Chapter One: The Package

The captain’s shirt was half-buttoned and sweaty. The wind made it a parachute in the back, the fabric full of the Gulf’s humid breath. Air hit him in the face and smoked the cigar out of his hand while he steered.

            The moon was smothered by the late-summer sky and lightning pulsed in the guts of the clouds. Each flash showed the mangroves on either side of the channel and, once dark again, a deep rumble would follow.

           His masthead light provided thirty yards or so of visibility, which combined with the channel marker lights was good enough. The captain followed them south, towards the Gulf, like he would during the day, keeping the greens on his right and reds on his left.

            At the stern was a fat silhouette reclined on the bench. A metal cash box was pinned beneath bare feet, and a blue LED strip lining the deck backlit the hairs sprouting from his toes. The captain jerked the throttle forward and limbs flailed behind him. The old man half-crawled from the bench to the captain’s chair, almost knocking the cigar out of his hand when he grabbed onto the cushion.

            “Christ! Are we close?”

            “Yes, god damn you,” the captain said.

            The channel widened suddenly, and the captain banked left, glancing at the digital chart on his dash. He straightened out and shined his light on an island, though a false one. There was no earth, only mangrove roots, water, and a sea grape canopy.

            The captain cut their speed and spun around, with their backs to the island so he could see both mouths of the northern channel they came from, and the southern one to Keeywadin. He reversed for a moment to stop their drift, then idled the engine before switching the light off.

            “I can’t see shit,” the old man said.

            “No, but any light coming out of the channel should be easy to spot.”

            The old man scratched a birthmark on the crown of his head. It was brown and awful and shaped like Idaho. “Why did I have to come tonight, Harry?”

            “Principle alone, if anything.”

            “You know I’m no good out here.”

            “I know that if you didn’t come, I wouldn’t even give you one pill.” the captain said. “You need some skin in the game.”

            The old man wheezed and spat phlegm into the water. “If this guy keeps us waiting, I won’t make it past the ninth tomorrow. What if Jimmy notices something’s off?”

            “This will be the fourth time he’s met me here. I don’t expect any issues.”

            The captain stared into the dark and drank from a metal thermos. The ice melted into ginger ale, but the Jack Daniels that remained burned his throat nicely. The current washed by like a white noise machine.

            He slid his hand through a gap in the fiberglass below the wheel and found a pistol grip. He felt the safety with his finger and the metal was nearly the same temperature as his skin. He checked his watch and took another drink.

            Without seeing it, he heard the hum of a small engine. He squinted, but there was nothing. The old man put on a pair of glasses that hung from a lanyard around his neck. The noise grew louder, and the captain’s fingers tightened around the grip. He ignored the urge to turn on his light back on. He closed his eyes but then it stopped, and there was only the current.

            A blinding light switched on directly in front of him. Both hands flew over his eyes so fast he knocked the gun loose from the pegs it hung from, and it clattered into the hollow of the console. “Fuck!”

            The light went off, and the captain turned his on. A squinting kid, no older than twenty-one, flipped his sweatshirt hood down and stuffed headphones into his jeans. He held up both hands in a gesture of apology, fear, or sarcasm.

            He turned on a green deck light and stood on a dinghy that was nearly level with the water’s surface. He had a cooler a seat and several empty Busch Light cans littered about the deck. The captain turned his masthead off and flipped on his sidelights.

            “Sorry, man,” the kid said. “Wrong button.”

            “Who the hell are you?”

            The kid spun his wheel around until he was parallel with the captain. The old man groaned and leaned over the side, wobbling the boat with his shift in weight, and caught the dinghy before it could tap their hull.

            “Larry’s got kidney stones, I guess. So, I’m here,” the kid said.

            “Why the hell didn’t he say anything?” the captain said.

            The kid shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him when he’s out of the hospital.”

            “I don’t like this,” the old man said.

            “Shut up,” the captain said.

            The kid held up a cantaloupe-shaped bundle of plastic with a black logo of pine tree. “I have it right here.”

            “Good,” the captain said. “Toss it on the deck and he’ll give you the box.”

            The kid spat into the water. Kick drums and cymbals thrashed from the muffled headphones in his pocket. “Let’s open her up first.”

            Without taking his eyes off him, the captain turned his head to the side. “Crack the lid and show him quickly, please.”

            The old man bent down with a hand on his knee and picked up the box. He stepped forward and struggled with the lid until it popped open, then angled it down to the kid’s dancing eyes.

            He held up his hands, so the old man pulled out a thin stack of cash and lobbed it over. The kid caught it and flipped through, then raised an eyebrow. The old man gave him another one, and the kid nodded after looking. The lid clanged shut and rang out through the mangroves like a gunshot.

            Before the captain could say anything, the kid threw the bundle onto their deck, hopped on the edge of his boat, and plucked the box out of the old man’s hands. He turned and dropped the box into the cooler he sat on, then faced the two of them. “You guys going to pop a few? I’d love to take one or two for the ride back.”

            “No, I don’t think so,” the old man said.

            “Shame,” the kid said.

            The captain reached for the gun but found only the metal pegs that should’ve been holding it. He squeezed them hard, and the pain felt good and sharp in his palm. He focused on the kid’s eyes, green in his bow light, until they looked away.

            “I think you should be on your way now, son,” the captain said.

            The kid nodded slowly and sat on his cooler, relaxing his shoulders in the sea-salted cotton of his hoodie. “Hope you boys have a nice night.”

            His boat slipped away with the lights off and throttle down. The captain heard the stern bench slam shut behind him and the cushion compress. The old man groaned and let out a wheezy yawn. The captain squeezed the pegs again.

            “I didn’t much care for that little prick,” the old man said.

            The captain took a very deep breath and relaxed his hand. He sat down in his chair and put her in gear. “I am with you there.”

            He pulled away from the island and took the north channel, getting up to thirty miles an hour. Heading towards town, he kept the green markers on his left and the reds on his right. He smoked the rest of his cigar down to a stub, which mixed well with the watery Jack and stung his tongue like he ate something spicy. The old man fell asleep within seconds of cruising.

            The captain checked over his shoulder and saw a strip of lights a mile back that wasn’t there a minute ago. He could tell by the shape and color it wasn’t a cop boat. He slowed to an idle and squatted down, plunging his hand deep into the hollow console until he found the gun, returning it to its pegs. Then he got back up to speed and continued north.

            “What’s wrong?” the old man shouted.

            The captain said nothing but pointed a finger to the lights, which were slowly getting larger. The old man looked and then clutched his lower abdomen. “Christ, Harry. They’re double-crossing us just like the movies.”

            “Shut up,” the captain said. “We won’t outrun them.”

            “I think I’m going to stroke out.”

            “Listen to me,” the captain said. “We’re going to be fine. And if we need to, we’ll get the bastards.”

            “Get them with what?”

            “I’ve got twelve rounds in here,” the captain said.

            The old man’s face relaxed, and he nodded. “Good.”

            “Maybe I’ll talk us out of it.”

            “What should I do?” the old man said.

            “You’re going to sit back down and do nothing unless I tell you.”

            “Harry, I really th-

            The captain slapped him, and his gold band cut the old man’s wrinkled cheek. He blinked quickly and rubbed his face, looking down at the deck.

            “Christ, Reynolds. I’m sorry. We’re almost there,” the captain said. “Just tough it out for a bit longer, then you’ll get plenty of sleep before tee time.”

            The old man wiped his face, leaving a thin streak of red. “Yes, that’ll be fine.”

            They rounded a bend in the mangroves and the private dock lights of Port Royal lined the channel ahead. The captain eased the throttle, and the old man’s face scrunched up. “What the hell are we slowing down for?”

            “They’re too fast, like I said. I don’t want them to see the dock, or the truck. We’re going to hear what they want on my terms.”

            “I don’t like this at all.”

            They idled in the middle of the channel, and the captain turned the wheel until they faced the oncoming boat.

            “Do you think I could take just one before they get here? I’m shaking, Harry. I’d hardly rip the plastic.”

            “I need you to sit down right now and not say a word.”

            The lights were on them, and the captain could see the size of her. She was maybe forty feet, double the size of his, and had multiple outboards. A chubby figure stood at the bow with hands on hips. A leaner one further back kept his hands in the pocket of his hoodie.

            He squeezed the trigger when he recognized the kid, and it would’ve shot through the dash if the safety wasn’t on. When their bows nearly tapped, the boat’s multiple engines whined in reverse hard before they switched off.

            The captain looked at the clean-shaven driver beneath the glow of their overhead lights. He stood at his wheel and spoke down to them.

            “Evening fellas, lovely night,” he said. “Let’s make this simple and stress-free. Give us back what my young friend here gave you, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

            He was probably thirty and sounded like a former fraternity president, and the captain looked over at the kid in the sweatshirt. His head was down, but he saw a smirk beneath the shadow of his hood.

            “And our money?”

            “Non-refundable, I’m afraid,” the driver said.

            “Right. Well, how do I know once I hand it over you won’t just plug my buddy and I?”

            “This is Naples, pal. Not Honduras. That doesn’t happen here.”
            “Did Larry set this shit up?” the captain said.

            “Do the details really matter?”

            “They matter to me.”

            The driver nodded and smiled at the captain without showing any teeth. “I can understand that.”

            His palm slicked the grip with sweat. He inched it off the pegs and flipped the safety with his thumb. A breeze cut through the humidity and was cool on the captain’s cheeks. He smelled salt and a hint of algae bloom, making his eyes water.

            “Do you know who we are?” the captain said, feeling how close the pistol was to the edge.

            “Just a couple of old, rich assholes who-

            The captain turned his light on and watched the men cover their faces. He got in gear and throttled up all the way. The bow flew up like an airplane taking off, and the old man held onto the bench to not fall overboard in their wake.

            At least four thuds smacked the hull before their pops carried over the water. With one hand on the wheel, he turned and emptied his clip in the direction of the lights now thirty yards away. Each shot jerked his wrist up to the sky and hurt more than the last.

            He barely noticed the pain in his ears while they rang. He turned all their lights off and dropped the pistol to the deck. He put his numb hand on the wheel and trimmed the motor down, digging his prop into deeper water.

            The needle on the fuel gauge wobbled and began to drop. He looked behind him and the first thing he saw was the old man lying on the deck. He knew he wasn’t dead because his hands were holding his ears, and he was curled in a fetal position. He didn’t see any lights following them down the channel.

            He lowered the throttle enough to shout. “You okay back there?”

            “I pissed my pants, Harry.”

            “That’s alright,” the captain said.

            They were at the south end of Naples Bay. Half a mile ahead, the mangroves gave way to hundreds of millions in real estate value. Beyond that was a cluster of lights in the center where Tin City surrounded the bridge that led to Fifth Avenue.

            They had only a quarter tank now, and the needle kept falling. In the middle of where the mangroves stopped and the houses began, was an empty space that the captain knew were fairways. Aguja is the only golf course in town on the bay, though only three holes actually touch the water. The captain throttled down and coasted up to a narrow service dock, just off the 12th ladies tee box.

            The old man leaned over the side and caught the dock, pulling them in. He grabbed a rope off the deck and tied a figure eight around the cleat, pulling it fast with trembling hands. Then he sat back down on the bench to catch his breath.         

            The captain switched his engine off and traced a flashlight over the bullet holes. He counted six hits, with one below the water line. Over the port side he saw cracks splintering down the fiberglass with a steady trickle of bubbles rising in the water. There was one shot through the center of the bench, right between where the old man’s legs were.

            The captain walked to the stern and helped him to his feet. “It’s going to be a hike to Tin City. We’ll get my truck and a can of gas back here before she sinks too much. Hopefully we aren’t ambushed along the way.”

            “You don’t think they’re gone?” the old man said.

            “I know as much as you do.”

            The captain stepped towards the dock, but the old man touched his shoulder. “What about the pills, Harry?”

            The captain froze, then smiled. “Bring them. Take one now for the walk if you want.”

            The old man leapt to the bench like he was only sixty and lifted the cushion, taking the bundle from the compartment. He tore a hole in the plastic, shoved a capsule in his mouth, and swallowed it dry.

            “Give me one too,” the captain said. He downed it with the last of his watery Jack and ginger. The pill was warm in his throat and his chest felt light. He picked up the empty pistol and put it back in the dash before stepping onto the creaky dock. He helped the old man off the boat, who then clasped the captain’s shoulder.

            “We can’t seem so happy during the round tomorrow.”

            “No celebrating yet,” he said, removing the old man’s hand gently.

            “How could I not? With this score, I can finally retire.”

            “Reynolds,” the captain said. “You’ve been retired since 2008.”

            They walked towards the elegant clubhouse that led to the road, their footsteps soft on the spongy fairway. A piece of the moon leaked through the clouds, and the old man’s skin was corpse-like in the glow. Every few steps a red, white, and blue pill slipped out of the hole in the package and dropped onto the dewy Bermuda grass.