Wood's Harbor by Steven Becker Read Free Book Online Page B

and brought the end over to the port engine. If they’d had a single engine, he never would have tried this, but with two, it was worth the risk. They could sacrifice one if it got them out of the mud. He took the line, wrapped it around the propeller shaft and went to the helm, where he lowered the engine until the intake was barely submerged. The engine started and he called for Trufante to stay clear of the line. With the lightest touch he had, he pushed the throttle forward. The propeller shaft spun, but didn’t grab. Mac goosed the throttle and the motor started to stall as the line caught. As it came tight he pushed harder. Drops of water flew from the fibers of the rope, the tension increasing until finally, the boat jerked. He breathed deeply and pushed a little further.
    “Shit, its working,” Trufante yelled.
    Mac ignored him. They were not free yet. He checked the propeller and saw the line neatly wound around the shaft. As long as it didn’t start to wrap on the blades, he could pull more. Two things could happen if the line caught the blades, and both were bad. Either the line would be sliced by the sharp propeller or the blade would be bent, disabling the entire engine. 
    “Watch the line on the blades,” he called to Trufante. Once more he pushed the throttle and the line jerked. He pursed his lips and gave it a little more power. The engine sounded like it was ready to stall again. He was just about to back off when the boat shifted. With a quick push forward, it moved again. Finally the gas cans had done their job and were floating in front of the boat. He shut down the port engine, lowered and started the starboard one, and pulled the throttle back into reverse. 
    “Take in the slack,” he said to Trufante, who stood behind him watching. He didn’t want the line stretched behind the boat to entangle the other propeller. 
    The boat slid backwards as Trufante pulled in the line. 
    “Secure it,” Mac ordered. 
    Trufante went forward and tied off the anchor. The boat swung around with the current, unimpeded by the bottom. Mac went back examining the shaft as the line unwrapped from the port engine. It looked OK, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he ran it. Even the slightest deformity would cause the shaft to spin out of true and trash the lower unit. 
     
    ***
     
    Norm accepted the cigar and sat in the deck chair next to the small man, whose pockmarked face was visible even with the cover of his beard. 
    “You have something that belongs to me?” the general asked in a tone of voice that told Norm he already knew the answer. 
    A cloud of smoke hid Norm’s face as he thought about the implications of what the man said. He had been at this game for years and had many things that belonged to many people; specific to Cuba was the string of baseball players he had smuggled out of the island. Surprised his operation had caught the attention of a high ranking official, especially one of the old guard like General Choy, he looked blankly at the man. For years he had been smuggling younger players with promise, taking a chance on their talent. He carefully avoided the big-time players that would attract the attention of the regime. Once they were in the US, his business plan was to falsify the players’ identities and get them minor league tryouts. About half made it; the ones that did owed him ten percent of their earnings for life. Over the years he had many wash out, but a few big hits had enlarged his offshore bank account.
    He decided to play along. “And what might that be?”
    “Please don’t play us for fools. We know what you’ve been doing. Very smart, really,” he said, and blew a smoke ring towards Norm.
    “So why not stop me?” Norm asked.
    “The players were of no consequence. If you had gone after bigger names we would, of course, have been forced to put you out of business, but the men you chose had no risk of embarrassing us. We chose to sit back and watch, especially