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  Berto sipped at his espresso and said, “For you, Jake, I’ll do it.”

  “And I’ll make sure the bank forgets all about bribery charges. The bank will get close to fifty cents on the dollar which is fine for a bad loan. Vista Bank gets the condos, and you’re off to Wyoming.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Jake Lassiter wondered what it was like, one day the world tasting of champagne, the next day of ashes. Berto had seemed so strong, so much in control. But inside he was still a twelve-year-old kid floating on a raft across the Florida Straits. He was burned out now, caught in a maelstrom beyond his control — the deals, the drugs, the women, the money.

  Always the money. The gods tempt us, Lassiter thought. They offer us riches and sweet smelling women, tres leches, each milk sweeter than the one before. But you cannot beat the gods. The grander house, the bigger deal, only mean more borrowed time, more risk. When you build your life on a house of cards, you never know when the joker will turn up. When you wheel and deal and borrow and spend, when your balance sheet is based on forecasts and projections, wishes and dreams, it is only a matter of time. One day, the mortgage comes due, and it all falls down. It only takes a missed step, a tax return that catches the computer’s eye, an oil shortage or an oil glut, a weakness for drink or drugs or soft skin.

  We are so frail. The gods build us up, then wait. The fall from grace is a spectator sport, and those too meek to take the risks watch from afar and cluck their tongues knowingly.

  “I wish I could turn back the clock for you,” Lassiter said finally.

  “I have no regrets. It was a hell of a ride while it lasted.”

  “Can you stay out of trouble?”

  Berto gestured toward the federal agent. “If Franklin can get me through the week. I have to do a little favor for the DEA, part of my deal. I’m helping set up some doper from out west.”

  Lassiter frowned. “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry, amigo. I’ll be in and out. The bust won’t come down until they bring the stuff in from the Bahamas, and I’ll be long gone by then.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes, old friends grown apart with the years, drawn together for a moment by a flicker from the past.

  “Take care of yourself, old buddy,” Lassiter said softly.

  “I always do,” Berto replied with a laugh devoid of joy.

  CHAPTER 11

  A Day at the Beach

  What would she be like, Jake Lassiter wondered. Until now, Lila Summers had been a two-dimensional vision, a color photograph in a magazine, leaning back from the boom, leg muscles taut, turquoise swimsuit cut high over rounded hip, wild mane of hair frozen in the wind. In a photograph there are neither flaws nor words of rebuke, just timeless youth and beauty and joy.

  She was not hard to spot. Every man on Concourse D either stopped dead in his tracks or suffered whiplash from a quick turn as she passed. Lila Summers was breathtaking in a white cotton sweatsuit — deep suntan set off by the snowy fabric — her thick hair butterscotched by the sun, bright hazel eyes flecked with green sparkles. She had a body that could be sensed even through the loose outfit, full breasts and strong legs. California-born and Hawaii-raised, she was tall and walked with a long stride. She carried a pink sail bag weighted down with her gear, but her sturdy arms and shoulders showed no strain. There was no mistaking that she was both an athlete and a woman, a perfect picture come to life.

  Keaka Kealia walked a step behind her, his eyes lumps of coal, his skin the ruddy brown of cedar. He bounced on his toes gracefully, without swaying, his head perfectly still. Sinewy muscles stood out on either side of his neck, and his chest bulged through a black-and-red T-shirt with the logo of the World Cup Slalom Event in Japan. He looked like a sprinter, maybe even a wide receiver.

  “I’m Jake Lassiter, your host.”

  “Hello, Mr. Lassiter.” Lila Summers’s smile was polite, nothing more.

  “Please call me Jake. Mr. Lassiter sounds like an undertaker.” I’m a fossil to her, he thought.

  Keaka stepped between them and extended a hand. They went through that curious male dance, an arm-wrestling handshake, Keaka at first in control, then Lassiter battling to a draw. He could feel the faint traces of calluses on Keaka’s palm, remnants of hundreds of hours’ hanging from the booms. Before letting go, Keaka asked, “Do you have the check?”

  Lila gave the Hawaiian a pained look. “Keaka, mind your manners, we’re in civilization now. Your direct ways might not be appreciated here.”

  Tarzan and Jane, Lassiter thought.

  “I’m only asking because last year I was stiffed in Mexico after an exhibition,” Keaka said. “Everything was mahana, then mahana came, but the pesos never did.”

  It could have been a witty line, but the Hawaiian did not smile. Not a latter-day Duke Kahanamoku, joking with the tourists after riding waves at Diamond Head. No, this guy had all the charm of a hammerhead shark.

  “Quite right to be concerned in this day and age of charlatans,” Lassiter said stiffly. “Check’s right here.” He patted his suit pocket, not liking the sound of his own voice. Uptight and pickle-assed, out of his element with the two great athletes. Wanting to tell them that he didn’t always tote a briefcase. But what would they know of a quarterback sack on third and long?

  They loaded their gear into Lassiter’s old convertible and headed for Key Biscayne where their boards, masts, sails, and booms — shipped ahead from Hawaii — waited in storage sheds on the beach. Keaka and Lila checked into the Sonesta Beach Hotel and twenty minutes later were rigging their equipment in the white sand twenty yards from the Atlantic. Other competitors were fine-tuning their colorful sails, tugging lines taut, and bending masts to the proper angle. It was one of those postcard days, endless blue sky and temperature in the high seventies, wind humming a steady twenty knots from the east.

  * * *

  The beach was awash with young athletes, deeply tanned and exuberant, so that the pale couple — an old man and a sharp-featured, squinting woman — looked like characters from an Ingmar Bergman film, displaced persons drifting by. How long had it been since Samuel Kazdoy had walked along a beach, decades maybe, but here he was slogging through the deep sand in black oxfords and baggy pants, looking unsteady and ill at ease. Alongside was Violet Belfrey in a short skirt and tight blouse, guiding Kazdoy by the elbow, his chalky arm poking out of a short-sleeve white shirt.

  “Keaka, these are friends of mine,” Lassiter said. “Violet and Sam, say hello to the greatest board sailor who ever lived.” They exchanged greetings and the old man inspected the board, running a hand over a hard rail, the bottom edge that speeds the craft through the water. “Keaka’s the first board sailor to have completed a three-sixty, a back sommersault off a wave. Now that it’s fairly common, he does them blindfolded.”

  Violet’s gaze locked on the bulge in Keaka’s swim trunks. “Ah’d somersault on that thing any ole time he wants,” she stage-whispered to Lassiter.

  Keaka Kealia silently continued rigging an old board dinged with scars from collisions with coral rocks. The professionals all used custom-made boards with airbrushed designs — rainbows or sunsets or sponsors’ logos — but Keaka’s board was decorated with the grim face of an ancient Hawaiian warrior, mouth curled open in a bloodthirsty scream. Because he had spent hundreds of hours on it, the board would give him a true reading of the conditions at a new sailing spot. How fast was the current? Were the waves crisp or mushy? Did the wind have holes or was it steady?

  Violet was fidgeting, shielding her eyes from the glare. “When the hell they gonna do something?” she asked impatiently. Count Dracula would have been more comfortable in the midday sun.

  “They’re adjusting the equipment,” Jake Lassiter said. “The sail has to be tuned just right for the strength of the wind. Think of the board as a sailboat, except you sail it standing up, and you use your feet and the angle of the mast to steer.”

  “You should have seen that s
tinking boat I crossed the Atlantic on, the Petersburg,” Samuel Kazdoy said. “I was sick the whole time. Swore I’d never go near the water. Never did, not even the Staten Island ferry.”

  Some of the competitors were carrying their equipment into the surf, boards held overheard, masts pointed downwind. Lassiter tried to bring the old man back into the 1990s: “This is only practice. On Saturday, they’ll go for the gold.”

  “Jacob, did I ever tell you what they said in Kiev about New York?” Kazdoy asked, his mind somewhere between Key Biscayne and czarist Russia. “They said the streets of New York were paved with gold and when I got off that farshtinkener boat, I saw a man following a horse with a broom and pail, but… but…”

  “… But what he was sweeping wasn’t gold,” Violet said, finishing the story that the old man had told a thousand times. Now Lassiter worried even more about Sam Kazdoy losing his sharpness. Lassiter had seen it happen before, a younger woman of shadowy background drawn to an old man’s money. In the beginning it’s innocent enough, the woman running errands, tidying up, providing companionship. Before you know it, her name pops up as joint owner on the old coot’s brokerage accounts.

  Keaka finished tying the clew of his sail to the boom with an outhaul line. When the sail reached the perfect curvature, he jammed the mast into the sand and leaned back from the boom, testing the rigging against the steady easterly. The sail supported all his weight, a precise trim.

  Lassiter watched him and said, “Keaka, I brought you a navigational chart, though I doubt you’ll need it. I’ll be in the lead judges’ boat, and if everything’s true to form, you’ll be right behind us and all the other racers can follow you. But this will give you an idea where we’re going. It’ll be a Le Mans start from the beach, then forty-eight miles due east across the Gulf Stream, finish just a mile or so off North Bimini at the Great Bahama Bank. There’ll be a finish line strung between two barges with checkered flags flying, so just sail under the line and tie up. The awards ceremony and a champagne celebration will take place right on the barge.”

  “Finish at the Great Bahama Bank,” Keaka repeated.

  Violet watched him crouch in the sand, her eyes still on groin patrol. “Smart to finish at a bank,” she said, nodding sagely. “Easier to pay off the winners.”

  Keaka ignored her, tugged on his windsurfing gloves, and jogged into the water, carrying his equipment effortlessly. “Practice now,” he said without looking at them. Violet watched his muscular body disappear into the surf.

  A moment later Lassiter caught sight of Lila Summers, twenty yards down the beach. Her hair was pulled straight back and tied in a ponytail, accentuating her cheekbones, the muscles in her calves undulating as she carried her rig into the water. He guided Kazdoy closer to the shore break.

  “Here’s who I want you to see,” Lassiter said, pointing toward Lila’s board as it shredded the small offshore waves. “Watch her bottom turn.”

  “That’s what I’m doing, boychik. My eyes still work, even if my schmeckel — “

  “No, watch how, at the bottom of a wave, she climbs back up the face. Her bottom turn’s the best in the business.”

  “Got some tuchis on her,” the old man agreed.

  Lila rocketed down the face of a wave, her board etching a foamy wake. As the wave ran out of water, her back hand pulled hard on the boom, trimming the sail tight against the wind for an extra burst of speed. At the same time she jammed her back foot onto the downwind side, burying the rail, and the board carved a tight turn and shot up the face of the wave. A rooster tail of spray exploded from the stern.

  “Now watch her ,” Lassiter said. “You won’t see her change direction. One second she’s going one way, then slash, and she’s going the other.”

  At the top of the wave, Lila shifted her weight to the inside rail and released pressure on the boom to let wind out of the sail. On command, the board pivoted on the shoulder of the wave, just inches from the breaking lip, and cut down across the face, never losing speed. The board was a fiberglass stiletto, flashing in the sun, cutting back and forth, bottom turn at the end of the wave, slicing to the top, then slashing back toward the bottom, Lila laughing into the wind, her honey hair flying.

  The old man winked at Lassiter, gave him a sly grin, and said, “You got some eye for the maidels.”

  “Sam, please,” Lassiter said. “She’s with Keaka.”

  “So?”

  “So, I don’t have a chance.”

  “Feh, and if you’ll pardon my English, bullshit. You want a piece of property to build a plant, sometimes another fellow wants it too, and maybe he can offer more than you. But maybe he has some unexpected tsuris. Maybe the IRS finds out about his second set of books or his unions strike or his wife finds out about his girlfriend. But one thing for sure, you can’t do nothing just staring at your pupik.”

  Violet was growing restless and the old man was uncomfortable sinking into the sand. “Boychik, we’re going to run along and get to the theater. You think about what I told you.” He toddled off, Violet hanging on like a platinum blond vulture.

  Lassiter watched them go, wondering what he could do to protect his friend. Wondering too if he had any chance of recovering the stolen bonds. And wondering finally if winning Lila Summers might be more complicated than closing on a piece of real estate.

  * * *

  Alone with his thoughts, Jake Lassiter went about his chores as race organizer. Of all the serious board sailors in Miami, Lassiter was the obvious choice to run things. Unlike most of the boardheads who either lived in their beach vans or worked night jobs so they could sail all day, Lassiter was considered semirespectable. Plus he had a secretary and a photocopy machine, essential to organize anything from a car wash to a World Cup athletic event.

  First Lassiter checked with Commodore Ralph Whittaker, the old fussbudget who ran the Coral Gables Yacht Club, which was providing the prize money. Next he confirmed starting times with the captains of the lead boat and the chase boat. He spoke to the medical personnel, then verified that hotel rooms would be ready for the network television crews. Finally, he ducked into a cabana, changed into a faded pair of surfing trunks, and rigged his own board. He chose a six-meter sail, bigger than most competitors would use on a day of strong, steady winds, but when you weigh 220, it takes a lot of canvas — actually Mylar — to get the board up on a plane.

  He beach-started in the shore break, hopping onto the board between incoming waves, then guided it into open water. His knees flexed, adjusting to the rollers, and soon he was skipping across the top of the waves, bouncing over moving ledges of water. Offshore, the chop rolled toward land in evenly spaced swells, what the surfer kids called corduroy. Lassiter luxuriated in the strain on the arms, the tendons and muscles of the shoulders stretching as gusts tried to tear the sail away. It was a mixture of pleasure and sweet pain that nearly chased away the gray, cloudy thoughts that hovered over him.

  Nearly, but not quite. Thoughts of Sam and Violet, and how the hell he would find the missing bonds. No word from Sergeant Carraway. Thoughts of the reptilian Thad Whitney and the fallen Berto, wondering if he had signed the papers.

  Poor Berto.

  Lassiter remembered their days in the public defender’s office, celebrating with pitchers of sangria and mountains of paella after tap-dancing an N.G. verdict from six citizens, good I and true. Thoughts of Lila Summers, too, and whether the beautiful athlete might find some redeeming value in a has-been linebacker who could spin a fair yarn.

  Lassiter shifted his weight toward the bow, tilted the mast forward, and pushed the board off the wind. It jibed hard and fast on its rail, and Lassiter flipped the sail around in the extravagant gesture of a matador sweeping his cape. He headed due south on a broad reach, the coastline of Key Biscayne to starboard, the lighthouse at the tip of the island coming into view.

  Finally, Lassiter angled toward shore, surfing over the incoming waves. In shallow water, he hopped off and hoisted the rig onto
the beach. What he had in mind was a two-mile jog on the hard-packed sand, and then a pleasant sail back to the hotel. There were only a few people on the beach, Canadian tourists judging from their arctic pallor and French accents, plus a smattering of South American kids from expensive condos near the hotels. He started at an easy pace — pick it up, fifty-eight, Coach Paterno yelled from a faraway field. As he neared the old lighthouse that once warned ships of the treacherous reefs, he saw someone familiar. No, not here, what would he be doing …

  “Berto. Berto, is that you?”

  The dark-haired man whirled around, revealing a naked look of surprise, almost fear, Lassiter thought. After an awkward moment of silence, Humberto Hernandez-Zaldivar said, “Jake, mi amigo, good to see you.”

  Lassiter kept running in place. “Berto, what’re you doing here?”

  Silence.

  Lassiter had questioned enough witnesses to read the look on Berto’s face. He’s making it up, winging it.

  “I thought I would find out what you saw in this windsurfing,” Berto said finally. He was wearing shorts and rubber thongs and a sleeveless top with tiny holes for air vents, a look popular in Little Havana. He nervously twirled a finger around his heavy gold chain.

  Next to Berto was an Asian girl who looked about fifteen but must have been the flight attendant he’d mentioned in the restaurant. Then a bare-chested man slowly stood up from where he was crouching in the sand like Johnny Bench behind the plate.

  Keaka Kealia.

  Jake Lassiter stopped running in place and stood there with his hands on his hips, breathing hard. No one spoke.

  Keaka’s board was pulled up on the beach, resting on its side in the shadow of the lighthouse, much farther out of the water than necessary to protect it from the shore break. Now what the hell was going on, Berto collecting autographs? Seemed like he should have more pressing things on his mind, like staying out of sight. The DEA agent was nowhere to be seen. A sniper could pick him off from the sand dunes, if there really were assassins.