Chapter 9

We had one more visit from Marvin Bishop before the feds caught up to him. It didn’t turn out well for anyone but the taxpayers. One afternoon while I was out mowing, he drove up in an older model family car, certainly something no one would be on the lookout for.

As he got out of his vehicle, I noticed he had a pistol of some sort on him. I stopped the mower and jumped behind it. Hopefully he’d hit some steel if he fired at me and deflect any bullets fired my way.

“Curry,” he yelled at the top of his lungs, “get your chicken shit ass out from behind that mower and tell me where my boat is.”

Oh, Jesus, this was going to be fun.

“Bishop, I hate to tell you this, but the ceiling of the head cracked open on a fishing trip and Uncle Sugar got all the coke. Really, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing left for you on the boat.”

“You son of a bitch! Where’s the boat. That wasn’t all of it, you asshole!” he yelled and popped off a couple of rounds. One hit the seat and the other the mowing deck. No problem. I was just praying he wouldn’t hit the engine. I didn’t want oil all over the yard. I didn’t want him to hit me either, but that thought never came to me after he started shooting.

I heard one of the garage doors and saw Bishop look over toward the garage.

“DROP YOUR WEAPON!” It was Sheila, but she was behind me.

“NOW, BISHOP!” That was Donna, but she wasn’t in the doorway, either.

Neither were in the rollup door opening. No one was. One was behind me at the corner of the house, and the other was over by the corner of the garage. They had him in a crossfire. If he tried for either one of them, the other would be able to get off a clear shot. They did. He raised his weapon at Sheila, she ducked back behind the house and Donna fired three rounds into his upper body. He went down hard, most probably already dead when he landed.

Sheila came running out to me to make sure I was OK, then Amy and Marilyn ran to Donna and Bishop to make sure he wasn’t moving and that she was all right.

“I’m fine, Marilyn. Thank you.”

“No pulse. Nothing. Oh, God, he’s bleeding all over the place. Look at that,” Amy said. They looked down, then Donna turned and threw up. Marilyn held her shoulders and walked her over by me. Amy pushed Bishop’s gun over into the grass with her foot and came over as well. “I don’t want to touch it. I’m sure it has his stuff all over it. Oh, hang on. Yes, ma’am,” she was still on the phone with the county dispatcher, “He looks really dead. Yes, that was Donna that shot him. No, Mr. Curry was behind the lawnmower hiding like a scared little girl.” She started laughing, then we heard sirens. “I can hear them now, ma’am. (Pause.) Yes, we’re fine. We’ll explain it to the Sheriff. Thank you for staying on with me.” She hung up the phone and handed it to Marilyn. Sirens were approaching over the hill.

“DNA, prints, all that. Good call, Amy. Here comes the cavalry girls.”

We were separated, questioned, and at one point harassed a bit until Brent got there and took charge. He did that, thankfully, and he and his chief deputy had the other three guys back off a little bit. Donna was treated a bit roughly until Brent walked over and collected her from the deputy interrogating her. When he took hold of her elbow, she was still reacting to the deputy, jerking away a bit, but looked up to a smiling Brent.

“Donna, it’s me, Brent. The friend of Charlie’s that was here over a year ago now?” Donna relaxed, and maybe even let a small smile form on her lips. “Let’s go over with Charlie and talk, OK?” Donna nodded. “Smitty, you can follow us over there, but kind of hold back. These aren’t the bad guys, got it?” Smitty nodded and followed them, keeping his distance. He was carrying an evidence bag with Donna’s gun in it.

It took about three hours, two pots of Amy’s coffee, and a few emails back and forth to and from the sheriffs and police departments around Atlanta before it was all put to rest and we were left alone. The DEA was going to pull the boat again and look everywhere they could, but they said either they’d fix any damage, or replace the boat. What a deal. I didn’t think they did stuff like that. In any case, we had some really nice engines to put on a different boat if things didn’t work out. Turns out, they did.

We heard back a week later they found what they thought might be the rest. The ceiling of the cuddy cabin was made the same way, as was the back of the anchor locker. They found another eighteen bricks of cocaine, twelve of them only two inches thick, but a foot square, the same uncut product they found in the head. I just hoped it was over. The DEA crew in Mobile had contacts, and had a boatyard take Donna’s boat and rebuild and reseal all three of the areas in question. The anchor locker was now bigger, there was more headroom in both the cuddy cabin and the head, and our boat had been given an x-ray examination and some type of MRI that worked on boats and drugs. We were now clean. The government paid for it all with confiscated drug money. How handy.

They thanked us for being helpful and patient. We had helped take four point five million dollars’ worth of uncut cocaine. More like ten million after it was distributed. One only needs think about that for a few minutes before they realize all the lives that would have been lost just in that shipment. Yes, there was more, but it wouldn’t include Marvin Bishop’s little collection.

Truth be told, if Donna hadn’t shot him when he tried to shoot Sheila and me, the drug people would have killed him for losing their goods. It was probably going to happen pretty soon by the way he was emboldened to just approach us like that and start shooting, hoping for the best, or maybe hoping for the end.

We decided soon after to have the boat named and have the name painted on the boat. Donna thought “Stress Relief” was a suitable name since it was a way for us to relieve stress and had carried ten million dollars’ worth of stress relieving drugs at one point. We all agreed, but it didn’t matter. It was her boat. She could call it ‘Fred’ for all we cared. She thought that was funny, and threatened to do so ... But didn’t.

She also decided that she was dragging us all down as soon as it was done so we could go fishing and take some time off. We contacted the fly girls and they agreed, even taking a few days off together while we would be there. The sides of the boat were gorgeous. “Stress Relief, Port of St. Louis” was painted in beautiful black, gold, and blue script along the sides, easy to read, artful, and just plain pretty. Donna was ecstatic.

So were the fish. They all jumped in the boat! NOT! We did have a good time fishing though and caught a few nice ones each time we went out, a total of four trips, providing us plenty of flaky white meat for future meals back home.

Stephanie and Angela asked about a possible vacation up north. They thought a bit of fishing in freshwater might be in order, so they, Donna, and Amy worked on doing just that. Marilyn was judging, Sheila was lawyering, I was goofing off, and they were presently out of school and at loose ends. That made the two of them in charge of making the fly girls’ vacation fun and successful.

Just before they arrived, Amy had a nightmare, and dragged Marilyn into our bedroom at two in the morning, the both of them climbing into bed with Donna. I held Marilyn while Donna held Amy and they talked. Sheila was behind me, her chin on my arm, listening to the conversation.

Amy was afraid that more violence was coming. There was another shootout in the driveway, in her nightmare, and she just wanted to be held until the thought went away so that she could sleep. That was most probably on a Wednesday or Thursday night, and Friday night, the Gulf Coast Duo showed up in a little borrowed Cessna, calling us for a ride while they were tying down and refueling. Amy and Sheila went to get them.

When the four walked into the house, Amy was almost in tears yet again. Stephanie was consoling her and Angela and Sheila were trying to talk her out of and away from her fears. She wouldn’t let go. Angela took her to bed, gave her some hot tea and a long conversation, then the both of them went to sleep in each other’s arms.

Stephanie asked about the incident. “Marilyn, do you still have any friends in the DEA? Their intelligence department maybe? Can they check to see if you all’s names or locations come up? I don’t know if the kid is clairvoyant or not, but why take a chance? If you are being targeted for losing the drugs, if that’s even a thing, maybe she has a point.”

It took a few days to get the information back, but yes, we were on a shit list somewhere. Bishop’s name was a hot item. He had a contract out on him. A million dollars, dead. He wasn’t wanted alive. The DEA got word to the cartel that he was dead, but that the killer didn’t want the money, just privacy.

That worked for about six months until some guy named Don Guillermo Pacheco found out that the woman who killed Bishop was the same woman who owned the boat the drugs were on and she had turned them over to the American Federales. Evidently, he was upset with that woman. In effect, the Poder Cartel, of which he considered himself the leader, had a standing contract to kidnap one Donna Grant or Donna Curry, the owner of the boat in question, and deliver her, alive, to Don Guillermo.

When the DEA and FBI agents sat in our living room and briefed us on this information and the possibility of some type of confrontation, Amy broke down in tears. “I knew it. I saw it. What do we do now, Charlie? Marilyn, how can we help? This is so bad.”

“Ma’am, please don’t worry too awfully much about this. We’re going to be watching very carefully for him and any of his friends. While I can’t say nothing will happen, very rarely do any of these threats come to pass. Judge, Mr. Curry, can we speak to you privately outside, please?”

I looked at Donna. She nodded. She knew I’d keep her informed. I followed the three of them outside into the front yard and listened as the older woman, the one I figured was in charge of the situation, spoke to me.

“Mr. Curry, this is a real threat. We are going to, for a short time, have a couple of our agents, I’m DEA by the way, watching over you with a few US Marshals helping us. The FBI, Mr. Petry here,” he nodded, “will keep my people up to date with any intelligence they have of anyone of interest in this area, but I need to tell you, it’s hard to do that. Judge,” she looked at Marilyn, “I’m sure you know of our issue there, but we do have a court order and can get a bit intrusive looking into this matter. Our judge knows how much those drugs were worth and how badly this animal is pissed off. Our judge would like us to catch him and put him away in Florence to rot alongside his compadre or his competition, ‘El Chapo’. In any case, we are as serious as he is, and are just as motivated. So, Mr. Curry, Judge, what do you two think about this information?”

“Frightened, a little bit anyway,” Marilyn told the woman. “We’re all armed, and rarely alone, but still, one never knows what something like this may look like when it happens.”

“I, for one, am scared shitless. It’s best that way to react to something like this,” I said to the three of them, Marilyn looking at me and smiling. She knew. I always overreact.

“Don’t be a drama queen, babe,” she said, then started laughing. I laughed with her.

“You say you’ll be around to help, and we can prepare ourselves, so there isn’t much left to do but face the music. I guess this is what happens with you get a really, really good deal on a boat.” I shook my head.

“What do you mean, sir?” the junior looking DEA agent asked.

“We bought Bishop’s brother’s boat, knowing he had some upgrades on it that weren’t necessarily public knowledge. We got a hell of a deal, probably paying about a fourth of what the thing was worth.”

“And...”

“Oh. The drugs were in it. The first batch fell through the head ceiling, and the second batch, two batches, were found when, just before Donna, my fiancée in there shot him, he told us the head wasn’t the only stash on board. It was crazy. A boatyard in Mobile did an xray or CAT scan or something and found more in the cuddy cabin ceiling and behind the back wall of the anchor locker.”