by JC Simmons
A strange, crazed look crossed his face, but he didn't say anything.
"I know she was brought to Bimini. Someone drugged her, beat her, put her aboard Chalk Airline, then called the Miami police and told them she was coming. You got ten seconds."
He shot an ugly look at Barrel-chest, then bellowed with a wild-eyed hatred. "You didn't kill her? You sent her to Miami still alive?"
Sanchez, standing beside the salon door, suddenly lunged inside for a gun lying on the deck. Dave shot him with a burst from his rifle, but not before he got off a shot at Barrel-chest. The bullet hit the big man in the lower right side and, from the angle fired, traveled upward, and exited beside the collarbone. The destruction to vital organs was evident as bright red arterial blood pumped in arcing spurts from the wound. He was a dead man, only he didn't know it.
Sanchez lay on the salon floor. His eyes were lifeless, as if they had seen nothing. They held no spark of excitement, no personal sensation, neither in defiance or of regret, neither of shame or suffering. They were empty ovals that held no response to life, ovals that held nothing but a dull, still, mindless death.
Barrel-chest slumped into the fighting chair holding onto the armrests with a death grip. There was a rigid stillness to his body, a body that sat too straight. It seemed broken, held with a slight, unnatural angel at his waistline and shoulders, the arms stiff but slanted back.
The effort not to move was turning the force of the violence against him, as if the motion he resisted were running through his muscles as a tearing, searing pain. His fingers convulsed, struggling to keep their grip on the armrests. I wondered which would break first, the fighting chair or the man's bones.
Taking the white cloth waved in surrender, I tried to stem the flow of blood. "Look, you tried to save Rene's life. It was you who alerted the Miami Police. You are not going to survive this. If you cared anything about the girl, tell me about it, now."
"Did she make it?" Blood foamed from his mouth.
"No, she did not. Do this one last thing before you die. Tell me about Rene Renoir."
Five minutes later he was dead. I never knew his name, but what he told us was an astounding story, one that would take some time to absorb.
Dave and I sat for a long time in silence, listening to the water lap against the hull of the sportfisherman. The night feeders made splashing sounds as they slashed through the dark sea after prey. To kill is difficult; the extinguishing of so much life is a troublesome thing.
"It'll be light in an hour," Dave said in a tired voice. "Let's get the bodies below. We'll take the Sun Dog across the bar, out into deep water."
My emotions had clogged into a still, solid, opaque ball within me, which the thought of those who'd been killed this night could not pierce. They were simply the enemy to be destroyed. Taking the boat hook, I reached for the body of the man who had fallen overboard. He'd floated around to the starboard side. The night feeders were already working on him. We dragged him through the transom door into the cockpit like a two hundred-pound marlin.
We put all six bodies down below. The women were the hardest. The very youngness of them moved me. They had no sense of the swiftness of life, nor of its limits. Such a waste. The cabin quickly began to take on the sweet, sickening smell of coagulating blood. I was ready to be through with this.
The bow of the boat was slippery with blood, but I managed to get the anchor up, leaving it lying on deck. The ignition key was in Barrel-chest's pocket. Dave climbed up to the Flying Bridge and started the engines. He motioned for me to follow in the cigarette.
We ran a mile offshore, into deep water. Dave shut down the engines, went below and opened all the seacocks. Quietly closing the salon door, he jumped into the boat with me. We watched as she settled low in the water. It is always sad to watch a good boat go down. Soon all we could see were the tuna tower and the outriggers. A minute later she was gone, leaving only a flat, calm sea, unfeeling, uncaring, and unforgiving.
I did not examine the events of this night, did not grasp their cause, and did not consider their consequences. I tried not to think. The clogged ball of emotion was like a physical weight in my chest, filling my consciousness, releasing me from the responsibility of thought. The ball was hatred – hatred was my only answer, hatred as the sole reality, hatred without object, cause, beginning or end, hatred as my claim against the universe, as a justification, as a right, as an absolute.
"Let's get out of here," Dave said softly, as if not to anger the Gods of the sea.
It was the expression in his voice that showed total disgust with what happened, conveying the need to get as far away from this place as quickly as possible. To kill is a terrible thing, but how and why one kills is important, also. There are lines one cannot cross and return the same. This was one of those times.
False dawn was gone. Light was showing in the east. A line of thunderstorms was building out on the horizon, the same ones that formed over the Marls yesterday. It was a spectacular sunrise for those in the mood to appreciate it. The wind was from the northwest; the seas flat and calm. The breeze felt cold on my face. Dew formed on the boat, soaking through my pants, and the wheel was damp to my touch. We ran back in across the bar and turned north for Man-O-War Cay. The sun broke the horizon, its rays playing among the dark thunderstorms, causing fiery orange colors.
Pulling up to the stern of Dave's sailboat, we tied the painter off and climbed aboard. The two men handcuffed to the mainmast wore a subdued look. Dave removed the shackles and made the two men sit together on the portside bunk. His face showed no sign of an inner struggle, the skin of his temples was pulled tight and the planes of his cheeks were drawn inward, seemingly more hollow than usual. A single artery beat under the skin of his throat. I was witnessing a man making a difficult decision.
Pointing to me, Dave said, "He wants to kill you both. I tend to agree. Did you really think you could come here and take this cocaine from me? Are you really that stupid?"
They both shook their heads in unison.
"Killing you two would be a waste of good ammunition. So here's what we're going to do. Sanchez has decided to get out of the Snowpowder business, and so have you two. If either of you so much as spits wrong, I'll come back and do what I should do now. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," they both blurted out.
We led them out into the cockpit and they started to get into their boat.
"No, you swim. The boat dock is about fifteen minutes away." He slid the bolt back and forth on a machine pistol, a round clicking into the chamber.
Both men jumped overboard and started swimming. We watched until they rounded the bend and were out of sight.
"How did you know they could swim?"
"I didn't."
We took both cigarette boats back across to the mainland of Abaco and tied up to the fuel dock at Marsh Harbor. The sun was above the water and, after the storms dissipated, low, swift-moving puffball cumulus clouds dotted the cobalt blue sky. It had the makings of a great day.
Dave contemplated the thick, bleached planks of the dock, then gazed toward an infinity of flat bright-green water mottled with pale greens and blues. "Let's go to Bobby's Bar and get drunk, drunk enough to forget this night ever happened."
"I'll buy the first round."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mr. Bobby's is a fisherman's bar. It never closes. Located on the waterfront inside the protected bay of Marsh Harbor, the bar has a three hundred foot long pier that runs straight out into the water. Fishing boats, charter boats, sailboats, and visiting yachts use the docking facilities.
We walked into the dark, cool bar with its low ceilings and full-length doors on three sides, soon after sunrise. Aged fans turned slowly moving stale air. The bar was empty except for a lone female swaying and weaving in front of the old jukebox to 'Yellow Bird,' the Bahamian national anthem. Oblivious to the world, her bare feet, slim legs, and short skirt seemed to move of their own free will, revealing the panties she did
not wear, the bra she never owned. She was made for smoky bars, cocaine highs, and ten-minute trips to the men's room.
A giant of a man stepped out of the storeroom carrying a case of beer. "What'll it be, gents?" he asked, without looking at us.
"How about better service to start with?" Dave growled.
The big man, putting the beer into the cooler had his back to us. He stiffened, remained motionless. Straightening up, he did not turn around, but bellowed a booming laugh that shook his entire body. Cocking a massive head to one side, he turned and looked through narrowed eyes.
"I'd know that voice in hell. Mr. Dave, what you doing on the …Well, I'll be, it's Cop'um Jay, too. What a pleasant surprise for this glorious morning. It's shore good to see you both. Mr. Bobby, he be out in a minute. He be glad to see you, also."
The big man, whose name was Skinner, came over and shook hands. We'd known him for years. Standing six feet five inches and well over three hundred pounds, he was a massive and powerful man. No one knew his exact origin, but rumor had it that his mother was from Cuba and his father a black Bahamian fisherman. He'd been orphaned as a child, and cared for by a local whore until he was ten years old. The whore died, and Skinner lived on the streets and around the waterfront until Mr. Bobby caught him stealing beer off his loading dock. Soon after that, Bobby adopted him. They've been together ever since, except for a short time when Skinner tried out with the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team after being noticed by Roberto Clemente, who was on the island fishing for the giant tuna. A knee injury in the minor league ended the baseball and Skinner returned to Marsh Harbor.
"Bring us a bottle of cognac and a couple of those Cuban cigars Bobby keeps hidden away behind the bar."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Dave. I might even join you for a drink being as I'm so glad to see you."
He brought the cognac and cigars, and poured us each two fingers in short whisky shot glasses. Skinner made a toast, and we drank the hot, alcoholic brandy like ice water. He poured another two fingers, but none for himself.
Dave eyed the woman at the jukebox. "Would you see that we're not disturbed for a few minutes. We have some important business to discuss."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Dave. Don't worry about her, she belongs to the 'Sisterhood of the eternally medicated.' You can rest assured no one will bother you till you tell me otherwise." He walked over and said something to the woman who quickly left the bar, throwing hateful looks at us.
Dave bit the end off his cigar, picked up a kitchen match from the small holder on the table, struck it with his thumbnail, and slowly lit the aged tobacco. He looked at me with dark, serious eyes. "How are you going to handle this Renoir thing?"
"I haven't had time to think it through. The first thing is to call Glossman. I'll know more after that. Do you think we can believe Barrel-chest?"
"Dying men don't lie." He blew smoke up toward one of the ceiling fans, watching it disappear in a swirl.
"Yeah."
"Let's have a few drinks, then get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll help you make some plans." He poured more cognac. "Of course, I'll have to bill you at the usual rate."
"Of course."
***
An hour and a half bottle of cognac later we heard a loud commotion from the back of the bar.
"What's all the racket out here, Skinner? I thought I told you to keep the drunks quiet in the mornings?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Bobby, but these drunks, they be a different breed."
Bobby appeared hitching up his britches, kept tied with a length of half-inch sisal rope run around the outside of the belt loops. Looking over at us with a frown, he said, "Well I'll be keel-hauled, look what the sharks dragged ashore. What are you two doing on the island?"
He came over and shook hands with a big, meaty paw as powerful as a vise. A stocky man about six feet in height, he had huge arms developed from years of fishing and diving commercially for crawfish. He was one of the strongest men I have ever known. Skinner was the only one ever to beat him arm wrestling, and Bobby would not speak to him for a week. He possessed a pair of eyes that could freeze your heart, and let you know he would back up what he said.
Bobby built this bar twenty years ago. It was soon after he'd survived a near drowning during a hurricane that sank the crawfish boat he was working on. He vowed never to go to sea again. He never has. Now, he is an alcoholic who drinks all day, every day, though I have never seen him drunk.
Sitting down with us, he motioned for Skinner to bring him a glass. He sipped slowly on the cognac. I could see it rise in him then, from somewhere in his stomach, that tyrannical craving for alcohol, hot and satiny and sedating. It made him lick his lips and squeeze his hands. He felt that something was expected of him, that our eyes were on him, measuring him, that here now was the chance to win back the respect lost that horrible day to the sea. We both loved this old man, but would never try to change him.
Half an hour later, Dave excused himself, saying he needed to talk to Karl Strange about his son, Will. I'd make the call to Glossman, and we would meet back here, then we'd get some sleep.
After Dave left, Skinner came over and sat with Bobby and me. Skinner said he knew Will, and that he was a good boy. All boys go through that wild stage. He knew that the boy was messing with some bad people, but he didn't realize it was the dopers. If he had, he would have put a stop to it.
Bobby said that they tried to set up shop in his bar when they first started operating in the islands, but he wouldn't put up with it and ran them out. They did most of their business up at Treasure Cay anyway so it did not turn into a war. He said that they would keep an eye on the two from up at Walker's Cay that tried to steal back the cocaine.
The wind picked up outside and a salt-filled breeze wafted through the tall doors. Waves showed whitecaps in the harbor, appearing like fields of diamonds. The cognac began to act as a sedative; it had been a long night. Tension washed away like the waves beyond the door, and I began to feel like a human being again. If I was going to call Glossman, it had better be now.
"Do you still have to make calls to the states from the telephone office?"
"Yeah, up the road about half a mile. You remember?"
"If Dave returns before I get back, tell him I won't be long."
The bright sunshine hurt my eyes. My legs felt leaden and rubbery. The coral cuts were sore and oozing blood. Kathy's bandages needed changing. A quarter mile up the dusty road, a black sedan almost ran over me. Sitting on the passenger side was Lynn Renoir. The cognac numbed my senses, but it was Lynn. I could not see who else was in the car.
At the telephone office the operator assigned me a phone and put my call through to Glossman. His secretary seemed anxious to hear from me. Glossman came on the line immediately.
"Jay, we were worried. Is everything okay?"
I filled him in on all the information we learned from Barrel-chest. He listened quietly, making no comments. Ending the conversation, I related seeing Lynn headed for the airport only minutes ago.
He offered to send a plane down this afternoon, but I asked to wait until tomorrow so that we could get some rest and clear up a couple of things. Kathy Peirce was on my mind. He agreed and said that the plane would land around two p.m. the next day.
The walk back to Bobby's Bar took me past the big grocery store where the young children begged for money from the tourists. The goodhearted mainlanders who yielded to their pleas were doing a great injustice to them. A new hotel was being built on the east side of the road to attract more unneeded visitors to this quiet island village.
Dave was waiting for me. He looked as bad as I felt. We had one more drink while I filled him in on the conversation with Glossman. Bobby said if we'd show up at the bar around noon tomorrow that he would prepare a big seafood lunch for us. We appreciated the gesture and assured him we would be there.
I asked if he'd send Skinner down to B.J.'s house and invite Kathy to join us. He said he might go himself, being as she was so pretty.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The gentle rocking of the boat woke me. Sun slanted through the starboard porthole. A fresh smell of salt air filled the cabin. My feet were itching ferociously from the coral cuts. Dave's snoring brought it all back.
Lying still for a moment, feeling the movement of the sailboat tugging at the end of the anchor rode, I wondered why Lynn Renoir was on Abaco Island, and why had she showed up in Nassau at the Paradise Island casino? Did she know I was here, or was she simply following some lead concerning her sister? Why had she not been in contact with Joe Glossman or Bill Moran?
The sad thing about these questions was that if asked yesterday I wouldn’t have known the answers, today I knew them all.
From the angle of the slanting rays of the sun beaming into the cabin it was close to noon. Glancing at my old worn Rolex, I saw that it was ticking past eleven a.m. Rolling out of my bunk, I lit the gimbaled stove and rummaged around for coffee and a pot to brew it in.
"There is no coffee," Dave grumbled from the Vee-birth.
"Not my idea of a way to run a boat."
Climbing out into the cockpit, I dove overboard. The cool water was refreshing. Struggling down to the white sand bottom, the water became colder. My ears popped, clearing my head. Rising slowly, I swam back to the boarding ladder, saltwater stinging my feet, however I knew it was cleansing the wounds and would help the healing process.
Dave was taking a shower and, while he dressed, I rinsed off with fresh water. Feeling renewed, I was suddenly hungry.
"We're supposed to be at Bobby's by noon."
"Don't get in a hurry, you're in the islands, remember."
"Kathy's going to be there. I wanted to spend some time with her before we left."