Paul froze and crouched as the main boom swung past, a couple of feet above him. The mainsail and mizzen filled with loud cracks and the headsails, back-winded and held by their sheets, went quiet. Paul stepped up into the cockpit. "What's up?" he asked.
"Fish for dinner," Connie said. "Would you like to do the honors?"
"Sure," Paul said, a grin spreading over his face as he went to the stern rail. He unhooked the fishing rod's tether from the rod holder and clipped it to the D-ring on his inflatable life vest.
With the boat stopped, the fish was no longer taking line from the reel. It was running off to the west, swimming in an arc defined by the radius of the taut, 100-pound-test monofilament line. Paul leaned back against the tension in the line, testing the set of the hook and the determination of the fish.
"Did you see what it was?" he asked, reeling furiously as he leaned forward, trying to recover some of the line the fish had stripped from the 6/0 reel.
"No," Connie said.
The fish, feeling the change in the tension of the line, ran toward them and jumped, shaking its head vigorously as it tried to throw the hook. Paul countered by leaning back and reeling in more line, not allowing the fish to gain any slack.
"You caught a fish!" Frank cried, as he and Kathy came up into the cockpit.
"How's fresh fish sound for dinner?" Paul asked, grinning.
"Great! I've never seen anything like this," Kathy said. "What kind is it?"
"Dorado," Paul said.
"I don't think I've heard of that kind," Kathy said.
Paul didn't answer, concentrating as he leaned back against the throbbing pull of the rod. "He's sounding," he said. "Be ready to tack the headsails if he runs under the boat."
"Okay," Connie said. "Just say the word." She turned to Kathy and Frank. "Sorry. I don't think Paul heard you. Dorado is Spanish for 'the golden one,' roughly. Properly, it's called a dolphin."
"Oh, no!" Kathy said. "Like Flipper? You can't eat them. Aren't they protected?"
Connie smiled. "No, not that kind of dolphin. This is a dolphin fish; the other one's a marine mammal. The marine mammals are protected, but they're also edible. They were commonly eaten in ancient times, and much sought after. Supposedly, they taste a lot like pork."
"You've probably eaten this kind of fish, or at least seen it on menus," Paul said. "Dolphin fish are often called mahi-mahi."
"Oh, sure. Mahi-mahi's wonderful," Kathy said.
"My favorite fish," Frank added.
"Well, get ready for a treat," Paul said, pumping the rod and reeling, gaining line steadily. "There's nothing quite as good as one that's right out of the water. Do you eat sushi? Or I should say sashimi, I guess."
"Sure," Frank said. "I like it."
"I'll eat it, but it's not high on my list," Kathy said.
"That may change, after you taste this. But don't worry; I'll cook most of it. Connie and I just snack on the scraps while I'm cleaning them."
"I've never seen a fish caught and cleaned," Kathy said
"If you're squeamish at all, you may not want to watch too closely," Connie said. "It can get pretty bloody on a moving boat. Especially if it's a good-sized fish."
"Cleaning a fish on a moving boat's kind of like a one-man knife fight," Paul said. "I wear Kevlar gloves so I don't cut off any fingers. He's almost home, now. I'm going to bring him in on the downwind side, Connie." Paul stepped onto the starboard side deck and moved forward to the lowest point of Diamantista II's rail.
"Coming with the gaff," Connie said, pushing past their guests, who stood peering intently as Paul brought the fish in close. "Excuse me," she said, wedging her way between Frank and Kathy, "but you should try to get a look while it's still in the water."
"Why's that?" Kathy asked.
"The colors fade almost -- " Connie's explanation was interrupted by Frank's cry.
"Whoa! Look at that thing. He's big!"
"And he looks fluorescent blue-green," Kathy said. "Not gold."
"Ready?" Paul asked Connie, as she squeezed up next to him and raised the gaff.
"Yes, bring him up."
Paul leaned back against the rod as Connie swung the gaff in a tight arc, driving its hook into the fish's belly just behind the gills. There was an explosion of water and Connie and Paul both heaved, flipping the fish onto the side deck.
Paul planted a foot on the fish just behind its gills, pinning it to the deck with his weight. Bleeding profusely from the wound made by the gaff, the fish writhed and wriggled. Connie pulled a bottle from a small cubbyhole. Before the fish slithered out from under Paul's shoe, she opened the bottle and crouched next to the thrashing creature. She poured a liberal splash of clear liquid over the fish's gills. It quivered for several seconds and then lay still. Connie handed Paul a pair of heavy gloves when she stashed the bottle. Putting the rod down, he tugged the gloves on.
"You got it all under control?" Connie asked.
"Yes, but you look like you just butchered a live hog. You've got blood all over your shirt."
"I'll change after I get us underway. Once you lash him down, come back and take the helm long enough for me to clean myself up. Then you can come back up here and dress him," Connie said, disengaging the gaff from the dead fish. She swung the big hook over the side to rinse it before she took it back to the cockpit and stowed it under one of the seats.
"That was some show," Frank said, eyeing Connie's blood-spattered clothing.
"Did you like that?" Connie asked, giving him a smile.
"I'm impressed that you could do that. How much does that thing weigh?"
Connie shrugged. "It's hard to judge when they're fighting like that. Probably between 50 and 75 pounds." She loaded the lazy headsail sheets onto the leeward winches, transferring the winch handles from the windward side and casting off the windward sheets. The two sails blew across the foredeck and began to flog.
She turned to the winches she'd just loaded and took up the slack in the leeward sheets hand over hand, first the Yankee sheet and then the staysail sheet. When she met resistance, she grasped the appropriate winch handle and cranked furiously until the sails began to draw and the boat surged forward.
"He did look gold, when you brought him out of the water," Kathy said. "But he's faded, already."
"They lose their colors so fast," Connie said. "They're almost too pretty to kill, I think. But they taste too good not to."
"How do you feel about that?" Frank asked.
Connie looked at him, a blank expression on her face. "About what?"
"Most women don't like killing," Frank said, "and that's the word you used. You said, 'they're almost too pretty to kill.' You sounded more like a hunter than a fisherman. And you're covered in blood."
Annoyed by his use of the phrase "most women," Connie locked eyes with him, frowning as she tried to understand what was going on. After a few seconds, she said, "Killing doesn't bother me, as long as I'm killing something to eat. Or something that really pissed me off. How about you, Frank? Do you have a problem with killing?"
"Uh, I ... nobody's ever ... I don't quite know how to answer that."
"Most people who haven't killed something don't know how to answer that." Connie waited until he looked away. Then she spoke again. "What made you ask, anyway?"
"I've never seen a woman kill anything like that, get her hands and clothes all bloody. And you seem so at ease with it."
"That's an honest answer, I guess. It's a reflection of the women you've been around, I think. Killing any kind of animal is often bloody; it's not for the squeamish. But it's part of life for a lot of people."
"Speaking of killing," Kathy said, "What was that stuff you poured on the fish? Some kind of poison?"
Connie laughed, breaking the tension that she had sensed building when Frank had asked her about killing the fish. "Some people would think so. It was some of that 180 proof rum we had last night."
Kathy grinned at that. "At least he died happy."
****
Pinkie Schultz could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch in his office, doing his best to relax. The damned blood pressure pills could only do so much.
In spite of his determination to think calming thoughts, as his therapist was continually advising him to do, he couldn't get Sam's phone call out of his mind. The old man had gone to Tampa with Horton and Kilgore, expecting to apply his skills to another hapless drug dealer before the day was out. Instead, Whit Nicholson, the guy who ran Tampa for Pinkie, had disappeared. Horton and Kilgore -- Sam called them Mutt and Jeff -- were out looking for him.
Sam had told him that Horton and Kilgore had been afraid to tell Pinkie that they couldn't find the man. That puzzled Pinkie, and he'd shared his confusion with Sam.
"Why the hell would they be afraid to tell me?" Pinkie had asked. "That don't make no kinda sense, Sam."
"They know something about it, Pinkie."
"Whaddaya mean? About him bein' gone? They say somethin' to make you think that?"
"No. Nothing specific. But why else would they be afraid to tell you?"
"Good question," Pinkie said. "Damn good question."
"I've been out of touch for a while," Sam said. "Those two are new since I used to do this."
"Yeah. I missed you. It's good to have you back. I figured you'd get bored down there in the jungle."
"Costa Rica's not the jungle. Not where I was."
"You know what I mean," Pinkie said.
"Yeah. After a while, it wasn't fun anymore. It was just too damned easy. Buying them so cheap took all the fun out of it. I missed the thrill of the hunt, kinda. And the risk."
"The risk? I don't understand," Pinkie said.
"The risk of gettin' caught. Nobody gave a shit what I did to 'em once the money changed hands. It was almost like I'd do 'em and put what was left out on the curb for the trash man. I left pieces of one kid all over the damn village, and it was like nobody even noticed. The cops just bagged up the pieces and hauled 'em away. Never even questioned anybody. No challenge, see."
"I guess. Anyhow, I'm glad you came back."
"Yeah. Me, too. I feel like I got a purpose in life again. Maybe you want me to ask these two boys you got runnin' things a few questions, huh?"
"Don't, Sam. They're family."
"Oh. I didn't know. The younger one, Kilgore, the one always wavin' the pistol around, he looks like he coulda been on the street. Not for long, or somebody woulda blown his shit away. I can believe he's family. He's not a made man, but he might be, one of these days. The one does all the talking? That one's like a damn college boy. Horton. He's family, too?"
"Yeah. And he's a college boy, all right. Times changed while you were off havin' your fun. I need somebody with some polish to run things on the street these days."
"With respect, Pinkie, I don't trust that one. No offense; you say he's family. I get that. But I gotta tell you what I think. You know me."
"Yeah. No offense taken. Why don't you trust him, though? He do somethin'? Say somethin'?"
"No. Not like that. The dipshit fainted while I was workin' on that guy last night, though. He's not cut out for our kinda business. Weak-kneed mama's boy like that, he could turn on you, Pinkie, if things got rough."
"You made him watch?"
"I didn't make him do anything. He wanted to watch. At first, it was like he was gettin' off on it, that guy screaming and all. But once the blood started running, he pissed himself and fainted like a damn girl."
"I'll keep an eye on him, Sam. But his mother's my sister-in-law, okay?"
"Yeah, okay. Whaddaya want me to do now? I gotta collect from Torres tomorrow, so I figured to get back to Miami tonight."
"How about you hang in Tampa until this evenin', then. If the boys don't find Nicholson by suppertime, then you come on back. Just let me know, and I'll tell 'em to set it up for tomorrow evenin' in Tampa once they find him. That give you enough time to do Torres and get back over here to Tampa?"
"Sure. That'll work. Torres won't take long, if he's got the money. I can get back here late afternoon, no problem."
"You think he might not have the money?"
"Hard to say, Pinkie. He ain't the man he used to be. You got somebody lined up to take him out if he stiffs us?"
"Kilgore, maybe. Think he can do it?"
"Everybody's gotta have a first time. May as well let him try, but I'd send them boys that work at the warehouse, just in case he blows it. Tell 'em to keep in the background, like."
"Yeah, okay. I like that. Kilgore can come back with you. Horton can stay in Tampa and wait for Nicholson. If Torres doesn't have the money, Kilgore can kill him. If Kilgore messes up, the boys from the warehouse can waste him and Torres both, then dump 'em in the Glades."
"I thought you said he was family, this Kilgore kid."
"Blood only counts for so much, Sam."
"It's good to be back, Pinkie. I've missed working with you. I'll be in touch."
Chapter 7
"What was that all about, Frank?" Kathy asked, her voice low, but with an angry tone. They were in their stateroom, having come below to shower while Paul dressed the fish and started dinner.
"What?" Frank asked.
"That shit you started with her about killing -- what the hell were you thinking?"
"I was just ... tell me, Kathy, am I wrong?"
"Frank, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." Kathy shook her head.
"Am I off base? I never saw a woman do anything like that before."
"What? Catch a fish? I'm lost, Frank."
"Not catch a fish. Did you see the look on her face when she swung that big hook thing into that fish?"
"I guess not. Why?"
"She looked like an axe murderer. I saw a guy get shanked at Reidsville one time. I -- "
"Shanked?" Kathy interrupted.
"Stabbed, cut. They killed him. Sorry. I'm kind of rattled."
"No shit. You know better than to talk that jailhouse shit. You slip up like that with Paul and he'll know what you really are. Now what's the matter with you?"
"When she did that, she had the same kind of look in her eyes that guy had when he gutted the other man in the shower."
Kathy shook her head, taking in the tremor in Frank's hands as he grasped her arm. "Frank, get a grip. It was a fish! A big damn fish. That's all. You been taking your PTSD meds?"
"What?"
"The Zoloft -- you been takin' it?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Because you're flippin' out, babe. Askin' her how she felt about killin'. No wonder she had a strange look in her eyes. She must think you're nuts."
"Did you listen to her answer, Kathy?"
"Yeah. It made sense to me. She was pissed off at the way you said, 'most women,' la-di-da-di whatever. I saw fire in her eyes then, and I don't blame her."
"She's a killer, Kathy. I know that look."
"Jesus, Frank. One minute you want in her pants, and the next you're scared shitless of her because she killed a fish for supper. Settle down, babe. Chill! Where's your medication?"
"In the side pouch on my duffle bag. Why?"
"When did you take the last pill?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. This morning, maybe."
She rummaged in the bag and took out a prescription bottle. Opening it, she shook two tablets into her hand. "You're really upset, babe. Let's double up on this dose, and you stretch out and relax, okay?"
He nodded and took the pills.
"Come on," she said, picking up his feet and swinging them onto the berth. "Lie back now, and relax. Maybe you can get a little nap while I shower, okay?"
"Mmm-hmm," he said, stretching out and closing his eyes.
****
"Pinkie didn't say why, Horton. Just that I gotta go back to Miami with the old man tonight, and do whatever the hell he says without askin' no questions."
"That's some shit. You think he knows something?"
"Pinkie? Or Sam?" Kilgore asked.
"Either one. You get any signs?"
"Like what?"
"Anything. Damn, you're dense, sometimes."
"I'm just a street soldier, Horton. Your job's to be the brains. I ain't got no problem with that, man, but don't be givin' me no shit, you hear? I get respect, man, if you want me to have your back. You gotta show me some respect."
Cary Horton saw that Kilgore's hand had crept to the butt of the pistol that was tucked in the waistband of his jeans under the hem of his shirt. "Easy, Dick. I'm just frustrated; I didn't mean to take it out on you. Sorry."
Kilgore relaxed. "Yeah? Okay, but don't be disrespectin' me, man. You could be in some deep shit; you don't want to piss me off."
"No, I don't. Why do you say I could be in deep shit?"
"You gotta go to the meet with Nicholson and the new supplier tonight by yourself. Plus, we don't know what Pinkie's got in mind, bringin' me back to Miami."
"Yeah? So?"
"You even got a pistol?"
"Yeah, but Nicholson's on our side, and he's vouched for us with the other guy."
"You got a lot to learn, college boy." Kilgore grinned at the flush that spread up Horton's face.
"Respect's got to go both ways. Don't call me college boy."
"Even when you act like one? You wanna do somethin' about it?"
"We don't have time for the bullshit, Kilgore. Tell me what you think I need to know about the meet."
"Well, it ain't just the meet. You're a fuckin' babe in the woods, man. It's like that general knowledge and life skills shit they taught me when I was in the juvie shelter. First thing you gotta learn is there ain't nobody on your side. 'Specially not Whit Nicholson. You gotta watch your own ass, all the time, okay?"
"I thought you were in this with me."
"Yeah, I am. So? I ain't gonna be there tonight."
"Yeah, but you're on my side. I'm not all alone."
"I just told you, you're always alone. I got your back on this because there's somethin' in it for me, Horton. That's the only thing you can count on, man. Ever. That's it. Everybody's gonna do what's best for them. You and me, we got the same goal here, see? But things change, sometimes. You gotta be ready; stay loose."
"Yeah, but ... " Horton shook his head. "I trust you."
Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 5