather,” Grabowski heard a voice behind him say. He turned around. Behind the bar, a woman with a Boston Bruins cap looked at him and smiled. A tangled mess of short, knotted hair stuck out from under the cap, but it was her belly that caught his eye. A cutoff T-shirt revealed her flat, deeply tanned abdomen, as she reached up on a shelf above the bar for a glass. The woman had abs a gymnast would kill for.

She tilted the glass under one of the many taps. “You need good Kino sandals, not that cheap rubber crap.”

Grabowski recognized the very familiar red-and-white bull’s-eye logo on top of the tap. He’d drank more than his share of Iron City Beer.

R
ounding the little island, I started swimming against the current of the falling tide, pulling harder with every stroke. Changing my breathing to the right side, away from the light chop, I pulled and kicked harder, feeling the pull of the current. I’d only increased the frequency of my three-mile swims a few months earlier. Since then, I was swimming three miles every other day and it felt good.

A few months ago, I’d taken to wearing a small pair of goggles to allow me to see underwater. After swimming the same three miles, every other day for over four months, I knew the bottom terrain like a New Yorker knows the sidewalk in front of his brownstone.

Getting back in shape wasn’t easy. I’d let myself go these past few years, both physically and psychologically. I’d gotten soft. After the first month of swimming every other day, it got easier, and I added a five-mile kayak paddle through the shallow backcountry west of my island. Paddling early in the morning at sunrise allowed my mind to wander, even more so than when swimming. Afternoons were just too hot for any exertion above water.

On my off days, Carl and I worked our little vegetable patch, trimming, weeding, and harvesting in the hot sun. It was backbreaking work, but the results were worth it. Carl and his family live on my little island in the Content Keys and take care of the place. Without their help, I never could have pulled this off.

The Content Keys are a small bunch of mangrove islands north of Big Pine Key, out on the edge of the Gulf of Mexico. It’d been eight years since I’d bought it and four since I built my home here. Now the island sported four small structures, my house, Carl and Charlie’s little house, and two bunkhouses. Carl built his pretty much by himself and I’d built the other three. My house was nice, but Carl and Charlie’s was a whole lot nicer.

After a hard forty-five minute swim, I reached the shallows on the north side of my island by the pier and waded out of the water. The swim left me breathing heavy, but feeling better than I had in a long time. Island time can be harmful if you’re not careful. Drinking too much, especially over the last two years, I’d put on nearly fifteen extra pounds. Swimming to me is the ultimate exercise, using every muscle group to its maximum. Some guys go to the gym, but I’d always found weight-lifting to be very boring.

Since I started working out more, I’d shed the excess weight, replacing it with toned muscle. It took months, but I was back down to what I called my combat weight of two twenty-five.

Whenever I went down to Marathon, I tried to squeeze in a three-mile run as well. At least once a week, anyway. Every Friday, I picked up my girlfriend in Marathon and she stayed with me on the island over the weekend. We always ran the loop around Sombrero Beach before coming back here.

Linda Rosales is an agent for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and we’d been seeing each other for nearly a year now. Just as friends and running partners at first, but we’d taken it up a notch last winter. She works out of the Miami office, but went to Tallahassee last month on an assignment and would be gone most of the summer.

Since fall, my youngest daughter Kim had been living here full-time, but she’d left the same week Linda had, to get a jump on her studies through a summer program at University of Florida.

Walking out to the end of the pier, I rinsed the saltwater off before going to see how Carl was doing on our boat. Carl’s wife Charlie and their two kids, Carl Junior and Patty, met me halfway to the foot of the pier, each carrying a towel. My big dog Pescador was leading the procession.

Charlie smiled as they approached. “Looking pretty good there, Jesse.”

Her comment surprised me. Charlie wasn’t usually the joking around type and flirting just wasn’t in her nature. “I’m feeling a whole lot better lately, thanks.”

“How much have you lost?”

“Not sure, probably a few pounds.” Then as they walked by, I gave Pescador a scratch on the ear and said, “Y’all enjoy the water.”

The saltwater I rinsed off was replaced with salty perspiration before I even made it to the little temporary shack we’d built next to Carl and Charlie’s house. Midsummer in the Keys can be brutal. But it sure beats a lot of other places around the world where I’ve been.

I called out to Carl as I approached the little shack. “How’s it coming, compadre?”

He had the canvas sides of the temporary structure rolled up to take advantage of whatever breeze there might be. There wasn’t much today, just the sweltering tropical heat. Carl was on his back in the forward cockpit of the little runabout, only his legs visible up on the seat.

“I think I got it,” he replied, reaching an empty hand up. “Hand me that multimeter.”

Carl is sort of a jack-of-all-trades. We’d been building this boat since fall and it was nearly ready for a sea trial, except for a problem in the electrical we found after installing the engines. I handed him the device and it disappeared under the dash. A second later, I heard a beeping sound.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “We had the wires crossed on the ignition. Everything looks good now.” Twisting and turning, Carl extricated himself from the small storage space under the foredeck of the wood boat, his hair plastered to his head with sweat.

Grinning, he nodded toward the console. “You want to do the honors?”

“You do it, you’re the electrical expert.”

He slid under the wheel and turned the ignition key to the on position. A whirring sound from the two large blowers indicated they were working. The air intakes are in the front face of the seat bottom in the rear cockpit, blowing tons of cool air across the twin air-cooled engines.

When he pushed one of the starter buttons, the port engine immediately sprang to life, the unmistakable sound of the powerful V-twin silencing the noise of the small waves lapping the shoreline just twenty feet away. He pressed the other button and the starboard engine added its own rumble as it fired up.

Stepping back from the boat, I yelled, “Holy crap! Those things are really loud.” We’d pretty much finished construction of the boat a month ago and had to wait two weeks for the engines to arrive. We’d decided several months earlier to go with an idea a friend had given us and ordered a pair of big motorcycle engines, each producing over a hundred and sixty horsepower, yet weighing less than the single V8 Carl had wanted, or the single diesel I’d wanted.

Carl revved the engines using the foot throttle, the noise reaching ear-splitting level. The exhaust ports were just below the waterline and would act as the only muffler.

Shutting off the engines, Carl climbed out and stood beside me, admiring the little boat. “It’ll be a little quieter in the water and when it’s up on plane the sound will fall behind it. I think we’re ready for that sea trial now.”

“Now?” I asked.

“Tide’s still high enough. We just gotta get it to the water.”

Carl had scrounged around Skeeter’s boatyard on Big Pine and found a couple of small four-wheeled trolleys, originally designed to pull jet skis up on the beach. He modified them to fit the contour of the hull and the boat now rested on them, ready to be moved to the water.

While we were waiting for the engines to be delivered, we’d cut a narrow path to the water through the dense undergrowth that surrounds my island. Beyond the arching mangrove and banyan tunnel is a natural cut close to shore, created by the twice-daily rush of water around the island during the tide changes. It’s just wide enough to float the boat to the pier at the south side of the island, but it’s very shallow just beyond this cut. We’d scraped the shallow bottom a little deeper on the far side to allow us to get the bow of the boat turned in the channel.

What we’d designed and had now built was a throwback to early years, an all-wood boat, with seating for three in the forward cockpit and a separate rear cockpit for three more. It had a shorter foredeck than modern speedboats and a long rear deck, which covered the spacious engine compartment before sloping downward to the swim platform at the stern.

At twenty-four feet in length, with a narrow six-foot beam, it looked fast just sitting there. The gunwales flared inward toward the stern, rounding out the aft section in what’s called a barrel-back design. The small swim platform was barely above what we hoped would be the waterline. Between the two cockpits, nearly centered fore and aft, was a narrow two-foot deck, with built-in storage. The teak, cherry, and mahogany, overlaid with clear epoxy, gleamed with a rich, glossy shine.

I nodded at my friend. “Let’s do this.”

Climbing out of the boat, Carl went to the bow and crawled under the hull to secure a line to the front trolley. Tying the other end off to the boat’s bow cleat, he threw the loop around one shoulder and across his chest to pull both the trolley and boat at the same time.

I went to the stern and leaned back across the sloped transom, gripping the swim platform.

“On three,” Carl called out. “One, two, three!”

I pushed hard, digging my bare heels into the sand, but it wasn’t really necessary. The fat tires of the two trolleys rolled easily on the packed sand. Once in the water, Carl waded across the narrow cut, keeping the bow centered in the area we’d scraped out, until the stern was clear of the mangroves. Careful to avoid the two trolleys, which had fallen into the deeper water of the cut, we slowly turned the boat so that the bow was facing south, into the current. Floating there like that, with the water moving along the hull, I could tell already that we’d nailed the design. The boat looked just like one of the early racing boats I remember seeing as a kid and the sporty swim platform barely touched the water.

I moved up along the port side, motioning Carl around to starboard. “You take the helm first.”

While I held the boat steady, Carl slid over the low gunwale and started the engines. The sound from the exhaust ports burbled up through the water and as he revved the engines, the boat actually surged forward slightly, just from the force of the exhaust.

He nodded to me, and I climbed over the starboard side and settled into the passenger seat, as Carl put the heavy-duty Velvet Drive transmissions into forward.

When both transmissions were in either forward or reverse, the throttles for both engines were controlled by the foot pedal. They could also be operated independently with the shift knob to allow the boat to maneuver better at low speed by simply shifting one engine to reverse and the other forward.

Beyond the narrow cut, the water is less than knee-deep at high tide. As we idled slowly along the shoreline, I had to stand to lift a couple of low-hanging branches over the swept-back windshield.

To the north and west of my island, the shallows extend all the way past the Contents, before dropping off to the deeper waters of the Gulf. To the southwest is a maze of small islands and shallows all the way to Key West, a jumble of unmarked cuts and channels. There are ways through, but if you didn’t know where to look, you’d end up beached on a sandbar, as evidenced by the many gouges around the fringe of shallow water.