“Jesus,” Menhaus said when he saw the speedboat, “it’s a fucking cigarette boat. A racing boat.”
George thought it looked like a rocket. It was long and red and streamlined. It had to be nearly thirty feet in length and most of that was its nose which looked like a missile. Menhaus was real excited about it. When they got the lifeboat up to it, he jumped into the cigarette boat’s cockpit without hesitation.
“Drug runners use these babies in the Florida Keys,” he told them. “They can outrun Coast Guard cutters. I bet this baby can break a hundred miles an hour at full bore.”
Cushing just had one question as he looked at all the gauges in their anodized trim rings on the dash: “Can you pilot it? Can anybody pilot this sled?”
Menhaus was nodding. “Yeah, I think so. I’ve been on a few of these as a passenger, but, yeah, I can can make her go.”
George was thinking that the boat looked to be in nice shape. No encrustation or weeds as yet. It looked pretty new… save for a bloodstain on one of the white leather seats that he did not want to speculate on.
Menhaus was popping hatches, checking things out inside.
“You looking for drugs?” Cushing asked him.
“No… Jesus, look at that engine. A five-hundred horse Mercruiser coupled to a Bravo. Damn.”
Menhaus explained that when you raced these boats, you generally did it with three people. One guy doing the steering, another on the throttle, and another doing the navigating. He said it had a V-hull which made it plane over the top of the water.
“Okay,” he said, once the others were aboard and their equipment was loaded. He turned the key and punched the starter. The boat shook, sounded like it would never go, then the engines kicked in and all that power beneath them was thrumming.
“You feel up to playing navigator?” he asked Greenberg.
Greenberg honestly didn’t look up to playing anything, but he nodded.
When everyone was in their seats, they cast off the lifeboat and Menhaus took them through the weeds and fog. In ten minutes they were out into open water.
And their destiny.