Grand Cayman Slam

by Striker, Randy

  2

  It was a coincidence that I happened to be at the marina in Key West when Westy’s telephone call for help came in.

  I had left my weathered house built on stilts a mile out upon the Calda Bank flats early that morning. Usually when I charter I point my thirty-four-foot sportfisherman toward the Gulf Stream. But on this particular morning, an old and valued client was in town and he had a yearning to pole the flats in search of bonefish and permit.

  Sportsmen from the great gray northlands find their taste in fishing changes in direct proportion to the number—and type—of fishing magazines they have read before flying south. And this orthopedic surgeon from Bryan, Ohio, had spent a brutal February and March poring over articles on the flats masters.

  So he arrived at the docks at dawn, new fishing cap upon his head and Polaroids strung around his neck on mono line, a dreamy, boyish grin on his face.

  It was one of those pink and iridescent blue sunrises unique to the Keys. Along with the diesel smell of the harbor came the jasmine and frangipani spice of Key West on a freshening south wind out of Cuba.

  “Damn,” was all he could say, his face glazed with pleasure. “Damn, I don’t care if the fish hit or not. It’s just something being here.”

  He wasn’t lying. He was one of the rare clients: one of the rare sportsmen who hire me because they see fishing as both pleasure and poem. He was among the few I really enjoyed fishing with; a man who did not gauge the success of a trip by the number of iced fish carcasses he could stack on the dock upon our return. So the two of us climbed into my little Boston Whaler and powered off toward the flats of distant Content Key, the little skiff stretching across the clear water as if upon air, brain coral and sea fans appearing and disappearing beneath us as if upon some screen of personal reminiscence.

  I had gone over the tide charts carefully beforehand, marking the ascent of tide peaks in my own mind, plotting a fishing itinerary that should guarantee us that epic intersection: a bonefish or permit foraging upon the same flat that held our bait.

  It turned out to be a good day. He thought it a great day. He landed and released three good bonefish, then lost a permit to a staghorn after two Homeric runs that made his reel scream as if about to explode.

  He had big plans for the next morning. And the next. And I was more than willing. After spending a month alone on my stilthouse listening to my shortwave and eating my own cooking and forcing myself to complete a daily exercise routine that would test a Spartan, I was looking forward to fishing with a friend and eating black beans and yellowtail at the El Cacique and drinking cold beer with my buddies at the dock.

  But Westy’s call ended all that.

  I was out washing down the Whaler when the call came. Steve Wise, America’s version of a houseboat David Niven, came ambling barefooted out of the marina office to get me.

  “Phone for you.”

  “This late?”

  “And it’s not even a lady.”

  “Didn’t give his name?”

  “No. But it sounds like he’s calling from Mars.”

  All phone systems are reflections of their own community. New York’s is chaotic. Key West’s is erratic. The Caribbean phone people really don’t seem to give a damn. If it’s not too hot, they can fix it tomorrow.

  Westy did, indeed, sound as if he were calling from Mars.

  “Yank! It’s meself, Wes O’Davis!”

  “I can barely hear you.”

  “Aye—because yer gettin’ old an’ fat and yer ears are dyin’.

  “And you are spending a lot of money on this call, old friend, so I assume it’s important—so what’s new?”

  “Other than bein’ jailed for murder, not much.”

  “Did you say murder?”

  “Hah—see, yer ears are givin’ out!”

  So I lined up another guide for my fishing friend from Ohio, called the airline and made reservations for a flight from Key West to Miami and from Miami to Caymans, then climbed back in the Whaler and burrowed through the spring darkness across five miles of tricky water to my stilthouse.

  One thing about living alone—there’s never any trouble packing.

  I stuffed shorts and a half-dozen shirts, running shoes, and razor blades into a canvas satchel. I thought for a moment, then added my lucky Limey knickers, black watch sweater, and cap—and finally the cold weight of my Randall attack /survival knife.

  You can bet that when O’Davis is around, trouble can’t be far behind.

  So in the spring heat of a dank Miami afternoon I climbed aboard a DC-10 that seemed somehow safer for its experience, then settled back in my narrow seat in second class. First class gives you a tad more room—which you can use when you’re my size—but it also suggests the sort of monetary hoity-toity crap that I hate.

  So I settled back while the big engines smoked and wheezed and watched the white concrete mass of Miami drop away and fade as we climbed to twenty thousand, where yachts were toy-sized amid the blue depths and green shallows of the great Atlantic.

  There was a holiday atmosphere aboard the plane. And why not? Grand Cayman has rapidly become the Caribbean’s tourist hot spot. There’s great diving, fine fishing, and plenty of long white beaches. The three islands—Grand Cayman, Cayman Brac, and Little Cayman—were relatively unknown to the American tourist trade until the early 1960s because they are so remote: 150 miles south of Cuba and far off the Bahama chain.

  So Americans were content to bake themselves and spend their dollars in the more accessible Bahamas until the Bahamians got greedy, then turned surly, and finally became downright dangerous to any American foolish enough to want to vacation there.

  Then word about the Caymans began to leak out. The islanders—a handsome mixed race of French, Spanish, Scottish, and African—were friendly and the rates were ridiculously inexpensive.

  The islanders are still friendly—probably because they’ve always been treated as equals by their British sovereigns.

  But it’s no longer inexpensive.

  Even so, the manifest of pale Northerners who flew with me seemed hellbent on making the most of this Caribbean vacation. While the flight attendants passed out complimentary rum punches, newlyweds made moon eyes and dive enthusiasts leafed through the scuba cult magazines and newly retired factory workers blinked at the expanse and light of open sea like kids seeing the world for the first time.

  I traded in my rum punch for cold beer and watched the western tip of Cuba roll by in fields of sugarcane and pasture beneath us. Castro leases us two air routes over his little Commie paradise: one to the east, the other over the western tip. This route wasn’t that far from Havana—and closer yet to Mariel Harbor. During Carter’s refugee boatlift debacle, I had spent a long and dangerous evening there. It didn’t exactly bring back pleasant memories. But my mission there had produced some valuable friendships. Sipping at my beer, I thought about the beautiful Androsa Santarun, who had been sired by a father she could never acknowledge. I wondered if I would ever see her again.

  And I thought about Wes O’Davis, too. I had met him in Mariel. And he had saved my life. Not once, but twice.

  So when he called for help, there was no indecision on my part. His was a debt I could never truly repay.

  So I was thinking about all these things when I noticed that the flight attendant who had brought my beer was staring at me. They don’t like to be called “stewardess” anymore. And I can’t blame them. People in any profession should have the right to be called what they damn well please.

  She had long smoky brown hair and a mahogany complexion that suggested Caribbean antecedents. Her airline uniform was a calf-length dress and a suitcoat over a white blouse. The suitcoat dutifully tried to cover the heavy swell of mammary development—but failed. An impossible job on this woman. She had quizzical brown eyes that snapped away when she saw me returning her look. I guessed her to be about twenty-two or twenty-three. She wore no makeup and little jewelry. Few women can let t
hemselves go into public without even the barest of beauty props—but this lady was obviously one of the few. She didn’t need them. She had a delicate, expressive face and a complexion that suggested a childhood spent on a tropical island where everyone bathed in coconut milk.

  I felt her eyes lock on me twice more as the DC-10 roared through the thin air of twenty thousand feet, over beautiful Isle of Pines and the other small islands of southern Cuba.

  I have been lucky enough with women—but I’m nowhere near in that film-star category of men which makes beautiful women press motel keys into their hands. I am big enough, but my hair is sun-bleached and matted, and I have scars enough on face and hands to frighten the weak of heart.

  And this was one very beautiful woman.

  So it was a mystery. I toyed with it for a while, then decided to find out just what in the hell her interest was. No easy task, really. Flight attendants have seen every conceivable brand of come-on. Especially the pretty ones.

  Finally, I finished my beer and signaled for another. She smiled as she walked down the narrow aisle.

  “Something else to drink?”

  “Another bottle of this, if you have it.”

  “We have plenty. Everyone else is drinking the rum punch.”

  “Great. I hope they drink it all.”

  “It really isn’t bad. You should try it.”

  “Is that why you’ve been staring at me? Wondering why I won’t drink your punch?”

  She stiffened for a moment. “I wasn’t staring at you.” And then she laughed. “Well, I guess maybe I was.”

  “I thought maybe I had something caught between my teeth. It worried me.”

  “Oh, your teeth are fine. It’s just that I thought I recognized you.”

  “Shouldn’t I be saying that?”

  “Lord, I guess that does sound like some awful line.”

  “Not so awful, because I have a feeling you mean it.”

  “Oh, I do. I used to work for another airline and we carried a lot of the pro teams. I keep thinking that I’ve seen you before. And the only place I can think we might have met is maybe on some flight. Are you a professional baseball player or something like that?”

  “Baseball has never gotten desperate enough to sign someone who hits the curve as poorly as I do.”

  “Football? You look like a football player.”

  I shook my head, smiling. Closer, she was even prettier. Silent, she was the picture of composure. But when she spoke, with her soft Cayman accent, she had just the slightest syncopation of speech that suggested she might have stuttered as a child. “I’m way too clumsy to be a football player,” I said.

  She eyed me carefully. “I’m not sure I believe that. You look anything but clumsy to me.” An electronic bell chimed softly behind her. It was the signal to prepare for landing. She grinned at me and gave a shrug. “Maybe we met in another life then, huh?”

  “If we did, I was a fool to leave it.”

  “How nice of you to say.” She hesitated for a moment, torn between conversation and her job. “Will you be staying on Grand Cayman long?” she asked quickly.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve got some business to take care of. I suppose you’ll be flying out tonight.”

  “No—I’ve got a week off. Some other girls and I keep an apartment there. It’s better than staying with my parents. I’m just going to lie around the pool . . . ”

  “And drink punch?”

  “It really is good. I think you ought to stop by and have some.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Diacona Ebanks.” She held out a soft hand, and I held it briefly. “My friends call me Dia.”

  “And my name is MacMorgan. Dusky.”

  She smiled again. “I’m at the Sea Mist Apartments, Mr. MacMorgan. Make sure you stop by. I feel I owe you something for being so rude. People shouldn’t stare, you know.”

  With that, she moved away, slim hips and smoke-brown hair swaying, bracing herself against airpockets as we readied ourselves for descent.

  I felt the stares of passengers seated nearby on the back of my head, and I saw the looks of envy from the vacationing men. She was some pretty lady, and I couldn’t blame them.

  Below, the sea was a turquoise desert glazed with copper. The sun was wheeling westward, low on the horizon, setting toward another day, other countries, and other lives.

  The plane banked to port, bringing Grand Cayman into view. The island looked gem-like, lush and vulnerable on the immensity of sea. Georgetown was a modern cluster of white buildings fronted by a harbor where old wind ships rested at anchor. A few lights were blinking on inland, and the arrowing strip of runway was illuminated as if craft from outer space were expected.

  People jumped to their feet and grabbed their baggage the moment the plane came to a stop. I sat comfortably, sipping at my beer. Why people force themselves to stand in line when they don’t have to is beyond me. Dia Ebanks slipped me a smile. I was the last to disembark.

  “Sea Mist Apartments,” she reminded me as I ducked beneath the cabin door. “Right off Seven Mile Beach.”

  I took the proffered hand, returned the squeeze, and said good-bye.

  Outside, the clamminess of Miami was replaced by the freshness of an island in the trade winds. Black policemen in white jackets and white English helmets nodded and smiled. Owen Roberts was a small Caribbean airport, neater than most. It smelled of asphalt and the ozone freshness of open sea.

  When I had taken her hand, Dia had slipped me a note. I waited until I had taken care of the immigration formalities to read it. Westy had spotted me by then, and he came charging through the crowd, his big ugly Irish face lit in a grin.

  The note said: “Maybe dinner tonight at ten?”

  I turned to look for her somewhere in the confines of the small terminal.

  I got just the briefest profile of face, body, and wisp of hair as she disappeared out the door and into the Cayman darkness.

  3

  “So what do ya say, Yank? Are ya with me?”

  The voice of O’Davis jerked me out of my reverie. The sound of sea was wild upon the night reef, and a freshening breeze brought the delicate flower and citrus smell of the island to our place on the porch of the small cottage.

  I checked the green glow of my Rolex Submariner. It was almost nine. I’d have to hustle if I wanted to get cleaned up and meet Dia for dinner.

  “What you’re telling me is that you’ve been given the assignment by your government to crack these kidnappers before they kill the boy.”

  “Aye. It’s true I’ve handled tougher cases on me own—but I’d admire havin’ yer company, Yank.” He winked at me.

  “It sounds more like police business than British Secret Service business.”

  “On an island small as this, mate, everything is everyone else’s business.” A coldness came into his eyes as he added, “Besides, the girl had become me lover, remember? You told me once, Dusky, that you knew what it was like to lose a lady. Never asked you about it because I had lost a lady meself. I knew how painful the talking of it was. So now I’ve lost another lady. I didna love her, it’s true. But we had been beneath the covers together, and no human ever seems more alive to another than in circumstances such as that. And now she’s no more. They didna kill her in a very pretty fashion. And they tried to make it look as if I’d done it.”

  “In other words, you asked for the assignment.”

  The coldness was still in his eyes. “Aye, Yank. That I did.”

  “Then I’m with you a hundred percent.”

  He smiled and shook his head, rubbing his hands together like someone anxious for supper. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow mornin’ we start.”

  “You have any leads?”

  “Nary a one.”

  “So we meet with Sir Conan and talk to him, right?”

  “Aye. We’ve got to have a look at the note. The island force is checking with immigration to see if someone is new to the island who mi
ght be a suspect.”

  “When they went over your cottage, did they come up with any fingerprints, anything that might be a clue?”

  “Clean as a whistle. They killed her where she fell—that’s fer sure. I figure someone followed’er to me cottage. I never lock the place, so she jest went on in. You could see where she had made herself a drink, waitin’ for me. She had put the drink down on the coffee table beside a book. Then she went to the door and died.”

  “It seems strange someone would kill her like that. It doesn’t make any sense. The boy was back on the west end of the island, right? Back in his parents’ house?”

  O’Davis shrugged. “Far as anyone knows. That’s where they found the note. The lad’s bed had been slept in. There were marks of a ladder against the wall and the window was open.”

  “So why follow Cynthia Rothchild out here just to kill her? Unless—”

  “I know, Yank,” O’Davis interrupted. “Unless she was involved. Or unless she knew who the kidnappers were. I thought about that meself. In her own way, she was a troubled girl. Beneath the surface, you could see it. I figured she would tell me in time. It crossed me mind that she might be comin’ to me fer help.”

  “On our ride from the airport, we passed a police station in Georgetown and another in Boddentown. If she had seen the kidnappers, why wouldn’t she stop at one of those two police stations? Or just wake up Sir Conan James, for that matter.”

  “Sir Conan wasn’t home, for one thing. But yer right, Yank—she’d have stopped at the constable’s. She didn’t know I served the government in an official capacity.”

  “What about neighbors?” I asked. “You live on a pretty deserted stretch of road here, but I noticed another cottage down the beach a bit. Maybe they heard something.”