Читать книгу Drago #3 - Art Spinella - Страница 7

Having a long love affair with boats of all sorts, I lay in bed with a photo of Cookie in “Miss QT”, a miniature version of a mid-30s Chris Craft built in my carport over the course of a year. Mahogany hull, cedar planking on the deck and an outboard Johnson motor, the slick little runner flew a Martini flag on its rear deck.

I’d built Miss QT because Cookie proved hesitant about driving the Smokercraft, afraid she’d hurt it when docking. Since woodworking is a strong suit, I decided to build her a boat of her own.

Fast, dry and agile, Miss QT spends summers on Tenmile Lake and off-season in the Toy Shed. My plan for catching the ghost paddle wheeler was simple: Cookie would take her boat up river and wait for the first appearance.

She would relay the information to Sal who would take the Smokercraft from Rocky Point tracking the ship as far as the river bar. The big man would let me know its location so I could use the Dragonfly and tail the ghost ship into the ocean.

When I brought the trawler to Bandon, I’d sold it to one of the local commercial fishermen, Stan Moorly who converted it back to part of the salmon fleet. I’d attempted many times to repurchase it from him, but his refusal was always the same: “Greatest little boat I’ve ever owned. Floats like a cork in any sea. Knows its way home even in a monsoon.”

I’d given a great deal of thought to replacing Dragonfly with the 60-foot Marie Ann Gail, a trawler built in 1912, abandoned in the Bandon harbor and eventually sold for scrap.

It arrived in Bandon in 2004, a Noti, Oregon couple buying it to revamp into a pleasure cruiser. And it would have been quite the boat. Its classic trawler lines shouted Northwest boatbuilding craftsmanship. The curved pilot house windshield a display of the hearty men who sailed the Pacific in the early 1900s. A flying bridge of roomy proportions. And at 51 tons, a stable boat that could take much of what the North Pacific handed out.

Dragonfly now was moored where Marie Ann Gail once docked, at the end of the first of two piers, protected from tidal surges. Moorly sat on the rear deck, feet on the port gunnel, eyes closed.

Being this close to Dragonfly made my heart flutter. We’d had some good times over the years.

“Permission to come aboard, captain,” I called from the dock.

Moorly never opened his eyes, just waved his arm and pointed to a vacant deck chair.

“What’s 12,000 times $8.40?” he asked, eyes still closed.

“One hundred thousand, eight hundred dollars. Why?”

“That’s my take this past season. Minus fuel, payin’ a deck hand, maintenance, insurance, government fees, I was left with about $22,000.” He tipped his head back, opened one eye and looked at me. “Can I get food stamps making that little?”

“Probably.”

“Now, if I didn’t work at all, never took the boat out, collected some sort of welfare, could I get food stamps?”

“Probably.”

“Without being in the ocean. Without worryin’ about catching enough dang fish to make the payments. Without bein’ nearly killed by those stinkin’ storms or sunk by some dang sneaker wave or crossing the bar just at the wrong time.”

“True enough, Stan.”

“Then, tell me, dang it, why the hell do I do it?”

“Because you’re a snarly old coot who thinks he should earn what he gets. Besides, the ocean’s in your blood. You’re like that guy in the movie Jaws. You’d die of boredom if you weren’t fishing. You love it, man, and you know it.”

Moorly smiled, showing off a gap where a canine tooth once was. Both eyes opened, he pushed himself upright in his chair.

“Damn right, Nick.” He stood, “Want a beer?”

“Yup.”

He clattered his way across the deck, into the pilot house and returned with two cans of Miller. I popped the top and took a long swallow.

“Need to borrow Dragonfly for a couple of days. Don’t know when it will be, but sometime in the next couple of weeks.”

“$200 a day plus fuel.”

“Dinner at the Bandon restaurant of your choice and fuel.”

“$100 a day plus fuel and dinner. That fancy place, Lord Bennett’s.”

“Deal.”

He grinned. “Always like doin’ business with you, Nick.”

We gabbed a bit longer, I left.

It felt good sitting on the rear deck of Dragonfly, even surrounded by the litter only a fisherman can accumulate. Through the smell of mackerel and cod and snapper was the old hummus odor of the varnish and freshly cut lumber used to build the topside those years ago.

Moorly had kept the interior tidy and whole, just the way I’d sold it to him and for that I was grateful. The teak glowed reddish-brown and the mahogany had been treated to repeated coats of varnish. Not the crystal clear mirror of the Hatteras – fishermen don’t use varnish to make something pretty, just to protect it – but warm and worn like a pair of favorite jeans.

When I pulled into Willow Weep’s drive, the hulking figure of Sal muscled through the woods from his property.

“Sal, your radar is still working.”

“It’s nearly 3. Time for a brew. You never miss your 3-oclock brew.”

We moved to the living room, Dos Equis in hand, and fell into our respective favorite chairs.

“Went to see Moorly,” I started.

“Gonna use Dragonfly for that plan of yours?”

“Will do.”

I explained what I had in mind; the three boats at different points of the river; my following the ghost paddle wheeler into the Pacific.

Sal grunted. “You remind me of the dog that chases cars. What are you gonna do with it when you catch it?”

“Don’t know. All I want to do is say I touched it.”

The big man grunted.

My cell phone buzzed.

“Drago.”

“Hey, Nick. Did Sal get anywhere with the VAP initials?”

I punched the speakerphone nub. “Ask him.”

Forte did.

“Actually, yes, Chief. Just about 20 minutes ago. Didn’t call you until I saw Nicholas…”

“Don’t start…” I interrupted.

“Vector Atlas Partners was on your task force list, but not considered a viable suspect.”

Forte sighed. “That’s a relief. I knew I didn’t remember the name. What are they?”

“Ran a web search. Not much to say about them. No web site of their own, interestingly enough. Guess they don’t think they need one, which is suspicious in and of itself,” Sal explained. “Third party and Wikipedia have them listed as a rental operation. Boats, cars, aircraft, anything that has a luxury bent. Kind of like an Avis on steroids with an English butler.”

“So what’s the story with the weapons, then?”

My turn. “The chances are pretty good that they don’t own any of the stuff they rent. Probably a service that puts renters with people who want to get a little cash for their luxury toys when they’re sitting idle.”

I pulled a long draught from the beer bottle. “Someone forgot to unload the gun cabinet? Maybe they didn’t figure anyone would find the weapons. Who knows?”

I filled Forte in on my conversation with Moorly and my plan to track down the ghost paddle wheeler sometime soon. He provided a disapproving grunt and clicked off. Guess they don’t have ghosts in Los Angeles.

“Wait til you see what Tatiana sent me,” Sal finally said between sips of Dos Equis.

“You gonna show me now or do I have to wait?”

“Now’s good. Get a couple more beers. Mine’s almost empty.”

I did.

We crashed through the path to Sal’s house and came out of the woods onto his back lawn. Unlike mine, his is actually grass. Clipped, watered when needed, mowed in two directions and a blue-green blanket undulating with the topography. Trees surrounding the lawn are trimmed, nary a dead branch to be found.

“I hate this place,” I said with a bit of envy. “It belongs in Beverly Hills. It’s too neat.”

“So you’ve said. But here’s something you’ve never seen in Beverly Hills.”

He took me to the front yard. In the middle of an equally well kept spread of Kentucky Blue sat a cannon.

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s an FN Herstal medium remote weapon station,” Sal said.

“It’s a friggin’ anti-aircraft gun.”

“That, too.” He stood back, pulled from his Dos Equis and continued. “Totally remote controlled. And that’s an M3P machine gun my little Russian darling sent along. About 1,100 rounds per minute. .50 cal. The turret can angle from minus 42 degrees to plus 73 degrees.

“Cool, huh?”

I started to laugh. It was so outrageous, so over the top as a lawn ornament, so typical of Sal who always needed a new toy that it was the perfect gift from Tatiana.

“And how did she get it to you? You don’t ship that via UPS.”

“It came in a helicopter. And that’s all I’ll say about it.”

He walked to the M3P and put a meaty hand on its barrel. “Take a picture.” He tossed me his camera phone. Big grin and the sun reflecting off of the man’s twinkling blue eyes, the weapon the perfect backdrop if this were a Stallone movie, I clicked a couple of shots.

“Want to see it in action?” he said, like a kid with a new remote control airplane.

“You’re not gonna shoot it here, are you?”

“No, you dolt. I don’t have a backstop yet.”

He took back his smart phone, punched in http://www.fnherstal.com/index.php?id=658 and handed it back to me.

Indeed, the gun is remote controlled. I watched the video in absolute awe. The M3P rotated up, down, full circle, firing round-after-round of .50 caliber shells into an assortment of targets.

I clicked off the video and handed the phone back.

“You think Tatiana has another one of those kicking around?”

________________________________________________

Sal and I were sitting in the living room, a pizza box near empty on the foot stool, some lame game show as background on the television. We’d been dancing around the means of revenge for the killing of innocents during the Tree Man incident and possible government involvement.

“How close are we, Sal?”

“I’ve put out quiet feelers. Getting some feedback. We obviously touched a nerve. No one wants to talk and fewer have enough information to be of much use. It’s February. I’m looking for the end of August for launch. We have to be mighty careful, though.”

I nodded agreement. We were going to be dealing with folks who had the power. And all we had was Sal and me. Breaking the code of silence would take putting our respective morals in a deep, dark drawer.

A knock on the door gave me a start. It was 10:30 p.m. and usually I hear anything on the road driving up. Can actually sense a car or truck. Maybe it’s the hard pan sending vibrations through the ground. Whatever it is, rarely am I caught unaware.

I climbed from my chair and crossed the living room to the front door. Pulling it open, a short guy in a tan Harley Davidson dress shirt, black pants and loafers pushed past me, followed by a thick necked guy in a dark suit.

“Nick! Sal! God it’s good seeing you two guys!”

On his way through the living room, Artemus Thornson slid a piece of pizza from the box, coolly walked into the kitchen, yanked open the fridge and lifted a beer. Returning to the living room and falling onto the couch.

“How ya been!”

I looked at the thick necked guy.

“Sam, good seeing you.”

Thornson’s body guard smiled and nodded then sidled to the wall to keep an eye on the rest of us without being intrusive. The bulge of a holstered handgun – a big handgun – was as obvious today as it was when we had the “Shootout at Willow Weep” some months ago.

“Still packing the Desert Eagle, I see.”

“Yup.”

“You’re my man,” I said, returning to my lounge chair, lifting my feet to the coffee table and staring at Thornson. He had been ducking Sal and me and our inquiries about the Tree Man fall out. He saw my under current of fury at his intransigence.

He raised his hands in a defensive posture.

“Nick, I’m sorry about what happened. Really. The best I could do was warn you. The rest is way over my pay grade.”

The words were sincere and I wanted to believe him so I let it go for the time being.

“Good to see you, Artie.”

He winced at the reference, but smiled. He’d let me have that one. Tit for Tat.

“And you’re here, why?” Sal asked. He isn’t as forgiving as I am. He carries a grudge on his sleeve and never lets anyone forget it. Artemus had let him down big time and the loss of life that resulted almost made Sal come unglued.

Artemus knew he was in territory if not of the enemy, at least antagonists.

“You’ve been poking around Washington and Virginia, Sal. Need to know what you have in mind.”

Sal’s face clouded over, eyes going dark.

“None of your business, actually.”

“Actually, it is. In a roundabout way.” He leaned back in the chair and gazed at the ceiling. “Let’s just say that if you were planning to take actions against certain people for what happened with the Tree Man situation, we would be on opposite sides. Adversaries. And even though you have some pretty loyal old buds, I know who they are and have pretty loyal new buds. And you don’t know who they are.”

I stopped the conversation on the spot.

“Enough, Artie. You can get the hell out of here right now or I’ll throw you out.” A quick spin to Sam, “And you’ll have to use that Desert Eagle to stop me.”

Sam raised a hand, palm out, in defense. No words.

Back to Thornson, “You don’t come in my house and threaten anybody.” I could hear my voice rising. “Especially my friends.”

Thornson lowered his eyes to mine.

“I’m trying to keep you guys from spending a long, long time in a place no one knows exists with people who don’t speak English and think bread and water is tantamount to coddling a… guest.”

“Out,” hitching my thumb to the door. “Now.”

Artemus gave his head a shake, climbed from the chair, wiped pizza from his fingers and took a final swig of beer. Silently he crossed the living room and Sam opened the door for him.

Turning back toward us, “Think every move you make all the way through before doing anything. I like you guys. Truly do. Don’t become statistics – or less.”

With that he and Sam left, the big body guard closing the door quietly behind him.

Steam was coming out of my ears. “That son of a…”

Sal raised a hand and put a finger over his lips to be quiet. He stood and waved me to follow him into the kitchen. The big man forked two fingers to his eyes then pointed around the kitchen.

Once a spook, always a spook.

I looked under the counter as Sal peered behind the appliances.

Less than a minute later he snapped his fingers to get my attention then pointed to the underside of the exhaust fan over the stove. A smile spread across his bearded face.

The bug was tiny. About the size of 10p nail head and virtually the same color white as the fan enclosure. It would have been missed if we hadn’t been looking for it.

I picked it off and dropped it into the sink; turned on the hot water and watched it flush down the drain.

Within a dozen minutes we had found three more in various locations in the kitchen and one under the coffee table in the living room.

“That it?”

Sal shrugged. “Probably. They’re so damn small and almost invisible. But he didn’t have enough time to put many more around. I think we’re clear.”

We retook our seats.

“What was that all about? Just to plant bugs?”

Sal’s beard twitched as he thought about the questions. Then, “Not so sure. He wouldn’t have come just for that. He has more than enough resources to do grunt work. He’d never have to leave his D.C. office. There’s more.”

“Personalize the warning? Thinking it would carry more weight if he said it face to face rather than over the phone?”

“More likely.”

The sound of crunching gravel in the drive, the slamming of a car door and 10 seconds later Cookie walked into the living room.

“Hi guys!” she said, dropping her overnight bag in the hallway. “Whatcha doing?”

“Hey babe. How was Chicago?”

“Cold, snowy and cold. And snowy.” She crossed the room, planted a wet kiss on me and fell into my lap. “Hi Sal,” giving him a toothy smile.

“Glad you’re home,” he said. “I’m getting tired of fixing breakfast for this goon.”

“Who you calling a goon? And when did you become a cook at Eatin’ Station?”

Cookie looked around the room, inspecting walls and ceiling.

“No bullet holes, so I guess you’ve been behaving?”

“Wait til you see the lawn ornament Tatiana got Sal. We have to get one just like it.”

“Really?”

“Hand crafted in Germany,” I said. “A magnificent piece of work.”

Sal laughed. “And wait til you hear what we saw on the river.”

Cookie’s eyes went narrow. “What’s going on?”

“Let’s go to McFarlin's, have a burger,” I suggested. “We can fill you in over a Long Island Iced Tea.”

“Long Island Iced Tea,” she said, eyes getting even narrower. “Since when do you drink…”

“Or a cherry martini,” Sal interjected.

“Now I know something’s up.”

“Gin fizz,” I added.

Sal responded, “Cranberry Margarita.”

“Lemon schnapps with a Fire Ball chaser?”

Sal groaned in mock ecstasy, “Oh, so tempting.”