Riptide jl-5 Page 18

Despite his discomfort, Harry Marlin smiled to himself. The Hawaiian’ll be laughing all the way to the Great Bahama Bank, but I got the last laugh ‘cause that dumb-ass is doing it for 10 percent. Shit, I’d a given him a third, easy.

  A mile off the coast of North Bimini, the Big Daddy pulled under a finish line strung between two barges, the checkered flag popping in the wind. Paul Flanigan killed the engines and prepared to tie up at the barge. From the stern Jake Lassiter could see Keaka Kealia a hundred yards behind them, heading for an easy victory. The ABC helicopter circled overhead, capturing the winning moment on videotape. A round of applause went up from the yacht club members on the Big Daddy — those still sober enough to bring their hands together — and Keaka nodded as he sailed by. Which is what he did, sailed right by, didn’t stop, didn’t tie up at the barge for the awards, the champagne, and the calypso band.

  Jake Lassiter saw it happen: Keaka Kealia tipping the mast slightly forward, shifting weight to his front foot, falling off the wind. Heading southeast toward Turtle Rock. The trip across the Florida Straits was a beam reach, 90 degrees off the wind. Now Keaka was on a broad reach, 135 degrees off the wind, the fastest angle for the board, and with the trade winds humming at close to twenty-five knots in the open waters, he was zipping along, bouncing off small chop, the board planing now with only the stern in the water.

  “Charlie, wake up and look at this!” Lassiter shouted.

  Charlie Riggs opened his eyes but didn’t move from the deck; hair. A plaid blanket was tucked up under his chin. “ Quid tunc? I always get sleepy on boats.”

  “The reincarnated warrior just called an audible.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Called his own number, but damned if I know the play.”

  On the Magnum, still two miles from the finish line, the radio crackled again with static and a voice from the helicopter. Harry Marlin couldn’t make out the words. The commodore strained to listen, then fiddled with his mustache. His face had a look of consternation. “Didn’t stop? Hell’s bells.”

  “What’s wrong?” Harry Marlin asked, sensing trouble even through a haze of Stolichnaya and seasickness.

  “Copter says the Hawaiian finished, just kept on going, bearing off to starboard.”

  Harry’s stomach lurched, and not from the oysters. The son of a bitch was way out of sight. What was happening? Then that old feeling — fear and shame, letting Violet down — the same feeling when he came back empty-handed the first time from the theater.

  Time to take control. “Let’s go get him! He double-crossed me, the bastard.”

  The commodore had his thumbs in his belt and looked sideways at Harry. “Take it easy, Mr. Marlin. It’s his problem if R he doesn’t stick around for the ceremony. I’ll take it up with the board of directors. He could be disqualified for conduct unbecoming a yachtsman, might have to forfeit the first prize. ‘ This is quite unprecedented, you know.”

  “Screw the prize and screw you!” Harry shouted, and the commodore blanched. This friend of Lassiter would never be admitted to the yacht club, the commodore quickly decided. Harry Marlin stood there in his camouflage jacket, safari shorts, and stockinged feet, the hole in his sock larger now. He felt helpless.

  But only for a moment.

  He had never pulled a gun on anyone, ever. Until now.

  Harry reached inside the jacket, and drew out his Police Bulldog. 38 Special, and summoning his deepest voice, ordered the commodore, “Follow that friggin’ board.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Race to the Bank

  Jake Lassiter heard a roar, two roars really, and he tried to separate them. First was a grinding yowl from overhead, where a twin-engine Grumman, a small seaplane, flew at two hundred feet, heading in the same direction as Keaka Kealia. Second was the throaty roar of two Italian MTU motors, four thousand horsepower in all, powering the Magnum across the water, cutting a path through the windsurfers who were trying to finish the race.

  The big boat scattered the racers, red and blue and turquoise sails flattened against the water. Startled by the cacophonysome of the sailors jumped out of their foot straps. Others were swamped in the wake. Bedlam on the high seas.

  “Pisshead powerboaters!” yelled Gary Koenigsberg after he coughed up several jiggers of the Atlantic Ocean. “Slow the fuck down. This ain’t the Santa Monica Freeway.”

  Lila Summers never fell. From her position deep in the pack, she seemed ready for the madness. When the boat sped by, she spread her legs wide on the board and luffed the sail. Her big Mistral pitched in the Magnum’s wake but she kept her balance and slowly made her way toward the finish. The other racers cautiously water-started, cursing the huge Magnum. Then they took off in pursuit of the second prize.

  The Magnum won the second prize, theoretically at least, as it was the next craft under the finish line. Its crossing did not go unnoticed on the barges. Couldn’t have. It flew by at sixty miles an hour, kicking up a spray that doused the victory cake, nearly electrocuted the electric bass player, and sent the calypso band’s steel drums rolling overboard. The Magnum carved a tight turn just past the Big Daddy and headed southeast after Keaka Kealia.

  Jake Lassiter and Charlie Riggs watched it all, unable to do anything, stuck on a boat of drunken yacht clubbers swapping fish stories, oblivious to the commotion, while Keaka Kealia, a low-flying seaplane, and the pursuing Magnum headed for points unknown.

  Harry Marlin aimed his. 38 Special at the right ear of Commodore Ralph Whittaker, who stood a foot behind the hired captain of the Magnum. The captain, a twenty-three-year-old marine mechanic with tattoos on each forearm, was thrilled. It was his first chance to open it up and the baby was purring, bouncing over the water, kidneys jarred on every smash. Harry held on to a rail with one hand and tried to steady the gun with the other. His arm was growing weary.

  He had barely thought about it a minute ago. Just decided to hell with it, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. He had pulled the gun when the commodore refused to give chase, pulled it out like it was the most natural thing in the world. Felt good grabbing it from under the camouflage jacket, just like in the movies.

  Now he was thinking about it. Thinking hard. Shit. What had he done? Gave his real name back there when he climbed aboard. Got his prints all over the boat. No more flipping hamburgers in South Beach, not even if he wanted to, because he’d just bought a one-way ticket out of town. But isn’t that what he wanted? It better be, because those coupons were everything now, and some two-bit punk was trying to heist them. Christ, can’t even think, the old salt babbling away.

  “You’ve committed a felony on the high seas,” the commodore bellowed over the roar of the engines. “I’ll see you in Admiralty Court. And this race is FUBAR — fouled up beyond all recognition. I must warn you, if you’re taking us to Cuba, I seriously doubt we have sufficient fuel, at least at this speed.”

  Harry drew back the hammer on the revolver. “Shut up, fish bait! We’re not going to Cuba, we’re going to the bank.”

  The seaplane landed in the shallows near an exposed cluster of rocks. Less than a mile away, Keaka Kealia headed toward the same rocks, his sail vibrating with a high-pitched hum in the strong wind. From the bridge of the Magnum, Harry Marlin saw it all, had it figured out now.

  Harry ordered the captain to pull between Keaka and the seaplane, and at near top speed, the Magnum swung in a wide arc in the shallow water, tumbling liquor bottles from the shelves, knocking club members into each other below deck. The Hawaiian was fast, but the Magnum had closed the gap and in a matter of seconds would cut him off. Killing the engines, the captain eased the boat directly in the path between Keaka and the waiting plane. The engines died, and in the silence, Harry Marlin could hear the gentle slap of waves against the hull. He could see Keaka Kealia heading straight for them.

  Keaka had two choices. He could keep going straight at the boat and be splattered against its sleek hull, or he could bear off and head downwind to avoid the collision, but
if he did that, he would lose his speed and would pass by the stern of the Magnum at a crawl. Even the dumb haole might pick him off with a clear shot like that. So he did neither one. He leaned back hard against the boom and raked the sail over the board, using every last breath from the wind. Unhooking the harness line from the boom, Keaka Kealia pumped the sail furiously to build speed, wincing with each movement as the tendons of his elbows, already swollen from the crossing, flared with pain. He watched the rollers hit the sandbar near Turtle Rock, and with the timing practiced on a thousand waves on Maui’s north shore, he took aim.

  Harry Marlin stood motionless on the deck watching the Hawaiian approach, catching a glimpse of the yellow backpack. When he could see the grimace on the dark man’s face, Harry fired. The noise and jolt of the gun startled him and he hopped backward, tromping on the commodore’s deck shoes. “Jumping Jesus!” the commodore shouted. “You don’t shoot a sailor for leaving the course, you just penalize him.”

  Wildly, again and again, Harry shot into the sky and into the water as the boat bobbed and dipped in the waves. Harry was faying to shoot a moving target while his own foundation was slipping out from under him. Sergeant York couldn’t have hit the broadside of a barn in these conditions, and Harry Marlin was no sharpshooter, just a guy who kept a gun under the lunch counter in case some freaked out Marielito with a Saturday night special showed up at closing time. Finally, Harry stopped shooting and simply watched. The crazy son of a bitch was coming right at him, right at the side of the Magnum, and there’d be a helluva mess of blood and splintered bone to clean up.

  Then Keaka had what he wanted, the perfect wave. He got all of it, a huge roller, and just as the Magnum dropped into the trough, Keaka’s feet lifted against the foot straps and hurled the board off the lip. Airborne, he pumped the sail again, getting more lift, and he looked down to see Harry Marlin’s balding head, and Harry ducked, just in time, because the sharp fiberglass fin would have parted what was left of his hair. Keaka’s board was flying now, bow up, sail taut with wind. It landed on the far side of the Magnum, Keaka luffing the sail a moment. Then he hauled it back in, hooked into the harness line, and headed straight for the waiting seaplane.

  The young boat captain tried to start the Magnum, but it wouldn’t turn over, just sat there coughing and sputtering, a million-dollar piece of junk, while the Hawaiian sailed away on a slab of fiberglass with a pole stuck into it. The captain tried again, muttering something about flooding out. Harry spat every curse he ever knew and invented a few more. He got off one more meaningless shot as the Magnum heaved in the waves and Keaka approached the seaplane. Harry screamed at the captain, who was hitting switches and twisting dials. He cursed the Hawaiian and every member of his family. He stomped his stockinged feet. Finally, his eyes filled with tears of frustration as he watched Keaka Kealia ditch his board and swim to the plane, where two hands hauled him aboard.

  Keaka Kealia leaned out the door waving, holding up the yellow pouch, yelling something at him. With the boat’s engine dead, Keaka’s voice carried across the open sea. “Here we are, partner,” Keaka called out, spreading his arms over the clear, shallow water, holding the pouch effortlessly at one side. “Here we are, the Great Bahama Bank.”

  Suddenly a sharp pain, the same shoulder that had taken a direct hit from an aluminum baseball bat. Shit, I’ve been shot, Harry Marlin thought. But he was wrong. He’d been gaffed, hit square on the shoulder blade with a four-foot gaff. The commodore had a death grip on the other end and was barking orders. “Now hear this! Under the law of the sea, Mr. Marlin, you’re under arrest. You will report below at once. We will arrange a suitable brig in conformance with the Geneva convention.”

  What could have been the commodore’s finest moment crumbled. By some miracle Harry Marlin still held the gun. The thick army jacket had absorbed most of the blow. Breathing heavily, Harry pointed the. 38 directly at the commodore’s crotch and said, “Now hear this, Admiral. Get this tub back to Miami or I’ll blow your nuts from here to Hawaii.”

  Hawaii being what was on Harry’s mind at the time, Hawaii where he figured the bastard was heading, not on the little seaplane, of course, probably from here to one of the other islands, then to Mexico City maybe, and then Honolulu, and then, what the fuck was the name of that other island?

  “Where’s that thieving motherfucker from?” Harry demanded.

  “Keaka Kealia?” the commodore asked.

  “No, Michael Milken. Of course, Keaka Kealia, you asshole.”

  “He’s from Maui.”

  Maui. Wait’ll I tell Violet where her beach boy friend with the load in his drawers is off to, Harry thought. Violet and her big ideas, hire the jock. Well, fuck him, if he thinks he can screw Harry Marlin like that, ‘cause old Harry will be right behind, right on his tail. Thinks he’s tough. Let’s go at it on dry land, and the sooner the better.

  Then Harry did something he’d wanted to do most of the day. He leaned over the rail and let go of four Bloody Marys and two dozen oysters that had been corroding his gut like battery acid.

  He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of the camouflage jacket. “Maui, get ready, ‘cause here I come,” Harry Marlin said to the sea.

  CHAPTER 22

  Bimini Blues

  The racers straggled in, tied up and sprawled out on the barge, exhausted. Most said to hell with the champagne, just leave a six-pack and lemme alone. Lila Summers had finished midway back, helped some by not falling when the Magnum roared by, but she was exhausted too. Jake Lassiter helped her climb aboard the barge, where she peeled off her wet suit and sprawled out on a deck chair, eyes closed, chest heaving. He covered her with a towel and asked what Keaka was up to, but she just shrugged and rolled her eyes.

  Maybe Keaka snapped, Lassiter thought. The reincarnated warrior heading for his own Valhalla. But what the hell was going on with the commodore in the Magnum? He wouldn’t answer radio calls.

  It was nearly dusk and the ABC producer kept asking when the awards would be given. P. J. Jeter stood nearby, microphone in hand, but with no one to interview. Presiding on the barge, Paul Flanigan convened an emergency meeting of the yacht club board which, after several rounds of Tequila Sunrises, concluded that there was no requirement to show up for the awards ceremony and declared Keaka Kealia the winner. “Victor in absentia,” Charlie Riggs agreed.

  Lila Summers accepted the check for Keaka and brush-kissed Jake Lassiter, who handed it over, filling in for the missing commodore. Francoise Duvalier, the surprise women’s winner, gave Lassiter a better kiss than he deserved while Lila watched. He loved the look in Lila’s eyes, like she might have bashed Francoise with her daggerboard if she wasn’t so tired.

  For a race with a bizarre finish — a windsurfer and a chase boat that disappeared — the atmosphere on Bimini was strangely calm. Bimini can do that, mellow you out. The judges’ boats ferried the racers to the Big Game Club, where some serious drinking was under way in the Rum Keg Bar. Lila Summers squeaked across the lobby on bare feet, carrying the yellow backpack. Lassiter brought her sail bag with a change of clothes that he had stowed on the Big Daddy.

  “Give me twenty minutes,” she said, “then come to the room.” The mystery of the missing Hawaiian wasn’t so important now. Lila was supposed to be sharing a cottage with Keaka, but Lassiter was willing to pinch-hit. He stopped at the restaurant, got two bowls of conch chowder, four broiled Bahamian lobster tails, a loaf of Bimini bread, still warm, and a six-pack of Grolsch, ice-cold.

  Twenty minutes later — okay, so maybe it was fifteen — he knocked on her door. Room service, he said. Lila was just stepping out of the shower, white towel wrapped around her, its folds revealing full hips and flat stomach. She smiled at him, a tired but happy smile, kissed him gently on the forehead and grabbed one of the beers.

  They devoured the food and drank the Grolsch, and Lassiter stepped out of his shorts while Lila undraped the towel, and on a cool bed with a breeze rattling the latticed windows he
held her, his face buried in her wet hair, her skin still faintly salty from the sea. He nibbled at her pouty lower hp and she responded, and he slipped down under the sheet, caressing her breasts, brushing her stomach with light kisses. She purred a sweet song and her breathing quickened and her body moved to a faster beat, but in a moment she stopped moving and her breathing became slow and regular, and in another moment he figured it out… Lila was fast asleep.

  0 for 2. No hits in two at-bats. At least the first time I got some wood on the ball, he thought. This time I whiffed. Couldn’t even keep her awake. Damn, maybe the beer was a bad idea.

  Jake Lassiter pulled the sheet over Lila, who lay on her side now, her silhouette of slopes and curves visible in the darkness. He crawled in beside her and fell asleep. He dreamed of a jungle covered with swampy mangrove roots that grabbed at his legs and snaked up to his neck, where they tied intricate knots and strangled him, and he yelled and kicked and woke up in a sweat with Lila Summers holding him and whispering that everything was all right. And soon it was, because she kissed him and aroused him and with Jake Lassiter on his back she straddled him and guided him into her. With strong legs she slowly eased up and down, telling him to He still and he obeyed, and she tightened herself onto him and rocked forward and back and when he finally gasped, she smiled, and he knew so he didn’t ask. He knew it had been for him, Lila’s way of saying not to worry about her, it didn’t matter. He thought about it and was happy and sad at the same time and then he slept again, this time without dreams.

  When Jake Lassiter awoke, there was something wrong. The telephone jarring him awake was wrong. The space next to him was empty, the sheets cool, and that was all wrong. He could feel the emptiness in the room. The phone still clanged, an ugly sound.