Last Witness

By Glen Carter

A mysterious letter has reached retired FBI agent Frank Malloy. A letter bearing a name from a lifetime ago, from a woman who claims she saw what really happened on the day John F. Kennedy died in Dallas. Many were there to film the president, but Helena Storozhenko snapped a photo on November 22, 1963, that would have changed everything. Then she vanished. Until now. From her death bed in Odessa, the Babushka Lady provides a piece of evidence that will send Malloy and network television host Jack Doyle on a desperate search for the truth. has summoned Malloy and finally reveals what she witnessed in Dealey Plaza. Malloy and Doyle need each other to solve a decades-old mystery, and to stop an assassin who is driven by the same evil which changed the world so tragically – so long ago. It all comes down to one place, one time, and one bullet as they race to prevent history from repeating itself – more than fifty years after a president was brutally slain – and Helena Storozhenko was The Last Witness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Breakwater Books Ltd.
• Release date: Oct 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781550814446

Glen Carter

Glen Carter is an award-winning journalist who has spent nearly thirty years in the high-pressure world of television news. He has covered everything from national politics and crime to world leaders and deadly disasters. He is now applying his story-telling craft and decades of fact-driven writing to the flight of fiction. His first novel, Angels of Maradona, was published in 2008 by Breakwater Books.

Book preview

She saw everything…then disappeared.

LAST

WITNESS

GLEN CARTER

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1 Stamp’s Lane, St. John’s, NL, Canada, A1E 3C9

WWW.BREAKWATERBOOKS.COM

COPYRIGHT © 2013 Glen Carter

ISBN 978-1-55081-443-9

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from Library and Archives Canada.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the

prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright

Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence,

visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

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We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year

invested $154 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country.

We acknowledge the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund

and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the Department of

Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.

PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA.

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FOR MY BEAUTIFUL MARY JANE.

LIMITLESS IN LOVE AND INSPIRATION.

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CONTENTS

PROLOGUE: CASTILLO DEL PRINCIPE, HAVANA

1: GUATEMALA, 1962

2: DALLAS, TEXAS, 1963

3: PANAMA CITY, FLORIDA. THE PRESENT.

4: ODESSA, UKRAINE

5: BARK ISLAND

6

7

8: MONTREAL

9

10

11: MONTREAL

12: BOSTON

13: NEW YORK CITY

14

15: HAVANA, CUBA

16: CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND

17

18: NEW YORK CITY

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26: ARTEMISA PROVINCE, WESTERN CUBA

27: HAVANA, CUBA

28

29: MIAMI, FLORIDA

30

31

32: HAVANA, CUBA

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50: NEAR HOLGUIN, CUBA

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

CASTILLO DEL PRINCIPE, HAVANA

The soldiers came as phantoms from a dream. While the prisoners slept. Boots pounded across an ancient moat, thunderous against stone walls and towering bastions. In a matter of seconds, they halted at a broad iron gate where a lone guard was expecting them. Although barely acknowledged, he saluted as they swept through, descending one by one into a maze of red brick tunnels that ran like veins beneath the castle. They moved efficiently, a lockstep march on hard packed earth. Dim grimy lights marked the way and within a few minutes they stopped at a dungeon where another guard was waiting. Soundlessly, the tiny cell was opened. Eyes and teeth flashed in blackened faces as they swept in and encircled the prisoner.

He was already awakening when a hand suddenly closed around his throat like a vice on his windpipe. White specks burst into the black as he fought for breath. With a racing heart, confused, the prisoner swung a fist of meat. It connected, bringing an angry curse. He struggled up, ready with another roundhouse, but a jab to the body drove him down.

Knowing he was beaten, he shouted. Realizing before the sound perished how useless it was.

One of the invaders ducked in close. No one will come.

"Bastardos, the prisoner spat. What in the name of Christ do you want?"

You’ll soon see.

As though weightless, he was jerked to his feet. His hands were knotted and he was blindfolded. Gagged.

A command was barked.

Half dragged, the prisoner was taken. He yelled his own name, but it was just a slur. The other prisoners hollered back. A riot of outrage. Tin cups against iron bars, a racket that echoed through the prison. A few moments later, back the way they came, the gate clanged shut. The prisoner was outside where sounds could not be stifled. A ship’s horn blasted. Dogs snarled nearby.

The prisoner sucked in what he could of fresh air. He was shoved hard into a vehicle and a tailgate slammed shut. The engine roared.

It had happened too fast to process. His mind lagged. Light was a shapeless splotch from behind the blindfold and then, after a time, no light at all. The prisoner sensed the city’s life force falling away. At least in the old prison, with all its misery, he was one of many. He was safer behind those walls even though he had been singled out before. Interrogated and beaten. It was worse being cut away from the other prisoners and taken in the middle of the night. He had no idea why.

Laying still, trying to take in what he could. It might have been an hour, maybe more. He didn’t know. When the vehicle stopped it felt eerily like the coffin at his grave. A pair of hands yanked him out, shuffled him a few steps, and left him standing there. Waiting for a bullet.

Quickly, the man bent his head and mouthed a prayer. In the name of Sebastian, who had survived a thousand arrows, but not betrayal. He was condemned at that moment to the same fate as his soldier saint, but he steeled himself against regret. It was never the way he lived. He would not die that way.

Do it, the man muffled.

Nothing.

Then the click of a weapon’s safety.

Anothermoment.Waiting to die.

Suddenly, his blindfold was torn away.

They laughed.

Julio Rasconi gulped air. Eyes splayed against the night. A rifle retreated from the side of his head. He saw the executioner was a kid in uniform. A dull moon revealed five of them. One rubbed his jaw, looking like he was still pissed. No one spoke.

They were in a clearing on the side of a mountain. A long lush valley lay at its base. Lights from a village glimmered like beacons on a still black sea.

Rasconi knew better than to demand answers. They were goons. If they weren’t going to kill him, he was definitely in for a beating. He was ready. Looking forward to breaking another jaw.

A few moments later, an engine revved followed by the crunch of a transmission. Then Rasconi saw it. A smudge of camouflage bucked up the narrow road. A truck. Normally used for troops, but he had seen one stacked with dead bodies once. The war against the bandits had been Castro’s doing. The anti-communist insurgents were disorganized and badly outnumbered. Those who weren’t killed surrendered and were executed. Rasconi survived by fleeing deep into the Escambray Mountains. Beaten and alone, he could trust no one. With Castro’s exterminators on his heels, he escaped to Florida, where he was embraced as another angry exilio.

Eventually, he was given the chance to fight again, to regain his country. Hundreds were recruited to a camp in Guatemala. Nothing more than a jungle landing strip and a few buildings. The training was hard, but Rasconi was quickly noticed. Then a hand had fallen on his shoulder and a mission whispered in his ear.

There are many, Julio. But none with your gift.

They were right. God had given the gift. But his destiny had been stolen by men.

Rasconi tightened at the crack of backfire. The truck rolling closer. Standing there, on the side of the mountain, the bloody images flooded back. The men slaughtered at Playa Giron had sacrificed everything. Hundreds more were captured and imprisoned, as he had been.

The truck came to a stop. The driver killed the engine.

At the back, a canvas flap whipped open. Dark forms stumbled to the dirt. They clung to one another. When he saw them, Rasconi understood, and in a flash he was overcome by rage. Powerful shoulders struggled to break free.

This couldn’t be real. Somehow, they had found his family.

His mother’s face was a sheet of terror. Her clothing was ripped. Stained red.

A face loomed next to his. "Pedazo de mierda. The breath was rotten. My puta, he grinned. She wants more but I am only one man."

Rasconi snapped his head and heard a loud crack.

Blood gushed from the soldier’s nose.

Suddenly, a knee punched into the small of his back and Rasconi dropped.

No, the woman screeched. "No estan digno."

Shut up. Whore, one of them barked.

A curse was strangled in Rasconi’s throat. If only he could snatch a weapon. A few seconds would be enough. He didn’t care if it meant his death.

The boy suddenly tried to break free. "Ayúdame!" he yelled.

Rasconi would have died for his little brother but he could not help him. The boy would never have understood that. His big brother was capable of anything, no matter how impossible. There was a comic book in Rasconi’s footlocker. A man with a cape. A parting gift from the boy to his hero.

Rasconi tried to get up. A fist slammed into his mouth. He spat blood on a boot. Grunted the boy’s name. Don’t do it, he pleaded.

They laughed. Traitor’s earn special treatment.

Rasconi knew what the treatment would be. Castro’s lust for vengeance could not be satisfied.

His father locked eyes with him then. A face of stone.

Rasconi had often suffered his father’s anger, but this was impossible to bear.

His padre nodded. His eyes urgent. Something that could not be spoken. Action had always been his way. Never words.

Rasconi understood. Only one option. It was madness, but there was no other way. He counted to three and like a jackhammer, he sprang to his feet, drove his head into the soldier closest. The uniform crumpled, leaving his weapon as if suspended in mid air.

The others were caught off guard. Fools fumbling with their weapons.

With a yell, Rasconi’s father lunged for the rifle. Swept it up and was about to fire.

Rasconi seized the chance to bring another man down. He dove into him. Kicking wildly. Until.

A shot split the air.

His padre fell, moaned softly, and became still.

The sneering kid pointed his rifle at him. Ready with another bullet.

Screaming, the woman collapsed. She reached for the boy and he was released to her.

Two men were on Rasconi. He kicked and roared. The gag popped from his mouth. A wail erupted. Nothing left now but anger and shame, too deep to comprehend.

He stared into his mother’s eyes.

Mi rey.

Her king.

So much love. But in Rasconi’s shredded mind, never forgiveness.

Suddenly, there was a crack at the back of his skull, and through the crushing pain came the echoes of screams. In a breath, there were two more gunshots, and then, in the silence that followed, Rasconi plunged into the limitless abyss of mind’s dreadful night.

1

GUATEMALA, 1962

It was much worse than a nightmare. So real, he was soaked and felt like vomiting. It would take a while for the pounding to slow in his chest.

After a moment he opened his eyes. He squinted at sunlight and swallowed dryly. He took a breath and then another. Raised a shaking hand to wipe the wetness from his face. He didn’t know whether it was sweat or tears. He never did.

When he turned his head he saw she was gone. Strange. The Qatanum slept like logs. Something must have awakened her and she slipped from the covers while he slept off his drunk.

He sat up, rubbed the pounding at the base of his skull and shifted both feet until they found the floor. The night flooded back. They’d spent it on the porch. Quietly, while he drank. She was comfortable with the silence he brought into her life. It was as though the Qatanum communicated in an ancient wordless way.

He savoured the memory of her tight brown body. The wicked tricks she used, so naturally. Her wild love making always made him want her again. He’d go downstairs and pull her away from the stove. Breakfast would wait. She’d fight first and then give in. It was always the way, even if nothing else was predictable about this woman. It’s what drew him to her in the first place.

Suddenly, there was a noise outside. A voice. A man’s.

Rasconi hoisted himself from the sheets and pulled pants up his muscled body.

He stepped rapidly to the window. Pressed his forehead against the glass.

A second later, he snatched his revolver and thundered from the room.

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Julio Rasconi pulled his woman to one side. "Ballase para la casa. y quedece alli!" he barked.

Eliza raced to the house.

Then Rasconi turned to face the stranger.

The man was short and fat with wide hooded eyes, thin lips, and a fleshy face set with jowls and a deep cleft that split his chin. Thinning grey hair. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt, black pants and white leather shoes.

Rasconi circled him.

The stranger waited.

Your name, Rasconi demanded in a deep voice.

Call me Calogero, the man replied.

American.

Sicilian.

A large black car was parked a few feet away. Rasconi dropped low and ran to it. He jerked open the door; thrust his weapon into the opening. The car was empty.

The Sicilian gave him an appraising stare. "They call you extrano loco, he said. I was warned to bring a weapon."

In one swift motion, Rasconi placed his gun against the man’s forehead.

The Sicilian stiffened. But, I didn’t.

How did you find me?

Eliza watched them from the kitchen window. Rasconi flicked his head and she disappeared.

The man looked calmly into his face. I am good at finding people, he said.

Rasconi needed food, maybe another drink to stop the thumping inside his skull. He pressed the gun harder into the man’s flesh. Why don’t I just shoot you, he said. Dump your body at the side of the long road you just came in on. In this country, no one gives a shit.

A bird squawked. Large black wings flapped from a perch in the tall trees surrounding the house. The morning sun burned hot on Rasconi’s bare shoulders. Woody smoke from Eliza’s stove drifted lazily to his nostrils. Rasconi snorted it away.

Calmly, the Sicilian spoke. I’m not a fool, Julio. My men have orders if I don’t come back.The man glanced at his watch as if he were late for something.

Rasconi’s guts pulled up tight. Even with his many precautions, this man had simply driven to his doorstep and spoken a name no one here knew—not even Eliza. Rasconi would need to know more about this Sicilian.

Why are you here? Rasconi asked.

In Guatemala?

Do not fuck with me.

We share a similar misfortune, the stranger replied quickly. We are homeless, the both of us. Dispossessed.

Rasconi looked to his little house.

That’s not what I mean, my friend.

There was something familiar about him. It bothered Rasconi that he couldn’t put his finger on it. I am not your friend, he said, waving his revolver in the Sicilian’s face. You’re on my land. Uninvited. And you don’t have much time to explain why.

Calogero showed his palms in an act of submission that didn’t suit him. We are both in this shitty little place because of a man’s betrayal, he said. I am exiled from my country, like you. Disgust suddenly took control of the man’s face. But the fucking suffered by you and your family, my friend. What happened to me is nothing.

Rasconi swallowed on his confusion. Sweat trailed down his neck. He could shoot this Sicilian and take care of who ever came looking. Though, this man had done something that no one had been able to do. He had found him in the middle of nowhere, twenty miles from a village that wasn’t even on a map. Rasconi suspected that killing him would be a mistake.

You know too much, he said, for a stranger.

A stranger. Yes. But also an ally. We were there when it began. In Panama, Nicaragua, Mexico. Guatemala. They needed our contacts in Havana. We were happy to help. To get our beaks wet again. The Sicilian stopped suddenly. Thinking.

Rasconi allowed it.

When he was finished, he looked up with black pitiless eyes. They fucked us, Julio.

Rasconi gripped his gun.

Like you, the Sicilian continued. "These vigliacchi. Drove the dagger into the hearts of brave men. They didn’t just leave you to die. They eviscerated you. Took your honour and then..." It was unnecessary to go on.

Imperceptibly, Rasconi flinched. They?

I think you know who I’m talking about.

Rasconi revealed nothing, especially his anxiety. Then, in one swift motion he cocked his weapon and pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck harmlessly at the Sicilian’s feet. He fell on his ass. "E pazzo figlio di una cagna!"

Rasconi smiled. Time for this to end. Next, the man would get a good pistol-whipping.

Then. Drop your weapon.

The voice came from behind.

Rasconi spun, levelled his weapon. Stunned.

A gun was held at Eliza’s head. Terror on her face.

Rasconi was suddenly immobile. This second man was no stranger. At one time he was a friend. The reason he was still alive.

We have much to talk about, Julio the second man said, releasing the woman. It’s good to see you again.

Eliza ran to him.

Rasconi lowered his weapon and turned to see the fat Sicilian still on his ass, smiling broadly.

2

DALLAS, TEXAS, 1963

Special agent Ed Malloy stared glumly at the rain and rubbed his chest where a chicken sandwich was lodged in his jejunum. He snapped open his newspaper and sent a splatter of coffee across the table.

Take it easy, cowboy, said his partner, Burke. You Montana hicks spend too much time around horse leather to know fine Italian wool.

Benignly, Malloy surveyed Burke’s classy suit. Where I come from, we ride horses. We don’t wear ’em.

Poor horses, Burke grinned.

It was a quarter past noon and they’d already clocked a full day. People shuffled by the diner window. Heads down. Dripping umbrellas. Malloy stared for a bit and then returned to his newspaper. The front page. Johnson has appointed a commission to investigate the assassination. Earl Warren’s the man. The politicians and lawyers are swarming.

Burke caught the waitress’s attention and pointed towards his empty cup. After getting a quick top up, he blew across the rim and sipped. A good man. Tough.

You got that, Malloy said, turning a page.

What about the Bureau?

We’re still getting ink. But it’s on page three.

Burke clucked his tongue. Guess the gumshoes aren’t news anymore.

Guess not, Malloy replied. Not the front page, anyway. Judge Warren. He’s the headline. Oswald and Ruby, too.

Burke looked like he’d swallowed swamp water. What’s there to say? Nutcase commie got what he deserved.

A public execution?

Burke looked smug. Hats off to Ruby, I say. Putting a bullet in that piece of shit.

Malloy shook his head. "Oswald had the answers. It would have been nice to hear some of them. Like why for starters."

Burke gulped his coffee. Because he hated us and loved the Russians. I would have wasted the prick too. Ruby’s a saint.

Maybe, Malloy offered. Just the same, Ruby wasted the only suspect we had. Unless Oswald wasn’t the only bad guy.

Burke rolled his eyes. Patsy, my ass. One man, one rifle. Case closed. Justice done.

Judge Warren might have something else to say about that.

Burke sneered. Just a bunch of headline grabbing politicians. Good man or no. Not gonna make a bit of difference at day’s end.

We’ll see.

Burke stared into his cup. We saw what happened. Christ, we’ve got the whole movie. What was his name?

Zapruder, Malloy said.

Pretty well shows the entire goddamn crime.

Maybe you’re right, Malloy said. Your open mindedness is what makes you so good at your job, Agent.

You got that right, cowboy, Burke said. What else it say?

Plenty. Bannerman with his bullshit about boots on the ground. Working round the clock because that’s the way the Bureau gets things done.

That’s us, Burke said, smiling.

"He doesn’t actually mention us by name," Malloy chuckled.

But he says seasoned agents are on it.

He didn’t mention me?

Hard to imagine why not,Malloy said, sarcastically. Story says Hoover himself is overseeing the investigation and he’s promising quick results. Malloy looked at his partner, grinning. That means heads are on the block. I hear they’re considering you for Bannerman’s job.

No thanks.

Malloy didn’t envy the SAC. He was at the centre of the storm, meaning likewise for the rank and file. They’d been beating the pavement for a week and no one was getting any sleep, especially Banner-man. Witnesses were being interviewed. But first, they had to be located, and while most were no problem, some wanted no part of it. If they could, they’d erase themselves from the newspaper photos and the film. Malloy understood their need to disassociate from such a horrible event, but the images of them sprawled on the grassy knoll or running for cover would never permit it.

We’re all on the line on this one, Malloy said, grimly. Hoover is watching.

J. Edgar’s watching us?

Just you, Malloy joked. No Italian suits in Alaska, but I’ll bet you’d look good in bear skins.

Anything like horse leather?

How would I know?

The waitress refilled their cups. Pie’s fresh.

Burke displayed pearly white teeth, which seemed to mesmerize her. No thanks, darlin’. Gotta watch my boyish figure.

She smiled.

Malloy looked at his watch. Time to go, lover boy. There’s a deaf guy who says he saw something important.

Can’t hear or speak, Burke chuckled. Just great.

Five minutes later, the two agents braced against a cold Dallas rain. As far as Malloy was concerned, the record would have all the witnesses. Whether they liked it or not.

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BARK ISLAND, OFF NEW ENGLAND, 1963

The miserable conditions that were ruining Alvin Gumb’s day were part of an ocean fed swath of wet weather spawned on the Grand Banks. It beat a predictable path southward, picking up icy moisture from the North Atlantic, which fell in sheets of freezing rain on Bark Island.

Gumb stared sourly at the deluge through his bedroom window, a prisoner of his own body. He cursed the weather, which enflamed his joints, and then pointed his skinny nose at the ceiling. What in hell was that stench? A few minutes later, he twitched at the sound of the door opening. A tray was placed gently on his lap. What is this, he whined, as if a clump of shit had been deposited on his trousers.

Helena Storozhenko forced a smile. You will like.

I don’t eat communist food, Gumb barked. Get this out of my sight. It stinks. Bring me something American.

Frowning, Helena removed the plate from Gumb’s lap and carried it back to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cupboard she grabbed something that had potatoes and meat on its label. She opened the can, gripped a large spoon, and plopped the fatty mess into a hot frying pan.

Ten minutes later, Gumb shovelled the meal into his mouth and when Helena couldn’t watch any longer she slipped quietly from the room. Once downstairs, she tossed the kasha varnishkes into a bucket. The rich sauce and onions already sour.

Alvin Gumb was a cantankerous ass. Stuck in that room with his joints twisted up like the knotty birch trees that Helena climbed as a child. Those years were a blur, but the important memories were still strong. Helena thought about her father. In his hospital bed with a great book on his lap. The jaws of power are always opened to devour, her father had recited weakly. To destroy the freedom of thinking, speaking, and writing. The words, by a man named John Adams, had meant much to him. A week later her father took his last breath. He was finally free. She would be too. There was no one left but her uncle and she was certain that what she needed from him was impossible.

I knew you would come, Petro had said. Your father, too. It’s already arranged.

Helena had hugged him, crying.

Captain Storozhenko smuggled her aboard his ship a week later. You’ll get used to the smell, he said. Besides, a stowaway doesn’t get to complain about the accommodations.

TheYeny-Dunya was laden to her waterline with sugar beets and potatoes and when she sailed into the Black Sea, Helena thought the rusty old ship smelled glorious. Her small suitcase had everything she owned, including her father’s great book which she read by flashlight in a utility room where the KGB political officer would never discover her.

The jaws of power are always opened to devour, and her arm is always stretched out…

Helena Storozhenko considered those words carefully as the ship carried her towards the new world.

3

PANAMA CITY, FLORIDA. THE PRESENT.

There it was again. That sound. Kind of a knocking on the upstroke that Malloy heard whenever he eased the throttle below a thousand rpm, which he was doing now to reduce his speed before he cleaved into Joe Pickman’s thirty-six-foot Carver. Pickman was on deck, watching Malloy like a hawk as he wheeled hard to port.

Mornin’, Joe. Malloy said, with barely a wave.

How’s the fishin’? Pickman said, frowning. Not so good by the looks of it.

Had something big on, Malloy lied. Then the line busts. Go figure.

Pickman studied him doubtfully. Need better line, he said. Or a better feel for the fish.

Next time,Malloy replied, easing Gee-man neatly into her slip.

Malloy jumped to the dock and tied her up. He stood there, wiping his brow. The deck needed teak oil and the fiberglass needed a good coat of marine wax, but he was in no hurry to do either. Malloy looked at his watch. It was still too early for a beer. He looked over and saw Pickman hunched over his radio, shoulders pumping.

What’s so funny? Malloy called over.

Pickman twisted around. Babowski’s lost his lower unit on a shoal over by Peterson’s point. It’s an insurance claim and he wants to know if he can leave the scene of the accident.

Malloy shook his head.

I’m gonna get on the radio…tell him to get out and walk. Pickman brought the mic to his mouth.

Chuckling, Malloy turned away and stomped up the dock, past a forest of aluminum masts swaying gently atop gleaming sailboats. Squadron flags snapped in the wind. Rigging pinged off metal, reminding Malloy of countless hours on the shooting range. He flexed his old gun hand, pulled himself up a steep gangway, and sprinted through a security gate towards the marina office.

Buck Kelly was on the radio when Malloy walked in.

Say again, over. Kelly swivelled his chair to face Malloy. He thrust a stubby finger in the direction of a bottle of rum half buried in soiled bills and work orders on a grey metal desk.

Malloy scanned the desk for a clean glass, but saw none. He shook his head and sat.

Babowski needs a tow, Kelly said, rolling his eyes. He’s taking on water.

I heard,Malloy groaned.

A minute later Kelly keyed the radio to dispatch a towboat. He grabbed the bottle. I didn’t know lawyers were so goddamn stupid, he said, pouring. Justice really is blind. Kelly leaned back, smiling, and with a boom dropped both legs to the top of his desk. Catch anything?

Not a nibble, Malloy said. Guess I’m using the wrong bait.

Whaddya using?

Cigar Minnows.

Try Greenbacks—but make sure your live well is in good shape first.

Will do. Thanks.

Malloy looked around the small office. Old charts hung yellowed and torn. In one corner was a small desk with a coffee maker and a large bottle of chunky sugar. The coffee was like crude oil inside a grimy glass carafe. A calendar was tacked on the wall above Kelly’s desk. Miss May was wearing nothing but wading rubbers and a white toothy smile. It was July.

Kelly swallowed a mouthful of liquor, rubbed his bald head and turned to see what Malloy was looking at. What can I say? She reminds me of my first wife.

First?

There were three. Lost my hair and got fat. Number three gets half my pension. Kelly swallowed again. Then, work boots thumped loudly to the floor. What can I do for ya?

Malloy thought a second about Beth. She’d loved the boat and was perfectly content spending nearly all of their time on the water. He was a lucky man for that. Got a knock in the engine I need you to look at, he said.

What kinda knock?

Something low on the RPMs. Might be water in the fuel or something, I dunno. Better to find the problem at the dock than ten miles out with the weather coming at me.

Smart man, Kelly said. Give me an hour. I’ll wander down and take a look.

Thanks. I’ll be there. Malloy got up and started to leave.

Almost forgot, Kelly said, lifting an envelope from his desk. This came this morning while you were out chasing grouper.

Chasing whatever. Malloy took the envelope and stuffed it into his back pocket. He asked Kelly to bring a couple quarts of oil, thanked him again, and walked out.

Ten minutes later he was working a coat of sealer into his teak— he’d worry about the fiberglass later. It took him another half hour to clean the galley and to tidy up the v-berth. He opened a topside hatch to allow fresh air in and paused a moment to admire her.

Buck Kelly ambled down shortly after noon pushing a cart that contained his tools, motor oil, and spare engine parts. He whistled at Gee-man’s shiny deck. Nice job, skipper.

Thanks, Malloy replied, and then cleared a spot for Kelly to access the engine compartment.

Low on the RPMs, right?