“Don’s a good man,” Mike said. “But I’m here about the Late.”
“Tied up on D-43,” Sol said. “Don’s used that for a few charters, too. I’ve made sure it’s up. Just put in a new fuel injection system, bottom’s recently painted. You got the bill.”
“I’m sure,” Mike said, smiling. “I spend most of my time lately signing checks.”
“Hey, where were you for that nuke that went off?” Sol asked. “You remember, about a week or so after you left? And where’d those two chicks with you go?”
“Uh, they caught a ride home,” Mike said. “You know boat bunnies. And I was… Hell, Abacos I think. Yeah. Abacos. That day. I got the news a few days later in Nassau.”
“Okay,” Sol said, nodding slowly. “Just asking. ’Cause, you know the newsies. They get everything wrong. There was one news report said that the FAST that was supposed to have been the ones that found it got there… too late. That it was actually a one-man operation, a CIA agent. And the fucking terrorists were using cigarettes. Then, well, there’s this cigarette turns up, two more DEA guys, by the way, say that it belongs to my old SEAL buddy. And guess what its name is? Too Late.”
“Coincidences are hell, aren’t they?” Mike said. “But unfortunately, we’ve got a date to make.”
“We?” Sol asked, looking out the window. “Another hottie. You go, dude.”
“Britney,” Mike said, walking outside. “This is Sol Shatalin. Great guy. Sol, Britney Harder.”
Shatalin didn’t comment on the name, he just nodded.
“Army?” he asked.
“I was,” Britney said, shrugging. “Just got out. Shows, huh?”
“Right, pull the other one,” Shatalin said, shaking his head. “MP or intel?”
“Intel,” Britney said, frowning.
Mike shrugged. “Sol’s got an eye.”
“Sollie’s got eyes, Sollie’s got ears, Sollie ain’t got a mouth,” Shatalin said, smiling. “I think Sollie’s even got a current TS, for that matter. Not that I give a shit down here. People want to run drugs, that’s their business.”
“A lot of people die because of those drugs,” Britney said, her face tight. “Not just cops and gang-bangers and innocents on the streets, here, but innocents in Colombia and Venezuela and all over South America. And American troops I might add.”
“Then legalize them,” Sol said, shrugging. “We’ve got enough problems as it is. In case you’ve got your nose stuck too far into the drug trade… Ensign.”
“Army, Sol, Army,” Mike chided.
“Sorry. Lieutenant,” Sol said. “I thought you didn’t give a rat about drugs, either, Mike. Shame on you.”
“Inside,” Mike said, gesturing with his chin.
“Okay, Sol, what do you hear?” Mike said. “Because, you’re right, I don’t. War on Drugs is stupid. Prohibition proved that. But this isn’t drugs. So… What do you hear?”
Sol went behind the counter and picked up the stub of a stogie and lit it slowly.
“What is it?” Sol asked when the foul thing was finally smoking up the room.
“That’s not for dissemination,” Britney snapped.
“Fuck you, LT,” Sol said, looking at Mike.
“Sol, first, Britney’s not a meat,” Mike said. “Yeah, she’s an LT. A cherry LT. But I knew her… Way back, Sollie, way back. I covered her back, she covered mine. So treat her with respect. And the answer is more fucking WMD. What type is not for dissemination. And, yeah, the Andros job? That was a one-man operation. Want to see the fucking spare assholes?”
The scars from bullet marks make a puckered spot on the skin. They look very much like a small anus.
“You sure about this?” Sol asked through the cloud of smoke.
“Very,” Mike said. “We don’t know how it’s coming in. But we’re very sure.”
“New boats,” Sol said. “Up in Tavernier Creek. Two of them. Scarabs. The kicker is… Well, usually when you see Middle Eastern types with those, it’s a Saudi prince or something. They’ve got a captain, in other words. What the fuck do most Ay-rabs know about fishing? These are a few guys staying at the Hampton Inn. Bought the boats from Hanson’s up in Largo. Cash. They only go out at night. Say that they like sword-fishing. Never have much luck, though. Like… none.”
“What’s a Scarab?” Britney asked. “Sorry.”
“Big two- or three-engine fast fishing boat.” Mike shook his head. “You don’t use a Scarab for night sword-fishing. They’re run and gun boats. They rock like a son of a bitch, there’s no amenities… If you’ve got that kind of money you get a yacht like mine. If you don’t… Hell, you get an older one or a supply boat. Something with a stand-up head, a galley, bunks.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Sol said, setting down the stogie. “And that’s all I’ve got. And you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Never,” Mike said. “But thanks. I guess I better go get the Late. See you ’round, Sol.”
“You too,” Sol said, pulling out a set of keys and handing them to Mike. “And keep your head down. You SEALs never learned the Navy rule about firefights.”
Britney followed Mike down through the docks until they got to the boat, then shook her head.
“How long has this just been sitting here?” she asked.
The Too Late was a recent model Cigarette. Although “Cigarette” had become so generic that, like Kleenex, it was used as a general term, it was also a brand. And in the case of the Too Late it was actually a Cigarette as opposed to one of the company’s many competitors. At only thirty-two feet long it was smaller than some of the newer speed boats but it was still a monster. Painted black and silver, it looked as if it was straining away from the dock, ready to run.
Most high-performance vehicles had their origins in smuggling: NASCAR was derived from bootleggers, and WWII PT boats were built by a company that had supplied booze smugglers during Prohibition. Cigarette boats were no exception. In the late 1940s the taxes on cigarettes, the things people smoked, were so extreme in Europe that it made it economically feasible to smuggle them. Fast boats crossed the Mediterranean from Algeria and Malta, dropping cigarette loads mostly on the Italian and French coast. Later, similar boats were used for the increasingly popular sport of offshore racing. But their origins remained in a moderate sized cabin forward. Originally designed for small, valuable cargo, in most modern boats it had been converted into underway quarters ranging from spartan to, in the case of Fountain high-speed boats, almost ridiculously luxurious.
“It hasn’t just been sitting,” Mike said, stepping off the dock onto the gunnel, then taking off his shoes. “A friend charters it sometimes. Shoes off when you board.”
“Why?” Britney asked, but she took her running shoes off, holding them in her hands as she boarded.
“They track up the deck,” Mike said, pointing to the spotless white interior. “Don Jackson’s a captain down here. Used to be in the tobacco trade, still dabbles in it. He’s got two or three boats himself but he also knows all the local captains. A lot of good guys don’t have the money for a boat. So he sort of brokers a group of them with guys who don’t use their boats all the time. Like, for example, me. He manages the upkeep, sets up charters and banks the money. Some of it goes to keeping up the boat. I think I’m actually in the hole on the deal, but you’d have to ask my accountant. Hell, I could be making money.”
Mike got the lines untied, the door to the front cabin unlocked and started the Cigarette, backing it out of the slot and turning to make his way out of the maze of the harbor. His previous slots, C-19 and C-20, had been right by the turning pool that led to the cut. D-43 was way back.