15
He felt badly for Felix, he truly did. Hunched over the gunwale, making sounds like a dying seal. Rrroaaaa. Having his ribs wrapped up tight as an Egyptian mummy, that couldn't help.
Charley dipped the washcloth into the ice water at the bottom of the cooler and put it on the back of Felix's sunburning neck. "You want a cracker? That might help." Charley's suggestion was followed by a basso profundo rrrruuuuua. Charley patted his back. "That's it. Let it out. Don't fight it." Take a cracker the size of the Ritz to soak up what was ailing Felix. Should have put on that scopolamine patch. Felix could be stubborn. Didn't want drugs, wanted a clear head.
The Gulf Stream was rocking the boat in the cleavage of D-cup bosomy swells. It was hot, the sun beat down on the [unclear] slick. Charley reached over the side and cut the line holding a perforated white bucket of mashed grunt and watched it descend. The water was so clear out here beyond the hundred-fathom [missing]. Small fish followed the bucket, pecking at the loosened chunks of greasy meat, darting and retreating with the glee of looters. Charley followed it down to where the water turned cobalt and the became a speck on its way to becoming a free lunch for great marlins. Suddenly it was many years ago and he could hear Margaret's voice.
"Daddy has a nervous stomach," she was saying.
"Ain't nuthin' unusual about that," said Charley, coiling a line.
Margaret smiled at him. "Isn't."
"Huh?"
"Not huh, Charles. And it's isn't," Margaret whispered, the [missing] her daddy couldn't have heard over the sound of his overboard retching. "You're not trying, Charles."
"Maggie-"
"Margaret."
"Why don't we get him inside. He's gonna sunstroke himself out here."
"Going to get sunstroke. Daddy," she said, "I want you to go inside now and lie down. Charles, you take that arm now." The captain stayed aloof at his controls on the cabin top while the mate helped the daughter of the drunk who'd chartered his deep-fishing boat get her father down below out of the scorching sun. The man had prepaid in full, so it was no skin off his ass; it was a mystery why a man who drank like that would come down Houston to Rockport to go deep-sea fishing when he couldn't [missing] stand. It was his genes that would kill Charley Junior, his son, on that road in Bethesda thirty years later. It's all Charley thought. You can run from that double helix, but you hide…
Rrrruh. Charley wrung out the washcloth and put it on [missing] neck. "You know," he said, "it makes you appreciate all the more what your people went through leaving Cuba in those leaky boats getting away from Castro."
Felix appeared to derive no consolation from this. Charley said, "We oughta head back into Cat Cay."
"No," Felix said, and spat. "I'm okay."
"We'll, I'm getting sick watching you. I'm taking her in." He climbed up onto the tuna tower and started the engines and throttled up to 2,100 and pointed her north-northwest. He said into the radio, "Papa Dog One to Bird Dog."
"Bird Dog."
"I got a sick sea dog out here I'm taking into the flat and level. You okay on supplies for tonight?"
"We got a severe mosquito situation here, Papa Dog."
"Well, I'm sorry about that but you boys are capable of handling that." Mac and Bundy had gotten a tad soft since Vietnam, considering Bundy had told him about a time in the Delta when he'd spent three entire days in his ghillie suit crawling across a hundred-meter rice paddy teeming with leeches, pinned down by snipers, so thirsty and hungry he started eating the leeches after the second day. Now he was griping about mosquitoes. "Roger that, Bird Dog. I'll bring some more of that bug juice with me." They used something called Skin So Soft, by the ding-dong Avon Calling folks, a bath oil that repelled bugs. Mercenaries smearing themselves with ladies' bath oil. Charley looked over at his radar screen and there it was, a green phosphorus dot at ten o'clock, bearing north and moving fast.
"Stand by, Bird Dog, we got a possible heading your direction." Charley put his binoculars on the horizon and waited. He saw her, bouncing off the Gulf Stream's crests like a giant flying fish. The speed these things were capable of took your breath away-or could give you a spine problem. Men with gold chains would turn up at boat shows with briefcases full of hundred-dollar bills-twenty pounds of hundreds to a million; that was how they counted their money, they weighed it-to buy the latest hot boat. U.S. Customs had some hot boats, but these-these boats were pure speed. Charley clocked her on the radar. Eighty-five miles an hour. "You up to this?” shouted down at Felix. Felix chambered a round into the shotgun he had velcroed under the gunwale for quick release. He looked up at Charley as if to say that dying could only be an improvement.
A minute later they saw the plane.
It was a twin-engine Piper Aztec, coming out of the southwest, less than a hundred feet off the water to avoid Miami Center. Fat Albert, the Customs aerostat over Cudjoe Key, might have picked it up, but unless they had a chaser on station, the plane would be on its way back to Panama with a bellyful of fuel and cash before they were clear of Cape Florida. The plane veered toward them. Charley and Felix scrambled to switch places, Charley in the fighting chair, Felix at the controls in the tuna tower. The plane swooped over them. Charley waved. It circled back toward them and for a moment Charley thought it might open up on them. Barazo said it was fitted with a fifty-cal, but that was probably bluster. If dopers started turning their planes into fighters, that was all the excuse the military would need to go after them with F-14s. Charley waved again. The plane flew past toward the beach on the west shore of Andros, where German U-boats used to put in. Charley saw him lining up for his final approach. "Papa Dog, you see him?"
"Roger."
"Going in."
Charley watched the plane with collegial interest. Setting down on a fifteen-degree-inclined sand beach was nice work. Most of these pilots were American boys, vets and crop dusters, Charley thought with a somewhat conflicted admixture of sorrow and patriotism. Look at him, he's got dry tanks, he's got to set her down on sand in a ten-knot crosswind with the possibility of the beach turning into a hot LZ if the Bahamian Defense Force decided Barazo's monthly retainer wasn't enough and leave himself enough room to touch-and-go if bullets start zipping through his windows; then there's the problem of where do you go, with maybe five minutes' fuel? He was going in. Charley found himself saying, "Tad more starboard rudder, windward wheel down first. Good. Real nice."
'Course, at these prices you were always going to find a pilot willing to take the risks. According to Barazo, Sanchez paid his pilots $2,000 per kilo. Five hundred kilos per load-a million dollars, for seven hours' flying. Fancy, Charley thought, switching places again with Felix, steering an erratic course toward the beach, a million dollars for seven hours' work. What did it work out to? Figure round trio, since the pilot had to haul Barazo's payment for the cocaine back to Sanchez on Isola Verde. Fourteen into a million… Lord in heaven, $71,428 an hour. About what Mike Milken was making.
"How you doing, Bird Dog? Bird Dog?"
Bird Dog panted. "He put down too far north. He's two clicks north of our position. Repeat-"
"I heard you. Get on the hump, son."
Felix said, "There's three of them in the boat." The Black Max had nosed up onto the beach right beside the Piper. They were refueling.
"Try to keep out of sight," said Charley. "They aren't going to fuss with an old man. But you look like a cop." Felix was pouring a beer over his shirt. Authenticity. You have to inhabit the role. They were a few hundred yards off the sand beach now, the water turning from turquoise to white. Stunning beach; it deserved better than this. Charley revved his engines into the red and throttled back, smoke and water churning. He went aground just a few feet offshore. The Hatteras lurched, Charley fell off his chair with a loud "Damn!"
He stumbled to his feet all wobbly. They were pointing their weapons at him, Ingrams and Uzis. Must have an aggregate rate of fire of 3,600 rounds. The pilot was Anglo, the others Latino.
&nb
sp; Charley staggered and fell down and got up and gave them all a great big grin. "Howdy!" He let out a loud, beery belch. Charley had given thought to his wardrobe: black knee socks, Bermuda shorts, a beer-drenched T-shirt-stunk, in this sun-that announced, from neck to belly:
MY WIFE SAYS I HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM.
I AGREE.
MY PROBLEM IS
I DON'T DRINK ENOUGH.
"This here island Biminimi? BimiNiñom-" Belch.
The pilot said, "Bimini's that way, about a hundred miles."
Charley looked in the indicated direction and sighed. "Damnit, Felix, I told you it wunt Binimi. Felix? My friend," he said to the men on the beach, "has imbibed himself, and he was the navigator." Belch. Charley peered. "Is that an airplane?"
One of the Latinos waded toward them, weapon first. He peered over the side into the well. Felix was lying on his stomach on a deck cushion, mouth open, arm across his face, snoring.
"Worthless." Charley shook his head. "No offense. Him being Hispanic and all."
"Fuck you, man."
"Well, whud I say?"
The pilot took a few steps. "What's the problem, man?"
"I don't know," said Charley. "Musta said something. Habla oosted español? You hablo español mooey-"
"Hey, shut the fuck up, man."
"And they says manners are dead," Charley grumbled. "You boys care for a cold beer?"
"Get this fucking boat out of here."
The pilot spoke to one of the other Latinos, who called to the one by the boat, "Spera, Chavo. Spera."
The pilot walked toward Charley's boat. He was in his late thirties, dirty-blond hair, and might've been handsome but for the ugliest scar stitched across his forehead, a real scar, the kind that says: "Scar." It looked like someone had sewn the top of his head back on with twelve-pound-test fishing line. He spoke to Charley in a jus'-'tween-us-white-boys. He had a Southern accent.
"Mister," he said, "you need to back your boat out of here now. Start your engines. Come on now."
But Charley was looking at the plane, entranced by the plane. "You landed that? Here?"
"I ran out of gas. These guys here were passing by and were kind enough to loan me some high octane. Best you move along now, mister."
"That's some flying, son," said Charley. "Frank Borman would be proud of you."
"Look, mister-"
"I'm going, I'm going. Rush rush rush. Everyone's in a rush. And they say it's better in the Bahamas."
"Papa Dog."
"What was that?"
He'd forgotten to turn off the radio. Once again, the human element fails us.
"Whut was whut?"
"Papa Dog, we are still one click from your position. Do you copy?"
The pilot pulled his gun out now. The Latino in the water was wading toward the transom and pulling himself aboard.
Charley was standing in the tuna tower, as exposed as a referee at a tennis match, and surrounded by McEnroes with machine pistols.
"Fuck is going on, mister?" said the pilot.
The other man came over the transom and pulled himself into the boat. Felix stirred, looked up, blinked. "Who are you?" he said, sounding drunk. The man hit him across the face hard with his MAC 10.
"Hey!" Charley shouted. The man aimed his weapon at the tower and fired. There were eight shots to the short burst; only one of them hit Charley, in and out the shin.
"Hold it," the pilot commanded. He waded aboard. Felix groaned. Charley dealt with the pain in his leg. The pilot was pointing his gun at him.
Charley said, "What the hell you boys so damn worked up about?"
"Get down off there." The pilot drew back the hammer on his.38. Charley came down the ladder, one excruciating step at a time. He fell down the last two rungs and landed on the deck by the ice cooler. The man with the MAC had Felix by the shirt and was about to smash him in the face again. Charley said, "Don't do that, please."
The man hit Felix again with his gun.
Charley's eyes flashed. "You tell your friend to stop that. Tell him now."
"He wouldn't take orders from Jesus Christ himself. Who was that on the radio?"
"How the hell should I know? Just tell him to stop. If it's money you're after, I got a coupla hundred in my wallet down below and some traveler's checks."
"Hey, man," said the Latino, "I ain't no fucking thief."
"No," said Charley, "'course not."
"I'm gonna shoot these fuckers now, man."
The pilot said, "Hold on, Chavo, okay? Just hold on."
One of the other men by the cigarette boat shouted, "Fuck is happening, man? Let's get out of here."
"I'm gonna shoot 'em now, man."
"Look, mister," said the pilot, "you wandered into a situation here."
Charley said, "If you're going to kill us, at least don't let me die with a dry mouth."
The pilot seemed unsure, then a flicker of compassion crossed his face. "Okay. Go ahead."
Charley reached for the cooler. "You want one?"
"Uh, yeah. Thanks."
Charley flipped back the cooler lid. "What kind you want?"
"It don't matter."
"I got different kinds."
"It really don't matter, mister. Anything."
"Bud?"
"Bud's fine."
"Miller?"
"Fine."
"I got Colt.45."
"That's nigger beer."
Charley said, "Maybe I'll have the Colt then." He shot the Latino in the arm. Felix ripped the shotgun from its Velcro sling and blew a hole in the man's back the size of a cantaloupe. The pilot turned toward Charley and found himself staring into the barrel of his Army-issue Model 1911. "Drop it," said Charley, "or I'll drop you like a dog."
The side of the boat splintered from automatic-weapons fire. Felix, the pilot and Charley hunched low in the well of the fishing boat, Felix firing a few aimless rounds over the side. Charley kept his gun pointed at the pilot's forehead. They heard the motorboat's engines start up, a powerful rumble, five zoo-horsepower outboards firing, churning sand and water, backing off the beach. Felix kilroyed his face over the side; one was at the wheel, the other firing at them. "They're leaving," Felix shouted. "Where the hell are they?"
"Humpin'," said Charley, breathing hard. "They're humpin'."
[Mssing] came a sound like a cannon from the tree line down the beach-made the Uzis and MAC sound like toy guns. A sound with balls. 165 grains of copper-jacketed lead leaving the barrel at 3,100 feet per second. It met up with the man's skull. He went over the side.
Rostow, wheezing from their mile-and-a-half with all the equipment, spotted through the binoculars. "One down," he said. Bundy brought back the bolt on the Winchester.300 magnum, placed another round in the receiver and chambered it slowly, gently, so as not to deform the copper jacket against the throat. He sighted through the scope. The driver, spooked by the fact of his companion's exploded cranium, was crouching beneath the dash, trying to back the boat out into deeper water.
Bundy lowered the rifle. "Let me have the fifty."
Rostow unslung the other rifle, a custom piece of gunsmithing. It was a fifty-caliber sniper rifle designed for SEALs and Special Forces by a firm out in Phoenix. It weighed twenty-one pounds, had a twenty-nine-inch barrel, took two to four ounces of pressure on the trigger and was mounted with a 20-power Leupold scope that created intimacy between shooter and target. Ordinarily a gun this size gives a fierce kick, but its designers had affixed a special muzzle brake to the end of the barrel that trapped the volcano of gas that followed the bullet out and deployed it to pull the gun away from the shooter's shoulder. Still, she kicked.
"You might want to use earplugs," said Bundy.
"Just shoot. He's getting away. Jesus Christ."
"Told you." Black smoke started to pour from one of the engines. Bundy drew back the fluted bolt, laid another cigar-sized fifty-caliber round and chambered it. He shot out the engines one by one. He took his time. The boa
t went dead in the water about a thousand yards out.
"More like twelve hundred," said Bundy.
"What now?" said Rostow, looking through the binoculars. The driver still wasn't showing himself.
Bundy took a round out of a different box. "I don't like to use these," he said. "They leave kind of a smear in the barrel. But ol' Jose out there isn't giving me a hell of a lot of choice in the matter." Bundy sighted and squeezed. At this distance it took almost two seconds for the tracer to hit. The back of the boat was covered with gasoline. It made a fireball against the western sky. The boat sank.
"Hope they like their meat well done," said Bundy, removing his earplugs.
16
Almost dawn. The cigarette ember glowed between his sweat-wet fingers. Her sexual energy was, Christ, miraculous. Smoke rose into the blades of the fan, making their obedient revolutions. Outside it was still, except for the occasional shriek of the howler monkeys.
He looked at her in the faint light. She was lying on her stomach with her hands flat against the mattress, face toward him, like Gauguin's kanaka mistress, Tehura, in the "Manao Tupapau," but without the frightened look. He reached and ran his finger along the cleft between her buttocks. Her eyes opened-they were such light sleepers. She ran her tongue over her lips. He shouldn't have touched her. He was dry inside, pumped out. He had to get some sleep. Morning already, Christ.
"I love you," she said. The only words he'd taught her in Spanish. He should probably teach her some more, but there was a purity to such a simple vocabulary; and it was all, really, that he wanted to hear from her.
She put her mouth to his ear and made a pinhole with her lips and inhaled, producing a most-urrnh-exquisite sensation, as if she were trying to suck out his brain. She was descended from head-hunters. Some of her people still performed the old rituals, trapping the soul inside the head by sewing up the lips, nostrils, and eyes and shrinking it in hot sand and resins. Only a few years ago a French photographer had left Manaus in search of a story and disappeared. Eventually a missionary priest was shown a head with blond hair and Caucasian features. Well, he thought, as Soledad plugged the vacuum she had created inside his ear with the moist tip of her tongue, if this is how they remove the insides, no wonder those puckered leathery faces all have that serene look.
Wet Work Page 12