“Did they say ‘broken’ or ‘break’?”

He rewound and listened again. Then he nodded. “Break. Dey say ‘break.’” He pressed play again. “Here, they talking about a resort. North o’ Corinto. Son’sing about—” He shook his head trying to find the words. “A ‘break’ off the beach. At a reef. Thirty-foot wave. But—” He snapped his fingers and shushed me, listening another few minutes. He pointed at the TV. “First, go to León to party and stay at one of the guy’s uncle’s hotel where there is be a party.”

“Does he give the hotel name?”

Miguel shook his head. At this point in the video, one of the guys points to Zaul, rubs his fingers together like Miguel had just done with me, and says something with a big smile at which point the other three nod. “What are they saying there?”

Miguel listened and tried to make it out. The music was loud and a couple of girls were singing in the pool, just off to the side. “Son’sing now how they meet him to ‘el jefe.’”

“They want to introduce him to someone?”

“Sí.”

“Who?”

“El jefe.”

“What’s a heff-ay?”

He searched for the words. “E’body work for heem. He”—he held up a finger—“number one on flagpole.”

I understood what he was saying, so I didn’t bother correcting him. “Does heff-ay have a name?”

“No, but”—he pointed to one of the guys on the screen—“he know him.” He kept pointing at the screen, using his hand to draw the words out of his mouth. “He think”—he pointed to Zaul—“he money be berry good. Make much more money. All around.” He put his hand on the screen, covering Zaul’s face. “He bank.”

I was afraid of that.

I asked him if he needed a ride, and he lay down on the floor, closed his eyes, and said something about calling “his mu-herr.”

Twenty minutes later, a girl riding a scooter zoomed into the driveway. The look on her face was not one of kindness. He walked outside, sort of circling her, when she promptly slapped him across the face, ushering another wave of vomit out of him and into the bushes. While he emptied himself, she continued with a verbal onslaught the likes of which I’ve seldom seen. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard someone speak that fast before. After he cleaned his face with the hose, he eased onto the back of the scooter with his tail between his legs and then disappeared down the street. I don’t think Miguel’s wife was too happy to see him.

Around ten o’clock, I finally called Colin.

The doctors had slowly weaned Maria from her medications and brought her out of her medically induced coma. He lowered his voice. “A couple of times, we’ve gotten behind the pain curve. Had to play catch-up.” A pause. “It’s been…difficult.” He whispered, “Especially on Marguerite.”

I explained the situation with the house along with an assessment of the damage. Colin listened in silence. When I’d finished, he asked, “Any idea where he’s gone?”

“I think he’s chasing waves up and down the Nicaraguan coast with a group of guys who sell dope to support their surfing habit. First stop is a party in a little town called León.”

Central America is a sliver of land that connects Mexico to Brazil on the northwestern tip of South America. It is bordered on the southern side by the Pacific Ocean and on the northern side by the Caribbean Sea, which fans out into the Atlantic. The countries of Central America are comprised of Guatemala and Belize on the northern tip bordering Mexico. Moving south, travelers reach El Salvador on the Pacific side and Honduras on the Caribbean. Nicaragua sits squarely in the middle with borders on either coastline before turning more due south and bleeding into Costa Rica. The last stop south is Panama—the most narrow of all the Central American countries, which explains the presence of the canal. Surf junkies had been known to chase waves from Panama to Guatemala. Nicaragua was a known surfing mecca and an obvious next stop.

“You know León?”

“Used to do business there in a former life.”

“Any idea how he intends to get there?”

“Well…no, but he stole your truck so…” When Colin bought the house, he also bought a Toyota HiLux diesel four-door four-wheel drive truck and installed surf racks and oversized tires with a more Baja and aggressive grip. He and Zaul had used it to chase bigger waves up and down the coast.

I heard him mumble to himself, “I liked that truck.”

I continued. “And there are no surfboards in this house.”

He was quiet a minute. “Call us when you can.”

“Might be a few days.”

A long pause. I heard Marguerite talking in the background. Speaking over the phone, Colin picked up a conversation with her in the midst of ours. His voice lowered even more. “She does?” I heard some shuffling and Colin returned to me. “Maria wants to say hello.”

More shuffling, then a garbled “Uncle Charlie?” Her voice sounded thick with sedation.

“Hey, beautiful girl. How you doing?”

“I’m—” There was a pause. Followed by some muffled cries. I heard the word “hurts” and Colin again.

“Hey. She misses you.”

“How’s she doing? Really.”

Long pause. “Not too good.” He was hurting inside. “Charlie?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not constantly telling me that this is my fault.”

“That’s ’cause it’s not.”

A chuckle mixed with the hint of a muffled cry. Disbelief evident in his tone. Colin was holding it together by a thread. “It’s not?”

“No.” I stared out across the ocean. At the emptiness staring back at me.

“Then whose is it?”

If there was honor among thieves, Colin and I at least shared that. “It’s ours.”

Chapter Ten

Colin lived in Miami. He explained that he owned a fragrance company as well as a wine and spirits import company. This line of work brought him in contact with the Miami elite—athletes, movie stars, pop divas—who were often at his house. As a result, he’d turned his house into a bit of a museum and party destination. Said it was good for business. People liked to “ooh” and “aah” at his toys. He intended to put the skiff on display in his boathouse. The one stipulation to the deal was that I ferry the skiff to his house in Miami. I looked at Hack who coughed, spat, and nodded. “For that much money, we’ll paddle the sucker over there.”

The following weekend, Colin sent his captain and first mate to lead us to his boat. We quickly learned that Colin kept a sixty-foot sportfisher yacht moored in Bimini. He used it to entertain clients that he would helicopter over from the mainland. While he liked boats and was attracted by the power and shine, he didn’t know much about them or how to maneuver them, so he’d hire a captain and first mate to take them just offshore to find blue marlin, wahoo, tuna, et cetera.

Hack and I used the marina’s crane to lift the skiff onto a specially built platform, which we anchored to his bow using some really heavy-duty tie-down straps. The following day, for the first time in almost three years, I returned to the coast of Florida.

We crossed the deep water, then through Stiltsville, Biscayne Bay, and into the lagoons that led to Colin’s house. Hack sat up front, wrapped in the cloud of his own smoke, the view of the mangrove trees, and all the girls sunbathing in bikinis.

I dangled my legs over the edge and enjoyed the view of the world I’d left. Pulling up to Colin’s house, Hack’s eyes grew wide. It covered what looked to be three lots and must have had forty rooms. Hack flicked his cigarette out into the water. “You should’ve asked for more money.”

I doubted he was worth more than Marshall, but he certainly did a better job of flaunting it. “Yep.”

Mingling around the pool on the terrace above us, a party was in the early stages of getting cranked up. Beautiful bronzed women clad in string bikinis clung to hairy-chested men, some with massive biceps, wearing dark glasses and too many gold chains. A DJ had set up on the lawn beneath a tent and was performing a soundcheck. One girl, directly above us, leaned over the railing and winked at Hack. Hack shook his head and smiled. “I am definitely in the wrong business.”