"That too." He sipped again and set the cup aside. "Of course it could have something to do with drugs. Somebody cheated somebody or, turned them in, and a bomber was hired and he hit the wrong boat. But the anonymous phone call rules that out. The caller knew my name. I'm thinking out loud, using rusty equipment, Travis. Forgive me."
"Keep going."
"The phone call came about eight minutes after the explosion. So the caller knew it was going to happen and had a vantage point where he could watch for it and then make his call. So the explosive had to be placed just before Hack took the boat out."
"I'd agree with that."
"If the caller knew that much about what was going on, wouldn't he have known I wasn't aboard?"
"Reasonable assumption."
"Then the call was intended to deflect attention from the real motive and the real victim. Somebody wanted to kill Hack, or Evan Lawrence, or Norma. So there was one victim and two innocent bystanders, not three."
"Hack Jenkins?"
"It's possible, I suppose," he said. "I keep wondering why he wanted to go on out into that chop."
"While you were in Toronto, Hack took them outside after fish. Your niece developed a taste for it. She and Evan were good sailors. Some of it was in fairly heavy weather, so I guess Hack learned how much the Keynes could take, and he had some confidence in the boat. If he had word there was something working a little way out into deep water, I think Evan and Norma, especially Norma, would have urged him to take a shot at it and then come running back in if it started to get a little too rough."
"She really liked it?" he said, eyebrows raised.
"Hack put them into some small tarpon about two days after you left. She hooked a forty-pounder that jumped into the cockpit green, smashed a tackle box, and flipped on out again, and she managed to keep it on the line and bring it to gaff. She told me all about it, with lots of gestures, lots of energy. So, I can understand his heading out past the buoy."
"Evan liked it too?"
"Whatever Norma wanted was fine with him."
"It seemed like a good marriage," Meyer said. "Never knew what hit them. Hell of a phrase, isn't it? Nothing can happen so fast that there is not a micro-instant of realization. Each nerve cell in the brain can make contact with three hundred thousand other cells, using its hundreds of branches, each branch with hundreds of terminals, and with electrical impulses linking cell to cell. Ten trillion cells, Travis, exchanging coded information every instant. The brain has time to release the news of its own dissolution, time to factor a few questions about why, what, who... and what is happening to me? Perhaps a month of mortal illness is condensed into one thousandth of a second, insofar as self-realization is concerned. We're each expert in our own death."
And I knew that strange last statement was correct. We're experts. We get it done the first time we try it. And we spend too much time thinking about it before we do it.
"Hack's two older boys are back in town," I said. "They're waiting for the sea to flatten out and one of these evenings, about seven thirty, all the charter boats will go out and they'll drop a wreath on the water, and the Reverend Sam John Hallenbee of the First Seaside Baptist Church will give the memorial service on a bull horn, consigning to the deep and so on."
"I'd like to have that done for Norma and Evan too. But all her friends are in Houston. I'll have to go over there and see what shape her affairs are in. I would suppose I'd be her heir, but I'm not sure."
"Want any breakfast?"
"Thanks. I don't think I could keep it down yet."
"Why don't you get dressed and we'll go talk to one or both or all of the Jenkins boys."
"And Gloria," Meyer said. "I have to face that. She's going to feel bitter toward me. I asked Hack as a personal favor to take Norma and Evan out in the Keynes a few times. He said he was glad to do it. With the HooBoy laid up, he felt restless unless he could get out on the water once in a while."
He went trudging off to put on some clothes. He didn't have much choice. All his treasured old shirts and pants and jackets had blown up along with his boat.
Five
DAVE JENKINS was twenty-two, and he was a guide down in the Keys, an expert at fly-rod fishing for tarpon, at stalking the wily permit, at outsmarting bonefish. I had heard he was beginning to pick up a reputation after surviving the early attempts of the locals to run him off. They play rough down there. He had come up as soon as he heard. And Bud Jenkins, the twenty-year-old, had come down from Duke University. He was there on full scholarship.
Hack and Gloria lived in a two-bedroom frame bungalow on a county road a long way east of the city. They had an acre of flatland, two big banyan trees near the house, a pond with Chinese white geese, and an electrified fence around the pond area to keep the predators away from the geese. There were almost a dozen vehicles parked in the drive and in the yard, several of them the big glossy pickups that charterboat captains favor, with tricky paint jobs and all the extras. A gabble of small children was racing about in the mud. Miss Agnes, my ancient blue Rolls pickup, looked odd parked with the modern machines, like an old lady in a bonnet at a rock concert.
The small house was packed with people. I could see them through the windows, moving around. The intense competition of the fishing folk was dropped whenever tragedy struck.
There was a shallow front porch with a slanted roof, an obvious afterthought. Two steps led up to the porch level. As we approached the steps, the screen door burst open and Rowland Service; the T-man, our recent visitor, came out at a dead run, with big Dave Jenkins so close behind him it took me a half second to realize, as I was stepping back out of the way, that Dave was running him out, with one hand on the slack of the seat of the pants, the other on the nape of the neck. Service's eyes and mouth were wide open. Dave gave him a final giant push and stopped at the edge of the steps. Service landed running, but leaning too far forward for balance. He made a good effort, though, and galloped about thirty feet from the steps before diving headlong into the wet grass.
Warner Housell, the staff person, came sidling out, carrying both dispatch cases and trying to look inconspicuous. An ingratiating smile came and went, over and over, very swiftly. Dave made a feint at him and stamped his feet. Housell made a bleating sound and sprang off the porch and trotted out to where Service was getting up, dabbing at the mud stains on his knees.
"Hey, Trav," Dave Jenkins said. "Meyer."
Housell and Service got into their economy rental. Service was apparently talking angrily and Housell was shaking his head no. They drove off. "What happened?" I asked.
"They came a couple minutes ago. The big one was trying to hush up the little one, but the little one, he asked my mom if maybe Daddy was blowed up on account of he was mixed up in some kind of drug action. He asked her a little bit mean and a little bit loud, and I got my hands on him before one of the other men tried to kill him. It broke her up some. Miserable little scut. Drugs! It took Daddy seven months to set aside enough for the engine work on the HooBoy, so he wouldn't have to borrow at no high rate. Drugs? Daddy was dead against it. Remember, Trav? He came on those three bales of pot floating out there near Sherman Key over a year ago, and he picked them up and brought them in and turned them over to the narcotics guys. He had no charter aboard. Who was to know? Mom said he hadn't even had a taste of booze since he got born again twenty years ago."
"Is there any chance of talking to Gloria?" Meyer asked.
"This wouldn't be too good of a time, not right now. She's in the bedroom with a couple of her women friends, and they're in there praying and crying and hugging."
"Does she blame me?" Meyer asked.
Bud came out of the house in time to hear Meyer's question. "I don't think she's thought of it that way. I suppose she could get around to it in time," he said. He was the small-boned son, the one who was most like his mother physically, with delicate features and steel-rimmed glasses.
"Just tell her, when you get a chance, that it
appears as if somebody was trying to make it look like a terrorist act," Meyer said. "There would be no reason to go after me. And nobody has ever heard of the organization that claimed credit. It was a cover for something. We think that if they were in close enough touch to make the phone call so soon after the explosion, they must have known I wasn't aboard. They were after somebody else. After one or both of the Lawrences, or after Hack."
Both boys shook their head, and Dave said, "Nobody would up and kill my daddy. Maybe by accident if it come to a fight, something like that. He was sometimes mean. But not planned ahead. Not that way. Mom said he really liked that couple, liked showing them places along the Waterway, liked putting them into fish. But he kept saying what a terrible boat you had, Meyer, and how much work it needed."
Bud said, "if they ever find out, I think they'll discover that somebody came over from Texas, following that couple, and killed them, and it didn't matter to them who else they killed in the process. Maybe it was somebody who didn't like the idea of your niece marrying that man. Or maybe it was something to do with the oil business, something she knew that somebody wanted covered up for good. If you get any clue at all, me and Dave and Andy would be most grateful to know who did it. Dave and Andy and me wouldn't like it to be one of those things where it takes three years to come to trial, and finally they call it second-degree, and then there's a bunch of appeals and the guy gets out a couple of years later. We'd surely like the chance to save him the fuss of waiting around all that time for his trial."
I looked at their eyes. Hack's eyes looking out at me. The same amber brown with golden glints, one pair behind lenses, one pair squeezed by the wrinkled squint of a few thousand hours searching the sun riffles for fish sign. A fierce independence. "What we find out," I said, "You'll get to know." There was a look of satisfaction diluting the intensity, and Bud said, "We'll tell Mom it doesn't look like it was anybody after you, Meyer."
On the way back to Bahia Mar, Meyer said, "I never really got to know Norma. One summer I stayed out there in Santa Barbara with my sister, Glenna, for a couple of weeks, helping each other remember things, good and bad. I think Norma must have been about fourteen. She was in a school for exceptionally gifted children, and that summer she was going on some sort of series of field trips with a batch of kids. Overnights, with sleeping bags. She had a rock hammer and a closet full of labeled samples. Her eyes danced and shone with the pure excitement of learning things. Her world was four and a half billion years old, and she had a vocabulary newly full of strike-slip faults, cactoliths, andesite, and monzonite, and she made tilting slipping shapes with her hands to show us how the mountains came about. Strange the way how a bright young brain, exposed to a certain kind of knowledge at just the right time, bends in the direction of that knowledge, sops it up, relishes it. Glenna concealed her dismay at having her only child aimed toward a life of bounding from crag to crag with a lot of rough people, carrying a rock hammer, a sample bag, and a chemistry set. I thought I would get a chance to know her better, after Toronto. Did you see much of them?"
"Not much. They came aboard a few times. She was picking up a good tan. He had a tendency to burn. The obvious thing about them was they were in love. There was between them a... I don't know the word for it...."
"An erotic tension?"
"Right. Tangible. You could almost see it. Like smoke."
"I didn't realize she would ever get to be so handsome," Meyer said. "She was in fact a very homely young girl, all knees, elbows, and teeth. Glenna thought it would be useful for her to have a profession, and she told me Norma would probably end up in the world of academe, taking students on geology field trips. I'm talking around and around and around what I'm trying to say."
"Take your time." We were at a light. I looked over at him. He was scowling.
"Travis, suppose a drunk came across the center line and killed the two of them while I was in Toronto. It would be the same degree of loss. The obligation would be the same. To go to Houston and... tidy up. So, in that process, which I want to accomplish by myself, I may or may not come upon anything which might be related to what happened. If I do come upon anything, I'm not sure I'll take the right steps. Do you understand?"
"Of course."
"You'd come help out if I come upon anything like that?"
"Gee, I don't really know. I have these tennis matches with the ambassador's daughter, and I've been thinking of getting my teeth capped. You know how it is."
"I'll pay all expenses."
"For Christ's sweet sake, Meyer!"
"I'm sorry. It's just that I'm not at home in the world the way I was. The same as it would be, I suppose, for a person who had been in a coma for a year."
"You holler, I'll come running."
When the big swells flattened in a couple of days, they were able to anchor a work barge out beyond the sea buoy, and divers went down and located what was left of The John Maynard Keynes.
It wasn't much. The heavy metal parts of the old cruiser were scattered over a half acre of sloping sand, mud, and weed, with a lot of the stuff already covered or partly covered by sand drift. All the lighter stuff was gone-wood, paper, flesh, plastic, and bone-pulled up and down the coast, in and out of the pass, by tides and currents. From the amount of damage done to the metal remainsengines, anchors and chain, refrigerator, galley stove, wheels and rudder, hatch frames, and transom rail-the borrowed expert estimated that the amount of explosive used was from four to six times the amount necessary to kill three people aboard and sink the vessel. He called it "interesting overkill." Because of the submersion in seawater, his tests for the kind of explosive used were inconclusive. He found nothing which could have been any part of a detonating device.
All the Bahia Mar boats that could make it, and were interested enough to make it, went out in a twilight procession. Meyer and I dropped our separate wreath for Norma and Evan on an outgoing tide. The minister brayed words of destiny and consolation over the bull horn. We bowed heads for the final prayer and headed back, in convoy, with the running lights winking on in the gathering darkness, moving aside to let the Royal Viking Sea come easing out, a giant hotel, golden lights aglow, full of holiday people on their way to the islands and the tour buses.
After I was properly secure again at Slip F-18, with the phone and electric plugged back in, we went out and ate and came back to the Flush and went topside into the warm bright night, leaned back in the deck chairs up on the sun deck to look at stars too bright to be totally obscured by the city glare and the city smog. But we could smell the smog underneath the scents of the sea, a sad acid, mingling burned wine and spoiled mousse.
"I keep thinking I'll look something up and suddenly realize that I can't," Meyer said. "I don't even have a picture of her. There was a wedding picture, a Polaroid print she had duplicated."
"I think they can make a print from a print. In fact, excuse me for stupidity. That's what they would have to do. So somebody else will have a print and you can get another made."
"Somebody in Houston," he said. "Very probably. You know, all the pictures I had of the Keynes were on the Keynes."
"I'll look in the drawer where I throw pictures. There's probably one there, if you want it."
"I can't get used to being a guest. I want to have a boat and live on it just where I've been living all these years."
"We can go shopping, if you want."
"Not yet. That is, if I'm not getting on your nerves."
"So far you're only a minor irritation."
"Somebody around here must have taken pictures of Norma and Evan."
"Sure. But who? They'd be in tourist shots, mostly by accident. Of course there was a very fuzzy picture taken by the woman from Venice, the one that was reproduced in the paper two days after the... the accident."
"Maybe if we call it the murder, it will be more accurate."
I went below and looked for the old newspaper, but it had been tossed out.
So on Saturday mornin
g, I called a man I knew in the city room of the paper, Abe Palinka, and asked about the photograph. Abe checked and called me back.
"What it was, it was one of those little tiny negatives from one of those little Kodak cameras that take the cartridge. It was on Kodacolor, and maybe you know you get a pretty dim-looking black-andwhite off of that, worse in repro in the paper, but Clancy thought it was good enough to use because it was like, he said, dramatic: the scene before it went boom. What we did, we got a rush job on development, made a set of prints, picked the one we wanted, made a black-and-white, and sent the rest back to the lady-got a pencil?-Mrs. Simmons Davis of eight four eight Sunrise Road, Venice, three three five nine five. How come you haven't given me any kind of a hot lead in a hell of a while, McGee?ø'
"Nothing has been going on."
"I bet. Okay, if that's what you want me to believe."
"Thanks, Abe."
I dialed information for that area and got the Davis number. After the fourth ring a low, warm, husky, slightly-out-of-breath voice said, "Hello?"
John D MacDonald - Travis McGee 20 - Cinnamon Skin Page 4