With a signed affidavit from the magistrate, I laid Hack’s body in the coffin and loaded him into the Storied Career and then slowly motored out to sea. I had plugged in the latitude and longitude coordinates into the GPS and followed the arrows. When I crossed the “X”—with nearly 1,900 feet of water below me—I cut the engine, said my good-byes to Hack, and then lifted the box and his body over the ledge, gently sliding it into the water. The box filled and the weight of it pulled against me. I held on several minutes, unwilling to let go. Finally, having to strain to keep it afloat, I released my grip and it slid like a torpedo out of my hands and out of sight.
I sat there, tears streaking my cheeks, rolling in gentle waves on the stern. Needing to hear his voice, I unfolded the letter he’d left me to read at this moment:
Dear Charlie,
Looking back, I’ve lived a long life. A good life. But looking back, I do have a few regrets. If I could give you anything, I’d spare you the pain of those. I’d tell you to grab that woman and don’t let go. To find another business ’cause the one you’re in is too dangerous and you don’t need the money. Especially now that I’m giving you mine. You’ll find it when you unearth yours. Spend it on something worthwhile. Something beautiful. Something bigger than you and me. Life is more than bonefish and skiffs and coffee and cigarettes and island sunsets. Those things are good and I’ve enjoyed my fair share, but I’ve enjoyed them with an empty heart, which means they didn’t fill me. But my wife? She filled me. In the more than forty years since her death, I’ve been with no other woman. Couldn’t. She’s been here by my bedside lately at night. She’s younger. Smiling again. Looks better than the last time I saw her. Took me a long time to get the image of the blood puddling on her stomach out of my head, and seeing her here the last few nights, all dressed in white and clean and pretty and not poked full of bullet holes, has pretty much erased it. I’ve missed her smile. In forty years of penance, I have paid for my sins. There were lots of them.
Charlie, don’t be me. Don’t die this way. It’s no way to go.
Thank you for being my friend. For coming by and checking on me. For letting me teach you about skiffs and working with wood—which you have a pretty good bit of natural talent for.
Thank you for not letting me die alone.
Sincerely,
James J. “Hack” Hackenworth, Jr.
Sitting there wrestling with his words and the weight of his letter, I realized that I’d never told him about Shelly. About us. About us getting married tomorrow night. I cranked the engine, turned west, and pushed the throttle three-quarters forward. The boat shot out beneath me, and 1,400 horsepower lifted the boat up on plane like a 100-mph water-skimming rocket en route to Bimini some twenty miles in the distance.
The problem with driving west in the afternoon was the sun. I pulled down my Costas, the water leveled out, and I pushed the throttle against the stop as the wind dried the tears streaking my face.
I needed to get moving. The wind was picking up and so was the chop. I had a drop to make in Miami.
Chapter Seventeen
The three of them were dressed and ready when I walked out at six. We exited the hotel front doors and walked a few blocks down the street until we caught the smell of fresh baked bread. When it grew stronger, we turned left, and by the time we reached the door, my salivary glands were pumping double. We walked in, were greeted by a fair-skinned, blond-haired woman who looked Swedish and was sliding steaming trays into a glass counter display. Paulo and Isabella sat while Paulina ordered for each of us. Within a few minutes, one of the kids behind the counter delivered three delicious cups of coffee along with an entire tray of croissants and Danishes.
I ate six.
Isabella and I laughed as the chocolate crusted the corners of our mouths. Starting on my seventh, I stared at the croissant and said, “I think they just dip the whole thing in butter.”
While we were eating, the busboy began clearing the tables around us. A good-looking kid, clean-cut, apron, hard worker, looked like he’d lifted a few weights. But that wasn’t the feature that caught my attention. I asked Paulina to call the owner to our table. She did and the Swedish lady appeared. “Everything okay?”
I pointed at the kid. “How well do you know him?”
“Mauricio?”
“If that’s his name.”
“He’s my nephew. Worked here two years. One of the more reliable kids I have.”
“You ever caught him lying to you?”
She raised an eyebrow. “No.”
“How about stealing?”
Her face tightened. “Why?”
“You mind bringing him over here?”
“Sir, I’d prefer you speak to me first—”
“Just call him over, please.”
“If you have a complaint—”
“Please.”
She did and he appeared at our table wiping his hands on his apron. “Sí, señor?”
I pointed at his watch. “Nice watch.” I said it that way because I wanted to catch him off guard and gauge his reaction.
He smiled and nodded proudly, holding it out for me to see. If there was guilt, he was a better actor than most Academy Award winners. The owner watched without comment, but she looked ready to pounce. I asked, “You get it locally?”
“Sí, señor. I buy from”—he pointed at the floor—“here. Man who eat here say he no need and sell me less money.”
Everyone’s attention at the table was glued to his wrist. “You like it?”
He nodded, but then frowned and began to wonder. “Señor?”
“On the back, beneath the band, some words are written. You know what it says?”
He looked at the owner, then back at me. He shook his head. “Señor?”
The owner broke in. “He says he bought it, sir. If you think—”
I wrote on a napkin, folded it, and set it on the table in front of them. “Five days ago, I was mugged, stripped, and everything I had taken as I lay sick in the street.” I looked at the kid. “Now, I doubt you had anything to do with that, but whoever you bought it from may have well taken it off me, and unlike everything else, it can’t be replaced. I’d like it back.”
He frowned. The owner said, “Take it off, Mauricio. Let’s see.”
He unbuckled it from his wrist, pulled the band away from the back, and read the words. I opened the napkin and spread it across the table. He read it out loud. “Never again.”
I pointed to the grooves of the inscription. They were stained and dark, as was the back of the watchband. “That’s blood. It belongs to someone I love.”
He turned the watch in his hand, touching it lightly, as if it were delicate.
The owner’s look of suspicion transferred from me to Mauricio. I said, “Mauricio, I want to ask you a question.”
He straightened and nodded. “Sí, señor.”
“Did you take that watch off my arm?”
He tried to put the words together, but I apparently spoke them too fast so Paulina quietly translated. He shook his head. “No, señor. I buy it right here.” Another point.
Fortunately for Mauricio, I believed him. The owner waited quietly, wanting to see how this was going to pan out. I said, “How much you pay for it?”
He looked at the owner and then back at me. When he said nothing, I asked again. “How much?”
After a sideways glance at the owner, he looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Catorce dólares.”
The owner looked at him with surprise. “Mauricio?” Her tone turned motherly. “You know how many days it takes you to earn that!”
I said, “Will you sell it to me?”