Key West Connection

So I lay and waited off Middle Sambo Reef, lay and waited in the slow roll of midnight sea over the reef, watching the dim white shape of the cocaine boat half a mile out.

I wanted no wet suit, needed no tanks. I wore my old black Navy watch sweater, dark-blue British commando pants, black watch cap. I checked my gear. It was all at ready; all in the waterproof knapsack I would carry on my back. The Randall knife was strapped to my calf, over my pants, and Colonel Westervelt’s ingenious jaws were clipped to my belt. I had the good Navy-issue mask, new Dacor TX-1000 Competition Class fins, curved open-water snorkel, and a camouflaged BC inflatable vest. Back on the little Boston Whaler was the AK-47, fully loaded this time. I hoped I wouldn’t need it.

In final preparation, I painted my face and hands with black grease from the olive-drab tube, and then set out on my swim. Good tropical night for a long swim. Soft, warm wind up out of Cuba, pale moon drifting among a billion icy stars. Orion the Hunter, Taurus the Bull. Starry entertainment for a thousand generations of humanity.

I could probably have rowed the Whaler to within a quarter mile of them without much chance of being seen. But tonight I was leaving nothing to chance. Nothing. I had notified the few live-aboards at the dock that I would be away for the night. Taking a little trip, I had said. Need to get away. Going to Miami, so keep an eye on the Sniper for me.

I took it slow and easy. The green glow of the Rolex watch told me that I had plenty of time. A cormorant took flight before me, paddling and splashing, struggling to be airborne. Something swirled and splashed a hundred feet or so to my right. Something big leaving a big wake.

It took me just over half an hour to get to the cocaine boat. An easy, slow swim, and I arrived not even out of breath. I swam around to the bow of the boat and hung on the thick anchor line which angled off into eighty feet of onyx sea. The boat was about fifty-five feet in length; common shrimp-trawler design. It smelled of diesel fuel and the sharp iodine odor of old shrimp. Name in black-flecked paint on the bow: Darlin’ Denise.

I swam quietly to the stern. I had to get closer. I pulled myself up on the deck. I did it so slowly, so carefully, that it must have taken me five minutes. I slid across the deck on my stomach. They were in the cabin, in the dark, talking softly. I lay with my face pressed close to the damp wooden deck, warm water dripping down my nose.

“So we blew up that red-headed actress bitch. Big deal man! It was a mistake—can’t you get that through your head? One less snobby dame on the earth, and it doesn’t bother me a bit. I hate her type, man.”

“That’s no shit, Stacey. Rich ’n’ famous little twat is what she was. I’m kinda glad we got her . . . Hey! Pass that rum this away once in a while.”

Soft laughter. It was all I could do to keep from barging into that cabin and killing them. Killing them slowly, making them suffer.

“I got ta carry your goddamn drugs, but I ain’t gotta listen to your filthy talk. I’m gonna take a walk around the deck. The stink of you three is getting’ to me.”

I got up on my knees, ready to move. But then there was the noise of a short scuffle, and: “Dammit, you old fool, you try that again and I’ll shoot you.”

“An’ who’s gonna pay off the Senator if you do? Huh? Oh, you won’t kill me. Not yet. You’ll wait until my debt’s paid off to that pompous bastard, and then you’ll kill me—but not until then. Why, if’n I was twenty years younger . . . ”

More laughter. More talk of great riches, more rum, flare of cigarette lighter, and I saw them. Three rough-looking men, ages between twenty-five and thirty. And the old man: stocking cap, white fishing boots, florid complexion. The biggest of the three roughs was the one with the loud mouth, the ringleader. Black wiry hair, hooked nose, skin scarred by acne.

When I heard the distant whine of the approaching pickup boat, I slid past the cabin, forward, and took good cover behind a pile of shrimp net. I was ready. Anxious. You only fear death when you have something left to live for. They had taken the four lives that I loved. And now, this fifth life, mine, was reserved for vengeance.

It was the racing boat. Cigarette design, dark-blue hull. I watched the two men climb out: the black guy, the white guy. I had them now. I had them all—except for Ellsworth. They still showed no lights. They, too, were taking no chances. They, too, were professionals.

The two new arrivals were greeted warmly by the other three. Like a reunion. Long time no see. Been gettin’ any? How’s that Campeche tail? Loud guffaws, lurid jokes. They went back into the cabin.

Dull thud of a heavy package being dropped upon a table. “There it is, boys. Sixty grand, cash. Split ’er up. Oh, and Pop—Ellsworth told me to tell you that the Senator made a small deduction from your cut. A ten-grand deduction.”

“Okay, let’s get the coke loaded and get outa here. You boys lay off shore for a couple of days. Work the nets some. Unload, go home, and then don’t show your faces around Cuda Key for another two weeks. We’ll be ready for another run by then.”

I didn’t wait to hear any more. I climbed over the shrimp net, scooted across the foredeck on my stomach, and crawled up onto the wheelhouse cabin, above them. I gave myself five minutes before I moved again. I wanted to be sure they hadn’t heard me.

Okay, I was ready. I pulled two smoke bombs out of the knapsack, pulled the fuses, and tossed them forward, into the shrimp net.

When they were all forward, I dropped down off the wheelhouse behind them and hurried into the cabin. My eyes were taking their time adjusting to the deeper darkness. My knee crashed into a table; I jerked around and cracked my elbow on a cupboard. But with so much noise forward, there was no danger of me being heard. Finally, I found the money. In a canvas satchel in the corner of one of the booth seats. The radio was where I expected to find it, over the wheel. I jerked it out, letting it crash on the cabin floor.

Quickly I got the glass bottle of gasoline out of my bag, checked the cloth wick. In one smooth motion, I pulled open the engine hatch, lit the wick, dropped the simple little firebomb therein, and jumped.

The stiletto-shaped racing boat was tethered off the stern. I cut the line with my Randall knife, then swam thirty or forty yards, pulling the sleek blue hull behind me. The trap was baited and set. I wanted them in the water. One by one, they would pay.

The fire was spreading now, blue flames roaring, eating up the old white-cypress shrimp boat. They fought it for a while: black silhouettes shimmering in reflection on the dark coral water.

But he tried anyway. I watched one of them disappear into the flames. I heard the scream, the pleas for help, the moans of a man on fire.

The first one to reach the racing boat was an excellent swimmer. Long, smooth strokes; good rhythm—the kind you see at country-club swim meets. He was the one who had called Janet a twat. He was the one who had been glad they had killed her. I released enough breath so that I was no longer buoyant. With an upward thrust of arms, I dove. Ten, maybe fifteen feet. I released air as I went, so that I would not have to fight to stay down. I could see him coming: black, thrashing figure in the moonlight. I saw what that big dusky shark had seen. And I planned what he had planned.

When he was right above me, almost within reach of the boat, I headed up. The jaws were cocked and ready. I had never tried them. D. Harold Westervelt had warned me not to try them out of water. He had said the tremendous snap might break my wrist. I kicked as hard as I could, and the big Dacor fins drove me upward. Faster and faster. Ten feet, five feet. And I hit him with such force that it knocked him out of the water; the awful jaws snapped through his ribs as if they were autumn twigs.

In shock, he began to swim around in pathetic little circles, spitting black liquid from his mouth and nose. As he sank away into the onyx water, I pulled the lever and the jaws opened again with a hydraulic hiss.

Two more of them were coming at me. The two from the racing boat—the black man and his white partner, the two who had been involved in Billy Mack’s murder. They came thrashing along, flailing away, neither of them a good swimmer.

I hit the white guy first. Shooting along three feet underwater, I crashed into him like a torpedo. The jaws snapped onto his thigh, and I had to brace my legs against his stomach to pull them free.

The black guy didn’t stick around to hear the details. He swam toward the powerboat in a horrific frenzy. I surfaced behind him, took several deep bites of the warm night air, and then dove again. He was halfway onto the boat when I hit him, the jaws crushing his leg, pulling him back down into the water. I felt the flesh rip away as I pulled the lever, readying for my fourth and final victim.

I watched. And waited. The thrashing had stopped, the moans disappearing beneath the dark water. Darlin’ Denise continued to burn, periodic explosions and the crack of small-arms ammunition syncopating the steady crackle of fire. In the yellow shimmer of light, I could see the old man, hands locked on a life ring, kicking his way toward the power boat.

The voice came from astern of the big shrimp boat. It was the man I was looking for: the ringleader. He was the big one, the careful one. The guy who had killed my wife and two sons and, only a few happy minutes before, had laughed as he called her an actress bitch.

“I don’t know what you’re gonna do, you yellow little punk, but I’m gonna try to make it to that there boat.”

So on he came, kicking away like a kid pushing a surfboard. Defiant old man who had somehow become indebted to some Senator; the Senator who owned Cuda Key and, apparently, was connected with Ellsworth and his drug ring. I had been hearing too much about that Senator lately. I would plan a meeting—but later.

When the old man was within twenty yards of me and the boat, I dove silently. I watched him pass overhead: splash of booted feet; moon shining through the round life ring. I swam on another twenty yards, surfacing close to the burning shrimp boat.

I could see the ringleader then. He sculled water, staying in one place, watching to see what would happen to Pop. And the old man got to the powerboat without incident, climbed up, and sort of shook himself like a dog.

“They can get ya as easy there as they can over here! God, must be awful to have one of them big buggers hit ya. Sorta chew away at your legs! You heard the way your friends screamed, didn’t ya? Well, didn’t ya, ya yellow punk?”

He started swimming. A slow, choppy crawl stroke, his head out of the water, turning this way and that, watching for the shark he knew was down there.

With my tongue, I pushed the snorkel out of my mouth. I grabbed him by the shirt collar—I wanted no thumb prints on his neck. “Remember that ‘actress bitch’ you were talking about, asshole? I was her husband. And the father of those two kids, too.”

I turned loose of his collar and slapped him a good one. “Shut up! I want you to hear this before you die. I killed your friends. And I’m going to keep on killing them until they’re all gone.”

The gun came up out of the water so fast that I didn’t even have time to think. A little automatic; the kind you see in British spy films. But before he even had a chance to level it, I had pulled a trigger of my own. The jaws took him from the front, waist high. His eyes flashed in wide horror, his mouth agape. I pulled the jaws off, and he tried to swim away. Then he stopped, choking, and doubled up as if trying to feel, to understand how badly he had been hurt. There was a perplexed look on his face.

I swam back toward the powerboat. The real sharks would be around by now. The big blue-water killers, the hungry ones brought in by all the blood and thrashing death.

“I don’t want to hear about it. All you have to remember is this: there was an explosion, a fire. Sharks came around, but you made it.” I dropped the bag of money at his feet. “Take this. It’ll get you most of a new boat. Tell them the money got burned up in the fire.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks. And I want you to believe me—I’ll never tell a soul. I swear to God. And that’s a vow I never break.”

“I would have killed you if I didn’t think I could trust you. Run me halfway back to Middle Sambo and drop me off, Pop. Then hide that money—not in your house.”

He looked back at the burning hulk of the shrimp boat. It was beginning to sink, hissing in its own golden reflection.

“Darlin’ Denise—named her after my late wife. You don’t have to worry, mister. That was all the home I had. By tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be gone from these Keys. I was sick of ’em anyway.”