Rising Tide
probably had over thirty pounds on him. I peered straight into his eyes. “Then when?”“Few days,” he replied. “Either you can come to Key West, or I’ll bring it up to Marathon. Ray wants to clean it up pretty for you.”
“Well, I’ve got your cannons,” I said. “But our deal was to drop them off today, not in a few days. So, you want me to drop them back in the water?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He lifted his phone and tapped the screen a few times. “I just sent you the numbers where I’d like you to drop them, just north of Vero Beach.”
“In the water?” I asked again.
He nodded. “Three thousand feet offshore in thirty feet of water. As soon as possible.”
I nodded slowly and glanced from Buck back over to the Mallard. I raised a pair of binoculars and studied the old flying boat. “Okay,” I agreed. “Vero Beach is nearly two hundred miles away, but the cannons will be dropped in a tight pile there by this time tomorrow. I’ll see you to collect the Mallard next week.”
We shook hands.
Buck glanced at Tank and gave a little two-fingered salute.
“Ooh-rah,” Tank grunted.
“Thanks, guys,” Buck said. “Let me know after you make the drop.”
Jimmy took Buck back to his plane as I started the engine and hoisted the anchor. Once Jimmy was back on board and the tender stowed, we were underway. The next few days would be busy and I didn’t want to wait around.
The two planes took off and were soon nothing but specks headed southwest as we headed northwest. My plan was to drop the cannons where Buck had asked, then head straight back to Bimini to pick up the Revenge before heading back to the Keys.
The whole trip would be nearly six hundred nautical miles and would easily take three days, running all night and taking watches for the next few nights.
The next day, we arrived at the prescribed spot and, with no other boats around, we quickly hoisted the cannons off the deck and lowered them to the sea floor.
For the return to Bimini, we disengaged the main engine and fired up the twin Mercedes powerplants, so the return crossing took half the time.
Upon our return to the Rusty Anchor, since it was still early enough, I climbed into Island Hopper for the short flight to Key West to meet with Buck and Ray.
Buck had warned me that Ray was less than thrilled about the deal to trade the Mallard. He’d asked me to sweeten the pot for his partner by asking Ray to do the restoration.
Ray was professional and walked me around and through the bird, pointing out the many things he’d already spotted that would need major attention or upgrade. He also pointed out locations where a stash might be hidden with a little modification.
I nodded my understanding. “You restored Buck’s other planes, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Would you be interested in restoring the Mallard for me?”
Ray’s face lit up. “Absolutely. I’ve done a lot of research on where I…er…you, could get parts, and the optimal updated specs that should be included.”
I nodded at his enthusiasm. “I’m more interested in quality than speed, so why don’t you come up with a plan and budget, and then give me a call?”
He agreed and we shook hands. No contracts to sign, or lawyers to involve. That was just the way things were done in the Keys.
As Buck and I walked back over to Island Hopper, he covertly pulled something from his pocket and palmed it into mine as we shook hands.
“Thanks again for your help,” Buck said. “And for hiring Ray to restore the Mallard.”
“He’s the best there is,” I replied. “I would’ve hired him anyway but appreciate the token.”
What he’d put into my hand was small but heavy. I had a fairly good idea what it was.
“You got off easy anyway, Reilly,” I said, discreetly putting the coin in my pocket. “Or, should I say, King Buck, redux?”
After taking off and getting out over the water, I dug the thing out of my pocket. It was an eight-escudo Spanish gold coin.
I chuckled and put the $30,000 “token” back in my pocket.
April 13, 2021
The aging Ford Taurus drove slowly south on US 41 toward Pine Manor, an older neighborhood in the southern part of Fort Myers. The driver scanned the shadows, as if looking for someone.
Most of the homes in the half-square-mile neighborhood—known locally as Crime Manor—were small, one- and two-story apartment dwellings built in the late 1960s and early ’70s, though a few dated back to the early 1940s. A fourth of the residences were vacant; some abandoned and used as crack houses. The majority of the people who resided in Pine Manor were renters.
The businesses fronting the highway reflected the downward trend of the neighborhood. The old Ford rolled past a Mexican restaurant, a check-cashing place with bars on the windows and door, a used car lot full of older model cars, a florist, a pawn shop, and a convenience store, all with security bars. The car slowed at one of the few up-scale businesses, a furniture store that offered rent-to-own pricing.
The Taurus had been blue at one time, but the driver’s door and left front fender were white, having been replaced after a wreck. The rest of the car’s paint was faded and peeling. The hood, roof, and trunk were coated with surface rust, making the car look anything but blue under the orange glow of the streetlight on the corner.
“I’m hungry,” a small boy said from the backseat of the car.
“Me too, Alberto,” his mother replied, turning right at the furniture store. “We’ll eat in the morning. I just need to make some money first.”
The woman looked around nervously, but not because of the high crime in the neighborhood. She knew it well and was known by people in the area.
Her twitching and scratching were the result of heavy drug use.
The street she turned on was dark.