Page 12 of On the Line

She wasn’t hearing any of it, though. “With no tourists, we’re both effectivelyout of work. Let’s get out of here and have some fun. My grandmother has a spare room we can stay in.”

Sharing a room with Ellie for a week was the opportunity of a lifetime. I swallowed hard, forcing down the regret that made me nauseous. “The thing is, Mateo’s family booked a charter for next week over a month ago. They’re all locals, so it’s still on. And they say they may want to book another day or two. I can’t pass that up when times are so tough.”

“I wouldn't want you to miss out.” She folded her napkin carefully, like the effort might keep her calm. But there was a bitterness in her tone. “You do what you have to do, Spencer. I’m getting out of here.”

And she did. Come Sunday, she was off.

Tuesday night I met Waylan for a beer. He had two cold bottles of Bud waiting at the bar when I slid onto the stool beside him.

“Howdy.” I did the tomahawk chop, mimicking the FSU Seminoles’ fight gesture. “Y’all gonna brave the trip to Tallahassee next weekend?” He was supposed to take a campus tour Saturday.

“Hell no, not with the traffic. But this shit is so bad for business, my dad is talking about sending me up there when it settles down, so I can work with my uncle. Which means I’d have to start classes in the summer,” he said, shaking his head with a face full of dread.

The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. I’d wondered if his dad suspected what he was into with George when he told Waylan he was sending him to FSU in the fall. Waylan was a hard worker in his family’s hardware store, and he’dhave been content to stay and study close to home. But his dad couldn’t wait to get him out of the Keys. I got that he wanted a better life for him, but I’d already wondered if he was trying to protect him from the dirty deals he was part of. And now his dad was pressuring him to go early…

“You think he knows something?” I asked in a low voice.

“I think we shouldn’t talk about it.” Waylan glanced over his shoulder for the third time in the past two minutes.

I wondered if everyone knew something I didn't know. “Well, I haven’t seen Mateo. Have you? Is he coming tonight?”

“He’s coming. But we should keep quiet. We don’t know who’s listening now.”

I looked around, suddenly paranoid. There was hardly anyone in the dimly lit bar, but there were a couple of faces I didn’t recognize–odd since there were virtually no tourists in town. Both were middle-aged men with chiseled chins, fit and muscular, almost with beach bodies—if not for their lack of tans, as if they belonged more in an office than in a beach town. They sat alone, staring into drinks they’d barely touched.

I cupped my hand over my mouth in case they might read my lips when I whispered. “If you’re right, weshouldtalk. Somewhere else.”

Waylan nodded, picking up his beer and heading for the door.

He sat on the curb beside the old Ford and pulled out a Marlboro. “I don’t know what George is thinking, keeping this up.” He tapped the brown filter on his shiny zippo lighter.

“It’s not just the highway they’re patrolling. I hear helicopters out every night, and channel 16 is full of chatter. They must’ve called in the entire Coast Guard.”Every boat monitored channel 16, the national safety and distress channel on the VHF.

“At least we don’t touch any of it. If they take us in, we’re empty handed.” I was parroting what George had told us—via Mateo—over a month ago.

Waylan passed me the cigarette, sounding tired when he blew out the smoke. “I don’t think either of us wants to take that chance.”

He was right. Maybe if we'd ever seen anybody back out of the business, we'd be more willing to talk to George. But the truth was, we didn't know what would happen if we bailed now. Funny how fear of the unknown was worse than our fear of the Feds. I didn’t know what would happen if we did, but I didn’t want to find out.

The headlights of Mateo’s Camaro blinded us as he whipped into the lot, Led Zeppelin blaring out the open windows. He parked and started to get out of the car but stopped when Waylan held up a hand in warning. “Let’s sit here a minute.”

“You wanna smoke a joint?” Mateo held up a plastic baggie.

“No, numskull. I do not want to do drugs while the island is crawling with DEA. Put it away.” Waylan flipped the passenger seat forward and motioned for me to climb into the back. I folded myself into the tiny space, my knees up near my chin as I leaned between the bucket seats.

I cleared my throat, and tried to sound reasonable. “Is this seriously going to happen tomorrow? Wouldn’t it be better to just wait?”

“We have waited,” Mateo said, annoyed. “It’s been over two weeks. It’s happening.”

Waylan slid his fingers up the neck of his beer bottle. “What is the new process? Since things are different now?”

“No planes until it blows over. All speed boats now, and they’re stealth. We’ll have two more lookouts tomorrow. It’s under control. Don’t worry.”

Mateo seemed to believe what he was saying. He appeared completely at ease. I didn’t know if he was dumb or brainwashed by his uncle, or both. But he didn’t seem connected to reality. And we didn’t have much choice but to go along.

“Well, Iamworried. But I’ll be there,” Waylan said as he climbed out, flip flops slapping the pavement. “I don’t feel much like socializing. I’m gonna head on home.”

I knew Waylan didn’t want to be seen associating with Mateo right now, not with so many new faces around town. He was right. “Me neither,” I agreed. “I better get back.”

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