Salty Sky Page 20
Francisco sat for lunch at the bar of a busy restaurant a block off the beach, a margarita on the rocks lined with salt and a wedge of lime untouched on the counter. Alberto and the Cuban sat at a table across the room. Alberto sipped a beer and ate chips while the Cuban drank water and watched the room. They knew this mood of Francisco’s and kept their distance. Alberto had seen it in Francisco as he had seen it in Pablo. It meant violence, with no concern for collateral damage. This was when buildings were firebombed, when twenty were killed to make certain one was dead.
The restaurant’s TVs showed surf video loops. The unnecessary insanity of the activity grabbed Francisco’s attention. Waves the size of buildings that went on for half a mile. Guys with long hair or shaved heads almost encircled by a tunnel of water and then riding out. How did the cameraman stay in that spot with the wave breaking and a surfboard coming at him at thirty miles an hour? The requisite shots of beauties in string bikinis preening and laughing made sense to him. Some girls in rash-guard shirts and bikini bottoms rode waves too. A blonde girl with one arm whipped turns at the crest of garage-size waves.
It surprised Francisco how quickly people reappeared after the storm. Young men leaned boards against the side of the restaurant. They entered with wet hair under ski hats. Attractive waitresses hustled and smiled, some young, some career servers. So many tattoos. The place served Baja-style tacos—fresh fish, fresh toppings, hot sauces. Even children were in the restaurant. Surely, the norteamericanos would have taken the children away from the storm. This place was too egalitarian for Francisco but was a place of fun for the norteamericanos.
Two young women approached in sheer cover-ups over bikini tops. They wore short shorts, presumably over bikini bottoms. They didn’t wear the same outfit, but they were a matched pair. They smiled.
“Are these stools taken?”
“No. Please join me.”
“Thank you. Are you in town to surf the storm surge?”
Francisco found the question odd, given the difference between his clothing and age and those of the waterlogged people entering the bar. He responded, “No. Just here on business.”
“Do I hear a slight accent? Where are you from?”
Francisco hesitated. He wanted everyone to know who he was, where he was from, and what he was doing. Yet he appreciated the value of prudence. This time, prudence won.
“Panama.”
He was pretty sure the norteamericanos couldn’t speak Spanish, but there might have been Mexicans working the kitchen. If he spoke Spanish, they would know he was not Mexican, so he went with something a little less mainstream. He’d been to Panama enough times and worked closely enough with Panamanians to pass a quick inquiry.
“Well, your English is excellent. I could hardly tell. Is it hard to learn another language?”
“Not really. It is, how would you say, situational. Panama is a small country with many outside influences. Because of the canal, of course.”
He looked at the girls, not sure they knew what he meant about the canal. He continued anyway.
“America is a big country, and everyone speaks English, every sign is in English. Let me say this another way. What do you call someone who speaks three languages?”
“Umm, trilingual.”
“What do you call someone who speaks two languages?”
“Bilingual.”
“What do you call someone who speaks one language?”
“I don’t know.”
“An American.”
The girls smiled, somewhat amused, but uncertain whether the handsome Panamanian had insulted them or given them words of wisdom. Then an image of a tall, middle-aged man with sun-bleached hair being towed into a wave caught their attention. Francisco used the lull to return to his thoughts.
He compared the two trips to Coleman’s house. He envisioned the driveway. Neither time was a car parked there. He wouldn’t have left the dog in the house overnight without letting him out. He assumed the man had left his car at a bar, too much to drink. Perhaps a neighbor let the dog out. The lights had changed—some that were not on the first time were on the second and vice versa—either they were on a timer or someone had been home. Both times, the doors were unlocked, but the second time, the alarm was armed. Someone had been there or the alarm was armed remotely.
Was anything else different? Any reason to think they wouldn’t be successful if they went back to the house after lunch? He mentally went through the front yard. No. Side yard. No. Back yard. No.
He motioned to his men. Alberto got up to come over, but Francisco waved him off and motioned for the Cuban. Francisco angled his body to shield the conversation from the women sitting to his side and asked, “Did you notice anything that might help us understand what happened between our two trips?”
The Cuban nodded. With his eyes, Francisco told him to proceed.
“The first time, the boat was on the lift. The second time, the boat was in the water.”
Francisco himself had missed that. He was again impressed. The boat was different. The first time, it had been on a lift. The second time, it sat in the water. What did that mean? Was Coleman watching? Why? Was he preparing to go out? Could something have tipped him off—the death of the arsonist? Was he helping friends with their hurricane damage? If he knew he was hunted, it might make the errand more difficult to complete. In the dark with rain hoods on, Coleman certainly would not have seen them well enough to recognize them. That was another reason for Francisco to either succeed quickly or buy his satisfaction.
27
THE GIRLS REPEATED the trail jog, now breathing too fast to carry on a conversation. Their ponytails bounced behind them. They jumped puddles in low spots. Small birds washing their heads took flight at their approach. Berries and blossoms carpeted the ground, and small sticks and trash were bunched against walls where the wind and water gathered them. The girls’ shoes were heavy from puddles too large for successful jumping. Their tank tops showed outlines from the sweat soaking through their sports bras.
The clouds showed cracks, brighter light penetrated, the breeze was down—gusty like fall, and the humidity now came from the ground up. Ashley believed that if she stood on the flybridge, she’d be above the humidity. She knew the air would feel awesome there after a swim and a shower.
A steady stream of cars with boards on their roofs passed. Four cars headed onto the island for every car heading off. Ashley wondered where they would all park.
“A quarter mile to go. Let’s race from the next light pole back to the boat ramp,” panted one of her friends.
“Game on.”
Before the light pole, all three girls accelerated.
If the distance had been fifty yards, it would have been close. At a hundred yards, Ashley’s long legs and fluid stride helped her pull away by ten feet. At the finish line, she was in front by thirty. She decelerated, put her hands on her knees, and raised her head, drinking in air. Her friends did the same.
They spent a few minutes stretching, kicking one heel at a time over the back of a park bench and leaning forward, pulling a foot up to their gluts while standing on one leg. They only did standing stretches. The ground was still too muddy to sit on.
“Want to take a dip before going to the boat?” Ashley asked.
“Sure, if we don’t have to race.”
The girls took off their soaked sneakers and socks and waded into the water on the pebbly beach beside the boat ramp. Ashley pondered whether the pebbles came from nature or from crushed gravel running off the parking lot. The girls floated, and the current dragged them down the shoreline. They walked back in waist-deep water against the current, picked up their shoes, and stepped delicately back onto Framed.
Ashley sat Indian-style on the dive platform, awaiting her turn for the shower. With Gino and his friends gone, she thought Joe might invite them to spread out to other bedrooms and showers. She checked her messages. There was a message from Tony’s number. It was Joe.
She enjoyed Joe’s voice. She enjoyed hearing ciao used and not sounding hipster-like.
She heard the latch open—her turn in the shower.
It was surprising how comfortable a two-foot circular shower could be. The water pressure when the boat was attached to shore water was definitely greater than when they were anchored out. When she finished, she towel-dried her hair, put her black sundress on, and went topside.
She decided to give Cale a call. Her whole life, she’d promised to stay away from violent men, and now she’d been awake four hours without calling him, and it felt like an accomplishment. For the first time, something inside her felt empathy for her mother.
She hoped Cale didn’t think the call was too desperate. She told him she’d let him know when Joe was out so he could come down for a meal or a drink. She was just keeping her word, really. That was good, right? Cale said today was his last day off before he left town for work; it was now or never.
He picked up on the third ring. All she heard was wind.
“Cale, you there? Can you hear me?”
She heard “Hold on,” then more wind. Finally, the wind sound subsided to a manageable level. “This is Cale.”
“Hey, Cale, it’s Ash. What is all the background noise?”
“Sorry, I’m on the Whaler. Took me a minute to slow down. Sound better now?”
“Yes. Hey, Tony got Joe out of jail like they planned. Wow, that is a sentence you don’t say everyday. Anyway, they are at the place we found the pickup last night, having lunch and drinks. They should be back here midafternoon if you want to stop by and say hi.”
Did that sound as transparent as it felt? At least she hadn’t stayed up all night with her girlfriends talking about how dreamy he was, only to be decimated in the morning when he proved to show no interest. She’d never had the chance to do the teenage forlorn love thing, to talk boys with the girls.
Could you think of a man with two grown daughters, a house, a boat, and a plane as a boy? She was also curious about what the fairly recent photo she’d seen at his house of him holding two babies was about.
On the other end of the line, there was a longer pause than Ashley liked.
“I’m not too far from you now. Want me to swing by, and we’ll hop down an island and grab lunch first? Maybe the old-timers will be onboard when we get back.”
Well, that improved her spirits. “Yeah, that would be great. You know where we are in the marina?”
“Sure. If you want, bring a bathing suit. The waves are still pretty good, and I have two boards stowed. Maybe we can paddle out somewhere.”
Ashley decided this moved into date territory. She would tell her friends what she was doing rather than ask if they wanted to come. He hadn’t invited them anyway, not even in an offhand manner.
She told the girls, and they teased her a bit. “So it’s the flyboys that can get your attention! All those doctors we’ve watched trying to break through the ice with you, and to think, all they needed was a career that was a little more daring.”
Her friends went to the marina bar for Bloody Marys and chicken Caesar salads. Ashley readied herself for her date by putting a bikini on under her sundress and added her sunglasses. She found and packed a tote bag with a towel, sunscreen, and bottled water.
What exactly was she hoping for? She cut that reasoning off and decided to just enjoy the day. She’d take whatever it offered. If it was just a boat ride and on to normal life, so be it. As much as she’d enjoyed the prior two evenings with Cale, she didn’t have a whole bunch of expectations wrapped up in today. At least, that is what she was telling herself while her foot tapped excitedly as she waited.
28
CALE HUNG UP the phone. That was a good call, if not the expected call. Why not ask a beautiful girl out on a date? Until that call, his plan for the day had been to walk the heavy tourist areas looking for three Spanish-speaking gents he could introduce himself to on his own terms (Gunfight at the O.K. Corral style). But sometimes opportunity only knocked once, and you needed to answer the door. Sure, this was a life-or-death situation, but wasn’t it always if you were paying attention? This situation was just exceptionally transparent. Was it the re-illumination about life being finite that spurred him to ask her out? Amazing, given the events in his life that Cale needed the finiteness pointed out again.
Maggie, you OK with this? What’s that? Funny. Leave a wrinkly, sagging forty-five-year-old you for a taut, shiny, new twenty-five-year-old. No chance. Maybe at fifty-five, but not forty-five. Just kidding. Remember, you left. Cale thought he would have done just about anything to have seen her as a wrinkled fifty-five-year-old.
Cale felt dual rushes of attraction and danger as he idled the Whaler in the channel. He was slow to regroup after the call and the daydream conversation. Jimmy got up and leaned against his leg, uncertain why they were stopped. Cale’s mind followed several thought trails. Not much traffic on the water. He was in nobody’s way, and took his time putting thoughts, emotions, and worries into their appropriate spots and timeframes to deal with. Again, the phone started dancing in front of him. “This is Cale.”
“Cale, it’s Sheila. I am going to put you on speaker phone, OK?”
“Sure.”
“I have a few colleagues in my office.” Several male voices rang out different variations of “Good morning.”
Sheila continued, “Can you go over the story you outlined on my voice mail for everyone? Sorry for not returning your call from the other day before now. This second message really alarmed me, so I wanted to get the appropriate parties together.”
Not introducing her colleagues meant they were either political attachés or other law enforcement agencies. Possibly a senator’s chief of staff. Senator for the committee on what—South American relations? Free-trade agreements? Was there still a cabinet-level drug czar position? If Radcliffe’s death was ruled a homicide, it might be FBI. CIA possibly, but they couldn’t do anything domestically—at least according to their congressional charter.
Cale parsed Sheila’s voice and words to search for warning. For some reason, she was pretending she’d never called him back. He read loud and clear that he was not to mention that conversation. Was this unvoiced reason why she called from the 703 number last time? Had she used a prepaid disposable cell phone, paid for with cash? Those were a pain for investigators to track. She probably wore a hat, glasses, and collar turned up when she bought it. There was warning in that; he’d proceed with caution.
“OK. I noticed when I came home yesterday that I’d had visitors on my back porch, and there is no logical reason for me to have back-porch visitors during a hurricane. For some reason, maybe because of Radcliffe, who I read about on the Internet, it made me unusually nervous. We rarely worked together, only shared one real mission, but for those with the clearance, you’ll know it was a substantial one. I decided to be safe and slept in my boathouse.”
Shed, boathouse, tomayto, tomahto. Sleeping in your shed based on a gut feeling seemed a little much, might trip alarms of being forewarned, and Sheila was obviously hiding her complicity.
“I set my house’s alarm. When it went off, I looked through the window and saw three men at my house, handguns drawn. One had gray hair pulled back. One seemed younger and faster. He covered a lot of territory. The leader appeared middle-aged, slender, full head of black hair. They raised their voices over the alarm. They were speaking Spanish. A very proper, well-enunciated Spanish, the type I associate with Colombia.”
Like the 911 call, this was a slight departure from reality to make reality easier to follow. He’d never heard them speak. Coul
d he explain this caveat on “honesty is always the best policy” to his kids if they were listening? They were parents now; they understood gray. Of course, you could rationalize six outcomes to a coin toss if it suited you. Soon enough, his grandkids would pose the questions. More to their parents than Cale; he’d teach them how to crab.
The Spanish comment was made to ratchet up the likelihood of the visitors’ being the Escobars in the eyes of the powers that be. The likelihood was ratcheted tightly enough in Cale’s mind that he was a bit afraid the bolt heads were stripping.
Hearing silence from the other side, Cale proceeded.
“With Radcliffe dying in very unusual circumstances and now this at my house within less than a week, I have some questions. How secure are our classified files? If I Google my name, will some report show up talking about my history with the agency? Is there any reason to think some very undesirable Colombians are now traveling in the US?”
Presumably, the speakerphone was muted. Cale didn’t expect an answer. Well, not a truthful answer. There were too many interagency coworkers watching each other for anyone to take a chance with the information they released. There was probably very little trust among the group sitting around Sheila’s desk, so ten cents to a quarter their response would be cloaked in national security nondisclosure bologna.
The silence dangled as they discussed the company stance. Cale passed the time by picking out his obit picture. Young man or present day? Formal or outdoors? The funeral was, for obvious reasons, more for the living than the dead, so his daughters could go with what they liked best. He didn’t think it would be the one he’d have picked, in which he holds, with arms outstretched to the camera, two seven-pound flounders. The photo he’d picked for Maggie was crystal clear in his mind. Casual. Outside. She was young. But, of course, she was young.