The Deadlier Sex

by Striker, Randy

  On one count, the Irishman was right—he did deserve a little recreation. Our vacation in the Ten Thousand Islands had turned into a complete bust after we notified the authorities and had Chief Spears and his goons rounded up. We had spent the next two days making sworn testimonies on the little tape recorders the federal boys brought with them. And when I had time—which wasn’t often between the question sessions—I visited Saxan in the sterile Naples jail where she was being temporarily held.

  “I can’t believe you’re still interested, Dusky, after all that’s happened.”

  “Loyalty is one of my few virtues, Saxan.”

  “Even if I go to prison?”

  And I had laughed. “Your lawyer says there’s absolutely no danger of that. The blackmail letters, remember? You were smart enough to keep them. And Chief Spears was stupid enough to use his own handwriting. . . .”

  It was, in truth, the only mistake Spears had made. I had to give him credit—he had worked the whole scam almost perfectly. As a Coast Guard officer, he could board any boat at will. Not even the men in his watch suspected when, in his cursory inspections, he left just the right amount of explosives behind. Then, disguised as Ms. Gloria Abhner, he was free to set up his own private collection agency.

  The aging officer, making a desperate stab at wealth and retirement, had the drugrunners coming and going.

  I had suspected him only briefly—when Barbara told me how the Blind Luck had rendezvoused with some other unseen vessel. And what other boat was in those waters? My radar aboard Sniper had told me—only the Coast Guard’s Royal Palm. But how could a whole Coast Guard crew be involved? That’s what had stumped me and finally made me decide Barbara was lying. But she wasn’t lying. The answer was simple: Spears’s fellow Coasties didn’t know. Even so, it had surprised the Irishman when I had asked Norm Fizer over the phone in Everglades City to check him out. In an organization as excellent as the United States Coast Guard, the thought of even one bad apple wounds them deeply.

  So I watched the Irishman weave his pretty windship on toward my piling house. When he got close enough, he waved gaily and yelled, “Brung ye a little surprise, Yank!”

  And that’s exactly what I had been afraid of. I went back inside cursing softly, and returned wearing a pair of shorts.

  “O’Davis, you maniac! You’re a menace to yourself and everyone who knows you.”

  “Hah! Is that true, now?” He sat at the helm holding a half-empty bottle of Irish whiskey. He was sunburned, bare-chested, and his red hair and beard were in wild disarray. “An’ we were about ta invite ye ta join us tonight in watchin’ the Key West fireworks from this fine pretty ship.”

  He held the Morgan off my piling house expertly, close enough for me to see inside the little cabin; close enough to see that he wasn’t alone.

  “Not tonight, Westy. Just want to spend a quiet evening alone tonight, thanks.”

  “But ye haven’t seen who I’ve brung, Yank!”

  And that’s when the girl came topside, hair like white spun glass, ripe body covered in the barest of string bikinis.

  “Barbara!”

  “Goddamn right, Dusky!” She stood tanned and grinning, more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

  But then my joy in seeing her was suddenly overcome by something else. “Barbara, it was really sweet of you to come out here to keep me company. But I’m afraid that I . . . ah . . . do want to be alone.”

  The girl looked suddenly embarrassed, while the Irishman’s face showed puzzlement—and then amusement. He said, “An’ ye say I’m conceited, Yank! Now that is a laugh!” And in answer to my own look of puzzlement, he explained, “Yank, don’t ye see? Barbara’s me folk singer! The one I stayed with on the island. She’s with me! We’re jest wonderin’ if ye’d like ta share our company tonight.”

  And suddenly, I felt very good. The awkward situation I had feared was no longer awkward. I made them promise to come back after the Fourth of July display. I said that we would eat fresh fish and drink cold beer, and that they could sing some of the songs they had been practicing.

  They both thought that was funny.

  And when they were gone, safely puttering away across the turquoise expanse of sea, the woman came out. She wore only one of my soft blue cotton shirts. It was not buttoned, and her small firm breasts thrust the material away, showing the sweet soft line of stomach, the belly button, and the flaxen curl between thighs. She put her arms around me, whispering in my ear.

  “You turned those nice people down?”

  “Hmmm . . . well, it seemed like the thing to do.”

  “They were my friends, too, Dusky. And it is Independence Day, you know—I thought you were more patriotic than that.”

  I turned to meet her kiss, feeling lips hot and moist, mouth opening as my hand moved up her body to touch the perfect breasts.

  “Doesn’t this seem patriotic?”

  “Oh . . . it does . . . yes . . . should I salute that?”

  “Haven’t I taught you anything, woman? It’s hardly for saluting.”

  And Saxan Benton giggled. “Guess that means I need another lesson, huh? My professors always said I was a slow learner, Dusky. But once I learn, I never forget. . . .”