One of the photos showed a close-up of Yosemite Sam’s face, and I noticed that a wide scar cut through his left eyebrow and the two halves of the eyebrow didn’t align quite right. Whoever had stitched him up had left him with a zigzag look. His nose had been broken as well, and the skin of his face was deeply pockmarked, probably from acne.
I slid the photos into my shoulder bag with the idea that, at some point in the day, I would head over to Mike’s and ask him what he knew about his buddy Joe. Then I dug around in my bag for the Post-it that Collazo had given me with the name of the Haitian translator. The number was for the radio station where the police translator, Martine Gohin, worked. When I dialed it, an answering machine picked up. I left a message explaining to Ms. Gohin that Collazo had given me her name and that I wanted to ask her some questions about Solange.
Perry’s boat, Little Bitt, was already tied up astern of the Italian mega-yacht when I throttled Gorda down in the Port Everglades turning basin. Perry was on the bow of O Solo Mio, readying the towlines. As I knew he would, he motioned me to tie up off the bow. This meant I would end up the head boat, and what had started as Perry’s job was now mine. Not a problem. Gorda had more power than Little Bitt, and I had more experience than Perry at this type of work.
The tricky part of towing yachts this size up a narrow river is that boats get steerage only from moving at a certain speed through the water. If there is no water flowing past her rudders, a boat cannot turn. With the help of twin screws and bow thrusters, some boats are able to spin in their own lengths, but a boat like O Solo Mio still did not have brakes. The regulations required that vessels of a certain length and draft be assisted by a tug when going upriver. So, with five drawbridges standing between Port Everglades and the upriver boatyard facilities, as well as riverbanks that were lined with millions of dollars’ worth of yachts and properties, there was always plenty of business for Gorda.
For three to four miles inland, the river remained tidal so that it reversed its flow with each change of the tide. When towing a vessel, it was always preferable to tow against the current so that Gorda and her tow could be moving at five knots through the water, but actually only be moving at three knots over the bottom and past the riverbanks. I also had to be concerned about depth because there were spots where the river shallowed up to six or seven feet at low water. The trick was to tow upriver just after high tide while the water was still deep but the current was flowing downriver.
After I tied up Gorda, I went to check Perry’s work with the towing harness. Not that I didn’t want to trust him, but, well, I couldn’t afford to trust him. With every job, I put the name and reputation of Sullivan Towing and Salvage on the line. I could get away with an occasional screw-up in many other aspects of my life, but when it came to towing somebody’s multimillion-dollar vessel, that’s where I became a perfectionist. And my insurance agent appreciated it.
Up on O Solo Mio's bridge, I introduced myself to the yacht’s captain. An Italian in his mid-forties, he had the classic good looks—strong chin and alert eyes—of many yacht captains. I swear they must ask for photos when they advertise for these positions. I’d never seen an ugly one. Apparently, if you are going to drive the yachts of the rich and famous, you must be one of the beautiful people yourself.
He told me to call him Salvatore instead of Captain Lucca, and he asked me if I wanted a tour of the boat. That is one of the best parts of my job—getting to see how the other half lives. Through the main salon with the sleek, mirrored, and brushed-stainless built-in furnishings—including wet bar, stereo, and large-screen TV—he took me through to the owner’s stateroom. I half expected a sound track of jungle animal noises to be playing. The whole room was decorated in exotic animal prints, and in the middle of the cabin was a perfectly round bed that sported a mosquito net draped from above. On the walls were dozens of pictures of the owner and his friends. I was admiring the photos—one with former president Nixon, another with Frank Sinatra. Then I recognized a face.
“Salvatore, who owns this boat?”
In the photo I was examining, a group of ten men, all smiling for the camera, sat around a table in a brick-walled restaurant. One face stood out. I recognized the big handlebar mustache, the zigzag eyebrow. An older version, by maybe ten years, of Yosemite Sam from the Nighthawk photos.
“He is a businessman in New York City.”
“What does he do?”
“I’ve been with him for eighteen years—precisely because I don’t ask exactly what he does.”
He was smiling at me, a twinkle of humor and flirtation in his eyes. I was beginning to understand what Perry hadn’t told me about this job.
“I see.”
“I believe you have been on the water long enough,” he said, “to know exactly what I am talking about.”
Perry’s face appeared in the stateroom’s doorway. “What are you guys doing farting around down here?”
“Captain Lucca here was just showing me around the boat. We were talking about the owner.”
“Hell of a guy,” Perry said, and he gave me an exaggerated wink. “I hear he’s an importer.”
Behind Perry, I saw Salvatore frown. Obviously, Perry did not share his discretion. But he had kept the yacht owner’s affiliations secret from me long enough to get me on the job. Perry knew I usually chose not to work on these yachts.
Perry came up behind me and peered at the photo I had been examining. “Hey, I know that guy.” He pointed to the man with the handlebar mustache. “That’s Gil.” Then he snorted and pulled at the crotch of his pants. “Man, he was just as ugly back then.”
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“Huh?”
Perry had a habit of spacing out in the middle of a conversation. Though he generally wasn’t under the influence when he was working, even when he wasn’t high, Perry wasn’t all that coherent.
“The guy in the picture,” I said. “How do you know him?”
“Oh, yeah, me’n him done some drinking in Flossie’s a time or two. That’s all. Was nothin’.” There was clearly more to that story. Perry was a lousy liar.
“Do you know his last name?”
“Nah, just Gil. Dude’s been around forever.”
I turned to the captain and asked him if he knew the man in the photo.
He shook his head. “No, that photo was from many years ago. Before I came aboard.”
Perry pulled at the front of his pants again. I was about to ask him if he had to go to the bathroom, the way my brother Maddy always asked his son, Freddy, before getting into the car, but then Perry said, “We gotta get going, you guys. Tide’s turnin’.”
He was right.
After a quick peek into the engine room and a check on deck, Perry, Salvatore, and I met to go over the plan. The deckhand was given his instructions. We all decided to monitor VHF channel 72, and then we got underway. Red had taught me that the trick to maintaining control of a large yacht was in using two short towlines or hawsers. Gorda had port and starboard towing bitts located in each corner of her stem. With the short hawsers that ran from those bitts up through the chocks on either side of the bow of the Italian yacht, I could quickly and efficiently turn the ship as we made our way upriver. As we negotiated each bend of the river with Gorda's Caterpillar engine revved up, pulling the more than fifty tons of aluminum, and Little Bitt pulling the yacht’s stem around, I went through the motions on mental autopilot, all the while thinking about a trip down island back in 1973. Whoever this Gil character was, he clearly had connections with some serious New York wise guys.