Gagliano,Anthony - Straits of Fortune.wps (4 page)

"She might get off. It's happened before, and you've got the money to make it happen." "I don't want to take that chance, and I don't want the pub- licity. I just want the whole thing gone as quickly as possible. A hundred thousand dollars, Jack." His eyes brightened, and his voice rose into a tone of false triumph, all for the ben- efit of my proletarian perspective. He made that much while brushing his teeth. "Why not get Williams to do it?" I asked. "He works a lot cheaper than that." "There's a slight chance that if you're careless, you'll be caught. If that were to happen to Williams, I'd be drawn into it. I can't risk that." That didn't sound quite right for some reason; then it hit me. When it came to moving quietly through the night, there wouldn't be too many people better at it than Williams. Compared to him, I would be an amateur. The Colonel would know that as well as anyone. It was early, but I poured myself an inch of scotch to cover my thinking time. I could almost feel him trying to read my mind. "Williams could've been out there and back a half dozen times by now," I said after taking a sip of my drink. "And you and I both know it." "I need Williams here," the Colonel said. "With me." "Why? Sure, he's cute, but you could spare him for a few hours, couldn't you?" "Matson had friends, and I have reason to believe that the house is being watched. Williams is almost psychic when it comes to things like that. He refuses to leave my side." "If that's true," I said, "then Matson's friends must also re- alize that something's wrong on that boat. It's been there long enough. Why haven't they gone out there to investigate?" "It may be that they already have, possibly at night. If that's so, they're probably waiting for my next move, see 29

whether I'll call the police. They may be expecting me to send Williams out to take care of things, in which case I'd be here alone." "I'll tell you what," I said. "I'll stay here with you while big bad Williams goes out and does the dirty work. How's that sound?" "You're good, Jack, but you're not Williams." "Funny, but for some reason I take that as a compliment." "Are you afraid?" "Not yet." "Williams stays here. As I said, if Williams were to be caught, it would lead back to me. That's not something I can afford at this stage of my life." "And if I get caught? They'll think I killed him." "Your alibi is that I called you here to ask if you knew where my daughter was. I told you I thought she was on the boat. You went out there and found the body and decided to sink the boat and spare an old man the trouble of bringing the police into it. They'll dig the bullets out, but they won't match with any gun you own. We won't mention the film, of course. That would give you too much of a motive." "So who killed him, then? That's the kind of question the police tend to ask." "A man in Matson's business makes plenty of enemies. The Russian mob has moved into the smut business in a big way. Matson ran afoul of them. I know a lot of judges, and I'll get you a good Jewish lawyer. You have no record, and you used to be a cop. On top of that, I'll double your fee." "How do you know I can even drive a boat like that?" I asked. The Colonel smiled. "Let's not be obtuse, all right? You know damned well I had you checked out long before you showed up here. You used to work for Captain Tony, right? Taught you everything he knew about repossessing boats. 30

You have a captain's license--expired, but I'll overlook that, considering the circumstances. You and he even got shot at a few times. Once, down in Veracruz, you even got locked up for a few days. It seems the Mexicans thought you two were thieves." "Coming from them, that was pretty hard to take." He was talking about the time Captain Tony and I had been asked to return a thirty-foot sailboat that belonged to a stockbroker whose numbers had gone bad. The broker had sailed down to Acapulco to get away from it all, but he hadn't gone far enough. Now he was in a prison up in central Florida, doing time for insider trading. After the FBI caught up with him, the Mexicans wanted to keep his boat. The bank had disagreed with that and called in Captain Tony. It was good money, but we had almost gotten killed. "I understand you have a kayak," the Colonel said. "That's right. So?" "You'll need it to get back once the boat sinks." "I'd have to take that boat out at least five or six miles, into the Gulf Stream. That's a long way out." "You're making excuses, Jack. We're wasting time on all this. Are you going to do it or not?" "The thought of jail fails to intrigue me, Andrew." "I don't see why. You'd be able to lift weights all day long. Now, look: We can bullshit here all day, Jack. Yes or no?" I looked across the table at him and shook my head. I stood up. The Colonel seemed crestfallen, deserted, as though his best hope had left him. All I wanted to do was get out of there, away from all of them, but the look on the Colonel's face ate into my resolve. "You don't expect me to believe the blackmail story, do you?" I asked. "And don't give me that crap about your friends getting the video. First of all, you don't have any friends, and second of all, if you did, you wouldn't give a rat's ass what 31

they thought. Besides that, nobody who knows Vivian thinks she's been in a convent the past ten years, so why don't you tell me why she really shot Matson?" The Colonel looked me over carefully and nodded ap- provingly. "You're a good man," he said. "I'm sure if you hadn't shot that other officer, you'd be a detective by now. You're right, the smut wasn't the only reason, but it's the only one I'm prepared to provide you with right now--that and a hundred thousand dollars." "Where's Vivian?" I said. "Maybe she'll tell me what's going on here." "I don't know where she is." "I hate calling you a liar twice in the same day, Colonel, but I'm kind of getting used to it. Save your money for your daughter's lawyers. By the time they're through, a hundred grand won't even pay their bar bills." I stood up. The Colonel gazed at me and shook his head slowly. Then he stood and, despite the fact that it was not his habit, extended his hand. The gesture caught me off guard. "Sorry I brought you out here, old friend. No hard feel- ings," the Colonel said. He wore the faint smile of a man who is trying hard to be brave. "What will you do now?" "That's no longer your concern." I thought for a moment. Something he'd said earlier was bugging me, and I'd almost forgotten it. "You mentioned that Vivian had stolen some of your re- search," I said. "Supposedly for Matson. He used the film for leverage, is that it?" "Yes, that's right." "What would Matson want with your work? The closest he ever came to chemistry was working behind the bar at Monty's." 32

"Good-bye, Jack. It was nice of you to come. I hope I haven't wasted too much of your time." Suddenly I was the one who wanted to protest. My cu- riosity was winning out over my common sense. I wanted to know more, but I knew damned well I should get out of there. The trouble fuse had been lit, and it was just a matter of time before the whole thing blew. I knew it, and yet it still took considerable effort to walk away. "So long, Colonel," I said, forcing the hollow words out. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you out." "I was a fool to think you would." I started to say something, but he had already turned his back and was staring out at the yacht. I watched it with him a moment. Then I turned and walked toward the house and left him sitting there with the sunlight, the yacht, the bottle of scotch, a lot of money, and no way around the fact that he had a daughter who would probably have to go to jail. I was walking away from a lot of trouble, and I knew it. I only wished that doing it were easier than it felt. Williams was outside standing by my car when I came out. The sun was in my face, and I lowered my shades. "I told him you wouldn't do it," he said. I went around to the driver's side and unlocked the door without answering him. He took one step and placed his hand against the window. "You're a piece of shit, mister. Don't let anybody tell you different," he told me. "You better have your blood pressure checked, Williams," I said. "You're about to explode. Now, get your hand off my car." I pulled the door open, and he stepped away, watching me. I got in and started the engine. It was so hot I had to im- mediately roll down the windows. "Look," I said to him through the open window, "you know I used to be a cop, right? So listen to me: Have her go to the police. It'll be loud and it'll be messy, but eventually 33

it'll be over. That's the best advice I can offer you." "There's a lot you don't know. The old man's in trouble." "He's not the only one," I said. I gave him a salute and hit the gas. As I drove away, I saw Williams standing in the center of the driveway still watching me, getting smaller and smaller as I approached the gate. Like me, I'm sure he sensed that there was something left unfinished between us. I just didn't know what it was. One thing I did know was that I didn't owe the Colonel anything. I didn't owe Vivian anything, and for sure I didn't owe Williams anything, but the feeling of incompleteness remained, made me restless. I turned on the radio and began working the dial east and west, wandering through the songs. Nothing sounded good. I listened to the rich baritone voice of a Baptist minister, but his words on the nature of sin and salvation drifted past me like birds finding no place to land. On a channel far to the left, a woman talked at great length on the many benefits of tofu and other soy products. Around the dial again and Howard Stern was interviewing a man who had become a woman and a woman who had become a man. After a while I turned off the radio and listened to nothing, and I liked that a lot better. It was one of those days when the only thing that makes any sense is silence. I drove south on Biscayne Boulevard until I reached the Kennedy Causeway up on Seventy-ninth Street, then turned east toward the beach, my usual route, past the crab place and Mike Gordon's with its big steaks and redwood wait- resses. Two years on Miami Beach and the sight of a pelican still made me stare like a tourist. The wingspread of a ptero- dactyl; the focused, unblinking eye; the steady flight and the sword thrust of its long, gray beak into the bay. Then I was on the main bridge with Biscayne Bay flashing north and south, the sailboats placid and going nowhere. In a place like Miami, there is always the ongoing battle 34

between the paradise visions of the past and the nightmare prophecies of the future. Depending on where you were at the time, it could be hard to tell which was winning, but today my windows were open and the sky was endless in all directions, and it seemed to me that paradise, my paradise, still had a few more good years left in her. New York was another life, crowded with memories, like a love affair that had been good while it lasted but you wouldn't want back again, even if it could somehow be arranged. I had come to think of my life here as the "Miami Years," both words capitalized and in quotes, like the heading of a chapter in a memoir I would probably never write. After the troubles in New York, I had headed for Miami because of Gus Santorino, an old cop who had broken me in on the force and then taken his savings south and opened a night- club on the beach just as the party crowd began crowding the old folks out of "God's Waiting Room," as the beach used to be called. Come on down, Gus said, and so I did. So too began "The Uncertain Years." Gus made me chief of security, but I was really just the king of the bouncers, battling with machos at three o'clock in the morning, and wearing a black bow tie and a tuxedo shirt that more often than not ended up with blood on the sleeves by the end of the night. The violence was part of the music, and it came in waves, rising through the pulse of the dancers like a tsunami. Someone would be given the old heave-ho, and the dancing would go on. The broken glass would be swept away, and the hips of the Cuban girls would start swaying again on the dance floor. Endless free drinks from the bartenders who watched my back and who never stole enough from Gus to get themselves fired. That, too, had been another life. I avoided the cocaine that was everywhere at the time, but I drank too much. Then one night I got into a footrace with a purse snatcher outside the club and wound up doubled over, 35

out of breath, out of shape, and sucking wind big time. That was something I couldn't tolerate. I found a gym owned by an old-timer named Cal (a friend of Gus's) a few blocks from where I lived and slowly started on the road back. I lifted weights and I ran. I took kickboxing classes and yoga. My social life was a series of workouts. I trained alone and didn't make any friends, and then one day when I was on the treadmill, I noticed Cal looking at me from where he sat behind the counter selling memberships and protein shakes. Our eyes met, and the old man nodded. Then he offered me a job. And so the segue from cop to bouncer to personal trainer was complete, and I became a gym rat for hire. I took a test and got a certificate, and Cal set me loose on the clientele, but I knew what I was doing. The biggest problem was the amount of talking required, and I was not in a talking frame of mind back then, but there was no way around it. Clients, especially the women, expected you to talk, but, being a cop, I was a lot better at listening. It got so that I became some kind of damned hairdresser or psychologist. I could write a book with the stories I heard. If you ever want confirma- tion that most of the people in the world are crazy, then my advice is to set up shop as a personal trainer. Fifty bucks an hour minus the split with Gus, and a new nut every hour. It was an unexpected life, and there were many times when I felt that it was the wrong life. Not a bad life, mind you, just a sidebar to the main story, the threads of which I had some- how lost. A year turned into two years. I made money, but that didn't help relieve the feeling that somewhere out there my "real" life was waiting for me to come and live it. I was wrong about that, of course. There is no other life besides the one you're living in the here and now. To think otherwise is just another brand of self-pity, and remember: The speed bumps are there for a reason, and it's not the one you think. 36

More than once I found myself on the verge of becoming a police officer again. Even Gus and Cal thought it was a good idea. As trainers went, I was good, very good. I spent a lot of time in the library studying exercise physiology, nutri- tion. There was a lot to know. I even thought of going back to school to get a degree, but my heart just wasn't in it. Finally I gave in and took the cop test for the city of Miami, but when they called me down for an interview, I decided not to show. The truth is, I just couldn't see myself in a uniform again. Then one day in the spring of '99, Cal calls me into his office, and sitting across from him is this beautiful, black- haired Asian woman--about twenty-five or so--whom I had never seen before. She had a bold look in her eye, I'll tell you that much. She stood up and offered me her hand, and suddenly I was facing a lot of leg. She was wearing a pair of white shorts that in Kansas City would have been scandalous. Fortunately, however, my brothers and sisters, we were not in Kansas City. Down here those little white shorts made perfect sense. Like a pith helmet on the banks of the Zambezi River. They were even a bit on the conserva- tive side--not by much, though. "Vivian Patterson," she said. "You must be Jack Vaughn. Cal was just telling me about you." The vibe that came off of her was different from her appearance. That happens with the beautiful sometimes. You're so busy looking at them that you don't see them. You miss the extra glint in their eyes, that extra burst of life and the gift of mystery some people have. She had it. The legs had thrown me off for a moment, but that was understandable. Impeccable manners and the voice were not what I would have expected. Another surprise to sweep away the veil of her appearance. She could have passed for a Valley Girl, but the accent had a trace of England mixed with something else that brought it home again. 37