So much for clear weather. Half an hour later Weecho was bobbing offshore on the Jet Ski, no landmarks in sight, watching the black hull of a freighter loom out of a wall of fog. The ship’s running lights were blurred in the mist, its bow wave coming through the darkness to toss him around.   

He hung on and tried to keep his eye on the Donzi, a dark shape a couple of hundred yards off to his left, drifting just out of the freighter’s path. One of the two shadows in the cockpit aimed a flashlight at the freighter, flicked it on and off as the ship plowed past.  

A white light blinked from the freighter’s fantail. A few seconds later, a blue light tumbled down from the fantail and splashed in the churning wake. Another blue light followed, then another and another. 

The Donzi swung into the freighter’s wake and went up to the first bobbing blue light. The flashlight beam from the cockpit picked out what looked like a packing drum. Weecho could make out one of the shadows snagging the drum with a boathook. When the shadow grabbed the drum and heaved it aboard, the shadow at the wheel, which was probably Lynch, goosed the Donzi toward the next blue light. 

Two seconds later the fog closed in. 

Zero visibility, Weecho couldn’t see a thing. 

But could hear the rumble of the Donzi’s twin engines. 

And over there, the chugging of the freighter. 

He hunkered down in his flimsy jacket, tried to get focused.  

Told himself what he really needed was to get one of those packing drums. 

He eased the Jet Ski forward and started toward the sound of the freighter, trying to get ahead of the Donzi, looping around where he thought it would be, keeping plenty of dark fog between him and it. 

When he thought he’d gone far enough, he turned back in the direction of the freighter’s wake and the line of bobbing blue lights. Not that he could see them. He was driving blind. He lined up in the direction of the freighter’s chug and swung the Jet Ski back and forth, trying to pick something up.  

In back of him he could hear the Donzi, could hear voices cursing. They were having the same problem he was – Where were the f-ing blue lights? The drums were too low in the water for any radar they were using to pick up. Hopefully the Jet Ski was, too.  

Weecho knew that at some point he’d be running beyond where the freighter would drop the last drum. And the Donzi could crawl up his back any second, so he’d better find one fast. 

Kept up his swerving, looked over his shoulder, saw nothing but fog.  

Turned forward – saw nothing but blue light. 

Ran right into it. 

He throttled down, did a quick check, didn’t see any damage. Turned the Jet Ski around, grabbed for the drum. Bigger than he thought. Couldn’t just haul it into his lap and ride off like it was some box of groceries. And the blue light blinking in his face might as well be a beacon for Lynch, especially if this fog thinned out.  

Serious cargo, serious problem how to get it away from here. He wasn’t about to leave it. Had come all this way out for this kind of break. And he’d better have something to show for ditching Juna. 

First thing was, he needed to shut off this blinking light. Couldn’t find any off-switch. The thing was made like one of those construction safety lights. Taped to the drum. He had to rip it off and sink it. 

Easier said. 

He wrenched it back and forth, hearing the Donzi getting closer in the fog. Finally, he got the light pulled off, tossed it in the water to sink out of sight. 

But it didn’t sink. It floated, still blinking. 

If a drum and light disappeared together, Lynch might figure he’d missed one in the fog. But a blinking light floating by itself with no drum… Lynch would know he had company out here. 

Weecho grabbed the light out of the water, looked around for someplace to hide it, someplace it wouldn’t keep sending out flashes. Wound up sticking it under his jacket. 

The waves were bumping the drum against his knee, like telling him to move it. He grabbed the drum’s recessed handle, gave the ski a tiny bit of throttle, keeping as quiet as he could, started dragging the drum away from the Donzi’s sound. It was heavy moving against the water. He had no idea where he was going, through zero-zero fog. All he knew was he had a whole ocean to disappear in, for better or worse.        

                                                #          #          # 

After half an hour of dragging, switching the drum from side to side, his arms couldn’t take any more. He cut the motor and drifted, blowing on his hands that had turned numb. Jet Ski gas had to be low. It was still dark, but it looked like maybe this fog was starting to lift, just a little. No sign of any boats, but then he couldn’t see that far yet. Was tired. Wouldn’t mind dozing. Maybe wake up… where?  

He shook himself alert, thought about opening the drum. See what was in there, take a sample back for Burke and Alexey, let the rest drift off. If Lynch was still around and found it now, well, could’ve been anybody got into it. 

Weecho lifted his jacket to let some of the blue light out, to see the drum better. Saw watertight fasteners around the lid, no locks. Waited for a wave to pass under him, steadied himself, snapped the fasteners open. When he lifted the lid he had to bring the light closer to make sure of what he was seeing. Not that he wasn’t expecting it. But seeing it right in front of him like that, man, some serious tripping. 

Inside the drum was what had to be a fortune in what he guessed was opium. Packed into clear plastic packages, each one about the size of a pound of coffee. Dozens of packages, crammed in tight.   

Weecho dug one out. Weighed it in his hand. Pictured Yoon’s harem girls smoking their pipes. Pictured Yoon and Lynch and Gatchel in the bungalow with the old guy, Bigsby, putting together their deal. 

Weecho thinking about what this Bigsby’s program could be when he heard the sound of a boat. Somewhere over there in the thinning fog. Not the Donzi, not the freighter, but definitely a boat headed this way. 

Then zow! Brilliance. 

Weecho caught in a blinding light. 

“Stay where you are and put your hands up.”   

Somebody yelling through a bullhorn. The light a searchlight, coming from the boat. Had to be Coast Guard or DEA. 

Neither one a friend right now. 

The one rule for working off the books, Alexey had told him more than once, was Don’t get caught. 

Weecho shoved the package under his jacket, fired up the Jet Ski and took off. 

“Stop or we’ll shoot.” 

He knew they weren’t about to do that. 

Wrong.   

The bra-a-a-a-a chatter of a machine gun kicked up a line of waterspouts off to his right. 

He started swerving, evasive maneuvers, headed for what was left of the fog. 

The container he’d left back there should buy him some time when they stopped to pick it up. If he’d left any prints, no problem – he didn’t have any on record to match with. 

No more shots came, they couldn’t see him. He didn’t think they wanted to kill him, take a chance of actually hitting him. After all, he could just be some guy on his Jet Ski out for a late ride on a miserable night who happened to come across a fortune of drugs floating in the middle of the ocean. 

 After driving blind for maybe ten minutes, he throttled back and tried again to get a fix on where he was. Plus he wanted to stay still, be less likely to show up on their radar, hoping the Jet Ski was too small to pick up. He’d plain lucked out with the Donzi.   

Usually he wasn’t too bad on direction, but out here in the dark, with visions of some big wave coming down on him, some shark swimming right under him, his senses were all turned around. He knew he must be about out of gas, figured that patrol boat had enough to keep looking for him all night. Not to mention he was freezing. He needed to get another break. 

Was about to try his phone’s GPS when he got it. 

A break in the fog. 

He saw some lights way over to his left, couldn’t be sure, got a better glimpse, saw how they looked like pin-ball lights. Coney Island lights. How poetic if it was – if all that blind driving around had brought him back to this – this landmark in his life. 

Coney Island. His passage from kidhood. His rendezvous with the Cyclone.  

He squinted to see if he could pick it out, the name lit up over those tracks that had petrified him, tracks that in the end he couldn’t get enough of. It was his father who set up his first meeting with what he always thought of afterwards as the Monster, took him on his first ride. 

Weecho thinking again how his father, who had Nazi drill-sergeant ways about him, saw him as a wimp of a kid. And Weecho seeing how in some respects he could’ve had a point. His father considered Coney Island, the Cyclone roller coaster in particular, a kind of rite of passage. The day he took Weecho out there was one of the few days Weecho ever saw him sober. They took the elevated D train to the end of the line and walked up Surf Avenue. 

“There it is,” his father said, pointing to the Cyclone like it was a national monument. 

Weecho looked up at the huge rickety structure, looming like some giant skeleton built from beams a hundred years old. 

“It looks like it’s going to collapse.” 

His father laughed. “That’s half the fun.” 

He paid their fares and they climbed aboard one of the coaster cars, squeezed in side by side. The father reached back and swung the safety bar over their heads, across their laps, snapped it in place. 

“Showtime,” he said. 

The train of cars rumbled down the track and around a turn, then started climbing, up and up, the long slow climb to the first drop. 

At the top, with a view of the ocean where Weecho was drifting now, their car went over the hump, hung for a second… and then plunged straight down. 

Man did it plunge, Weecho terrified.  

Closed his eyes. Pushed himself back in the seat and screamed. 

His father laughed. Was having a ball. Through all the gut-flipping ups and downs, his father just laughed. 

When it was over and they coasted in to the platform, Weecho couldn’t wait to get off. 

But his father wouldn’t let him, put his arm across Weecho’s chest. 

“We go again,” he said. 

“I don’t want to.” 

Didn’t matter. The ticket guy came by and Weecho’s father gave him money for another ride. That was that. 

When they were making the climb again to the first drop, that heart-heaving Mt. Everest drop, his father turned to him. 

“You scared?” 

“Yes.” 

“Of course you are. But lemme tell you, when something scares you, if you want to be a man, you don’t back away.” 

“What do you do?” 

“You go for it. When we get to the top, don’t lean back. Lean forward, far as you can. Be aggressive. Attack it. Yell faster, faster!” 

“I can’t.” 

“Sure you can. Here we go. Do it!” 

And so Weecho did. They both yelled. Kept yelling and yelling. Weecho wound up loving every lunge and lurch. By the end of the ride he was hooked. 

They stayed on for six more rides. 

                                                #          #          # 

He steered for the blinking red buoy that marked the entrance to Jamaica Bay, peered across the dark waves for the next light to lead him in. 

Saw that between him and the light was the shadow of a boat. 

Donzi or patrol boat, Weecho couldn’t tell. He made a wide circle back out to sea, picked up the edge of the fog and waited. If he could get around whoever it was, maybe he could… But then he saw that the boat was moving, coming toward him, coming out to sea. He was about to move further back into the fog when the boat changed course a little. He could tell then by the running lights it wasn’t the Donzi. It wasn’t the patrol boat either. Just a trawler getting an early start on the day’s fishing.  

He drove the Jet Ski back to the blinking red buoy. 

Started back into Jamaica Bay. 

Back to face Juna.