Caribbean's Keeper Page 10

  Cole took the long way around to Margaret Street and settled onto a barstool at Turtle Kraals, overlooking the marina. There he ordered a skirt steak and another Cuba Libre. He’d been sober for a few hours by that point and figured the most productive part of his day was already over. Mickey showed up 15 minutes later and pulled up a stool next to Cole. It was mid-afternoon and the two had an entire corner of the restaurant to themselves. A steady breeze rolled in off the water, and the mix of boats bobbed back and forth in their slips. On the sailboats, halyards and shackles slapped against aluminum masts. Feeling dizzy from his drink, Cole likened it to a chorus of off-key bells rung by an orchestra of idiots. It was a sound that Cole loved. He couldn’t help but take a deep breath and smile.

  Mickey sat silent for some time as he perused the menu and Cole waited patiently, sipping on his drink. After ordering some ceviche and a Dos Equis, Mickey put his menu down and crossed his arms, looking at Cole with a stern face.

  “I don’t get you, Cole.” He paused. “You make good money, you good at what you do, you live the good life, but you still telling me you want to do something else?”

  Cole laughed a bit and realized that Mickey accentuated the J in words like ‘you’ when he was irritated. It wasn’t all the time, but right now he really emphasized them. Here Mickey seemed to act more like a concerned father than the ringleader of an international smuggling operation.

  “What the fuck do you care, Mickey?”

  Mickey tossed his hands in the air, up and over his head in an exaggerated manner. “OK, then, I don’t care. I no give a damn. You just tell me what you want and maybe I can help.”

  Cole finished off his drink. He held it almost inverted for an extra second or two to suck down the last few drops of coke and rum. The glass was now empty, the stained lime stuck between the remaining ice cubes. He wanted to open up and pour out his problems, but Mickey was no shrink, and Cole wasn’t about to show any sign of weakness to a seasoned criminal. Delaney was always in the back of Cole’s mind. The honest truth was he didn’t know what he wanted, but every run to Cuba and back only fueled his appetite for open water, fast boats, and adventure. Perhaps it was reckless and stupid, but Cole felt that each time he made a run, he was stuffing it in Potts’ face. He wanted more of that feeling.

  Cole knew he was only skimming the surface of the Caribbean underworld. He was ready to take off the training wheels and hoped that Mickey could point him in the right, or more appropriately wrong, direction. He didn’t fully understand why he wanted to make his way south, he just felt an undeniable longing for a new chapter. As nice as it was, Key West felt small and constricting. Every time he cruised past the Coast Guard base, it reminded him of his shortcomings. He felt like it choked him. “What else you got Mickey?”

  Mickey laughed. “What the fuck you mean, ‘what else I got?’” Mickey tried to make fun of Cole’s southern drawl but it came out wrong when crossed with Mickey’s Spanish accent. The two of them laughed and it broke whatever tension had built since the conversation started.

  “Hook me up with some of your buddies further south.” Cole figured Mickey had connections.

  Mickey’s eyes grew big for a second then back to normal. From his pocket, he pulled out a phone, read a text message, typed a short reply, then put the phone back in his pocket. Shaking his head a bit, he took a long sip from his beer. He began to speak just as he swallowed.

  “You’re asking to get into something you might not get out of. Plus in most people’s eyes, you’re a snitch—at least you were a snitch, working for the man. I send you to see some people and they probably just shoot you in the head.” He meant what he was saying. Migrants were one thing, but cocaine, pot, and cash were things people lost their lives over.

  Mickey continued, “I send you down there and you screw up, I look bad and you die—that’s how things work, Cole.” He paused. “You are asking for a lot.”

  Cole argued back, “I’ve got discipline Mickey—you know that. I get the job done no matter what. All I’m asking for is a contact. Someone to talk to. I’ll take care of myself from there.”

  Mickey was quiet and took a deep breath followed by another long sip from his beer. “You ever been to Panama?”

  Cole hadn’t. He’d seen its coastline from the bridge of Delaney, but had never set foot on solid ground. Cole thought back to the distant lights on the horizon that he’d seen so many times and tried to hide the excitement that grew as he mulled it over. “No, Mickey. I haven’t.”

  “Well, why don’t you buy some tickets. I’ll make a call for you.”

  The two finished up lunch and the conversation turned light. Mickey surely had plenty of tips and advice, but he kept them to himself. Cole figured it was Mickey’s style to let him learn those lessons himself. As they parted ways, Mickey looked Cole over and shook his head, as if he already regretted his promise to help Cole on his way south.

  A month later, Cole found himself at the Key West International Airport early in the morning. It wasn’t much, consisting of a 5,000-foot runway barely big enough for a jet to get in and land. Most of the traffic was regional airlines and a healthy dose of turboprops moving the tourist crowd in from larger airports to the north. The terminal itself was a single room with a few check-in counters. A duffel bag by his side, Cole quietly waited for his plane and watched the tourists come in and out. Kevin had loaned the bag to him as Cole figured his seabag would stick out too much. He wore a newer pair of jeans, having spent a bit of his money on some new clothes for the trip. His shirt, fresh off the hanger, felt a bit stiff compared to his older ones. Once he sweat in it a bit and put it through a wash cycle or two it would hang off his shoulders like his others.

  The airport pressed up against the water and Cole could smell the cool air coming in through the open windows. In the shade of the terminal, it was nice enough that Cole briefly thought of turning off the whole thing. Why do I want to leave when it feels as good as it did on that day? He rested his head against the wall behind him and crossed his legs in front of him. With a ticket, cash, and passport in his hand, he felt committed to at least trying something different. If things didn’t work, he could always come back to Key West. There would always be another winter and a load of migrants waiting in the brush of Cuba’s north coast.

  Soon enough, he hopped aboard a small turboprop to Tampa. Climbing up and away from Key West, he looked out the window and saw the Keys below him. For a moment or two he again questioned his decision to leave. The green water, the dotted sandy beaches, and the underwater forests of seagrass and reef seemed so far away now and he missed them already. Before long, the plane climbed through a layer of clouds and the Florida Keys were all but a memory.

  From Tampa, he took a larger jet over to Dallas where he had half the day to waste before his flight to Panama City, Panama. With his duffel bag over his shoulder, he wandered the airport for an hour before finding himself completely bored. The smells were like any airport. The food court stunk of pizza and hot pretzels. Kiosks sold crappy pillows and trinkets for passers-by to occupy their time. He thought about settling into a bar stool and drinking himself to a stupor, but the atmosphere of the airport just didn’t seem right. He made his way through the security checkpoint and then outside. It was late December and the air was cold. He still had his flip flops on and felt a bit out of place amongst the honking horns, exhaust fumes, and hustle of Dallas.

  Cole waved for a cab as an idea popped into his head.

  He hopped in and the cab driver looked into the rearview mirror waiting for Cole to give him directions. Cole gave a light-hearted smile and said, “I need some boots.”

  The cab driver asked if he had anywhere in mind and Cole shook his head. “Whatever is close works for me.” And with that, they were off.

  Dallas was a huge city and the eight-lane highways were a far cry from the quiet side streets of Key West that Cole had called home for the last five months. It was rather d
epressing and not at all what Cole had hoped Texas would look like. He knew that outside the city limits, the state was beautiful and an endless unforgiving rugged terrain stretched in every direction. But in the back of a cab amongst the gridlock, Cole couldn’t wait to get on his way.

  After some time, the cab pulled into a large department store, Cavender’s, and Cole gave the driver two 20-dollar bills.

  “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be back.”

  The driver nodded and reclined his seat back a bit, pulling his trucker hat over his eyes.

  Cole walked through the automatic doors and made his way over to the boots. An entire wall was covered in western boots. Cole walked the length of it and back, grabbing a few and giving them the once over. None particularly caught his attention until he found a square-toed pair with a Texas flag color scheme. They were all leather, but the sides were stained with a blue star on the outside and red and white striping on the inner side. He asked the teenage girl behind a counter for a size ten and she brought them out a few minutes later.

  “You need to wear socks to try them on.” She was waiting as if Cole was magically going to shit out a pair of socks.

  “Well, I guess I need to buy some socks, then. What do you have for warmer weather?”

  The girl came back with a three-pack of lightweight wool socks and Cole pulled them up and over his ankles. He hadn’t worn a pair of socks like that in almost six months. When he ran in Key West, he wore the shorter ankle-high ones, and even then it was only for half an hour or so. He realized just how weathered and tanned his feet were from the salt air and sun. Pulling both boots on over his new socks, he walked around for a bit and the girl returned to the counter and consumed herself with something on her cell phone.

  On the wall adjacent to the boots, there was another towering section of western hats. Cole stood there in his State-of-Texas boots and chewed on his lip for a minute.

  Why not? he thought.

  He picked up a few and tried them on, feeling a bit awkward at first but also liking the way they looked. The felt ones were most certainly going to be too warm, so he moved on to some made of straw and others of palm leaves. The majority were white or off-white in color, but a few were stained darker and Cole found one that was just a shade or two short of jet black. It was a palm leaf material that felt good against his head and the leather band inside gripped his forehead, holding it firmly in place on top of his bleached hair.

  Cole looked at himself in the mirror, his boots on his feet and a cowboy hat on his head. He pulled the brim just a bit lower to hide his face in its shadow and smiled a devilish grin.

  “Yippee Ki-Yay, motherfucker,” he said with certainty and tipped his hat to himself.

  He checked out and walked back to the cab, his flip flops now in his hand and his new boots on his feet. It was awkward getting into the cab with his hat on, but he did his best to play the part. The driver looked back in the mirror again and Cole asked to get back to the airport. He must have at least looked passable since the cab driver paid no attention to Cole’s new attire. Cole then stashed his flip-flops inside his duffel bag and they were headed back to the airport.

  Back at Dallas International, Cole passed security again and went back to the terminal. He felt a bit awkward still, but no one seemed to give him a second look. Apparently he was pulling off the cowboy thing. He found a Mexican cantina—or at least an airport bar pretending to be one—and pulled up a stool. He wiggled his feet in his boots and rolled his ankles around trying to break in the leather a bit.

  The bartender came over and asked Cole what he wanted to drink. She was his age, her hair bleached blond and she had a curvy figure accentuated by jeans hanging low on her hips. Her hands were pressed firmly against the bar, but she kept her distance.

  “Captain and Coke please, with a lime.”

  She looked at him for a second, her head tilted slightly to one side and said, “I figured you for a whiskey guy.”

  “Maybe if you’ll have one with me.”

  She laughed for a second, looked down at the floor, then back at Cole.

  “You’re trouble, aren’t you boy?”

  Cole grinned because he’d made her smile. “Wanna find out?”

  “Oh, God. I was right. You are trouble,” She laughed out loud as she spoke and went back to make his drink.

  As a matter of fact, I am, Cole thought.

  He took his time with the drink. The bargirl didn’t show as much interest in him as he’d hoped, but she made small talk along the way. Cole nursed two more as the hours went by and eventually he ordered a plate of chicken tacos.

  “Where are you heading there, Cowboy?” The bar traffic had slowed a bit and she was a few feet away cleaning glasses as Cole was working through the tacos.

  “I’m on my way to Panama.” He looked at her momentarily then back down at his plate. He was dangling the bait and playing it cool to see if she bit.

  “And what are you doing down there?” She was nibbling on the hook.

  “I’m a bible salesman, Miss.” He accentuated his southern accent and smiled his devilish grin again.

  She laughed. “You’re a liar is what you are,” she said, moving back to clean up the bar.

  Cole finished up his plate, emptied his glass, and left two 20-dollar bills to cover the tab. It was a healthy tip as he’d enjoyed her brief company and the conversation.

  “You’re a pretty girl. Have a good one.”

  He tipped his hat, then turned before she could respond and walked out of the cantina towards his gate, not looking back. He knew she was watching and it lifted his spirits.

  g

  Later that afternoon, he boarded the massive jet bound for Panama City. He’d spent extra money for a first-class seat and had another rum drink in his hand before the plane even took off. It put him over the edge and he reclined the leather seat back and quickly fell asleep, his dark cowboy hat pulled over his eyes and his feet crossed in front of him.

  He woke some hours later. It was dark and quiet in the cabin. From 30-something thousand feet, it was near darkness outside. There was still light to the west, but as he sat looking east, the day was near done. A flashing strobe light above the plane flickered every few seconds, and he saw a faint red light at the tip of the wing behind him. There was a screen on the back of the seat in front of him, and he toggled through the menu until a map appeared with an airplane icon indicating their position. They were in the basin, well south of Cuba, Jamaica, and the Caymans.

  Half an hour later, the pilot came over the intercom and advised them of their initial descent into Panama City. Cole chugged a bottle of water to clean himself up a bit. Below, he could see the lights of some smaller towns on the Caribbean coast. As the plane descended further, it pushed through and around some towering cumulus clouds and the ride became bumpy. Still high among the clouds, the jet crossed Panama, just a thin dark spit of land separating the Caribbean from the Pacific, and Cole saw the vast expanse of the dark Pacific in front of him. The plane turned right back towards Panama and descended further. The western sky was barely a shade of red on the horizon and entirely black above. As the jet settled on its final course into Panama, Cole stared down at lights of dozens of ships anchored outside the Panama Canal, patiently waiting their turn to hit the canal and continue their voyage east.

  After touching down and a long taxi in, Cole grabbed his duffel bag from the overhead and made his way inside the terminal. He could feel the humidity and the heat, even in the nighttime air. It was all new and interesting to him. People moved at a frenzied pace and the culture felt loud and intentionally chaotic. People yelled at each other. As Cole watched, more and more it seemed to be a norm. It was like a big city, but the languages, sights, and sounds were unique. Cole ran his fingers across the stubble on his chin and wiped the fatigue away from his face. He threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked briskly towards the exit.

  Mickey hadn�
�t given him much, just a name—David. Down an escalator, Cole walked out the sliding glass doors to the outside. The heat hit him and there was no breeze to soften its punch. Cole unbuttoned two of the buttons on his shirt to let in a bit more air, but it was to no avail. He stood a foot back from the curb and took it all in. Cabs pulled in and out, the women wore too much makeup, men all wore jeans and many of them wore gold necklaces or other pieces of jewelry. Cars honked for the sake of honking. The Spanish language came hard and fast from all directions and Cole stood silently listening to it. The air was muggy and exhaust won out as the dominant smell.

  A man in jeans and a Nike t-shirt hopped out of a white van that had just pulled up. He approached Cole with a smile and said in very good English, “You have gotta be Cole.”

  Cole looked the stranger in the eye, nodded his head and extended his hand. The man took a firm grip and the two shook hands.

  “I’m David and I will show you around a bit. Please come with me.”

  The two climbed in. It was a smaller European-style van with windows all around and three rows of seats. David sat in the middle row and Cole was in the first. The driver said nothing as he navigated through the congestion and onto the highway. It was past nine o’clock at night but the traffic was still heavy as the highway paralleled the Pacific towards downtown Panama City. After 20 minutes, Cole could see the city in front of him, its towering buildings and bright lights rivaling that of any big city in the states.

  David spouted off random facts about Panama. There was construction everywhere and as they hit the main streets of the business district, thumping music echoed amid the car horns and bright lights. There were casinos, bars, and restaurants along the way. The sidewalks were lined with people going about their business. It took them another 20 minutes to get to the far side of town. As they left the bright lights and turned down some smaller streets, Cole looked around a bit more, trying not to give away the sinking feeling in his gut.