by A Tan
We accomplish the red tape, he gives me a free map of St. George's and environs. I note that, as expected, there is at least one half-pint of gas in the five-gallon gas tank. I edge carefully into the tourney and immediately am nearly bowled over and over by a small pale bus with a name across the front of it. The name is: I AM NOTHING.
After I have bought petrol and felt my way back into the center of town, avoiding too intimate a contact with a large gaudy city bus called LET IT BE NIE, I park my Moke and wait until I am certain my legs will work. ("You will enjoy browsing in St. George's along the narrow, quaint streets.")
I changed another wad of Yankee dollars into Biwi at the Bank of Canada, picking that one from among all the shiny banks downtown, from Chase to Barclay's to the Bank of Nova Scotia, because there was a faint aroma of irony in the choice: The girl standing behind the money-changing counter was very dark, very thin, and totally antagonistic-so much so, there was no chance of ever making any kind of human contact with her unless you were her identical anthracite color.
I asked some questions and was directed to a big busy supermarket called EVERYBODY'S FOR EVERYTHING.
As long as I had kitchen facilities and I could make my own ice cubes, it seemed useful to set up shop. Gin, rum, fruit juices from Trinidad, mixes, and a couple of large substantial drink glasses. I am a fussy old party about glassware. Nothing takes the pleasure out of drinking like the tiny dim glasses supplied by hotels and motels. I always buy heavy glasses, always leave them behind. Tiny glasses turn drinking from a pleasure rite to a quasialcoholic twitch.
The final purchase was on impulse at a shop I saw on the Carenage on the way home. A great big planter's hat of straw with a batik band. Put a man in a rental Moke with advertising painted on the side of it and put a funny hat on him, and he is a tourist. All tourists look alike. Regardless of age, sex, or the number of extra lenses for their cameras, they all look alike.
I found my way back out to Grand Anse to hotel row, and I found an overland way to get the Moke close to my cottage. I carried my box of stuff in. From the moment I had awakened until the moment I finished putting the stuff away and sat down, I had not let myself think about Mary, Lisa or the mechanics of impersonation.
It is a useful device. If you keep things in the front of your mind, you worry at them like a hound chomping a dead rabbit. Throw problems in the back cupboard and keep them there as long as you can. The act of stirring around seems to shuffle the elements of a problem into a new order, and when you take it out again, there are new ways to handle it.
I tossed my sweat-soaked shirt aside. The air conditioning felt good on my back and shoulders. Okay. Mary is dead. I want Paul Dissat. I want him very badly. The money is the bait, and Lisa is the bait in another sense. I want very badly to convince Paul and Lisa and Harry Broll that, if given a choice, they would elect retroactive birth control. I want them so eager to be out of it they'd dig their own graves with a bent spoon and their fingernails.
Secondly, as a professional, as a salvage consultant in areas of considerable difficulty, I want to come out of this with a little salvage for myself. If I walk away without a dime, with only expenses I can't reasonably afford, then I lose all respect for myself as a con artist. I would have kicked the hell out of their little wagon just to avenge one hell of a woman, Mary Dillon. Pure emotionalism is bush league.
So? So I do not advise Mr. Willow not to make the loan on Mary's securities. They go to Harry eventually anyway. That is, if Harry happens to be still around. The money has to be loaned to Harry, and Harry has to pick up his block of stock in time and get himself in position to make a great deal of money when the public issue comes out. But that is a long long time for me to wait for my money. I shall use the leverage to extract a reasonable chunk from Paul, maybe from Harry, maybe from both, before I set them to work with those bent spoons.
It may be enough to have Harry and Lisa dig their graves deep with the sides and ends properly squared off and stand in them without the slightest morsel of hope left. Then I walk away and leave them standing there. But Paul is something else.
Program: Lisa must perform exactly as instructed, make her phone call to Harry, and send the cable to Mr. Willow at the bank. I want her to be desperately anxious to tell me all the details of any contact by Paul Dissat. Then I will prepare to greet him. Here. There. Somewhere.
I pulled on my salty swim trunks and put on my big tourist hat and went looking for the lady. She was not in cottage 50. I trudged around, squinting into the hot glare, and found her on a sun cot at the top of the slope that led down to the beach proper. She was facedown. The bikini was yellow today. The top was undone, and she had rolled the fabric of the bottom so that it was about as big around as a yellow lead pencil where it cut across the tanned cheeks on her behind. She was glossy with oil. Her towel was on the sand. I sat on it. Her face was turned away.
"You wanna buy nice coconut, Miss lady? Peanuts? Nice spices?"
She slowly turned her heat-stricken, slackmouthed face toward me. "I don't want any-" She shaded her eyes, squinted. "Oh. It's you."
"Me. Absolutely correct. Me, himself."
"Who needs you?"
She lay with her face turned toward me, eyes closed.
"You need me," I told her.
"Not any more. Thanks a lot. But not any more."
"I don't mean that kind of need, honey. I'm talking about financial need. Commercial necessities."
"Thanks loads. I think I'd better take my chances with Paul."
"That should be a lot of laughs for both of you. I wrote an interesting letter last night."
She forgot her top wasn't latched. She sat up fast. "What kind of a letter? Who to?"
"What's the local policy about the tits on tourists?"
She picked up the top and put it on. "I know what your policy is, friend. You ignore them. What kind of a letter?"
"Double envelope. A sealed letter along inside the sealed letter. If he doesn't hear from me on or before May tenth, he opens the second letter."
"Then what?"
"He takes action."
"What action?*
"Oh, he just gets in touch with the right people at the SEC and says that it looks as if one Mr. Harry Broll bought himself into SeaGate, Inc. with a final three hundred thou fraudulently obtained and that this fact might not be uncovered by the accounting firm preparing the material for the red herring and they should check with a Mr. Willow regarding evidence as to whether or not Mrs. Broll was alive at the time he released funds at her earlier request. My friend is an attorney. He knows all the steps in the new registration folk dance. Delicate, these new issues. They can die of a head cold."
"Oh God! Why'd you think you couldn't trust me?"
"Who said anything about that?"
"Isn't that why you did it?"
"Lisa, Lisa, Lisa. What if we miss? Suppose your dear cousin nails us both, lays us to rest in a ceremonial boat, lights the pyre and sends us out to sea. The last few moments would be a lot more enjoyable knowing Cousin Paul would never make a profit on the deal."
She swallowed hard and looked unhappy. "Don't talk about things like that."
I knew that behind her sun squint her brain was ticking away, weighing and measuring advantages. I reached under the sun cot and retrieved her big sunglasses from the magazine on which they lay and handed them to her.
"Thanks, dear," she said, putting them on. "Sure. I see what you mean. And if he catches us sort of off base, it could maybe be handy to tell him about your lawyer friend."
"Yes. I think so. If he gives me a chance."
"Can't you see why I thought you did it on account of me?"
I thought it over. "Well, I suppose I can in a way. If you did decide he represents a better chance, you could tip him off about me and he could... tidy up the situation."
She turned over and put her feet down on the sand near my legs. Her hairline was sweaty. Trickles of sweat ran down her throat, and a little ri
vulet ran between her breasts and down across her belly to soak into the narrow yellow bikini. Her knees were apart, and the cot was so short-legged that her knees were on the same level as her breasts. Her eyes were even with the top of my head.
She leaned toward me, forearms on her knees, and said in a cooing voice, "You know, you act so weird about me, about us, that I'm afraid I'm going to keep on misinterpreting the things you say. We're going to keep on having misunderstandings. I waited a long time last night for you to come over to my place to say you were sorry."
I looked at her. Bright sunshine is as cruelly specific as lab lights and microscopes. There was a small double chin, caused by the angle of her head. There was a scar on her upper lip near the nostril. Her hands and feet were small, square and sturdy, nails carefully tended. Her posture made a narrow tan roll of fat across her trim belly. Her slender waist made a rich line that flowed in a double curve, concave, convex, into the ripe tan hip and thigh. She sat with her plump parts pouched into the yellow fabric, heavy and vital. Stray pubic hairs, longer than the others, curled over the top of the bikini and escaped at the sides of the crotch, hairs the color of dull copper.
Sweat, muscles, flesh, hair, closeness. So close the tightness of the yellow pouch revealed the cleavage of labia. This was the magic and mystery of a locker room, steam room, massage table, or of a coeducational volleyball game in a nudist colony. This was jockstrap sex, unadorned.
"Lisa, I guess we have to say things so carefully we won't have misunderstandings."
"Maybe I got the wrong impression yesterday. You wouldn't be queer, darling?"
"No more than any other true-blue American lad."
"Some kind of trouble? You can tell Lisa. Prostate, maybe? Or some kind of irritation?"
"I'm in glowing health."
"Honey, are you so strung out on some great broad that you just don't want to make it with another girl? I could understand that. I've been through that."
"Nobody I've met lately has gotten to me."
Her mouth firmed, and her throat turned darker. "Am I some kind of pig woman it would turn your stomach to-"
"Whoa! It's just a little rule of mine. Save the dessert until last."
Her mouth softened into a sudden smile. "Dessert? Darling, I am also homemade soup, meat and potatoes, hot rolls and butter, and your choice of beverages. I am mostly meat and potatoes."
"There's another reason for waiting, Lisa."
"Like?"
She was ready again, I decided. Like training a mule. A good, solid blow between the eyes, and I should have her total attention.
"It's kind of a sad story, dear."
"I love sad stories. I love to cry and cry."
"Well, once upon a time there was this lovely, delicate little blond lady, and she and I were partners in a complicated little business deal. We took our plans and problems to bed, and talked them over during rest periods. I freaked over that little lady. She loved to make love. Then our business deal went sour. it fell apart. That was too damned bad because it was a nice piece of money for both of us. Well, one day a month later we romped all day together, happy as children, and that night I took her out in a boat, a nice runabout, out into the Atlantic. It was calm and beautiful, and I made her sit on the side rail, and I aimed a Colt.45 with the muzzle an inch from her pretty brow and blew the top of her head off. I wired the spare anchor to her waist and let her go in a half-mile of water, and the moon was so bright that night I could see her for a long way as she went down. Now you can cry."
Her mouth sagged open. She put a hand to her throat and in a husky whisper said, "Jesus H. Christ!"
"That idiot girl thought that by sleeping with me she was buying insurance, in case I ever found out she had gone behind my back and made her own deal for half again as much as she would have made as my partner. She was so convinced of it, she was starting to smile when I pulled the trigger. You're not crying."
"Jesus H. Christ!"
"You said that before, Lisa. After that I decided it's bad policy. I made the punishment fit the crime, but I hated myself. You know? I used to think of that little blonde a lot. It used to depress me. It seemed like a waste, all those goodies sinking to the bottom of the sea."
"What are you?"
"Me? I'm your partner, Lisa. And we trust each other, don't we? Nobody is going to try to be cute. But... just in case... let's save all the goodies until after we've made the money score?"
"T-that suits me, Gavin," she said. She clapped her thighs together so smartly they made a damp slapping sound. "L-later. I... I got to go for a minute. I'll be back."
"I'll probably be swimming."
She went off toward her place, walking slightly knock-kneed, head bowed and shoulders hunched. An imaginary letter and an imaginary blond partner. I could imagine that dear imaginary girl sinking down down through the black water, hair outspread, getting smaller and smaller and more and more indistinct until she was gone out of my imaginary life forever. Poor kid. Gavin Lee was a mean son of a bitch. It made me almost want to cry. Now the Lisa-McGee contest could be declared no contest. The lady wasn't going to come out for the third round. She was cowed. She was going to do as she was told. She was going to have as much sex drive from here on as a harem guard. And at the first ward from her cousin she was going to come on the run to tell me all about it.
That evening she was so prim it was as if she had never left the convent school. We walked on the beach and got back to the cottages just after dark. We went to her place. She unlocked the gate. We went in, and she screamed as the two dark shapes jumped me. It got very interesting. They both knew a lot more about it than Carl Brego had. If they had been ready and willing to kill, they had me. But they weren't. And that gave me a better chance than I thought I was going to get.
I took punishment and gave it back. Whistling grunts of effort. Slap and thud of blows. Scuff of feet. I took one on the shoulder, off balance, and fell and rolled hard and came up near a yellow light bulb. A half-familiar voice said, "Hold it! I said hold it, Attie! I know this joker."
The voice was suddenly very familiar. "Rupe, you dreary bastard, what are you trying to do?"
"A favor for a friend. Lady, if you can get some Kleenex and some rubbing alcohol or some gin, I'd be obliged. And turn on some lights around here."
I told Lisa it was all right. She turned on the garden lights and the inside lights. She had some alcohol and a big roll of paper towels. All three of us were breathing hard. We were all marked, one way and another.
I said, "Mary, this is an old friend of mine. Rupert Darby, a sailing man. Rupe, Mary Broll."
"Pleased to meet you, Mary. And this here, Mary, is Artie Calivan. Artie is mate on the Dulcinea, and I'm hired captain. And this big rawboned bastard it's so hard to get a clean shot at, Artie, is an old friend of mine from way back. Trav McGee."
"McGee?" Lisa said blankly.
"It's a kind of joke name, honey," I said. "It comes from an old limerick. Trav rhymes with Gav for Gavin. And McGee rhymes with Lee."
If it had just hung there, I couldn't have brought it off. But Rupe came in very smoothly. "I'd like to recite you the limerick, Miz Mary, but it's just too dirty to repeat in front of a lady. I use that old name on Gav when I'm trying to get his goat. I think I've got one tooth here that isn't going to grow back tight again, dammit."
I looked at his mate. "You brought along a big one."
"Seems he was needed. I needed two like him."
"You were doing fine with just one of him. But why?"
"Oh, that damn Brego. What did you think? He whined all day about how us hired captains ought to help each other out, and he said this big fellow, quick and mean as a sneak, had filched his piec-excuse me, Miz Broll, his lady friend. So finally I said to Artie here, let's take the dinghy and run over there to the inn and bounce this tourist around some. Had no idea it was you, Tr-Gav. None at all. Sorry. But not too sorry. First time I haven't been half asleep in two weeks."
&
nbsp; I dabbed at a long scratch on my jaw and moved over to Lisa and put my arm around her waist. "Honey, have you got any message you want these fine men to deliver to Mr. Brego?"
"Rupe? Artie? Would you tell him that Mrs. Broll suggests he stop by again and try his luck with Mr. Lee?"
Rupe laughed. "Sure."
"Would you mind taking some of his things back to him?"