by Ray Connolly
Hardin made discreet inquiries regarding the face Cassandra had seen at her window, but he learned nothing.
“She must have imagined it,” Sharon Kennedy said unhelpfully, and others expressed similar opinions.
But Hardin did not believe that Cassandra Mallinson was the sort of girl to imagine things. In the back of his mind the death of Pagett and the reptile face were linked somehow, but he had no idea how to find that link. He gave CVs lectures on protecting guests from mishaps, but nobody betrayed any sign of guilt.
Cassandra had been determined to ask for a change of roommate, but there was something oddly appealing about Piebald Jane. She was so obviously dizzy, and subject only to her own whims. She was a silly, self-indulgent, thoughtless girl, but totally without rancor or guile. Cassandra’s life, on the other hand, was complex and organized, and her career ruled everything. The butterfly flights that Jane took fascinated Cassandra.
“Did you know I was born again two years ago?” Jane asked Cassandra as the English girl was dressing.
“I didn’t even know you’d died two years ago,” said Cassandra tartly.
Jane snickered at the comment. “Oh yes, my soul was dead, and then I was born again during a stopover in Phoenix, Arizona.”
Cassandra brushed her hair. “So what happened?” she asked.
“What always happens happens. I met a good-looking guy in the airport Holiday Inn in Denver who sold IBM self-correcting typewriters, and I couldn’t wait to get unborn again as quickly as possible.” She paused thoughtfully for a minute, then added, “Wonder Woman is born again. Lynda Carter. Did you have that show in England? She was born again, but her legs still didn’t meet at the top.”
Finally Cassandra had to laugh. “You mean you had an affair in a Holiday Inn, and you felt you’d fallen from grace. Is that so bad?”
“Well …” By now Piebald Jane was wandering around the room in a pair of Snoopy pajamas, picking up items of clothing and then dropping them again, and causing complete chaos wherever she turned. “Well, it wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t enjoyed it so much. I think affairs are okay if they’re no fun. Then the Good Lord doesn’t mind too much. But this guy was just too delicious. He was called Wayne … no, I think it was Wade. Anyway, he was hung like a goddamn stallion.”
“How terribly uncomfortable for him,” said Cassandra, and began to laugh. Now that Piebald Jane wasn’t stoned, she made eccentrically convivial company. So, despite her earlier misgivings, Cassandra found herself spending the day with her extraordinary roommate.
Piebald Jane loved the way Cassandra swam and the way she spoke, her tall, slim figure, and her apparent wealth of confidence. Cassandra had poise and education. Cassandra had always worked, even during her university days. When Jane had been short of funds she had ripped off an entire wardrobe from Bloomingdale’s, which, she assured Cassandra with some pride, took more than a little skill.
As the two of them were about to go in for lunch at twelve-thirty, a plane swooped low over the beach.
“The pilot’s trying to see how many of us are nude,” said Jane, pulling a T-shirt over her breasts, which were now becoming sunburned.
“Big thrill for him,” said Cassandra.
“You know what men are like,” said Jane. “They only do it to amuse each other. If they couldn’t talk to their friends about it I don’t think most men would ever even get around to doing it. Up there in that plane now, all the crew will be telling each other what they think they saw. Little boys, that’s all they are … apart from the big ones.”
“What are the big ones like?” asked Cassandra.
Piebald Jane grinned. “Something like that big chief of the village who can’t take his eyes off you,” she said. “God knows what he’s hung like.”
Cassandra laughed. “And I suspect only God cares, too.”
Piebald Jane shrugged. “To know him is to love him.”
“What?”
“The Teddy Bears sang it. It was the first record I ever stole,” said Piebald Jane with what sounded like a touching honesty.
Thirty-One
The airplane which Piebald Jane had imagined to be a talent spotter was, in fact, the weekly meat plane, flying in from Miami with its refrigerated cargo. Because Elixir was a new village, with only limited refrigerated space, warehouses in Florida had to be used.
As always, Hillman and Brummer were at the airstrip to meet the consignment. They had brought the empty containers and a couple of trailers.
Around the small white building that served as a control tower and air terminal, a group of local Bahamians dressed in their Sunday finery waited for the next passenger plane. The two men sat and waited as the yellow-and-white DC-3 of Trans Island Airways taxied down the single runway toward them.
“Everything all right?” A voice behind them on the runway made them both start. It was Hardin.
Brummer recovered first. “Everything’s normal,” he said.
Hillman’s eyes flickered nervously toward the first container on the second trailer. Did Hardin know something? At that moment a police car drew up at the control tower. This was not unusual, since one of the two policemen on the island tried to make it a habit to meet all incoming planes. Hillman was unnerved nonetheless.
The airplane taxied to a halt. The engines were turned off. Behind them, a forklift truck began to rev up, ready to lift the full containers off the plane.
Hillman stared straight ahead, unable to face Hardin’s unblinking, scrutinizing stare. Then, without another word, Hardin began to walk across to the pilot and copilot, who were coming down the plane steps.
“What the fuck does he want?” Hillman hissed.
“Keep calm. He’s just nosing around. He doesn’t know anything.”
“Pagett never came down here on a Sunday morning.”
“Pagett never got up on a Sunday morning.”
Silently the two men watched Hardin cross to the pilot, introduce himself, and shake hands. At the terminal building the police car had stationed itself right along the large wooden signpost that announced the Bahamian laws against illegal drugs.
“I swear to God if we get through this one I’ll never do another run,” Hillman was mumbling to himself.
Brummer stared straight ahead.
Quickly, the forklift truck drew up a couple of trailers by the freight doors of the plane.
“Come on, we’d better give a hand,” said Brummer.
Silently, Hillman put the car into gear and drove carefully around to the far side of the plane, opposite to where Hardin was standing.
Hardin watched them go with a sense of unease. According to Pagett’s reports these men were the best operators in the islands, but Hardin found them hostile and boorish. Putting them out of his mind, he turned back to the pilot.
“Saw you swooping down over the beach, so I thought I’d come down and say hello,” he said.
The pilot, a young bearded man with flowing brown hair who looked like a refugee from Woodstock, smiled at Hardin. “We were just doing a tit count. Hope we didn’t disturb anyone. You know, you get better women in Club Village than anywhere else in the islands.”
Hardin nodded. “The trouble is that most of them know it,” he said. “Listen, next time, instead of scaring the natives half to death with the Waldo Pepper act, why don’t you stay over for a while and have a closer look at what Club Village has to offer? Be my guest. You never know, you might even get lucky.”
“Okay … that’s a nice offer! We’ll do that next week. Today’s one of those busy ones. Thanks a lot.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you,” said Hardin. It hardly hurt to extend himself a little to a couple of pilots, and it was always useful to cultivate friends.
Brummer and Hillman watched as Hardin made his way across to the police car, chatted with the police driver, and then climbed in beside him.
“What is that guy up to?” said Hillman again, his hands resting nervously on the contain
er containing the coke which the unknowing pilots were about to fly to the States for them.
“Maybe he’s just getting acquainted,” sighed Brummer.
That was the truth, but neither of them could believe it.
Thirty-Two
Michel, the gypsy-looking boy, attracted everyone who was young and beautiful and quite a few who were neither. He held court frequently in the evening, by the bar, and he was an immediate Club Village personality. He even brought his guitar and sang from time to time. Dozens of listeners longed to devour him. His voice was plaintive and sad, not unlike Jim Croce’s, whose songs he sang.
Ruth and Joanna watched the engaging boy from the periphery of the crowd. Sharon Kennedy, who had so lately been mourning the death of Dick Pagett, leaned against an upright roof support and felt romantic. Cassandra and Piebald Jane lounged at the bar and pretended indifference while each admired the animal allure of the boy.
Among the CVs Michel was both lionized and hated. Florinda and Chloe watched admiringly, and for the first time in months the beautiful Sacha appeared to have real competition. He accepted this with his usual equanimity. Hamlet Yablans hated Michel because he stole attention from him and his act. Chief of Sports Homer Wolford liked the songs, but thought the singer might be gay. Matt Hillman was simply in love.
“If I were a romantic I would say this looked something like paradise,” said Michael Roeg.
“But you aren’t a romantic, are you, Michael?” replied Arrowsmith.
Roeg chuckled. “Shit, did you see the ass on that girl in the boutique? I’d give all my credit cards for a night with her.”
Arrowsmith had in fact noticed the mouth-watering physical attributes of Florinda. It was impossible not to, since she spent most of every day wearing a tiny clingy little bikini that seemed to display more of her body than any garment he had ever seen on any woman. And it was true, despite his skepticism about Roeg’s finer nature, Elixir did look like paradise, or at least like the glossy brochure version of paradise which Club Village liked to promote. The sky was blood red and a warm glow fell across the whole pool and bar area, deepening tans and bathing everyone in rosiness. It was a rich, colorful scene of palm trees, shrubs ablaze with blossoms, and people made beautiful by happiness.
At eight-thirty Michel’s audience reluctantly began to break up and head into the restaurant for dinner. By nine o’clock only Hillman and a couple of plain and desperate teenage girls were left behind. By now an affair of the eyes had been established between the beautiful gypsy boy and the gaunt man from New York. Eventually, even the teenagers realized with some confusion that their presence was superfluous. The area was deserted except for Michel and Hillman.
“You trying to tell me something?” said Michel as he put his guitar back into its case.
Hillman felt the inevitable excitement and embarrassment. “I like the songs,” he said at last, in barely more than a whisper.
Michel smiled, his eyebrows raised in a kind of defiant contempt. Hillman felt himself growing red with embarrassment. He couldn’t think what to say.
Finally Michel put him out of his misery. “Where do you want to go?”
Hillman had not reckoned on instant success. “I don’t know …” he stammered, thinking wildly.
“You don’t know?” mocked Michel. “Well, if you don’t know, I’m sure I don’t.”
“The beach … we could go to the beach. “There’s a place down there … a changing room … you know?”
“Yes. I know,” said Michel, the mockery unchanged.
They moved away into the shadows and headed toward the beach hut.
“Where do you score in this place?” asked Michel about half an hour later as the two men trudged back through the sands and into the pine grove.
“Score?” asked Hillman, though he understood exactly.
“You know … dope … maybe a toot here and there.”
Hillman swallowed hard. “The new chief of the village is an antidope freak. If any of the staff get caught with anything, we’re out.”
“So I hear,” said Michel, as though he hadn’t heard at all. “That doesn’t answer my question. Where do you score in this place?”
“I don’t really know,” said Hillman.
Michel looked at him disbelievingly. “Come on. You had a good time, didn’t you?”
Hillman nodded yes.
“So?”
There was a long silence. They had stopped walking. “So, maybe I could find you a little snow,” said Hillman.
“Tonight?” asked Michel. “I’d like a little toot tonight.”
Hillman began to unfasten his belt. To share his personal supply with someone as desirable as Michel was no hardship. Hillman opened the concealed compartments on the underside of the belt.
Michel looked inside, then whistled softly. “I can see I found the right man,” he said.
Hillman didn’t reply.
Michel took the belt from Hillman and strapped it to his own waist. “Tell you what, Matt. You keep the supply coming, and you and me are gonna have a real good time together. You know what I mean?”
Hillman nodded silently. He understood exactly what Michel meant. But Hillman was in love. What could he do?
There was no way he could tell Brummer. Brummer would never understand. Hillman would have to play this game by himself and hope to God he could get out before he was discovered. Standing there gazing at Michel, the wrath of his Colombian employers seemed very far away.
Thirty-Three
Piebald Jane liked to think she had a talent for uncovering dope, and since she had grown accustomed to quantities of confections, this was particularly fortunate.
Quite obviously, her roommate, Cassandra, was going to be no use in that regard, but several of the CVs, including Hector, the disgraced picnic organizer, looked promising. She approached Hector first.
“Sorry, honey,” he said, while his fingers lewdly traced the outline of her spine down to her bottom. “I’m out. This place is so isolated that getting supplies is pretty difficult. Now, if it’s a screw you’re looking for …”
Piebald Jane pushed his hand away. She certainly didn’t need this gorilla. She had heard about Hardin’s antidope lecture, and she decided that all the employees were keeping a low profile.
Michel, on the other hand, looked promising. She had come across half a dozen men in her life like Michel; men of uncertain sexual proclivities who used their wits and charm to whatever advantage they desired. His face was pretty and his body beautiful, but somewhere in his eyes was the shadow of dissipation, the hardness of the opportunist, the wilderness of the loner.
His loneliness held the key. At a glance she could see that his sexuality was of the consenting nature. He could be straight or gay depending on what the moment called for, but Jane was pretty certain that neither choice held any real attraction for him. He used sex.
Jane understood him. She talked to him, spent long hours with him by the pool, on the beach, and in the shade of the thatch-roofed sun shades. She listened while he bragged of his exploits. She never once suggested that her body was for bargaining.
And because she held off in this way, Michel opened up to her as he did to nobody else. For once, he had found someone who did not wish to exploit him, who listened to him, who made him feel good, and he was flattered. She didn’t believe more than a tenth of what he told her, and he guessed that, but it didn’t matter. He told her that his family were Romanies who had roamed Europe before settling in Montreal, and then that his grandmother had been a full-blooded Mohawk. He weaved stories of deprivation and sumptuous wealth, hardly seeming to realize that his every word contradicted another.
He was rootless, lonely, and greedy for an affection he was incapable of giving and did not deserve from others. But he sang like a dream. Although he preferred bittersweet, lonely songs, he could just as easily ape Gordon Lightfoot or David Gates or Billy Joel. And when he sang the Paul McCartney line “don’t go chasin
g polar bears,” Piebald Jane felt a shiver of regret that such talent was wasted on a man as shallow and cruelly promiscuous as Michel.
His sexuality was cold and his eyes were mirrors, reflecting exactly the emotions with which they were faced. The rank desire of the Club Village groupies saw a lascivious carnality in Michel. Matt Hillman recognized his own needs. But Jane saw just the loneliness of a beautiful boy who was too dumb to use his attributes for more than instant gratification.
But then, that was all Jane had ever done, too.
Michel liked her. And when she hit on him for a toot he could hardly help but say, “I know there’s a shortage in this place, but there’s no shortage where that came from.”
Piebald Jane smiled, snorted, and then took a little supply for next time. Back in her cabin she offered Cassandra some.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why absolutely not?” asked Jane, bemused, trying to recall the last time anyone had refused coke.
“I am here to fill my lungs full of good clean Caribbean air instead of London murk. The last thing I want is to sneeze, like Woody Allen in Annie Hall. Where did you get it? I thought they were running an antidope campaign in this place.”
Piebald Jane smiled. “You know Michel, the singer? He’s plugged himself into a main supplier here. Useful to know these people, you know. I brought only Quaaludes and blues and amyl with me.”
Cassandra mused. Tales of orgies and drugs would make wonderful magazine reading, but it would hardly do Hardin any good. Not for the first time in her life, she felt the divided loyalties that faced all good reporters. She put her head down on her pillow, turned off her bedside light, and determined not to start writing her story until the middle of her second week in the village. By then her attraction for Hardin probably would have faded, she assured herself.