“Lot
of that going around,” he said aloud.
“Shut
up.”
One
of the men stood directly behind him, so close Scarne could smell him, a
not-too-unpleasant odor of diesel fuel, sweat and fish, with a whiff of sun
block. Funny how one’s senses sharpen at a time like this – and are obviously a
bit more forgiving. The other man moved in front, his weapon held languidly in
the crook of his arm. Scarne recognized it as a Vepr (in English, “wild boar”)
the Ukrainian-designed version of the ubiquitous Russian AK-47.
Any
second now. Better get out of the line of fire, pal.
Scarne
squinted at the trees. Hard to concentrate. He spotted small buds at the end of
some leaves. Not even mangroves. Probably Green Buttonwoods, which also loved
standing water and were often mistaken for mangroves. Or maybe that other tree,
the one with the funny name. What was it?
“Gumbo
Limbo,” he said loudly, just to piss them off. Was the dance named for it?
Interesting. She would know.
Hit
by a wave of dizziness, Scarne began sagging to the side. That wouldn’t do! He
straightened up. The man in front of him noticed and gave him a nod of respect,
then looked past him to his partner and smiled. There was a blinding flash.
***
“That’s
a croc,” the charter captain shouted.
Al
Russo was startled. He and his fishing partner were debating the respective
pennant chances of the New York Yankees and the Tampa Bay Rays and he’d just
boldly predicted a runaway for his beloved Yanks. They were going flat out just
off Big Pine and he didn’t understand how the captain could hear them over the
wind and engine noise. Hell, I can barely hear myself.
“I
didn’t know you were a Ray’s fan, Skipper,” he shouted at the captain.
“What
the hell are you talking about,” the captain yelled, pointing toward shore.
“That’s a croc. Big bastard. Must be 12-foot if he’s an inch.”
Russo
and the other man, Mike Carman, a fellow orthodontist from the Miami suburb of Kendall,
followed the finger as the boat slowed and the bow turned toward what they
could now see was a huge reptile.
There
were a million alligators in Florida, or one for every 22 humans. (Hungry
gators were beginning to narrow that ratio in their favor, not to mention
decimating the poodle population in some upscale golf resorts.) But the
American crocodile is rare; there are fewer than 500 left in the state. They
reside primarily in the southernmost tip and the Keys where food is abundant
and the habitat, consisting of swamps and inlets, ideal for ambush hunting.
“Grab
your cameras.”
The
two dentists fished the Keys whenever they could and had seen as many
alligators as teeth. They squinted toward the beach 200 yards away. In the
early-morning light, it looked like just another alligator. But they weren’t
about to argue with the captain, a grizzled bear of a man with sun-hardened
skin. The son of a bitch could spot a fish
under
the goddamn water.
Neither had ever seen an American crocodile in the wild, let alone photographed
one. The snook and tarpon could wait.
As
they got nearer they recognized the long snout that differentiated a crocodile
from the broad-nosed American alligator. The croc was moving slowly backward
along the mix of beach and mud flats toward the ocean and appeared to be
dragging a large bundle of clothes.
“Mike,
flip me those binoculars,” the charter captain said. “Quick!”
He
looked toward shore and then cursed, gunning the engine. The fishermen fell to
the deck.
“What
the hell are you doing?”
Ignoring
them, he poured on the power, aiming directly for the crocodile.
“That’s
a body he’s dragging. Probably washed up. That croc is scavenging. Grab a
paddle, gaff, whatever. We have to scare it away.”
The
two men looked at the crocodile, which as they got closer appeared to be a lot
longer than 12-feet, and then at each other. But they did as they were told.
This would be something to tell the grandkids. Hopefully.
The
captain just wanted to spook the croc. His passengers appeared to be game. He
sure didn’t want to pull his .357 Magnum out of the sea locker. Probably would
get 20 years for killing the damn thing.
All
three men started shouting as the boat approached the shore. A wave caught the
stern and it grounded onto the beach just short of the animal. Russo was
pitched onto the sand, where he had a face-to-face with the annoyed reptile,
which released its hold on the body and backed off a few feet, hissing.
“Watch
it, Al!”
Russo
needed no encouragement to “watch it.” He sprang back, tripping over the body,
which let out a low moan.
The
rest was anticlimax. The crocodile, looking for a docile (as in already dead)
breakfast, had no argument with three madmen. Even the breakfast was stirring.
That was too much. The croc hissed again at the wildly gesticulating trio and
then trundled majestically into the water, its powerful tail propelling it
toward a nearby cut that would take it inland, where there was easier – and
better mannered – prey.
The
men bent to the now coughing bundle.
“Jesus,
his hands are tied,” Russo said.
“Clear
his mouth but watch his head,” Carman said. “Look at that gash. Somebody conked
him pretty good.”
“Probably
a drug hit gone wrong,” the Captain said. “Lucky bastard.”
CHAPTER
53 – BREAKAGE
The
ocean water off Harvey Cedars on New Jersey’s Long Beach Island is frigid in
late April. The air is brisk and the beach deserted, especially at dawn.
Scarne
ran a mile along the tide line before encountering anyone else, a lone
fisherman bundled against the chill, standing knee-deep in the surf. From the
size of the man’s rod, Scarne knew he was after striped bass. The man, his
breath condensing in the air, looked back at Scarne. His smile said, “Yeah, I
know I’m crazy.” Scarne, who had caught nice stripers off this very stretch of
beach, sometimes in a freezing rain, gave him a friendly wave. He didn’t think
the man was crazy at all.
***
After
his rescue by the dentists, Scarne spent a week in a Miami hospital, where he
fielded a slew of questions from various incredulous Federal, state and local
cops, including Paulo and Curley, who kept telling him to at least get a
lawyer. He knew they were trying to help him but he refused. He didn’t care. By
the time Bobo walked in with one of the Florida Sambuca family retainers, he’d
told the authorities just about everything that had happened since Sheldon
Shields first approached him.
The
Sambuca lawyer, a wizened old pro named Stanley Steckler, threw everyone but
Bobo out of the room and read Scarne the riot act, calling him a “first-class
idiot” and reminding him that “these fucking rednecks down here still use the
electric chair for traffic violations” so in the future “just shut your fucking
trap.” Then he heard Scarne out and went “to see the D.A. and make a coupla’
calls.”
He
came back the next day with a bag of knishes and a smile. Scarne still didn’t
have much of an appetite, which worked well for Bobo, who quickly commandeered
the bag.
“There
are no bodies and the boat dock was as clean as an Intel chip lab,” Steckler
said. “They found two cars, a Lamborghini registered to the Ballantrae Group,
which is collapsing as we speak, and a shot-to-pieces, souped-up Mustang
registered to Josh Shields. No blood stains on or near the cars, but it’s been
raining heavily in the Keys. There’s just enough evidence to corroborate your
story, but not enough to bring charges against you. Between your new friends
down here and your old ones in New York, the various prosecutors don’t seem
inclined to pursue this. Considering the stuff I usually handle for the
Sambucas on a regular basis, I could beat this rap with my eyes closed. I’m not
sure the cops believe all of it, anyway. And I can’t say I blame them. That
leaves only the dead guy in Antigua, which everybody says was self defense.”
Steckler
looked at Scarne and shrugged.
“Of
course, I’m not sure how his family back in Seattle looks at it. I know
something about ‘families’.”
“Dudley
knows some people out there,” Bobo mumbled through a mouth full of knish. “He’s
making some calls.”
Before
leaving the hospital, Scarne heard from Sealth.
“The
Bruttis are calling it a wash. Breakage. Carlo tried to kill you and you did
what you had to do. Besides, you killed the guy who murdered Maria Brutti. And
the call from your pal certainly helped. If he’s got that much clout out here,
tell him not to visit. I’ve got enough trouble.”
“What
about Boyko?”
“He’s
back, as if nothing ever happened. I can’t be sure, but I think he also put in
a word for you. After all, by killing Garza and Keitel, you solved a lot of problems
for both families. Not to mention icing the broad.”
Sealth
paused.
“Didn’t
mean that, kid. I wasn’t thinking.”
***
Scarne
ran another mile and then headed back to Dudley Mack’s five-bedroom oceanfront
home he’d been using for a week while trying to get back into shape. Dudley had
left Scarne alone, except for alternately sending his sisters and Bobo Sambuca
to check on him every couple of days and bring in some home cooking. The girls
tried to tease him out of his mood. For the first time in their lives, it
didn’t work.
“I’m
worried about him,” Alice told her brother. “He’s not acting like Jake. It’s
not the wounds. He’s getting around. But it’s like he’s, I don’t know, broken.
What the hell happened in Florida?”
Mack
was noncommittal.
“Jake
has to work this out. He’ll be OK. We just have to give him time.”
Scarne
started out sleeping a lot, and reading. Except for the occasional phone
conversation with Evelyn, he spent his time on long walks on the beach that
eventually became jogs, then runs. He tried not to think of Alana, but, of
course, that wasn’t possible. She had been a monster, no better in the
beginning than Ballantrae, Garza and Keitel. And yet he loved her.
Scarne
had no illusions. There was something about her that fascinated him when he should
have been repelled. What did that say about him? A part of him had died on that
boat. But which part? The man he always thought he was or the part that could
love a woman like Alana? He knew exactly what she was, and yet if she walked in
the door now he would rush into her arms. Who was the monster?
***
After
two weeks, he called Dudley. They went for an early dinner at Kubel’s, a
seafarer’s tavern near Barnegat Light. They took a table under the gaping,
bleached white, skeletonized jaws of a whale shark.
“Just
looking at it makes me hungry,” Dudley said looking up as they sat. “Reminds me
of a cheerleader who gave blow jobs at college frat parties.”
It
was the off season and the restaurant was quiet but for a few grizzled locals
who glanced their way before going back to their shots and beers. From their
table, Scarne and Mack could see several men in cloth caps and hip boots
washing down two large fishing boats at the nearby docks. They had the look
about them of men enjoying their work.
“Those
boats were used in
The Perfect Storm
,” Dudley said. “Swordfishing isn’t
what it used to be. Stocks have been virtually wiped out. Average fish caught
now is about 250 pounds; used to be about a thousand. It’s why I don’t order
swordfish anymore. I hear that most of the sword boats have been converted into
shrimpers. They needed a couple to play the
Andrea Gale
and the other
boat that had the woman captain.” He pointed to the bar. “And this place was
supposedly the inspiration for the tavern in the movie, although you’d think
they could find a good seaport gin mill in Rhode Island. Anyway, those two
boats made the trip to New England; the bar didn’t.”
Scarne
looked at his friend affectionately. He knew Dudley was trying to cheer him up.
The
house specialty was clam pot pie, which tasted a lot better than it sounded.
They drank Rolling Rocks out of a frosted bucket. Scarne pulled a folded manila
envelope from the pocket of his yellow rain slicker.
“I
want to get this to Emma Shields, in person. Can you see to it? I don’t want
some secretary opening it.”
Mack
looked dubious.
“Why
don’t you call her? If you want to get something off your chest, are you sure
you want anything on paper?”
“If
the cops wanted to prosecute me, they have everything they need. I owe her an
explanation but I’m not interested in seeing her. If you don’t want to do it,
say so.”
Mack
grabbed the envelope from Scarne’s hand.
“Don’t
be a smartass. I’ll hand deliver it to her myself. Given your recent track
record, the broad’s probably better off without you.” He saw the look on
Scarne’s face. “Sorry.” Then to lighten the moment, he said, “Why do I think
there’s also a check in the envelope? You’re returning your fee, aren’t you?”
Scarne
almost smiled.
“That
settles it. The way you throw around money, you buy the damn dinner.”
Two
days later Scarne went back to his apartment in Manhattan and his doctors
reluctantly cleared him to go back to work.