Текст книги "Cross Current"

Автор книги: Christine Kling

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

XV

On the fuel dock, we saw that, though the dinghy floated where we’d left her, she was no longer tied to the dock. Gil had thrown off our line to untie the marina boat, and the dinghy painter now trailed into the depths of the brown, oily water. It was Mike’s cable around the piling that had prevented the boat from drifting off.

Once he got the outboard started and we were idling out toward the canal, Mike said, “Pattie’s probably right. We’ll find him another day. I sure as hell would like to know why he’s running, though.”

From Pattie’s marina, we could get back to Mike’s dock by turning either left or right since we were on a big circle made by the New River and the Dania Cut-off Canal. We headed left, west, up the canal, inland. Joe D’Angelo’s house, our next stop on our way back to Mike’s, was far up the New River, and eventually the canal we were on would connect with the river. Mike explained to me that Joe had bought his house in the Riverland neighborhood back in the eighties when a DEA guy could afford those places. His point lot home not far from the Jungle Queen’s tourist compound was the smartest investment the guy had ever made.

As we entered the stretch of the canal that passed through Pond Apple Slough, the canal banks changed from neat lawns to twisted mangroves. The evidence of civilization slipped away. Except for the occasional channel marker, we could have been deep in the Everglades. The Slough was one of the last remaining freshwater swamps on the southeast coast of Florida, and environmentalists had managed thus far to prevent its total destruction. It remained an isolated island of wilderness in the middle of Fort Lauderdale’s urban sprawl.

Mike pushed the throttle forward and the inflatable jumped into a plane. While I would have preferred to dawdle along at five knots, watching for birds and fish and raccoon, I had more important things to do—like find Solange’s father. A snapshot of her face kept popping up in my mind, even as I watched the flocks of cattle egrets take off from the mangroves as our outboard sped by. Occasionally, narrow passages branched off from the main waterway, and I glanced down them, yearning to explore. I’d forgotten how pretty it was up here. I told myself I’d have to come back here someday in one of the Larsens’ kayaks. Maybe bring Solange once this whole mess was worked out.

“Slow down, Mike.” I’d seen a flash of bright yellow and green.

“What’s up?” he asked as the boat settled back down into the water and our wake splashed into the mangrove roots ahead of us.

“Turn around.” We had just passed a little creek or something off the west side of the canal. “I saw something.”

He swung the boat around and motored back the hundred yards or so, then slowed and turned into an opening in the trees. There was a small barge aground about five hundred yards into the swamp where the narrow passage dead-ended. The rust brown sides of the barge blended into the brown and green of the mangroves. I never would have spotted it if Pattie’s paint-splattered boatyard punt had not been tied alongside.

“What do you know,” Mike said. “I think we found Gil’s little hidey-hole, after all.”

“Think he’s there?”

“Naw. He’d have to be deaf not to hear this outboard out here. Like Pattie said, he doesn’t want to be found.” Mike shrugged. “He’s probably slithered off into the swamp. Want to go aboard and check it out anyway?” He bobbed his head in the direction of the barge.

“We could take a quick look, I guess,” I said.

The old iron barge appeared to be no more than sixty feet long. They’d used such barges to haul out the muck back when many of South Florida’s canals were dredged. This one was now holed by rust and waterlogged, resting on the mud bottom in what I guessed was about two feet of water. Even in water five inches deep, the bottom wouldn’t have been visible. The swamp water resembled strong tea, stained as it was from the tannin in the mangroves. A small plywood-and-epoxy deckhouse, no more than ten by twelve, had been erected on the flat surface of the barge in what appeared to be the aft end of the derelict. Small plants, grasses, and mangrove shoots grew out of holes in the iron sides where rust had caused the metal to cave in and enough organic material had collected to allow seeds to root. What had once been a huge metal structure was rapidly being reclaimed by the swamp.

Mike tied the dinghy to an area that looked relatively free of sharp protuberances, and we climbed aboard. Polyethylene plastic sheeting was duct taped over what had once been the wheelhouse windows. It was difficult to see through the plastic film, but Mike was right—it wasn’t likely that Gil was still around. Still, I was happy to let Mike enter the deckhouse first.

“It’s okay, Sey. No bogeymen in here,” he shouted, his voice sounding muffled through the plastic sheeting.

“Hey, I’m not scared.”

He poked his head out the doorway. “No, that’s why you’re standing out there, twenty feet away, looking like you’re ready to bolt at the slightest sound.”

“You’ve got to admit, this place is creepy.”

“You want to be grossed out, come in here.”

The smell in the deckhouse touched off some faint memory I could not place. Human sweat mixed with fishy iodine and the sickly smell of dead things. Rotting leaves and food and papers were strewn around the inside of the structure. A single twin mattress, wet by the smell of it, rested on the floor, and the inside walls were covered with newspapers taped up with wide strips of duct tape. An ornate end table that had probably once sat in a Fort Lauderdale family room now rested between the mattress and the wall, the brass drawer handles rusted to greenish lumps and the wooden top now warped from the damp of the swamp. On the table was an ashtray that held a couple of roaches—evidence that Gil still smoked some weed when he could find it.

While Mike was pulling out the drawers and looking for anything of Gil’s that might tell us something, I noticed the newspaper on the bulkhead closest to the door was newer than the others. The front page of the Miami Herald had a small headline in the lower left corner, “Haitian Boat Sinks in Hillsboro Inlet,” and in the first paragraph I saw the name Miss Agnes.

“Well, would you look at this?” Mike held up a flashy new handheld VHF radio and a Nextel cellular phone. “I wonder where our friend picked up these little items?”

“Pretty expensive gear for a guy who’s homeless,” I said. “Yeah, I think it’s more likely our buddy Gil has sticky fingers than a major credit card.” He pulled out the drawer where he had found the electronics and felt around inside for anything that might be taped to the underside of the cabinet, when he didn’t find anything, he slid the drawer back in place, adjusted his leg, and pushed himself to his feet.

“Take a look at this,” I said, pointing to the newspaper. “What do you make of this?”

“What? That Gil uses newspaper for wallpaper?” Mike leaned in closer to the newsprint and tapped his finger against the headline. “Interesting, but probably just a coincidence.” He held up the phone and radio. “This, however, this intrigues me. I know Gil Lynch is not as loony as he pretends to be.” He handed me the phone and took a scrap of paper and a mechanical pencil out of his pocket. “Read me the number off that phone. I’ll have somebody run it and see who it belongs to.”

After I’d read him the number, he placed the items back in the drawer. “Let’s get out of this stink hole.”

We both managed to climb back down into Mike’s inflatable without falling into the canal or tearing any clothing on the rusty metal edges of the barge. I continued to be surprised by Mike’s agility with his artificial leg.

He cranked up the outboard while I untied our line and pushed the inflatable away from the rusty old derelict. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I said as we idled slowly out of the little side creek.

“Okay, let’s look at what we know. Gil Lynch is a burnt-out dealer turned snitch. He might get Social Security, but he’s dirt poor, living on the streets, and sleeping in shitty holes like that.” He jerked his thumb back at the barge. “As far as I know, the guy usually doesn’t mind seeing the cops come along. He normally tries to sell some tidbit of information.”

He turned the corner back into the Dania Cut-off Canal and pushed the throttle forward. The outboard noise climbed, and Mike continued by shouting.

“Two things are weird. First, if Gil knows something, why didn’t he try to sell it to me? And second, if he stole that stuff, why’s he hanging on to it? Guys like him usually head straight for the nearest pawnshop when they lift something like that.”

I wasn’t up to trying to shout over the outboard, so I just watched the riverbank flash by, and I let my thoughts blur in the same way. There had once been cypress trees in the freshwater swamp we were passing through, but when developers tapped into the aquifer to water all the green lawns they were planting, the water table dropped and Pond Apple Slough suffered as the saltwater seeped in. The twisted branches of the dead cypress trees still provided nesting space for hawks and osprey, though. I pointed a nest out to Mike. “Osprey,” I shouted.

“Cool.” He nodded.

Red had known Gil for about twenty-five years, and in all the time I had worked for my father on board Gorda, I didn’t remember Red ever mentioning him. Had they stayed in touch after the delivery, when Gil became a big-time drug dealer?

We rounded a bend in the waterway, and I saw we were exiting the swamp. More boat traffic and the bridges of the interstate were just ahead. Mike slowed the dinghy. Finally, he was able to talk in a more natural voice.

“We’re not far from Joe’s house now.”

“What do you think Gil’s connection to Joe is?”

“That’s just what we’re going to ask him,” Mike said.

Joe D’Angelo’s house stood out from its neighbors. The canal that stretched back from the river along the side of his property was lined with simple suburban homes whose backyard embellishments consisted of barbecues and swimming pools. Joe’s house was anything but simple. The large corner lot fronted about seventy feet on the river and another hundred feet along the canal, so you could not miss the elaborate patio and swimming pool with a huge artificial rock waterfall, the built-in waterslide, and the raised Jacuzzi that spilled into the pool. A covered redwood bar adjoined the Jacuzzi so that the bartender could easily deliver drinks to those basking in the bubbles. The pool cabana house had a small satellite dish on the roof, and the ranch-style house had been modified beyond recognition with a raised roof to accommodate the cathedral ceilings and glass walls that fronted the pool area. Davits at the far end of the dock held a black Jet Ski suspended over the water. The only boat tied to his dock was a sleek white Donzi ocean racer, maybe forty-five feet long, with a large cabin forward and room for half a dozen bikinied babes on the large upholstered transom. Judging from the dirt and leaves on the white fiberglass, Joe didn’t take her out much.

Mike slid the dinghy alongside the dock in front of Joe’s boat and killed the engine. After all his shouting and the constant whine of the outboard, the quiet seemed almost unnatural. From up the canal somewhere, the smell of grilling meat mingled with the sound of children laughing and shouting.

Mike took a deep breath. “Hmm. Smells good. Didn’t realize just how hungry I am.” He smiled at me. “No lunch.” He held his stomach. “I’m doing Weight Watchers.”

“What? With all the piña coladas you drink?”

He grinned. “That’s what I like about Weight Watchers. I can drink all my points.”

I shook my head and hopped up onto the dock. “Do you think we should have tried to call again?”

“Nah. When you want information, you don’t let ’em know exactly when you’re coming. Much better to just drop in.”

Looking around at the elaborate pool and patio setup, I said, “Wow, this is some property. Joe didn’t do too bad as a DEA agent.”

“Like I said, he bought this place twenty years ago when they were affordable, and this particular property was a real dump, I heard. He says he did lots of the work himself.”

We were walking around the Jacuzzi when the sliding doors opened and a stunning, smiling black woman waved to Mike.

“Mister Mike. Hello.” Her head was wrapped in a bright blue headscarf, and she stood in the doorway with one hand at her hip, the other shading her eyes from the sun. The pose was casual, but a photograph of her at that moment could have sold any product. Although her English was almost unaccented, I detected a bit of Haiti in there.

“Hey, Celeste, is Joe around?” Mike asked as we rounded the pool.

“He is not here right now, but he’ll be home soon.” She stepped out of the opening in the sliding door and waved her hand toward the interior of the house. “Would you like to come in and wait?” Her movements were like those of a dancer. Though she was wearing a simple cotton dress and no makeup, her figure and face were striking.

Mike turned to me with raised eyebrows. “Your call, Sullivan. You got the time?”

I shrugged. “We can wait a while. If he doesn’t get here in twenty minutes, though, we’d better take off. I have to meet someone tonight.”

“Fair enough.” He waved his arm in the direction of Celeste. “After you.”

Celeste brought us glasses and bottles of St. Pauli’s Girl beer. She set us up at the indoor bar in the study that overlooked the pool. Clearly, Joe was into bars. I was trying to discern if Celeste was a housekeeper or girlfriend. Or both. When she disappeared and did not come back, I decided on housekeeper.

The decorating scheme for the house could only be called eclectic, but, somehow, it all worked. Along one wall, a narrow section of bookshelves stretched to the ceiling while the rest of the wall was covered with lighted nooks that held sculptures or photos or antiques. A wheeled library ladder reached up twenty feet to a rail that ran just below the ceiling. An antique barber’s chair was bolted to the floor just inside the window where it would have the best view of the river.

As promised, Joe was home in less than ten minutes. We heard the car, followed by a loud greeting, then the hushed tones as Celeste told him we were there. His whispers sounded loud and harsh, angry about something. I wondered if it was us. But when he came through the doors, he was all smiles.

“Mike. Seychelle.” He shook both our hands. “So good to see you both. What brings you by the old hacienda?”

In his white shorts and lime green polo shirt, Joe looked the part of the retiree. I doubted the ensemble was a biking outfit. Maybe golf?

“Hey, Joe. Sorry to barge in on you like this,” Mike said, “but I’m going to get straight to the point. Sey came by to visit me today, and she found some old photos among her dad’s things. She wanted to find out more about the history behind those pics.”

I had already retrieved the photos out of my shoulder bag, and I spread them out on the bar. “I’m more than a little confused, Joe,” I said. “Yesterday morning you said that you and Red used to work together when you were in the DEA, and he used to tow boats for you.”

Joe picked up the picture of the three of them. He had a peculiar little half-smile on his face.

“You never said anything about knowing Red over twenty years ago,” I added.

He didn’t say anything for over a minute. None of us did. We just sat there and watched the shadows in the room stretch out.

“I haven’t talked about that trip in years,” he began. He climbed onto a bar stool on the far side of me. Mike rested his hand on my shoulder. Joe looked up from the photo. “You have grown up to be such a beautiful young woman, Seychelle. I would never say or do anything to hurt you. I didn’t lie to you the other day, I just didn’t tell you everything. That was the way we always handled it. When Red and I began working together again in the eighties, we never discussed the past.” He looked back down at the photo. “Seychelle, I think this is something you should just forget. Destroy these photos, forget you ever saw them, and get on with your life. Trust me when I tell you there are some things you are better off not knowing.”

“I can’t do that, Joe.”

“Then you need to try to understand those times, Seychelle. Everyone was doing it, and your dad was in a bind, as I understand it. Financially.”

“But that doesn’t mean he would—”

He raised his hand palm up. “Hear me out, then, if you insist. I was there as the delivery skipper, already down in Cartagena, and some guys I knew up in Lauderdale recruited your dad. It was a long time ago. I was only, hell, what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight years old.”

“Were you working for the DEA then?” I asked.

Joe’s eyes flickered, sought out Mike, then looked across the room, out the window. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “You’re not making this easy. Yes. Yes, I was. I was pretty fresh, only nine months on the job when they asked me if I wanted to go undercover as a yacht delivery captain. Shit. Nobody’s even supposed to know we were doing that back then.”

Part of me wanted to stop him. If it was even remotely possible, I didn’t want to know about it. But it wasn’t possible. Not Red. No matter what Joe said.

“The guy who owned the boat had been under surveillance for quite some time. He had lots of toys and no identifiable means of support. Turned out it was easier than I thought getting hired on as the captain of his yacht. And, eventually, he brought me in on what was really happening. He had this crewman working for him. The guy’s still around.”

“You mean Gil Lynch?” Mike asked.

“Right. Of course, you’d know him, Mike. Forgot about that.” Joe pointed to Gil in the old photo. “That’s him there. This was the early days, before he was known much here in Lauderdale. He became a much bigger player after that trip.”

“You see much of Gil these days?”

Joe grunted a half-laugh. “I’d be surprised if he’s still alive.”

“Oh, he’s alive all right. Sey and I saw him just a few hours ago.”

“Really? Did you talk to him?”

“No. I’ve used him as a snitch in the past, but today he ran from us. Don’t know why.”

“Hmm. Well, it was Gil back then who set up the buy, did all the legwork down in Colombia. But I didn’t bust either him or Red. My bosses were after the yacht’s owner, the bigger fish. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I protected Red. Hell, you know what I’m talking about, right, Mike? The guy had a wife and kids back in the States, it was his first time getting into something like that.”

“Sure, I know what you’re saying,” Mike said.

My elbows were propped up on the bar, and I rested my forehead against the heels of my hands. I began to shake my head. “No way. I don’t buy it.” I lifted my head and turned to face Joe. “Red did not knowingly get on a boat that was smuggling drugs up from Colombia.” I swung my head back and forth, looking first at Mike, then Joe. Neither would look at me.

No one said anything for several seconds. Mike’s hand rested on my shoulder, massaging the flesh in a little circling motion. I wanted to reach over and smack his hand away.

Finally, Joe said, “Listen, honey, I know you don’t want to think of your daddy—”

I stood up. I wanted to break something. I wanted him to stop calling me “honey.”

“Red didn’t know,” I said. “He couldn’t have.” I could hear that my voice sounded whiny, and it made me even angrier. I slid off my stool and stomped out of the room.

Celeste was standing in the hall, just outside the doorway. As I passed her I asked, “Bathroom?” She motioned for me to follow her.

I sat down on the closed toilet lid and gave myself about three minutes to just let my emotions go. It wasn’t long enough to turn my eyes and face all red and puffy, but it was just enough of a little pffft, like a pressure cooker’s jiggle, to make sure I wouldn’t blow when I went back into that room with those guys. They were undoubtedly talking about me right now—some “poor kid” scenario, where they were painting themselves as the big tough cops who knew how bad folks could be.

But Red was different, and they weren’t used to people like Red. He was a man whose morality was absolute. He would not bend, nor did he ever struggle over a moral issue, much to the chagrin of his teenage daughter. Red would never have willingly smuggled drugs—not even to finish Gorda. That was a truth. I felt it in my gut. I was not sure whether Joe was floating this tale out of ignorance or deceit, but I intended to find out.

After splashing some cold water on my face and relishing the soft, Egyptian cotton towels, I unlocked the door and ventured out. The men’s voices and loud laughter carried from their end of the hall, but I turned in the opposite direction. I decided to explore a little before returning to the boys’ club.

I saw three doors down the hall. The guest bedroom was located diagonally across from the bathroom. The furnishings were expensive and tasteful, but the room had all the personality of a model home. The next door led to the master bedroom, a huge room, nearly twenty by twenty, with French doors that opened onto the pool deck. When I came to the last door, I nearly collided with Celeste.

“Oh, pardon,” she said, looking startled and then lowering her eyes.

“No, I should be saying that.”

Over her shoulder I saw a room that was small and spartan, containing a twin bed, a dresser with a small mirror, and a single chair. Unlike the other two rooms, this one had personal items, a lovely brush-and-comb set on the dresser, a hand-stitched quilt on the bed, a small bright painting on the wall.

“Really, I’m sorry. I was just being nosy. I wanted to have a look at the house. Is this your room?”

She nodded and lowered her eyes.

I pointed back down the hall. “I kinda got in an argument with those guys back there. Do you mind if I just sit here for a while? I could use some female company.”

She smiled and stepped into the room, offering me the chair. After we’d settled ourselves, neither of us quite knew what to say. I could sense her awkwardness. After a while, she began to hum a tune.

“That sounds very pretty. What is it?”

“Oh, it’s a song we used to sing in Haiti. To make children go to sleep.”

“Can you sing it for me?”

She smiled shyly and began to sing softly, but in a strong and pleasant voice.

Dodo ti pitit manman’l 

Do-o-do-o-do ti pitit manman’l

Si li pas dodo 

Krab la va manje’l

Her voice cracked, and she stopped singing. She stood suddenly, then crossed the room and stared out the window.

“You miss Haiti, don’t you?” She did not move to respond to my question, so I tried a different one. “How long have you worked for Joe?”

“Five years,” she said, so softly I could barely hear her. “That’s when you came from Haiti?”

She nodded and spoke without turning around. “Mister D’Angelo brought me over, and he sent me to school to learn English.”

“Your English is very good.”

She turned around and smiled, then crossed to the bed and sat next to me. “Thank you,” she said. “I cannot read yet, but I will learn.” She sat with her head down, her fingers tracing the floral design on her dress. I had never seen such a beautiful woman behave so modestly. Was it possible, I wondered, she didn’t know how lovely she was?

“So you met him in Haiti?”

She nodded without looking up.

“What was he doing there?”

“He was a drug policeman. There were lots of drugs in Haiti. He help the Haitian people.”

“Hmmm. I’ve met so many Haitian people lately. I didn’t realize there were so many Haitians in Florida.”

She smiled. “Yes, this is true. Haitians are in the supermarket, restaurants, shopping malls. Every year more and more. It is because it is so bad at home.”

“Do you still have family there?”

She frowned and appeared to struggle with her reply. “No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “All dead.”

“I’m so sorry.” I looked at the top of her bowed head. She looked so young to have known such loss. “How old are you, Celeste?”

“I am twenty-three.”

“Joe brought you here when you were only eighteen?” She looked up quickly. “Yes. I love my country, Haiti, but it was bad there for me. There are many beautiful things in Haiti, many wonderful people. But this is my new country. There is nothing in Haiti for me now.”

Joe appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing back here?” There was something in his voice, some undercurrent of threat that made me feel like a kid who had been caught rifling through her parents’ belongings.

“We were just visiting.” I patted Celeste’s hand. “It was nice talking to you.”

Joe walked us out to the dock, where Mike untied the dinghy line while I prepared to climb down the dock. “Seychelle, I want you to know—” Joe said.

“Joe, stop.” I held up my hand like a traffic cop. “I came here looking for some answers about my dad, about who he was. And you know what? I found out that I’ve known that all along. I’ve always known who Red was. Nothing you say can change that.”

“I’m glad. I hope you understand that I would never intentionally say or do anything to hurt you. Are we still friends?” I nodded once and he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

Mike and I didn’t talk much on the ride back. As we cruised through the heart of the city, the late evening sunlight was turning the downtown buildings into golden towers. I sat up on the bow of the inflatable and tried to enjoy the beauty of the river, but my mind kept spinning images: Red, Gil, and Joe dockside in Cartagena; Perry waiting for someone in Flossie’s Bar; Gil’s photo on Perry’s Italian tow; new cell phones and radios. Joe had given me one version of what had happened down there over twenty years before. I needed to hear Gil’s version.

By the time we secured the dinghy and I’d turned down Mike’s dinner invite, it was approaching five o’clock. I drove straight to Jeannie’s to pick up Solange.