Lethal Wind

LETHAL WIND

Bob McElwain

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright © 2005 Bob McElwain

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Setting: This tale was originally written in the late seventies. There have been lots of changes since. In the air charter business for one. And especially in rules about wandering about airports and harbors. But what is described here, was true back then.

CHAPTER 1

We were near twenty miles out of Marina Del Rey when I spotted an unnatural bulge breaking the crest of a calm Pacific swell. The way I grabbed the binoculars caught Denty’s attention.

What is it? he demanded, tightening his grip on the wheel.

Something’s floating up ahead, I replied, focusing the glasses.

Let’s have a look, he said sharply, reaching one hand back over his shoulder.

I handed him the glasses, watching the small freighter that had crossed our course, heading north. Rust and corrosion were winning out against flaking paint.

We’ll check it out, Denty said crisply, handing the glasses back.

When I saw it again, it had settled further into the sea. I glanced again at the freighter, about a mile north of us now, and was suddenly, inexplicably uneasy. I stepped up onto the bench for a better view.

I can’t see it, Denty said.

Give it a couple of degrees left.

Port, you mean.

Yeah.

As we closed, I could make out the sea-green tarp. It covered a cargo carried by a barge or raft. It had been towed here by the freighter; that seemed certain. Then it had been cut loose or had broken loose on its own. My money was on cutting. Either way, it didn’t figure. Why would a freighter be towing anything?

Denty?

What?

We best let this go.

He snorted.

Leave it to the Coast Guard.

Hell, Scott. Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, it’s a rule. The dammed thing is at least a hazard.

Maybe it was only the slight change in course that brought Edi, Denty’s wife, up from the lounge. She must have sensed tension, for she looked anxiously at Denty, then at me. Can I see? she asked.

I handed her the glasses as she climbed up beside me on the bench. The kids, Patsy, and little Joey, came next, followed soon by Bill and Sally Larson. Everyone had a look and each had an opinion as to what they’d seen. None agreed with mine. The sense of excitement grew as we closed.

Tony Haggen was propped casually against the forward deck rail, eyes watchful. Coarse blonde hair, swept back at the sides, accented the clean lines of Nordic features. Gail, his girlfriend, seemed undecided about remaining beside him or appeasing her curiosity by joining the others in the cockpit.

I made my way to the prow and stripped down to my boxer shorts. A hundred feet from the green tarp, Denty slowed and began a turn to bring us alongside. Twenty feet from the raft, I dove.

It took only moments to find the tow line, but it had settled deeply. Without tanks, I didn’t have the staying power to lift it. By the time I surfaced, Denty had stopped the boat and dropped the ladder over the side. Grabbing at chunks of air, I climbed aboard.

Need some rope, I said.

This is a ship, Denty commented, eyeing the tarp. We only have line.

If you’re going Navy, it’s a boat. But I’ll settle for some line.

Denty rummaged about in the storage compartment. What do you think it is? he asked.

A raft, maybe twelve feet square, I replied, loaded with trouble.

I wrapped the rope around my waist, climbed to the top of the cockpit for more height, and then dove. I found the tow line again and secured the rope. As I struggled upward, unwinding the rope was tricky. I broke the surface and continued twisting free, gulping for air. With the end, I swam for the transom. I handed it up to Denty and said, Go easy and you can raise the tow line.

Still sucking up air, I climbed back aboard. I’d already guessed what the cargo was, but I wanted to be sure. I fished the Buck knife out of my pants, opened it, and dove again. I didn’t want to cut the tarp; trapped air could be keeping it afloat.

I pulled my way toward the bottom of the raft. By feel, I found an uncovered plastic bag and slashed with the knife. I grabbed a handful of rapidly dissolving powder and brought my tongue down to it. Even the salty water couldn’t hide the taste.

When I broke the surface, Tony was leaning over the rail, the face empty of lightness and smiles, the blue eyes black holes against the high sky. Coke? he asked softly.

Yeah, I said, grabbing at air.

There’s a fair sized boat headed this way.

We best talk to Denty.

Tony nodded and started aft. I closed the knife and swam for the ladder. Denty and Bill finished securing the tow line as I climbed aboard.

I grabbed Denty’s arm and turned him toward Tony. By the look on his face, I must have grabbed harder than I’d intended. It’s coke. A ton at least. And there’s a boat headed this way.

Denty scooped up the glasses and turned toward the oncoming boat.

Cut it loose, I said. Then get clear. Fast.

Christ. What’s with you? he demanded, lowering the glasses. We’re taking this in. We’ll be heroes.

Pass, Denty, Tony said grimly. Some lowlife paid ten mil for this. He’ll be pissed at losing it.

Have you guys lost it? What the hell can go wrong? This is Marina Del Rey, not some hot LZ.

There’s not another boat in sight, except the one coming at us, I said.

Tony pulled the .25 automatic from the ankle holster. This is the arsenal, if they want that raft. He tucked the little pistol behind his waistband.

To hell with you guys.

When I turned away, disgusted, Tony said, At least call the Coast Guard. Then get me a phone link. There’s a cop I’ve got to talk to.

Well, that’s reasonable. Denty turned to the radio and began twisting dials.

As he reported what we’d found, I watched the approaching boat, worried more than a fellow should be. When the voice on the radio announced a chopper was airborne, the boat veered west, out to sea. Maybe that had been their plan all along. But I would have bet against it.

I made my way forward and slipped into my clothes. The soggy shorts clung uncomfortably and the shirt stuck to my back. I headed for the galley, reassured by the pounding, throbbing roar of the chopper passing overhead.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, then settled into a seat, more than a little angry at Earlin Tiberon Denton. Few have heard this name. Call me Denty, he’d say. With those three words and a smile brightening intense brown eyes, strangers called him friend.

Today had been set aside for the formal launching of Denty’s Dream, a Gulfstar 54. A motor sailor with twin masts, glistening with new whiteness, sharply trimmed in bright coral. Denty had claimed it would be a dismal affair without me.

I hadn’t agreed. But I’ve always had trouble saying no to Denty. So I’d paid the twenty bucks to park the car without a whimper, then tried to pretend the half-hour walk to the boat didn’t matter either.

I’d gotten the whole tour, before we shoved off. And I’d found myself enjoying what I’d thought would be only the fulfillment of a social obligation.

It’s tough to find four men who survived the happenings in Nam, and who still hang together. Maybe that was it. The quiet renewing of strong ties, forged in the crucible of war.

But good feelings had vanished. I wished to hell I was someplace else. Or that Denty had never bought the damned boat. Or that it would sink. Now.

The others drifted in, talking excitedly. The conversation quickly evolved into an intense, earnest debate that included all the tiresome, dreary arguments used about anything folks want that’s illegal. It bored me nearly to the point of pain. I slipped outside, hoping not to be missed. But Gail followed me up to the cockpit.

The chopper now trailing us, showed no weapons. But they might be mounted out of sight so as not to disturb happy boaters. It didn’t matter; its mere presence was comforting. And another boat was following.

Wonder what they’re up to? Denty asked, nodding back toward the boat behind him.

I reached for the glasses. It’s a Coast Guard cutter.

Everybody wants in on the act.

Seems that way.

Seamen scanned the ocean. The gun covers were off. I laid the glasses down and made my way forward.

Gail followed. She leaned over the rail beside me, watching the cutter close. You don’t approve of the talk down below, do you? she asked.

Her long, sandy-toned hair had to be naturally wavy, for the damp, salty air hadn’t seemed to affect it. Bright brown eyes were locked onto mine.

You must think I’m a terrible snoop, she said finally.

Are you?

Curious, mostly. You’re a man easy to like, but you don’t give much. What’s going on under that black wavy mop of hair, behind those slate gray eyes that let nothing show you don’t want seen? How did you get all those lovely muscles you use so well? How do you keep so trim?

I realized I was blushing and hoped it was hidden by the sun behind me. Weren’t we talking about coke?

We were. What’s your body fat?

I’ve no idea. What’s yours?

This is crazy, isn’t it?

Expect you’re just curious, like you said.

But you’re not going to help much with that, are you?

It’s not likely.

At least tell me what you think about coke. Don’t you see a problem?

Yeah. Tony said someone paid ten mil for what’s on that raft. It could be worth ten times that on the street. With that many bucks at stake, people will get hurt. Some will die.

There’s a look in your eyes as if you know about such things. It’s scary.

I glanced back at the raft. It is that, I said.

At the entrance to the channel, the cutter pulled up alongside and herded us down the north edge, fending off the other boats. Denty held the mike in one hand while clutching the wheel with the other.

Near the end of the channel, I could see the Coast Guard office. The cutter that had been docked there on our way out, had settled across the marina entrance, blocking outbound traffic. Everyone in the channel was being warned off with the blaring bullhorn on the cutter next to us.

Heading for the Coast Guard dock, Denty opened the throttles wide. As if rehearsed, he swung the boat north at the last instant, and Bill cut the tow line. The raft floated toward shore. Denty slowed the boat to a stop, then began backing in after it.

There were too many officials on shore to suit me. And too many others had press stamped on their features. I slipped through our people gathered on the fantail, and made my way down to the galley. I grabbed another beer and sat down in the far corner behind the table, watching the two cutters anchor across our prow.

The whole of it was chaos, so confused and disorganized it would have been laughable, if it weren’t so pathetic. Representatives from the Drug Enforcement Administration struggled with those from the Coast Guard and the County Sheriff’s department to gain the upper hand, and thus credit for the confiscated cargo.

Tony sat beside me, along with Gail. We answered virtually the same set of questions for several reps from each department. Only Denty and Bill, up on the dock, enjoyed it. They were in the limelight, on a kind of personal high I’ve never been able to understand. Neither had ever passed on a chance to grab center stage.

About the nineteenth time someone asked me how I happened to spot the raft, I wanted to hit him. Can’t say, I said. I just looked up and there it was. I knew it was only a matter of time. They’d tire of asking questions and scribbling in little notebooks. But when?

That’s the guy I called, Tony said, nodding. Hap Skyler, the best narcotics has got.

Vainly I searched for a clue to support Tony’s obvious respect. Hap was for Happy, Tony had said earlier, harsh contradiction to the grim, uncaring look of him. The too-large black leather jacket was worn and scuffed. With the scraggly moustache and greasy hair brushed back, he was a caricature of the fifties street type. Still, he was the only one not carrying a tape recorder or a notepad. And he was listening, not talking.

When he approached us, the eyelids drooped over expressionless eyes. Thanks for the call, Tony, he mumbled, the words oddly unconnected.

You doin’ any good?

Hap shrugged. There’s one dude here from the Sheriff’s office. I might get somethin’.

Luck, Tony said. Looks like you’ll need it.

For sure, Hap said, plainly discouraged. He drifted off into the crowd.

Why did you call him in? I asked

When these headline hunters quit, it’ll be guys like Hap who do the real work. He needs all the info he can get, especially the stuff that doesn’t get written into files.

I tried to picture Hap doing anything, but soon gave it up. Whatever Tony saw in the man was lost to me. I’ve been wondering, I said, why they dumped that raft in such a public place.

Could be they thought nobody would suspect it. The boaters make good cover. And we were far enough out to be well away from the rest.

I nodded, thinking again of the reporters outside. Is there a way to slip out of here? I don’t need my picture in the papers.

Tony nodded, rising. Let’s see if my badge is worth anythin’.

Gail let Tony out, then sat back down. Okay, she said, I’m snoopy. Why don’t you want your picture in the papers?

Denty, up on shore, was posing for another photographer. I’m not looking for fame or glory.

There’s got to be more to it than that.

Yeah. You are snoopy.

Sort of nice, though, don’t you think?

That’s so. I paused and scratched my chin. Sometimes a friend needs a little help. When I can, I lend a hand.

And sometimes things get rough?

Sometimes.

There’s that look in your eyes again. I think I’ve run out of questions.

Good.

I haven’t, really. It’s only that one of your answers brings up a dozen more questions. I can’t seem to deal with them all.

That’s even better.

She jammed her elbow into my ribs, but settled into silence. When Tony returned, he said, Got us a ride.

Most of the crowd was on shore now. We followed Tony down the ladder to the pier. As we climbed the rocky bank, I kept my back to anything that looked like a camera. At the top, Tony opened the back door of a squad car and we slipped inside. Hap Skyler slid behind the wheel and began to work the car free of the crowd and parked vehicles.

In the thirty minutes it took to circle the marina, not a word was spoken. It suited me fine. Hap stopped in front of the entrance to the parking lot. As I opened the door, I asked, What next?

Hap shrugged.

Trouble, Tony said grimly.

What are you talking about? Gail demanded.

Tony answered. That lowlife who just lost ten million? There’s no tellin’ how he’ll react. He turned to me. Where’s your Colt?

In the trunk of the car.

I’d keep it closer.

Sleep with it, Hap mumbled.

I nodded, then said to Tony, Will you take care of this lovely, snoopy lady? Gail’s smile was warm, but the eyes still brimmed with curiosity.

For sure, buddy. For sure.

I closed the door and hunted up my car. I opened the trunk, unwrapped the Colt Python .357 from the oily towel, checked the load, then tucked it inside my waistband. I dropped the speed-loaders into a pocket in my pants.

The car’s a ’66 Dodge, worn and bruised by time, but the 426 Hemi mellowed down to a comforting rumble within seconds of firing the ignition. I didn’t waste much time clearing the parking lot, but I spent a whole bunch, making sure I wasn’t followed.

CHAPTER 2

It was one of those glorious spring days that defy description. Gentle breezes embraced all with crisp desert air. The mulberries surrounding the house were capped with brilliant green leaves, dangling, dancing mirrors dumping sunlight in random patterns.

I hardly noticed. I found myself remembering man is the only mammal that routinely kills its own kind. Where had that come from? I didn’t know of anybody who had died recently.

Pondering the source of grim thoughts, I removed accumulated tools and debris from the Chevy Blazer. When I’d finished, I swept out the floor. After tucking the broom away, I paused to look up at the mountains. The dog returned from foraging to stand beside me, panting happily. A few nights up there might put an end to the willies.

I scratched the black Doberman and asked out loud, Duchess? How’s a walk sound? She looked up, eyes bright. She’d disappear up the draw if I made a move toward my pack. The feel of the Colt against my gut abruptly ended that train of thought. When I started up the knoll, Duchess followed reluctantly.

The house is essentially one large room, forty feet on a side. Glass spans the walls, drawing the hills and trees inside. Bookcases and cabinets are tucked under the windows. Furniture is scattered without pattern; all shows lots of wood. I’d built the place. I liked it. I’ve always been comfortable inside. Right up until now.

In the shower, I took only time to get wet, then dry. And to scrape off black whiskers that grow faster than seems right. As I popped open the beer, a car rattled over the cattle-guard down by the road. I moved to the windows. Uneasiness was suddenly upgraded to a feeling akin to fear.

It was Tony Haggen’s cherry red Porsche. He habitually drives as if on the last lap at Le Mans. Now the car hardly disturbed the dust in the drive. I grabbed a beer for Tony and stepped outside.

The colts in the pasture eyed his progress warily, poised to flee. As he drove over the second cattle-guard and started up the steeper part of the hill, I stepped off the porch and took a sip of beer. It tasted bitter.

Tony slowed to a stop, then killed the engine, his mouth a grim slash across taut features. Clear of the car, his shoulders slumped. Only the coarse blonde hair was unmarred by his rage and the strain of subduing it. The black-blue eyes overflowed with that hollow, vacant look. Someone was in trouble, whether they knew it or not. He looked past me, not at me, and asked, Any beer?

I tossed him the can. As he picked it out of the air, the breeze brushed his coat aside, revealing the 9 mm Beretta. He looked as if he wanted to use it. He ignored his favorite, the captain’s chair, and sat on the edge of the porch. I sat down beside him and took another sip. It still tasted bitter.

Duchess lay down between us, her head on her paws, watching Tony. He’s always good for a scratch or two. She was puzzled at being ignored. I looked up at the mountains I knew so well, the best trails to the small groves of pines and oaks, and to the springs. It’s always pleasant speculation. It wasn’t now.

When Tony finished the beer, he crumpled the can. He flattened it as neatly as I’ve ever seen it done. The intensity he brought to the task was nearly tangible. He set it on the porch between us and said, The Dentons?

My heart thudded against my ribs.

Murdered early this mornin’. The voice was dull, scratchy, its rich warmth buried. Massacred says it better. They used MAC-10s. Dumped some ten rounds into each body. The kids, too. He pointed to the mashed beer can. They all looked sort of like that.

The cold knot in my gut spread icy tentacles throughout the body. I’d guessed there’d be trouble, but not this. Nothing like this.

Tony looked up from the crumpled can. That freighter?

I nodded, the head strangely heavy.

It’s got a real fancy name for such a junker. La Conquistadoras. It belongs to Harry Boggs. But we can’t prove that barnacled bucket towed that raft. So we’ll never tie anything to that God damned son of a bitch!

Rage had enveloped me too swiftly, too completely. What was desperately needed was cautious accurate thought, not emotional response. I concentrated on breathing deeply. I rubbed harshly at the broad scar in my palm to remind myself of what uncontrolled anger can lead to.

When the mountains at last lost the reddish glow, when I could again hear birds arguing in the mulberries and smell the blooming sage, I asked, Are the Larsons covered?

Sure. Two top guys with .38s and shotguns. Against machine guns. What a fuckin’ joke. Cops, you see, got rules and such. The assholes comin’ at us must laugh a lot.

And Gail?

I moved her out of town with a witness procedure.

Did our names make the news? I asked.

No. But Boggs can find us.

We’ve got to stop him.

I’ll get right on it.

We’ve got to.

Shit.

When I stood, I was surprised to find the task so difficult. I returned with two more beers and sat back down, sighing deeply. I wish to God I’d stopped Denty, I said, with an intensity that startled me.

Nobody ever kept him from doin’ whatever.

Idly I scratched the dog’s back. The way Patsy and little Joey had rushed to hug me replayed itself on the good memory track. And the way Edi had tweaked Denty’s nose before showing me the master stateroom. That was there. Gone now, as though it had never been.

The image of the Springfield M1A in the gun rack over the door burst upon the mental screen. I glanced toward the road. The distance hadn’t changed. It was still near six hundred yards. So why the look? At this range, with the nail-driving ART IV scope, a head shot’s a cinch.

You’re thinkin’ about that rifle.

Tony’s good at that, getting in close alongside my mind.

You can’t do it, he said bluntly.

Do what?

Waste that fuckin’ roach.

Why not?

You wouldn’t be you any more.

Who would I be?

A killer.

We’ve killed before.

It’s not that simple, damnit.

It used to be, with the night and jungle for cover. And that rifle wasn’t near what this one is.

That was another time, another place. Don’t mix the two.

How in hell do you keep them apart?

You’re askin’ the wrong guy. He propped his chin on his palms and stared at the ground. Besides, his place is a fort, crawlin’ with soldiers. It’d be suicide. And there’s cops and feds watchin’. More are ready to move in with choppers. You’re good, buddy, the best I’ve seen, but you’d get burned.

My gaze drifted about the hundred acres of sand, rock, brush, and lizards I could call home so long as I paid the annual tribute most call taxes. Or until Harry Boggs decided I wasn’t to live anywhere. I was only thinking about someone coming at me, I said finally.

Bullshit. You want to waste him, same as me.

Yeah, I said softly. But I want a bunch more.

Ninety-nine years in a cell?

That might do, I replied, not really sold on the notion. My head overflowed with overlapping memories of the Dentons and questions without answers. When I stopped scratching, Duchess draped a paw over my thigh, asking for more. I obliged. You must have some ideas, I said.

Sure. That’s why I’m sittin’ here. He shook his head, slowly, deliberately. Few would see what lay behind it. Frustration is there; the badge can be burdensome. Deeper yet, there’s staggering futility and gut wrenching rage, the consequence of following rules that lead to empty, impotent gestures, instead of solutions.

Tell me about Boggs, I said.

He started pushin’ as a kid and moved up. When the boss turned his back, Boggs slashed his throat, cleaned out the safe, and made two tries with stolen Beech Barons. The white hats got the planes and goods, but not Boggs. The last trip busted him.

Where’d he get the bread for another try?

What’s it matter? The point is, he did. Now he’s got a lock on the Valley. Has had since he showed. Nobody’s ever bothered him. Lately the Colombians have been tryin’ to move in, like with everybody.

He just wandered in and staked out a claim? Nobody objected?

Funny thing, that. Somebody handed narcotics all they needed to bust the roach that was runnin’ the show. From nowhere, Boggs is there, like without losin’ a customer.

Maybe it was Boggs, making himself some room.

No way. That case was laid out without a glitch. The judge laid down good time. There wasn’t even an appeal. Boggs isn’t smart enough to put together a package like that.

Then who did?

"We never