"Traction," Max whispers to George who tries unsuccessfully to contain another chuckle.
"They maximize fuel efficiency," Maurice says, making his voice warble just a little, purposefully messing with the stoners. "Especially when you're driving at high-way speeds for extended time periods."
"I like 'em," Jack says. "How much for a set of four?"
"Let me tell you a few more things about these tires before we talk price, fair enough?"
"Sure," Jack says, he feels his consumer confidence, which he's never experienced before, going up.
Maurice senses he might have this sale locked in and he's already trying to calculate his commission as he continues his pitch. "Underneath these treads you've got three steel belts and a reinforced side wall so you can count on at least fifty thousand miles before they start wearing out. This is definitely the tire you want on your sport utility vehicle."
"How about a set of these," Jack points to a display of custom rims.
"Oh, sweet," Max says in stoner awe, as if a winged angel just flew into the showroom. He's so high he's repeating Maurice, and that simple act is pushing his mental horsepower beyond its capacity.
George is right there with him - so far baked out of his mind all he can do is giggle about this whole kooky deal.
"We can absolutely put your tires on a set of new rims," Maurice says. "These will make your rig look good!"
Max and George wander over to a display that showcases heavy duty shock absorbers. Max is pointing at them, and George seems so overjoyed he can't speak.
"I was just about to suggest upgrading your shocks to take maximum advantage of the traction capability of these new tires." Maurice wonders if these guys have the cash or credit to cover this sale. He hopes they aren't just shopping prices. He decides to push it to the point of no return. "Let's put your rig up on the lift so my mechanics can get the correct specifications for your upgrade, ok?"
"No problem," Jack says handing Maurice the keys.
"Are you guys going cash or credit today?"
Max and Jack look at each other and snicker, then in unison they say, "Cash." George bursts out laughing again, and this time he doubles over and puts his hands on his knees and lets the rip-snorting run away with him.
* * *
Jack's truck is high on the lift with three mechanics scurrying around it.
The old tires come off and one of the mechanics walks around the truck blowing out the wheel wells with compressed air. Dust and dirt fill the shop area for a few minutes as it gradually dissipates.
Two of the mechanics grab impact wrenches and tear out the rusty old shock absorbers and install beefy new ones while the third mechanic mounts the new tires on sporty white rims.
Inside the showroom, Jack and Maurice are watching through a big window.
"Let's do an oil change while we're at it," Jack says.
"Good idea," Maurice says. "How about a new belt and I'll have the guys check the hoses too?" Maurice wonders how much cash he can wring out of this deal.
About an hour later, Jack's truck rolls out of the garage on new, oversized tires and custom rims. It's clearly riding several inches higher off the ground. One of the mechanics climbs down from the driver's seat and Jack shakes his hand. Jack, Max and George get in and drive into traffic on the busy main street.
* * *
The raccoon pokes his head up above the grass and looks around. He can hear the guys laughing up near the house, so he waddles over and climbs up the narrow wooden ramp and onto the deck. He climbs onto an overturned bucket, puts his paws on the windowsill. Inside the kitchen he can see the three guys sitting around the kitchen table drinking cans of beer.
"Three thousand dollars, just like we agreed," Jack says and plunks down a fat wad of cash.
"Not a bad day's work," George says as he scoops up the money. "Thanks a lot. And you guys call if you want to move anymore product."
"Sure thing," Jack says.
"Do you think you'll be getting another shipments?"
"Definitely not," Jack says. "They'd put me away for life if I got caught, and besides when we were in the garage with those guys, I was scared shitless. I don't want to have anything to do with those guys ever again." Jack stands up.
Max finishes his beer and stands up.
They shake hands all around.
"Don't let that raccoon bite you, George," Max says, pointing toward the window.
"That 'coon is my buddy," George says. "He won't bite me."
CHAPTER 7
Captain Hall walks along the weatherdeck on the bow of the Almayer, conducting his daily walk-about the ship, when a petty officer approaches him and says, "Sir, Mr. Banks is here to see you. He's waiting on the quarterdeck."
"Ok," Hall says. "Let's go see Mr. Banks straight away then." Hall follows the petty officer back along the siderails toward the quarterdeck. He glances outboard and absentmindedly sees the warehouse and beyond that the low skyline of Key West. Palm tree tops sway lazily in the breeze. He thinks about the recent news headlines: "Coast Guard Seizes Another Big Drug Shipment." Hall squints at the rows of garage bay doors along the side of the warehouse and imagines the bales of marijuana and plastic-wrapped packages of cocaine. It feels good to know that his crew had prevented all those drugs from reaching the streets where it would have undoubtedly done damage to hundreds of young people all over Florida - all over North America for that matter.
Hall knows Mr. Banks quite well. Banks is a senior investigator with the Drug Enforcement Agency. The Coast Guard and the DEA work together all the time, with the Coast Guard patrolling, intercepting and boarding ships and boats. The Coast Guard seizing contraband and drugs, and handing it over to the DEA who does investigative work. The DEA files the paperwork necessary for search warrants, investigates interstate trafficking, makes arrests and interfaces with police, the FBI and the courts. Captain Hall and Mr. Banks have some history, both having come up through the ranks of their respective organizations over the last many years. They see eye to eye on politics and procedures and have worked cooperatively with each other on many joint operations.
"Good morning, Sir," Banks says when Hall reaches the quarterdeck.
"It is a good morning," Halls says as the two men shake hands. "Let's go to my office."
Banks follows Hall up a ladder, through a watertight door and down a narrow passageway. Inside the ship it seems pitch black as their eyes adjusted.
Hall has a suspicion about why Banks has coming to see him. Several days earlier when the Almayer had arrived back from patrolling the Gulf with the huge haul of marijuana and cocaine, the two men had met to do the formal handover of the contraband. They oversaw the process, which included weighing and taking pictures of each package of drugs, filling out forms and signing them and then setting it all up for a display picture for the news media. Neither man spoke to reporters. Neither had his picture taken. The last thing either of them wanted was their pictures and names on the news. If one of the disappointed thugs who'd been waiting for the drug shipment that never arrived, saw Hall's or Banks' pictures on TV or in the newspapers, things could get ugly for them. Back in the early days of Coast Guard and DEA cooperation, several proud captains and investigators had posed for the media in front of piles of seized drugs, and in a few rare cases, good men had their cars blown up and their houses burned down by drug kingpins seeking revenge. Hall had read several classified files documenting cases where criminals had kidnapped, tortured and killed a Coast Guard captain or a DEA agent after they proudly smiled for the cameras while standing next to a mountain of seized drugs. When the drug dealers saw the faces of the Coast Guard officers or DEA agents, and read their names and duty stations in the caption or the article, they became targets. So, Hall and Banks were sure to keep themselves out of the news. Like the drug smugglers themselves, both men did their difficult work behind the scenes, out of the spotlight.
&n
bsp; In Captain Hall's sea cabin Banks says, "Kudos for you have been coming into my office all the way from the Attorney General's office."
"It's good to know the big guys upstairs appreciate sailors doing the dangerous work."
"Absolutely, you can count on another commendation in your service jacket."
"I'll make sure it's cascaded down to all hands who were involved in the operation."
Banks sits down and looks around for a moment wondering what it would be like to be a captain aboard his own ship at sea. Of course he doesn't see it as it really is, what he sees is his own impression - no wife and kids, no lawn mower, no having to run to the grocery store for milk and bread late at night, no malfunctioning garage door opener to fiddle around with for hours when he finally has a day off. The practically empty cabin, to Banks, looks like the perfect man-cave. It's a place where he can go and not be bothered. A small sleeping bunk folded against the wall. A shelf with a few good books strapped down with a bungee cord. A lamp. What a perfect life this must be, Banks thinks to himself.
"Well, Captain," Banks says, "the word on the street is that the marijuana and cocaine supply has dried up across all of the southeastern United States."
"Joint operations are proving to be very effective," Hall agrees.
"Yes, they are, and now we're going to take it to the next level."
"I assume that's why you are here."
"Yes it is. The Latin gentleman you snagged on your last bust, well he started singing once we sat him down with an interpreter."
"Interesting," Hall says.
"He led us to a major kingpin based in Puerto Rico, and we put a tail on him. Alfredo Packeto's his name. He does pharmaceutical manufacturing in Puerto Rico, and now we have good reason to believe he's up to something."
"And how can I help you?" Hall asks sitting back and crossing his arms on his chest to signal a slight reluctance. Even though he wants to help Banks, he knows the DEA will try to operate the Coast Guard at a tactical level if given half a chance.
"Well, we're resource constrained right now and we need more boots on the ground to pull surveillance in Puerto Rico," Banks says.
"I know the Coast Guard is supposed to cooperate on these joint operations, but the admiral's staff is coming down to inspect everything from my engine rooms to my personnel files. I don't think I can spare a pair of hands right now."
"I understand your situation, captain, but this is a very important operation. If you could spare a few senior enlisted for a week or two?"
"It really is a bad time to ask," Hall resists, thinking that he'll give Banks what he's asking for, but he wants to make sure there's a favor to be returned at some point in the future.
"Well, how about a deckhand who's good with small boats and handguns?"
Hall thinks for a moment. Faces of different members of the crew occur to him. Then he remembers Jack Turner, the kid with eyes like an eagle. Turner spotted the smuggler's boat during the most recent deployment. Hall happily remembers the look on Turner's face when he fired the gun and sank the smuggler's boat.
Banks says, "We're talking about bringing down a major king pin. We suspect this guy might have a submarine. He could be moving large, and I mean large quantity into cities all along the east coast."
"Well, maybe I can spare one man to you for a couple of weeks, would that help?"
"The ideal person will have small arms training, able to handle water craft, excellent eyesight and experience with large quantities of contraband," Banks says.
Hall makes like he's thinking about it, but he knows already he's going to volunteer Seaman Jack Turner to Banks for this joint operation. "I have someone in mind, a young man named Turner, Seaman Jack Turner. He has eyes like an eagle and he was our good luck charm on our last deployment."
"Sounds like the guy I'm looking for."
"It makes sense assigning Turner," Hall says. "He was the young man who spotted the smugglers and led you to this Packeto character you're tracking now."
"Then it's appropriate he stay on the case." Banks sits back happy to be getting a man to help his operation. He wonders if he can get Turner right away, have him in time for the next team meeting in Puerto Rico in a few days. "When can he deploy?" Banks asks.
Captain Hall says, "I'll call Turner's division officer right now." He reaches for the phone on his desk. "Turner can be yours for the next few weeks starting immediately."
CHAPTER 8
Cars pull up to the backstreet corner constantly. Windows go down, cash and small baggies are exchanged and the cars drive away. It's like a Taco Bell drive through because all the kids do have Late Night Munchies, even in the middle of a sunny Miami afternoon.
White guy in the muscle shirt is keeping a look out while his friend the Cuban slings baggies and collects cash. They've been pulling so much green the past couple days they're talking about an investment account. Imagine that.
White guy watches a car roll up to the curb. Cuban does another transaction and pockets a hundred dollars.
This time the car doesn't pull away. At the wheel, a tough looking guy in a cheap suit and tie, an actual tie, opens the baggie and sniffs it. Then he hands it to whoever is in the passenger seat and quickly gets out of the car. White guy thinks, is this a fucking detective and considers bolting down the alley. Instead he takes one step backwards, poised to run if the tough guy makes like he's drawing a gun or a badge. White guy knows in these situations cops draw the gun first, handcuffs second and maybe the badge later as a formality.
Tough guy has a leering greasy smile - almost drooling. White guy is convinced he's not a cop. It's worse. He's a hardened criminal.
Greasy tough guy says, "Drought's over, huh?"
Cuban says, "Yeah, it sure is."
"I need some quantity," Tough guy says. "How about an ounce?"
Cuban glances back at White. White guy says, "Two-twenty."
The tough guy is standing there with his car door open and his engine still running. He pulls a fat roll of cash from his suit-pants pocket and peels off a few fifties and twenties.
White steps over and pulls several small plastic packages from his baggy-saggy pants pocket. He shuffles through them and pulls out an oh-Z, hands it over. Both Cuban and White step back, like they're packing up, vacating the corner.
Tough asks, "Where'd you guys score?"
"That's confidential," White says.
"Sure about that, because I'm gonna need to know."
"We don't divulge our sources," Cuban says.
"You will," Tough guy says threateningly and flashes that slippery smile again. Looks like his teeth are coated with sour milk.
White and Cuban start walking quickly and they're a half block away when Tough cruises slowly on the street beside them with the window down. They glance over and see inside the car, a man in the passenger seat, silhouetted in the dark inside the car. He's holding a shiny pistol, moving it so it catches the light, sparkles.
"Fuck," Cuban whispers to White. "These are Scabado's guys."
White doesn't like the situation at all.
Tough guy leans out the window and says, "We'll be back. You can count on it. And you will tell us your source."
"It's confidential," Cuban shouts.
"Hey," Tough guy says, "I think I already know where you got this."
"Then why you asking?" White guy shouts back.
"I just want to be sure," Tough guy says.
The passenger reaches a hand out his window and points the pistol at them over the roof of the car and fires a bullet in front of them.
They stop, poised to run.
"This is our dope," Tough guy says. "Either you stole our shipment or you got this weed from the Coast Guard."
White and Cuban look at each for a split second and then they turn around and run away down the sidewalk.
Tough guy stomps on the gas pedal and his car races away down the street.
C
HAPTER 9
Jack and Max are climbing from the dock into a sailboat. There's an old guy in topsiders and shorts already onboard. A Margaretville T-shirt restrains the old guy's big belly. A flattened old skipper's cap on his head shades a face that is mostly hidden by a ZZ-Top style beard and Ray Ban Aviators.
"This here is a 28 foot xx," the old guy starts his pitch.
Max climbs into the compartment below and opens the in engine hatch.
Jack climbs forward onto the bow.
"I don't know, this boat is almost forty years old," Jack says.
"Let's just give it a once over," Max says.
"I guess you're right."
The old guys says, "Sure look this rig over."
"We've gotta figure out what's on the market."
Max is poking his head in around the engine, a black and gray mass of hoses and greasy cast iron manifolds.
"I've got over twenty boats for sale," the old guy says.
"We need something with newer sails and a good engine," Jack says.
"And it's gotta have GPS navigation equipment," Max shouts from below where he's tinkering with the knobs on a radio built into a navigation console.
"These lines are old and the rigging is rusty," Jack says to the old guy.
The sun is climbing into the sky and passes noon. Jack and Max are still looking at boats. They follow the old guy from one boat to another.
They're asking a million questions, climbing rigging, squeezing into engine compartments, unfurling sails and cranking winches.
CHAPTER 10
Back in Los Angeles, Wendy is lying in bed eating a fig with one hand and slathering stretch-cream on her enormous belly with the other hand. On the night stand, the tub of stretch cream sits next to a picture of her and Jack taken that day they were laying on the beach blanket. The old Mexican lady with the brood of little kids is photo bombing the picture with a goofy smile in the background as she covers her little son's eyes.
Suddenly, the door burst open and Phyllis, Wendy's mother, burst in and flips the lights on. Phyllis is 54 years old, her hair has been died so many times it doesn't know what shade of red or orange it's supposed to be any more. She has an overbite, but she's kinda hot in her tight pantsuit that shows off her Kardashian hips and a cute little camel toe. She leers at her daughter's belly, and Wendy protectively, yanks up the covers.