There are two types of people who buy yachts in cash: the kind who collect them like expensive toys, and the kind who need to disappear like Julian Voss. Jorge had spent enough years at the marina to tell them apart. The first type asked about teak finishes and crew quarters; the second type asked only one question: “How soon can you deliver?”
When the man in the linen suit walked into his office, Jorge knew instantly which type he was dealing with. The suit wasn’t new, but it had that easy drape of someone who had long ago stopped checking price tags. The sunglasses stayed on. No introductions. Just a slow, measured walk around the room, as if absorbing the smell of salt, varnish, and desperation.
“I need a boat,” the man finally said, his voice smooth as an ocean at dawn. “Forty-five feet or bigger. No financing. No questions.”
The Boat Hustlers of Biscayne Bay
Jorge leaned back in his chair, glancing at the faded commission chart on his desk. He was three months behind on everything—rent, his car note, the interest on a loan he had taken from a man whose name he couldn’t say without his stomach twisting into knots. A full-cash sale might solve one of those problems, or it might add to them. Hard to say.
“We got options,” Jorge said carefully. “Depends on what you need. Range? Speed? Something for the islands?”
The man reached into his jacket and slid a small envelope across the desk. Jorge hesitated before picking it up. Inside, a thick stack of crisp hundreds. More than a deposit, less than a fortune. Enough to make a man stop asking questions.
“I’ll take delivery in three days,” the man said. “Somewhere quiet. You choose the spot. No marina paperwork. No registration. Just the boat and the keys.”
Jorge exhaled slowly. “We don’t usually do off-the-record sales. Coast Guard tends to frown on that.”
The man smiled—just barely. “I suspect you know people who can make exceptions. And if they don’t, perhaps I’ll find someone who does.”
That was the thing about the second type. They never bargained. They never got emotional. They just let their money do the talking and let silence do the rest.
Jorge swallowed. He thought about saying no. Thought about shaking his head and telling the man to try his luck somewhere else. Instead, he reached for his phone and made a call.
Three days later, Jorge stood on a lonely stretch of dock just before sunrise. The boat—a sleek, midnight-blue cruiser—bobbed gently in the water, engines humming. The man in the linen suit arrived alone, carrying nothing but a cigarette and the same air of quiet inevitability. He stepped aboard without a word, nodding once before easing the throttle forward. Within minutes, he was a speck on the horizon.
Jorge stared after him, wondering what kind of story he had just become a part of. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Either way, the money was real, and the problems it would solve were immediate. But as the sun climbed higher, Jorge had the nagging feeling he had just made a deal with the ocean itself—deep, untraceable, and impossible to escape.
