Changes: Coming Again A novel in progress

by Roger Vaughan

Chapter 17: Miami

“No question it was Isha.” It was Becky on the phone. “Looks very different. Blonde. Short hair. But I’d recognize that body anywhere. And the guy with her, RD. I’m sure, although I only saw him once that day you fired him, but it had to be him.”

“Did they see you?” Andy was on the satellite phone.

“No. I’m certain. And a young girl. Maybe sixteen or eighteen, the three of them getting in a taxi.”

“I’ll be damned. Bad pennies. What in hell are they doing in Miami?”

“The girl had a Balenciaga tote bag.”

“A what?”

“Those things cost at least three grand.”

“Hmm. Isha found some money.”

“My guess.”

“Isha doesn’t go anywhere without reason. But she and RD together, ho boy…how in hell?”

“Where are you?”

Andy barely heard the question. His mind was racing. Isha and RD. And money. Has to be a plan. Isha’s plan. She’s craftier than RD. Must have sought him out. Not hard. Mitch’s guy. She’d have to know that. What do they have in common? Me. She should be in jail because of me. RD got fired off the boat, by me. But he got off easy. Mitch’s thug. Could have had him busted and he knew it. He wouldn’t cause trouble. But he could have been reeled in. By Isha. RD is a pushover for Isha. Now they happen to be in Miami just a day or so before we are set to arrive there. No coincidence. Revenge? My God. Are they coming after me? Maybe going after the boat? RD could get that done. He knows Lauderdale’s seamy side. No, wait…it wasn’t just sex driving RD. It was money. Mitch had bought him. Money! Andy felt a bad chill sweep over him.

“Andy…you there?”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re a day or so out. Maybe eleven or midnight tomorrow. Listen, call Grady. You’ve got his number.”

“Yes.”

“He’s in Miami. Waiting for us. He tracks our GPS. Describe our friends. Tell him we may be having

Coming Again

company. See if you can find them. God knows what name Isha is using, but I’ll guarantee RD is RD: Roger Davis. If they have money, they’ll be in one of the good hotels.”

Isha, Jodi and RD were sitting at a pub that had been set up in Bicentennial Park, where the boats from The Race would soon be docking. It was their third day in Miami, and it was beginning to look like they had ventured down a blind alley. Jodi hadn’t encountered any resistance when she had told her grandparents that she and Isha wanted to meet RD and Orion in Miami and watch the finish of a leg of The Race.

Club. The club is located on the small island of Fisher at the entrance to Government Cut, a long channel into the city front past Dodge Island, where cruise ships berth. The Cut ends at Bicentennial Park. Isha and Jodi were transported by the club’s launch, water being the only way to access the island. Orion had arrived at Fisher early that morning. RD had already commandeered Mark’s RIB, which the club used when the boss wasn’t in residence. In the RIB, the park was a ten-minute run.

Since Nina’s arrival, Jodi had become a much more reasonable, manageable person.

Mark had been pleased that Jodi was starting to take an interest in boats. It was a given that Nina, her companion, would go with her. The two women seemed inseparable. Since Nina’s arrival on the scene, Jodi had become a much more reasonable, manageable person. The Creightons’ gratitude was boundless. And Mark had been thoroughly enjoying Nina’s ministrations. When he had told them to hurry back as they were leaving for the airport, he wasn’t kidding.

In Miami, the two women had moved into the Creightons’ apartment at the exclusive Fisher Island

Time was running short. The Race headquarters in the park indicated that All American had a sizable lead and was predicted to finish in the next thirty hours. Isha and RD had scoured the waterfront, called on all RD’s connections, and had failed to come up with any reference to “Grady.” The mood at the table was not good. Jodi was irritable, bored. She wanted to go to Parrot Jungle. Isha was just as irritable, eager to put a hit on Andy. The frustration of waiting was catching up with her, making her wonder what the hell she was doing wasting her time with this little bitch, flying around in stupid planes to ridiculous places like Mustique and now Fisher Island, for God’s sake. She’d learned membership there was $250,000. To join a freaking club? She was feeling sick.

Coming Again

Becky had been busy. She’d struck out with the hotels, but she’d gotten lucky with RD. It hadn’t taken her long to connect him with Orion, which quickly led to the Creightons, and she identified Jodi as the teenager she’d seen with the Balenciaga bag. She had tracked the Creightons to Mustique, and the boat to Fisher Island. Hidden behind a dark wig, big sunglasses, a Miami T-shirt and cutoff jeans, Becky had hung out at Bicentennial Park, figuring that was where she’d find Isha and company. She was right. She’d taken a nearby table, where she opened her computer and sipped iced tea long enough to hear the word “Grady” spoken several times, and to conclude that these campers weren’t too happy.

Grady was incensed when Becky told him his name was being mentioned. He was also puzzled until Becky mentioned Mustique. “There’s a guy there named Jocko,” he said. “Diamonds, very big player, goes both ways because it amuses him. Dangerous. The ones at the top are the dangerous ones. They feel disconnected, above it all, untouchable. They can let things slip.”

“What should we do?”

“‘We’?”

“I hate it, but yes, of course.” Grady laughed quietly. “Okay.

Hang at the park. I’ve got someone. Let’s whip them up a little for openers. My guy is husky. He’ll be wearing a very tired Mount Gay hat. You can point him in the right direction.” * Martin looked the part, hat and all. Everything about him looked salty: the frayed shorts, the old polo shirt, the worn boating shoes. He looked like he was born to crank a coffee-grinder winch. Or maybe play rugby. Becky saw him right away. They grabbed a table some distance from RD and Isha, ordered sandwiches. Then Martin made his move, walking past RD’s table, making eye contact, stopping… “Hey, RD, right?” ones.

“Hey,” RD said, unsure but wanting to be open.

“Australia, 1982, Sydney Hobart, Muscle Bound. Right? Blew out two jibs the second night out. Did okay.”

Martin was right. RD had sailed the Sydney Hobart Race in 1982 on Muscle Bound, an eighty-footer ~ Grady had provided that background ~ and when you sail with a crew of twenty, sometimes you don’t even recognize guys from the opposite watch in the bar afterward. It can be embarrassing.

“Yeah!” RD said. “Hell of a race.”

“Neville,” Martin said. “Richard.”

“Right, hey, Richard, grab a seat,