Fallen Honor: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 7) (5 page)

W
e idled slowly up the canal to my favorite watering hole, the
Rusty Anchor Bar and Grill
, owned by my longtime friend, Rusty Thurman. Rusty and I met in boot camp in ’79 and stayed close ever since.

The burbling of the twin motorcycle engines caused more than a few heads to pop up out of the hatches of the liveaboards, and a few locals streamed out of the bar to see if a biker had ridden into the canal.

Rusty met us at the end of the canal, where his big barge is tied at the end of the large turning basin. Approaching the barge at the end of the docks, Carl threw the starboard engine into reverse and gunned it for a second, nearly stopping the boat and sending it into a slow spin to the right. We barely bumped the fenders on the barge.

Charlie quickly stepped up to the deck of the barge and tied us off, as Carl shut down the engines. He opened the bilge compartments for another look and I raised the cover on the engine compartment. Both were dry and the float-switch-activated bilge pump was off.

“Now that’s a mighty fine-looking boat,” Rusty commented as he approached. At just under three hundred pounds and barely five feet six inches tall, Rusty had a personality that matched his girth.

Jimmy Saunders, a friend and my former first mate, strode over to the side of the boat and looked down into the engine bay. “What the hell kinda engines you got in that, man?”

“Big air-cooled V-twins,” Charlie said, grinning and taking Patty as I handed her up. She herded the kids across the barge and, satisfied that we had no leaks, Carl and I followed, with everyone asking questions. I let Carl field most of them and stopped on the dock for a moment to look around.

Looking around was a habit, something I’d once done constantly when I was in the Corps, especially when exiting a vehicle. I had a platoon sergeant on Okinawa that double-timed up and down our lines as we moved along a trail, constantly reminding us, “Head on a swivel!” At times, he’d jump up in someone’s face and ask what color the rock was that another of the Marines ahead had slipped on, or which way the mongoose was going in the underbrush. Staff Sergeant Russ Livingston saw everything and missed nothing.

At the same time I realized my body wasn’t in the shape it used to be, I came to the conclusion that neither were my habits. Looking around can clue you in to possible hidden danger and I’d lost that edge.

This look around, while almost immediately dismissing any prospect of danger, took in the familiar surroundings. In the eight years that I’d lived here, I’d been lulled by the small town atmosphere on this little island chain.

Locals call it island time and sooner or later it catches up with everyone. The trouble with being on island time, you tend to lose focus. I’m fortunate, I can turn it on and off. I’ve found that compartmentalizing things in my mind has allowed me to perform better at the things I’ve done, by keeping outside influences away from the task at hand. Another of Russ Livingston’s sayings was, “Not my circus, not my monkeys,” meaning that anything that didn’t have a direct bearing on the mission at hand was to be ignored.

Right now, island time was on. By the standards of most people, it was a miserably hot day. Several of the liveaboards were connected to shore power and I heard a number of small air conditioners humming. Down the dock and around behind the bar, there were a few people lounging on the deck, all of them at tables shaded by palm thatch umbrellas.

Far beyond the dock, a set of ruts followed the canal. Out at the end sat my airplane,
Island Hopper
. She’s a deHavilland Beaver, built more than fifty years ago and equipped with pontoons for landing on water and wheels, which retracted into the pontoons, for landing on a runway. The son of the friend who I bought the plane from died in a fiery explosion just beyond there at the boat ramp.

Dressed in lightweight khaki pants and a long-sleeved shirt, I enjoyed the heat. However, getting burned by the sun’s rays wasn’t a good idea when you’re outside as much as I am. Sweating has a purpose. Cooling by evaporation. I kept hydrated and sweated heavily. So I stayed cool, even in this tropical heat.

Inside, Charlie took the kids out the back door to see if Rufus needed any help in the kitchen. Rusty had just added the closed-in cooking area to the backyard, replacing a series of tarps. His old Jamaican chef loved cooking outdoors, so the whole kitchen area had big roll-up doors. Watching Rufus cook had become sort of an attraction for some of the locals.

The
Anchor
was pretty much a local’s hangout. Rusty didn’t advertise and the place was hidden deep on the property, invisible from US-1. Dense overhanging foliage nearly hid the crushed-shell drive and there wasn’t any sign out there for “Cold Beer.” Open whenever Rusty was awake, it was a gathering spot for local watermen, and the liveaboards that now lined his docks. It had been this way for three generations of Thurmans.

Every morning, before the sun rose, Rufus would fire up his grills and burners and then roll up the shutters over the long countertop surrounding the kitchen. Big exhaust fans soon spread the scent of grilling onions, lobster, fish, Jamaican sausage and eggs for probably five square miles on a still day like this. Within minutes, people would climb out of their boats and start pulling up in skiffs. The parking lot might only have a car or two, but every stool around the kitchen would be full, people anticipating a great breakfast. For the liveaboards, this was included in their slip lease.

Rufus had once been a gourmet chef at a very popular five-star restaurant in Jamaica. He’d retired here after the death of his wife and lived in a tiny shack that had once been Rusty’s grandfather’s rum distillery. Nobody really knew for sure how old the wiry little Jamaican man was. My guess was mid-sixties or early seventies, but it didn’t show and most strangers would guess much younger.

Carl and I sat at the bar, where Rusty produced two bottles of water. Not long ago, it would have been water for Carl, who rarely drank, and a beer for me. Or coffee, if it was early. Even late coffee on many days. And before noon with the beer on many days, as well. Island time isn’t measured by clocks.

“You’re looking damned near a hundred percent, Jesse,” my old friend said. “Still swimming?”

“Every other day. How’s Julie? Heard from her this week?”

Julie is Rusty’s daughter. He’d raised her himself, after her mother died giving Julie life. She’d recently moved to Washington DC with her husband, Deuce Livingston. He’d been promoted to commander in the Navy and reassigned to take over the Caribbean Counterterrorism Command of Homeland Security, or CCC. He was also the son of my former platoon sergeant and the two of us had become quick friends a couple years ago.

“Talked to her for an hour last night,” Rusty replied. “They’re still getting adjusted. Said she’ll be down in September for some training with the new team in Largo.”

The CCC consisted of two teams of highly skilled operators that came from all branches of the military and several law enforcement agencies. Julie is a petty officer in the Coast Guard Reserves and trained for their elite Maritime Enforcement. She was attached as a reserve element to Deuce’s teams, helping to teach small-boat boarding tactics to the others.

“Be good to see her again,” I said as I turned on my stool and looked out the windows, shaded from the sun by awnings. Rusty could afford to air condition the place, but chose not to. I knew this, because I was a silent partner in his business. To most of the clientele he served, air conditioning was achieved at twenty-five knots over open water. The
Anchor
was built to take advantage of the prevailing wind and had long overhangs on the roof and awnings over the windows. There were a number of ceiling fans that constantly moved the air around inside and there was almost always a cooling breeze off the water.

No breeze today, though. Not much anyway. Every now and then a slight movement of air could be felt through the large open windows that surrounded the bar area. Out beyond the side yard, I could see the little boat sitting there and marveled again at the gleaming lines.

“How fast is she?” Jimmy asked, sitting on the stool next to me and following my gaze.

“Not sure,” I replied. “No GPS or speedometer, but she covered a two-mile stretch, from idling speed, in just over a hundred seconds this morning.”

Jimmy whistled softly. “Most of them antique replica boats are all show, man. But that’s seriously fast.”

A familiar voice from the other end of the bar said, “Boat like that can get up and grow legs.”

I glanced over and recognized Bill Woodson, Wood to his friends. He was a gruff and cantankerous man and a longtime resident of the Keys. A bridge builder and engineer, he’d probably had a hand in either building or repairing half the bridges in the Keys. Semiretired now, he lived on an island not far from mine.

I nodded to the older man. “Long time, no see, Wood.”

“Way I like it,” he replied gruffly. “See you coming and going from time to time. Ya oughta keep a close eye on that boat.”

“I will,” I replied.

Without another word, Wood got up and walked out the back door with his beer, heading toward the dock. Looking out the window again, I watched as a small center-console came idling up the canal and I recognized the two men on board. One was a guy about my age, Mac Travis, who lived on one of the canals off Boot Key Harbor. Mac had been Wood’s diver for the better part of twenty years and was now a commercial lobsterman. His sidekick and crewman was easily recognizable even from a distance. Taller than me, with a set of polished teeth that probably glowed in the dark, Alan Trufante was known to be close by whenever there was trouble, usually right in the middle of it. Wood met Mac’s boat at the dock and stepped down into it. Mac turned in the canal and they headed back out the way they came.

“He’s right, ya know,” Rusty said, polishing a beer mug. “A sharp-looking boat like that could disappear in a heartbeat.”

“What’s on the menu for lunch?” I asked, turning back to my old friend.

“Leftover janga soup from last night and fish,” Rusty replied. “Or a burger,” he added with a grin.

What Rufus called janga were the crawfish that Carl and I raised in our aquaculture garden. The waste from the crawfish and catfish tanks nourished the plants, which in turn kept the water clean and filtered. Janga are a distant Caribbean cousin to the crawfish, and according to Rufus, the hill people in Jamaica consider them to have an aphrodisiac quality.

“Janga soup for me,” Carl said with a grin.

Getting up from my stool, I said, “Think I’ll go out and have a word with Rufus.”

Out on the deck, I strode over to the kitchen door. Charlie was inside, helping Rufus serve customers. That was just her way. If something looked like it needed doing, she just pitched in and did it. Her kids were out in the backyard, running and playing with Pescador.

“You got a minute, Rufus?” I called into the kitchen.

The old Jamaican man turned and smiled. “Sure ting, mon.” He came to the door and we sat down at an empty table nearby. “Ah see dat you been taking bettah care of yourself,” he said.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Think you can give me some ideas about eating? What to stay away from?”

“Ya, mon, I can do bettah dan dat. I and I wrote a cooking book. Yuh wanna copy?”

I told him I’d love to borrow it and he left, trotting across the yard to his little shack, as Charlie came out of the kitchen carrying a tray. The smell of Carl’s soup reminded me how hungry I was.

A moment later Rufus returned with a thin, professionally published paperback cookbook and handed it to me. I don’t know why, but I was expecting a handwritten notebook. The old Jamaican never ceased to amaze me. On the cover was a picture of him, shirtless and standing on one foot in knee-deep cobalt-blue water, the setting sun highlighting the white chest hair and beard against his ebony skin. His back was arched, arms raised over his head, grasping his other foot in a vertical split. I’d seen him go through his sunset routine a few times.

“Dis book have some of my favorite recipes, Cap’n. Not tings I and I make here at di restaurant. But tings Rufus make fuh his own self.” He grinned broadly. “Tings dat keep di old feeling young.”

Looking at the guy, his eyes still sparkled with life and though he was small, I knew he was in excellent shape, having watched his evening routine. He’d stretch for a few minutes then go through a series of slow-motion karate-style moves, flexing every muscle.

“When you said a book, I assumed a notebook,” I said. “This is really cool and I promise I’ll get it back to you after I try a few.”

He laughed. “Yuh keep dat, mon. I and I have many. Dere comes a time in a man’s life when he must also use di cosmic forces in di battle wit time.”

“Thanks, Rufus. I think.” I raised the book and said, “None of the ingredients in here illegal, are they?”

“No, mon,” he replied with his wide, gap-toothed grin. “All of Rufus’s recipes come directly from di gods to man. Nuts, berries, herbs, and di fish and crawlers from Mudah Ocean. I and I used to dabble in di other tings, but dat was many appearances of di Suhdurn Cross ago.”

I grinned back at his reference to the annual winter event in the Caribbean, including here in the Keys. Contrary to popular belief the Southern Cross constellation can be seen here, but only for a short time late at night and for only a few nights in winter.