Cross Current - Kling Christine (онлайн книги бесплатно полные TXT) 📗
“Nineteen seventy-three. Do you know where it is?”
“I don’t recognize it as any marina around here.” He looked up, slid his glasses to the top of his head, and squinted his blue eyes at me. “Why is that important?”
“Look on the back.”
He flipped the photo over and slid the glasses back down onto his nose. He let out a low whistle. “Cartagena.” He rolled the r when he said the name of the city. He ran his fingers through his stubble, and I could hear the scratchy, sand- papery sound over the low hum of the air conditioner.
“So what do you make of that, Mike?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Sey. This is the first I’ve heard about this. Joe and Red? Hell, I didn’t meet Joe until about eighty-five. Don’t know for sure when he started with DEA. What do you know about this?”
“I found this picture and some others in Red’s old trunk. I have very vague memories of that time, as I was only about three years old. I don’t know if I remember Red’s being gone, or if I just heard my folks argue about it so many times afterward that I think I remember it. Here’s what I do know: My dad had just about finished building Gorda when he just plum ran out of money. Somebody offered him the opportunity to make a delivery on this big fancy yacht. The pay was going to be enough to buy the engine for the tug, and he’d only have to be gone a couple of months. Even as adults, Red and I never talked about it. When they used to argue, my mother would say that he made a better crew than captain.
He would have made lots more money working on rich people’s yachts than he ever did owning his own boat. Which was true, of course, but Red was never about making money. He just loved that tug.” I had been listening to my own telling of the story. “I know it doesn’t sound good, but I don’t think either Red or Joe would have been involved with anything illegal.”
The look on Mike’s face worried me. He wasn’t looking me in the eyes, and his lips were stretched thin. “Sey, I’ve seen too much of what people are capable of. Are you sure you want to go digging into this?”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. Was I sure? How would I handle it if I found out my father had been involved with something illegal? No, the doubts were worse. I had to settle it.
“Mike, I need to know what really happened down there. Not knowing is the worst.”
“Okay then, if that’s really what you want, I’ll be glad to help.”
Mike sounded less convinced than resigned.
“First,” he said, “I suggest we stop speculating and go talk to these fellas. See, the thing is, I know who this other guy in the picture is, too.”
“The guy with the big mustache?”
“Yeah. And, Sey. The news is not good.”
Mike had been planning on taking his dinghy out for a run to test the outboard that afternoon anyway, so we decided to run down the Intracoastal to the Dania Cut-off Canal and then up the canal inland to Pattie’s Ravenswood Marina. I figured we’d be gone a couple of hours, and there wasn’t much I could do for Solange at this point. Either that or I was rationalizing this trip because I wanted to know what had happened down in Colombia all those years ago.
Mike had tried to call Joe on his cell phone, but he got no answer. He left a message saying he’d just called to say hello, then he told me we’d try Joe again later. That gave us time to check out Gil first.
Mike’s was a rigid-bottom inflatable with a center console. He was standing at the controls, his artificial leg strapped on below his knee and worn-out Topsiders laced onto both feet. I was holding on to the stainless-steel bars around the center console as he told me what he knew about Gil’s background. The inflatable leapt onto a plane when we reached the Intracoastal Waterway, and I flexed my legs to take the pounding as we flew over boat wakes and the small chop from the southeasterly breeze.
According to Mike, the man’s real name was Gilbert Lynch, and he had been a high flier in the drug trade in the 1980s. He had come to Florida from Georgia in the seventies, right after his return from Vietnam, and he had always retained his accent, beguiling his enemies with his slow country boy act and then brutally stomping them out. In his heyday, he used to fill his riverfront estate with his army buddies, and he liked fast motorcycles and faster women. Back in those days, Gil knew everybody in the importing business. He was a real player.
Like many dealers, however, Gil had sampled his own product a little too freely. He started a downhill slide after he fried a few too many brain cells. Mike explained that Gil kept getting busted and eventually lost everything, but he avoided any serious jail time by pleading that he was a psych case. The really big guys in New York never bothered to get rid of him, because, even with all the time he spent in jail, he never talked about their business. Mike said that just proves he’s not as crazy as everybody thinks.
“Today, though, a lot of that has changed,” Mike said as we passed the cruise liners and freighters in Port Everglades. “Several of the detectives have been using him as a snitch. Most of the people Gil hangs around think he’s just another waterfront derelict. They say stuff around him, thinking he won’t understand much. But as long as he keeps taking his meds, he can hold it together, and he’s pretty smart. Well, crafty anyway. I don’t even know if Gil’s gonna remember anything from when those pictures were taken, but if he does, he’ll probably tell you everything he knows for about twenty bucks.”
Mike had heard that Gil hung out at one of the marinas along Ravenswood Road, so we headed south past the entrance to the harbor.
After traveling about a mile up the Dania Cut-off Canal, we pulled into Pattie’s Marina and tied up to the fuel dock. The only other boat tied to the dock was a twelve-foot wooden punt covered with multihued paint splatters. It was obvious that this year’s most popular boat colors were yellow and green. Pattie’s had a small travel lift and boatyard, and the big outboard on the ugly punt meant they used it as a mini boatyard tug as well as the waterline paint boat. Painting a boat while in the water was heavily frowned on by OSHA, but one got the idea that Pattie’s Marina broke more than a few regs.
Several locals were sitting around a table under a thatched Seminole Indian chickee hut, drinking from beer cans and watching us. Mike looped our line over the cleat on top of the marina dinghy’s line, then he ran a cable and padlock around the piling. The group under the hut included two men wearing baseball caps, T-shirts, and jeans. The only distinguishing characteristic between them was that one had long straight hair hanging both in front and back of his big jug ears. Of the three women, two wore halter tops and the third, an older woman, wore a faded Pattie’s Marina T-shirt that stretched tight around her ample bosom and hips. It was hard to tell if the couples lived in Pattie’s Trailer Court or if they lived aboard some of the barely floating homes in the marina. Laundry hung from lifelines, bikes rusted away on decks, barnacles grew along the waterlines, and rotten lines, fenders, toolboxes, and garbage bags littered the decks of Pattie’s live-aboard community. I guessed that the older woman sitting with the group was probably Pattie herself. Though Pattie’s was only five miles or so from the glittering marinas of Bahia Mar and Pier Sixty-six, in other forms of measurement the distance was incalculable.
Mike lifted his hat when he ducked into the shade under the chickee. “Afternoon, folks.”
One of the men murmured something that sounded like “good afternoon,” but the others just stared at Mike’s artificial leg, the stainless-steel knee and ankle joints, and the smooth pink “flesh-colored” plastic calf that protruded below his cut-off jeans. He ignored the stares and pushed on.
