reading

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner or by electronic or mechanical means including storage and retrieval systems whatsoever with written permission except by reviewers who may quote passages in a review. For information, address Keep Left Publishing, mtbgroup@hughes.net or mail to Post Office Box 1287, Aspen, Colorado 18612

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents or events either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons or their names, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Up from another sleepless night the phone rang at precisely 4:00 am. Knowing before picking up it was some kind of bad news from St. John based on the time zone difference of two hours this had happened more than once before - always bad news. Why should this occasion be any different? I recognized the number on my cell phone while sipping an early morning hot cup of hazelnut flavored coffee thinking. Why is he calling me? I let it ring to voice mail and I’d give him a call, if and when the feeling moved me.

The man had screwed me out of twenty-two thousand dollars that in a moment of weakness on my part and desperation on his, was advanced for kitchen cabinet work. However, he was always too drunk or out of his mind on cocaine to do the job. I got it done elsewhere, and he lost me as a friend over money. Why return this call after no communication on our part for a long time?

Propping my feet up on the cool deck railing of my Aspen house, a scene developed, as hot-air balloons gaily designed with horses, unicorns, cowboys, and an assortment of other colorful characters ascended from the fog covered valley floor below into a blue sky filled with puffy clouds. The whoosh of propane fires shot spurts of warm heated air, forcing the balloons ever higher. Wicker baskets loaded with laughing, and camera-ready tourists floated lazily toward my rooftop.

The sun was a fireball peeking over the easterly mountain range and began warming the aluminum railing and with it, my bare toes suspended lazily over the top. I waved and yelled to the Captains and passengers drifting across my horizon, hovering over my substantial home. See, it wasn’t long ago before this land was purchased by me; gun toting guys were up early on this property protecting the crop. This had been a drug house, and balloonists were fearful to do normal flyovers.

But that’s an entirely different story to be told another time. Now, just one old guy, sitting in a chair in his tattered blue bathrobe, drinking hazelnut coffee and enjoying the early-morning sunrise posed no threat to balloonists.

What does he want? I reflected. After a year and a half why did he call me, of all people? He must be in jail. No he’s always in jail. No, he’s broke; no, he’s always broke. What could be the problem?

Captain Kirk wouldn’t give up; and I jumped each time as three more calls from him came up as missed on my screen. However, at least no more voice messages. I held back from responding or even listening to his message. He knew better than call me. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d gone out of my way to help the bastard, only to have him cause me problems.

I reflected on our last meeting. Dropping him off drunk at Pine Peace Market to buy more beer. His dog Bingo was in my car. After making his purchase, which I might add from the twenty-dollar bill, given by me. Then telling him to get his butt back in the car, or I was leaving. He said, "Screw you" and walked toward the ferry docks and dime bags of cocaine. “I’ll take Bingo home,” I yelled after him, “Call me in the morning, and I’ll drop him off.”

Bingo sat in the front seat, unfazed by the exchange, he had seen it too many times in the past, as had I. He put his giant head in my lap and fell asleep. By the way, the dog loves me, kinda like a visiting uncle, cause he’s always fed great quantities of hamburger, steak and pork chops whenever I’m on St. John and I’ve never raised my voice to him.

Yep, at precisely 4:00 am the next morning. Why is it always 4:00 am when the shit hit the fan? I heard someone pounding on the door of my little temporary St. John apartment. Staggering to the door and yelled, “Who is it?”

“St. John Police. Are you Michael Mullen and do you have a dog in there?”

“Keep him on a leash!” “What do you mean?”

“Don’t let that motherfucker loose, or we’ll shoot him!”

I seriously doubted that, since the marksmanship of the St. John police is legendary. They couldn’t hit the side of a barn (if there had been one on St. John) with a cannon at five feet. In my underwear, I quietly unlocked and jerked the door open, peering out at the two gigantic black officers whom I didn’t recognize. You see, over the years of knowing Captain Kirk, I’ve gotten acquainted with quite a few of the island’s finest.

“What’s the problem?”

“You are under arrest for dog napping,” they said in unison.

Their guns were drawn. Looking into their eyes, I

laughed. “You gotta be kiddin!”

“Nope. The owner wants you in jail, and that’s where you are going.”

“Oh, and what kind of dog is it you’re looking for, officers?”

“A black Labrador,” came the response, again in unison.

I thought, these two guys could have been Larry and Curly of the Three Stooges. Bet they practice answering questions in unison during their off hours.

“Really, there lots of island dogs that look like black Labradors. This may not be the one.”

“This isn’t an island dog. He’s a pure bred and came all the way from Maine with his owner three years ago.”

“Well, see, that’s your mistake right there.” I responded. “This is an island dog.” Bingo lay behind me, upside down, all paws in the air bored with the exchange and fast asleep.

“How do you know it’s from the islands?” The well-built muscular corporal said with an inquisitive voice.

“Easy. Foxy, over at Jost Van Dyke says you can always tell a true island dog. “They’re black, lazy, don’t know who their parents are. This here is definitely an island dog.”

I slammed the door, leaving them with astonishment and confusion on their faces and dicks in their hands. Once again, I had dealt with and eluded the fine officers of the St. John police force. They didn’t knock again.

Late the next morning, I dropped Bingo off after bribing him with a pound of raw hamburger and gave him my sad farewells. His owner was standing in his cabinet shop doorway as my white ’97 Jeep Wrangler turned into the driveway. That was the last time I saw Captain Kirk, my former friend, as Bingo bounded toward him with love in his eyes.

At 9:00 pm, the phone rang for the fifth time at “What?”

You need to understand. Walter James Goodwin III got his nickname from me as I compare him to the fictional character Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. My Captain Kirk, consistently lives on a distant galaxy, far far removed from earth and reality. He has put me in some bad situations, not to mention the money he owes me. However, when you get right down to it, he has given me a lot of laughs and entertainment over the years.

“Mike, don’t hang up. You gotta hear me out. I need you down here right away. You gotta get on the next plane, and I’ll pay for your ticket when you get here.”

This has to be something serious for him to fork over cold hard cash. I mused. I hadn’t been to St. John in nearly six months and to be honest, I was getting pretty bored. Knowing Kirk as I do, he would likely add a little excitement to my dull life. Most likely, with another of his hair-brained scheme.

“Ok, Kirk, here’s the situation and let’s get something straight. I don’t sit in the back of the plane; my ticket is round trip and will cost you $1,300 up front, payable by cashier’s check delivered overnight FedEx, absolutely no personal check. Don’t forget, I’ve seen your hot checks posted on about every single St. John cash register.

If, and when the money arrives, and if, I choose to verify your cashier’s check is not stolen, embezzled, or counterfeit, I might, then, just possibly, consider making reservations. If, I decide not to, I’ll just put it against your rather substantial bill you owe me. Got it? By the way, what’s so life threatening you need me down there?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you. Hey, it’s really good talking to you ole buddy, and you won’t regret it. You’ll get every dime, I owe you,” responded Kirk.

I already started regretting it as I hung up.

I turned to look out the window and “poof!” Just like old times my Granddad was sitting on the edge of my glass-topped desk. Of course, he was dressed to the nines as always, this time in a Savoy Row custom tailored lightweight wool striped blue suit, dark blue high collar shirt and a gray ascot accompanied by his ever-present silver wolf head walking stick.

“Granddad, you scared the hell out of me,” I said.

“Ah, Mikey, me lad,” He said in his Irish brogue. “We ghosts always bees gettin a bad rap. Me be thinkin you’re on thes way to wee adventure and be nee din me for help and counsel on your travels.”

With that, he turned and vanished. Granddad started appearing to me about four years ago when I was having my first island adventure on St. John. Ever since, when I seemed on the verge of doing something really, really stupid; or had already done something really, really stupid which I have been known to do on more than one occasion. Granddad does a poof thing. The next thing I know, we’re carrying on a real conversation like he’s alive, although, he’s been dead nearly fifty years. I haven’t seen him since 2008. I’ve rather missed the ole short bowlegged guy popping in and out of my life at strange unexpected moments. When he appears, I know I’m in trouble or about to be. It’s the way it always has been between us.

The check arrived by FedEx at noon on Wednesday the first week of June 2011. I dropped it on the president’s desk of the Colorado Bank, requested he verify if it was authentic, and if so, put the funds in my account.

Early the next morning, definitely early by banker’s standards, he called to report the cashier’s check had been deposited after clearing the bank of origin.

Of course he wanted to know why there was a concern about a cashier’s check. I replied it was simply a matter of integrity of the maker and thanked him. It really wasn’t a concern to the banker, whether it cleared or not; as I had sufficient funds to cover it and maintained a sizable balance at his institution.

Friday was spent making flight and hotel arrangements. The trip to St. John always involves an overnight stay in Denver and an early-morning departure to Dallas, then Miami and on to St. Thomas.

On Sunday, the sun was expending its last rays in the west, as we started our slow descent into Cecil King St. Thomas Airport. Unlike the excited tourists sitting on the edge of their seats peering into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean, oohing and aahing about the beauty of mountains and waters, my mind had entirely different thoughts.

Many years ago, I was engaged to Susan Wright, a beautiful American Airline copilot, and first ever female employed by an airline in that position. She had recently gone through a very nasty divorce and was left raising a young daughter who was then in boarding school.

When I dropped her off at Love Field the day of her first trip, the last thing she said after giving me a long kiss was, “I’ll be back in four days. You know, I’ll always be with you whatever happens and whatever it takes. Remember, Mike, I’ll always be with you.” With that, she bounded into the terminal for her first flight, dressed in a crisp new officer’s uniform, her blonde hair tucked under an officer’s cap. That was the last time we ever saw each other.

While descending into St. Thomas the emergency cabin door blew off Flight 625. Thirty-five passengers and two crew members perished in the 727 as it hit the ocean just short of the runway. My fiancée was one of the crew killed that day. This 727 approach for me was always very traumatic and nerve-racking as my thoughts of her wandered to what might have been.

At that moment, Granddad poofed himself into the empty first-class seat next to me. Now dressed in a tan tailored three-piece suit with ivory buttons affixed to his light cream shirt and topped off with and a dark-brown ascot flung carefully around his neck. He looked like the sophisticated gentleman he had always been in life. With his favorite beverage - Bushmills Irish Whiskey firmly in hand.

“Buckle up me boy,” He beamed. “Mikey, thoughts of the past long ago will not bring her back, and you have made a grand and beautiful life for yea. Lives for the moment, not in the past. This isen what she would have wanted for yea.”

I started to say something but now looked at an empty seat.

The plane touched down and jolted me back to reality and my destination. My cell showed five messages from Captain, although I had not notified him I was even coming. Let the SOB hang for a while, I thought. A blast of hot night air and light rain met me upon descending the plane’s metal steps.

We slipped over the side of the idling Zodiac into 80-degree black water. Then, checking our depth gauge, oxygen pressure; compass and dive watch before we sank beneath the surface. Captain Kirk’s flippers were inches in front of my face. He switched on a hand-held halogen torch to show the way. Gradually, our distance increased to ten, then fifteen feet. I had to turn on my torch as we propelled downward. I saw the reflection of Kirk’s faint light ahead as he guided us deep beneath the main shipping and passenger ferry channel of St. Thomas and St. John. Even with my light, eerie darkness rose from the bottom to greet us.

The weight belt felt like a ton as I gathered speed, soon overtaking Captain. Then I saw it, a large silhouette on the approaching sea floor. My first sight was moss and seaweed swaying in the gentle ocean current from an erect mast.

It lay like a beautiful woman beckoning us to stay longer than time allowed. My descent speed now increased to nearly out of control before fins touched the ocean floor off the starboard side of the vessel, sending clouds of white sand billowing upward.

The weight belt kept pushing me downward through unseen rotten timbers on the ocean floor. Kirk sped toward me as I all but disappeared through the bottom. Grabbing my wrist at the last possible moment, Captain pulled me back to the ocean floor and relative safety. My adrenaline level was now maxed, and my heart pounded at race speed from this latest event.

Excited, Captain waved to join him on the deck. I ignored his impatient gestures and shone the LED beam into the circular abyss that nearly swallowed me. It was pitch black, and visibility was further impeded by sediment stirred from my near disaster.

I swam lazily along the perimeter of the sunken ship to validate the reality of what I saw. The yacht was at least sixty-five feet long, resting in sand halfway to the top of its black multihull. The catamaran, with three masts was still flying white sails reaching lazily toward the surface. The sails rhythmically ballooned and contracted like an artificial lung as the currents sent them to and fro. It sat like many ships, a ghost ready to invite those of us alive aboard.

After circling the craft, and joining Kirk on deck, we explored the interior of the large cat. The main hatch opened easily and gave a comfortable settling sound as we ventured inside. On the teak table eight plates were in their hollowed places. Silverware lay askew at the turned-up table edge. Partially full wine bottles floated overhead in the prospect of anticipated gaiety. The main table in the dining salon was set, now waiting for the last uninvited guests to arrive - us. In the galley, pots and pans sat on the watery six-burner gas stove, cooking utensils lay on the counter. Where’s the chef? I wondered. We moved slowly, bubbles breaching the and hull drifting upward, as I hungrily sucked oxygen through my mouthpiece with each slight physical exertion. It was obvious this ship was constructed on the whims of the very wealthy. But why was it left apparently undamaged on the ocean floor?

Air bubbles rose upward as we moved silently toward the main cabin. Against the far wall of the dining salon, there was a trash barrel secured with nylon cord to a railing. Captain yanked off the container’s lid. Massive bubbles erupted exposing what was inside. We peered in and saw a Hefty trash bag sealed with duct tape.

Kirk slit the top with a dive knife and shreds of plastic floated toward the teak ceiling. Inside were neatly stacked bundles of what we suspected was cocaine wrapped in waterproof plastic. A quick count told us there were twenty-four kilo sized bricks in the container. Captain eagerly grabbed the packages, stuffing equal quantities in our mesh dive bags.

At that moment, I realized I had sucked far too much air. Unaccustomed to diving and my recent misadventure on the sea floor combined to show only ten minutes remaining on my oxygen pressure gauge. I wasn’t used to diving ninety feet and at this depth; it was quickly taking a toll on my old body which over the years was constantly abused with excessive cigarettes and cheap wine. Motioning to Captain with a finger across my throat, holding up ten fingers. He looked at his gauge, then opened and closed both hands twice to confirm he had nearly twenty minutes. The prospect of him not “buddy breathing” me to the surface crossed my mind. Going ninety feet straight up with no oxygen was not a pleasant thought. Nevertheless, we continued our vessel reconnaissance.

We pushed on to the master suite door and found it locked. Using dive knives, we breached the door. In the back of my mind, I pictured, life without oxygen and a moment of panic. The door swung inward, and our lights played on sheets from the master bed floating up and toward us. Moving them aside revealed a naked young blonde girl with hair billowing from the current that ebbed and flowed through the now open door. The girl lay spread-eagle on the bed bound by her ankles and wrists. Her mouth open in a perpetual scream and one deep blue questioning eye looking up at life, liberty and me. The sea has begun to decompose the body, starting with her now empty left eye socket. Close to the bed lay a shredded dive tank, a spear gun arrow protruding from its side.

Who was she? Why was she here? It was apparent all others had long ago deserted the ship. It didn’t make sense, the boat had been on the bottom for months, but the dead girl couldn’t have been here more than a few days, or the body would have been totally decomposed. Another question was added to my ever growing Captain Kirk list.

As we prepared to ascend, my light played across the name, Flat Busted skillfully painted in script on the pontoon. This pleasure craft had not been in harm’s way but had come to rest on the ocean floor of its own accord, intentionally scuttled by someone. Captain Kirk still hadn’t told me how I fit into this adventure, although I fully expected to find out shortly.

Once on the surface, Captain signaled with the halogen light to his buddy Ricardo, a semi-retired local drug dealer. I thankfully gulped in great quantities of fresh air as the boat sped toward us as we floated helplessly in the warm water. The 70 horsepower Zodiac, skimmed across the water arriving within moments of the approaching 12:10 am ferry that had departed from Red Hook for Cruz Bay. We were directly in its path. The ferry spotlight illuminated our yellow BC (buoyancy compensator) vests, and it sounded three-whistle warning blasts while speeding toward us. Ricardo skillfully scooped us up in his giant strong hands with a minute’s margin and twenty feet to spare as the passenger vessel roared past.

Racing toward St. John, Bingo stood riding in the bow with two paws on the top of the inflatable. Ricardo shouted, “Captain, did you sees it? That’s a berry much expensive motor and I promised the owner you’d gets it back to he.”

“Naw, it was too dark. We’ll try again,” Kirk yelled over the screaming motor in his high squeaky voice.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you when we get to shore,” responded Kirk.

My mental notebook said, add this Ricardo exchange with Captain to my list of questions. Bingo gave a low growl as the rubber boat nudged the concrete pilings of the Virgin Island National Park dock. We quickly jumped out with tanks, equipment and the mesh dive bags, then headed toward my beloved Rachel, a white 1997 Jeep Wrangler named after an ole bucktooth girlfriend with a big rack. I ain’t talkin shotgun rack here, you damn rednecks. In the tropical night, the crescent moon was reaching apex. Tourists howled from drinking too many Painkillers and cheap rum punches, their drunken laughter carrying over Cruz Bay from the Beach Bar.

“Let’s go to your house and get a Heineken,” Captain said.

“Why? You want to see how my new cabinets came out? You know, the ones you didn’t build for me, but I paid for. Or are you just broke and can’t afford beer? By the way, where did you get the money for my plane ticket?”

“I’ll answer all your questions when we get to the house. It’s going to be a long night for both of us, you better have plenty of Heinies on ice,” Rachel thudded over the eight concrete speed bumps of Great Cruz Bay Road toward my cliff house, Sopra Mare (Above the Sea).

Settling into large comfortable cushioned chairs on the main lanai, we listened as the waves crashed far below. Off in the distance, car lights twinkled from St. Croix thirty miles away. We each took a frosty cold beer from the iced pail between us. After a few swigs, Captain faced me. Glancing sideways at the man; he really hadn’t changed much since I last saw him.

At forty-four years old, time took a terrible toll on Captain Kirk. His creased face looked old from too much sun, although the toll was more likely induced by cocaine and alcohol abuse. Hell, he looked far older than me and I had him by twenty years. Captain Kirk had been in and out of rehab centers as long as I’d known him. He just never could shake his addictions. Of course, living on St. John didn’t help much, where everyone is semi-crazy from drinking rum straight out of the bottle starting at 6:00 am and it’s considered a normal life ritual.

Add a bi-polar condition and when he’s off his meds, no tellin the crazy, stupid things the bastard is capable of doing. But when he’s on his meds he acts like a total zombie. With prescriptions he was damned if he took them and damned if he didn’t. He had reached a compromise on his own method of remaining relatively coherent. He would stay off medication and drink a case of beer every day. It seemed to work for him, and he remains relatively productive and alert. Apparently his current girlfriend was feeding him well, as his stomach hung slightly over his raggedy cutoff jeans. He stood about five-foot-nine, bald on top and fringe around the side, like one of them circus clowns. I recalled he was hairy as an ape, with piercing brown eyes and a gold ring in his left ear.

“Ok, for the whole story.” Captain gestured with palms turned up.

“You better take this from the beginning; I know your history of selective memory loss pertaining to events and facts.”

“Mike, I told you I’d give you all of it. Just listen!”

“Remember those hundred pieces of mahogany you stored on my shop roof? Well, Lt. Ural has been pestering me about buying the whole load. He’s building a house on St. Thomas and wanted them roof rafters. Last week I sold him every stick for $5,000. That’s how I paid for your plane ticket.”

I leapt out of the chair shouting, “You stupid bastard! You know damn well those rafters were worth twice that, and I need them for the next house. Where’s the rest of the money left from my ticket? I knew I couldn’t trust you! And as always, you typically put yourself first, sure proving me right!”

Bingo rolled over on his back and yipped. As if to say, “You guys stop yelling - you’re disturbing my nap.”

“Settle down, will ya. I had to have you here, and that was the quickest way to get my hands on some cash,” Captain calmly responded. “If you keep yelling at me, I’m not gonna tell you the rest. A little more than a week ago, Ricardo came to me about salvaging a 225 horsepower Yamaha outboard engine.” He continued. “Apparently a guy had loaned his son and his buddies his boat to run around in, and you know how kids are. They turned too sharp with the engine wide open. The torque tore the engine clean off the transom. Boat and engine went to the bottom like a rock; the kids were ok and made it to shore. Well, they got the boat up and it’s in the repair yard but they couldn’t find the engine. They hired me to salvage it. You know those Yamaha’s cost about twenty thousand dollars apiece.” Captain paused and took another cold one from the pail; flipping the cap into the ocean. I cringed.

“I asked the kids where the boat went down and which way they were turning when the accident happened. Figuring with the engine running wide open, it probably landed fifty or a hundred feet from the boat by the time it hit bottom. Last week, I went looking for it, must have used up five tanks of air, but no luck. Then just as I was about to quit, there was this damn boat on the bottom. I couldn’t take the time to explore it then, as I was almost out of air, and besides, Ricardo askin a lots of questions why hadn’t I found the damn motor. That’s when I called you. I went down again a few nights ago and took some pictures, then tried to find out who made it. Thought there might be a couple of bucks in it for me.

I got lucky. There was a life ring jammed under the forward railing. It had the manufacturer’s label sewed on the back, but I still couldn’t read it. Took it to the local college and talked to some old guy in the Language Department. In less than five minutes, he tells me it’s French and read off the boat name.

I got on the Web and tried to compare the pictures I took the other night to other yachts; by searching all the French boat-building yards. Found out it’s a boat made by Aqua Marine in Saint-Pavace, France. That catamaran down there is a Privilege 745 custom made, has five cabins and seventy-three feet long. It’s one big expensive mother.

Well, you know me; I’m always short of money. I cut and pasted the web pictures and posted it on Craig’s List For Sale. I didn’t know how much it was worth, yet the Emails started coming in faster than I could send information. It was listed for $300,000, and the buyers were coming out of the woodwork from everywhere. I figured something was wrong. I took it off the web and did a little more computer research.

New, that boat sold for about 3,800,000 or $5,000,000. I sure underestimated the value, though you know $300,000 looked like a lot of money to me. I got back on Craig’s List and told them I had misprinted the price and put it on at $3,000,000. The very next day, a Senior Vargas from Columbia called and offered $2,000,000 cash. We settled on $2,500,000, and he was immediately gonna send a $500,000 deposit.

Believed he’d wire transfer the money or send a certified check if he did anything. But a couple of nights later, around midnight, someone pounded on my door. When I opened it, these two big mean looking Spanish guys were standing there holdin a suitcase. They dropped it on the porch, turned around and vanished into the night. I heard doors slam and a car drive off. It was too damn dark to see anything else.”