Envy(3)

“Overboard?”

“Yeah. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus.”

“That * nearly wrecked my yacht! What the f*ck was he doing?”

A man wearing flip-flops came slapping up, hands on hips, reeking of a cologne that any self-respecting whore would think was too strong. He was wearing only a Speedo swimsuit beneath an overhanging belly covered with black curly hair. He had a thick gold bracelet on his right wrist and spoke with a nasally northeastern accent—just the kind that never failed to get on Hatch’s fighting side.

“The boy’s hurt. There’s been an accident.”

“Accident my ass. He put a big dent in the Dinky Doo.” They’d been joined by the man’s female companion, who was dressed in a bikini and a pair of high heels. Her tan and tits were store-bought. Under each arm she was holding a toy poodle. The pets had pink ribbons tied to their ears and were yapping in angry synchronization.

“Call 911,” Hatch said.

“I want to know what this son of a bitch intends to do—”

“Call 911!”


* * *


The interior of Hatch’s “office” smelled of sardines, damp hemp, dead fish, and motor oil. It was uncomfortably warm and stuffy inside, as though the shack couldn’t provide enough oxygen for three men because it was usually occupied only by one.

The limited floor space was crowded with trunks of fishing and diving gear, coils of rope, maps and charts, maintenance supplies and equipment, a vintage metal file cabinet in which Hatch rarely filed anything, and his desk, which had been salvaged from a shipwreck and bought at auction for thirty dollars.

The kid who’d crashed his boat had heaved twice into his toilet, but Hatch figured the nausea was more from nerves and fear than from the shot of brandy he’d sneaked him when no one was looking.

Of course, the kid had had a lot to drink prior to the brandy, and that wasn’t just an assumption. He’d admitted as much to the Coast Guard officer who was currently questioning him. Key West police had had their turn at interrogating him about crashing the boat into the marina. He was then turned over to the Coast Guard officer, who wanted to know what had happened onboard that had caused his two companions to wind up in the Atlantic.

He’d provided their names and ages, their local addresses. Hatch had checked the information against the rental agreement the two young men had filled out before embarking. He confirmed the data to the officer.

Hatch resented having to share his private space with strangers, but he was glad he hadn’t been asked to wait outside while the laws interrogated the kid. The marina was now swarming with onlookers who’d been drawn to the scene of the drama like flies to a pile of manure. And you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting some breed of uniformed personnel.

Having intimate knowledge of jails in numerous ports on several continents, Hatch had an aversion to uniforms and badges. He would just as soon avoid authority of any kind. If a man couldn’t live by his own set of rules, his own sense of right and wrong, what was the good of living? That attitude had landed him in paddy wagons all over the globe, but that was his philosophy and he was sticking to it.

But, in all fairness, Hatch had to hand it to the Coast Guard officials and local policemen who’d questioned the young man and organized a search-and-rescue party: They hadn’t been *s about it.

It was clear that the kid was on the brink of total breakdown. The badges had been savvy enough to realize he might crack if they applied too much additional pressure, and then where would they be? In order to calm him down and get answers, they’d gone pretty soft on him.

He was still wearing wet swim trunks and sneakers that leaked seawater onto the rough plank flooring whenever he moved his feet. In addition to giving him the brandy, Hatch had thrown a blanket over him, but he’d since discarded it, along with his tattered T-shirt.

Outside, running footsteps and an excited voice brought the kid’s head up. He looked hopefully toward the door.

But the footsteps ran past without stopping. The officer, who’d had his back turned while helping himself to Hatch’s coffeepot, came around and correctly read the kid’s expression. “You’ll know something as soon as we do, son.”

“They’ve got to be alive.” His voice sounded like someone who’d been outyelling a storm for a long time. Every now and then it would crack over a word. “I think I just couldn’t find them in the dark. It was so damned dark out there.” His eyes bounced back and forth between Hatch and the officer. “But I didn’t hear them. I called and called, but… Why weren’t they answering me? Or calling out for help? Unless they…” He was unable to say out loud what they all feared.

The officer returned to Hatch’s stool, which he’d placed near the chair in which the boy sat with his shoulders hunched forward. For several weighty minutes, the officer did nothing but sip his hot coffee. Schwoop. Schwoop.

It was irritating as hell, but Hatch remained quiet. This was the law’s business now, not his. His boat was insured. There’d be paperwork out the wazoo, and a suspicious, seersucker-suited adjuster to haggle with, but in the long run, he would come out okay. Maybe even a little better off than he’d been.

He was less optimistic about how this kid would fare. No amount of insurance was going to make his life easier after this. As for the two who’d gone into the water, Hatch didn’t hold out much hope. The percentages were stacked against them.