Helen pushed her sunglasses up, securing them in her hair. She grinned at her husband before speaking. “Are you sure you don't feel emasculated by this man's boat?”
“At least my middle-aged wife looks decent in a swimming-costume.”
“Did you just say ‘decent'?” Helen kicked sand at her husband. Rigby grabbed his wife and pulled her into the water. She screamed, handed her book to Foley, and tried to push her husband's head under.
They held hands watching Foley filet the grouper. “It's not the end of the world,” said Rigby. “Tomorrow we'll pull anchor and find ourselves another lagoon. Whoever he is, he just violated a rule of common decency, that's all I'm saying.” Rigby took a few steps closer to Foley. “Anyway, we've got more important issues,” he continued, putting his hand on Foley's shoulder. “I believe it's time for our daily spear-fishing competition.”
“Not today, Mr. Rigby, I've got work that needs doin',” Foley said, picking up the fish. “Besides, there are too many sharks round ‘des island. You go ahead.”
“Suit yourself. Helen, what about you?” She ignored him and walked up the beach. Guess I'm on my own, Rigby thought.
Foley helped him push the dinghy into deeper water. Rigby hopped in and Foley threw him the anchor line. Before he could start the engine, one of the Liti-Gator's wave-runners idled up behind him. The young Bahamian sitting on the wave-runner was as black as an eight ball. Rigby started to voice his displeasure, but something stopped him.
“Ahoy, Captain. Say, my boss sent me to find some lobsters. Vould you know vhere I could find ‘dem?” the young man inquired. “My name's Kewin,” he said, extending his hand. “Mr. Rigby has been findin some nice lobsters on dem coral-heads,” Foley indicated, pointing.
“Be careful. I've seen sharks,” added Rigby.
Kevin looked fearful. “My boss will fire me if I don't bring back some lobsters. Could you take me with you?” he asked.
“I could use some company. Jump in. Captain Foley chickened out of our daily spear-fishing contest. I'm Rigby Croxford. This is Bonefish Foley, who happens to be the second-best spear fisherman in the Bahamas. I hate to blow my horn, but you're about to witness something special—a great diver in action. Isn't that right, Foley?”
“Mr. Rigby, you're a special one, all right. Lord, you can tell some big fibs,” said Foley.
“Thanks,” said Kevin. He shook each man's hand with the customary Bahamian limp handshake.
***
Rigby ran his skiff offshore. When he located a coral-head he turned the helm over to Kevin and leaned over the gunwale to look through a glass-bottom bucket.
“Do you see lobster?” Kevin asked.
“As Foley would say, ‘Dey is as thick as grains of san' on the beach.'”
“You sound like an Englishman,” commented Kevin.
“I'm from Zimbabwe. You could say, I'm an African.”
“You're an African?” Kevin scratched his head.
“I'll explain later. Hand me those gloves.”
Rigby pulled his diving mask over his face, grabbed his Hawaiian sling and fell over the side of the Whaler, backwards. He turned upside down and disappeared. When he resurfaced, he had three lobsters skewered on his spear. On his last dive, he speared a hog snapper. They headed back to the lagoon.
As they nudged up on the beach, Helen walked down to greet them. “Any luck? I wish you wouldn't dive alone.” “I wasn't diving alone. Kevin was with me,” Rigby said, holding up the spiny lobsters. “Kevin, I'm Helen Croxford.”
“It's nice to meet you. Say, I almost forgot. My boss wants both of you to have dinner with him tonight.”
“Tell your boss we appreciate his hospitality, but we've already got something planned,” Rigby answered.
Kevin looked disappointed and said, “Now I know he'll fire me.”
“Young man,” said Helen, “you tell your boss we'd love to join him for dinner. The head chef and bottle washer needs a break. Besides, I'm dying to see his yacht.” “You take the lobster,” Rigby demanded.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure. Now that my admiral has spoken, what time do you want us? What's your boss's name?”
“Cocktails are at seven. His name is Mr. Maxwell Turner.”
***
Using binoculars, Rigby watched a seaplane land southeast of the entrance to the lagoon. Three passengers departed the plane and boarded a skiff. The launch deposited them at the Liti-Gator's stern. A man wearing a blue blazer and white pants met them as they disembarked. He offered his hand to the woman struggling for balance.
“How was the flight?”Max Turner asked.
“It was breath taking,” replied the woman.
“Molly dear, why don't you go below,”said Max.“It'll give you a chance to freshen up before dinner. I need to borrow your husband. Tucker let's go top-side. You can fill me in on our friend.”
Max motioned to a steward.“ Make Mr. Dodge a scotch and soda.”
Max waited for Tucker Dodge to light his pipe and take the first sip.“
What did you find out?” Turner asked.
“Let's start with Croxford's brother-in-law. He's the one with the deep pockets. Croxford transferred the title to his Zimbabwean farm to him for the time being, Mugabe has been reluctant to confiscate the foreign-owned farms. Max, this could pose a problem. Money may not motivate this guy.”
“You feel Croxford's my best shot at rescuing Arthur? Assuming, he's still alive.”
“Croxford's a legend in southern Africa. He was a decorated Selous Scout in the Rhodesian Bush War. A Selous Scout is like a Navy Seal on steroids. He fought as a mercenary in the Congo and Angola. And he's hunted in the Central African Republic and the Sudan. If your son's alive, Croxford's the man to bring him out,” answered Tucker.
“That's what you said about the last guy. After I paid him, I never heard a word,” Max said, looking through a porthole at the setting sun. Turner stuck his nose in the wine glass and sniffed before tasting it. He placed his glass on the bar and turned to Dodge. “Well, if Croxford's our man, you let me worry about hiring him. No man likes another man paying his way. I need to put this nightmare behind me.” He patted Dodge on the back. “Thanks, Tucker. Nice job. Let's go below. Our guests should be arriving. I'm curious to meet Croxford.”
The Liti-Gator looked like a lit-up New York skyscraper floating on its side. Her underwater lights illuminated the lagoon. Turner met the Croxfords at the top of the stairs on the fantail.
Maxwell Turner had spent a lifetime trying to enhance his masculinity. He was five foot six. His posture indicated he was trying to elongate himself. A face-lift gave his eyes that slanted Hollywood actor look. He wore an expensive toupee, but the salt spray made it look like something women wrapped around their shoulders in the thirties. Turner was one hundred and seventy pounds of solid muscle. He shaved his arms to enhance the rippled effect. When he shook your hand, you could feel the calluses of a weightlifter. When he spoke, his accent sounded generic, but his tone was like the rhythmic notes of a bass saxophone.
“Good evening,” Max said, extending his hand. “Croxfords, meet the Dodges. This is Tucker, or Tucky, and his better half, Molly. What can I have my steward get you to drink?” Turner latched on to Helen's hand and refused to let go. It was his way of testing the waters. Rigby was oblivious to Max's flirtation. Helen pulled away gracefully.
The group gave drink orders to an Asian-looking steward. Max ushered them into a salon that would have made a Saudi prince jealous. Fearful of soiling the expensive upholstery, Rigby sat on the edge of his chair.
“Before I forget, the lobster hors d'oeuvres are courtesy of Mr. Croxford. I'm afraid I had to give up diving. It's my ears.” Max pointed at his ear and mocked pain. Something made Rigby think that he had fabricated the excuse.
“I can't tell you how happy this makes me. I mean, your accepting my invitation. Right up front, I want to apologize for barging in on your lagoon. Now, whe
re do you folks call home?”
“We live in Africa. Although Helen's a Yank by birth,” answered Rigby. “Helen guessed you were a solicitor.”
“She's right. What's your business in Africa, Rigby?”
“I'm a farmer and a professional hunter.”
“Mrs. Croxford, what did you do before this extremely lucky man shanghaied you to the Dark Continent?”
“I'm a doctor.”
“And where did you go to medical school?”
“Yale.”
“Do you have any children?”
“One daughter. She's also a doctor.”
“My God, beauty and intelligence. Like I said, Mr. Croxford, you're a lucky man. I'm afraid my academic credentials aren't as impressive.” Helen blushed as Max's visual frisk lingered on her a second too long. Turner walked over and stood next to the spiral stairway to the bridge. “If you're interested, I'll give you the grand tour after dinner,” he said, indicating he was speaking about his yacht with an expansive wave.
“We look forward to it,” Helen said, hooking her arm through her husband's elbow.
Turner always reverted to using his wealth to attract women and belittle men. Rigby and his wife's display of affection for each other irritated him. He attempted to hide his annoyance, but couldn't. “Of course, it's just another boat. You people look like real boaters. I wish I had the time.”
“It's not our boat. It's on loan from her brother,” said Rigby.
“Max, you seem to be doing okay,” Helen added, offering an olive branch to lessen the awkwardness.
“I'm doing all right. One step ahead of my creditors, as they say. Helen, I'm curious about your brother's boat. Those classic fifty-threes are hard to come by nowadays. Do you think he might have an interest in selling the old girl?” It was obvious his interest was disingenuous. Before Helen could answer, he turned away.
“Excuse me. Yes, Bob.” Turner turned to receive a message from a large bald man. Bob had a twisted nose. The folds of accordion skin on the back of his neck gave him the look of a Shar-Pei dog. His piggish eyes were not as repulsive as the way he enunciated his words with his lips extended like a goldfish. The steward handed a wine list to Rigby.
“Folks, I need to take an overseas call. Why don't you choose your wine? I won't be a minute. You all can get acquainted.”
Rigby waited until Max disappeared into the wheelhouse. “Christ, a wine list. I reckon we need to improve the service on our classic boat.” He used the wine list to block the sound. “What's with Bob? His head looks like a penis.”
“Do you have to be so gross?” Helen whispered to Rigby, trying not to smile. “Give me that wine list. You don't know anything about wine.”
“The amount of wine I've consumed makes me an expert. Although I must admit, Zimbabwean wine is probably better suited as a cleaning agent.”
Helen was uneasy about exposing her husband to the Dodges. She had gone to college with hundreds of men like Tucker Dodge. He's probably a stockbroker, or maybe a mergers and acquisitions lawyer on Wall Street, she thought. He had undoubtedly gone to a fancy prep school and would have followed in his father's footsteps by attending Yale or Harvard. His enunciation was too punctilious not to be Ivy League.
His wife came from a wealthy family, Helen figured. People like the Dodges don't get married, instead, they merge. She was Connecticut frumpy with thick ankles and heavy arms. She wore her hair in a bun. Her chinless face was blemished. Helen sized her up and realized that the Dodges' marriage wasn't a merger; it was an acquisition. Mrs. Dodge is the one with the money, she concluded.
Molly rummaged through her Chanel handbag. When she located the cigarette-holder she handed it to her husband without looking at him. He secured the cigarette, lit the end and handed it back to her. She accepted it without thanking him.
I knew it, Helen thought, congratulating herself.
Helen had gone to Yale on a scholarship. She looked at Rigby, and a warm contentment washed over her. God, I'm glad I married you, she thought. She glanced at Tucker and then at his wife. Helen, you're too damn cynical. At least give these people a chance, she continued thinking. What she heard next would confirm her first impression.
“It must be exciting living in Africa,” Molly directed at Helen.
“Yes, we like it very much.”
“A couple of years ago we went on a photographic safari in Kenya. We loved it. Didn't we, dear?” Tucker said, looking at his wife for confirmation. She nodded her approval. “It was absolutely marvelous,” Molly added.
“Mr. Croxford, I understand you're a professional hunter. I've never liked hunting. The cruelty seems so senseless,” Tucker said.
“I'm only working as a professional hunter until I can get back into farming.”
“Mr. Croxford, what's your take on Mugabe reclaiming the farms and giving them back to the rightful owners?” Tucker inquired, sucking on his cigar until it ignited. He blew out the match and held up his empty glass, looking for a refill.
“Rhodesia was the bread basket of Africa. Now the people are starving.”
“You don't look like you're starving,” Tucker stated.
“Actually, we were starving. That's why we've come to the Bahamas. It's a brilliant spot to fatten up,” Rigby said with a smile.
Tucker continued. “And you feel no guilt for what the white man's done to the Africans.” Tucker's face narrowed in contempt.
“Africa's complicated. You must live there to understand it.”
“Come now, Croxford, I find that hard to believe.”
Rigby's brow narrowed. He looked squarely at Tucker. “Ducky, I have no regrets about trying to maintain order in Africa. I lost a lot of my best mates in something called the Rhodesian Bush War. I fought next to some very brave men—it might interest you to know, some of them were black. I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in your opinions.” His acid tone had them squirming.
“The name's Tucker. Look, I apologize if I've said something to offend you. I'm just trying to understand your thinking.” He turned away from Rigby's glare and stood up. “I wonder what's keeping Max,” he mumbled, trying to quicken the clock-ticking silence.
Turner looked over the shoulder of his secretary. He read the following email to himself.
To: Maxwell Turner
From: Rutherford, London School of Medicine
Forensic Science Department.
RE: Postmortem pathology
Dear Mr. Turner: DNA samples taken from the human body parts retrieved from the stomach of a crocodile killed on Lake Albert, Uganda, inconclusive because of the high level of corrosive digestive acids. More tests are required. Sorry to put you through this ordeal.
Kindest regards,
Dr. Malcolm Rutherford
“Is everyone getting to know each other?” Turner asked, walking back into the salon. “If you folks will follow me, I think they're ready to serve us dinner.”
As soon as everyone was seated, Max Turner insisted they hold hands and bow their heads. “Let us pray,” he started. “These six things the Lord hates. Yes, my friends, they are an abomination to Him: a proud look, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that are swift in running to evil, and a false witness who speaks lies.” They thought Max had finished his sermon, but he was just getting warmed up. Just when the atmosphere seemed almost suicidal, the Amen came. Relieved, they all smiled, except Helen, who frowned at her husband who had been fidgeting like a schoolboy in church. Max caught them winking at each other.
They dined on rack of lamb. Helen deferred to Max's wine selection, a 1998 Chateau Petrus. The dinner chitchat was limited to Max's grilling the Croxfords about Africa. Tucker and his wife were still licking the verbal wounds inflicted by Rigby and seemed unwilling to participate in the conversation.
After dinner, the group retired to the back deck. The men smoked Cuban cigars and sipped cognac. When the wind lulled—the clouds dissipated leaving a star studd
ed sky. Occasionally, a distant streak of heat lighting gave form to the coconut trees on the shoreline.
“Mr. Dodge, what's your line of work?” Rigby asked, trying to repair his earlier damage.
“I'm an attorney. I represent Max.”
“I'm confused. Max, I thought you were a lawyer.”
“You can never have enough attorneys around,” answered Max.
“Says who?”
“Rigby, for God's sake,” his wife interjected.
“It's all right, Dr. Croxford. Rigby, did my prayer make you nervous?”
“I wouldn't say it made me nervous.”
“Oh really? Don't you think Voltaire said it best when he wrote, ‘I die adoring God, loving my friends and not hating my enemies'?” Max asked, looking at Rigby.
The wine had thickened his recollection of clever answers. He glanced at his wife, looking for help. Helen countered with,
“Let's not forget Lucretius, who wrote, ‘How many evils have flowed from religion?'”
“Folks,” said Max, “I think I may have gotten in over my head. It's not often you meet such au courant people in the Bahamas.” Turner continued his cross-examination. “Rigby, are you a religious man?”
“I'd say I'm more of a spiritual man. I've seen so much injustice in my life. And I'm embarrassed to admit I've been a participant, although an unwilling participant, in so much violence, I guess I'm afraid to think about Godly matters. Turning to less lofty subjects, I must tell you, Max, you're an absolutely brilliant host. I reckon that wine was the best I ever tasted,” Rigby slurred.
“At a thousand bucks, it ought to be.”
“You're kidding. It's hard to imagine paying a thousand dollars for a case of wine. No wonder it was good. Say, how many bottles are in a case?”
“Rigby Croxford, you're a breath of fresh air.” said Max.
“Thanks for a wonderful evening,” Helen said, grabbing her husband's arm. “I better get him home.”
The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Page 2