Mac travis adventures bo.., p.43
Mac Travis Adventures BoxSet, page 43
part #4 of Mac Travis Series
Assured that they were safe, he looked up at the sky, hoping the storm would ease up soon. It stared back at him like a woman, not giving any clues. Backing away from the tidal pull of the open water, he retreated to the tree line. The water was only calf-deep there, and he stood, watching the scene in front of him.
The mainland, usually a blurry line on the southern horizon, was hidden by the heavy rain. He’d heard some parts of the West referred to as Big Sky Country; this was what he called big water country. The small atoll surrounded by shallow flats lay five miles from Marathon on the Gulf side of the Keys. From the backside of the island he could see several other small islands and, on a clear day, the tip of Big Pine Key. From where he stood, he could see three hundred degrees of uninterrupted water—a view you could only get from an island in the middle of nowhere.
Marathon was shielded by a large squall, and out to the north he could see smaller scattered storms. Burdened with heavy rain, their dark clouds touched the water. They were fewer and farther between and he noticed the sky lightened beyond them. He estimated that high tide was right about now and breathed a sigh of relief that the worst was over.
Trufante and Pamela sat at the bar on the second floor of the two-story tiki hut next to Key’s Fisheries, watching the storm approach. The bar looked out over the Gulf, allowing an unobstructed view of the weather. Fat drops of rain blew into the opening behind the counter and the bartenders hurried to drop the clear canvas curtain to protect them from the brunt of the rain.
Storms were just another excuse to party in the Keys. The boats were all in their slips with extra lines added, and the bored captains and mates were in the bar drinking tomorrow’s tip money. The atmosphere became more boisterous as the alcohol flowed.
“We need to go dance,” Pamela said, swaying to the Jimmy Buffett song playing on the house speakers. “You promised we could go to a real dance club in Key West.”
“Shoot, girl, it’s not but three in the afternoon,” he said in his heavy Cajun drawl and baring his thousand-dollar smile. “Them bars don’t get hot till double-digit time.” He looked around the room. “I’d be needing a bump if we gonna party that long.”
“You know I would put it on the credit card if I could,” she said, sucking her mojito through a straw.
“Yeah, babe, just beer till the first, I get it. Need the weather to break and I’ll find some cash work,” he said, draining his beer. It was still a mystery to him where she got her money from, but the first of the month was always a party, however as the days wore on, more and more went on the credit card. Making matters worse, the weather had been bad for almost two weeks now, first blowing from the north with a late season cold front and now this damn tide thing. They said it only happened every few years, but the timing sucked.
“No worries, babe. We’ll get down there next month,” she said, sliding her empty glass toward the bartender.
Trufante was feeling awkward these days. The story going around was that he was living off her, and that made him uncomfortable. His view was that he did what he did, and if she wanted to kick in and bring the party to the next level, that was cool—but not required. Living in her comfortable house and drinking imported beer were nice perks, but he’d been up and down enough to know it didn’t really matter, and nothing lasted forever.
“These are on Jeff,” the bartender said, placing fresh drinks in front of them.
Trufante looked down the bar, saw the bright orange hair, and nodded his head in thanks. He knew he’d have to go talk to him, but for now he’d enjoy the drink and avoid the man that bought it. Keys fishermen fell into two classes, with a large gray area between them. The first group played by the rules and usually survived, but were always near the edge. The second group were a different lot, often relying on smuggling or poaching, either from laziness or just a general disregard for the law. In the Keys when things got bad the ranks of the second group swelled. The fisheries, divided by the chain of islands into the Gulf and Atlantic zones had different regulations. Add in the federal and state demarcation lines and you often didn’t know where you were or what the rules were. Both locals and tourists played this to their advantage. Mac could have written the book on the first group. That guy had more integrity than you could shake a gator tail at. Jeff was the opposite—trouble.
“Got to get this over with,” he said to Pamela, who was bopping to some song only she heard.
Trufante walked through the crowded bar, the air stale and humid. The storm curtains might have kept the water out, but they cut off the breeze at the same time. It was raining hard now, and the crowd shifted slightly to avoid the drops coming through the palm frond roof. He slid through the group, fist-bumping some, and avoiding the looks of others, until he stood face-to-face with Jeff.
There wasn’t much Trufante liked about him, except for the few instances he had scored a big payday for the Cajun. His shoulder-length frizzy hair was supposed to look sun bleached, but the word was it was permed and highlighted. His teeth were too white and the diamonds he wore in both ears were too big to be real.
“Trufante,” he started. “That babe’s still putting up with your sorry ass?” He looked down and tipped his drink in Pamela’s direction.
Fortunately she was lost in her own head and missed it. “What you got goin’ on?” Trufante asked, wanting to cut to the quick and get this over with. One round was not going to buy Jeff much time.
“Word is you could use some cash. Lookin’ like the back end of the month is hard times for you and the little woman,” he said, eying Pamela. “How the hell did a hillbilly like you land a babe like that?”
Trufante asked himself that question every day. “Just the old Cajun charm,” he said, showing his grin that looked like the front end of a Cadillac. “Now what you got?”
“Look here.” Jeff moved close. “This tide’s bringing some fish down from the north. Some would say it’s an easy catch. What do you say we go drag some nets out on the Gulf side when the wind quiets down some? Should be a good payday.”
Trufante stared him down. “Those are red tide fish. That shit ain’t good, dude.”
“No, no, no,” Jeff said, sipping his drink through the small straw. “These is just easy, if you know what I mean. The tide’s going to pop those floodgates up in Miami like a cheerleader’s cherry. The fish are just gonna take the ride.”
“That’s not exactly a quality catch,” Trufante said. High tides and storms often brought trouble from up north. Once the floodgates holding the contaminated water from the sugar plantations opened, the fish would be pushed south. Usually the flood and fish kills ended well before the Keys, but this tide and the storm winds from the north were likely to push them farther south and west.
“Dude, this shit’s gonna happen so fast they’re still gonna be good,” Jeff said. “You in or not?”
Trufante looked down the bar at Pamela. Bringing in a pile of cash for a day or two’s work would surely make her happy and hold them over until the first of the month. It might also stop some of the rumors that she was supporting him. “Two days is all.”
Jeff stuck out his hand to shake on the deal. Trufante ignored it and moved down the bar to Pamela. Two more fresh drinks awaited, and he knew he had struck a deal with the devil.
2
Trufante looked out over the calm Gulf waters. It was a marked change from yesterday. The strong current was all that remained of the storms that had passed through. To hold their position, Jeff had to constantly gun the engine of the twenty-four-foot open-deck lobster boat to counter the tide.
Dropping back to neutral, the cloud of black smoke from the old diesel cleared, revealing the latest haul of fish flapping on the deck among the empty beer cans the two men had drunk. Both men quickly used shovels to scoop the fish into baskets where they would ice them down. Grabbing another beer, Trufante took his position in the patch of shade cast by the small wheelhouse. But the effort was mostly futile. The commercial fishing boat was all deck, with just the small wheelhouse forward.
“Ready for another run at ’em?” Jeff asked.
“Hell yeah,” Trufante said, counting the money rolling in. Reluctantly, he left the shade, tossed a large buoy overboard, and started feeding the weighted net over the side of the boat. Soon a line of Styrofoam buoys floated behind them. Jeff idled across the current until the last buoy was thrown over, then turned and went back to the beginning of the line.
“Think we ought to drink a beer and give it a few minutes,” Trufante said.
Jeff looked at the sun, sinking toward the horizon. “I guess. We only got ’bout two more hours of daylight. We need to make the run in at sunset with the rest of the tourists.”
Trufante knew he was right. He looked around, seeing the reflection off a distant boat’s windshield. They were about twenty miles off the backside of Marathon in thirty feet of water and had kept a lazy lookout all day. Continuing to keep an eye on the area, he knew if the boat came any closer, they would have ample time to ditch the nets and pick up the rods sitting in their holders for just such an occasion.
There were no other boats this far out, and only a half dozen private planes landing and taking off from Marathon’s small airport could possibly have seen them. Still, the reflection made him wary.
Florida Fish and Game was who they needed to avoid, and running in at night they would be visible from miles away. Even the most dim-witted enforcement officer would know with this kind of boat, this time of year, there was no way they were on the level. Lobster and stone crab were out of season, and most commercial fishermen were after the schools of dolphin fish riding the Gulf Stream current on the Atlantic side. The water was too warm for grouper or snapper, and, in short, there was no reason for them to be here.
“Right on,” Trufante said, pulling the first buoy in. He forgot about the reflection, knowing immediately from the weight that the net was loaded. It took both men to bring the captured fish aboard, and, after the last buoy was in, they sat on the deck toasting a fresh beer.
“We move fast, we can get one more run. This is too rich to pass up,” Jeff said.
Trufante had his doubts they could sell what was already aboard. He moved upwind, away from the rotten stench of the fish drifting toward him on the breeze. Normally fish would stay fresh for almost a week if properly iced down. These were only hours out of the water and putrid. No buyer would purchase them whole—the easy way to sell them. Instead, they would have to filet every one of them, then run the meat through a bleach water solution. Maybe if they froze them they could pull it off, but fresh, there was no way they would pass the sniff test of a good or a moral buyer.
The cause was known to most of the local fishermen. The heavier-than-normal rains had caused Lake Okeechobee to swell, forcing the South Florida Water Management District bureaucrats to open the floodgates. The downstream effect from the high levels of pollutants and fertilizer in the water was deadly, causing red tides and fishing closures along the southwest coast of Florida. These were the same fish, swept out of the closure areas by the tide.
“You got someone lined up to take these?” Trufante asked, rising and shaking out the net.
“Think I would have come all this way with your sorry Cajun ass for company if I didn’t have a buyer?” Jeff spat overboard. “I got this covered.”
Thinking about Pamela’s reaction when he walked into the house with a stack of hundreds was all the motivation he needed. Trufante tossed the first buoy over. He was skeptical, but it would only take another half hour. There was still enough daylight and plenty of beer left to make the trip back. The full length of the net was overboard and Jeff had turned to retrieve it when he saw half the string of buoys disappear.
“Snagged something,” Trufante called out. It was not uncommon for floating debris or even a turtle to drag part of a net underwater. Just as the words were out of his mouth, the rest of the buoys were sucked under the surface. “Something big,” he added, waiting for the floats to rise again.
Jeff circled back. A rip was visible on the surface, showing where the submerged net line still disturbed the current. Trufante leaned over the side, trying to see what was going on, but the water was cloudy from the storm. “We got enough fish, we can ditch it,” Trufante said.
“You want it out of your share, we can ditch it. That’s almost a grand in net, floats, and lead. I ain’t leaving it,” Jeff spat back.
Trufante was always one for the big picture. They had close to five grand in fish aboard, even at the discounted rate they would have to sell them at. Nets were expenses, and he was ready to move on.
“Why don’t you take your sorry ass for a swim?” Jeff said.
Trufante looked at the water, watching the rip disappear as whatever had a hold of the net pulled it to the bottom. “Not today.” He didn’t think he would see anything without a mask, and with the current smoking past the boat, he didn’t trust Jeff either. “Why don’t we sell this load and come back in the morning when the tide’s slack. Visibility should be better, and I’ll grab some gear from Mac.”
“Works for me, but I’m holding out some from your share,” Jeff said. He pointed the bow south toward the empty horizon and pushed the throttle forward.
“Get the numbers.” Trufante grabbed a fresh beer from the cooler and took a long drag. When he finished, he tossed the can and removed the raw water sprayer to hose the deck and the baskets of fish, hoping it would take some of the smell with it. Once the deck was clear, he opened a large hatch and started digging into the hold packed with ice. He shoveled out large scoops, which he placed liberally on the baskets. Even after washing and icing down everything, the fish still smelled. He grabbed two fresh beers, handed one to Jeff, and went to the small space forward of the wheelhouse to get some fresh air.
The sixty-five-foot arc in the Seven Mile Bridge was the first thing to break the glassy surface of the water. The span was the tallest object for miles. Jeff was headed on a course that would intersect with Moser Channel, which ran underneath it. Better than coming through Boot Key Harbor, Trufante thought. If there was going to be any law around, they would be sitting in the crowded harbor, not worrying about traffic running near the center of the bridge, miles from land. They fell in behind several other boats, blending in with the Keys’ rush hour.
Half an hour later, they passed underneath the bridge and turned east, staying well clear of the harbor entrance. Running parallel with the shore, but giving enough clearance to avoid the shallow flats, Jeff followed the coastline for a few miles before turning to port and entering Sisters Creek. The small inlet seldom had law enforcement and offered a backdoor route into the commercial harbor. Jeff pulled back on the throttle just after passing the second marker and steered to the west of the line of red marked pilings.
“Might wanna watch your wake,” Trufante called over the engine noise.
“Ain’t nobody around,” Jeff said.
Trufante looked around at the houses on the right. The million dollar homes each had a dock extending into the channel, most with a large boat tied to it. “Only take one of those well-dressed cats to take a picture with their phone and report you.” He knew from experience that reports were followed through, especially with commercial boats. “That pelican over there could read the registration numbers,” he said, pointing to a lone bird in the mangroves on the left. Even he was not interested in their catch.
“I got that shit covered. Check it out when we stop. The four’s a nine and the one’s a four. They’ll never track me down,” Jeff said proudly.
“Except for that carrot top you got. Ain’t no other around here that got a head of hair like that,” Trufante said, moving behind the wheelhouse to use it for cover in case someone did snap a picture. At a half dozen inches over six foot, with his ponytail and grin, he was not exactly invisible.
Jeff slowed and followed the mangrove-lined canal to the left. After steering around a few bends, they entered Boot Key Harbor. They cut across the mooring field to the opposite side and entered one of the canals. Lobster and crab traps lined the concrete seawalls of the commercial fisheries they passed. Toward the end, the channel became tighter with mangroves encroaching from both sides. A large clearing with a few run-down buildings came into view, and they pulled up to a rickety wooden dock on the left.
As soon as he saw where they were headed, the stump of his finger started itching. “You’re selling to Monster?” Trufante asked. The shack off to the left was where he had lost part of his finger to the chum machine.
“They’ll pay,” Jeff said, easing the bow of the boat to the dock.
Trufante knew what to do without being asked and was already forward with a line tied to the cleat. It was difficult, especially after the beers they had drunk, with the wind blowing them forward and pushing the boat past the dock. While Jeff manipulated the throttles, he jumped across the void and put a bight around the rusted cleat on the dock, then used the leverage to pull the boat in before tying it off. Jeff reversed the engine and swung the stern toward the dock, where Trufante was ready with another line.
“Hand ’em up and let’s get this over with,” Trufante said, extending his arms to take the first basket from Jeff. With the dozen baskets on the dock, Trufante went to look for a dolly, staying clear of the chum shack, while Jeff looked for the owner.
Fifteen painful minutes later, they were back on board. Trufante released the bow line, kicked the hull away from the old dock, and scratched his stump again. Jeff let the wind spin the boat around before Trufante released the stern line and jumped aboard. They headed back into the harbor. It wasn’t until they were tied around the back side of Burdines gas dock that he relaxed. “We gonna split it here or what?” he asked as he sprayed down the deck.
“Too many eyes around. We should go back to your place,” Jeff said.
Trufante suspected that he just wanted to get a look at Pamela, hopefully with not a lot of clothes on. “Truck works for me.”
