Salt Run: A Novel

By Christopher Gallen

Luke Fisher surfs by morning and attends classes at Flagler College by day. He passes out at the ghastly sight of what he finds on the beach one morning, and quickly becomes the prime suspect in a crime that rocks the college and the small town community of St. Augustine, Florida.

When former Maine state judge Rick Derlax's "do the crime, do the time" philosophy catches up with him, he escapes to the small coastal town to begin a new career as a professor. "The Judge" has a passion for teaching justice at all costs, but instead is handed his own sentence in a "crime against humanity."

Salvador Deaz, a released convict who is frustrated by his small-time drug trafficking, finds himself dealing with a madcap cast of characters that only the backdrop of northern Florida culture can provide.

Gallen keeps handing you plot lines that keep you guessing and laughing at the same time. Colorful characters, fast-paced dialogue and memorable absurdities make this dark comedy of errors a great read.

If you like the works of Carl Hiaasen, Tim Dorsey, and John MacDonald, you'll love this intensely fun read from new author Chris Gallen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469721750

Christopher Gallen

Chris Gallen was born in Kensington, Maryland, but the state of Florida has been a constant his entire life. A graduate of the University of South Florida, Chris has lived in Colorado, Oregon, and Washington, D.C. but he always ends up moving back to the Sunshine State. He currently lives in Tampa with his wife and two daughters.

Book preview

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

EPILOGUE

A big thank you to Debbie, my wife and my best friend, for supporting me all the way. Also, thanks so much to Jodie Boedigheimer, Constance Gelvin, Ann Williams, Frank Edwards and Don Fernandez for generously lending their time and assistance.

Lastly, special thanks to Catherine Norwood and Michael Gallen for their hard (and death-defying) work in acquiring the photo for the cover shot.

Camden and Riley—the new women in my life—I love you!

Dedicated to anyone out there who ever wanted to write a novel and had the guts to do it.

Enlightenment

So I jump ship in Hong Kong and make my way over to Tibet, and I get on as a looper at a course over in the Himalayas. A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I’m a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald…striking. So, I’m on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one—big hitter, the Lama—long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga…gunga, gunga-galunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he’s gonna stiff me. And I say, Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know. And he says, Oh, uh, there won’t be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness. So I got that goin’ for me, which is nice.

—Carl Spackler

Assistant Greenskeeper, Bushwood Country Club

CaddyShack

PROLOGUE

Sal Deaz replayed the scene once more in his head.

They letting you out, dirt bag? the pot-bellied officer chided from behind the cage.

Deaz said nothing and pushed his release card through the opening. The card revealed his prisoner I.D. and where to find his belongings. That day, only two inmates were to be released. The officer left the room temporarily and returned with a clear plastic container. Deaz watched as his dated clothes were removed and stacked neatly on a file cabinet. He was then handed each article, piece by piece, through the cage.

Cute shirt.

Smart shoes.

Pretty socks, the prison worker laughed as he surrendered each item. They were at least ten years old and shamefully out of style. Deaz remained silent. He would absorb the abuse from this jackass if it meant freedom. This chapter had to end. The conclusion was beyond the door fifteen yards to his right. Fresh air, a decent meal, and a stiff drink. He squashed his desire to reach through the opening in the cage and thrash the life from the dope. He stood silently on the other side of the pass-thru and received each item and insult in order.

Nice belt. Is that real snakeskin, buddy? It’ll go real nice with those boots.

He gathered the mishmash of garments and stepped briefly into a changing room to his left. The pants were much too big, a testament to the sour repetition of prison cuisine. Nevertheless, they felt much better on his skin than the state-issued orange he had worn for the past decade. He exited out of the room in time to be greeted by his caged-up friend.

Anything you want me to tell your boyfriends after you leave? They’ll miss you.

Once again, he ignored the comment. He walked toward a steel gate that was promptly unlocked for him by a uniformed officer. The dull gray door beyond that was propped open by a strategically placed piece of lumber. He was escorted to the edge of the property directly underneath the watchtower. He glanced up at two rifle barrels protruding over the edge of the tower wall. He looked forward. The final gate was unlocked, and he was free of the physical and mental chains of monotony that had trapped him more than the cinder walls and barbed wire ever did.

He watched as the silent guard locked and bolted the gate. Sal was outside the fence for the first time in nine years, released to a defective, unsmiling New England day. He had served 3,570 days of a reduced sentence. A bitter coastal wind slapped at his face. His stomach ached.

*            *            *            *

It had been an uneventful day for the rest of the nation, but Sal had kept a copy of the August 8th Maine Observer in his briefcase. The front page detailed trouble in the West Bank, a worldwide environmental pact, and a baseball playoff forecast—an utterly meaningless day to the bulk of the world. O.J. wasn’t in a high-speed chase, a presidential election wasn’t rigged, and high school students weren’t gunned down—as news days went, it was worthless. Filler occupied the white space, saving it for the day when real news would need it. Sal carried the yellowed newspaper with him as a constant reminder to not be as careless again. In what had become a tradition, every year on August 8th, he would find the closest booze outlet, drink himself pissed, and read the newspaper from front to back. This year he found himself at The Station, an upscale speakeasy in the Buckhead section of Atlanta. He found his story in the same place: Metro section, page B-5:

Thomaston, Maine—Salvador Deaz, a convicted drug smuggler, was released from the Maine State Correctional Facility in Thomaston today.

Deaz was captured eleven years ago by the State Marine Patrol in an elaborate trafficking operation that took advantage of Maine’s rocky coastline, proximity to Canada, and low profile as a drug center to smuggle cocaine onto American soil. The sting, widely known as the first conviction off of the Maine coast, set the stage for increased Coast Guard and DEA presence in Maine waters.

Deaz was convicted of smuggling 118 kilograms of cocaine into the state and was sentenced to thirty years in jail by Maine State Judge Rick Derlax. At the time, there were no DEA or U.S. Coast Guard vessels dedicated to tracking drug traffic in Maine. The State Marine Patrol organized the sting to heighten awareness of drugs entering the

U.S. along the Maine coast. The fifty-five-foot ship, E. Sandra, was monitored for weeks and finally seized on approach to Portland. The boat was towed to Bar Harbor and searched by state authorities. Roughly 260 pounds of cocaine were discovered in a secret compartment on the U.S. flagged vessel. The three man crew of the E. Sandra were arrested—Salvador Deaz, John Sierra and Robert Chaffey.

State Attorney Russell Madlin estimated the drug’s street value, at the time, at about $8.5 million.

Salvador Deaz, the first to be tried, was given the harshest prison term. Chaffey and Sierra both received ten-year sentences, while Deaz received the stiffer thirty-year sentence. The sentence, many believe, was a message to future drug traffickers to stay out of Maine waters. Cocaine seizures in the Northern Atlantic Ocean have become increasingly common in recent years, as smugglers seek to evade law enforcement in the Caribbean. These smugglers take advantage of the low profile and limited drug patrolling capabilities of the New England waters to smuggle goods into Boston, Providence and smaller ports along the coast. The U.S. Coast Guard now has two vessels dedicated to drug activity off of Maine. Federal authorities have handled all subsequent trafficking cases.

The bartender arrived with another Dewar’s and water. Deaz separated the rocks glass from the napkin and stared momentarily as the ice cubes danced to a halt.

Pretty socks, Sal mumbled into the drink as he tipped it back.

CHAPTER 1

There was a time, a very brief time, when people came to Florida not in search of profit. It was long before Menendez and years before DeLeon. Native Americans lived with the land and sought no fortune, only sustenance. Those times are gone.

Florida is now all about money. Quick money. Beaches and swamps are loaded with cash. Turn product as fast as possible. Houses make money. Condos make more money. So do strip malls, chain restaurants, golf courses, and amusement parks. But out of all of them, drugs have become the Florida gold standard.

The old man walked the street alone. He enjoyed this time and savored the morning dew as he walked the peaceful stretch of San Marco Avenue. A few coffee and pastry shops were all that were ever open this early. He nursed a café con leche as he maneuvered, deftly, across flawed lengths of sidewalk. An occasional automobile broke the morning silence as it headed to Jacksonville or toward the bridge to Vilano Beach. He snared a quarter from his pocket and grabbed the morning edition. News was mostly manufactured in this small town, but he made it a point to keep abreast of the latest. Across the avenue, the huge gold cross of the Mission momentarily grabbed his attention, but he quickly shifted back to his coffee and the daily features as he navigated the final blocks. The thick humidity, comfortably cooled into a light fog at this hour, only sweetened the journey.

The old man unlocked the steel door and entered his office. He reflexively toggled the switch to his left and a fluorescent shop light pulsed to life. The office was nothing special. The walls were unfinished—drywall was missing with studs, conduit, and wiring fully exposed. Termite damage showed on most of the supports, but the wood still managed to hold together. A well-beaten metal office desk occupied the center of the room. A picture of the old man’s long dead dog, Cindy, sat atop it. Standard office supplies surrounded her—a stapler, scotch tape, a desk calendar, and scattered papers. A few new trinkets from the adjacent shop took up the remaining space. The old man swept the trinkets to the floor. The girl could pick them up later.

He moved to the small bathroom that was overdue for a cleaning, and ran some water. It ran cold. The building had no hot water heater. He cupped his hands under the flow and splashed his face in an attempt to remove the remaining sleep from his eyes. Eyes closed, he grasped for a towel and wiped his face vigorously. He left the room and reached to power up the dated hi-fi on the shelf directly above the bathroom door. The sounds of Count Basie softly occupied the room. He swayed to the gentle beat and moved toward his desk chair.

The shop out front continued to sleep. It would not open for another three hours. He let the Count finish his tune and then reached for the phone. A song he did not recognize now filled the room.

The earpiece yelped three rings before being picked up in hazy static. Sounds of the sea blended with the static.

Yeah, a voice demanded.

Hey, it’s me, the old man stated.

Oh, hey Dad. How’s it going?

The old man ignored the inquiry. Any word on when you’ll be back? I have a couple of interested parties. A few veterans and a couple rookies.

Well, right now it looks good. We should be back and all set in a day or so. I’ll call you on the way in and give you the scoop.

The father understood and they exchanged goodbyes. He moved from the chair and slid a file cabinet toward the bathroom door. He knelt down and grabbed two small floorboards from under the file cabinet, gingerly standing each upright against the unfinished wall. Within the hole sat a large bag of white powder. The old man smiled and clutched the bag with two hands. It weighed barely half of a pound, but its precious cargo deserved tender treatment.

He retrieved a digital scale from the squeaky lower left drawer of the metal desk. It had been purchased for $120 at The Sharper Image at the Riverwalk in Jacksonville. While that same Sharper Image dealt in upscale products, the powder he now weighed was not one of them. He quickly weighed four grams into a Ziploc bag and wrapped it with a length of transparent tape. He dropped that bag into a paper bag. He then returned the powder, the floorboards, and the file cabinet to their previous locations.

A black BMW showed up shortly thereafter. He heard the purr of the 5-series engine through the door and waited for the appropriate knock. The old man felt it a bit cheesy, but, nevertheless, it provided an additional safety measure against unanticipated visitors. Three quick bangs followed by two slow bangs. Correct. He greeted his customer and invited him in. He knew him as some sort of doctor from the exclusive Vilano neighborhood of Porpoise Point, or Pompous Point as many locals referred to it. The old man had heard he was an orthopedic surgeon, or something similar, at Flagler Hospital. The doctor, during previous visits, had mentioned his long hours and how the cocaine helped him get through it. The old man always nodded in a mild agreement, but usually was not listening. Everyone had his or her excuses. Damn addicts.

The doctor, visibly nervous, looked in a hurry to complete the transaction. He handed over the money and was presented with a snuggly wrapped paper bag in return. Both parties exchanged a brief, awkward goodbye and the steel door closed. The old man heard the BMW slip into gear as he returned to his desk. He focused his attention on more legitimate matters. A bill for eight-dozen snow globes and six-dozen St. Augustine pennants was ninety days overdue. He crumbled the bill and threw it toward the trashcan under the bathroom sink. It hit the side of the doorjamb and rolled back into the office.

Fats Domino, his favorite, belted I’m In Love Again from speakers three decades too old. He finished the remaining drops of his coffee and leaned back in his chair to relax and wait for his next customer to arrive.

CHAPTER 2

‘The Judge’ dug into the pile of tests and fished out Luke Fisher’s most recent attempt. Comparing it to the test in his left hand, he noted the striking similarities. It seemed Luke had developed a penchant for cheating, something that, to this point, had never been tolerated in any of The Judge’s classes. His mind stalled as he pondered his rebuttal.

The Judge pried himself from his chair, exited the adolescent walls of his office, and headed toward the staff lounge. Flagler College had recently been gifted more than a few dollars from a deceased donor with money to burn and a legacy to fulfill. The college wasted little time in building a library with the newfound money. Few argued against the fast-track construction plan, as a replacement was long overdue. An engineering firm was hired, and they quickly put together a design that kept true to the Spanish Renaissance style of the 1888 Ponce de Leon Hotel, which served as the architectural anchor for the campus.

The library, while it kept true to its historic roots, was highly functional. The first and second floors included the open stacks, reference collections, and Internet labs. The third floor housed additional stacks and, for the time being, the faculty offices. Before the dust settled, the former judge, Rick Derlax, had staked his claim to a corner office. He treasured his office time. Outside the east window sat the Lewis gazebo framed by an impressive courtyard splashed with live oak and royal palms. Spinning his chair ninety degrees to the left revealed the Venetian Renaissance architecture and 100-foot dome of the Memorial Presbyterian Church. He probably did not deserve the space, as he was not tenured, but figured, since nobody else was clamoring for it, why couldn’t it be his? On a normal day the fifty-two-year-old Derlax would light his pipe, lean back in his modern swivel chair, kick his feet up on the cherry wood of his desk, and scout the courtyard below for engaging young co-eds.

*            *            *            *

Rick Derlax had come to St. Augustine in part to escape the cold, but more accurately to escape. Rick had served as a judge for twelve years for the Maine State Court system in Portland. He was known as a friendly, yet subjective, arbitrator, who would pepper court proceedings with personality and politics. In his county court days, during an early spring trial, he declared it was too nice a day to be spent inside, and he moved the hearings outdoors—an ill-conceived move that almost demoted him to traffic court. During holidays, he would decorate the courtroom with Christmas wreaths, Halloween jack-o-lanterns, or for whatever the occasion happened to call. He passed out sparklers to everyone in the courtroom July third (as the courts are traditionally closed on the fourth), and succeeded in both setting off the sprinkler system and making the front page of the paper the next morning. With his chiseled chin, thick auburn hair, and broad smile, he was pictured with the caption Judge Makes Courtroom Sparkle. Jury duty almost became a treat for county residents, and a good trial paired with Judge Rick Derlax was certainly the best way a taxpaying citizen could spend a few mandated hours away from the office. Everyone in Knox County, including to a certain degree Derlax himself, was disappointed when he received the call to the state judiciary, where he served for several years before his abrupt departure.

Rick Derlax had left the state of Maine on extremely short notice. His exit was a bit different than most. His home was a forty-two-foot Irwin sailboat named the Five Minute Recess. Rather than pile all his earthly belongings into a Mayflower or U-Haul truck, Derlax simply paid his final month’s rent on his slip at the Centerboard Yacht Club, and hauled anchor and ass out of Maine. While he loved the Maine coastline, his life meant far more to him than fresh lobster and rugged beauty. Besides, Maine winters were far too cold.

While Rick was indeed a judge, he did not earn his epithet until his arrival in St. Augustine. He had wandered the Atlantic coastline for months before dropping anchor in the nation’s oldest city. He had popped in to visit some boating friends in Norfolk. Later, it had been Charleston for a little sightseeing, and then he simply had tooled around the barrier island chains of Georgia and North Florida. Initially, he had thought he would only stay for a week or two in St. Augustine. It had seemed that the worst of his past had blown over when he stumbled into a job at the college. One evening, while bellied up to the bar, Rick had overheard a gentleman chatting with the bartender about how Flagler had recently lost a law professor to James Madison University in Virginia. With a quick cross-examination, Rick had correctly concluded this man to be the college dean. Derlax’s character and seven whiskey sours had not been wasted on Dean Robert Horton; the interview was basically a rubber stamp affair. Rick was hired for the job three days later, leaving only two weeks to prepare for the spring semester. It seemed to have been a great decision for everyone involved. He loved the college community, and they loved him right back.

*            *            *            *

The Judge returned to the comfortable confines of his office, eased back in his chair, and glanced out the window at the campus. His attention shifted across to Sevilla Street and under the gazebo, where a couple of co-eds shaded themselves while most likely talking about last night’s happenings at a downtown pub. Just beyond them, to the east, sat Henry Flagler’s grand ole hotel and current dormitories, Old Town St. Augustine, the Matanzas River, Anastasia Island, and finally the green murk of the Atlantic where his adventure to St. Augustine had begun.

Derlax reexamined Fisher’s test that was centered on his desk. He compared it again to the one he held in his left hand, and shook his head wondering why a student with boundless knowledge would deliberately cheat off of another student with answers he knew to be wrong.

CHAPTER 3

Take the one after this! Luke yelled across the surf to Nellie. Luke had a premonition the next waves of the set were the better ones to be had. Nellie had come to trust