3

A predawn fog rolled off the polluted water, obscuring the view of Chelsea and holding the composite stench of diesel fuel, rotting fish, and garbage close to the surface. Jimmy O’Leary walked along the pier while feeling his way along the wet planking. He hated boats almost as much as he did airplanes. If God wanted men to fly and sail, he thought, he would have given us wings and webbed feet. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah, boss, I’m sure,” Gordon Winter answered. “This guy got in and out without coughing up on his last trip. He unloaded and was out to sea before we knew it.” Winter saw the question on O’Leary’s face. “Yeah, we dealt with the foreman of the longshoreman crew. He won’t make that mistake again.”

“We cover the hospital bills?”

“They were mostly dental.” In many ways, O’Leary baffled Winter. He would have a man beaten and then cover his related medical bills. He knew better than to waste a lot of energy arguing over it; it was Jimmy O’Leary’s way—given the opportunity, he could be a benevolent dictator.

“I want to put an end to this, Gordon. I can’t have these idiots making stupid mistakes. It ain’t respectful.”

“Neither are we.”

“What?”

“Sorry, boss, I thought you said respectable.”

“There’s an old Chinese proverb, Gordon. Everybody likes a little ass, but nobody likes a smartass.”

They reached the end of the pier, and Winter stopped beside a small gangplank leading to a rusty-hulled tramp steamer. He heard O’Leary curse. “I hate the fucking docks—so goddamned damp you can’t even light a smoke.”

A shadow appeared at the top of the gangway. “What you want?” the voice was heavily accented—Slavic, O’Leary thought.

“We’re here to see your captain.”

“He know you’re coming?”

O’Leary’s stomach had had about all he could handle of the kelp and brine-laden foul air. He was sure he could smell every bit of offal, chemical waste, and dead body that had ever floated in the murky water of the Mystic River. “Listen, shit-for-brains. Get your ass inside that ship and tell your useless fucking captain that Jimmy O’Leary is here—and you better goddamned hurry up.”

The seaman darted away, and Winter smiled. “Boss, you got to learn to be patient.”

“I am patient—at least I’m as patient as I’m gonna be with this asshole.”

The shadowy figure reappeared at the head of the ladder and motioned them up.

“About fucking time,” O’Leary muttered. As he climbed the gangplank, he gripped the rope handrails so tight that he resembled an acrophobic walking on an icy tightrope. At the top, the vessel was no more impressive than it had been from below. Everything was in need of paint, and rust was evident in every corner. “Now I know where the expression tramp steamer comes from,” O’Leary said to Winter.

They followed a long narrow passageway and ascended several metal stairways until they were deep inside the bowels of the ship. The air was rank and smelled of diesel fuel and stale cigarette smoke. The passageways were so narrow that Winter’s broad shoulders barely cleared the walls as he walked.

“Ever been on a ship before?” O’Leary asked.

“A couple of times. Those ships were nothing like this though.”

“Bigger?”

“A bit, but mostly they were cleaner and better kept.”

The passageway ended in the galley, where the sole occupant sat at a table with a steaming mug in front of him. He wore a grimy captain’s hat and a white T-shirt with black grease and oil stains on it.

“Not exactly a slave to fashion, is he?” Jimmy said.

“Yeah, but you got to admit, the grungy hat goes well with the grubby T-shirt.”

The man glared at them and inhaled, illuminating the tip of the cigarette that dangled from his lips.

“Must be European registry,” Winter remarked. “If it were American, there’d be a smoking ban.”

“Well, that’s one thing in its favor.”

The seaman stepped aside and pointed to the man at the table. “Captain Gorky.”

“Must have named him after the park,” Winter commented.

“What park is that?” O’Leary asked.

“Gorky Park. Like the book.”

“What book?”

“Forget it, boss. I doubt you read it.”

“Remember what I said about wise asses, Gordon?”

“How could I ever forget such words of wisdom?”

O’Leary chuckled. “I saw the movie.”

“Gorky Park?”

“No, Central fucking Park—of course it was Gorky Park. I’m not ignorant. It starred that guy that screwed Kathleen Turner in the movie where they killed her husband and then she framed the idiot for it.” O’Leary shook his head. “Guy was one dumb shit to let a broad set him up that way.”

Winter had no clue who or what his boss was alluding to but knew better than to pursue the subject. He followed O’Leary and crossed the room to the captain’s table.

O’Leary pulled out a chair across from the captain, sat down, and lit a cigarette. “Captain Yuri Gorky, how was the voyage?”

“Was . . . how you Americans say . . . a piece of cake?”

“Well, we got a bit of a problem. Seems last time in you didn’t follow the rules.”

The captain glared at O’Leary through a cloud of heavy cigarette smoke. “Maybe I don’t like rules.”

“Maybe I need to have ol’ Gordon here teach you the consequences of fucking with me.”

Gorky’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious to O’Leary that he did not like anyone threatening him, especially on board his own ship. However, Gorky was not foolish enough to voice his outrage. Gorky had most likely dealt with people like him in most of the ports around the world.

On the other hand, O’Leary knew that if he allowed one ship to unload without paying the fees, they would all stop paying. Control of the wharves was a significant moneymaking proposition, and O’Leary would do whatever he deemed necessary to ensure he didn’t lose it.

As soon as he sensed the sea captain’s hostility and arrogance, O’Leary nodded at Winter, who circled the table and stood behind Captain Gorky.

“Say the word, boss.”

O’Leary held up a hand, signaling him to stop. “I don’t think our friend Yuri will be a problem in the future. Am I right, Yuri?”

The sailor did not miss Winter’s threat and smiled. “Jimmy, mistakes happen, no?”

“Not anymore they won’t.”

The captain nodded toward the galley’s door, and in walked a seaman holding a revolver in his right hand and carrying a briefcase in his left. Gorky smiled at O’Leary. “Maybe you don’t leave my ship alive?”

Winter pressed the muzzle of his 9 mm pistol against Gorky’s neck. “Maybe when we leave your ship you ain’t alive,” he said. His voice was unemotional, which made the threat seem more real.

Gorky laughed. He motioned for the crewmember to put his handgun away. When the revolver disappeared, Winter removed the semi-automatic from Gorky’s neck.

O’Leary saw sweat on Gorky’s brow and knew he had won this battle. He swiveled around in his seat and said, “That case better have my money in it.”

The seaman placed the briefcase on the table and stepped back.

O’Leary looked over his shoulder and stared at the goon. “Move out of my fucking space. Other than Gordon, I don’t like people behind me.”

Gorky motioned again, and O’Leary kept his eyes fixed on the captain’s, listening to the sound of the sailor walking away. He sat still until he heard the metal door slam. He nodded to Winter, who stepped to the side so that he was in Gorky’s line of sight.

“You can count it if you would like,” Gorky said.

“No need for that. But just to be sure there are no little surprises in that case, open it.”

Once again, Gorky laughed. “Jimmy, Jimmy, you show so little faith.”

“That’s why I’m still alive—open it. If that fucking thing is rigged and I go, you’re coming with me.”

Gorky opened the briefcase and turned it so O’Leary could see it contained money. If there was anything else in the briefcase, it was under the cash. Winter removed a pack of bills and riffled through each one, ensuring the stacks were not all one dollar bills with a single hundred on top to mislead them.

O’Leary tossed a cloth laundry sack on the table. “Put the money in this. I wouldn’t want to take such a fine briefcase.” Gorky laughed again and did as asked. As Winter had, Gorky flipped the end of each stack so Jimmy could see there was no filler in them before placing them in the sack. When he finished transferring the cash, he slid the sack across the table.

“I like doing business with a cautious man,” Gorky said.

“Like I said, it keeps me alive.”

“Would you like to see the cargo?”

“Sure, why not.”

Gorky stood and motioned for O’Leary to precede him. O’Leary smiled and deferred.

“Always the careful man.” Gorky laughed again.

“Yuri, you laugh too fucking much. It makes me wonder what you’re planning.”

“Jimmy, think how dreadful life would be if we could not laugh.”

Winter picked up the sack, and they followed Gorky out of the galley. They descended more metal stairs, working their way deeper into the bowels of the ship, where they again followed a series of passageways so narrow that Winter’s shoulders brushed the walls.

O’Leary soon lost his sense of where they were. He knew it would take him hours to find his way out of the labyrinth. He looked at Winter, who sensed his boss’s unease and smiled back. “Don’t worry, boss. I’ll get us out of here,” he said.

Gorky led them past several small doors with bars in the windows.

O’Leary glanced into one and saw several soiled mattresses and nothing else. “Who uses these?” he asked.

Gorky stammered when he answered, “W-we also carry passengers occasionally.”

“It doesn’t seem very luxurious to me.” O’Leary was skeptical. Why would anyone pay for such a crappy room?

“This is a freighter,” Gorky said, “not a luxury liner.”

“Must be a cheap ticket,” O’Leary commented as he walked away from the tiny cell.

They came to a small door and Gorky opened it, stepping through in front of O’Leary.

“What’s your cargo?”

“This trip I carry bananas and fruit from Mexico.”

O’Leary cast a wary glance at the hold full of hanging bundles of yellow-green fruit. “Wonderful. There’s probably a million spiders and shit in here.”

“It’s not so bad. Although from time to time we do see tarantulas. . . .”

“Gordon, if a goddamned hairy spider comes for me, kill it. Then kill Yuri for keeping such a filthy ship.” O’Leary turned to Gorky. “We’ll have a crew here first thing in the morning to off-load.”

_________________

Jimmy O’Leary and Gordon Winter walked across the parking lot. “Something ain’t right on that boat,” O’Leary said.

“He’s carrying more than fruit,” Winter replied.

“Do those compartments have you wondering, too?”

“If that Russian prick is carrying passengers,” Winter said, “they ain’t willing ones. Those rooms looked more like jail cells than passenger berths. I wouldn’t put it past these slimy bastards to be smuggling in women.”

“That’s quite a leap, Gord.”

“Maybe not. There’s been talk of Konovalov bringing in women from Eastern Europe and Russia. The sons of bitches promise them jobs and a better life. Of course, they got to pay off their passage first.”

O’Leary stared back at the rusty hull of the tramp freighter. “Whatever it is, it’s a hell of a lot more profitable than South American bananas. Find out who his broker is. Before I accuse the sonuvabitch of trafficking in white slaves, I want some answers.” O’Leary spat and gave the ship another hard look.

“Don’t hold back, boss,” Winter quipped. “Tell us how you really feel.”

O’Leary spun on Winter—something he rarely did. “Forcing young women and kids to be whores ain’t a jokin’ matter, Gord.”

Winter realized that he’d crossed the line. Jimmy O’Leary had been known to kill pedophiles without reservation. It was not a subject that he took lightly. “Sorry, boss.”