Authors: James Grippando
Black Horizon (4 page)
Her phone call was over, and Jack didn’t have to ask if it had been work related. A flight out of Tamiami always meant one thing: a destination dictated by the FBI, unknown even to Andie, never to be known by Jack.
“Today?”
“Sorry, yes. The start date for my assignment has been moved up.”
“But you cleared both the wedding and the honeymoon two months ago.”
“That was then. The situation has changed.”
The situation.
That was as much as Jack would ever hear about one of Andie’s undercover operations. This time, however, he’d seen enough Cantonese-language instructional CDs around the house to figure out that there was a China connection.
“Could this possibly have anything to do with the fact that the exploded oil rig is owned by the Chinese?”
He glanced in Andie’s direction, but she was gazing out toward the ocean, showing him the back of her head, refusing even to acknowledge the question.
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
Northbound traffic was suddenly moving again. Jack punched the gas to close the gap between him and the pickup truck ahead, but he’d accelerated too quickly. Andie suddenly didn’t look so good. She reached into the backseat and grabbed the ice bucket they’d borrowed from the resort. Her head went down between her knees, and those rare birds—the September geese of the Florida Keys—were honking again. Jack reached over and laid his hand between her shoulder blades. Finally she sat up, her eyes closing as her head rolled back against the headrest.
“You might want to take that bucket with you.”
“You might want to wear Kevlar,” she said as her left fist catapulted across the console and nailed him squarely in the chest.
“Damn, girl! That hurt!”
“Good,” she said, managing a little smile. “It was supposed to.”
J
ack parked along the road outside Tamiami Airport and watched from his open convertible as the jet cleared the runway and disappeared into the clouds.
The first leg of Andie’s trip was under her actual credentials, a commercial flight to a destination that had nothing to do with her assignment. Leg two was where Andie Henning would vanish, and only after leg three or beyond would she settle into her new community under an assumed identity. The abrupt end to their honeymoon was a bummer, and even though Jack had married her with eyes open, the morning sickness had put an entirely different spin on her open-ended assignment.
Next time I see you, our baby could be kicking.
Jack drove away, not sure where he was headed. It wasn’t easy for a sole practitioner to clear his calendar, but Jack had blocked out the entire week, and he didn’t especially feel like going into the office. He called Theo, who was his usual sympathetic self.
“Bitch.”
“It’s her job,” said Jack. “She’s not a bitch.”
“No, I meant
you
, bitch. Looks like we’re a couple of honeymooners.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have called you.”
“You totally called the right guy,” said Theo. “We’re going to Key West.”
“To do what?”
“To stand up for the fish and birds and everything else that is about to be covered in oil.”
“How very social-minded of you.”
“Not really. Journalists are a bunch of drunks. Business is about to explode at my buddy’s bar on Duval Street. He needs a hand.”
“I hate to rain on your sudden conversion from nature lover to capitalist pig, but they’re shutting down the Keys. You can’t get to Key West.”
“My buddy will get us through.”
“How?”
“Dude, trust me.”
The last time Jack had done so, his classic 1966 Mustang with pony interior was reduced to a heap of charred metal by some very pissed-off Colombians. But his packed suitcase was still in the trunk and he had nothing else to do. “I’ll pick you up in twenty,” he said.
Jack made it in half that time, but every extra minute and then some was lost on U.S. 1, which south of Sparky’s had become a veritable parking lot. Florida Highway Patrol had moved the middle-Keys roadblock up to Key Largo, a pretty reliable indicator that the NOAA’s projected zone of impact had expanded north to the upper Keys. Southbound traffic was backed up all the way to the mainland. Theo spent the entire trip surfing the Web on his iPhone, giving Jack oil-spill updates in real time as they crept along in stop-and-go traffic.
“Get this,” said Theo. “Says here that if American cleanup equipment isn’t allowed into Cuban waters, it could take anywhere from fifty to seventy days for the right equipment to arrive from Africa or South America.”
There was a new oil-spill tidbit every two minutes, and Jack had no idea how much of the Internet slosh was true. Ninety minutes into the trip, the FHP checkpoint was in sight. Theo had yet to contact his friend who owned the bar in Key West, so he tried calling one more time.
“He still doesn’t answer,” said Theo as he tucked away his phone.
“This guy’s a friend of yours?”
“Friend of a friend.”
“You dropped everything in Miami to help out a friend of a friend in Key West?”
“It’s business. Word on the street is that Rick’s looking to sell his café. I got a group of about five guys thinking about making an offer. Two of em actually have money. I’m the scout.”
“Well, scout. How are we getting through the roadblock?”
Theo fell silent for a moment, thinking. Jack’s gaze returned to the roadblock, where just about every other car was being turned away. They were in need of a plan, and from the expression on Theo’s face, one had just come to him.
“Do you still have your room key from Big Palm Island?” asked Theo.
“Yeah, but—”
“Give it to me.”
“
This
is your plan to get us through the roadblock?”
“Just give me the key,” said Theo.
Jack opened his wallet and handed him the plastic card. The convertible inched forward to the checkpoint, where a state trooper stopped them and approached the vehicle from the driver’s side.
“Afternoon, fellas. We’re turning away all sightseers. What’s your business in the Keys?”
Theo leaned over from the passenger seat and handed him the key. “We’re staying at Big Palm Island Resort.”
The trooper looked skeptical. “The two of you are staying on Big Palm Island—together?”
“Yes,” said Theo. He reached across the console and slid his hand onto Jack’s knee. Jack froze.
“Is there something wrong with that?” asked Theo.
“Well, uh, no,” the trooper said, backpedaling. “Of course not.”
“Because you’re acting as if there is something wrong,” said Theo, indignant.
“Nothing wrong at all,” said the trooper. “I have lots of friends who are . . . well, I have a few friends who probably know some gay people.”
“May I have our key, please?” asked Theo.
The trooper gave it to him.
“I’ll have you know that this key is to the honeymoon suite at Big Palm Island Resort. Isn’t that right, Jacky?”
Jack hesitated. “Technically, yes, that’s true.”
“So you two are on your honeymoon?” asked the trooper.
“Yes,” said Theo.
“No,” said Jack.
“It wasn’t a trick question,” said the trooper.
“I’m on my honeymoon,” said Jack. “But he’s not . . . I mean,
we’re
not—this is not
our
honeymoon.”
Theo folded his arms in pouty fashion, glaring at Jack. “So hurtful, Jack. You promised: no more double life. Officer, could you please let us through before my so-called partner ruins everything?”
The trooper hesitated.
Please
,
”
said Theo.
“All right.” The trooper stepped aside and waved them through. “Enjoy your honeymoon. But you may want to check out early if that oil comes this way.”
“Thank you,” said Theo as they pulled forward.
Jack massaged away an oncoming headache as he drove. “Theo, you just lied to a state trooper.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I know,” said Jack as they entered the Keys. “Bitch.”
T
hey reached the southernmost city in the continental United States at dinnertime and headed straight to Rick’s Key West Café on Duval Street. The owner, Rick Cavas, was out. The hostess had “no idea” where Rick was or when he would return. Jack and Theo took an outside table and killed the waiting time with a plate of “
con fuego
” chicken wings and a cold pitcher of beer.
Overnight, Key West had become ground zero for the American response to the impending oil disaster—a quirky coincidence, since it was also mile marker zero of U.S. Highway 1. Duval Street, the main drag in the Key West tourist district, was known for its art galleries and antique shops housed in renovated Victorian-style buildings. But day trippers and cruise-ship passengers really flocked there for the offering of reef-diving excursions, deep-sea fishing charters, bicycle rentals, overpriced junk jewelry, and—the really big sellers—enough T-shirts to clothe a Third World country and an assortment of sex toys worthy of
Fifty Shades of Grey.
Crucial to the lively mix were dozens of open-air bars and cafés where local bands and musicians from all over the Caribbean created a mélange of rock, salsa, and calypso. Jack took note of the usual attractions, but they were clearly secondary to a much bigger phenomenon. Duval and its cross streets had become media central.
Every major news organization had pounced on the oil-spill story and literally staked out ground. Mallory Square, a public gathering spot on the wharf where musicians, jugglers, and portrait artists turned sunsets into a festival every day of the year, had been overtaken by a temporary but monstrous two-story shelter for reporters and crews. No national news show was without its own Duval Street café for live broadcasts, roundtable discussions, and immediate “man on the street” audience participation. Environmentalists marched down Duval, posters and banners in hand, fighting to save the ocean, shoreline, and wildlife. On every street corner stood a television reporter, microphone in hand, interviewing tourists, locals, and business owners. The must-get story of the day was the firsthand account from someone in the commercial fishing or tourist industries. It was the perfect mix of drama and journalism, personal and angry pleas to the U.S. government to do something to avert a potential death blow to the Florida economy.
They were about to order a second plate of wings when Theo got a text message.
“Rick says to meet him at the marina,” he told Jack.
“He owns a bar
and
a boat?”
“He has a charter fishing business on the side.”
“I want his life.”
“No, you want
my
life. I own two bars and borrow your boat.”
The marina was a short walk from the café, and even on overcrowded sidewalks, they got there in five minutes. It was a good thing they’d left the car behind, because the parking lot was transforming into a staging area for cleanup equipment. Volunteers filled sandbags by the shovelful. Teams of handymen assembled floating booms to contain the oil. Cases of dish soap—the waterfowl-cleanser of choice in the Deepwater Horizon spill—were being unloaded from the back of pickup trucks. A palpable sense of urgency coursed through the marina, at times bubbling up into disagreements over containment strategies or arguments over salvage priorities.
Rick stepped off the stern of his fishing boat and greeted them on the pier, giving Theo a bear hug and a friendly slap on the back. It seemed like a lot of love from a “friend of a friend,” but then he gave Jack the same big hug and back slap. It was just Rick’s style.
“Glad you came, boys.”
Rick was almost Jack’s height but he was packing at least another thirty pounds of muscle. Jack attributed the added bulk to wrestling with ninety-pound marlin or tuna on a daily basis. Clearly it wasn’t all recreational “catch and release,” as evidenced by the too-tight T-shirt that bore the stains of dried fish blood and the logo for “Rick’s Deep Sea Fishing Adventure.”
“You done for the day?” asked Theo.
“Yup. But there’s a little group of us leaving at dawn to see if we can catch a glimpse of the spill. You guys want to come?”
“Sure,” said Theo.
“Jack, you up for it?” asked Rick. “It’s about three hours each way.”
“Jack’s in,” said Theo. “Trust me, he’s got nothin’ to do.”
“How close can we get?” asked Jack.
“How good is your Spanish?”
Jack knew it was a joke, but Theo laughed even harder than he should have, as if Jack needed to be reminded how many times his god-awful “Spanglish” and general lack of awareness for all things Hispanic had embarrassed his
abuela
.
“Better stay in U.S. waters,” said Jack. “This half-Cuban boy has filled his quota for affronts to the Cuban people.”
“Good, we’re on, then,” said Rick. “No way you guys will find a hotel tonight. You’re welcome to sleep here on the boat, if you don’t mind sharing the state cabin.”
“No, we don’t mind,” said Theo. “We’re on our—”
“Shut it,” said Jack. “Just shut it.”
T
hey left the Key West marina at dawn, heading south-southwest at twenty knots.
The “little group” going out to see the spill, as Rick had advertised it, was more like a flotilla crossing the Florida Straits. Jack counted twenty-nine vessels, a mixed fleet of fully enclosed cruisers, charter dive boats, and fishing yachts like Rick’s refurbished Hatteras forty-five-foot convertible.
Jack had seen countless sunsets on the water in his lifetime, but the only time he got anywhere near an “ocean” this early in the morning was when his seventy-five-pound golden retriever peed on the bedroom floor. He wondered how Max was doing. They’d boarded him for the honeymoon at Mitzi’s Boot Camp, which, despite the name, was more like the doggy version of Big Palm Island. Andie always spoiled him, and this time she’d done everything but hire Max his own escort from Babes R Us.
