Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor Read Free Page B

adentrado en
las aguas territoriales de la República de Cuba
.”
    “Steve, we’re in Cuban waters,” Victoria
said.
    “I know. I passed Spanish 101.”
    “
Den la vuelta y salgan
inmediatamente de aquí, o los vamos a abordar.”
    “They’re going to board us if we don’t turn
around,” she said.
    “I kind of figured that out, too.” Steve
turned to Cruz. “Absolutely, positively last chance, pal. I’m
handing you over.”
    “I’m betting you don’t,” Cruz
said.
    The patrol boat was fifty yards away. One of
the men in uniform pointed an AK-47 their way.
    “Steve…?” Victoria’s voice was a plea.
    This wasn’t the way he’d planned it. By this
time, Cruz should have been spouting numbers and accounts from
banks in the Caymans or Switzerland or the Isle of Man. But the
bastard was toughing it out. Calling Steve’s bluff.
    Is that what it is? An
empty threat.
    Steve wanted to hand Cruz over, wanted him to
rot in a Cuban prison.
    But dammit, I’m a
lawyer, not a vigilante.
    He wished he could turn his conscience on and
off with the flick of a switch. He wished he could end a man’s life
with cold calculations and no remorse. But the rats that would gnaw
at Cruz at  
Isla
de Pinos
  would visit the
house on Kumquat Avenue in Steve’s nightmares.
    “Take the wheel, Vic.” Filled with
self-loathing, wishing he could be someone he was not. “Twenty-two
degrees. Key West.”
    “Say ‘please,’” Cruz laughed, mocking
him.
    * * *
    Just before midnight, the lights of Key West
off the port, the  
Wet Dream
  cruised
north through Hawk Channel, headed toward Miami. The sky was clear
and sparkled with stars. The wind whipped across the bridge,
bringing a night chill. Victoria slipped into her glen-plaid
jacket. Hair messed, clothes rumpled, emotionally drained, she was
trying to figure out how to salvage the situation.
    I came aboard to save
Steve from himself and I’m doing a lousy job.
    Steve stood at the wheel, draining
a  
La Tropical
beer,
  maybe listening,
maybe not, as Cruz berated him.
    “You fucking loser,” Cruz said. “Every minute
I’m tied up is gonna cost you.” Cruz rubbed his arm where the cuff
was biting into his wrist. “I got nerve damage. Gonna add that to
my lawsuit. When this is over, you’ll wish the Cubans had
taken  
you
  prisoner.”
    “Steve, I need a moment with you,” Victoria
said.
    Steve put the boat on auto — Cruz complaining
that it was a damn reckless way to cruise at night — then headed
down the ladder, joining Victoria in the salon.
    “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