Anna nodded. She knew what the stakes were and what was at risk.
The sail-makers, a couple of jovial British fellows, showed up bright and early the next morning to get things started. One of them was tall, skinny, and nervous, with a full head of thick curly graying hair. The other was the complete opposite: short, round, bald and gregarious. They came aboard knowing there were two souls on board and that one of us had to stay hidden. It turned out they were knowledgeable and well connected. They coordinated the trades and repairmen along with driving me to suppliers and machine shops to get the necessary parts manufactured in record time.
Thanks to their Herculean efforts, we had Shadow re-provisioned, refueled, repaired, and ready to go with a couple of days to spare. The only hold-up was the autopilot. It had been removed several days before by an obese dark-skinned and completely bald Spaniard. He and his blasé semi-clad female assistant were apparently the only licensed technicians for my brand of autopilot on the island. When he arrived in a banana-yellow Hummer, announcing himself with tooth loosening sub-woofers, I had second thoughts about hiring the guy. But we really didn’t relish hand steering across the Atlantic and I didn’t want to void the warranty on the thing. The sail-makers were not impressed with my logic, especially after I let them know the Spaniard had called to tell me he wouldn’t get the parts for at least another week.
“I thought you said that thing only needed brushes.” The short sail-maker said.
“That’s what I thought.” I looked at my watch. “The asshole said he wouldn’t do anything for at least ten days. I told him I only had a couple more days.”
“Un huh, I bet he liked the sound of that.”
“Actually he told me where to go. I told him to bring the unit back and I’d pay him for the service call. He treated me to some truly vile Spanish.”
“If I was you, I’d forget the autopilot and make for the high seas,” cautioned the friendly little sail-maker.
“True enough,” the tall one added, “The autopilot’s not worth it. That guy is a notorious swindler, with crooked connections all through this town. Probably had you pegged as a mark right from your phone call. He’s up to something or you’d have your autopilot by now, fixed or otherwise.”
“Yeah, it sounds like the same scam he pulled on that German couple.” The short sail-maker pulled out his phone. “Bloody hell, that was a nice boat, Hanse 400, brand new.”
“What do you mean by was a nice boat’?” I asked.
“When they tried to leave, the bastard had their boat seized and chained ’fore they knew what hit em. Swindled them! Nothing they could do,” the tall curly one filled me in.
“Better give him a call.” Baldy punched keys on his phone, climbing to the cockpit.
“It’s like this,” Curly continued, “A scammer claims a foreigner with an expensive boat owes him money. The foreigner says ‘bugger off’ and makes to leave. Then the coppers seize their boat until the claim is settled in court. ’Course, with the right connections, that can take years. Meantime, the poor sods are getting whacked huge storage fees for the boat. By the time the case gets to court, either someone forgets to tell the owners back in America or Europe, or the storage and legal fees have become more than the boat is worth. Then the boat goes to the swindler to cover the costs.”
“Bloody Christ! Just ditch the autopilot and get out of here.” Baldy blurted suddenly, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. “All I did was ask if I could come by with some cash and get the thing and he said he’d feed my dog steak and razor blades.”
“The hydraulic pump on that thing’s worth five thousand bucks! I’m not going to just leave it.”
“Well, he’s right pissed. He’s on his way over to stick that thing back in your boat and stick you with the bill.”
“Fine, I get the thing back, pay him for whatever and fix it myself.”
“You’ll likely find his bill’s gonna be entirely outrageous.”
“So, I’ll call the police.”
“You can’t do that! It’s exactly what’s supposed to happen in this scam. He’ll have a claim against your yacht, the police will seize it, and in your case, you have a lot more to worry about than losing your boat.” The short sail-maker gestured at Anna. “Just go. You’ve already paid your marina bill and you’re all set except for that autopilot. I’m off. I have to get my dog.”
The sail-makers hurried away down the dock. Fuming, I weighed things out. The boat was ready, but I wasn’t keen on leaving the autopilot behind or admitting to being stupid enough to get screwed like that.
“Hola?” It was the scantily clad assistant. “My boss, he is coming soon. I will install back your autopilot.”
Anna slammed a cabin door and I winced. “Just give it to me. I’ll install it myself.”
“Oye, no es posible. It is not possible. I wait for my boss. He is very busy and he will be displeased you do not let me do my job.”
“Fine — wait.”
When the Spaniard, wearing several heavy gold chains, lumbered up wheezing, I offered to pay him for his time and take the autopilot off his hands. He insisted on installing it, though, saying he would settle with me while his girl put it in to save time. He ostentatiously opened his book of invoices and removed one, handing it to me.
“A thousand Euros!”
“Perdon, there has been an error.” He snatched back the invoice and with a flourish, modified it with a gold pen from his breast pocket.
I watched him cross out the one and replace it with a five. “Bull shit!”
“Bueno, I should think one in your — situation — would not wish to attract so much attention.”
I pulled two hundred Euros from my wallet.
The Spaniard fingered his gold chains and leaned back on his heels. “This will not work for me. It now will be ten thousand Euros or I bring the police. They can settle this.”
He had me. I had to get him off the boat and make a run for it. I told him I’d get the ten thousand by morning. He nodded slowly and turned to leave. “I’ll be watching. No funny business. I know what you are thinking, bitch.”
THIRTY-FOUR
The message light on the sat-modem flashed. “What now?” I growled, then to Anna, “Put my jacket on, pull up the hood and get out there.”
“Excuse me?”
“No time for niceties. We need to fill the water tanks and get the hell out of here.”
“You think your jacket is going to fool anybody?”
“I don’t think the bastard or his lovely muse are very close. I haven’t seen the banana Hummer. He thinks we’re a couple of scared chicks.”
“Chicks? Two baby chickens.” Anna asked.
“Baby chickens, ducks, hummingbirds, condors… whatever. Thinks we’re scared into giving him the money. Besides, he knows you’re on board. Go, I’ll deal with this email — it’s gonna be Tom — and we’ll change places. You’ll work down here while I make ready outside. Just start filling the tanks for now.”
“Blyad, there is lightning. It is not looking good out here.” Anna said, halfway out the companionway.
“Just go!” I waved Anna away as her point about the weather was made more urgent by a peal of thunder. I flung the laptop open and jammed in the serial connection from the sat-modem. The email was indeed from Tom:
Subject: GET OUT! SAILMAKER INFORMS KEITEL EXPOSED!
Anna opened a hatch above deck and yelled through it. “Jess, this is not funny. We can’t sail in this.” She lost control of the hatch cover and the wind slammed it shut with a crash. I jumped for it before it got loose again. I was hoping her fingers weren’t crushed in it, but I didn’t hear any screaming.