Chesapeake Crimes Page 9

  I told Denise about Whitey’s drug-smuggling operation and my part in it. After a pause she said, “Maybe we could help each other,” and gave me an appraising look. Though the remark seemed offhand, I figured this was her goal all along.

  “If I can sell the idea to my superiors, would you be willing to work with us in exchange for an exclusive, inside story about drug smuggling in Chesapeake Bay?”

  “Why the hell not?” I agreed. “I always said I’d do anything for a story.”

  She sat in silence a while, then stood up, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be in touch,” she said on her way out.

  * * * *

  About two o’clock that afternoon, Whitey parked his car in front of my cottage. He looked almost as bad as I felt, and I smothered a smirk at the white smudges on the seat of his pants. He held up a brown business envelope as he walked to the front porch. “I know pulling a switch on you was way cold, but I got to know we can trust you. You down with that? But that shit in the bar last night, I had to teach you a lesson.”

  I opened the envelope and fanned a handful of hundred-dollar bills. I gave him a hard stare. “Don’t ever play me again, asshole. I won’t be nobody’s bitch,” I snarled.

  “It’s all good, yo. Get back with you soon,” Whitey said as he drove away.

  I put the finishing touches on the boat’s repairs and headed into town for more paint. While I was at the hardware store, Denise called my cell phone. The excitement in her voice was unmistakable as she told me that HIDU had a tip from the DEA that a mothership they’ve been monitoring was headed up the coast from the Caribbean. “Get ready for a drug drop,” she said.

  Motherships can carry over a hundred tons of drugs and typically linger fifty to a hundred miles out in international waters. Small ships then ferry the drugs closer in where they rendezvous with go-fast boats that can outrun most Coast Guard cutters.

  Denise met me at the Piney Point Market the next day to brief me on the plan.

  She told me the DEA was pressuring area law-enforcement agencies to prove their drug interdiction efforts are worth the millions in taxpayer money they’ve gotten over the years. “They say if we don’t make a major bust soon, our funding might get cut,” she said. “Hell, federal money’s the only thing that keeps cops on the streets in communities all along the bay.”

  With information from the DEA and about my earlier dry run for Whitey, Denise said the HIDU team planned to nab the smugglers as they moved the drugs up the bay to the floating duck blind. The Coast Guard would seal off the bay along the Maryland-Virginia boundary after the smugglers’ boat began its northward trek. A small flotilla of patrol boats would lie in ambush as the drug runners made their way to Taylor Cove. Crucial to the plan’s success, all agreed, was that the best time to pounce would be while the drugs were being off-loaded onto the duck blind. The patrol boats would then close in, giving the smugglers no chance to get away.

  After Denise left the market, I was putting groceries in my car when Whitey’s shiny, clean convertible pulled up. “Time to go to work,” he said and followed me home.

  The drop was to be that night. Whitey’s plan was for the Lady J to stand off, with no lights showing, to act as the smugglers’ lookout. If anything went wrong, I was to warn them with four long blasts on my horn then make my getaway. If the drop went all right, though, I would pick up the drugs as before and head home. Whitey swore he’d be waiting at the dock behind my cottage.

  Only this time a HIDU team would be there when he arrived.

  As the Lady J took her lookout station that dark, drizzly night, I switched off her running lights, eased her engine into neutral, and waited. Denise in a dark green tactical uniform was out of sight in the tiny cabin, armed and ready. I pulled my knit cap tighter on my head and hunched deeper into my waterproof coat, ears straining for the sound of the speedboat’s engines.

  I heard Denise check her pistol. It felt strange having a woman carrying a .40-caliber Smith & Wesson scrunched up at waist level. I hoped her gun was pointing up and well to the side.

  After what seemed like hours, the night air vibrated as the smugglers’ powerful craft approached, its low, black silhouette barely visible in the gloom. I gave the pre-arranged all-clear signal of two long flashes from a red-lensed lantern. Their answer came a few seconds later. The boat continued past our position in a slow, wide turn, its wake slapping against the Lady J’s sides. I figured they were making their own security sweep and held my breath, hoping they wouldn’t spot the ambush.

  Apparently satisfied they were in the clear, the smugglers headed back toward us. Fifteen minutes at most, I thought, and the authorities would have the drug runners and their poisonous cargo in custody, and I could go back to being…what?

  I barely had time to ponder my uncertain future when a blinding light swept over my boat. The smugglers were taking a closer look, and Denise made herself even smaller at my side. I shielded my eyes against the glare and gave a half-hearted wave in response to the unwelcome scrutiny. As the sleek craft circled, a shark eying its next meal, I prayed that denizen of darkness would soon be on its way to the drop point.

  Before I could say amen, though, the entire area erupted in a cacophony of light and noise: the wail of police-boat sirens mixed with an amplified voice ordering the smugglers to heave to and drop their weapons. High-wattage search beams crisscrossed the misty darkness, and the flashing patrol lights gave the scene a nightmarish quality. Someone on the ambush team had jumped the gun, and Denise and I were caught in a dangeous crossfire as the smugglers tried to shoot it out in a high-speed getaway. It was just what their muscle boat was designed for.

  A burst of machine gun fire splintered wood all around me. “Down!” Denise yelled and sprang at me. We tumbled to the deck, and she rolled into position to return fire. She got off three or four shots then dove for cover, unleashing a stream of curses as the smugglers swung around, dousing us with their wake.

  Neither Denise nor I dared rise up to see what was going on, but we heard and felt enough to understand a little of what it must have been like for the allied forces hitting the beach at Normandy on D-Day. The Lady J rolled and wallowed in the water churned up by the police in pursuit of the smugglers high-tailing it south.

  With the running gun battle receding into the distance, I risked a peek over the gunwales. Cold and wet from the rain and spray, I slumped down against the side, shaking. Denise, probably because her hand still gripped a loaded weapon, rose up with more courage to survey our surroundings. She gave a sharp yelp and dived back down as a glaring cone of light stabbed across my boat. Back to holding my breath and praying, I shuddered, huddling Denise to reassure her—and myself.

  I started breathing again when a voice called, “Ahoy, the deadrise. Are you all right?”

  I left it up to Denise to answer the hail. My vocal cords refused to work.

  The patrol craft came alongside the Lady J, and I pulled it close with my boathook, passing a line to a deckhand. “Lieutenant Cliff Thompson,” an officer said, stepping aboard. “Is anyone injured?”

  I accompanied the lieutenant to the cabin and turned on the work lights. Denise’s left leg was bleeding, and a thick splinter protruded from the wound. I saw, too, that her jacket had two ragged holes in the back, the armored vest showing through.

  “This job is murder on my clothing budget,” Denise hissed through clenched teeth as an EMT with a bright yellow aid box scrambled aboard to tend to her injuries.

  Just then, an insistent radio operator yelled for the lieutenant. An urgent message from the chase boat. The smugglers had eluded their pursuers and were headed back north. Thompson ordered Denise and me to board his forty-foot Boston Whaler, which was armed and considerably faster than the Lady J.

  I switched off the engine and work lights on my battered, aging craft and took the Thermos of bourbon-laced coffee I’d prepared earlier from my cabin. Something to ward off the chill and steady the nerves.


  As Denise boarded the patrol boat, I heard the speedboat’s rumbling engines in the distance, followed by what looked and sounded like giant, demonic lighting bugs hurtling toward us.

  The smugglers traveling at breakneck speed were rounding a spit of land at the entrance to Taylor Cove. They must have seen the patrol boat because they veered to port, trying to pass it on the side away from shore.

  With one foot on the patrol boat, I hesitated a moment then passed the coffee to Denise and stepped back onto the Lady J. After all, I had made a promise to her namesake.

  The reliable little engine caught with the first turn of my key. I spun the wheel, throttling to full power, and switched on all the lights. I made a quick mental calculation and set a course. Bearing down on the smugglers’ boat, I hoped to force it back toward shore. Instead, the Lady J and I were in a deadly game of chicken. One of the thugs opened fire with a machine gun that ripped up still more chunks of her wood. Reluctantly, I figured the safest place for me would be in the water. So I set the wheel and bolted toward the stern. My escape was anything but graceful, and I swallowed a lot of water coming up for air in time to watch the Lady J close in fast on her target.

  In their panic to avoid a head-on collision, the drug runners swung hard to starboard and ran aground in the rock-strewn shallows. The impact shredded the boat’s fiberglass hull. Its powerful engines revved, and the twin propellers chewed the silt, gravel, and debris into a roiling slurry that splattered everywhere.

  Sputtering and coughing, I was pulled from the water onto another police boat. With sadness, I watched the Lady J recede into the darkness.

  As the patrol boat approached shore, I saw one of the smugglers had been thrown clear of the wreck. The other was slumped over the steering wheel. It was to have been a busy night for them, judging from the four duffle bags and several red, plastic fuel containers I saw in the speedboat’s cockpit.

  Wrapped in blankets a few minutes later, I shivered in the command boat’s cabin as the smugglers in handcuffs were brought on board. I saw blood trickling down the driver’s shiny head and across his face. The man who had been thrown from the boat had been bald, too. My heart pounded, and anger swelled as I recognized the hoodlums who had dumped me in the bay. Perhaps sensing my rising fury, Denise grabbed my arm, pulling me close. “Shelby, I don’t know about you, but I sure could use a cup of your special coffee.”

  * * * *

  My editor and the rest of the Inside Access staff gave me a warm welcome as I walked into the office. In twos and threes, they drifted over to ask what had happened and where I’d been during my sabbatical.

  That afternoon I began writing my insider’s account of drug smuggling in the Chesapeake Bay, untangling the spider’s web of motherships, speedboats, stash houses, wholesalers, and street dealers. I worked like a fiend for three weeks, with my editor breathing down my neck and refilling my coffee cup so we could make the next deadline.

  Soon every major news outlet in the country ran stories about my exposé and how it helped the DEA and the Coast Guard shut down the Compioso cartel’s entire East Coast drug network. There was even some buzz about a potential Pulitzer Prize. While I was flattered by all that attention, the bottom line was that I had finally settled the score, saving lots of young lives, like Janette’s.

  I was working on another story when I signed for a FedEx delivery. In the package was a framed photograph of Denise and her uncle beside the Lady J, all patched up and freshly painted. A hand-written note read, “As long as their memory endures, the dead rise up within the hearts of the living. Anytime you need help with a story, you know where to find us.”

  I put the picture on my desk and resumed tapping away at my computer.

  David Autry is a recovering newspaper reporter currently employed as a writer/editor for a national non-profit organization. Born in Memphis, Tennessee, his love of reading and writing sprang from the region’s rich traditions of oral storytelling, music, and literature. He grew up reading hard-boiled detective stories, mysteries, spy thrillers, and many of the Beat writers, as well as the usual classics. That exposure to a broad array of styles and subjects helped solidify his preferences for what he likes to read and write. He lives in Olney, Maryland, with his wife and two cats.

  THE FACTORY, by Harriette Sackler

  Stacey Levine sat at her grandmother’s dining room table. She’d just devoured a large bowl of cabbage soup along with three substantial pieces of challah and already her stomach was rebelling against so much food. She didn’t know how she would tackle the brisket with fixings that was yet to come, not to mention the freshly baked apple pie. Nana Rebecca always prepared enough food for an army, and Stacey couldn’t deny her the pleasure of seeing her granddaughter eat.

  “So, darling. How was school this week?” Rebecca asked as she came into the dining room with more food.

  “Pretty good. I took two exams and think I did well. Got an A on my creative writing project. And let me tell you about the paper I’m doing for my History of the U.S. Labor Movement class. I’ve chosen to focus on early twentieth-century New York City and the sweatshops in particular. It’s hard to believe people actually worked under such horrible conditions back then, and in some places, still do. I swear, I don’t think I could’ve survived.”

  After hearing her granddaughter’s words, Rebecca stared into space for a moment, then turned to Stacey.

  “My sweet girl, I’d like to tell you a story. I think it will be helpful to you as you write your paper. I ask only that you let me talk until I’m through and then you can ask me any questions you want.”

  “Of course, Nana.”

  “This is the story of my aunt Rivka.”

  * * * *

  The large dim room was sweltering. No breeze penetrated the two filth-encrusted windows that faced the narrow airshaft separating the building from its neighbor. The whir and clack of forty sewing machines created an incessant noise that caused dull aches behind eyes. Lint and cotton dust floated through the air, clogging nostrils and causing a cacophony of sneezes, coughs, and hacking throughout the workday. There was little talk, because the women who worked here twelve hours a day simply didn’t have the energy. It wasn’t unusual for a worker to put her head down on her machine and succumb to the heat. Chances were she wouldn’t be back the following day.

  Rivka felt old. At the tender age of seventeen, she’d had little opportunity to experience the joys of youth. She barely remembered her life in the old country and wasn’t sure at all that America was truly a land of freedom and opportunity. Unless opportunity meant the honor of spending half her life in this infernal hell. But on the Sabbath she spent a joyous day praying, eating, and resting with her beloved family. And dreaming. Of a life she’d never known.

  Her father worked as a peddler. He pushed his cart through the teeming streets of the Lower East Side, selling used clothing to the poor. Her mother did piecework from home, embroidering yarmulkes and taleisim with fine artistry fit for kings. Her brother, Schmuel, sold newspapers, and Sarah, the baby, was spared the necessity, at least for several more years, of contributing to the family’s support. The Lipskys were lucky. Their children could stay in school longer than most children on the Lower East Side because their father earned a bit more than others who lived in the tenements. But their dream of sending Schmuel to City College required all the family members to do their part.

  * * * *

  Elias Pearlstein was a lucky man. Thanks to his cousin, Reuben, he enjoyed a nice living as foreman of Mendelsohn’s Menswear without having to actually labor as his workers did. He supervised. Or, more specifically, terrorized the women and girls in his charge. He pushed them beyond limits, finishing one more pair of pants by hand when their fingers could no longer guide the fabric through the sewing machine. He lengthened the workday and shortened the lunch break. He increased quotas and decreased pay. Nothing dramatic to cause a stir, but just enough to prove to Cousin Reuben that the factory was in good hands.<
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  Best of all, Elias had a captive audience for his amorous advances. His wife had died in childbirth years before, and he now relied on the factory ladies to satisfy his sexual needs. The fact that they surrendered only under duress didn’t bother Elias a bit.

  “Good morning, Miss Stern. So nice to see you so bright and early. I know how much your wages mean to you. So no doubt you’ll be most agreeable to a little meeting in my office after the workday.”

  “I beg you, Mr. Pearlstein, not to shame me. I work so hard, sewing all day. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Now, Miss Stern. You should be honored that you’ve caught my eye. You might find a little extra in your wages this week to help feed that family of yours. And, I assure you, no one will ever be the wiser.”

  Elias Pearlstein never once considered his behavior shameful.

  * * * *

  At seven o’clock on a Thursday evening, the girls rose from their machines and prepared to leave the factory. As Rivka stood and stretched to release the cramps in her back and legs, Monya Schwartz, a pretty young friend and neighbor, came over and whispered in Rivka’s ear.

  “Do you think we can walk home, just the two of us? I need to talk to you, and I don’t want any of the others to hear.”

  “Of course we can. I hope everything is good in your house?”

  Monya’s eyes looked troubled and terribly sad. “We’ll talk outside, Rivka,” she said.

  As a parade of tired young women made its way toward the narrow stairway of the five-story building, they were forced to pass Mr. Pearlstein’s office. Rivka was surprised and relieved that today, unlike most days, he was not standing at his door, smirking at them in his usual wolfish manner. Then from behind his closed door came an angry bellow. “You’re a gonif! I’m done with you, you thief. Get out, and don’t let me set eyes on you again!” Another poor soul, protesting a cut in already meager wages, would be without a job tomorrow, Rivka thought as she hurried down the stairs.

  When they reached the street, Rivka and Monya linked arms and slowly headed toward home. This was the one time of day when they could enjoy a moment of leisure before family chores in their crowded apartments would occupy them for the rest of the evening.