Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston (17 page)

Midst loud curses, the Lincoln sped away, the partially blinded driver bouncing off half-a-dozen parked vehicles before reaching Seawall Boulevard.

Several tenants ran outside at the commotion. One glanced up at us. “What happened?”

I glanced at Virgil and grinned, then looked back down. “Some idiot came barreling through here in a Lincoln and hit a few cars on the other side of the parking lot.”

Virgil chuckled.

I patted my stomach. “I’m still hungry.”

“Me too,” he replied. “Me too.”

The restaurant had the ubiquitous seaside motif resplendent with palm trees, nets, and life rings with U.S.S. Albatross printed on them. 

Reminiscent of old time gunslingers, we sat against the back wall, facing the door.  

Over a dinner of fried shrimp, soft-shell crabs, and fried potatoes, we tried to figure out just for whom the two thugs worked, Briggs or Abbandando, or both.

Between bites of shrimp, Virgil said. “If we believe Morrison, both those jokers were behind it.”

I had to agree. Tonight’s encounter was a level above previous encounters. It was one thing to plant coke, but quite another to come armed. “I have the feeling, Virge, that our guys are getting nervous.”

“You figure they heard we talked to Morrison?”

I nodded emphatically. “Well, Sergeant Wilson could have passed word to Briggs who in turn informed Abbandando. If that’s the case,” I added, quickly checking out the two couples entering the restaurant and making their way to a table by the front window overlooking Seawall Boulevard. “Then Abbandando knows we’re aware of the diamonds. But what they don’t know is that we know how the diamonds are coming into the country.” I grinned at Virgil. “That’s our advantage.”

“But we don’t know when,” he added.

I frowned at him. “Don’t go throwing cold water on things, Virge.”

He chuckled.

As I lay in bed that night with my .38 under my pillow, I realized that any advantage we thought we had was strictly in our minds. Briggs and Abbandando could take us out at anytime. Morrison was the only hard proof I had that Cheshire was dirty, and only a fool would count on him.

I decided to give us a hole card.

Joe Vaster was not listed in the Miami white pages, but enough Vasters were that within three calls, a surly buttonman transferred me to a sleepy Joe Vaster.

I identified myself.

He interrupted. “They tell me you want to talk to me about my boy. Then talk.”

Chapter Nineteen

Next morning just after nine, we pulled up to the curb in front of the Seamans’ Center. “You sure we have time for this before the California comes in?”

I climbed out of the pickup and glanced in the direction of the bay. “It isn’t due until noon.”

With a satisfied grunt, Virgil tagged along after me.

A dozen seaman were in the recreation room, some reading the local news, others shooting pool, a few gossiping. A potpourri of world cultures, they glanced up at us when we entered, then returned to their own business.

I picked out a loner who was thumbing through a worn copy of
National Enquirer
. Dark skinned, he appeared to be a Middle Easterner. “You speak English?”

He glanced up at me, then looked to his left and right as if reassuring himself I was speaking to him. “Some,” he replied.

“You work on container vessels?” I nodded in the direction of the docks.

He stared blankly at us. Finally, he answered. “Some.”

I grinned at Virgil and handed the dark-skinned man a slip of paper with the numbers 1-146-1-21 written on it. “These numbers mean anything to you?”

He frowned at the slip of paper, looked back up at me and shook his head. “Some.”

“What?”

He stared at me blankly. “Some.”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

I showed the numbers to the other seaman in the recreation room. A few could not speak English. Those that could were no help.

“So much for the Seamans’ Center.” Virgil growled when we climbed back in my truck. “Sorry about that. It was a waste of time.

I started the engine and shrugged. “No. It was a shot. We could’ve hit it. Now we go to plan B.”

“Which is?” He looked at me skeptically.

“How many piers in the Port of Galveston?”

Virgil shrugged. “Beats me. Thirty or forty probably.”

“And how many do you figure handle container vessels? Or a better question still—how many piers do not handle containers.”

A gleam of understanding lit his eyes, then faded into a frown. “What if Abbandando spots us snooping around?”

I turned west on Avenue A and headed for 37
^th
Avenue, which would take us into the western most piers on the dockside. “He won’t.”

We turned off on 37
^th
and drove in front of Berths 39, 40, and 41, which I guessed to be a mile or more from Abbandando’s operation.

“The docks are all fenced in with guards.” Virgil gestured toward the length of chain link fence stretching out of sight in both directions. “How we going to get inside?”

“We don’t need to,” I replied, pulling onto the shoulder near the fence separating us from Berth 41. I pointed to the aluminum containers, ten feet wide, twelve high, and thirty long. They were stacked four high the entire width of the dock. “Take a look.”

On each top corner of the container units was a set of numerals, similar to those we held in our hand. I read the first aloud. “four dash six eight three nine dash one four dash four one.”

Virgil grumbled. “That’s more numbers than we got.”

“Different shipper, but take a look. The last two digits on this one is the ship’s berth, forty-one.”

His eyes lit up. “Yeah. Like our number with the twenty-one at the end.”

“Exactly. I’m guessing that each shipping line probably has its own identification code. What we’re looking for back at Abbandando’s is this particular combination,” I explained, gesturing to the numbers in his hand.

He studied me a moment, considering my explanation. “In other words, we find the container with one dash one four six dash one dash two one, and that’s it?”

I gave him a wistful grin and shook my head. “I sure hope so, Virge. I sure hope so.”

We swung by the motel to pick up the visitors’ passes and overalls.

I failed to notice the little red Miata roadster in the parking lot when I dropped Virgil off to retrieve our passes and uniforms from my room. Had I seen the sports car, I wouldn’t have parked. But I didn’t, and I did.

You can imagine my surprise when I spotted Janice Coffman-Morrison, my on-again, off-again Significant Other emerge from the lobby and wave energetically at me.

“Tony.” She glanced at her diamond-encrusted watch. With her patented pout, she said, “I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. Where have you been?”

I stared at her, dumbfounded, remembering the last visit she paid me when she slapped me half way back to Louisiana. Though wary of her intentions, I was happy to see her although she was the last one I wanted see today. I had too much going on to have Janice with me. I climbed out of the pickup to meet her. I stammered, then finally managed to blurt out a brilliant question. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, Silly,” she replied, smiling brightly.

I stepped back and raised my hand to my cheek in case she decided to come out swinging.

She laughed. “Oh, poor dear. I’m sorry about last time, Tony. I was so wrong.” She looked around, spotted the restaurant. “Come on. I’m starving. Let’s get something to eat, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

The brief exchange was pure Janice Coffman-Morrison, little rich girl who always got whatever she wanted. But, not this time. I grabbed her arm. “No. Not now, Janice.”

She looked around at me in disbelief.

I led her toward my room. “I’ll explain, but I’ve got two or three errands to run, and I can’t put them off. I don’t have the time.”

At that moment, Virgil stepped out of my room, all decked out in his blue overalls and carrying the duffel bag with our gear. He frowned when he spotted Janice with me. “Here are the goods, Tony.”

I nodded to the pickup. “Okay. Just—“

Janice interrupted. “Tony. What’s going on? What do you mean you don’t have time? Why, I—” She spotted the bag in Virgil’s hand as he headed for the truck. “Who is that man, Tony? What is he carrying? He looks like a common laborer.” She wrinkled her nose the way only a rich girl can.

“Look. I’ve got a couple important errands. I can’t put them off. I don’t know how long it will take, but why don’t you wait up in my room for me. We can go out for a nice dinner tonight.”

A suspicious frown wrinkled her forehead. “Does my cousin have anything to do with this?”

Now was not the time nor place to reveal her cousin was not her cousin, but a fraud, so I did what any red-blooded man would do. I lied. “No.”

Janice sniffed. “Well, I don’t want to stay in your room. I came here so you could take me to see Ted.”

“Morrison? I thought you saw him a couple days ago.”

With a brief shrug, she replied. “Oh, he wasn’t home. I figured you could take me to see him and then we all could go out to eat.”

I shook my head. “This isn’t a good time, Janice.”

“Why not?”

“Errands. I have important errands to run.”

She pursed her lips in a pout. “Well, then take me with you.”

That was the last thing I needed. “I wish you would wait here for me.”

“No. I want to go with you.” She gave me the look.

I didn’t have a choice. If I wanted to get to the docks in time, I’d have to take her with me. Shaking my head in frustration, I grabbed her arm and dragged her after me. “Then come on, but, stay out of the way, and don’t be asking a bunch of questions.”

She pulled up when she saw my old pickup. “Not that truck, Tony. You know I can’t stand riding in that truck.”

“My room or the truck,” I said with finality, opening the driver’s door.

Inside, Virgil gaped at us.

I rolled my eyes at him. “My girl friend,” I said in way of explanation.

“But Tony—“

“Forget it, Virge. She’s going with us.” I glared at her. “But, she’s staying in the pickup.”

She arched an eyebrow in protest.

I added. “Otherwise, it’s my room.”

Her shoulders sagged. “All right.” The resignation in her voice brightened when she added. “But, you’ve got to tell me what this is all about.”

Virgil groaned.

I climbed into my overalls and started the pickup. “You got everything, Virge?”

He nodded and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Right here.” He patted the black duffel bag on his lap.

My plan was simple. Virgil and I would stake out the California as soon as it berthed at Pier 21. We each had our cell phone, so we could stay in touch. Our can of paint was in the duffel bag.

If Morrison didn’t make a move, then we’d have to wait for Abbandando. Even if we discovered the container with the shipment of British Paint, we wouldn’t know which can contained the diamonds.

As we made our way through the traffic toward the docks, I glanced down at Janice. She wore her usual upscale clothes, a long, leather coat; a green dress that screamed expensive; and high heels. Not ideal apparel for the Galveston docks, but then she was remaining in the truck.

We pulled into a parking lot outside the gates. Virgil handed me a pair of binoculars.

I pointed a finger at Janice. “Remember. Stay in the truck. The keys are in it if you get cold.”

I could see flickers of defiance in her eyes, but she nodded. “How long will you be gone?”

Virgil shrugged when I looked at him. “I don’t know. Just you stay put. You hear?”

She nodded briefly, too briefly I later decided. I should have known, but we had no choice. To paraphrase an old saying, time and smuggled diamonds wait for no one.

As we departed the truck, Virgil growled. “I got a bad feeling about her, Tony.”

I slung the duffel bag over my shoulder. “Believe me, Virge, it was either bring her or stay at the motel. Trust me, she won’t be a problem. Don’t worry.” I don’t know whom I was trying to convince, Virgil or me.

Luckily for us, security at the docks was slack. With our visitors’ passes fastened to our jackets, Virgil and I strolled through the gates, crossed a hundred yards of concrete where we leaped aboard a slow-moving train for Berth 21.

Suddenly, Virgil hit me on the shoulder. “Tony! Look. The ships.”

I gaped in surprise.

Tugboats were slowly easing the California, a 285-foot, 2,700 ton cargo vessel, up the channel. A few hundred yards behind was the Voyager being eased forward into the port.

I shot Virgil a look of disbelief. “The Voyager wasn’t due for another two or three days.”

He shook his head. “Maybe not, but whether we like it or not, we got it.”

We leaped from the train and watched as the tugs slipped the California into Berth 23. At the same time, the Voyager docked at Berth 21. I caught my breath when I spotted the containers on the deck of the ship. Through the binoculars, I counted twenty containers on the Voyager and twenty-six on the California. I couldn’t discern the numbers on them, but the configuration was the same as the set we discovered in Albert Vaster’s apartment.

“Okay, Virge. You take the California. I’ll watch the Voyager. Stay in touch.”

He nodded, checking his cell phone. “I got a full battery.”

We split up. I took my place on a catwalk leading up to an idle shore crane near Berth 21. Virgil made his way to Pier 23.

One moment, the pier was deserted, the next it bustled with activity. Stevedores from Maritime Shippers swarmed over the vessel like crabs on a dead fish. Gantry cranes whined into motion, dropping thick strands of steel down to the deck while men swarmed to hook them to the giant containers.

One by one, the containers were moved from the deck to a loading zone where they were stacked in neat rows. I called Virgil. “You make out the numbers on the containers?”