Paul Levine: Solomon and Lord Drop Anchor

This guy’s got a fancy computer system that will revolutionize their books. It also lets him steal three million bucks before anybody knows what hit them. Now, the banks have pulled Teresa’s line of credit, and she could go under.”

“I’m not crying, Solomon.”

“Not done yet. See, this lady is damn important to me. If it hadn’t been for Teresa giving me work my first year out of school, I’d have gone broke.”

"Lo unico que logro la dama fue posponer lo inevitable,” Cruz said. “She only postponed the inevitable.”

Victoria knew there was more to it than just a financial relationship. Teresa had virtually adopted Steve and his nephew Bobby, and the Solomon Boys loved her in return. After Victoria entered the picture, she was added to the extended Torano family. Now, each year at Christmas, they all gathered at Teresa’s estate in Coral Gables for her homemade crema de vie, an anise drink so rich it made eggnog seem like diet soda. All of which meant that Steve would do anything for Teresa. One of Steve’s self-proclaimed laws expressed the principle:

“I won’t break the law, breach legal ethics, or risk jail time…unless it’s for someone I love. ”

Now that Victoria thought about it, the question wasn’t: Just what would Steve do for Teresa Torano? It was: What wouldn’t he do?

“That sleazy accountant,” Steve said. “In Cuba, he kept the books for the student worker program, the students who cut sugar cane. Ran the whole food services division. But he had a nasty habit of cutting the pineapple juice with water and selling the meat off the back of trucks. The kids went hungry and he got fat. When the authorities found out, he stole a boat and got the hell out of the worker’s paradise.”

“Old news, hombre.”

“Vic, still on two-zero-two?” Steve asked.

“I know how to read a compass,” she said, sharply.

“Where you taking me?” Cruz demanded.

“Jeez, how’d you ever get from Havana to Key West?” Steve said.

“Everybody in Havana knows the heading to the States. You want Key West, you keep it at twenty-two degrees.”

“A bit east of due north. So what’s two-zero-two?”

“A little west of due south.”

“Keep going, Cruz. I think you’re catching the drift, no pun intended.”

Steve waited a moment for the bulb to pop on. When it didn’t, he continued, “Two hundred two minus twenty-two is one hundred eighty. What happens when you make a hundred eighty degree turn, philosophically or geographically speaking?”

“Fuck!” Cruz jerked the handcuff so hard the rail shuddered. “We’re going to Havana!”

“Bingo. We’re repatriating you.”

“You crazy? Cuban patrol boats will sink us. You remember that tugboat. Trece de Marzo. Forty people dead. ”

“The Marzo was trying to leave the island. We’re coming in, and we’re bringing a fugitive to justice. They should give us a reward, or at least a bottle of Club Havana rum.”

“They’ll kill me.”

“Not without a trial. A speedy trial. Of course, if you tell us where you’ve stashed Teresa’s money, we’ll turn this tub around.”

“Dammit, Steve,” Victoria said. “We have to talk.”

Steve put the boat on auto – two hundred two degrees – and took Victoria down to the salon.

“You could get us killed,” she said. “Or jailed. Right now, the best case scenario would be disbarment.”

“That’s why I didn’t want you along.”

Steve walked to the galley sink and turned on the faucet, intending to rinse the dried blood from a scraped elbow. The plumbing rattled and thumped, but nothing came out. He opened the ice maker. Empty, too.

“Cruz is a lousy host,” Steve said.

“Are you listening to me? Let’s go back to Miami. I’ll see if we can talk Cruz out of filing charges.”

They both heard the sound, but it took a second to identify it. A scream from the bridge. “Sol-o-mon!”

Followed a second later by machine gun fire.

Steve and Victoria ran back up the ladder to the bridge. Cruz was tugging against the rail, his wrist bleeding where the handcuff sawed into his skin. Three hundred yards off their starboard, a Cuban patrol boat fired a short burst from a machine gun mounted on its bow. Dead ahead, the silhouette of the Cuban island rose from the sea, misty in the late afternoon light.

“Warning shots,” Steve said. “Everybody relax.”

Steve eased back on the throttles, tooted the horn, and waved both arms at the approaching boat. “C’mon Cruz. It’s now or never. When they pull alongside, I’m handing you over.”

“Do what you got to do, asshole.”

“Steve, turn the boat around,” Victoria ordered. “Now!”

The patrol boat slowed. Two men in uniform at the machine gun, a third man holding a bullhorn.

“I’m not fucking with you, Cruz,” Steve said. “You’ve got thirty seconds. Where’s Teresa’s money?”

“ Chingate!” Cruz snarled.

“ Senores del barco de pesca!” The tinny sound of the bullhorn carried across the water.

“Last chance,” Steve said.

“ Se han adentrado en las aguas territoriales de la Republica de Cuba.”

“Steve, we’re in Cuban waters,” Victoria said.

“I know. I passed Spanish 101.”

“ Den la vuelta y salgan inmediatamente de aqui, o los vamos a abordar.”

“They’re going to board us if we don’t turn around,” she said.

“I kind of figured that out, too.” Steve turned to Cruz. “Absolutely, positively last chance, pal. I’m handing you over.”

“I’m betting you don’t,” Cruz said.

The patrol boat was fifty yards away. One of the men in uniform pointed an AK-47 their way.

“Steve…?” Victoria’s voice was a plea.

This wasn’t the way he’d planned it. By this time, Cruz should have been spouting numbers and accounts from banks in the Caymans or Switzerland or the Isle of Man. But the bastard was toughing it out. Calling Steve’s bluff.

Is that what it is? An empty threat.

Steve wanted to hand Cruz over, wanted him to rot in a Cuban prison.

But dammit, I’m a lawyer, not a vigilante.

He wished he could turn his conscience on and off with the flick of a switch. He wished he could end a man’s life with cold calculations and no remorse. But the rats that would gnaw at Cruz at Isla de Pinos would visit the house on Kumquat Avenue in Steve’s nightmares.

“Take the wheel, Vic.” Filled with self-loathing, wishing he could be someone he was not. “Twenty-two degrees. Key West.”

“Say ‘please,’” Cruz laughed, mocking him.

Just before midnight, the lights of Key West off the port, the Wet Dream cruised north through Hawk Channel, headed toward Miami. The sky was clear and sparkled with stars. The wind whipped across the bridge, bringing a night chill. Victoria slipped into her glen-plaid jacket. Hair messed, clothes rumpled, emotionally drained, she was trying to figure out how to salvage the situation.

I came aboard to save Steve from himself and I’m doing a lousy job.

Steve stood at the wheel, draining a La Tropical beer, maybe listening, maybe not, as Cruz berated him.

“You fucking loser,” Cruz said. “Every minute I’m tied up is gonna cost you.” Cruz rubbed his arm where the cuff was biting into his wrist. “I got nerve damage. Gonna add that to my lawsuit. When this is over, you’ll wish the Cubans had taken you prisoner.”

“Steve, I need a moment with you,” Victoria said.

Steve put the boat on auto – Cruz complaining that it was a damn reckless way to cruise at night – then headed down the ladder, joining Victoria in the salon.