Salty Sky (34 page)

When they arrived, Ashley’s roommates were sunning their hides on the bow deck, out of the wind. Their hands pecked at smartphones. The captain was working in the storage locker under the rear salon benches. Joe and Tony walked to the flybridge rail as the welcoming committee. They each wore clean Tommy Bahama shirts and held a highball in one hand. Tony fanned playing cards in his other hand. They had magnanimous greeting smiles on their faces.

Tony said, “It’s about time youse two made it back. We was getting ready to deputize a posse. We’da had seafarers from Norfolk to Daytona Beach on the lookout.”

Ashley responded, “Thanks for the concern,” and asked, “Joe, how did you sleep last night?”

That was a very polite way to ask the burning question.

Joe answered, “Not too bad, really. Think I’ll sleep better tonight. Bring Mr. Coleman onboard with you if he has a moment. He and I only met briefly … and not over the sunniest of circumstances.”

Ashley went to see her friends. Cale climbed the flybridge ladder. At the summit, Tony handed him a Scotch on the rocks. Not his normal order, but when in Rome (or, in this case, transplanted Brooklyn) … Cale scanned Joe’s boating attire over and concluded it was an impossible outfit in which to hide a weapon except in the small of his back.

Joe started the conversation. “Youse know I don’t blame you for Gino.”

“Thanks.” It was amazing how little he’d thought about this recent conflict today. You want to forget your little problems? Get big problems.

“My sister—his mother—called me today. She is likely to find an old Sicilian to curse you, though.”

“Don’t worry about those curses,” Tony added. “They only work if they have a little of your blood to start with.”

“Well, curse or not, I hope the guy recovers quickly.”

The three men moved into more cocktail party-caliber get-to-know-you conversations, reviewed the day, the water, Cale’s current business. He felt a bit like a teenager being vetted in the front parlor before the homecoming dance.
You kids have fun tonight, but not too much fun
. His twenty years in the DEA came up.

“Yeah, it was terrible to see in the eighties what happened to some neighborhoods. Crime—so much property crime. And the things people would do. Moms turning tricks behind dumpsters for a fix. Glad they cleaned up the crack problem. Dinkins just fed the beast; Giuliani showed the difference you can make when you don’t accept problems as unsolvable.

“It sounds so silly, but one of the main things he stopped that turned the city around was the guys washing windows at
intersections. When that kind of harassment stopped, it just turned things around.”

“How much did you tip those goombahs for washing your windows, Joe?” Tony goaded. His eyes twinkled at the jab.

“Only tip they got from me was …” Joe let it pass. Maybe he couldn’t come up with the right comeback. Maybe he didn’t want to let a carnal insult or racial diatribe flow out in front of a stranger or, more likely, where it could be overheard by the girls.

Joe turned back to Cale. “So where were you in the DEA?”

“All over. Here, DC, Southern California, Northern California, Texas, Florida, Mexico, even South America.”

“You ever get in any tight spots?”

“Yes.”

“Undercover?”

“No.”

“Busting into a crack house with a SWAT team?”

“No.”

But this got Cale thinking. There were so many more frontline jobs than pilot. How did he get in this position? His risk was supposed to be from turbulence. Updrafts. Downdrafts. Instrument failure. Worst case, a surface-to-air missile that the agency rehearsed dodging but to Cale’s knowledge nobody actually ever faced. Certainly not long-suppressed revenge.

The captain brought snacks up, which provided a momentary diversion in the conversation. But before Cale could get traction heading in a different direction, Tony was back on him.

“So youse going to tell us what kind of tight spots?”

The difference between Brooklyn gentlemen and Southern gentlemen: The Brooklyn gentlemen would make you say no. But for some reason unknown to himself, Cale chose not to say no. He’d been queried for years on the topic and always clammed up before. Today, he
answered, “I can tell you about one incident. It got a decent amount of press at the time. The other stuff is still classified.”

At least officially. It didn’t feel quite as classified as he’d like it to be. Maybe that was why he told them about San Diego.

The captain, who was sitting in on the conversation, pulled up an old newspaper article on the tablet about the incident. He read the relevant sections aloud. Cale really didn’t like how easy that was to find. Joe and Tony’s expressions changed slightly. They were perhaps surprised by the brutality. Their visitor stabbed a person to death. Did they question how a blade felt cutting through a man? Cale would have answered, “Same as deer.” That wouldn’t help. They had never field dressed a deer.

“So why’d you retire?”

“I needed a change. After Maggie—my wife—passed, I took more and more back-office assignments. I couldn’t let something happen to me while my girls were growing up. The back office is not where I was meant to be. I’m no good at it. So when I got my years to qualify for retirement, I mustered out to the real world. My girls were away in school by then. I borrowed heavily, bought a twin-engine turbo prop, and started my charter business.”

“Sorry to hear about your wife. I was wondering about you spending this whole day with Ashley, thinking maybe you and your friend who’s about to tie the knot again were two peas in a pod.”

Cale laughed, “Thanks for that comparison.”

“Now I feel like a real prince with that comment I made asking about what you told your wife. My wife passed, too. Last year. You know, Tony isn’t going to believe this, but I think I was jealous of you and Ashley. Sadly, I was more fired up about that than my dear sweet muscle-headed nephew. For what it’s worth, I’ve switched my feelings on Ashley to paternal, so watch yourself, I’ve been known to pack heat.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife too. Hard to believe the things you take for granted about loved ones until they’re gone.”

For the first time, the two men felt the similarities in their lives’ flight paths, including their attraction to Ashley. The mood turned respectful, and there was palpable longing for the dead, but it wasn’t somber. Tony decisively broke the mood.

“My wife is still alive. Look, I’ve got the voice mails to prove it.” He held up his phone and showed seven unchecked voice mails with the name Sofia beside each.

Joe laughed, “Tony, when did you tell her you were coming home? Between the storm and you not returning her calls, she’s worried you’re coming home before she can get her cabana boy out of the house!”

“Cabana boy. Yeah, now that I’m retired, I should be a cabana boy out in the Hamptons. That’s a good gig. ‘Miss, may I apply your sunscreen? No, ma’am, rubbing it in won’t be any trouble at all.’”

The banter picked up speed. Cale’s wit wasn’t quick enough to catch the ride, but he enjoyed watching the carousel. Eventually, the girls came up. Joe wanted to treat for a large steak dinner. Cale took off, with promises to return in time for a seven-thirty topside cocktail and an eight o’clock reservation at the steak house.

30

CALE MOTORED HOME
at full cruising speed. There was no less debris in the water, but he had acclimatized. That didn’t make going full speed smart; it was the intellectual equivalent of, after several hours’ driving in the rain, finding yourself traveling at eighty miles an hour despite the decreased visibility, increased stopping time, and unpredictable hazards.

He realized his calendar was suddenly full. He’d planned on Googling for pictures of Escobar today, but the date with Ashley had somehow superseded that in importance. Now he had a dinner party tonight, a charter tomorrow through Friday, and finding and killing narcotraffickers this weekend. The last part needed to be done without ending with a seat in Old Sparky. Busy times. But first he needed to dock, get in the house, pack for the charter, and get back on the Whaler without anything bad happening.

Tonight, Cale would pay to leave the Whaler at the marina with
Framed
until Friday. He’d then get a hotel room after dinner for shuteye. A good night’s sleep would keep up his energy reserves, and the FBO was a quick cab ride away. He needed to get there earlier than normal, closer to three hours before flight time than the normal one hour before. He hadn’t checked his plane since the storm. The guys from the hangar said everything was fine, but they didn’t have as strong an interest in its maintenance as he did. What’s that saying
about a pig and chicken at breakfast? They both are invested but the pig is committed. Old pilots didn’t get old by saving money on their airplane maintenance.

Without slowing, Cale passed his house. Nothing caught his eye. He did a one-eighty, pulled back the throttle, and passed again, now heading south. He came back, stopped at a crab pot buoy with a good view of the house. He raised the pot, hoped the pot’s owner wasn’t in eyesight, pretended to unload and rebait the trap while studying the house. It seemed OK. He dropped the pot, reengaged the engines, and pulled into the boat lift slings. Cale chose not to raise the slings and wrapped only one line around a cleat.

Jimmy hopped out and trotted up the yard, changing the pH mix in several locations as he made his way toward the house. He wasn’t on edge, but he wasn’t a trained guard dog either. Cale pulled the Beretta from the console box, pointed it down with his right hand, and stepped onto the dock. He jogged off the edge of the dock, turned left, and walked into the pines. After pausing and resurveying his surroundings, he walked out of the pines into the outdoor kitchen, ducking behind the counter. After another pause, he picked his head up and looked around. Jimmy stood at the back porch screen door waiting. Cale went back into the trees. The back of his flip-flops slung dirty puddle mud up his backside as he ran. He now circled to the front to study the driveway. It still seemed OK. He had a feeling that right after the bullet pierced his ribs, the thought
Well, it seemed OK
was going to run through his mind.

Jimmy didn’t ask questions and walked around to the front door without complaint. Cale decided Jimmy was right and he would enter the front door. The door was too thick to shoot through, and he’d know if anybody was inside as soon as the door opened. If the alarm started beeping, all was kosher. No beeping, and it had been cut from the inside; there was a battery backup if the power had been cut from the outside. Straight to
woof-woof-woof
meant somebody had tripped it already.

Cale sprinted from his hiding spot to the front door and pushed completely against it. His hand on the knob, he turned and pushed.
Beep-beep-beep
. He hustled in, locking the door behind him. He turned off the alarm, went through the house, locked the back door, then returned to the front door to let Jimmy in. Cale then relocked the front door, armed the alarm to STAY, and exhaled.

He gathered his stuff for the work trip. Packing was a core competency for a charter pilot, and it took two minutes to complete. Cale then selected an evening outfit before wavering—to shower or not to shower? He decided to get clean and keep the shower door open. Jimmy rested on the bath mat, not minding the occasional splashing water. The Beretta waited on the counter, two short steps away if he didn’t trip over the dog.

Cale dressed in nicer-than-normal summer wear: A white button-down, beige cords. It was a nice restaurant with a nice girl. He donned lace-up running shoes, letting practicality trump style. If he needed to run, he would need to run fast. He calf-holstered the Beretta. It had been so long since he’d worn the ankle holster that he was surprised it wasn’t dry rotted. He hefted his bag, changed the alarm to AWAY, and left the house.

Outside, he set the bag down and walked Jimmy up the driveway and down the street to his sitters. He chatted with the parents while their elementary school kids rolled Jimmy on his back. Four small hands scratched the big belly. Cale walked home slightly faster than his natural pace. In his front yard, he grabbed the bag without breaking stride and followed the stepping stones to the Whaler, careful not to splash mud on his pant legs.

Job one was surviving the trip home and with that accomplished, he motored toward the marina. He’d had no mental progress on finding and eliminating his pursuers. Might inspiration strike over a glass of red and a porterhouse?

Mid-trip, he radioed the marina and was directed to an interior slip
where the entrance geometry proved advanced but ultimately solvable. Cale removed cushions to access a bench seat locker and dropped the bag inside, affixed a padlock, then replaced the cushions to recreate a comfortable seat. He set fenders but wouldn’t need them. It took several minutes to secure the lines properly because the slip was oversized for the vessel. The harbormaster took Cale’s credit card info efficiently, and when Cale departed the harbormaster’s office, the digital clock read 7:25 p.m.