The Weasel Cay Chronicles

By Chadd Allan Wheat

On the backward island of Weasel Cay, the idyllic life has come to an end. A struggling private pilot named Charlie Spinnaker helps his brother arrest a small-time Cuban drug smuggler. But within hours, a strange chain of events begins that plunges him into the world of global politics, drug cartels, and espionage.

 

With the added involvement of a wayward singer-songwriter, a famous newscaster (who happens to be his ex-girlfriend), and a caffeine-addicted spider monkey named Elvis Aaron Presley, Charlie's peaceful world spirals out of control like a Category 5 hurricane. And, of course, there's a brutal Russian hit man who wants him dead, as well.

 

With an offbeat sense of humor, madcap adventures, rich characters, and a plot with more twists than a Key West conga line, Chadd Wheat makes a hilarious and witty debut.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Osprey House Books
• Release date: Jan 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201324346

Chadd Allan Wheat

Chadd Allan Wheat was born and raised sailing the cornfield oceans of Indiana. He now lives in Venice, Florida, with his wife and corpulent gray cat that is often mistaken for a manatee. He attended Purdue University and has a degree in Military History. His writings have appeared in numerous newspapers, magazines, and anthology books. His hobbies are reading historical fiction, fishing, traveling the Caribbean, and watching college football. The Weasel Cay Chronicles is his first full-length novel.

Book preview

Prologue

Isla de Bazo / Northwestern coast of Cuba

P rofessor, it’s perfect , said the exuberant and girl-next-doorishly pretty doctorate student.

I appreciate your stroking my ego, Miss Phelps, Professor Francis Heimlich Bierce said, but my digging ability is no greater than anyone else. Perseverance and patience are the real keys.

Dana Phelps brushed the dark blond hair out of her bright blue eyes. The wind had picked up considerably in the past ten minutes; obviously a thunderstorm was blowing in from the Gulf.

Bierce didn’t notice the wind per se. His bifocal-assisted eyes were squarely focused on Sector 7-B of the dig site. The Professor almost looked as fragile and ancient as the pieces the team had unearthed in recent weeks.

But this, this was different. Not a simple pottery shard, not a minor fragment of obscure wood. This was the most astounding find he’d personally found since Egypt.

The professor delicately dusted off the pre-Columbian Taíno artifact with a small camel hairbrush. As he expertly worked the piece, crusts of earth and sand fell from it, revealing delicate lines in the form. The highly-polished stone piece was about eight inches tall and was shaped rather like a chalice. It was a zemi: a sculptured ritual object created to house a deity or ancestral spirit.

This particular zemi was the carved image of a rather constipated-looking fellow with an exaggeratedly long face and over-sized ears. On his head was balanced a large, rounded bowl. His oversized gritted teeth further gave the illusion of a quite serious case of lower intestinal binding.

A small ritualistic artifact, the Professor lectured Phelps, though it was rather obvious. Typically used to burn cohoba or some other kind of aromatic.

The craftsmanship is incredible, Phelps said, her schoolgirl-like enthusiasm apparent. In the last few years she had traveled the world and seen some extraordinary things during her postgraduate scholastic career, but this was something that transcended the bounds between simply digging up old bones and finding a press-worthy discovery. This might just be the crowning achievement she needed to finally gain her coveted doctorate. The lines... the precision...

Yes. Incredible. A few largish raindrops fell around them as the now not-so-distant rumble signaled the evening thunderstorm was nearly upon them. The humidity was so thick that it was like a physical presence. They would have to hurry and take refuge in the small wooden shelter before the deluge hit. The short boat trip back to the main island would have to wait.

It must be worth... tens of thousands! Though she tried hard to maintain a healthy academic objectivity, the discovery fully wiped away any remainder of her curbed enthusiasm.

More importantly, Bierce said, in a flatly scholastic tone, it gives conclusive proof that the Taíno did indeed establish permanent settlements on the islands of the Colorados Archipelago. The professor allowed himself a rare smile. It looked almost painful on his aged and weathered face.

Aided by a battered Coleman lantern, Phelps continued to watch transfixed as one of the foremost archaeologists of the past century meticulously excavated the sandy seaside soil with his own gnarled hands. Bierce had written many of the leading texts on modern archaeological methodology: It was almost like watching Beethoven conduct his own symphony, she speculated.

She smiled back at him. With this and the other items we’ve found, it more than validates this expedition. This could be the most important find in years. Not only would this be perfect for her doctorate thesis, but she would finally be perceived as a serious archaeologist, not just another pretty face coattailed on the professor’s reputation.

Yes, quite.

The university had barely funded this expedition. In fact, Bierce and Phelps were the only two Americans sent to Cuba. Not only was the university apathetic about the subject of this dig, but the communist government still only grudgingly allowed Americans onto their soil. The rest of their team was made up of hired indigenous labor from the nearby coastal village. In fact, the professor was paying for much of the expedition out of his own funds.

Though the rest of the team had long since departed in battered wooden dinghies for their meager homes, Professor Bierce and Miss Phelps stayed at the dig site to work late into the tropical night.

Their own boat, the professor’s personal 19-foot Yamaha bowrider, was pulled up on the shore not far away. Though the professor lived a mostly-austere life, he’d purchased the boat upon his official retirement three years ago.

The cool brine scent of the sea combined with the wind whispering through the palm trees and the rumble of thunder almost made it a magically romantic night, Dana thought. It was too bad she was sharing this idyllic setting with a man who seemed almost as old as the artifact he examined.

Before Phelps could further comment, a dazzling bolt of lightning struck a palm tree perhaps only a hundred yards away on the edge of the clearing. The resultant thunder was instantaneous and nearly deafened them. Phelps let out a small scream and dropped the lantern to the sandy soil. It extinguished.

My word, the Professor said, but not at the thunderclap.

A shadowy form stood at the lip of the depression where he and Miss Phelps dug. Dana gasped from both the physical pressure wave of the lightening strike and the sudden appearance of the sinister figure.

I wish to be borrow your boat, the form said, above the sudden wind. The speaker had a thick Hispanic accent. Not much else could they tell: the man was like a darker shape against the black jungle scrub. From his position at the top of the dig, he loomed menacingly over them. No one will get very much too hurt.

Who are you, Bierce demanded. This is a closed site. We’re here by authority of the Ministry of Culture.

They both heard the unmistakable metallic sound of a pistol being cocked. Please, to shut up, the shadow said. Both Bierce and Phelps raised their hands. The man threw a few short lengths of yellow nylon rope down to them. He obviously wished them to start binding themselves.

Now, said the shadow, I am to be borrowing your boat.

Maps

A picture containing text, aircraft Description automatically generatedText, map Description automatically generatedDiagram, engineering drawing Description automatically generated

It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with balcony overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something happened.

― Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary

Chapter One

Island of Weasel Cay / Straits of Florida

This really might be paradise lost , the fugitive thought as he took a last deep drag on his Hollywood Green cigarette. He paused, then flipped the butt into the froth that swirled around his ankles as another wave died quietly on the sugar white coastline.

How many jobs have I done? he wondered as he sauntered back onto the beach. How much money have I made? How many women have I bedded? He paused long enough to reflectively look back and watch the cigarette butt being swept out to sea like another lost dream. The world is mine now. Whatever I want is mine. If I want it, I take it.

The fugitive thought about his harrowing escape from Cuba, not four days ago. He had hijacked a boat at gunpoint, avoided both the Cuban and American authorities, and set it adrift when he reached Weasel Cay. Since then, he had mostly kept to himself in the dingy motel room — only going outside to smoke or order takeout from the pay phone near the front desk.

Yes, Weasel Cay still had functioning pay phones.

I used to be a poor farmer’s son. A laborer. Now I am one of the most feared men in the Caribbean, and a cosmopolitan man of mystery, he thought with a wry smile. He was arrogant, yet he determined that now he had a right to be.

With a sigh of contentment, Jesús Mendoza turned from the magnificent ocean sunrise and walked back toward his rented room, just a few steps into the overgrown landscaping of the old Sand Piper Lodge. The beach was deserted at this hour; only the wind and waves and the occasional gull bore witness to his passing.

Now I will work for me. It is my time.

He stopped in front of his room and made sure the small bit of hair he had cemented across the door lock with saliva was still in place. It was a classic trick, but it had saved him at least a few times. The fine blond hair was still there, barely visible to the casual observer, but it signaled that his room had not been disturbed since he had left it. After a quick glance around, he entered and locked the door behind him.

The room was a typical example of a seedy tropical hotel that had seen better days. The scarred tiled floor had seen years of sand and was stained from the occasional immersion in storm-driven seawater. Everything in the room was slightly faded, torn, worn or broken and would have been discarded from even a flophouse motel on the mainland.

Mendoza knew that the accommodations were beneath someone of his importance and exacting standards, but he figured it was the perfect hideaway for an international fugitive to lie low for a few weeks. He knew that several governments and cartels currently had teams in the field trying to collect on the huge bounties offered for his capture — dead or alive. He also knew that most would prefer the former option.

Mendoza slipped out of his rumpled white linen suit and reclined nakedly on the bed. His hand absently found the half-empty glass tumbler of cheap white tequila on the nightstand. The tequila was room temperature and mixed with long-extinct ice cubes, but he savored its earthy tang and burn as he sipped casually.

His eyes wandered casually toward a quart-sized Mason jar. The jar was full to the sealed brim with small, dried seeds that were almost shaped like little American footballs, only in a light tan color.

And you, my beauties, he said aloud, almost lovingly to the jar of seeds. You will help me start it all. You will make me rich beyond imagination.

In his slightly hung-over mind, Mendoza pictured his own fledgling Caribbean-wide drug syndicate that would rival anything that the Colombian cartels could muster. He chuckled grandiosely, if a chuckle could be grandiose.

Then after a while, I will retire from the field, he told a small green anole that clung to the wall opposite the bed. He had named the lizard after an unfortunate former business associate. Simply manage the whole operation from a secret island fortress, hire some young lieutenants to run the daily operations for me. What do you think, Rafael?

Rafael said nothing, but his tongue nervously tasted the air.

The fugitive lit another smoke, this time a fat hand-rolled Cuban cigar. He enjoyed the walnut and chocolate overtones on his palate as he idly watched the ceiling fan turning in lazy circles above him.

And this Weasel Cay, he gestured grandly around him with the cigar as he lounged in bed, perhaps I will permanently settle here. Such a backward place, with no interference from the American authorities. I could rule this island. The air is warm, the water is green. And the women — they are so beautiful.

He puffed the cigar again and watched the ash redden with a new burst of oxygen. After he held the smoke for a moment, he exhaled a long stream of smoke upward and watched it entwine with the ceiling fan’s lazy spokes. As he turned to take another drink from the dirty glass, his nose caught a hint of the jasmine perfume on the pillowcase.

Ah, yes, he remembered, somewhat fondly. What was her name? He pondered. "It matters not, I suppose. Such a buxom Americano."

Before the next line in Mendoza’s self-important soliloquy could take further hold in his tequila-clouded mind, a size 12E jungle combat boot burst the door apart. The dry-rotted frame shattered into woody splinters of shrapnel that flew into the room, along with the remainder of the door.

"FREEZE right there, chum bucket," growled the boot’s owner, a broad-shouldered man who pointed a 12 gauge Remington tactical assault shotgun directly at Mendoza’s head. The gun looked as menacing as a psychotic barracuda. And the owner looked even more deadly.

What is this? Mendoza shrieked. His voice suddenly seemed shrill and thin for such an important man. He girlishly grabbed the covers up around him as the tequila tumbler spilled onto the nightstand and then shattered on the tiled floor.

The man with the shotgun was an impressive six feet of ill-tempered brawn. He had salt-and-pepper color crew cut hair and an extremely hard jaw line. He wore what could only be described as a thick cop mustache. His eyes were hidden behind black blade-style shooting glasses. He wore digital-patterned jungle fatigues that made him seem like a commando of some type.

Mendoza’s clouded mind told him that he was about to be executed.

I’d say you’re under arrest, said a second, calmer, taller man, as he stepped carefully through the broken doorframe. He was dressed like a typical islander in khaki cargo shorts, a nondescript button-down flowered shirt and a khaki baseball cap. The ball cap had Weasel Cay Air Service and some sort of mammal embroidered across its front.

The tall man was lankier than his companion, had shortish sun-bleached light brown hair under his cap, and a three-day shadow of a beard. Though not as fit and cut as the first man, he could be described as somewhat clumsily athletic. His light blue eyes sparkled almost in mirth at Mendoza’s shocked expression.

In contrast to his surly companion, he was armed only with a hotel room key, which would have unlocked Mendoza’s door had it not first been kicked off its frame.

What— You can’t— the fugitive started to whine.

Out of bed, said the man with the shotgun dispassionately.

Wh- who are you? The Colombians? CIA? A hit team?

No. Weasel Cay Constabulary. Now get your low-rent butt out of bed.

Are we a hit team, Jake? the constable’s companion laughed with an amused look toward his crabby companion.

Shut up, Charlie, the cop responded through gritted teeth from the side of his mouth, as he motioned the fugitive out of bed with the shotgun.

Mendoza sheepishly wrapped the soiled bed covers daintily around his naked and somehow corpulent body, then climbed slowly out of the bed. He stood before the two intruders, with one handheld shakily up in the air while the other held the dingy grayish covers. As much as he pictured himself a machismo specimen of male prowess, his physique was actually rather droopy.

Okay, Mister International Man of Mystery, the constable said, now drop the covers.

But— Mendoza quivered. He looked as if he were ready to cry.

Do it, the cop breathed, in a low menacing tone. Do it now, or I’ll do it for you. But I might remove several body parts in the process. My aim is a little off after staying up all night surveilling your greasy butt.

Mendoza quickly complied by raising his other hand. The sheets and bedding fell to the floor and he stood ingloriously naked before the two men.

Charlie made a sour face at the sight.

I am a tourist, Mendoza said nervously. Simply a tourist.

We didn’t ask you, Jake responded. Frisk him, Charlie, the lawman said to his younger, but taller brother.

Aw, heck no. Come on, Jake, Charlie said, with a disturbed look. Are you kidding me? I’m not going to touch him. He’s hairy. And greasy.

Don’t be a nancy-boy. Just search him.

Look, you deputized me — again, I might add — to watch your back. You never said anything about strip searching a stinky two-bit smuggler wannabe.

Hey! Mendoza protested.

Stow it, grease ball, Charlie said to Mendoza with a withering look. It worked. Though he didn’t appear as menacing or baleful as his brother, he physically towered over Mendoza.

Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Jake sighed back at Charlie. You don’t have to touch him. Just check around him and the bed. Make sure there aren’t any weapons.

Fine.

And don’t forget under the bed.

Of course.

And behind the curtains.

Am I looking for anything particular?

"You’re looking for everything particular."

With a dramatic sigh, Charlie fought a single yellow rubber dishwashing glove onto his sweaty right hand and started his search, none too carefully, around the naked man’s podgy body.

After he finished the horrible task of visually inspecting Mendoza, he gingerly searched through the grubby bedding without success. Dropping to his bare knees on the weathered tile, he glanced underneath the sagging box springs but found nothing except a collection lizard droppings.

He then moved to check the fugitive’s crumpled suit. He rummaged through the pockets and found a dirty wad of US one-dollar bills and an generic-looking cell phone, which he tossed onto the bed. When he reached the nightstand, he carefully avoided the shattered water tumbler and noted the nearly empty bottle of Tres Medusas tequila. It sat next to a sealed Mason jar full of seeds.

What’s this? Charlie asked.

T- tequila, Mendoza said hastily.

Not that. This.

Evidence, Jake replied. Just bag it and tag it.

It’s a jar of seeds. What, is this guy smuggling farm goods?

Jake gave Charlie a withering look, so Charlie shrugged and placed the jar into a brown-paper grocery sack. With a black Sharpie pen, he wrote the date, time, and the words jar of seeds on it.

Charlie next opened the nightstand drawer and found a small-caliber miniature pistol sitting on top of a Gideon’s New Testament. The handgun looked paltry and feminine, and reminded Charlie of a classic Derringer.

Bingo, he said, as he delicately unloaded the silvered handgun’s single round onto the bed.

Ha, his brother snorted to Mendoza, who seemed to shrink a few inches shorter. "Probably stole it from his abuela."

Searching deeper into the cluttered drawer, Charlie found a blackened marijuana pipe, an unopened condom package, a plastic sandwich bag with some leftover powdery white residue, and a mostly-used box of diarrhea medicine. He dumped them all on the bed, one by one.

Jake motioned the man toward the center of the room away from the evidence. With one booted foot, he kicked the man’s cheap suit pants toward him. Put ‘em on, he said. Mendoza modestly turned around and put on his pants, effectively mooning the cop. Jake, despite looking slightly nauseous at the sight of Mendoza’s hairy buttocks, covered him with the shotgun.

Meanwhile, Charlie searched the rest of the room. On a small laminate desk, he found a wooden cigar box. Several passports from various countries and a wad of mixed paper currency spilled out, along with another plastic sandwich bag that held a few ounces of a yellowish-white powder.

Tsk, tsk, Charlie said, rather mockingly.

Next to the cigar box was a small reddish clay pot which held a tiny seedling in it. The small plant was about 3 inches tall and appeared healthy, but Charlie couldn’t identify it. It could’ve been anything, he thought. Several other similiar clay pots were also stacked on the table, showing dirt residue in them.

He turned his attention to the passports.

Quite the world traveler, Charlie noted, as he read one of the passport’s stamps. Mexico, Cuba, Belize. Not one here for the United States, though. And they all have different pictures on them. Cash from Mexico, the States, and I’m assuming various Central American countries.

Gee, that’s odd, Jake said to Mendoza, who paled by the minute. Passports. Drugs. Guns. Checking into a motel with fake credit cards. Sneaking onto my island without clearing customs.

I steal nothing, Mendoza said.

Oh, really? Charlie asked, as he examined one of the passports, which had been issued from Ecuador. You don’t look like a 115-pound woman named Sofia. Charlie then raised the plastic baggie. And what exactly is this? Coke? Heroin? Some veterinary-grade horse laxative?

Naughty, naughty, Jake replied. I’m not even gonna guess. We’ll test it when we get back to town.

N- None of it’s mine, stammered Mendoza.

Shut up.

But—

Or did you steal it?

No, I—

Do you have a receipt?

No, I found it—

Shut up.

Charlie dropped the contents of the cigar box onto the bed with the other evidence. He left the seedling where it was, for now. He then searched the rest of the small motel room and found nothing else of note. Next, he moved into the bathroom area of the room.

So far, Jake said to the fugitive, I’m gonna book you on smuggling, transportation of stolen property, piracy, reckless possession of drug paraphernalia, possession of a controlled substance times two, jaywalking-

I never— Mendoza started.

—illegally crossing into a US territory, copyright infringement, selling without a license—

I wasn’t sell—

—carrying a firearm without a permit, the Goat Act of 1859, being stupid, and several other federal, colonial, territorial, and local laws too numerous to mention.

But I—

Zip it.

But—

"Zip it! Jake snapped, as he raised the shotgun towards Mendoza’s face. I don’t know who will be more eager to see you: Homeland Security, ATF, DEA, or Customs. You’ll be very popular when you get to Miami, slime ball."

The only other thing that Charlie’s search of the bathroom area turned up was a somewhat familiar business card. The creased pink card rested on the bathroom sink next to a large pair of crumpled red satin panties. He picked up the card with his rubber glove and carried it delicately back into the bedroom.

"Tanzanite Skyy, Actress and Private Model," Charlie read the card with an obvious look of disgust.

Hmm, Jake said, cracking his first smile of the day. So that was your little friend from last night, eh?

Hey, Charlie said. Isn’t she that big guy from Key West that had his—

Yup.

Mendoza fainted into a crumpled heap on the floor. Charlie just shook his head in disgust and peeled off the rubber glove.

Chapter Two

South Beach / Miami, Florida

L adies and Gentlemen , Johnny Tangelo is pleased to announce the latest in his fabulous line of snack foods and beach products, said renowned celebrity attorney Harold T. Flime into his podium microphone on the stage of the original Club Tangelo restaurant. A cacophony of digital camera sounds let him know that the journalists surrounding him were eagerly snapping his image.

I give you: Johnny Tangelo’s Atomic Shark Venom! He triumphantly held aloft a neon green and yellow eight-ounce can. The Energy Drink With a Bite!

Several uniformed restaurant employees unveiled life-sized cardboard promo cutouts of Johnny holding his famous fluorescent lime green electric guitar and a can of the new energy drink.

Available in convenience stores, supermarkets, bait shops, and wherever quality health products are sold, Flime added with a smile.

The high-priced attorney paused just long enough to adjust his classic brown Herringbone-patterned eyeglasses. The pause was, of course, thoughtfully constructed to allow the mass of reporters and photographers to finish their notes from his last statement. It would also offer the audio/visual media types a chance to start a new sound bite. Bloody Harry, as reporters around the country knew Flime, loved the publicity almost as much as he loved the seven-figure income that his legal wranglings provided. Almost. Publicity was, he had always known, the name of the game. And he was very good at the game.

Singer/songwriter/entrepreneur Johnny Tangelo looked resplendent standing next to Harry in his starched tropical button-down shirt, carefully pressed cream-colored linen pants, leather sandals, and a pair of black original Ray-Ban Wayfarers sunglasses. His graying black hair was slicked back just for the occasion. He even sucked in his slight belt line paunch to avoid looking the part of

Reviews for The Weasel Cay Chronicles

[Corps Director · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Brilliant! An extremly funny novel - sort of outlandish yet compelling. Really, really enjoyed it.