Dopey was a very thin man with an Adam’s apple, a smudgy face and irregular teeth. The hand holding the pistol he had pointed at Crane shook. He had a necktie bound around his head.
At the Kate’s wheel was the blond man with the granite face. “For Christ’ sake, Toad,” he said, “why’d you shoot the old dope?”
“You seen him try t’hit me, did’ya?”
“Yeah, but now what’ll we do with him?”
“Is he dead?” Frankie asked.
“Naw.”
Frankie said, “Bring him on board, then. We may wanta talk with him. An’ sink the boat.”
As though he had an ague, Dopey’s gun hand trembled.
Crane said, “For God’s sake, point that somewhere else. It’ll go off.”
Frankie said, “Shaaat aap, wise guy.”
The plump man’s eyes peered out from folds of unhealthy flesh. “How’ll we sink tha tub?” He had a soprano voice.
“Bust out the bottom,” said the blond man at the wheel. He got an ax from the wall of the black cabin, jumped into the boat beside the plump man. He toed Captain Luther’s body. “Tie tha old pooper in a bunk, Toad. I’ll sink tha boat.”
“I can’t lift him,” said Toad.
“Aaw nuts.…”
Crane stepped toward Dopey, wrested the pistol from his hand. He turned to cover the man with the missing ear lobe, saw something descending on his head, tried to duck …
Being tossed down the steps to the cabin floor brought him to. His hands and feet were bound with cord. He could feel the heat of the two engines, could smell gasoline and oil. A voice said, “You two move and we’ll plug ya,” and Tony Lamphier dropped heavily beside him, half across his feet, half on the cabin floor. He could feel warm blood trickling over his forehead, down his cheek. His ears roared; his head was filled with exquisite pain; he would have liked to hold his head with his hands, but they were tied. It was dark in the cabin.
A woman’s voice, frightened, whispered, “Who is it?”
Tony Lamphier got to a sitting position. “Camelia?”
“Who is it?”
“Tony.”
“Oh!” Her voice was glad. “Oh, Tony.”
“Darling.”
“I knew you’d come.”
“Darling.”
“I knew you’d come, Tony.”
“Are you all right, darling? Where are you?”
“I was so frightened.”
“Where are you?”
“On the bed.” There was a pause and then she said, “Come up, Tony.”
“I can’t. I’m tied.”
There was another pause.
“They’ve tied me too,” she said.
“Poor darling.”
Crane moved his position so that his head was near the cabin entrance. He could hear voices outside. It was almost dark now. A voice which he recognized as that of the granite-faced blond was shouting:
“Come on, Toad. Scram. She’s sinkin’.”
“I’m all right,” said Toad.
Frankie, authority in his voice, said, “Come on, Toad.”
Tony Lamphier had moved to the other end of the cabin, just below Camelia’s bunk.
“Who’s with you?” she asked.
“Crane.”
“Did they shoot him?”
“No. They wounded our captain.”
“Badly?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did you find us?”
“Crane heard about men shooting sailfish with machine guns.”
“Yes. They do it every day.” Her voice was soft. “Oh, Tony, I’m so glad you’ve come.”
“I’m afraid we’re not much help.”
“Oh, you are. I’ve been so frightened.”
“Darling.”
Someone came down the cabin stairs, stepped on Crane, almost fell. He kicked Crane heavily in the stomach, then shoved him further into the cabin. “Keep outa tha way,” he growled. By hand he started first one engine, then the other. He turned a flashlight on Captain Luther.
“Gran’pappy’s still out cold,” he called up the stairs.
He turned the flashlight on Camelia Essex. “Holdin’ up, tutz?” he asked.
She didn’t reply.
He said, “Still givin’ us the Ritz,” and went up the stairs.
About ten o’clock the Kate put in at Little Hog Key. At least that was what Crane heard the man with the granite face call it. The man with the granite face was named George and he had apparently been a rumrunner in the old days. He piloted the boat, held himself aloof from the whispered conversation of the others. They were trying to determine what should be done with Crane and Lamphier. All were drinking rum out of a jug.
They were quite close to shore. Crane could hear the mewling of disturbed sea birds, the rustle of branches being pushed aside, the lapping of water on land. His ears still roared from the noise of the engines and his skin burned from their heat. The engines ran hot and once George had come down and tinkered with them. After a time he had wiped his hands on a piece of oil waste, thrown it in a corner of the cabin and went up the stairs.
“It’s either timin’ or the water pump,” he reported to Frankie.
Camelia Essex had gone to sleep.
“Poor kid,” said Tony Lamphier to Crane. “She’s been scared to death.”
“I don’t blame her,” said Crane.
For ten minutes the Kate lay at rest. Cool air came in the portholes, fanned away some of the engine heat, gradually took the cherry-red glow from the muffler and the exhaust pipe. Waves murmured faintly under the boat, against the shore.
Two men appeared at the head of the cabin stairs. The voice of Frankie said, “Bring Wise Guy out here.”
The men grasped Crane under his armpits, dragged him up the stairs. They flung him on a leather-covered seat by the port rail. “Here’s Wise Guy,” one of them said.
Moonlight bathed the deck, the dark key, the ocean with silver. The sky was lavender and the great moon was the color of a honey dew melon. Behind cordage on the deck, behind chairs, behind the four men were inky shadows.
“Frisk him,” said Frankie to the plump man named Toad.
The man’s hands were soft and clammy. He ran them over Crane’s body, found the wallet in his pinned inside coat pocket. He opened the wallet. “Jeeze!” His voice was reedy.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nine grand,” said Toad.
“Wise Guy had nine grand?” Frankie’s voice went up the scale. “Nine grand? Give it here.”
The tropic sea, in the path of light from the moon, looked as though it had been frozen.
“Where’d you get the nine grand?” asked Frankie. He was wearing a black suit coat over his bare chest and he put the bills in an inside pocket.
“Expense money,” said Crane.
“Jeeze,” said George. “Maybe we should-a been dicks.”
“How’d you find us, wise guy?” asked Frankie.
“Some fisherman reported you as looking funny,” Crane lied, his eyes on Frankie’s coat.
“I tole ya,” said Toad. “I tole ya it wasn’t safe to stick here.” His voice was alarmed.
“Shaaat aap,” said Frankie.
Around Little Hog Key were mangroves. Other foliage choked the shore. The mangrove roots, like the gnarled fingers of old men, were thrust into the salt water. It was impossible to see land on the key.
Frankie asked, “Why dinja have more people with ya?”
“They’re coming in the morning,” Crane said. “They’ve got all kinds of boats.”
“I tole ya,” said Toad. “I tole ya.” His skin was greenish in the moonlight. His bloodsucker mouth was puckered.
“I think we oughta scram out of here,” said George. “It’ll be tough.”
“Yeah,” said Toad. “Yeah.”
“We gotta lie right here,” said Frankie.
Dopey had taken the necktie from around his head. His hands no longer trem
bled. He must have had a shot. He said, “If we ain’t here the boss can’t give us the office.” His Adam’s apple bobbed when he talked.
“Tortoni’s never going to reach you,” said Crane.
“No?” said Frankie.
“He’s dead.” Crane wondered how it was they did not know this. “He was shot for trying to muscle into the slot-machine racket.”
At first they did not believe him. The reason they had heard nothing was that their radio was broken. George had been unable to fix it. They hardly believed him, even when he went into details.
Frankie walked over to him when he had finished telling them. “You lie.” His gold teeth flashed in the moonlight.
“No.”
Frankie hit him on the cheekbone and then had to pick him off the deck. “You lie,” he repeated.
“All right. I lie.”
“Yah!” Frankie scowled at him. “You’re yellow.”
“Sure, I’m yellow,” he said.
Frankie hit him again, knocked him against the side of the boat. “Wise Guy’s yellow,” he said.
Crane’s head spun, but he did not faint. The gnarled roots of the mangroves seemed to writhe in front of his eyes. The place on his stomach where George had kicked him suddenly began to hurt.
“I think he’s giving it to us straight,” said George.
“A dick wouldn’t give his mother tha right time,” said Toad.
“I don’t know,” said Dopey. He sounded frightened.
Frankie asked, “How’d you find out about Tortoni if they knocked him off?”
Crane told them about Essex’ part in the plot.
“That’s tha angle Tortoni was talkin’ about,” said George. “‘Member he said there’d be no rap in tha case?”
“Yeah, I remember,” said Frankie.
“What’ll we do?” asked Dopey.
“Les talk,” said Frankie.
He took Crane by the waist and lifted him off the seat. The hair on his chest tickled Crane’s face; a smell of stale liquor, of sweat was in Crane’s nose. He threw Crane down the cabin stairs.
Landing on his right shoulder, Crane rolled past the engines. The ropes cut his ankles, his wrists. He lay absolutely quiet in the dark. The fall had started the blood flowing again from the cut on his head. His stomach pained him terribly.
Tony Lamphier whispered, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Crane said.
Chapter XXII
A FAINT BREEZE, hardly more than a slow current of air, moved through the hot cabin and Crane fell into a fitful sleep. He had bad dreams. He kept pulling bodies out of a burning house; hundreds of black bodies, which crumbled when he tried to lift them in his arms. When he awoke there were moonbeams in the portholes on his right. The odors of oil, sea water and scorched paint filled the cabin.
What wakened him also woke Camelia. She whispered, “Tony.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I’m not much help.”
“You are, though. Now you’re here I don’t mind.”
“Really?”
“Darling, I don’t care what happens as long as you’re here.”
“You’re brave.”
“No, I’m not. I’m scared.” Her voice suddenly went off key. “Oh, Tony, get us out of here.”
Water murmured under the boat for almost a minute.
“I’m sorry, Tony,” she said. “I won’t do that again.”
“That’s all right, darling.”
“Tony, do you love me?”
“Oh yes, Cam.”
“I love you, too, Tony.”
Not far away Crane heard the sound of a boat being rowed. The oarlocks grated and the oars made a sucking noise in the water. He could hear men’s voices. He decided the kidnapers must have landed on the key and were now returning to the boat.
He heard a noise in the lower bunk to the left, saw Captain Luther Binton’s head roll over to one side. The captain’s eyes, open in the moonlight, were the color of watered milk. He was conscious. Crane moved along the floor in his direction.
Camelia Essex said, “Don’t mind our talking, Bill.”
“I don’t.”
“Tony and I have such a short life ahead of us. We have to be soupy, don’t we, Tony?”
“Darling, we’ll have a long life together.”
“A long, soupy life?”
“A very long, very soupy life.”
Camelia said, “Don’t mind our talking.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re witnessing our love life.”
“That’s all right,” said Crane.
“The short, happy love life of Camelia Essex and Tony Lamphier.”
“Darling,” Tony Lamphier said. “Don’t.”
The rowboat was alongside. George called, “Everything all right, Dopey?” His voice was loud.
“Sure,” said Dopey. He sounded as though he had been asleep.
There was a noise of oars being shipped. Frankie said, “Good ole Dopey.” He was very drunk. “Trust him.”
The deck creaked under feet. Dopey asked, “Wha’d you decide?”
“We’re goin’ t’ croak ’em,” said Toad.
“That’s good,” said Dopey.
“We figured it out.” Frankie’s voice was thick. “We croak ’em and scram for Miami.”
“The girl too?” asked Dopey.
“Why not?” said Toad.
“Sure, we gotta croak her,” said George. “She knows too much.”
Crane reached the captain’s bunk, whispered in his ear. “Are you all right, Captain Luther?”
The captain’s voice was barely audible. “No. What happened to my boat?”
“They sank it.”
The captain’s hands were free. He said, “Damn ’em.” Rope still bound one wrist. Crane for the first time felt hopeful.
Outside Frankie’s voice said, “We take the nine grand and divvy it up. That’s only a grand less’n Tortoni was t’give us.”
“And we’re in the clear,” said George.
“Clear as hell,” said Frankie. “Clear as hell.”
“When do we croak ’em?” asked Dopey.
“Right away,” said Frankie. “Before the sun comes up.”
“We gotta go out in the Stream,” said George. “The bodies’ll never come up out there.”
“Sharks,” Toad explained.
“Les get goin’,” said Frankie. “Whas keepin’ us?”
George came down in the cabin to start the engines. His breath smelled of Jamaica rum. He kicked Crane in the small of the back and turned his flashlight on Camelia. “How ya doin’, tutz?” He turned to the engines.
One of the engines wouldn’t start. Presently Frankie came down. “Whas tha matta?”
“I’m damned if I know.” George spun the cast-iron wheel viciously. “But I’ll make her go. See if I don’t.”
Between drinks they finally got it going. The cabin reeked of rum and spilled gasoline. It was almost day break and Crane could see the men’s dirty faces. They were both sweating. George threw a piece of oil rag in the corner of the cabin and said, “Let’s scram.” Crane could see a pile of oil rags in the corner. The men went up the cabin ladder. There was a long scar on Frankie’s nigger-tanned back.
“They’re going to kill us?” asked Camelia.
For the first time Crane was able to see her. Her blond hair was tangled; her lips were pale; the tan had faded from her skin. Her hands were tied with linen strips in front of her and she was touching Tony Lamphier’s head with them. Her white chiffon evening gown was soiled and one side had been ripped open, exposing half a peach-colored brassière and part of her stomach. Fear had made her blue eyes luminous.
“Don’t give up hope,” said Crane.
“What can we do?” asked Tony Lamphier.
“Can you untie your feet, Captain Luther?” Crane asked.
The captain tried to sit up, to rea
ch his feet, but he was unable. He had lost a great deal of blood.
“How long has he been conscious?” asked Tony Lamphier.
“Shush,” Crane said.
The Kate was heading out to sea and the engines, racing, were getting hot. The cabin floor vibrated. On deck Frankie approached George at the wheel, a jug in his hand.
“Why do we bump tha broad?” he asked.
George took the jug from him, had a long drink. He smacked his lips. “I been wonderin’ myself.”
“We could keep her around for awhile, anyway.”
“Sure.”
Frankie’s gold teeth gleamed. “I might even smuggle her into Miami. I know a place——”
“No, by God!” George’s voice was decisive. “That’s takin’ a chance. We gotta bump her.”
“But first …” Frankie said.
“After me,” George said.
“Like hell,” Frankie said.
Up the angling stairs Crane could see a portion of the rail, a rectangle of French-blue sky. Heat from the throbbing engines burned his back, made his skin tight. He didn’t dare look at Camelia.
“We’ll draw lots,” George said.
Frankie took the jug from him. “I’m boss here, see?”
“Like hell,” George said.
Toad moved into Crane’s field of vision. His small eyes peeped between creases of flesh the color of lard. “Why bother with her?” he asked in his shrill voice. “Why not croak her?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Frankie said.
“You can learn from me,” George said.
“Like hell,” Frankie said.
Heat from the engine was almost unbearable. The exhaust pipe was red halfway to the point where it went through the Kate’s hull. Crane tried to shove his back up the side of Captain Luther’s bunk so the captain could reach his bonds, but he couldn’t move off the floor. His legs were tied too tightly.
Dopey had joined the conversation on deck. His face was ghastly in the sunlight. “Let’s start bumpin’ ’em,” he said.
Toad said, “We’re almost in the Gulf Stream.”
Dopey’s hands were fluttering again. “What d’you want with the broad, anyway?”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Frankie slapped his thigh. “He wants t’know what we want wit’ her. Thas good. Ha, ha, ha.” He stopped laughing and scowled at Dopey. “Don’t ya think I got hair on my chest?”
The Dead Don’t Care Page 20