Текст книги "Water from My Heart"

Автор книги: Charles Martin

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

This would come back to bite me.

One morning, a guy a few years older than me walked into the shop and started talking with Hack. He’d heard about the skiffs through some friends in Miami and wanted to know if he could order one. Hack informed him that his waiting list was now seven years long, and given the sight of Hack, the fellow could read the writing on the wall. That’s when he spotted my skiff. “That yours?”

He wasn’t unkind. Just curious. Opportunistic. He was also used to getting his way—or at least being able to buy it. “Yes.”

“Any chance you’d sell it?”

“You like to chase bonefish?”

He shook his head. “Don’t fish.”

“You want to buy this skiff, but you don’t fish?”

He nodded with a grin.

Hack smiled at me and raised both eyebrows. I wiped my hands on a rag and turned to admire my boat. “I just spent the better part of a year building it. Have had it out a half-dozen times. I don’t mean to be ugly, but it would take a lot of money.”

The going rate for a custom-built skiff from Hack was $40,000 to $60,000 depending on the finishings. He smiled. “How about two hundred fifty thousand? Cash.”

I looked at him like he’d lost his ever-loving mind. “Are you on the level?”

“I’ll have the money delivered this afternoon.”

“A quarter of a million dollars? For some wood and glue and paint?”

He smiled. “And elbow grease.”

Hack nodded several times and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Take the man’s money before he changes his mind.”

I looked at the boat. Then at Hack. Finally at the man. I offered my hand. “Would you like that gift wrapped?”

That afternoon, I found myself in a predicament. Just what exactly does one do with $250,000 cash?

Chapter Nine

Colin’s house sat inside a gated community, the centerpiece of which was a resort hotel—a five-star-rated vacation. The resort also sold time-share condos with access to the hotel amenities, but the prizes of the community were the thirty or so ocean estates of which Colin’s house was the pièce de résistance. A long driveway, nearly a half mile in length, wound out onto the rock point on which Colin’s house sat, allowing for two points of entry from the water. The house faced the ocean and offered beach access down a winding path of rock and dune that led to a cabana. The back of the house led down to a deep-water port on a small, private cove—custom designed for large seafaring fishing yachts.

I docked the Bertram, tied her off, and inventoried the three other boats hanging on racks in the boathouse. I chuckled. Colin was a poor boat pilot, constantly running aground and knocking over pilings in the dock, but that did not hinder his ability to buy first-class boats. He had a great eye when it came to boats. Tiny lights had been mounted beneath every fifth step, lighting the way up the more than one hundred teak steps to the house. Whoever built this house had spared little expense. The smooth stairs wound up through the rock ledges, turning and twisting with several overlooks as I climbed higher. Off to my left, leading out of the boathouse, wound a cart path that serpentined its way around and then up the bluff. It allowed somebody with a golf cart or small car to shuttle necessities to and from the dock house without having to carry them up and down those steps.

The steps exited on the backyard, off to the side of the outdoor kitchen. Unnatural heat from the kitchen met me as I stepped around the stone wall serving as part of a chimney. One of the enormous gas grills—that could have doubled as a rotisserie—sat burning on high, and the commercial fan above it sucked up much of the heat. The residue and grease on and around the grill suggested that something had been burning at one time. I clicked off the grill and the fan, and then studied a margarita mixer, which sat mostly full and completely melted. The air smelled of rum and coconut oil. I circled the backyard and walked up onto the pool deck where the pool was lit. A couple of bathing suits and the halves of several bikinis floated in the water. Two lawn chairs sat at the bottom of the deep end. More than a hundred beer and whiskey bottles littered the backyard along with a couple dozen cigarette butts and almost as many marijuana joints, a couple of which were still stuck between paper clips. A hookah with several pipes lay on its side next to the pool.

The back of the house was mostly glass and the large doors had been slid open. One had come off its tracks and now rested on its side, crushing some bushes beneath it. Its partner had been broken and scattered in several large pieces off to the side. I stepped through a torn and flapping curtain and into the house to two smells: The first was of something having been burned in the oven. The second was something rotting in the main kitchen. Either oysters or shrimp. A glance in the sink and trash can confirmed both. If I thought the backyard was in disarray, I had another thing coming. The inside of the house was trashed. The stereo was pounding out something incomprehensible with a beat I couldn’t follow, so I found the power button and killed it. Much of the furniture had been turned on end. The kitchen table sat at an angle as one leg had been broken off. Someone had punched multiple holes in the Sheetrock with something the size of an anvil. A green stuffed animal that looked like Kermit the Frog had been tied to one of the blades of the ceiling fan and was currently doing about 280 revolutions a minute. The TV had been a large flat screen before someone threw what looked like a lamp through it. The lamp was still protruding from the screen, which was now black.

The granite countertop covering the island in the kitchen had been cracked down the middle, but the most interesting “adjustment” made to the house on the first floor was that the kitchen sink faucet had been turned on and pointed away from the sink. A small river of water ran along the countertop, down the wall, along the tile floor, and down into the sunken living room, which now floated in eighteen inches of water—aided by water from a garden hose, which had been rolled in through the back door. The water had risen to the level of the top step, crested, and spilled over, cascading out a side door and onto the pool deck, where it emptied into the pool. The pool—aided by water from a second garden hose—had now filled and spilled over the zero-view waterfall that led into a smaller pool eight feet below on the second pool deck, which had also filled and was now spilling over the edge, creating a miniature waterfall down the craggy rocks leading to the beach some sixty feet below. I turned off the faucet and both hoses and then made my way upstairs. Someone had tied a curtain to the chandelier and had evidently been swinging on it from the stairwell, dislodging it from the ceiling. It now dangled by three electrical wires, threatening a dive into the recently added indoor pool below.

The seven bedrooms upstairs were no better. Each of the beds had been slept in or used by what appeared to be multiple people. One of the beds had been covered in plastic sheeting and soaked in something with the same viscosity as baby oil. Clothes and underwear lay scattered. The bathrooms were soaking wet, and the Jacuzzi in the master bath had been filled with what was now stale and sour beer, as evidenced by the three empty kegs stacked next to it.

The master bedroom must have seen the brunt of the upstairs party because the mattress had been taken out on the balcony and someone had lit a fire in the middle of it with what looked like the remains of the master bed frame and headboard. The balcony was devoid of any other furniture. The sun had disappeared behind the Pacific and dark was falling, but one glance off the north end of the balcony proved that the furniture had been thrown down the cliff toward the boathouse. Most of it lay in splinters on the rocks.

Resting on a ledge above where the master bedroom had been sat a handheld video recorder. A cord tethered it to the master TV, which was the only piece of furniture or area of the house that had not been violated by the party. I was pretty sure I did not want to see what was on that recorder, but I thought it might help me determine if Zaul had been here and what his new best friends looked like.

The video recorder contained more than eight hours of unedited content. Someone had spent a good bit of time recording and narrating the events over what looked like three days of a rather epic party. The voice sounded female, but I couldn’t understand a word as it was all spoken very fast and in Spanish. She did an excellent job of documenting the escalation of the party and the total destruction of Colin and Marguerite’s house. A few minutes into the video, I heard a clinking of bottles behind me in the master bathroom. I paused the video and found a young man in what was once a tuxedo crawling out from underneath the laundry bin in the closet. He was in the early stages of waking up and experiencing the mind-splitting headache accompanying what was probably the worst hangover he’d ever known. His eyes were slits, one hand was attempting to shade his eyes, and at some point in the last day, he’d thrown up all over himself, which explained the smell. He was rank.

I looked at him and he grunted at me.

“Hi.”

He lay his head back down on the floor, put one hand on the wall and one foot flat on the floor. He cracked a whisper. “Make it stop.” His Spanish accent was thick and fell on the English words in all the wrong places.

I laughed. “Spinning a bit, is she?”

“Dude…” With that, he turned on his side and emptied what little remained in his stomach. It wasn’t much. I turned the shower on cold, dragged him into it, and sat him up while the water ran down his head and chest. He might have been sixteen, and judging from his demeanor, I didn’t take him for an invited attendee to the party. He looked to me to be someone who, at least initially, had worked the party.

While the water ran, I walked downstairs and scrounged up enough to make a pot of coffee. When ready, I carried a cup to the kid, who had now turned off the water and sat dripping in the shower. He accepted the mug with a thick-tongued “Gracias.”

I handed him some swim shorts and a T-shirt that might have been Colin’s and then returned to the video. About fifteen minutes later, he stumbled out. The mug hand was both shaking and shading his eyes while the other felt and steadied his way along the wall. He began speaking in mumbled and nearly incoherent Spanish. Thirty seconds in, I held up a hand and spoke most of the Spanish I knew. “No hablo español.” He smiled, nodded, and began speaking slowly again in broken English. I managed to piece together that Miguel was an employee of the seafood caterer—or had been three days prior—and had accepted an invite when his shift ended to join the bartenders and work for tips. Sadly none of which were still in his pocket. But to his great pleasure, the alcohol had flowed, as had the tips, as had the girls dancing on the balcony. Following his tenure at the bar, he’d met a beautiful girl and they’d danced away the night—which he surmised was two nights ago—only to wake up in her arms on a lawn chair by the pool. They spent that day on the beach, partied into the night, and the last thing he remembered was pumping beer into the hot tub. As best he could recall, he’d been passed out in the closet for the better part of a day.

I clicked on the video and asked him to help narrate, which he did with animated delight. He told the stories of the girls and what they drank. Who liked rum. Martinis. Shots of tequila. He snapped his finger. “Flor de Caña de bomb. E’body ly’ fruit of cane.” We watched as the crowd grew and beer foam began to spew across the pool. Early on the first evening, some guy with long, sun-bleached hair dragged a hose into the house and started filling in the living room. Late into the night, bikini-clad girls swung from the chandelier. Soon, they were blindfolded, soaked in oil, and wrestling on the upstairs mattress. Somewhere in the middle of the night, another guy—a walking spark plug, muscled, bald—began breaking the teak patio furniture into splinters, which he promptly threw into a pile and doused with gasoline. The crowd of about a hundred danced around the fire, and most passed out within its glow. The second day followed much like the first, except a couple more sun-bleached and tanned guys showed up. Muscled, powerful shoulders. Not much fat. Four in total.

I pointed them out. “You know them?”

“Sí.” He nodded as if it was a stupid question. “Surfers mostly, but—” He mimicked smoking a joint. “You need som’sing, I hook you up. Dey ha’ good produc.”

Whenever Zaul showed in the video, one of the other four weren’t far. I asked, “And him?”

He shrugged. “He new. Quiet. No smile much. But—” He rubbed the fingers together on his right hand. “He loaded.”

With the video, I was able to put together a pretty good idea of Zaul’s new circle of friends. Because Miguel also worked at the resort on weekends, he knew of most of the guys. Except Zaul. “No, he jes’ roll in. Big wad of cash. Pay for whole party. Tip me…” He dug his hands into his tux pants and shook his head. “Hundred dollars.”

When I asked him what had happened to everyone and their party, Miguel shrugged and pointed at the closet. His disappointment was obvious.

“Any idea where they went?”

He rewound the video and let a section play where the four surfers were talking with Zaul. They were animated, talking with their hands as much as their mouths, trying to persuade Zaul to come—and bring his money—to someplace where the waves were big and the girls were plenty and scantily clothed. Miguel translated. “Here, they talk about the surf being broken.”

“Did they say ‘broken’ or ‘break’?”

He rewound and listened again. Then he nodded. “Break. Dey say ‘break.’” He pressed play again. “Here, they talking about a resort. North o’ Corinto. Son’sing about—” He shook his head trying to find the words. “A ‘break’ off the beach. At a reef. Thirty-foot wave. But—” He snapped his fingers and shushed me, listening another few minutes. He pointed at the TV. “First, go to León to party and stay at one of the guy’s uncle’s hotel where there is be a party.”

“Does he give the hotel name?”

Miguel shook his head. At this point in the video, one of the guys points to Zaul, rubs his fingers together like Miguel had just done with me, and says something with a big smile at which point the other three nod. “What are they saying there?”

Miguel listened and tried to make it out. The music was loud and a couple of girls were singing in the pool, just off to the side. “Son’sing now how they meet him to ‘el jefe.’”

“They want to introduce him to someone?”

“Sí.”

“Who?”

“El jefe.”

“What’s a heff-ay?”

He searched for the words. “E’body work for heem. He”—he held up a finger—“number one on flagpole.”

I understood what he was saying, so I didn’t bother correcting him. “Does heff-ay have a name?”

“No, but”—he pointed to one of the guys on the screen—“he know him.” He kept pointing at the screen, using his hand to draw the words out of his mouth. “He think”—he pointed to Zaul—“he money be berry good. Make much more money. All around.” He put his hand on the screen, covering Zaul’s face. “He bank.”

I was afraid of that.

I asked him if he needed a ride, and he lay down on the floor, closed his eyes, and said something about calling “his mu-herr.”

Twenty minutes later, a girl riding a scooter zoomed into the driveway. The look on her face was not one of kindness. He walked outside, sort of circling her, when she promptly slapped him across the face, ushering another wave of vomit out of him and into the bushes. While he emptied himself, she continued with a verbal onslaught the likes of which I’ve seldom seen. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard someone speak that fast before. After he cleaned his face with the hose, he eased onto the back of the scooter with his tail between his legs and then disappeared down the street. I don’t think Miguel’s wife was too happy to see him.

Around ten o’clock, I finally called Colin.

The doctors had slowly weaned Maria from her medications and brought her out of her medically induced coma. He lowered his voice. “A couple of times, we’ve gotten behind the pain curve. Had to play catch-up.” A pause. “It’s been…difficult.” He whispered, “Especially on Marguerite.”

I explained the situation with the house along with an assessment of the damage. Colin listened in silence. When I’d finished, he asked, “Any idea where he’s gone?”

“I think he’s chasing waves up and down the Nicaraguan coast with a group of guys who sell dope to support their surfing habit. First stop is a party in a little town called León.”

Central America is a sliver of land that connects Mexico to Brazil on the northwestern tip of South America. It is bordered on the southern side by the Pacific Ocean and on the northern side by the Caribbean Sea, which fans out into the Atlantic. The countries of Central America are comprised of Guatemala and Belize on the northern tip bordering Mexico. Moving south, travelers reach El Salvador on the Pacific side and Honduras on the Caribbean. Nicaragua sits squarely in the middle with borders on either coastline before turning more due south and bleeding into Costa Rica. The last stop south is Panama—the most narrow of all the Central American countries, which explains the presence of the canal. Surf junkies had been known to chase waves from Panama to Guatemala. Nicaragua was a known surfing mecca and an obvious next stop.

“You know León?”

“Used to do business there in a former life.”

“Any idea how he intends to get there?”

“Well…no, but he stole your truck so…” When Colin bought the house, he also bought a Toyota HiLux diesel four-door four-wheel drive truck and installed surf racks and oversized tires with a more Baja and aggressive grip. He and Zaul had used it to chase bigger waves up and down the coast.

I heard him mumble to himself, “I liked that truck.”

I continued. “And there are no surfboards in this house.”

He was quiet a minute. “Call us when you can.”

“Might be a few days.”

A long pause. I heard Marguerite talking in the background. Speaking over the phone, Colin picked up a conversation with her in the midst of ours. His voice lowered even more. “She does?” I heard some shuffling and Colin returned to me. “Maria wants to say hello.”

More shuffling, then a garbled “Uncle Charlie?” Her voice sounded thick with sedation.

“Hey, beautiful girl. How you doing?”

“I’m—” There was a pause. Followed by some muffled cries. I heard the word “hurts” and Colin again.

“Hey. She misses you.”

“How’s she doing? Really.”

Long pause. “Not too good.” He was hurting inside. “Charlie?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not constantly telling me that this is my fault.”

“That’s ’cause it’s not.”

A chuckle mixed with the hint of a muffled cry. Disbelief evident in his tone. Colin was holding it together by a thread. “It’s not?”

“No.” I stared out across the ocean. At the emptiness staring back at me.

“Then whose is it?”

If there was honor among thieves, Colin and I at least shared that. “It’s ours.”

Chapter Ten

Colin lived in Miami. He explained that he owned a fragrance company as well as a wine and spirits import company. This line of work brought him in contact with the Miami elite—athletes, movie stars, pop divas—who were often at his house. As a result, he’d turned his house into a bit of a museum and party destination. Said it was good for business. People liked to “ooh” and “aah” at his toys. He intended to put the skiff on display in his boathouse. The one stipulation to the deal was that I ferry the skiff to his house in Miami. I looked at Hack who coughed, spat, and nodded. “For that much money, we’ll paddle the sucker over there.”

The following weekend, Colin sent his captain and first mate to lead us to his boat. We quickly learned that Colin kept a sixty-foot sportfisher yacht moored in Bimini. He used it to entertain clients that he would helicopter over from the mainland. While he liked boats and was attracted by the power and shine, he didn’t know much about them or how to maneuver them, so he’d hire a captain and first mate to take them just offshore to find blue marlin, wahoo, tuna, et cetera.

Hack and I used the marina’s crane to lift the skiff onto a specially built platform, which we anchored to his bow using some really heavy-duty tie-down straps. The following day, for the first time in almost three years, I returned to the coast of Florida.

We crossed the deep water, then through Stiltsville, Biscayne Bay, and into the lagoons that led to Colin’s house. Hack sat up front, wrapped in the cloud of his own smoke, the view of the mangrove trees, and all the girls sunbathing in bikinis.

I dangled my legs over the edge and enjoyed the view of the world I’d left. Pulling up to Colin’s house, Hack’s eyes grew wide. It covered what looked to be three lots and must have had forty rooms. Hack flicked his cigarette out into the water. “You should’ve asked for more money.”

I doubted he was worth more than Marshall, but he certainly did a better job of flaunting it. “Yep.”

Mingling around the pool on the terrace above us, a party was in the early stages of getting cranked up. Beautiful bronzed women clad in string bikinis clung to hairy-chested men, some with massive biceps, wearing dark glasses and too many gold chains. A DJ had set up on the lawn beneath a tent and was performing a soundcheck. One girl, directly above us, leaned over the railing and winked at Hack. Hack shook his head and smiled. “I am definitely in the wrong business.”

We lowered the boat and then set it on rollers that allowed us to move it at will. Same sort of idea that piano movers use. Colin’s boathouse was larger than most homes and, as I would learn, was a bit of a museum for boats that other people valued. The inside was custom cedar from Canada and the lighting had been crafted like an art museum’s. Inside, steel rafters had been hung that served as sliders with rollers and large hooks. He could move any boat in his house, in almost any direction. Up, down, sideways. Walking into his boathouse was like walking into the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. There were boats hanging everywhere.

He met us at the door, shook our hands, and gave us a tour, explaining his boats, their value, and what prompted their purchase. I quickly learned that my skiff was the least expensive—by a lot. I said, “You spend a lot of time in your boats?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

Finished with setting up the boat, Hack and I were loading back up on the sportfisher for the return trip when Colin asked, “You guys hungry?”

Hack stared at all the girls. “Starving.”

I laughed. We made our way through the buffet, and while my eighty-year-old buddy introduced himself to every girl at the party, Colin introduced me to his wife and two kids. With black hair and eyes, Marguerite was a Spanish knockout an inch taller than Colin. She was also a concert pianist, which explained the Steinway in the acoustically perfect auditorium built as a wing on their house where she gave private concerts. Colin had met her at the Miss Universe Pageant where she’d been a contestant. Gonzalo, or “Zaul,” his ten-year-old son, was wearing a T-shirt that read I’M WITH THE BAND. He was handsome, had his mom’s eyes, shook my hand, and then disappeared to the backyard, where he shadowed the DJ. Colin then introduced me to his four-year-old daughter, Maria Luisa. The apple had not fallen far from the tree. She was wearing a princess dress, lipstick, her mom’s high heels, and a tiara. And while Zaul’s smile warmed me, Maria melted me and stole a piece of me. I knelt down and straightened her tiara, which had slid to the side. “Hi.”

She had the most beautiful smile and blue eyes I’d ever seen.

Colin and Marguerite gave me a tour of the house while Maria slipped her hand in her dad’s and gave me color commentary about “her” house. When we reached the theater, Colin convinced Marguerite to play. She sat and her hands rolled across the keys, producing quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard, while Maria twirled onstage beneath the spotlight.

Later, we ate lunch and laughed at Hack, who was surrounded by every girl at the party. Late in the afternoon, Colin tapped me on the shoulder. “Got a second?”

This was not my first rodeo. I knew there was more to this tour and boat delivery than met the eye. A guy like this could have had his people deliver this boat with a snap of his fingers, but for some reason he wanted us, and I suspected me more than us.

He led me to the boathouse, where we climbed the crow’s nest to the third floor and stared out across Key Biscayne. Below us, the DJ was getting the party cranked up. He was covered in rings, gold, and tattoos. Colin said, “He’s a rapper. Known as ‘Liv-ed.’ That’s devil spelled backward.” Colin shook his head. “His real name is William Alfred Butler, and he’s currently number one on the charts. We’re rolling out his fragrance line this week.”

“You like rap?”

Colin shook his head. “No, but”—he pointed to the people attending his party—“they do.”

“How’d you get him here?”

“Same way I got you.”

I decided to skip all the BS, so I said, “You always buy your friends?”

“My friends? No. But the people at this party? Yes.”

On the lawn below us, William Butler was instructing Zaul how to hold the microphone, how to wear his hat, and then what to do with his hands while he screamed into the mike. Most gestures gave the indication that he was angry and had something to do with adjusting his groin. His hat sat off to one side and his pants had been lowered down below his buttocks. Whenever he wanted to make a point with emphasis, he held his hand up in the air, like he was holding a gun turned on its side and pulled the trigger. Zaul mimicked as best he could. I watched in mild amusement. “What’s the name of his fragrance?”

“Incarceration.”

A moment passed while the breeze dried the sweat on our skin. I figured I’d take the lid off. “What’s the real reason you’ve got me three stories up staring down on the world you created and yet the one you care very little about?”

A smirk. “Perceptive.” He pointed at Marguerite and the kids swimming in the pool. “They’re the only ones I really care about.” He waved his hand across the landscape below us. “The rest of this is just noise.”

“Why do you listen to it?”

“It’s necessary.” He shrugged. “Which brings me to you. I don’t know you from Adam’s house cat, but I’ve a pretty good idea you didn’t set out in life to build skiffs. You’re running from something, and from what I can tell, you’re really good at the two parts of that vocation.”

“What parts would that be?”

“The first part is cutting all attachments.”

I pointed at Hack, who now had a six-foot blonde sitting on his lap. He was liberally rubbing suntan oil on her shoulders. Others were waiting in line for him to do the same. “Except him. And the second?”

“The ability to keep a secret.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m pretty well connected on Bimini, and yet I can find no one who knows anything about you, other than that—after almost three years—you seem to get along well with the island legend there and that you keep to yourself. No friends. No girlfriend. No family.”

I didn’t respond.

“Am I right?”

I chuckled. “Answering that would sort of negate the idea behind it.”

He paused. “Let me cut to the chase.”

I waited.

“I’d like to hire you. On the side. Won’t interfere with anything you’ve got going on with Hack. And you’ll make more money than you can spend.”

I didn’t look at him. “Money is not a carrot to me.”

“How about adventure, fast boats, and helicopters, seeing different shores and getting away with something.”

“That would depend on the work.”

“Well, to begin with, it’s not legal.” He waited. “Are you opposed to illegal?”

“I’m opposed to jail.”

He chuckled. “Me, too. If you don’t want me to go any further, you’re free to enjoy the party and the guys will take you back whenever you like.”

Between the bronzed girls with long legs; Hack’s easy laughter; the lobster; the smells of coconut oil, rum, and spent diesel; the flashy boats; the movie stars; and pop divas walking around below me, I was drunk on the atmosphere, intrigue, and mystery.

“I’m listening.”

“My dad came over from Cuba. Started with one corner grocery store. Built several. Then moved into distribution. Trucking. Warehousing. He owned everything from the field to the table. He kept his costs low, smoked out inefficiencies, and made a pile of money. He brought me in early, taught me the business and how to deliver a good product to people. I have no college education, but I know how to run a business. My dad left me $50 million, and because people like to smell good; drink fancy liquor, wine, and champagne; and suck white powder up their noses, I’m now worth close to twenty times that. I don’t need money, but I do like the life and the people, and to be honest, I like the identity that comes with it. I’ve been poor, and given the choice, I prefer wealthy.” A shrug. “That said, my business is a mix of legitimate and not. I need a runner. Someone I can trust in a business where no one is trustworthy.”

His story intrigued me. I watched Marguerite walk across the backyard carrying a plate of food to a guest. “She know?”

He nodded. “I have no secrets from her.”

“How is it that your father was legal and you’re not?”

“You’re assuming he was legal. My father started with one grocery store, and for my first few years of life, we lived in the back of it. I can remember sleeping in the big walk-in refrigerator where we kept all the produce during the August heat. Then my dad figured out how to import rum from his brothers and sell it out the back door. Soon, we were selling it out of the back of his truck, then trucks, then stores—plural.” He smiled. “Dad was mostly legal. More than that, he knew how to make a dollar.”