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Obvious signs of a struggle on the Larson E: bloodstains on the deck, along with broken bottles and empty shotgun shells. But somehow, the destruction doesn’t live up to Bagley’s story. The boat isn’t riddled with bullet holes like I expected. I only see two holes, and they’re directly to the right of the steering wheel, about head high. Two large clean holes and that’s it.
Down below, several live shotgun slugs and two shotguns lay on the bed of the larger stateroom. The bed my wife and I slept in not too long ago. The green Hawaiian shirt Steve Schmidt was wearing when we first arrived in the Keys hangs from a hook on the wall.
Tears well up behind my eyes and I fight them back down. I jam three slugs in the Browning semi-auto and set it back down on the bed. I suck in deep breath after deep breath and go back topside. Shakily, I push the button; tear off the seat cushions and stare, fascinated, as the panel slides back. A thin metal door above the “Emergency” tank is easily unlatched and lifted up to reveal a green North Face backpack lying high and dry on a mesh tray fastened to the sides of the tank. I crouch down and grab the two aluminum rods on the pack and lift. A hundred pounds comes up as easy as squeezing a pimple. Adrenaline works wonders. I throw the pack on the deck and stare at it, my heart ripping like a marching band at the homecoming parade. At my feet is a quarter million worth of coke, wholesale. By the time the last line has been snorted, smoked, or injected, well over a million dollars will have been generated.
Lordy mama, my ship has come in.
Then my body starts doing the convulsion boogie and a wave of outright terror washes through me. I jump back to my feet and go down below deck, grab the shotgun, push off the safety and touch off a load by the side of the bed. Water rushes in and my ears ring. I go back topside, a three-alarm fire in my head. I heft the pack and start down the ladder towards the dark sea. My foot slips on a wet rung and I go crashing down, landing on my shoulder in the raft. The thing damn near tips over but somehow doesn’t. I pull off the pack and laugh hysterically before climbing back up the ladder. I lock the rudder with the improvised loop of rope and start the engine. Before pulling the anchor, I retrieve the Browning and throw it in the dinghy. There’s already two inches of water in the cabin.
The engine murmurs softly. I pull up the anchor, put the boat in gear and quickly go down the ladder and flop into the raft on my stomach. I untie, and the Larson E glides slowly into the darkness.
The grin is still on my face as I come ashore but I quickly turn grim at the prospect of facing Bagley. He catches sight of the pack on my back and can’t suppress a smile of his own and I hate him for it. Me, who was balls out crazy a minute ago, laughing like a fool—and I hate him for just smiling. These are strange times indeed.
There is a little bee buzzing around inside my head now telling me something is not quite right. I can’t shake the feeling. There’s more to this situation than meets the eye or the ear, but I don’t know exactly what. Considering that I’m dealing with Dan Bagley, why should that come as a surprise?
I throw the pack down at Bagley’s feet. “There’s your guilt powder, Dan. You happy now?” I look up and down the beach and see nothing but darkness. Driving rain the only sound. “I suppose we should get going,” I say, staring hard at Bagley as he struggles to his feet. Now I’m almost positive those marks on his face are scratches. Metallic sounding words begin to tumble out of my mouth: “Those look like scratches on your face, Dan? Were those woman pirates?”
“W-w-what do you mean, Keith?” he says with a grimace.
“I was out to the boat, Dan; I saw the damage. I only saw two holes in the boat and they looked like shotgun slug holes. And, it also looks like they went out through the front of the cabin, which means they had to be from pretty close range. Those guys weren’t very good shots, I guess.”
“They were kids—teenagers—they had a double-barreled shotgun. They shot at Schmidty while he was at the wheel and when he ran down to get our guns and I had to fend them off. My god—they rammed us—and two of them were trying to get on board. Fuckin’ Jamaicans. I was fighting them off and they were scratching at me trying to climb on board. Then Schmidt comes back up with the twelve-gauge and blows one of the pricks away. Puts a hole right in the asshole’s goddamn chest. The other guy goes scrambling into the water and Schmidt could have killed him, too—but he held back. He was standing there watching, letting the nigger escape, when a third one pops up from nowhere and lets go with both barrels. One of the slugs catches Schmidty in the chest and he goes down. He’s on the deck and he grabs the flare gun and shoots. Must have hit the gas tank or something on their scow because the whole thing went up. It was gorgeous.”
“That’s heavy, man. Schmidt went down fighting....”
“He saved our bacon.”
”At least your bacon. But your wounds don’t look very deep. What kind of knives did those guys have?”
“Christ, I don’t know. Everything happened too fast.”
“You gonna be okay?”
“I’m feeling weak. I need to rest.”
“I thought you said the pirates came back again, at night.”
“I m-m-meant they planned to come back at night. That is the usual modus operandi on the high seas. Th-Th-That’s what they would’ve done, I meant, if Steve hadn’t toasted them. I was shaken up from the ordeal. Waited all night for more of them to come along—but no one did. I ran without the lights until dawn and when the sun came up, there was nobody around. And, luckily, for us—no Coast Guard or narc boats. Now don’t you think it’s time to get a move on? You need to focus.”
“I thought you needed to rest. So tell me what happened to Steve after he shot the flare?”
“He died a few hours later. I watched him die. There was nothing I could do to stop the bleeding.”
“How did you know he was dead?”
“You can tell, Keith, when you see it firsthand.” A hint of superiority in his voice now: “He had no heartbeat and there was blood all over him. He wasn’t breathing. Pr-Pr-Pretty good signs that the p-p-poor bastard was dead. And what’s with all the questions? Y-y-you’re not letting y-your imagination run away with you, are you?”
“Fuck you. What happened to Steve’s body?”
“I had to bury him at sea.”
“I’m sure you said some words.”
“I did.”
“I won’t ask what they were. I don’t know if I could take it. One thing, though, the only blood I saw on deck was by the helm, underneath the wheel.”
“We ran through a hard rain. Like now—tis the season.”
“There was also blood by the rail, near the tiller—I wonder why that didn’t wash off.”
“Tiller, that’s a good nautical word. You’re picking up on this sailing stuff, Keith—someday we can go for a sail, you and I. But don’t you think we should get along down the road—as in highway?”
“Yeah, I suppose. But first I have to get something.”
I go back to the dinghy and come back with the Browning cradled in my arms. Bagley is sitting in the sand, tension creasing his forehead.
“You brought the twelve-gauge along?” he says, a confused look crossing his face. “Good thought—but I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring it in the van. Just one more thing for a cop to spot if we get stopped for anything.”
“You’re probably right, Dan, but I’m not bringing it to the van. It’s for use here, right now.” I push off the safety and point the big black barrel at Bagley’s reddening face. He begins to resemble a jack-o-lantern, yellow glow and all. “First, Dan, we are going to sit here together and continue our little chat, like the old buddies that we are.”
“Very funny. Now cut the shit and let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Not before you answer some questions. And believe me, I’m serious. If I’m smirking, it’s because it’s funny to see you there on the ground—with a loaded shotgun in your face—and you’re still giving orders like a fat little general in some third-world shithole. I guess you really can’t help yourself. But, first and foremost, I want one thing understood. If I’m going to assist you in the odious task of cocaine distribution—well, uh—let’s just say that I won’t do it if I don’t feel comfortable. And right now, I don’t feel comfortable.”
“If you’re too scared, Keith, drive me out to the road and you can walk away. Nobody has to know that you were ever here. I’ll send you some scratch when I get back to civilization. Just help me get to the road, please.”
“I’m afraid that won’t work for me, Daniel—for many reasons. Not the least of which is that I don’t trust you. Don’t trust you now and never have. I mean, for Christ sake, Dan, I haven’t forgotten what a rip-off you are. Nobody I know ever trusted you. Whether it was with their girl or their money or anything. I don’t know how it is you manage to use everyone to the max like you do, all the while prancing around like some kind of fuckin’ diva, but the real funny thing is that I always stood up for you, believe it or not. I’m probably the only guy in the world ever had anything good to say about you at all. And what did that get me? A load of horseshit. Did you forget we’ve done business together before, buddy? I know what an asshole you can be, remember? I’ve taken the brunt of your condescension and your arrogance. Arrogance and ignorance—your two strong points. I guess I’m the ultimate sucker.”
“Are you serious? That’s what you’re so upset about? If I promise to be a nice guy will you point that shotgun away?”
“Shut the fuck up and listen to me. Something seems terribly wrong here. I don’t believe your shit. Bile is rising up. My gut won’t accept the scene you’ve painted.”
“I think you’ve finally gone off the deep end, Keith. Better give me the shotgun before somebody gets hurt.”
“I went off the deep end a long time ago, Dan. That’s why I wouldn’t hesitate to pull this trigger and end your nasty little life. I’m sick of being shoved around by people like you.”
“People like me? You mean someone who’s made something of his life?”
“That must be it. Must be my frustration over a lack of status in mainstream society. But we’re straying from the heart of matters. I need to know more about this alleged pirate attack. I remember you telling Steve back in Key West that this deal was going to be your people all the way. You had some guy from Colorado, a high roller from Aspen or something, coming in to run things. I do remember you saying that. So how did the infallible Bagley go so terribly wrong, I want to know?”
He looks down at the sand and takes on a more humble tone: “There was trouble from the beginning—as soon as we landed in Jamaica. First thing we noticed was the narcs—they were everywhere. Dressed in three-piece suits and hanging with the businessmen. Wearing shorts and sailing. Drinking in the bars with the tourists... All the hotels were booked up because there were so many narcs on the island. Uncle Sam is spending big bucks to winter these guys. I should’ve become a narc.”
“Get on with the fuckin’ story,” I say, as the rain lessens a little. His eyes get wider as I shake the gun barrel in his face. “We haven’t got all night, Dan,” I back up and sit down at the edge of the light, resting the shotgun on my lap.
“You need to calm down, Keith. How about we continue this discussion while we’re driving out of here? Come on, you and I are old friends. God, man, we go all the way back to high school. I’m not going to screw you around.”
“Right here will be fine, thank you. I’ve grown quite fond of this place. Been waiting here so long it’s beginning to seem like home, especially now that I don’t have a home anymore.” I lift the twelve-gauge with one hand and point it at his chest. “You can talk now.”
“Well, all right,” he says and exhales an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. “Our connection never showed up. We waited two days for him to show but he never did. We called his house and his wife answered and she starts crying as soon as she hears my voice. Turns out our man got popped about a week before he was supposed to leave to meet us. I guess we were lucky the feds got to him before he led them to us. And that’s why we were late getting out of port.”
“No shit. What’d you do then?”
“Schmidt started hustling. Talking to the natives and working the streets until he found somebody who could handle our requests.”
“You did this in spite of all the narcs around?”
“I was against it, believe me. I was ready to turn around and come back to Florida and see what we could find. But Schmidty wouldn’t have any of that. And sure enough, to my great surprise, he comes around with two Rastas in tow—cow shit in the dreadlocks and the whole bit—stunk like pigs. But these guys had some of the highest quality blow I’ve ever seen, at incredible prices.”
“I thought Rastas were into weed.”
“These guys had weed, too, but it was nothing special. Ordinary brown buds. Didn’t even smell that good. That’s why we did the coke. The price was so good we were able to get a lot more than we initially intended. They probably ripped off the dope from someone else—the reason for the good price. They had to be the ones that set us up.”
“The guys who sold it to you were the ones who tried to rip you off?”
“They weren’t the same guys, Keith, but they were Rasta punks. And it just makes sense they were connected to the other two. How else would they know about us?”
“You’d think guys with that much money would have better weapons than just one double barrel shotgun. You’d think those dudes would have Uzis and AK-47’s, shit like that.”
“So maybe our pirates were just lucky, at the right place at the right time. Could be... hard to say. Maybe they patrol the area looking for lonely sailors, I don’t know. All I know is they attacked us and we fought them off and Schmidt is dead. Now can we get out of here?”
“I don’t think so. You need to hear my little theory. I don’t believe there were any pirates. I—”
“What? You’re shitting me, right? Or are you the one trying to rip me off?” He rises slowly and I level the shotgun at his gut.
“Just sit the fuck down and listen, Daniel, before this thing goes off. What I believe is that you were the only one who shot at anybody on that boat. I think you got greedy and tried to blow Schmidt away while he was at the steering wheel. That explains the two holes and the blood by the wheel. Then you shot him again and he fell down on the deck. You thought it would be easy to throw a wounded man in the drink, but Schmidty fought you, scratched at your face as you tried to send him to the sharks. He got his hand on a Beck’s bottle and broke it on your head and stabbed you around the neck a few times. That explains the broken beer bottle on the boat and the weird little wounds on your neck. So then you struggled free and finished him off. That’s what I think. I still haven’t figured out what the dent in the hull was caused by, but I will. Just give me time.”
“You’ve really looned out this time, Keith. All that acid has come back to haunt you I’m afraid. Because that’s one of the biggest hallucinations I’ve ever heard. Come on, let’s act like men and stop this fantasy nonsense. That was a good fable—at least until the part about the dent. The dent in the boat proves my story is true. Now can we go?”
He’s grinning now—that condescending grin that I hate so much. I point the shotgun up at the black sky and squeeze the trigger. He jerks backward at the sound of the blast.
“Shit, man, you’re nuts,” he says. His voice is a whine. “Ease off, Keith, c’mon, man.”
“Sit the fuck down, asshole. I’m going to do you a favor.”
He sits down, shivering a little, a look of disbelief on his face.
“I’m going to save you from yourself, Bagley. Save you from a rude comeuppance in your old age. Prevent you from having to discover the awful truth about yourself after it’s too goddamn late.”
He cocks his head up at me. A sniveling sneer feathers across his lips.
I keep after him: “I get the distinct impression you think you can do anything you want—without paying the price. Karma means nothing to you. Maybe nothing means anything to you. All you care about is the gold, come whatever or whomever you have to shit on. So fuck you. I almost feel bad that I’m going to save you from growing old and realizing what a greedy, slimy piece of shit you are. But the fact is, I’m not at all sure about karma, myself. I can’t be sure that you’ll suffer enough to compensate for your trespasses. So I’m going to end it all for you, right here, right now.”
I put the stock of the gun to my shoulder and point the barrel at his head. He puts his hands in front of his face and rolls up in a ball.
“Don’t shoot. Cut it out. Please, Keith, this is nuts.”
I move closer to his fetal-positioned body. He’s crying now: “Come on, Keith. You can’t be serious. You’ll never be able to sell all that coke without my help.” Tears roll down his face and it smells like he shit himself.
I tighten the pressure on the trigger.
“I’m gonna throw that garbage into the fuckin’ ocean,” I shout. “Get some sharks wired so they can take out a few more tourists.”
“You’re insane. Please, give me a break. I—”
I squeeze the trigger.
CLICK.
The metallic sound seems to echo through the rain.
I turn and throw the shotgun to the sand, suppressing a chuckle. “I’ll go get the van now,” I say, and head up the beach, leaving shit boy and his backpack behind.
He is stammering something at me as he sits up in the sand in his soiled khaki L.L. Bean deck pants. The rain drowns out the words as I chug along. About fifty yards down the beach a grin spreads over my face. It turns into a nervous laugh.