Grand Cayman Slam

by Striker, Randy

  “Aye. Me neighbor is crazy old Hubbard MacDonnel. A black MacDonnel he is, and a wonderful character. Makes ’is livin’ with a few mango trees and by buildin’ cottages in the back-time way, usin’ ironwood and wattle. Makes his plaster in an old lime kiln.”

  “Did the police talk to him?”

  “They did. But you couldn’t expect old Hubbard to tell the officials much. I figure we can catch up with him in the mornin’, or tomorrow night on the west end in Hell.”

  “Hell? Is that a joke?”

  He chuckled. “Ye might think so. But it’s not. We got a little settlement on the island the backtimers named Hell because the rock formations there resemble somethin’ ye might expect to find down under. Hubbard visits his island mates there at a club called the Inferno.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “Aye, ’tis.”

  O’Davis rolled his neck, trying to relax. He went inside and returned with two bottles of Red Stripe beer. He handed me mine, then half drained his in a gulp.

  I reached over and put my hand on his thick shoulder. “Don’t worry, Westy. If there’s any way to track those guys down in seventy-two hours, well find it.”

  “Aye, that we will. But the rough part will be separatin’ them from the boy.”

  “One step at a time, O’Davis. We have to figure out who they are, first. And maybe we have a little more to go on than you figured.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We have to assume the murder of Cynthia Rothchild and the kidnapping of the kid . . . what’s his name?”

  “Thomas. Thomas James.”

  “We have to assume the two are related. They took little Thomas from his bedroom by ladder—it means they had some knowledge of the layout of the house. And they also knew the windows would not be locked. If they’d been unsure about the windows, they wouldn’t have even bothered with the ladder. They’d have just picked the lock on the door.”

  “Aye. I kin see that.”

  “And we know something else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whoever killed Cynthia knew you weren’t home.”

  “How do you figure, Yank?”

  “If they’d known, they’d have murdered her before she went into your house. I think setting you up was an afterthought on their part. And not a very smart one. It was a half-assed job. They obviously didn’t know if you would or would not have an alibi. It tells us something about the people involved in this. It tells us they can be hasty. And sloppy. It tells us they take chances. Stupid chances. It means that if we can find them, we can beat them.”

  O’Davis let his face contort into a soft Irish grin. “Aye. I knew that already, lad. Almost feel sorry for the bloody buggers, I do. Almost.”

  I had stashed my canvas duffel on the porch of O’Davis’ cottage. It was a pretty little three room cottage of white board and batten built beneath coconut palms on a sandy expanse of beach twenty yards from the edge of the sea. It was fronted by the main road that twisted along the southern boundary of Grand Cayman between West Bay and East End. Every now and then a car would go roaring by in the March night, but mostly there was only the sound of the wind and sea and the buzz of nocturnal insects.

  The house was built to be open to the sea, and through the big front window I could look inside and see the grim outline of the dead woman on the floor.

  O’Davis seemed to read my thoughts. “Not a very pleasant thing to sleep with.”

  “I’ll get a scrub brush and some heavy cleaner in town tonight. It’ll be gone in the morning.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Yank. Yer a kind one, ya are. Couldn’t bear the thought o’ touchin’ the thing. . . . ”

  So I showered and shaved in the narrow confines of the cottage bathroom, changed into clean soft gray pants and a blue cotton shirt. The trade wind blowing off the sea dried me more thoroughly than the towel. When I went outside to ask if I could borrow the Irishman’s car, he was gone. There was only a note on the table.

  Yank—

  Here are the keys to the Fiat. Expect you’ll be wantin’ to go into town for a beer or two. Sorry, but I’m just not in the mood. Watch the brakes—they only work when they want to. We drive in the proper way on Grand Cayman—on the left side of the road—but I’m afraid all the drivers here are as careless as Baptists without a sin to their names. Be careful.

  Wes

  I took the pen and added “See you tonight or in the morning” at the bottom of the note, then went outside to the car.

  I had seen O’Davis in his black Irish moods before, and knew there was nothing to be gained by trying to console him. I could picture him outside on the long empty edge of sea with a bottle of Shannon whiskey held ready in one big fist while he walked and studied the chaotic swirl of stars and universe with accusing eyes.

  He had said he hadn’t loved Cynthia Roth-child. But he had felt something for her. That was becoming increasingly clear.

  And I didn’t envy the people who had murdered her once O’Davis caught up with them. I didn’t envy them one bit.

  It was a boxy little Fiat with mush for brakes and a bad muffler. I backed out of the drive and headed west toward Georgetown. The Fiat began to miss badly at fifty, and the muffler made it scream as if I were doing ninety. I rolled down the windows; the rush of wind was cloying with salt and fragrant night.

  Through the lasering headlights, island and sea swept past as I headed for Georgetown and my date with this new stranger, Diacona Ebanks. I wondered about this mystery lady as I drove. It’s not uncommon for a stewardess to hunt company in a strange town. But Dia was very obviously an islander by birth. So why had she come on to me?

  It was a pleasant mystery; something to toy with while I drove. I tried to reconstruct her face in my mind and found I could not. I had not seen her long enough to remember the details of her face. There was only the impression of clear nut-colored skin, big brown eyes, Polynesian hair, and the heavy thrust of breasts beneath flight attendant’s jacket.

  Jungled growth of mangrove and vines and Cuban laurel pressed in on the twisting road. Calcareous rock protruded from the vines and huge gray land crabs skittered sideways with malevolent eyes.

  I drove past Frank’s Sound and through the little scattering of houses called Breakers, where the good smell of fried turtle came from the seaside fortress of the Island Club.

  It was a pleasant night to drive: bright moon over the Caribbean; small houses alight, and the vision of dark island faces passing before windows. A stranger to this isle of pirates, fishermen, green-turtle hunters and English gentry, I found the atmosphere of a land so dependent on the sea a palpable thing; an atmosphere easily seen and more easily felt.

  I was just passing the island drive-in—a bleak structure of white and blue with a stark concreteblock screen—when I noticed the other car in my rearview mirror.

  It came charging around the curve as we headed into Bodden town, pulled right up on my bumper, then refused to pass as I slowed and waved him around.

  So close on my bumper was he that I could see it was some kind of slinky racing machine: Jaguar or Triumph.

  He had bright lights on along with a bank of fog lamps that blinded me every time I stared into the mirror.

  O’Davis had warned me about the crazy drivers in Grand Cayman—but I didn’t think anybody could be that stupid.

  I slowed for Boddentown, with its row of small tin-roofed houses, then pulled off into the shell drive of the Sand Castle Apartments.

  The driver downshifted, tires squealing, then raced on ahead, disappearing around the curve and down the hill toward Georgetown.

  But not for long.

  It was a Jag, low-slung and silver. I saw it sitting, lights out, on a dirt road like a cop in a speed trap. Had I seen it soon enough, I would have pulled over and let the driver know just what I thought of his brand of high-speed stupidity.

  Instead, I saw him too late and went puttering on by at a stately forty-five mile
s an hour.

  The Jag screamed out behind me, lights on high beam, and began his bumper-to-bumper game again.

  And that’s when I knew this was no ordinary automotive maniac. Somebody in that car wanted me. And it wasn’t long before I knew how badly he wanted me.

  It was a desolate stretch of highway between Boddentown and Savanah, with plenty of curves. Every time I slowed for one of the curves, he would come screaming up behind me, touch bumpers, then drop quickly back in case I jammed on the brakes.

  There was no danger of that, because the brakes of the Fiat were so bad. He wanted me to stop; wanted me to pull over. That was obvious. And nobody would want that unless he was armed. Well armed.

  I changed tactics. I floored the Fiat, little engine screaming as I slid my way through a series of tricky S-curves.

  The Jag had no trouble staying right on my tail. The Fiat just wasn’t a match. And truthfully, I’m not much of a driver. I hate cars. I’d rather spend ten days on a boat than ten minutes in one of those pot-metal deathtraps. I admit that I like to drive slowly. My friends are all too willing to point out that I drive like an old lady.

  The driver of the Jag had no such phobia. Twice he almost nosed me off curves into the jungled mainland. I kept trying to brake unexpectedly so that I could pull in behind him. But the Fiat’s brakes just weren’t up to it. I had just about decided to stop and make a fight of it when I noticed a turnoff ahead. The sign said it was the road to Newland.

  There wasn’t much hope of losing the Jag with a sudden turn, but I had to give it a try.

  Every time he had tried to nose me off the road, I had clamped on the brakes. And he had come to expect just that—or so I hoped.

  At the turnoff, I swung suddenly right. Again he pulled ahead, trying to force me into the ditch. He expected me to brake. But I didn’t. Instead, I accelerated, catching his fender with mine. The Jag swerved, then spun on the loose gravel. My Fiat slid dangerously toward the chunks of rock at the edge of the road. I turned the wheel in a wild, uncontrolled drift. I got the car stopped, realizing for the first time my Fiat had stalled. The Jag was about forty yards away. A door swung open as I tried to get my wheezy old engine to start again.

  A small slim figure got out, and I saw the revolver gleam before I heard it.

  Glass exploded around me. Three times he shot. I crouched down behind the wheel, trying to get the door of the passenger side open before my assassin came to inspect his kill.

  I hoped to jump him as he peered into the car. But I never got the chance.

  He seemed satisfied with the three shots; inexplicably, he jumped back in the Jag and roared off.

  I sat in the new silence, breathing deeply. The Fiat had overheated. The engine tick-tick-ticked, as if affronted by the strain I had put it under.

  Land crabs rustled in the bushes, and somewhere a dog barked in the Cayman night.

  When I judged it safe, I started the car and headed on in to Georgetown and my dinner date with Dia Ebanks.

  4

  Her apartment was a concrete-and-stucco multistory structure which, like most of the other buildings on Cayman’s Seven Mile Beach, could have just as easily been a part of Miami.

  Red and yellow decorator lights were aimed at a trio of coconut palms in front—a particularly nauseating landscaper’s trick that only cheapened the place.

  While traffic on the east end of the island was sparse to nonexistent, the tourist mecca of Seven Mile Beach was alight with neon and headlights. Newlyweds walked hand in hand and vacationing Americans roamed the streets in flowered shirts, looking in shop windows.

  My confrontation with the Jag had made me a little late. I parked the Fiat in a visitor space as the sign ordered, then made my way up the stairs to the second floor. Her apartment was 23A. The door was made of steel with a little glass peephole. The hole darkened momentarily after I rang and then the door swung open.

  I watched her face closely.

  “Dusky!”

  No trace of surprise in her voice—just a cordial delight in seeing her guest had arrived.

  “Sorry I’m late, Dia. Had some car trouble.”

  She led me across plush carpet, past modern bamboo and cast-iron furniture, saying as she went, “Now that you’re in the Caymans you mustn’t worry about always being on time.” She laughed pleasantly. “Believe me, no one else here does.”

  The apartment had a veranda that looked out onto the harbor. Boats at anchor were lighted in the glaze of moon, and voices trickled across the water like wind chimes. I took a seat on one of the porch chairs that faced the water.

  “Would you like something to drink? I bought Red Stripe beer just for you.”

  “That would be fine.”

  She handed me the cold bottle and poured a glass of white wine for herself.

  There was that awkward pause of strangers in potentially intimate circumstances before she took a seat.

  “Nice night.”

  “Beautiful. I love the moon on the water. That’s why we chose this apartment.”

  “You and another flight attendant?”

  “Myself and two others. But we’re hardly ever here at the same time. It works out perfectly.” She hesitated. “There are two bedrooms—but only one double bed. And I hate small beds. Don’t you?”

  She wore one of those terry-cloth running suits made by New York designers for people who never run. Short shorts and tennis shirt were both white with burnt-orange trim. It made her skin look three shades darker than it really was and added a coconut-oil gloss to her hair. The fingernails of the hand which held her wineglass were long and carefully manicured. She wore a few pieces of dainty jewelry: a slim gold chain around an ankle, a ring with birthstone, two folds of intricate necklace that draped toward the veeing of her terry-cloth shirt and the heavy thrust of breasts. When the light was just right, through the white material, you could see that she was quite braless. Her face was a beautiful composite of Cayman’s four hundred years of seafaring infidelities: Indian, Negro, Spanish, and Scotch—it was all there in the perfect curvature of cheeks and nose and delicate jaw. Her eyes were so dark that they seemed to suggest mystery, and when they caught mine, they seemed to glow.

  With all of this was something else; something nurtured by Dia Ebanks on her own. It was a surprising air of sophistication, an air of the cosmopolitan probably developed through her profession.

  Superficially, she seemed at ease. It was as if having a big blond stranger in her apartment was nothing out of the ordinary. But beneath that, I could see something else: a furtive nervousness that I couldn’t decipher. I couldn’t tell if she was uneasy because of me—or something else.

  In her soft Cayman accent, Dia Ebanks asked, “You said earlier that you came to the islands on business, Dusky. Do you mind if I ask what your business is?”

  “Not at all. I run charterboats in Key West. I came to Grand Cayman at the request of a friend to see about setting up a similar business.”

  “Another charter boat service on this island?” She chuckled softly. “Heavens, I can’t imagine there’s any need. Every man and boy I know charters.”

  “What, no woman captains?”

  She cocked her head ever so slightly. Her long raven hair cascaded over her shoulder. “I thought about it. No—don’t laugh! I did. My father was a sailing captain, and my grandfather, and his father before him. All wind captains. They would hunt the green turtle. Sometimes they would take me with them on short trips when I was a little girl. It was all so ... fine. The men and their jokes, and the smell of the boat and seeing the big green turtles pulled up in the traps. I loved it. I did. I wanted to be a boy for the longest time.”

  “I’m probably one of many who are very glad you didn’t get your wish.”

  She laughed. “That’s kind of you to say—but I was horribly disappointed for a time. But then, when I was fifteen or sixteen, I began to . . . develop. There was no doubt I was going to be female. A New York fashion model was on
the island shooting a display for a big magazine. He saw me, asked me to pose, and suddenly I was making more money than my poor parents.”

  “You went to New York?”

  “Yes. For one horrible year. When I was eighteen. It was an education. I learned to appreciate the finer things in life, though. But that exposure made it ... well, impossible to return to Cayman and live full time. Like that wonderful book You Can’t Go Home Again. It’s true. The people here hadn’t changed. But I had.”

  “Why didn’t you continue your modeling?”

  She smirked. “I wanted to. But they didn’t want me by the time I was twenty. How many ... full-figured girls do you see modeling clothes? And by the time I was twenty I was becoming a little overdeveloped. So I decided being a flight attendant would be the perfect job for me. I could still live in the Caymans, but I could also live away from them. It’s like living two lives.”

  “And you’re satisfied?”

  She thought for a moment. “Sometimes I’m sorry I ever left the island. Sometimes I wish I had just married one of the local fishermen and settled down with about a dozen kids and a couple of turtle traps. I feel that way when my life begins to seem a little too complicated. Like now . . . ”

  “Now?”

  I saw the old nervousness return to her eyes. The moon was high over the apartment balcony, and her face was lovely and easy to read. She suddenly looked at her watch. “I like you, Dusky.”

  “Great,” I said. “Does that mean you’re about to tell me something, Dia?”

  She nodded. “When I saw you on the plane, I pictured you as another type of man. The self-important athlete type; big and brash and not easily hurt. But I was wrong. You’re quiet and understanding, and your eyes tell me you care for people. . . . ”

  “Dia, just what in the hell are you getting at?”

  Suddenly, there was a loud pounding at the door. “Oh Lord,” Dia said, “he’s here already.” She got to her feet quickly, wringing her hands.

  “Dia, do you mind telling me—”

  “Dusky! I’ve got to hide you.”