Paul Levine: Solomon and Lord Drop Anchor

“You can’t keep him locked up,” she said.

“I need more time.”

“For what?”

“To think.” He walked to the galley sink and turned the faucet, intending to toss cold water on his face. Same rattle, same thump. “Damn, I forgot. Cruz put all that money into his boat and still can’t get the water to work.”

“What?”

“A fancy boat like this and you can’t wash your hands.”

“No. What you said before. ‘Cruz put all that money into his boat.’”

“It’s just a figure of speech.”

“Think about it, Steve. He doesn’t own a house. He leases a car. No brokerage accounts, no bank accounts. Everything he has, he puts into his boat. If he ever has to leave town quickly…”

“Like he left Cuba,” Steve said, picking up the beat. “With nothing but the clothes on his back.”

“This time it would be different because…”

“The money’s here! On the boat.”

In sync now, she thought.

A man and a woman running stride for stride.

“Vic, why don’t you go back up to the bridge and make sure we don’t crash into any cruise ships?”

“And what are you doing?”

“I’m gonna fix the plumbing.”

Steve opened the hatch in the salon floor and climbed down a ladder to the engine compartment, wincing at the noise from the twin diesels. He found the black water tank first, tucked up under the bow. Sewage and waste water. Nothing unusual about it, and Cruz wouldn’t want to dirty his hands with that, anyway. Then Steve found the freshwater tank, a custom job built into one of the bulkheads. Made of fiberglass, it looked capable of holding 500 gallons or more. The boat had desalinization equipment, so why did Cruz need such a big tank?

A big tank that wasn’t working.

Steve grabbed a flashlight mounted on a pole and took a closer look. He peered into an inspection port and could see the tank was three quarters full. On top of the tank was a metal plate with a built-in handle. He turned the plate counter-clockwise and removed it. Then he aimed the flashlight into the opening.

Water. Well, what did you expect?

He grabbed a mop that was attached by velcro to a stringer and poked the handle into the tank. The end of the handle clanked off the walls.

Clank. Clank. Clank. Thud.

Thud? What the hell?

Steve pushed the mop handle around the bottom of the tank as if he were stirring a giant vat of paella. It snagged on something soft. He worked the handle under the object and lifted.

Something as long as a man’s body but much thinner.

Thin enough to fit into the opening of the custom-built tank. The object was a transparent, plasticized pouch, and when the end peeked out of the opening, Steve saw Ben Franklin’s tight-lipped face. A hundred dollar bill. Stacked on others. Dozens of stacks. As he pulled the pouch out of the tank, he saw even more. Hundreds of stacks, thousands of bills.

Damn heavy, Steve thought, lugging the pouch up the ladder from the engine compartment. Then he dragged the load out the salon door and into the cockpit. “Now you’ve done it,” Cruz sounded almost mournful. He stood on the bridge, aiming a double-barrel shotgun at Steve. The rail where he had been cuffed hung loose. “I didn’t want this. But it’s your own damn fault.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Victoria said. “When I came up here, he’d gotten out.”

“Not your fault,” Steve said. He dragged the pouch to the starboard gunwale.

“Stop right there!” Cruz ordered. “Step away from the money.”

“Nope. Don’t think so.”

Cruz pumped the shotgun, an unmistakable click-clack that Steve felt in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll blow your head off.”

“And leave blood and bone and tissue embedded in the planking? Nah. You may kill us, but you won’t do it on your boat.” Steve hoisted the pouch onto the rail.

“If I can’t take this to Teresa, I’m sure as hell not gonna let you have it. Your treasure, pal, is strictly Sierra Madre.’”

The shotgun blast roared over Steve’s head, and he flinched. The pouch balanced on the rail, halfway between the deck and the deep blue sea.

“Put the money down, asshole.”

“Okay, okay.” Steve shoved the pouch over the rail and it splashed into the water. “It’s down.”

“Asshole!” Cruz grabbed both throttles, slowed the boat, and swung her around. He turned a spotlight on the water.

Nothing but a black sea and foamy whitecaps.

He swung the spotlight left and right. Still nothing, until…the beam picked up the pouch floating with the current. Cruz eased the boat close to the pouch at idle speed, slipped the engine out of gear, then dashed down the ladder. Grabbing a tarpon gaff, he moved quickly to the gunwale. Shotgun in one hand, gaff in the other, he motioned toward Steve. “Back up. All the way to the chair.”

“Do what he says, Steve,” Victoria called from the bridge.

“Only because you said so.” Steve moved toward one of the fighting chairs.

Cruz leaned over the side and snagged the pouch with the gaff. He struggled to lift it with one arm, still aiming the shotgun at Steve.

Suddenly, the boat shot forward, and Cruz tumbled into the water, the shotgun blasting into space as it fell onto the deck. On the bridge, Victoria had one hand on the throttles, the other on the wheel.

“ Cono!” Cruz shouted from the darkness.

“Do sharks feed at night?” Steve leaned over the side. “Or should I just drop some wiggles on your head and find out?”

“Get me out of here!” His voice more fearful than demanding.

“Nah.”

“No me jodas!”

“I’m not fucking with you. Just don’t feel like giving you a lift.”

Victoria raced down the ladder and joined Steve in the cockpit. “Testing, testing,” she said, punching a button on her pocket Dictaphone.

“What are you doing?” Steve said.

“Mr. Cruz,” Victoria called out. “We’ll bring you on board once you answer a few questions.”

Cruz was splashing just off the starboard side. “What fucking questions!”

“Do you admit stealing three million dollars from Teresa Torano?” Victoria said.

Pink slivers of sky lit up the horizon and seabirds squawked overhead as Steve steered the boat into the channel at Matheson Hammock. He had one hand on the wheel and one draped on Victoria’s shoulder. A shivering Cruz, his arms and legs bound with quarter-inch line, was laced into a fighting chair in the cockpit. His taped confession would be in the hands of the State Attorney by noon. The pouch of money lay at his feet, taunting him.

“What are you thinking about?” Victoria asked.

“I was just imagining the look on Teresa’s face when we give her the money.”

“She’ll be delighted. But it was never about the money, Steve.”

“Whadaya mean?”

“When you were a baby lawyer, Teresa believed in you and nobody else did. You needed to prove to her that she was right. And maybe you needed to prove it to yourself, too.”

Steve shrugged. “If you say so.”

She wrapped both arms around his neck. “But remember this, Steve. You never have to prove anything to me.” They kissed, at first softly, and then deeper and slower. The kiss lasted a long time, and when they each opened their eyes, the sun was peeking above the horizon in the eastern sky.

Their bodies pressed together, Victoria felt something digging into her hip. “Are you carrying another pair of handcuffs?”

“Nope.”

“Then what…?” She jammed a hand into one of his pockets. “Oh. That.”

Steve smiled. “Like I said, no cuffs.”

“That’s okay, sailor.” She brushed her lips against his cheek. “You won’t need them.”