The deep end, p.6
The Deep End, page 6
“Probably not.”
“Ray-zer. That’s what they called me. Rayzer. Word got around, too. Mess with me, and you’re going to get cut. From then on things were different. I did what was best for me. And if life knocked the legs out from under me, I did whatever it took to get back on my feet. To look out for this guy.” He drummed his chest with his thumb. “Do you see what I’m trying to tell you?”
Yeah, he got it. “Don’t let Scorza get away with this. Give him a good scare.”
Uncle Ray looked at him long and hard. “Wrong. Forget about Scorza—or whoever is out to get you. Look, those boys wanted to hurt me. But I didn’t let them win. I hurt them back—worse. If they bruised me, I was going to make them bleed.”
Which sounded a whole lot like number twelve—or maybe it was thirteen—on the list of Uncle Ray’s Rules.
“You gotta go over the top,” Uncle Ray said. “I mean way beyond what they’d expect. But you have to be smart and do something that won’t come back to bite you.”
Which still sounded pretty much like Harley should deck Scorza good.
“Look,” Uncle Ray said, “whoever turned that shed into a smokehouse thinks they got you pinned and scared. And maybe they decide they want to scare you some more. What will they do this time? Take a tire iron to your bike?”
Harley pictured Scorza beating dents into Kemosabe. “I’d kill him.”
Uncle Ray shook his head. “So you’d let them pin you again, is that it? You have to mess up their plans. Make sure they can never trap you on your back like that again. They think they can get at you by getting at your bike, right?”
It sure seemed that way.
“So do something. Sell the bike. Somebody is using your own bike as a weapon against you. That bike is your weak spot—and they know it. Don’t let them do that. Take the weapon away from them. You can’t afford a weak spot. Don’t allow it. They can’t hurt you through your motorcycle if you sell it first. They won’t see that coming.”
They wouldn’t see that coming because it would never happen.
“Invest in the boat, Harley. Make some big bucks, and in a couple years you can buy a new motorcycle if you want. Better than the one you’ve got.”
“There could never be another bike as good.”
Uncle Ray waved him off. “You’re still missing my point. Invest in the boat. You’ll make money—and money is power. Turn your worst day into your best.”
The worst day of his life happened three years earlier. And selling the bike would be his worst mistake ever. “Sorry. Not happening.”
Uncle Ray shook his head. “I don’t think you’ve heard one thing I’ve said. Last night changed everything. Can’t you see that?”
Uncle Ray waited. What? Did he expect Harley to reach under his shirt, pull the lanyard out and hand him Kemosabe’s key? Or maybe tell him where he’d hidden the motorcycle’s title?
“Do you have any idea what that motorcycle of yours is worth?”
It was priceless—and not for sale. Kemosabe was his ticket away from Uncle Ray, and his one real connection with his dad. It was more than that. Kemosabe was him. A huge part of who Harley really was. Harley Davidson Lotitto. It was the one thing about him that really mattered.
“You’re pinned—and you don’t even know it.” Uncle Ray looked at him like Harley was something to be scraped off his shoe. “But come on. You need to see this boat up close.” He elbowed open the pickup door and led the way down to the docks.
Sailboats. Seriously big cruisers. And an occasional fishing job. Slip after slip of gorgeous boats just begging to be taken out to sea.
“There she is.”
A classic Maine lobster boat sat in the still water at dockside, its lines slack. High at the bow, low at the stern. The thing had fresh paint—hull and pilot house. The name Deep Trouble was painted across the transom in huge red letters. So this was it. The boat Uncle Ray had been obsessed with. The answer to all his problems. “Thirty-five feet long. Rebuilt Cummins diesel below the deck.”
“Beautiful.” And Harley meant it.
“Great lines, right? And look at the strength of that bow. This could be an icebreaker.”
The beam in front looked massive and strong, like something from the hull of a Viking dragon ship.
“And it’s mine.” Uncle Ray bobbed his head, smiling the whole time.
Harley stared at him. “You actually bought it?”
“Couldn’t miss the chance. And I got the first thirty days on the slip free. Deep Trouble belongs to me now.”
“How?” Uncle Ray didn’t have that kind of money—that was the big reason he’d wanted Harley to sell Kemosabe, right? “I thought the bank wasn’t going to give you a loan.”
“Those desk jockeys don’t know the first thing about diving—or how a dive business operates. They want to see that the business is making big bucks before they give a loan—but if I were making big bucks, I wouldn’t need the loan, right?” He laughed at his own joke. “I don’t need the bank or their money.”
“So how did you afford this?”
“Short-term loan from a short-tempered man.” Ray jumped into the boat and strode to the helm. “I wanted you to see Deep Trouble for yourself. So you don’t turn down my offer before you know what you’re investing in.”
“Hold on.” Harley didn’t like the sound of that short-tempered man thing. “You borrowed money from a loan shark?”
His uncle leaned back against the helm. “Picture this: We start taking dive charters again. You’ll run the shop. I’ll be taking the groups out. Hand over fist, baby. We’ll be making dough hand over fist.”
“So it was a loan shark?” Was he crazy?
“I’m a diver.” Uncle Ray puffed out his chest a bit. “I know how to handle myself around sharks. Even great whites like Quinn Lochran.”
Sheesh. Even he referred to the guy as a man-eater? “Two-legged sharks can be more dangerous than a great white, don’t you think?”
Uncle Ray looked annoyed. “The guy is just a businessman, okay? So what if he’s not listed with the Better Business Bureau? Everything with the loan was legal.”
Harley frowned. “When do you have to pay the money back—and what happens if you’re short?”
“Look,” Uncle Ray said, “Uncle Ray’s Rules, number two: I land on my feet. I always do. And I will this time too. I got plenty of time. I’ve got other ways to get the money, but I gotta know—like right now—if you’re in or out. You’d be my silent partner.”
Silent? Harley was pretty sure that meant he’d be expected to hand over the money—and then just keep his mouth shut. “I’m out. I was never in.”
Uncle Ray shook his head. “My buddies say you look like me. Like you could be my kid or something. But you are all your dad.”
“Why do you hate my dad?” The question just spilled out. Harley regretted asking it the moment he said it. But he did hate him, right? How else could he explain why he’d want Harley to sell the one thing that still made him feel connected to his dad? “Was it just the piggy-pile thing? That was it?”
“Fair question.” Uncle Ray looked weirdly calm. “Your dad always made me look bad to our dear mom and dad.”
He’d never met his grandma and grandpa, but his dad had told him stories about them that were so captivating that Harley felt like he did know them. He wished he could have met them.
“He was the good boy. Mommy’s little lamb. He made me look like the black sheep. Believe me, that got old.”
He went on to give example after example—and it all sounded so clichéd and “poor me.” The more Uncle Ray talked, the more it seemed like he’d been the rebellious one—and if he’d fallen out of favor, it was all his doing.
“You know what I got when my parents died?” Uncle Ray held up a fist. “Nothing.”
“And when your dad got his permanent new address at the cemetery, he left a nice trust for you, buddy-boy, but not a thing for his brother.”
Which wasn’t entirely true. Uncle Ray sold everything of Dad’s he could get his hands on. Dad’s Wide Glide—the motorcycle he drove when he’d taken Harley for countless rides while they built Kemosabe? Gone. Harley never saw a dime of that money. Uncle Ray might have sold Kemosabe, too, if Harley hadn’t kept the key hidden until the lawyer stepped in. Uncle Ray would have gotten the life insurance payout too, if the lawyer hadn’t protected Harley’s inheritance with a trust fund.
“I built the Rockport Dive Company without help from any of them.”
Definitely not true. The Blast Chamber tank refill station, the generator and outbuilding—all of it was from money Uncle Ray basically stole from Harley.
“You and my dad—weren’t you ever close?”
Uncle Ray thought for a moment, then smiled. “I remember one time my senior year when we were really close.” He held up his thumb and forefinger. “Our faces were about this far apart. Your dad’s was turning blue, as I remember. Of course, I had my hands around his throat pretty good. But my dear old dad swooped in and put an end to that. Put an end to a lot of things, really. I left not long after.”
The look on Uncle Ray’s face said there was a lot more that he wasn’t saying.
“I find it kind of ironic,” Ray said. “My parents said I was reckless. I was living dangerously.” He shrugged. “But here I am. Sole survivor of the Lotitto family.”
Harley stared at him. Sole survivor? He reached for his wallet and pulled out his Rockport High school ID. “Phew.”
Uncle Ray glanced at the ID, then at Harley. “What.”
“I just wanted to make sure nothing changed. Last I checked, I was a Lotitto too.”
“Yeah, yeah. You know what I meant.”
Harley was pretty sure he did. Deep down, Uncle Ray didn’t consider him to be family.
“But enough talk about the past,” Uncle Ray said. “We have to look to the future.” He kissed the tips of two fingers and tapped the hull. “Last chance. You invest, and you get a piece of the profits. You’ll get a cut.”
About the size of a paper cut, no doubt. “I’m keeping the bike. You’ll have to find another ‘silent’ partner.”
Somehow Uncle Ray’s face seemed darker. “That bike is gone one way or another. I say we use it before you lose it.”
“I’m not going to lose it. And I think you ought to get out of this loan while you’ve still—”
“Not interested in what you think,” Uncle Ray said. “By passing up on this investment, you just proved how stupid you are. But you still owe me thirty-five Benjamins for the money missing from the register—and I need it before August 14.”
So that was the date the loan was due? Only eight days left? No wonder Uncle Ray had put the full-court press on him all week. “I’ll pay you every cent—but it will take months, not days.”
“Which is why I got an appointment with the lawyer Monday. There’s got to be a way to get money out of your trust fund.”
Yeah, and if Uncle Ray was able to tap into the fund, he’d find reasons to keep doing it until the whole thing was gone.
Uncle Ray climbed out of the boat and headed to the pickup. “Gotta make another stop on the way back.”
The wind blowing through the open windows was the only sound for the first couple of miles. Harley stole a glance his uncle’s way on every left turn—when he was busy watching for traffic and wouldn’t see Harley looking. Uncle Ray looked calm. Almost happy. Totally weird for a guy who owed money to a loan shark. If Uncle Ray was late on the payback, if he broke his promise like that, the shark might bust his legs. Harley wasn’t sure why he cared, but did his uncle really know what he was getting into?
“Uncle Ray?”
His uncle gave him the Laser Ray.
He wanted to be honest—and careful with his tone. “I get it. You really want that boat. But don’t you think it would have been best to wait on Deep Trouble . . . for a time when you wouldn’t have to go to a loan shark?”
“No-siree-Bob.” Uncle Ray didn’t hesitate. Like he had absolutely no doubts. No second thoughts. “Wimps want things they never get. Uncle Ray’s Rules, number eight: If you see something you want . . . take it.”
“Not earn it?”
Uncle Ray laughed. “Taking it is earning it, boy. Remember that.” He pulled into the liquor mart’s parking lot. “Back in five.”
Harley tagged along. Not that he wanted to be with Uncle Ray—or that his feelings about alcohol had changed. But it was a chance to do something good. He wandered the aisles, dropping back to put more distance between him and his uncle. What had the driver been drinking before crossing the centerline and hitting his dad’s Ford? He picked up a bottle of vodka. Checked to be sure no employee was within sight . . . and let the bottle slip from his fingers. It crashed to the floor. “Oops.”
The owner—or the manager—hustled toward him with one of those yellow Piso Mojado signs. He set up the folding, double-faced caution sign with one hand like this was a routine thing in the store. “You okay, son?”
Harley nodded—wearing his Mr. Innocent face. “I-I think so.”
“Careful. Glass everywhere. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
Which is exactly why Harley dropped the bottle of hard liquor in the first place. That vodka wasn’t going to hurt anybody now. It could never wreck a family.
“Accidents happen,” the man said.
“Yeah, they do.” But that particular bottle would never lead to a car accident. Harley felt just a tiny bit of pride in that. He pictured a Lockheed-Martin F-22 Raptor with painted insignias lining the fuselage around the cockpit for every enemy kill. Harley wasn’t flying a fighter jet, but he did keep a tally of liquor bottles he’d taken out in his one-man war against alcohol. He had rows and rows of neatly drawn bottles on one of the walls inside his shed. And he’d add another hashmark when he got home today. With all the times he’d let a bottle slip, nobody ever figured out just how deliberate the accidents were. “Can I help you clean up?”
The man waved him off. “I got it.”
Harley backed away and made his way back out to the truck. He leaned against the grill of the Silverado, staring at the liquor mart. He’d love ten minutes alone in the place. But for now, he’d have to settle for isolated, strategic kills. And there would absolutely be a next time.
Uncle Ray didn’t say a word about the broken bottle. But he ranted about Kemosabe most of the way back to the shop. “You better hope that enemy of yours got all the payback on you that he wanted. Because if he didn’t, he’ll be back. Then what are you going to do, huh?”
“Scorza won’t try it again.”
That got Uncle Ray’s attention. “You let the cops deal with this. You go after Scorza and you’ll mess everything up.”
Harley wasn’t so sure things could get worse. And there wasn’t time to wait for the police to figure things out. Harley knew who did this—and he’d have to take care of it. And if Uncle Ray was right about Scorza trying to damage Kemosabe again, Harley had to act fast.
Decision made. Sorry, Ella, but I gotta deal with Scorza long before Monday. And he’d take care of him after work tonight.
CHAPTER 9
Saturday, August 6, 5:30 p.m.
“HURRY, DAD.” But there was no way they were going to make time going through Rockport on a Saturday while most of the shops were still open. Tourists crept along in their cars, craning their necks to take in the sights and look for parking spaces all at the same time. “He suckered me into going to Roy Moore’s for change. When I came back—he’d closed up early and was gone. I still can’t believe it.”
“Sounds like he knew exactly what you were trying to do,” Dad said.
“Totally.” And Parker was pretty sure Harley was going to do something they’d all regret. Parker kept his eyes peeled for his friend. Harley would have taken 127 toward Gloucester—and Scorza’s house. Part of him wished he’d hopped on his bike and given chase instead of asking Dad to drive him. At least he’d feel like he was physically doing something to catch Harley—and stop him from doing something stupid.
“How much of a lead does he have on us?”
Parker checked the apology text again. “I’m sure he was already on his way before he sent this. Maybe fifteen minutes. Twenty.” It was too much time.
“Read me what he said—exactly.”
Parker scrolled back.
“‘Parks . . . sorry to ditch you. I texted Scorza. Denying everything. Stinkin’ liar! I’m stopping by his house to make sure he doesn’t come near Kemosabe again.’”
Dad nodded. Eyes on the road. “How far will Harley take this?”
“Farther than he thinks he will—which is what has me worried. Scorza will taunt him, push him until he takes a swing—or worse. Harley’s going to get himself in trouble.”
“And then Scorza’s dad will file a complaint and the law gets involved.”
Okay, Dad got it. “And honestly, Harley’s on thin ice with his uncle. If Harley gets hauled in, you think his dear Uncle Ray will bail him out? Sometimes I think that guy is looking for an excuse to get rid of Harley.”
They cleared the town limits, and Dad mashed the accelerator.
Parker strained to look ahead. Even after rounding the bend at Calvary Cemetery there was still no sign of Harley.
“Does he know you’re coming after him?”
“Pretty sure he does. But he’d figure I’ll be on my bike.”
“So,” Dad said. “He doesn’t know you’ve told me anything.”
Parker shook his head. But Harley would figure it out in a big fat hurry when he saw them drive up. Parker leaned forward just a bit. Searched the road ahead, practically willing himself to see Harley pedaling like crazy.
Dad reached over and gave Parker’s knee a squeeze. “We’ll find him.”
Yeah, they would. But would they find him before he made a mess of everything?
CHAPTER 10
Saturday, August 6, 5:40 p.m.
HARLEY’S LEGS BURNED FROM PUMPING so hard on the pedals, but it was nothing compared to the angry fire burning deep in his gut. Scorza stood on the driveway of their rented home wearing his number eight jersey and hosing down his Jeep Wrangler. The moment he saw Harley wheel into the driveway, a way-too-confident smirk creased his face.
