“This town is gone to shit,” Murdock said, spitting over the gunwale, “when a guy with a gun has to put up with that kind of bull.”
“Everybody’s a wiseass,” Joe Salazar agreed. Nervously he was watching a gray outboard coming in the other direction along the opposite side of the channel. The boat had a blue police light mounted in the center. A young Latin man in a gray uniform stood behind the windshield. He waved to them: the world-weary wave of one cop to another. “What do I do?” Salazar asked. “Try waving back,” said Murdock. Salazar did. The man in the gray boat changed his course and idled toward them.
“Grouper trooper,” John Murdock whispered. Salazar nodded as if he knew what his partner was talking about. He didn’t. He also didn’t know how to stop the Aquasport. Every time he pulled down on the throttle, the engine jolted into reverse. When he pushed the lever the other way, the boat would shudder and shoot forward. Backward, forward, backward again. The big Evinrude sounded like it was about to blow up. Joe Salazar could tell that Murdock was seething.
“Try neutral,” the young marine patrolman called. “Move the throttle sideways till it clicks.” Salazar did as he was told, and it worked. “Thanks!” he called back.
Under his breath, Murdock said: “Yeah, thanks for making us look like a couple of jerkoffs.”
The marine patrol boat coasted up on the port side of the Aquasport. The young officer introduced himself as Luis Córdova. He asked where the two detectives were headed, and if he could help. Joe Salazar told him they were going to Stiltsville to serve a murder warrant.
“Only one guy lives out there that I know of,” Luis Córdova said.
Murdock said: “That’s the guy we want.”
“Mick Stranahan?”
“You know him?”
“I know where he lives,” said Luis Córdova, “but he’s not there now. I saw him only yesterday.”
“Where?” blurted Joe Salazar. “Was he alone?”
“Yeah, he was alone. Sitting on the conch dock down at Old Rhodes Key.”
Murdock said, “Where the hell’s that?”
“South of Elliott.”
“Where the hell’s Elliott?”
The marine patrolman said, “Why don’t you guys just wait a few hours and follow me down? The tide won’t be right until dusk. Besides, you might need some extra muscle with this guy—”
“No. Thanks anyway.” John Murdock’s tone left no chance for discussion. “But we could use a map, if you got one.”
Luis Córdova disappeared briefly behind the steering console. When he stood up again, he was smiling. “Just happened to have an extra,” he said.
A half hour out of the marina, Joe Salazar said to his partner: “Maybe we should’ve asked what he meant about the tides.”
The Aquasport was stuck hard on another mud flat, this one a mile south of Soldier Key. John Murdock cracked open his third can of beer and said: “You’re the one wanted to drive.”
Salazar leaned over the side of the boat and studied the situation. He decided there was no point in getting out to push. “It’s only six inches deep,” he said, a childlike marvel in his voice. “On the map it sure looked like plenty of water, didn’t it?”
Murdock said, “If you’re a starfish, it’s plenty of water. If you’re a boat, it’s a goddamn beach. Another thing: I told you to get three bags of ice. Look how fast this shit is melting.” He kicked angrily at the cooler.
Joe Salazar continued to stare at the shallow gin-clear water. “I think the tide’s coming in,” he said hopefully.
“Swell,” said Murdock. “That means it’s only what?—another four, five hours in the mud. Fanfuckingtastic. By then it’ll be good and dark, too.”
Salazar pointed out that the police boat was equipped with excellent lights. “Once we get off the flat, it’s a clean shot down to the island. Deep water the whole trip.”
He had never seen his partner so jumpy and short-tempered. Normally John Murdock was the picture of a cool tough cop, but Salazar had watched a change come over him beginning the night they took the down payment from Commissioner Roberta Pepsical. Five thousand cash, each. Five more when it was done. To persuade the detectives that he was not the booze-swilling lech that he had appeared to be at the nudie joint, the commissioner had arranged the payoff meeting to take place in one of the empty confessionals at St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Little Havana. The confessional was dimly lit and no bigger than a broom closet; the three conspirators had to stand sidewise to fit. It had been a dozen years since Joe Salazar had stepped inside a confessional and not much had changed. The place reeked of damp linen and guilt, just as he remembered. He and Murdock stuffed the cash in their jackets and bolted out the door together, nearly trampling a quartet of slow-footed nuns. Commissioner Roberto Pepsical stayed alone in the confessional and recited three Hail Marys. He figured it couldn’t hurt.