Читать книгу Drago #3 - Art Spinella - Страница 5

“Pinch me.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Pinch me,” I repeated.

“Nick, it’s 3 o’clock in the morning. You talked me into coming down here. You haven’t said a word for maybe an hour. And now all you want is me to pinch you?”

“Pinch me.”

Sal opened one eye, tipped his big bearded head off his chest to look in my direction then saw what I saw.

“Holy crapola on a bagel.”

________________________________________________

It started when I couldn’t sleep. The bed felt empty, the night too warm and restlessness wiggled through my body. 1:17 a.m. No use tossing and turning so I climbed from the mattress and made way to the living room.

Night sounds in a rural house are different from those in a city or suburb. Here the outside noises are natural. No car tires hissing on concrete, no distant music or buzz of electric street lights, the air a low hum of activity somewhere, carried to even the most distant city-bound ‘burbs through atmospheric vibrations.

Willow Weep night sounds are simple. Wind through the pines, tree frogs croaking in unison then stopping in unison then starting again. A distant barking dog and the roll of the ocean. Scurrying feet of a stray cat looking for food or the thunking of raccoons taking apart the bird feeder to get the last morsel of seed. I’m pretty much to blame for the raccoon thing at Willow Weep, me with a semi-pet bandit named Lilly. She’s a loner who adopted me some years back and expects a bowl of dog food topped with a chocolate wafer every night.

Sal lives by the Middle Age’s two-sleep cycle. If he’s not hangin’ at Willow Weep, he turns in early then prowls his house’s many diversions from midnight to three returning to bed til seven. So I knew he was up and about when I called at 1:19 a.m.

“Hey sunshine,” he said.

“Can’t sleep. Going down to the river and sit for a while. Want to come?”

“The Volt and I will be there in five.”

Rocky Point is one of many fishing ramps along the Coquille River. Upriver, the city of the same name. Down river, Bandon. Many a time the boys, Cookie and I would put the 17-foot Smokercraft into the murky water at this spot. We’d head toward Coquille and basically just take in the sights. Fishing isn’t one of my strong suits so these rides were more a way to unwind from the grind of work, chores and the daily schmutz that clutters up a person’s life.

February had been unseasonably dry and warm which was fine by me. While I rarely get cabin fever, the previous winter was one of those when the rain never stopped, the sun never shined and daytime temperature rarely cracked 45 degrees. This year had proven to be just the opposite.

Sal and I were parked in a couple of lawn chairs which, in turn, were parked on the small dock. The sky was peppered with stars, the air fresh and the sound of the river a low rush making its way to the ocean.

“So, how do you like the Volt?”

“Better than the Prius,” Sal said, head nodding. “More room, better power, classy lines.”

“Does that mean we’ll be taking it on some of our excursions instead of always using the Crown Vic?”

“Nick, I have no intentions of putting it in harm’s way and bringing it home with sundry bullet holes. It cost you a fortune to fix the damage from the Tree Man thing. So, no, the Crown Vic is the excursion car. Besides, the Volt is quicker than the Prius, but the CV is big, heavy, fast and very much a tank. It seems we always need a tank when you get involved in these little side jobs.”

“Tank.”

“You heard me, tank. Underlined. Bold faced.”

“Tanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome a lot.”

A few minutes of silence, then “Have you thought much about how we’ll deal with the folks behind the Tree Man job?”

Sal rocked his head. “Quite a bit.”

It wasn’t a subject we openly discussed because of the sensitivity both from a political as well as government-agencies standpoint. Someone had put the word out to silence everyone who had knowledge of the Tree Man investigation. It ended badly with the death of a couple of innocents. Sal promised revenge and I concurred.

But we had refrained from a solid plan until Sal put his vast contact list inside the government to work and found where to start and, more importantly, where to end.

He continued, “We’ll have to solve some of the murders in Colorado, Illinois and here. But we’ll have to do that quietly and carefully. We do not want to show our hand too soon.”

I nodded agreement. “Just let me know when and we’ll take the tank anywhere you want to go.”

Sal smiled. Well, I think it was a smile because his beard moved.

The cool air, a thermos of hot coffee and a good friend makes for a slower heart rate which means a doze. Sal’s eyes closed, his breathing coming in slow strokes.

The sound of churning water interrupted my own thoughts. Not loud, just barely audible over the night hum of flying critters, frogs and a hushed breeze. Opening my eyes, there was nothing up or down river. Just the flat brown calm of the Coquille reflecting a star-studded sky.

With no warning, a flicker and the image of a sternwheeler. Gauzy, at least 80 feet long, rear paddle slowly turning, driving the low-slung hull quietly down river.

That’s when I asked Sal to pinch me.

We both stood and watched the paddle wheeler pass. Aside from the vagueness of its outline, it was clearly three dimensional. On the lower deck, just barely above water level, perched a cabin running from 10 feet behind the bow to the furthest most part of the stern. The paddle extended beyond the stern, large timbers gripping the wheel in place.

A straight-edged pilot house stood watch on the forward top-deck with a cabin running halfway along the hull length. Both levels were punctuated with square windows. Amidships on the lower level a pair of sliding cargo doors. A single stack belched black smoke as the ship made way toward Bandon.

“Damn,” Sal muttered under his breath.

“Can you read the name?”

Sal peered long and hard at the bow and shook his head.

“I don’t see any crew or passengers,” I said.

The decks were loaded with barrels, lumber and crates. No people.

Just as Sal reached in the pocket of his jacket for his cell phone, aimed the camera at the paddle wheeler, the ship blipped and disappeared. The paddle’s churning wake subsided. The river as barren as if the boat had never been there.

We both fell into our chairs.

“Cool.”

________________________________________________

“You saw a ghost paddle wheeler,” Chief Forte laughed. “Look, guys, I can’t help you on this one.”

Sal and I were sitting in the Bandon Police chief’s office, a couple of mugs of cop-shop coffee on our thighs. Forte had just walked in the door. We had been waiting for him after making a quick stop at the Human Bean for some early brew then raiding the Bandon Police Department’s coffee cooker for refills.

“This was not an illusion,” I told him, knowing he’d never buy the story. “Well, maybe. It was gauzy, like a mist with form. Clearly a paddle wheeler, though.”

Sal added, “You’re gonna say it was a projection or a hologram or some other stunt, but the legend of a ghost paddle wheeler has been around for decades and decades. Long before there was holographic technology.”

I added, “As high school kids, we’d go down the river with a keg, sit on the banks and wait to see the ghost ship.”

“And did you?”

“Well, no.”

Forte shook his head. “My suggestion? Stay away from the Dos Equis for a couple of days and don’t go near the river when you’ve had a couple too many and are sleep deprived. Now get the heck out of here. I’ve got rabid field mice to contend with.”

Sal and I glanced at each other, rose from our chairs and left the still half-full coffee mugs on the counter on the way out.

“And by the way,” Forte said, “if you run across the ghost of Hiram Walker, let him know I’d like a case of Black Label.”

Sal made a rude gesture over his shoulder.

________________________________________________

Sal and I spent the next three nights sitting in the same lawn chairs on the same dock. I wasn’t sure we were doing it because we wanted to see the paddle wheeler again or just because it was something different. Both of us had been bored to tears since our respective female counterparts had fled the scene.

“Don’t think we’re going to see the boat tonight,” Sal said.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I took a long swallow of still-hot coffee from my travel mug.

“Ever miss living aboard your trawler?”

I had to think about that because it was potentially a loaded question. “Let me answer this way. If Cookie weren’t in my life, I’d still be living aboard. I don’t miss Dragonfly when she’s here. I would miss it if she wasn’t.”

“Very diplomatic. Now the truth.”

I gave my head a Bandon scratch – three fingernails at the front of my hairline, face scrunched like I just smelled a dirty diaper. “Yes. But if you tell Cookie I said that, I’ll deny it, then fire bomb your house.”

The trawler was a 36-footer, built in 1932 and powered by a one-cylinder Buddha diesel. On its best day it would hit a staggering eight knots. It had spent most of its life in Monterey, California and later San Pedro.

The first year was devoured as I turned the utilitarian cabin space into the equivalent of a studio apartment. First rate galley; mahogany counters, table and cabinets; teak floors, walls, ceiling and trim; upgraded electronics; leather lounge and a whopping good entertainment center. The forward bunk area, cuddy style, was fitted with custom mattress and the appropriate single-guy mood lighting.

The rear deck was stripped of all its fishing-related tanks, machinery and paraphernalia, replaced with cushioned lounge couches, storage locker, moveable tables and a Tiki-style bar. Hey, it was the ‘80s. The hull and top side were painted white with crimson trim and the name Dragonfly scripted in gold leaf on the stern.

The boat was the love of my life. And the perfect bachelor vessel.

Then Cookie came along and, long story short, we decided to move back to my hometown of Bandon. Dragonfly had to be part of the deal, though. I’d grown attached to the trawler and like most guys getting rid of a toy is like ripping your heart out, one aorta at a time.

The trip from San Pedro to Bandon in an eight-knot antique is a story all its own, left for some other time.

“Well, we should get the heck out of here,” Sal said.

Nodding, the chairs folded, we walked up the ramp to the parking lot.

Then a blip on the water. Not sure it made a sound or we just sensed it, but there in the overcast darkness of an Oregon night, the same paddle wheeler we’d seen a few nights before. Sal dropped his chair and reached for his cell phone. Clicked it open, punched a nub and clicked a photo of the gauzy boat as it churned its way downriver.

And just as suddenly, a second paddle wheeler appeared. This one to the stern of the first looking as if it were carved from smoke. Less defined than the first. Larger. Noiseless except for the distinct sound of the wooden hull creaking.

In the pilot house, a mystic figure, hands on the spoked ship’s wheel, eyes blank, dark medium length beard on a hawk-sharp weathered face. And three crewmen standing on the bow, unmoving, each staring forward, watching the sternwheeler ahead.

The captain and deck hands flickered like static. Scratchy images drawn with colored chalk.

Without eyes. Only smears of white where they should be.

I heard Sal click another photo just as the tallest crewman on the bow inched his arm upward and pointed toward the first paddle wheeler. As if on signal, the other two deck hands raised their arms in unison marked by motion blurs like they were being swung through tendrils of steam. Pointing with seemingly transparent fingers.

The captain’s body turned. White voids where his eyes should be. And with deliberation he raised an arm and pointed directly at us.

Then they were gone.

Sal was first to speak, the tone hushed, an uncharacteristic quiver. “I think I need a donut.”

________________________________________________

Sal and I sat in my dining room staring at the two photos the big man had taken and printed. The first showed the smaller paddle wheeler, the one we had seen four nights before. It was hazy but defined enough to make out the deck-side barrels and crates. The other was of the two boats nose to tail, not more than 20 feet between them, but the second stern wheeler was nothing but a white smudge. Indistinct as if someone had smeared Vaseline on the camera lens.

“Odd.”

“Truly.”

“It would be tough to I.D. what the second boat is unless you’d seen it for yourself,” I said.

Sal leaned back, lifted the picture of the two paddle wheelers, staring hard at the image. “Truly odd, Nick. What do we do about it?”

Bandon head scratch. “Got me. Stash the pics under X Files, I guess.”

My cell phone buzzed.

Flipping it open, “Drago.”

“Nick, do you and Sal have a couple of minutes to spare?”

“Sure Chief. What’s up?”

“Get down to the docks. I’ve got a small problem.”

“On the way.”

Sal raised his hand. “Don’t tell me. Forte has another puzzle for Drago.”

“To the Batmobile, Robin.”

“Who you calling Robin?”

We refilled the travel mugs with a new blend of Sumatran coffee I’d found on line and took the Crown Vic to town.

The Bandon boat basin has been part and parcel of the town almost since its founding. Not until the late 1800, however, did the waterfront become a commercial success. Once the treacherous bar was at least somewhat tamed – thanks to the efforts of one Judah Parker – shipbuilding thrived. The first was a two-masted schooner named the Ralph J. Long, an 85-footer with a 27-foot beam and 7 and a half foot draft.

Today, the basin has two long piers and docking for around 60 small craft and a few for the occasional yacht. While the fishing fleet has been decimated because of ever tightening regulations on catch size, most slips are filled during the spring and summer with casual boats.

Parking the Crown Vic, Sal and I walked down the basin ramp. Forte and Port Manager Clarence Tiller were standing on one of the slips next to what I guessed was a 70-foot fiberglass cruiser. A light southeastern breeze put a chill in the air.

Forte waved us over.

“Hey Clarence.” To Forte, “What’s up, Chief?”

Waving an arm at the cruiser, “Just showed up this morning. No one aboard.”

I walked to the stern and read the boat’s name. “Alley Cat” and port city, “Long Beach.”

“Long way from home, especially in February,” I said.

Clarence nodded. “Funny thing, we got a call yesterday from the harbor master in Long Beach who asked what the docking fees were for a 70-footer for six days. Told him the amount. That was the end of it. No mention of a boat coming or its name or anything.”

Forte interrupted, “Then, this morning, I get a call from Clarence and he tells me he has a boat in the basin that no one saw arrive and had no one on board.”

Sal had been walking the length of the cruiser and rejoined us. “I’d guess about 20 years old. A Hatteras. Maintained pretty well and recently had its bottom cleaned. Not carrying much in the way of cargo or anything. Sitting well above the waterline.”

Clarence nodded. “I checked with the Coast Guard and its papers are up to date. Owned by a small company in Long Beach, but I couldn’t get an answer when I called.”

“Company name?” I asked.

“Vector Atlas Partners, LLC.”

“That’s innocuous, enough,” I said. “Tells us nothing.”

Sal pulled his iPhone and punched the name into Google.

“No web site. Just a quick mention of its location in Long Beach but nothing about its business.”

“Have you been aboard?” I asked.

Forte and Clarence shook their heads.

“Waiting for you, Nick.”

“Shall we, then?”

The Hatteras is a bold statement of a yacht. And the owner of this one went all out. The rear deck was walled in a spotless clear Sumbrella enclosure. A cherry-wood bar with a granite top, stainless steel sink and refrigerator/icemaker butted up against the rear wall. I ran a hand over the wood. Smooth as silk and varnished so meticulously there wasn’t a single dust spec. The reflection was mirror-like.

Taped to the double leaded-glass doors leading to the salon, an envelope with “Port Manager” printed in large block letters.

Clarence removed and opened it. Forte, Sal and I watched as he pulled out a stack of hundred dollar bills and a small note reading, “For six days moorage.” No signature.

Counting the bills, he said, “Fifteen hundred-dollar bills, a fifty and two twenties. Exactly right.”

“Should we go inside?” Forte asked.

Curiosity was overwhelming. It’s not every day a Hatteras pulls into town.

Through the double doors into the main salon, the furnishings were as good as in a high-end home. Light blue fabrics covered an L-shaped couch and a pair of barrel chairs surrounded a teak coffee table. On the table, a remote with a dozen buttons. I lifted it and pressed the top left. From a cherry cabinet against the port wall the sound of an electric motor and a 52 inch flat screen LCD television rose from its innards.

“Quite the place,” Sal whistled.

Forte turned to Clarence. “And they left you no idea of who they are or when they’ll be back or anything?”

The Port Manager shook his head.

“Well, as much as I’d like to take the grand tour, and as odd as it might seem, we have no cause to do a search. We should go.”

From the dining area, Sal called out, “Uh, I wouldn’t leave just yet.”

Sal was standing next to the china cabinet, one door open. Inside some plates, saucers, cups and an assortment of other dinnerware. Sal pulled on one of the cups and the shelves swung out.

“Seems we have a few interesting accoutrements hidden away,” he said.

In the false cabinet were rifles. Some familiar, two totally unfamiliar.

“I recognize the Remington XM2010. That’s pure U.S. military. But what the heck are those?” I asked, pointing to a pair of black long-barrel weapons that looked both functional and highly lethal.

Sal was about to pull it out of the case when Forte told him to stop. “They all look like military hardware. We don’t know who we’re dealing with here. Could be your friends at Langley or your buddy Artemus or Tatiana’s employer, whoever the hell that is. Could be a terrorist cell for all we know. So for the time being, let’s just leave it all alone and get the Feds in on this.”

Sal pulled his hand back, removed his cell phone from his pocket and quickly took a half-dozen photos of the rifles. He leaned close to the unidentifiable pair and glared at the markings.

“Looks Cyrillic to me,” he said.

I moved close and could clearly see Russian letters on the trigger guard. “What time is it in Moscow?”

Sal looked at his watch. “8:45 a.m. here makes it 7:45 p.m. there.” The light bulb went off. “Of course.” He tapped out an email, attached one of the photos of the Russian rifle and sent it to Tatiana.

“While we’re waiting, should we continue looking around?” I asked.

Forte still hesitated. “I’m not about to blow a case, if there is a case, on a technicality. Listen guys, the Feds are going to want to do this by the book. Assuming there’s a reason to read the book. Let’s just back out of here and pretend we’ve never been. Call in ATF and dump it on their doorstep.”

I’d never seen the chief unwilling to jump into a puzzle. A willingness to cross jurisdictional boundaries is one of the reasons I like the former L.A. cop. This attitude was not only odd and uncharacteristic, he truly appeared on the edge of a frantic worry. The lines in his face seemed to deepen with every passing minute. He clearly knew more than he was letting on.

To Clarence, “Why don’t you give me the cash and envelope, just in case the Feds want to trace the bills or check them for fingerprints or whatever. I’ll give you a receipt.”

The Port Manager reluctantly handed the packet of bills to Forte who in turn wrote out a simple receipt on a piece of paper from his cop notebook which Clarence folded and carefully pushed into his shirt pocket.

Sal’s cell phone buzzed.

“Yo,” he said. “Hi love... Wait, let me put you on speaker.”

Tatiana’s voice came through loud and clear. She was both excited and worried. “What are you into, Salinska? Is Nickolas with you?”

“Hi Tats,” I said.

“You are in quite a cucumber…”

“Pickle,” Sal corrected.

“Pickle. Da. Where did you find that rifle?”

“Hidden in a cupboard,” Sal explained. “Why?”

“Is experimental. Russian sniper model. Is called SVN 98. Rumor is can hit an apple at two miles. Very precise. Very deadly.” She paused, “How did you find it? Not supposed to be any except in Russian military and Secret Service.”

“I’ll let you know, Tatiana,” Sal said. “Let me call you back later today.”

“I miss you, Salinska.”

She clicked off.

“Russian sniper rifles along with four U.S. sniper rifles,” I said. “We expecting any dignitaries soon?”

“Just that putz of a congressman,” Forte snorted. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Sal had caught the shift in Forte’s demeanor and cut me a glance. “Breakfast anyone?”

“I’m in,” right on cue, my belly provided a rumble. “Eggs, hash browns and sausage. How ‘bout you two?”

Forte shook his head. “Going back to the cop shop. See you later.”

Clarence also declined the invite.

“Chief, you gonna call the Feds?” I asked.

“First I’ll put Billy and Mark over here to see who comes back to the boat. You want me to wait, don’t you?”

“Something’s bothering you, Chief. Should we talk this out before you call in the cavalry?”

He sighed. “Yeah, okay. When you’re done eating, come by the office.” He spun on his heels and strode away in a rush. Clarence right behind him.

“Eatin’ Station?”

“Sure.”

“Nick, you would have made a great German U-Boat commander.”

“Huh?”

“No matter where you go there are torpedoes buzzing here and there and everywhere. Sight unseen until they punch a hole in your hull. Ghost paddle wheelers, Russian sniper rifles, abandoned yachts, gold balls, missing cars, and on and on and on.” He shook his shaggy head. “Don’t you get tired of it?”

“Nein, mein Capitan. Ist vas I liven sie fer.”

“Great. A linguist now. And a poor one, at that. How do you say ‘hungry’ in German?”

“Das donut.”

“Ya. Ist gut.”