“Hey, buddy,” I said, smiling. “Looks like you could use a hand getting that beast on your dink.” The outboard was a twenty-five-horsepower four-stroke Honda, and it probably weighed over a hundred pounds.
“Whew, Seychelle, am I ever glad to see you. I could sure use an extra hand right now. An extra leg, too.” He chuckled at his own joke.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been considering trying to get that thing into your dinghy all by yourself?”
He grinned and shrugged. “Well, I guess I was. Joe helped me get it off the dink the other day and into his truck. We took it back to the dealer because it was running kind of rough. Anyway, I hated to have to call somebody and beg for help.”
“Listen,” I told him, “you’ve got to stop trying to think strong, tough guy on a boat. It doesn’t work. I’m nowhere near as strong as most men in this business, but I can do it because I think smarter, not stronger.”
In a few minutes, I had shown him how to use his sailboat’s main boom as a crane and his mainsail sheet as a come-along. We used sail ties made of nylon webbing to fashion a harness around the outboard and winched it into the air. I swung the boom across the cockpit, then lowered the outboard over the side of the big sailboat and into the waiting dinghy. Mike slid it onto the transom of the inflatable as I fed out the line. Twenty minutes later, the job was done and we were tidying up the cockpit.
“Thanks, Seychelle. Come on below. I owe you a cold one for that. Then you can tell me why you really came over here today.”
Dry, cool air tumbled out the passageway doors and chilled my ankles as I followed Mike down the companionway ladder. I slid the teak hatch closed and latched the clear Plexiglas doors. Down below, Outta the Blue resembled an air-conditioned condo more than a seagoing vessel. Back when he bought the used Irwin-54 with his generous retirement settlement, she had been neglected and needed a complete refit. Mike had refurbished her to suit his tastes. Since he had never owned any boat bigger than a trailerable flats skiff, he had no idea what he was doing and the result was a vessel interior that looked something like a man’s basement hideout. The TV sported video game controllers, and large speakers hung from the overhead in the four corners of the main salon. The chart table was weighted down with a full-size desktop computer with a seventeen-inch monitor. Where most boats use small portable electronic gear, Mike had installed household versions of everything from microwave to VCR. Then he’d allowed the old generator to seize up from lack of use, since he rarely if ever left the dock in those days.
He reached down into the top-loading refrigerator and offered me a frosty Corona. I waved it away.
“It’s still a bit early for me, Mike.” For a second beer, I thought, smiling at the memory of seeing Pit.
He poured himself some dark rum over ice. “So what’s on your mind?” he asked when he finally settled into the other side of the dining booth in the main salon.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“I assume this is about the kid. The Haitian girl.”
“Actually, no.” I watched him finish that rum and pour himself a second. “How well do you know Joe D’Angelo?”
“Joe? What do you want to know about him for?”
I lifted my shoulder bag off the floor and unzipped the side pocket. I slid the photo across the table. Mike reached over to a small cubby by the chart table and retrieved some reading glasses. After adjusting them on his face, he examined the photo.
“Hmmm,” he said as he held the photo far from his face and tried to focus. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He looked up over the top of the reading glasses. “What year was this taken?”
“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.