He had a soft spot for Bells Beach in summer, but not during the day when the whites came. They made him uncomfortable with their stares. The surfers were no better. They acted like they owned the waves. So, he came early to walk with the sun and smoke his first cigarette of the day while the sand was still deserted. Sometimes, he dove into the water and swam like he did when he was a boy.
He walked to the railing, taking the pack from his shirt pocket. He fumbled in his shorts for a match then lit the cigarette. He circled around the cliff and meandered further to the stairs, leading down to the Winkipop surf break. The surfers would be there, somewhere out in the calm waters, unaware that their quest would be denied. His foot nudged a bottle carelessly tossed on the ground under the railing, a liquor bottle, half empty. He looked out at the ocean. It was brilliant blue. The sun sat above the horizon and he looked left and right, expecting to see the surfers drifting somewhere beyond the rock strew shore. Jimmy noticed the figure at the top of the stairs. He nudged Nigel.
“Someone’s here.” Nigel lifted his head.
“Does he see us?”
“I don’t think so.” Jimmy raised his arms and waved. His left shoulder protested.
Illa moved to the top step. He let his eyes scan the full length of the empty shore. Then he looked again at the water questioning why no one was visible. To his left he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head, squinting to make it out. A man was waving from the rocks. Illa didn’t wave back. He walked casually down the stairs. A towel was on the bottom step and some clothes, pants and a shirt, soaked. An object was further down at the edge of the rocks, white with red and blue stripes, some lettering. He took another drag and looked back at the gentle surf. The man was still waving, perhaps a quarter of a kilometer away. Then he noticed a second figure, trying to sit up. He ignored them and made for the bottom of the stairs. Another hot day like yesterday, thunderstorms in the afternoon. Two more drags on the cigarette then maybe a short swim. The object was a surfboard, cracked and dented.
Jimmy couldn’t get the attention of the black man on the stairs. He dropped his arms and stooped to help Nigel sit upright. His skin was cold to the touch. He was shivering.
“Can you hold on until I come back with help?”
“I need a fix, mate.” Nigel wrapped his arms around his chest.
Jimmy elected to dive. The pool at the edge of the rocks was clear and deep. He picked a spot where he could see nothing, but white sand ten feet below. The cold shocked his system. Walden Pond came to mind as he came up stroking.
Illa saw the splash. He watched the swimmer come his way, struggling to find a rhythm, too dumb to check the tides and not much of a swimmer, either. He thought about returning to his Ute and driving away.
Adrenalin enabled Jimmy’s arms and legs to work. His left shoulder was too weak to be of much use. He shifted to his side and did scissor kicks, using only his right arm to steer and add thrust. It took longer than the calm waters warranted. He was tired and cold. His left shoulder throbbed. When he reached the rocks near the stairs he tried to stand, but he was breathing hard and his body said no. He crawled out on his hands and knees, fighting to catch his breath.
Illa decided to take a closer look, edging off the last step onto the rocks. He could see that the swimmer was panting unnaturally. He wasn’t wearing a bathing suit, shorts maybe. He went closer.
Jimmy lifted his hand and tried to speak, but it was only a whisper. He wiggled his fingers, come closer. Illa saw the gesture. His curiosity overcame his reluctance. He came to Jimmy’s side, stooped down and listened. Seconds later, he stripped off his shirt and dove into the surf, stroking expertly parallel to the edge of the rocks where Nigel still lay semi-conscious. Jimmy turned his head to watch. He lifted himself to his feet, shivering. He collected his soggy clothes and put them on, merely adding to his frigid misery.
Illa swam to Nigel and climbed up. While swimming, he concluded it was the Whitehurst. It was his Ute in the parking lot, his surfboard damaged on the shore. The two must have been stranded by the overnight storm. Nigel was unconscious and his lips were blue. His swollen knee stood out in a pale pink glow. The leg was crooked and stiff. He could no longer straighten it. Illa touched the big man’s head, surveying the gash. It had to be a violent collision with the rocks. He calculated what to do. Then he took the huge man by his shoulders and dragged him to the water’s edge, careful not to slip. He crouched to a sitting position, slid into the water and pulled gently on Nigel’s arms until he could ease his body into the surf, using all his strength to keep Nigel’s face from slipping under.
Ten minutes later Jimmy met the two men at the water’s edge. He took Whitehurst’s legs. Together, they carried his limp body to the stairs and up. They placed him in the backseat of Jimmy’s car. His length prevented him from stretching out so Illa arranged him in a sitting position and got in next to the unconscious man to keep him from slumping down.
The exertion warmed Jimmy’s body. His clothes smelled of must and clung to his limbs, but he was more concerned for Nigel who shook involuntarily as foams of spittle formed at the sides of his mouth. Suddenly, the big man wakened. His eyes went wide, but failed to focus as he let out a grunt then a louder pant.
“I need a fix.” He began to convulse.
Illa sat forward and gave instructions for Jimmy to drive. The road was clear as the wheels peeled off the dirt and found traction on the smooth asphalt. Illa began to rub Whitehurst’s arms and shoulders, using long circular motions. The movement seemed to calm the shivers and Nigel leaned his head back on the seat. Apart from driving instructions, the black said nothing.
After a quick examination, peppered with curt questions, the emergency room doctor at Surfcoast Medical Centre called for an ambulance to have Nigel transferred to a larger hospital in Geelong. He ordered Jimmy to wait in an examination room while he instructed a team of nurses to strip the barely conscious man, wash and dress his head injury and put a brace on his swollen knee. When he came into the examination room he had more questions.
“What’s he on?” The doctor was in his thirties with light hair and skin. He wore thick, dark rimmed glasses that did not hide the lack of sleep in his eyes.
“His name is Nigel Whitehurst.”
“I know who he is. What is he on?”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“What drugs?”
“Pot and heroin. He had his last fix yesterday afternoon.”
The doctor turned and left the room. An hour later he returned. Jimmy was on the examination table half asleep. He helped Jimmy to a seated position and began to listen to his chest with the stethoscope around his neck.
“Mr. Whitehurst is on his way to Geelong Hospital. Tell me what happened. Cough first, three times.” Jimmy followed orders, beginning to feel cold again. He explained the surfing accident and the night on the rocks. The doctor listened without comment then lifted a phone and called for a nurse to come into the room. The doctor didn’t look up. “He needs to be washed. Draw some blood. Then sterilize around the stitches. I’m going to take them out. Also, get a room ready. I want him to stay overnight for observation.”
“Wait a minute,” Jimmy protested.
“Just a precaution,” the young doctor answered.
At noon the next day he was released. “What about my friend?”
“He has a concussion and his kneecap is fractured. He also has pneumonia.”
Jimmy nodded. “I thought so. I tried to keep him awake all night.”
“In addition to heroin and pot he had cocaine in his system.” Jimmy didn’t answer. The doctor continued, “You don’t, but your liver PSA is up.”
“Will he be okay?”
“Antibiotics will help with the pneumonia. He has no spleen, so it will take longer.” The doctor took a pad from his pocket and wrote something down. “This is where he’s being treated.” Jimmy took the slip of paper. “He’ll need help to get off the
drugs.” Jimmy followed the doctor to the door. A nurse waited in the corridor to escort him to the exit. She smiled while the serious faced doctor slipped by. “Stop drinking, Mr. Buckman.”
Outside, the bright afternoon sun momentarily blinded Jimmy. The ordeal of the last thirty-six hours left him weary. He found the keys to the Holden in his pocket then looked around, spotting the car. A black man was leaning against the passenger side with a cigarette between his lips.
Illa straightened when he saw Jimmy approach. He tossed his cigarette and came around to intercept. Jimmy recognized the Aborigine who rescued them the day before. He wanted to say thanks, but before he could speak Illa reached for his hands and clutched them tightly. He looked at Jimmy’s face, staring deeply into his eyes. Then he abruptly let go, turned and walked away.
He was back in a Melbourne hotel by late afternoon. He took a shower, put on fresh clothes and drove to Saint Malachy’s. Sister Marie was waiting in her office.
“She was here yesterday, just long enough to collect her things. I tried to convince her to stay, but she was determined to leave.”
“Where did she go?”
“Back to America. I told her you were trying to find her.”
Jimmy dropped his head to his hands. “Why doesn’t she want see me?”
“She’s overwhelmed with grief. The Aldridge boy found his way into her heart.”
“She needs me.”
“She needs time.”
Jimmy raised his head. “Nigel is in a hospital in Geelong.”
Sister Marie leaned forward. “Is he hurt?”
“He had an accident while surfing at Bell’s Beach.”
“Will he be all right?”
“He hit his head on the rocks. The doctor says it’s a concussion. He also fractured his knee and he has pneumonia.” Sister Marie drew a breath and made the sign of the cross. She reached for her cane and started to rise.
“I’ll go to him right away.”
“He’s doing drugs, Sister.”
The nun came to a full stand behind her desk and gave Jimmy a sad look. She shook her head. “I hoped you would look after him.”
He slept soundly, no longer able to fight the fatigue and relieved that Les had surfaced. Maybe she didn’t want to see him, but now he knew where to find her. She would be at her parent’s home in Amherst. He could be with her in two days. Everything would be better when they were together again.
The three-hour layover in Sydney was just enough time. He took a taxi to the harbor and walked among the tourists to the steps of the Opera House. He followed a tour group inside and made his way to the counter where visitors were received. A cheerful man greeted him. Jimmy explained his purpose. The man looked at his watch and lifted his arm pointing to a set of stairs.
“They finish rehearsing in ten minutes. Take the stairs and go outside. They’ll be coming out the side door.”
Fifteen minutes later the door opened and musicians filed out in ones and twos, carrying their instruments in cases. Jimmy studied the face of each woman. She came out alone, violin case in hand, statuesque, with long black hair. Jimmy came forward. She looked up and recognition crossed her face. He realized she knew who he was.
“Reina?”
The striking violinist stood still. She glanced past his shoulder as if she expected to see another person.
“Yes?” Recognition turned to a questioning look.
“Nigel needs you.” He handed her the slip of paper identifying Geelong Hospital. She took the paper and glanced at it. Her mouth opened to speak, but Jimmy turned and rapidly walked away.
Sixty-Eight
It’s fatal one hundred percent of the time. That’s what the experts said. Not so, as my case eventually proved. One in three hundred defy the odds. I am living proof.
- Alice Limoges
The plane landed at Logan Airport just as Boston’s evening commuters snarled the routes north. Jimmy avoided the traffic by catching a thirty-minute turbo prop to Manchester, New Hampshire. From there he rented a car and drove south to Amherst. He didn’t know what he would say when he saw her, but that didn’t matter. She was in emotional pain. He would help her get through it.
Her father answered the door. It was cold, a typical December day that foreshadowed the long New England winter ahead. The elderly man did not smile when he held the door for Jimmy to enter. Jimmy didn’t smile, either. It wasn’t a time for smiles. A woman stood a few feet behind. She was younger than her husband, early sixties Jimmy guessed, still attractive. The resemblance to Les was unmistakable. She offered her hand, making eye contact in that way that signified good breeding. She gestured to an opening into a sitting room elegantly furnished. It faced toward the carriage road with large windows draped in shimmering white curtains floor to ceiling. Jimmy took a chair near one of the windows. Where is she? He wondered. Why didn’t Les come to the door? Her father came into the room. He looked at his wife who turned to address Jimmy.
“May I offer you something, Mr. Buckman?”
“No, thank you. Actually, I was hoping to see Les.”
“I’m afraid Leslie isn’t here.” Mother and father moved to a couch and sat down in unison. “She left yesterday.”
His heart sank. He looked from one parent to the other, trying to form a question. Her father cleared his throat. “She said you might come.”
“Where did she go?”
“We wanted her to stay. Christmas is only a week away.”
“There was a tragedy at the orphanage. Is she all right?”
“Yes, she told us about that poor little boy.” The woman hesitated. “She’s taking it very hard. I wish she didn’t leave.”
“Then you know where she went?”
“Yes,” her father interjected. “She asked us not to tell you. The people at the orphanage called. She doesn’t want them to know, either.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“Our daughter is very independent.” He looked at his wife. “She is our only child. We never wanted her to go to Australia. She’s all we have and it’s so far away. She won’t return to the orphanage. She intends to travel until she decides what to do.”
Jimmy sensed that his role was insignificant. “Did she tell you about me?”
“Some,” her mother answered. “We watched the Grammy Awards on television.”
“Yes,” Les’ father enjoined. “A fine song.”
“About us, I mean. About our relationship.”
“I remember when you came that morning last year. I had my notions by the way you reacted when I told you she returned to Melbourne, but she holds those matters private.”
The mother spoke up. “She came back to the United States more often this year. We presume it was to see you perform. Maybe it meant more, we’d be the last to know.”
“She told you I might come.” Jimmy looked at Les’ father. “Did she give you a message for me?”
The man shook his head. Jimmy stood to leave. He could have asked more questions, probed further. Perhaps he could have convinced her parents to divulge her whereabouts. Les didn’t want him to know. She didn’t want him in her life. Her father accompanied him outside. For the first time since arriving home Jimmy felt the cold. He shook hands, said his thanks and went around to the car door. Her father talked over the hood.
“I hope you understand that we feel we must honor her wishes. Call us from time to time. If she changes her mind we’ll tell you where to find her.”
***
McCabe took the call in his office. The man on the other end identified himself and explained that he was with the American Consulate in Singapore.
“The Singapore authorities are holding two men, Benson Warren LaSalle and Chase Thomas Barone. They have given your company as their place of employment. Can you confirm this?”
Miles maintained a formal tone. “Yes. Mr. LaSalle is a drummer under contract with Blossom Records. Mr. Barone is a salaried employee.”
“What does M
r. Barone do for your company?”
“Construction and tear-down of stage sets for our singing groups. What is this about?”
“The men have been arrested for entering the country with narcotics. Singapore has very strict laws concerning drugs.”
“What will happen to them?”
“Their situation is not good. Singapore citizens are executed if they are found guilty. Non-citizens usually escape that sentence, but your employees could be caned, followed by up to twenty years in prison.” Miles forced his voice to remain calm.
“Canings? They still do that in the twentieth century?”
“In some parts of the world, yes.”
“Do they have legal representation?”
“I’m working on that. Mr. LaSalle identified several firms in New York and New Jersey. Of course, they will need local representation as well. The Singapore justice system is intricate. It requires first hand knowledge and experience.”
“Am I required to do anything as their employer?”
“No. I am merely confirming the information the men have provided. Beyond that, there is nothing you can do. I will assist with their efforts to obtain counsel.”
Felix remained aloof when Miles related the conversation.
“You stay out of it. They have to face the consequences.”
***
As the days dwindled toward the new year sales of Blossom’s three blockbuster albums, months past their peak, slipped below the Top 50. Miles reviewed the figures. It didn’t surprise him, nor was he worried. The Riland Brothers and MacGregor both took up some of the slack. As hoped, their stars were rising. Weak Knees was doing well in Europe. Sales of its album continued to be brisk and the group performed at weekly sellouts cross the continent. The crowds did not match the Blossom Presents tour in the States, but the money was very good.
Several new talents were in the studio, readying the release of debut recordings. They would be paired with the Riland Brothers and MacGregor when a new Blossom Presents tour was organized. All in all McCabe was satisfied. The latest offer was thirty-five million. That’s what one colossal label in Los Angeles was willing to put up if Blossom was for sale. It wasn’t. Three times annual revenue, not counting the separate Blossom Presents partnership with Winfield. That was more profitable, one mega tour that had tallied gross receipts of seventeen million, far more than Winfield predicted. Miles Michael McCabe was a rich man. Jim Buckman was wealthy, and Nigel Whitehurst. In fact, everyone made out extremely well, including Ellis Dorman.
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