Wreckers' Key (2 page)

“Trust me, Ted, Sey’s a lot better off than her brothers,” Nestor said.

“Oh?” Berger asked, his eyebrows lifting into the lock of white hair that had fallen on his forehead.

I nodded. “Madagascar and Pitcairn.”

“Oh dear,” he said, laughing. “Parents can be cruel. So, Seychelle, Nestor tells me he’d rather have you tow the boat up to Lauderdale than any of that scum over at Ocean Towing.”

“Ted, I may have exchanged a few harsh words with those guys, but I didn’t call them scum,” Nestor said.

“Well, I’ll call them that!” He turned to me. “Do you know what they’re trying to charge me for getting the
Power Play
off that reef and into Robbie’s Marina on Stock Island?”

“I can imagine. Nestor told me it took them almost twelve hours to get her free.”

“They’re goddamn pirates!”

“No, sir, actually, they probably saved the boat and saved the insurance company a bundle. They’d rather pay the yard bill and salvage than suffer a total loss.”
 

He rolled his eyes and turned away from me.

Out in the street, a tall man with stringy shoulder-length hair, wearing nothing but swim trunks, was trying to untangle the leash of his mangy German shepherd from around his legs and the pedals of his beach bike. He was mumbling to himself. Our table was situated so close to the street, we couldn’t help but overhear the string of obscenities and incomprehensible answers he was giving to the voices he apparently heard in his head. When Berger spoke again, he continued staring out at the man on the street. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or to us. “I like things that are new and shiny. No matter what,
now
the
Power Play
is going to be a repaired vessel.” He turned and focused his eyes on mine. “And I don’t like patched-up shit.”

I smiled, refusing to look away. “Well, welcome to boats, Mr. Berger. If you’re not running them, you’re working on them. As I understand it, the hull wasn’t even holed. You’ve just got damage to rudders, stabilizers, props, and the like,” I said. “You know, I wouldn’t think of it as a patched-up boat. I’d say Nestor was just breaking her in.”

He tightened one cheek in a half smile. “That’s one way of looking at it.” His tone told me it would not be his view. “So you’re going to help our boy here get the boat back to Lauderdale where they can make proper repairs?”

I didn’t like the way he called Nestor
our
boy. “Sure am,”
 
I said.

Nestor said, “The guys at Robbie’s have put a temporary epoxy patch on the deep scratches in the hull. It will have to be faired and painted later; they just didn’t like the bare glass underwater. One prop was a total loss and the other is slightly damaged, but usable. Rudders were totaled. There was some structural damage to interior bulkheads, and some issues that will need to be addressed up in Lauderdale. I just want these guys to get her in shape for the trip north. It’ll be close, but I’ll bet we could launch tomorrow.”

“That sounds good to me,” I said. “The sooner, the better.”

Berger pushed back his chair and stood. He looked down at Catalina. “You gonna get this guy to show you around Key West, relax a little bit? Beautiful woman like you comes down to be with her man—he should show you off. Seems he spends all his time in that boatyard.”

“I told her I was going to be busy,” Nestor said. “And I didn’t like the idea of her riding the bus in her condition, but she insisted.”

“My husband says
my condition
like pregnancy is an illness,” Catalina said to me. She was ignoring Berger’s comments. “Having babies is natural.” She reached for her husband’s hand again. “Stop worrying. I have been trying to talk him into doing a little windsurfing,” she said. “I would like to see him relax, have a little fun. He is very good, you know. When he was in his teens, he was the national windsurfing champion in the Dominican Republic.”

“Listen to your wife, Nestor. She’s a smart, stand-by-your-man kind of woman. Makes me wonder what she sees in a guy like you.” He punched Nestor in the arm hard enough to rock him back in his chair. “So, how soon do you two think the boat will be ready to head north?”

“We’ve got a good weather window coming up, and I’d like to leave as soon as possible,” I said. “Nestor and I were just starting to discuss our departure plans when you arrived.”

“Really?” he said. “You looked so serious. And secretive. Like my crew here was plotting a mutiny.”

Nestor and I both must have shown our surprise. Berger laughed and punched Nestor in the arm again, harder. “Just kidding, buddy.”

II

“So you think he overheard what we were saying about him?”

We watched his back as he disappeared up the street.
 

“He would’ve been hard to miss if he’d been lingering around in that shirt,” I said, but I couldn’t rule it out. I thought about the man on the street with his dog earlier, and how we’d overheard every word he uttered. “I really don’t like that guy.”

“He’s not usually such a jerk,” Nestor said, rubbing his upper arm where Berger had punched him.

Catalina looked at her husband and raised her eyebrows.

“He’s not that bad,” he said, lifting his hands, palms upward as if he were a weight lifter. “Okay, you’re right. And if he did have a hand in putting that boat on the stones, then he’s a major asshole.”

Nestor put his elbows on the table and leaned his forehead against his clasped hands. He was muttering what sounded like curses in Spanish. Then he raised his head and looked at his wife. “Berger heard or he didn’t. He’ll fire me or he won’t. In the meantime, I need to get Jorge down here to look at the boat. I’ll call him tonight, see if he can come down tomorrow. Time to go on the defensive.”

He reached for her hand and they sat there for several seconds, not talking. Once again I felt like an intruder just sitting there.

Nestor had met Catalina two years earlier when he’d returned to his hometown in the Dominican Republic after his father was admitted to a hospital, near death. The young, chocolate-skinned woman of mixed race had been his father’s favorite nurse. After the funeral, Nestor returned to Fort Lauderdale and the two started an e-mail correspondence that ended with a marriage proposal six months later.
 

They made a striking couple with matching heads of black hair, yet so different in their body types. Tall, slender Nestor had his Spanish ancestors’ olive skin and sharp features, while Catalina’s beauty came from the lushness of her African lips, carved cheekbones, and a figure that even when pregnant evoked desire in men and women—the women desiring to look half that good. Being around them made me a believer in marriage. Maybe it wasn’t something that would ever work for me, but for these two, their union made them better, stronger, wiser. I envied them that.

And now I could understand Nestor wanting to believe that the grounding wasn’t his fault. It could, probably would, ruin his chances of ever moving up, of getting the highest-paying jobs on the megayachts. Gossip spread like the wind on the waterfront. But I knew how quickly things could change when a yacht was traveling at a speed like twenty knots. Only a few seconds of inattention could result in disaster. Obviously, Nestor
wanted
to believe this wasn’t his fault.

We paid the bill and rose to leave. On the sidewalk, I embraced Catalina and smiled at her. “Berger was right about one thing. You look great.”

She lowered her eyes, embarrassed by the flattery. She really had no idea how lovely she was. “I
feel
great.” She took my hand in hers. “Why don’t you come back with us to the yacht? There is not so much else to do. We have movies, computers—many toys.” She elbowed her husband in the ribs. “And we can send him off windsurfing while we have an afternoon for the girls.”

“Thanks, but not this afternoon. I haven’t been down to Key West in a while, and I want to wander around— been cooped up on the boat too long on the trip down.”
 

“So tell me, why did you make this trip alone?” Catalina asked. “Where is that wonderful man of yours?”

I winced at the possessive term. While B.J. and I were lovers, we continued to take things one day at a time. Thing is, I was the one balking at commitment. Catalina had met B.J. once, and he had made his usual impression. Women were drawn to him like iron particles to a magnet. It usually took more than a brush-off to shake them loose. I think it was something about his long, sleek black hair and part-Samoan heritage that made him seem like a tall, brown island king. We all just wanted to picture him wearing nothing but green leaves.

“B.J. was busy,” I said, not really wanting to explain at what, “and I couldn’t find a good deckhand on such short notice. Besides, the autopilot did most of the steering. I’ve had some stuff going on in my life, and I needed the time alone. I enjoyed it. The light has been spectacular. Gave me time to do some thinking, and I got some great photos of scenes I hope to paint when I get back.”
 

Catalina wouldn’t let it be. “He is busy at what?”
 

Geez, these people were Latins. Machismo and all that. I knew how they were going to react. But I needed to say it as though it didn’t bother me. “My friend Molly asked B.J. to take some classes with her. They’re studying to be midwives.”

Nestor burst out laughing and pretended to bury his face in his wife’s hair. He was standing behind her, his arms casually wrapped around her waist, and he patted her swollen belly like a tom-tom. “Sorry,” he said when he caught his breath. “I just never heard of a man wanting to be a midwife—or do you call it a midhusband?” His face was turning red as he held his breath trying not to laugh again.

“Well,” I said, “If you think about it, it fits right in with his fascination with shiatsu and aikido and all that enlightenment and Eastern religion stuff. Besides, B.J. is very secure in his masculinity. He’s really interested in this, and he—”

This time they both exploded with laughter.

“You guys, stop it. I know how it sounds. I think he’s really doing it for Molly. Geez, I don’t know what to think.”

“Have you checked to see if he’s still got cojones?” Nestor asked.

“
Mi amor
, ” Catalina said, a playful huskiness coming into her voice, “this man—there is no question. He is beautiful. Perhaps, too beautiful.”

“You know, you’re not making this any easier on me.”
 

“Maybe you should call him to come down to Key West,” Nestor said. “There are lots of bars on Duval Street he might like.”

“Okay, you two, you go ahead and yuk it up.” I hitched my bag up over my shoulder. “I’ll see you both later.”

In fact, I thought, as I headed back toward Schooner Wharf to admire the charter yachts of Key West, it had been good to see Nestor laughing like that, even if it was at my expense. The young man had sounded so somber when I’d received his first phone call. He was in a pretty bad spot, and he might find himself having to look for another line of work after this.

Maybe I should join him, I thought, as I walked down Greene Street, shoving my hands deep in the pockets of my sweatshirt. I had done a job recently that was now hanging over me like a threatening storm, only I didn’t know how to prepare for this one. That’s what had made me so quick to say yes to the opportunity to leave Fort Lauderdale for a while. My career just might be in need of salvage, too.

There’s a reason why I normally don’t try to pick up distress calls on channel sixteen, I thought, as I settled onto a bench to watch the activity in Key West Bight Marina. There was once a time, back when my dad first built
Gorda
and he was one of only a couple of guys in the business, that he would answer every call that came up on the radio. But things had changed in recent years— changed drastically. As the yachts grew bigger and more expensive, the salvage and towing business became more lucrative, and dozens of companies had sprung up to try to cash in on the bonanza of idiots who could afford to buy boats but didn’t have the sense to get any kind of training to run them. There was Sea Tow, Offshore Marine Towing, Cape Anne Towing, Ocean Towing, Big Tuna Salvage—the list went on and on.

Unlike cars, boats don’t require a driver’s license for personal use. Anybody can go buy a vessel that can run at speeds up to sixty and seventy miles an hour, then just jump in and turn the key. And the waters around South Florida have been chewing up boats for centuries. While Ted Berger had just been complaining about Ocean Towing, they weren’t the only ones out there slapping boat owners with outrageous salvage claims. I’d heard from captains who’d applied for jobs with these outfits that it was company strategy to do anything they could to upgrade a job from a tow, which paid by the hour, to a salvage operation, which could result in an award of
 
20 to 40 percent of the value of the boat. Plus, they all needed the bucks to buy bigger and faster towboats and put up higher land-based VHF radio antennas. The end result?
Gorda
and I just couldn’t compete.

And then there was that afternoon just over a month ago when I answered an emergency call and the boat sank and a child almost died. And now I was being sued for $1.3 million for damages and mental anguish.

The whole situation was causing me a fair amount of mental anguish of my own, so when Nestor Frias called and requested my assistance with getting the damaged
Power Play
back up to Lauderdale, I didn’t care if B.J. was off taking lessons in how to deliver babies. I grabbed at the chance to get out of town.

I stood up now, stretched, and told myself to stop whining. It was a sunny, crisp January day, I was in Key West, and I had lots of nerve to complain. There were thousands, probably millions of people all across America who hated their jobs at this very moment, and they weren’t standing outside in the warm sun gazing through a sea of rigging in Key West Harbor. The seafood restaurant to my left was broadcasting Buffett’s “Boat Drinks,” and I was admiring the fleet of schooners at the docks in the boat basin tucked behind breakwaters. Some were smaller workboats like the
Wolf
, some more than a hundred feet like the
Western Union
—industrial-strength charter head boats built to carry crowds—and others were classics like that black-hulled, immaculately varnished schooner with the name
Hawkeye
written in gold leaf on her bow.