A Pirate's Booty

By Carlo Cavazutti

For hundreds of years adventurers have hunted for the treasure of the Spanish Galleon, La Bella Donna but stymied at every turn. That is until Synthia Morales walks into Chez Rendezvous and tells a story of a long lost relative and sole survivor. A tale that Carlo overhears and the search is on. Danger, treason and subterfuge lurks from everywhere and he must put together a top notch crew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Oct 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955784948

Carlo Cavazutti

Carlo has been in law enforcement in New York. His career included undercover missions with the DEA, State Police. He also coordinated inter-agency task forces and investigated all types of crimes before retiring as a detective, before moving to Massachusetts where he worked as a private investigator, specializing in undercover operations and interrogation. Carlo also worked as an Executive Protection Agent with clients such as a presidential nominee; working closely with the Secret Service, federal judges, senators and congressmen. He also drove CEO’s from several fortune 500 Companies. Carlo received his Bachelor of Arts, majoring in Criminology, from the State University of NY system. Today he writes from an undisclosed location in Texas and continues his education seeking a Masters in Criminal Organizations.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

July 23, 1678

The Golden Age of Piracy

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They had no idea the hell on earth they were about to sail. The surge crested ever higher. More than a few of the men of the ship, La Bella Donna, shuddered in fear as the ship pushed into the deep, inky blackness of night. A blackness, they thought, would never bring another dawn. No stars, no moon on which they could place some hope of finding a safe harbor.

Christopho, the helmsman of La Bella Donna, tried to keep it topside up. Damaged and taking in water, it was surer they would sink than make landfall. The crew which were able worked feverishly to seal the enemy-inflicted hole in the port side of the hull.

The ship, overloaded even for a four-masted, 160-foot Spanish galleon and short keel, didn’t help with the roll and pitch. Christopho survived worse, at least those were the thoughts that plagued his mind. He kept reminding himself of that fact. A master sailor he was, without a doubt. He was not a man who would let doubt creep in so stealthily and capture the last strands of his sanity.

Emilio, the cabin boy, hustled back and forth from the captain’s quarters, a deck lower at the rear of the ship near the helm, to the top deck to relay orders. Doing so with masterful footwork on the pitching ship. Christopho didn’t need the captain’s orders. Christopho had taken a shine to the brave young lad. He had balls bigger than some of the toughest crew and he never backed down from their challenges.

The motion sick captain spewed the contents of his innards onto the floor of his cabin and the smell of the discharge made Emilio want to retch himself. Tell Christopho I said to find a place to anchor before everything inside me comes out, boy. Emilio darted out and made it topside once again, barely. He knew it was not time to debate the captain and his less-than-seaworthy guts.

Christopho yelled at him above the roar of the seas, Ye should be below. It is far too dangerous for a young lad like you. Look at the rest of the men topside. They are scared to death.

"Si, yes, I understand, but the captain wants you to find a place to moor. Besides, I would rather face death here with you than hide like a woman with the stench of his emptied guts." The young boy was more a man than most men.

Christopho let out a hearty laugh before saying, Boy, secure yourself somehow because a monster is headed right for us. Lash yourself to the mast.

Why?

Look. I can’t see its crest. Need I tell ye more? Christopho barked above the screaming roar of the storm.

Emilio peered beyond the bow of the ship. The wave that bore down on them, a rogue that all sailors feared even nowadays, one hundred feet high, and that was conservative.

The prow of La Bella Donna dug deep into the belly of the rising wave. Seawater swept across the ship’s deck, taking men with it to Davy Jones’s locker. Christopho fought the wave, and the nose righted straight to the sky. Emilio said a quick prayer, Mother Mary, please keep us safe, crossed himself, and held tight to a rope that dangled from the main mast.

Up and up the ship struggled to climb the wave, a monster at best. Christopho thought it was the end and the leaking, overweight galleon crested the peak before starting a sharp, downward slide. It seemed forever as they hovered between life and death. Much like a modern-day carnival ride.

By everything that is holy, I have no idea why we made it. Christopho wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

It’s a sign from God, sir.

God, aye, maybe. But I think the eye of the storm is approaching. I think your God blessed us with a respite. Look up. I can see stars. Can you believe it? We hit the eye in time. Just maybe your prayers were answered along with the Captain’s orders, he said as he looked at a small clearing in the clouds. He smiled at the boy and Emilio smiled back. They were a pair, to say the least.

CHAPTER TWO

Two Days Earlier

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Captain Blackie Jack heard rumor the Portuguese ship, São Esmeralda, was laden down with gold, raw gems, and silver from South America. She was anchored in the bay of Port Royal, Jamaica, with a host of other ships from a host of other countries. São Esmeralda sat low in the water, advertising to all moored there that she was heavy. Not as well armed as the seventy-six cannon galleon, they would be an easy target. Too bad the port was destroyed by an earthquake and tsunami a few years later.

Privateers and sailors for the crowned heads of Europe had been plundering Central and South America for years and there was no sign of it letting up. There was too much to be gained. Hence, the Golden Age of Piracy.

Guards patrolled the decks of São Esmeralda, armed with muzzle loaders and sabers, while the rest of the crew enjoyed a little liberty. With the alcohol that flowed, more than a few tongues began to wag. And we all know loose lips sink ships.

Blackie Jack would wait until they left port and overtake São Esmeralda in a day or two. The galleon could make eight knots, fast for the day, but the carrack was smaller and a little swifter when empty. But that was the catch; she wasn’t empty. He laid his hope the weather held. Summer and the tail end of fall were notorious for inclement weather.

He paced his deck waiting for his boy to bring him back a lady. It was senseless and bad luck going off into battle without a little fun. No telling when he would have such an opportunity in the future. A busty, lusty whore would satiate his yearnings as many times as he desired if his besotted ass could keep it up.

Emilio appeared amidst the crowded port and with him was a prize beauty. Dark skinned, large busted with nipples protruding hard through the fabric of her thin top. Her full lips and nice hips made Blackie desire for her to bear him a few children. And who knows, she may do that, but he would most likely never know. He bathed after not for many days at sea. He didn’t want to smell like a pig in a sty. Blackie loved these wide-bottomed island girls when he slapped them on the ass and watched it jiggle.

Emilio, ye did well. I shall reward ye like I will this young senorita. Make sure the men get back here and let the others go have some fun. I have a feeling we may be pulling anchor in the morn.

Aye, aye, sir.

He scurried off the deck and headed back into the den. The crew grumbled and cursed but heeded the Captain’s orders relayed through the boy to return to the ship.

The crew half staggered, singing songs and sipping from the cheap grog they’d bought from the taverns. A few paused to puke from overindulgence, wiped their mouths on their sleeves, gave out a hearty laugh, and kissed the wenches that were still with them. A few haggled over price but got what they wanted eventually after slipping into one dark alleyway or another with back up against a wall.

CHAPTER THREE

Present Day

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I moved into Sly’s bunker as I couldn’t see much sense in paying rent when he would let me stay for free in the lavish quarters to which I had become accustomed. He and I had grown ever closer since the Albanian incident. Can’t say that about many people. Sly, like good bourbon, was top-shelf. I loved the guy. I left the other kind of love to the seductive ladies. I was an old hound dog and proud of it.

My bike and car were securely stowed in his secreted garage. I came and went as I pleased, and I ate when I was hungry. I worked out in his gym and used the range to stay sharp.

Sly was a good friend and like a true friend he was more like a brother. I loved his company, the club, and he enjoyed hearing the tales of my latest escapades and settled for nothing less than all the details. Hence, he wanted the full scoop on the bike trip. You know, the one to Perdition.

I don’t know how you’re still alive, my brother, but you always seem to outwit death. And you tell these young ladies anything and they just fall for it. Man, how do you do it?

I have no clue. Maybe I’m an old ass MacDaddy with a bit of swag left and you, my man, are a close second. He burst out laughing. "Remember, we all survived the Albanians. I need a vacation, my man. One where I’m not fighting with some rogue mobster or gangster or gang, but somewhere nice and quiet. Maybe do some diving. Shit, even sharks wouldn’t be a hazard now. I’ve been watching one of those educational channels like Discovery and watched the entire series about astronaut Gordon Cooper and the maps he made of possible sunken treasure wrecks, I said to Sly. You just might want to back something like this."

You show me that data and I’ll determine if it’s a good investment. And what about the Lady? You know how she is about you taking off on some life-threatening adventure.

Sly, I don’t recall saying anything about life threatening.

No, you didn’t. And that’s the part that bothers me. Pirates still roam those waters, probably more so than back then.

Thanks, man. When I get it together, I will give you all the details. Maybe need you on the boat.

Oh, hell, no. I like dry ground. You know us folks can’t swim and black lives matter. Not necessarily referencing the current political situation.

Such a pussy at times and I know black people can’t swim. Well, some of them. Imagine you with a life vest and arm floaties thrashing about. That picture would be worth a million dollars. Imagine the headline, ‘Black bar owner afraid of the water.’ He laughed and so did I. Let me give you some info. Gordon Cooper did this all from space, and friends of his had some great success at finding treasure from ships that were either sunk in a storm or blasted apart by cannon fire. Sly hung on every word.

So what are you telling me?

There’s more to be found. I just need to find someone to help me find something while risking a small fortune on it.

And how do you intend on getting that type of information? Sly asked.

I know people that know people just like you.

That’s what I’m afraid of. Those people you know like I know, that thing, Sly responded.

That got a chuckle out of both of us. Yeah, Let’s Go Brandon.

I just need to make a few calls.

I had a bad habit of loving adventure a little too much. The winter weather was starting to put a chill in the air and my penchant for a warm Caribbean beach started to itch at my innards, along with arthritis nagging in my ear like a scorned wife. And I’ve had a few. Nope, not saying another word. Let sleeping dogs lie.

I’d just returned from the Caymans with Lady Tatiana, but I needed some more danger, I mean adventure. Trust me, she was a handful and could make my life like an Indiana Jones movie. But she was good all the same all of the time. I taught her how to appreciate the underwater world of the Caymans and she didn’t fuss about her hair. That in and of itself was a slam dunk. Guess it made an impression on her.

I picked up my cell and made a call. I had more research to do before I went off the deep end, but I at least wanted to get a few things like a boat and some security before we left.

My first call was to Roger Fountain, the Captain of the Jolly Roger. Go figure. He was based out of a little marina near Miami and booked fishing and diving charters along with tours to other islands to a substantially wealthy clientele.

He was as salty as the sea and every third or fourth word out of his mouth was an expletive. But he made everyone feel good even with his age, hard crust, an ice chest full of beers, stocked bar, and his pit bull, Precious. She looked ferocious but tended more to her namesake. He gave them the experience they always dreamt of. He wasn’t bad behind the grill either.

She, Precious, made friends with any group he took out and they spoiled her rotten. She loved the guests almost as much as Captain Roger loved an eight-pack of Busch when he got back to his stateroom. Catering to divers and fishermen of uncertain skills presented challenges but he knew how to handle them. All with a little cussing and professional persuasion.

As the sun set, Roger turned on the underwater lights, which attracted fish of all sorts along with a shark or two. When the lights came on Precious knew it was her time to swim, and the captain strapped her into a life vest just for dogs. And of course, he had a line tied to her.

His clients got a charge out of it and they couldn’t resist one last dip with the pooch.

We grew up together. We could have a fight in the morning and be swimming at the municipal pool, Kohler Pool, in the afternoon. We were like brothers. It’s how we all did things back then. One on one, no one else jumping in except to break it up. None of this shit doing a drive-by and killing people that had no part in it. Dang, man, we were just kids. His mom would make freeze pops made from Kool-Aid that we called junk but ate them up on a hot summer day.

His dad, Ted, worked all day selling storm windows and installing them. Roger attained a good work ethic from his Pops. Both were good men.

Roger, Gary Burgin (another neighborhood kid), and I had a special connection. One night, the lights went out and we were in the backyard. Black as black could be. Roger looked up and said, It’s a flying saucer!

Yeah, sure, Rog. Tell us another one. But we looked up anyway. Damn, man, you are right, Gary responded.

Sure enough, there was an object in the sky that shone multiple colors, rotated, hovered, and then took off, made a sharp left turn, and was out of sight within seconds. It wasn’t long after the power booted back up. Yeah, it knocked out the power to a lot of homes. Just don’t tell me we didn’t see what we saw.

No one would believe us if we told them, so we kept it to ourselves pretty much all these years. But it was strange that the Niagara Falls Power Plant also lost power and a military pilot from the Niagara Falls Nike Base saw the same thing we did.

Anyway, that is how I knew Roger. For good or bad, he was a friend and