1 Red Right Return

by John H. Cunningham

  I pressed the stick forward, and the nose dipped sluggishly. Our angle of attack was askew and the altimeter needle was dropping.

  Inertia tipped us hard to starboard, the nose fell, and a gradual sense of pressure returned to the controls. Velocity led us to clean air, I got Betty back under control, and the nose slowly began to lift.

  The veins on my hands throbbed. I loosened my grip. Blind in the night, I had steered us into the Nassau approach, nearly colliding with a commercial airliner on its descent. My first night flight was nearly my last. My blood ran cold at the thought of the imminent water landing. Stay focused, Galileo.

  The boomerang shapes of North and South Bimini materialized ahead, where a small cluster of lights identified Alice Town. I steered for their crotch, where the seaplane ramp was located. The lights of a large marina along with small settlements began to appear. I circled the harbor, amazed to have made it this far.

  The first time I came here was aboard a Chalks Mallard, a larger version of Betty that seats seventeen. The short flight from Fort Lauderdale unleashed the fantasy of having an amphibious aircraft, which made tonight’s journey a sort of homecoming. The landing area was free of boat lights, so I added flaps, reduced power, and swung from the base leg onto final approach. Crab pots or channel markers might finish the job the jet wash had started, but at this point there was no choice.

  Fuel mixtures were set to full rich, the tail wheel was raised, both tachs showed 2,500 RPMs, airspeed was 80 mph, and Betty descended into the deep blackness with unwitting grace. We hovered, as did the needle kissing zero, until the sense of anticipation became unbearable. I edged the wheel forward a hair, and the bow hit the surface before the fuselage.

  We bounced hard.

  The rapid deceleration launched me taut into the four-point harness as the fuselage slapped over and over.

  A staccato sound erupted within the cabin as if the ancient rivets were ripping loose while the plane convulsed and recoiled with a dangerous force. I couldn’t move—negative g-forces pressed my arms against my chest. The blind porpoising felt like we were in the grip of an earthquake.

  I wrestled the yoke steady and shoved the throttles forward to increase RPMs while we struggled to regain the proper attitude and trim angle. We finally burst off the surface and leveled out above the water. Oxygenated by several deep breaths, the blood returned to my arms. I repeated the landing process, more patiently this time, and was rewarded with the uniform sense of touching down properly. A long, slow exhale blew my cheeks into balloons. My first IFR experience had been one long disaster.

  A bright light penetrated my vent window, and I shielded my eyes. Not another—

  “Grumman one-seven-four-one-November, come in.”

  How did air traffic control know—

  The agent waved a spotlight from the shore, close enough to read my tail numbers. I asked permission to come up the ramp, lowered my landing gear on the approach, and wonder of wonders we emerged from the sea onto dry land. I taxied to an open corner, turned Betty to face the water, and cut power.

  A dark-skinned official in a light blue shirt with red and yellow epaulettes stood outside waiting for me to deplane. Based on reciprocal consular agreements, the countdown on the Fed’s learning my location had just begun. I got out of the hatch and set my feet on Bahamian soil, an official fugitive from American justice.

  “The airport’s closed. What on earth are you thinking?”

  I gave him an animated story about engine troubles, along with my documents, then followed him into the sun-bleached hut that served as terminal, customs office, and flight services center. With my presence in Bimini officially established, I crawled back into my plane, where exhaustion overtook me.

  The wildest of dreams could not suppress what the reality of my life had become. And, having risked my freedom in a gambit to learn the origin of the Carnival, I had defied the largest law enforcement agency of the most powerful nation on earth. Not the best odds I’d ever taken on.

  74

  I AWOKE TO THE sense of being ingested in some great esophageal tube. The air was thick inside the plane, and why I was there hit like an electric jolt. I held my breath and listened outside. Nothing but the sound of boats in the distance.

  My watch read 7:50. Last night’s precarious flight had repeated itself like a broken record in my nightmares. I hoped the gamble of finding San Alejandro, LLC, would prove a worthwhile trade for becoming a renegade.

  I set off on foot toward Alice Town. In the out-islands of the Bahamas, far away from resorts, time stands still. Silhouetted people stood idle under the long reach of casuarina trees, no doubt seeking respite from the growing heat. Modest dwellings lined the road, painted in juice-colored hues and set back at staggered distances. Gauzy curtains fluttered in open windows.

  A series of squat buildings lay ahead, across from the broad marina and hotel complex known as the Bimini Big Game Club. Randomly marked numbers led me to 701 King’s Highway, a pink two-story wooden structure with light blue shutters. On its door was a sign for Liquor and Cuban Cigars. If the attorney was a local big shot, the threat of being connected to multiple murders should provide the leverage I needed. Inside I found a large woman in a colorful wrap who coolly eyed me from behind the cash register.

  “I’m looking for an attorney’s office on the second floor?”

  “Attorney?” She cocked her head at an angle. The local accent, developed over generations of British rule and undiluted with independence, made the word sound like ‘A-tah-ney.’

  “I’m buying a boat registered to this address.”

  “Ah, Sidney Jamison.” A smile followed. “He ain’t no attorney. He calls himself a holding agent, or some such thing.”

  “Is he upstairs?”

  Her face wrinkled around her broad brown nose. With a nod of her head she directed my attention out a small window.

  A man lay crumpled in the fetal position under an immense pine tree.

  Equipped with a cold bottle of Kalik beer, I stood staring over the inert body snoring amidst the ants and pine needle carpet. A tap on his foot lifted his head off the ground. His eyes opened slowly. Confusion turned to distrust, then anger.

  “Mr. Jamison? I’m interested in buying a boat.”

  One eye squinted open and blinked rapidly. He grunted something unintelligible, the word “boat” bracketed in heavily accented expletives and garble.

  “You thirsty?”

  The eye cracked open again. He sat up slowly. Pine needles clung to him like leeches, and a spittle trail was caked in his shaggy salt and pepper beard. Another grunt marked the acceptance of the beer, and he swallowed a long slug.

  I knelt next to him. “You’re the holding agent on a boat I’m buying.”

  “Ain’t got no boat.” I estimated more gaps than teeth on his gums. He guzzled the beer as if I’d take it back.

  “It’s a fifty foot fishing boat called Carnival, registered to your address.”

  A vague sense of recognition widened his eyes. “What about it?”

  “I’m interested in buying it.”

  He held up the now empty beer and smacked his lips. “I don’t know, I’m still.…” I pulled a half-pint of Bacardi rum from my back pocket. “Thirsty,” he said.

  “You are the holding agent for the Carnival, aren’t you?”

  His sudden laugh surprised me. “Sure, that’s me. I’m an agent.” He laughed again, his eyes on the rum. “Who be selling you that boat?”

  The question caught me off guard. He squinted up at me, waiting, and I handed him the rum instead of answering. The cap was off with a flourish. He sniffed the contents before taking a small drink.

  “It belongs to San Alejandro, LLC.”

  “Good, good. I’ll be around, if’n you and Mr. Salendro, ah, San, ah….need me to sign anything. My fee’s $100 for signing papers. I’ve got a postal box number.” Sidney Jamison winked at me, then took a longer pull on the rum. I stood up.


  “I know where to find you.” My body suddenly felt hollow. I’d figured the local agent to be a cut-out, but Sidney Jamison wasn’t even that. He was just a drunk with a P.O. Box number he’d front out to anyone for a fee. A dead end—just like my life, now that the FBI must have discovered me and Betty AWOL.

  75

  I LOOKED UP AND down King’s Highway, a lofty description for the concrete and dirt strip road that circled the island, then walked through the narrow concrete gates that led into the Bimini Big Game Club. The guard by the entry ignored me. His job was to keep the locals away from the large yachts and fishing boats in temporary residence here fifty miles east of Miami. At the pool were a bevy of women beginning their day of sun-tanning while their men took to the sea. The marina seemed less than half full, but it was early. The door to the hotel had a bell that announced my entry. A skinny woman with braided hair and a yellow golf shirt that sported the Big Game Club’s logo stood up. CNN was on the TV behind her. The commentator stood before a map of Cuba.

  “Do you have any rooms?”

  “Now you’ve gone and done it.” She nodded toward the television.

  Could my bolting in Betty already be on the news?

  “Invading Cuba?”

  I swallowed. “I’m not—”

  “Says America’s threatening to invade Cuba.”

  I explained that I didn’t have a boat but wanted a room for a couple nights.

  She checked her computer screen. “We got a couple rooms but only until tomorrow afternoon. Might try the Angler?”

  I thanked her and made my way down to the dock and walked along the broad wood planks. Sleek cigarette-style speed boats, trawlers set up for cruising, several fishing boats with Floridian ports of call, and a smattering of sailboats sat idle. As a neutral country, the Bahamas would be inundated with Cuban boats if CNN’s speculation about an invasion caused an exodus. It was reminiscent of when President Carter stated that the U.S. would welcome Cuban refugees, and Castro emptied his jails and asylums onto rafts bound for Florida. Self-fulfilling prophecy, or the networks creating news? This was different from hyping summer squalls into hurricanes, this could lead to war. And the Carnival would vanish amidst miles of fiberglass.

  The water was clear as gin. Powder-coated bottles were visible on the bottom under the dock. Similar to the Keys in many ways, the water here was noticeably cleaner, the island far less polished. I imagined it to be how the Keys were fifty-years ago. Since I’d taken a vow of celibacy from the virtual life, all that electronic stimuli had been like a chain around my neck…cell phone, texting, instant messaging, email, personal web pages, television, news. Key West detoxed my dependence on technology, but when it came to the simple life, how far could I go? I had an idea and returned to the office.

  “That was quick.”

  “I forgot to ask when my friends were supposed to arrive,” I said. “They’re aboard the Carnival.”

  She sighed and checked her screen. “They members here?”

  “I think so.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Hector Perez. She’s a fifty-foot custom fishing boat registered here in Bimini.”

  “Why they stay here if they from here?”

  “I just figured, since the Big Game Club’s the best marina—”

  “If they from here, they probably keep that boat up across from the Angler. This place is too expensive.”

  She found no reservation, and I realized the Big Game Club was too commercial for a boat on an illicit mission. If the Carnival was from Bimini, maybe they did have a more discreet location to dock. If I didn’t find them by morning, I’d have to use what was left of Betty’s hundred hours to scour the Florida straits.

  “Is that the only other marina?”

  “Only decent one, ‘cept South Bimini. Where the condominiums are? But you got to own one of them.”

  Strike two. Bimini was starting to feel like a no-hitter.

  76

  I HEADED BACK TO the pink store.

  “Sidney help you?” the woman asked.

  “Not exactly, but maybe you can.” She shrugged. “I’m looking for Jackson Rolle, does he live around here?”

  Her pleasant face took on an ugly scowl. “What you want the likes of him for?”

  “Information. He’s mixed-up in something—”

  “Mixed-up’s right. He’s always mixed-up in trouble. Humph. Jackson Rolle.” Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled rotten eggs. “Should still be in jail.”

  “Still? What for”

  “Smuggling refugees into the States. Got busted good, the fool.”

  Refugees? “How long has he been out?”

  “Too long, a year at least. He was here buying the booze a couple weeks ago, acting all Mr. Big Stuff. You could always tell when he up to no good, so full of hisself.”

  My surprise was held in check by her reaction. “Does he live here?”

  “His mumma’s place’s just down the road, but I wouldn’t be going there asking about what he’s into now.”

  “Santeria?”

  She pursed her lips. She waved her index finger at me. “If you talk that, his mumma might just club you. Jackson’s one big embarrassment to Miss Lilly, he shouldn’t show his dirty face round here at all.”

  “Shouldn’t, or won’t?”

  “Shouldn’t, but he likes chasing drunk girls at the Big Game Club and the Angler too much, so he’ll be back.”

  She told me where the Rolle’s family house was—as it turned out, I’d passed it on the road in from the airport. I thanked the woman. Jackson Rolle was from Bimini too. Smuggling? His curriculum vitae grew more impressive each day.

  The noise of my grumbling stomach meshed with the crunch of gravel under my feet. A few cars were parked on the side of the road, rusted and battered. A golf cart, the vehicle of choice, buzzed past me carrying two women in business attire. Across from a small, bare-bones marina stood The Compleat Angler, a ramshackle combination bar and hotel that had been the island’s primary watering hole since Zane Grey and Hemingway helped put the spot on the map. Grass and weeds grew between cracks in the concrete front yard where empty plastic cups flourished like flowers, mulched with cigarette butts. A perfect place for a guy like Rolle to take advantage of vacationing women.

  The Angler would be my base of operation. If Rolle was a local, there had to be people here who knew him. Maybe somebody would know the Carnival, otherwise my chips would be called and I’d be crapped out.

  Stay off the ropes.

  The bar was empty except for a threesome of sunburned men playing the ring game. The ring was attached to a long string connected to the ceiling, and each time someone missed landing it on the hook attached to the wall, he took a shot of rum. By the look and sound of them, they’d missed many more than they’d made. I had a beer and a burger, then paid two nights in advance for a corner room upstairs. Bare wood walls, a lumpy bed, a toilet and sink, a really small dresser. It wasn’t the Ritz, hell, it wasn’t even the La Concha, but it would have to do. And it had a clear view of the marina across the street.

  77

  WITH MY AMATEUR STAKEOUT established, I rented a golf cart from the bartender, cruised past Rolle’s house on the way to retrieve my gear from Betty, then collapsed on the warped mattress with the book on codes. Harry had said Julius Caesar was Cicero’s muse. To my surprise there was a listing for Caesar in the code book’s index. He had his own cipher system, far simpler than Vigenère’s—just a four-letter offset, where A became D, etc. I laid out the alphabet both ways.

  Next I laid out the key word, and the ensuing blanks came to life.

  LOVE OF HIS LIFE?

  It was the last clue. How could it be a Swiss bank account identification?

  Another damn word puzzle. I dropped it on the floor, determined not to have to solve it. Unless Bimini turns out to be a dead end.

  I studied the picture of Jackson Rolle on the Carnival. Had I gambled correctly? Had I made an irreco
ncilable mess out of my life? Would the hex in the clay figurine succeed? Had Ensign Frank Nardi figured out that I tricked him for information about the boat? Had the FBI issued a warrant for my arrest?

  LOVE OF HIS LIFE? Thanks, Dad.

  And finally, when I imagined that Karen was in the room with me, my dreams went where reality had not let me, and I fell into a deep sleep.

  78

  I JERKED BOLT UPRIGHT in bed, sweat-soaked and disoriented. Loud music filled the dark room. Faint moonlight filtered through the tissue-thin curtain. How long had I slept? I checked my watch, surprised that it was 8:20.

  Last night’s near suicide flight and the weight of my fleeing Key West had turned what was to be a nap into a four-hour crash that left me groggy. A quick fifty push-ups and a splash of cold water on my face helped. The loud music shook the thin wood walls with a force that could only originate from a live band downstairs in the bar. I glanced out the window past the people loitering in the open courtyard, and my eyes followed the sidewalk to the street and across—

  One, two… four large fishing boats were now docked at the marina.

  Nervous anticipation had me off the bed and headed for the door. I stopped and pulled the envelope with Barrett’s photographs from my backpack. I studied the faces of the three men known to have been on the boat. Rolle, Hector Perez, and the third man I called No-Name. Finally, Shaniqua Peebles’s face smiled up and stirred the memory from the Dry Tortugas.

  Are you still alive, and if so, how do you fit into this mess?

  Having learned my lesson at the warehouse in Cuba, I didn’t run over and burst onto the dock but instead slipped down the steps and out the back door. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the blackness. The music blared, and light pulsed around the frame of a closed door on the back wall. The singer’s deep voice resonated through the gap in the door.