He identified himself as the executive officer of Fearless.
“What can we do for you, Lieutenant?”
“The go-fast boat your chopper followed. I want to know where it ends up if they follow it that far.”
He knew chopper pilots usually pulled back from their pursuit if the boat was this far out at sea and heading away from American waters rather than into them. But it was worth a try.
Back on the bridge, he called out to Doheny.
“Yes, sir,” said the eager ensign.
“That boat, the Big Fish IV?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m assuming its home port will be somewhere in the Middle or Upper Keys.”
“That would make sense, sir.”
“You got the ID number off the bow. Find out where it’s berthed and let me know, OK?”
“Yes, sir.” Doheny hesitated. “Shall I enter that in the report, sir?”
“No, not necessary. I’m just curious is all.”
“Very good, sir.”
Chapter 8
ROLLING THE DICE
About the time Ensign Doheny went back aboard Fearless, Derek Gilbertson stopped to pick up Howard Rothberg waiting for him on Brickell Avenue in front of Dade International Bank.
“Hop in. We’re running late,” said Derek.
“Yeah,” said Howard as he settled his large frame into the passenger side of Derek’s Jaguar XJ, mounds of fat rolling over his belt until the belt disappeared. Derek took off, heading for South Beach across the MacArthur Causeway. Howard was one of those fat characters who, while shamelessly obese, maintained a vanity over what was left of his hair. The few remaining strands of were meticulously plastered over his scalp and secured with gel.
“Did Vlad say what he wants to meet about?” Derek asked.
“He did. It’s about the Oyebanjos’ $27 million Flores was going to take to the Bahamas before Vlad killed him.”
Derek laughed with a grunt.
“You always did cut to the chase, Howard.”
“With all the bullshit one finds in this town, Derek, I take that as a supreme compliment.”
“I guess.”
“How do you think we ought to handle Vlad?”
“That’s rich, coming from you. You’re the one who told him about the money in the sub,” Derek sneered.
“He was squeezing me on another matter. I had to throw him something.”
“And the other matter?” Derek glanced at the fat banker.
“Is something that doesn’t concern you.”
“It’s something that ought to concern me since it got me saddled with Vlad and his crew of thugs.”
Howard turned to face Derek.
“Listen, Derek, just because we do white collar crime doesn’t make it any less of a crime, OK? I can’t tell you everything when it doesn’t involve you.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry to bust your chops, Howard. I just don’t like the guy.”
“I don’t like him, either. But it may turn out that he’s a better guy to deal with than Omer Flores ever was.”
“Especially since Omer was fucking us on our share of the money in the sub.”
“Or was trying to fuck us before Vlad put a bullet in his ugly Cuban head.”
“Yeah,” said Derek. “Let’s just bring him in on the whole Oyebanjo thing and see how it goes. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. Let’s roll the dice with these mobsters.”
“Yeah.”
“What have we got to lose, really, in the end?” Howard mused.
“Nothing. And maybe he’ll figure out a way to get hold of the guy that got the money out of the sub before we did.”
“Right under our nose,” added Howard, Derek thought unnecessarily. There had been no way to anticipate what happened down in the Keys, that someone had been watching them so closely that they knew everything about the sub.
“What do we tell the Oyebanjos about Flores. Like, where is he?”
Howard turned to Derek with a sly smile.
“Make something up, Derek. You’re good at that.”
Sometimes, Derek thought, Howard pushed a little too hard with his sarcasm. One of these days, some guy like Vlad was going to slap Howard so hard his fat wobbly jowls would wrap around his neck and strangle him.
Derek pulled his Jaguar into a spot on Washington Avenue. He was dreading having to face Wilma, who’d called him twice that week to get together. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to call her back, texting his excuses instead.
He and Howard got out and went into the Kremlin Club.
The place was closed this time of day, of course, and besides the cleaning crew working in the big main room where the dance floor was located, no one was to be seen except for Wilma Kassman, general manager of the Kremlin, in the middle of the foyer. She gave Howard a kiss on the cheek, and he passed on up a ramp into the spacious lobby. Derek got a kiss on the lips.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she purred.
“No, I haven’t, Wilma, I promise I haven’t.”
“I don’t like to get texts from guys I’m fucking.”
“Wilma, I—”
“Not when I want to fuck them again,” she said in a low, serious voice that was more threat than it was seductive.
He had to admit she was an alluring sight: her long black hair and alabaster skin that had never seen the sun’s rays on South Beach stood out against her black outfit. Wilma always wore black. In the daytime, she favored a simple black blouse with black jeans and a little silver jewelry (never gold). At night, when she was working, she invariably wore versions of the same outfit that looked like a thick black patent-leather one-piece bathing suit decorated with lots of stainless steel studs, looking like she’d just graduated cum laude from Dominatrix School, complete with black fishnet stockings. Her look did not encourage anyone to say “No” to her.
But Vlad seemed to have her
