“Can we take a cruise on the boat, Chico?” Erikson asked.
“Anytime,” Wilson affirmed. He grinned at Hazel again. “You’re invited, doll.”
I waited for Erikson to object. When he didn’t, I thought I knew why. A woman aboard the fishing cruiser would give a touristy appearance to the expedition.
“We’ll meet at the boat in an hour,” Erikson ruled. “Separately.” Whether he realized it or not, his tone had all the flavor of an order from the quarterdeck. “Chico, stop off at this address”—Erikson handed him a slip of paper—“and take what they have for you aboard. There’ll be another load later to be brought here.”
Wilson was again smiling at Hazel. “It’ll be a pleasure to welcome you aboard the Calypso, doll,” he said. He yawned again, then stretched exaggeratedly in a manner that effectively displayed shoulder muscles. A jagged ridge of knotted scar tissue across his otherwise smooth abdomen indicated that at least once Wilson had been talking when he should have been listening. He left the room after a final look at Hazel to note her reaction.
“Not exactly my idea of an undercover man,” I said to Erikson. “He draws the eye like a drum major.”
“He comes well recommended,” Erikson replied. “And so does his cruiser. See you in an hour.”
“I wish I understood that man,” I said as the door closed behind him.
“What’s to understand?” Hazel asked. “I’d say that the body-beautiful Chico is a much more complicated animal.”
“No. I’ve met a hundred Chicos. I’m not sure I’ve ever met an Erikson.”
“Well, how does he come through to you?”
I hesitated. “I’m not sure. He doesn’t seem to fit, somehow. Or maybe I’m imagining things.” I went over and sat down beside her. “Maybe it’s because he had the handicap of a college education. He’s an ex-Navy type embittered at authority after getting scorched, you know.”
“Well”—she snuggled closer to me—“he said we had an hour.”
“He might not even have been doing anything wrong himself. When the Navy decides to blitz an offending admiral, they usually burn down all the surrounding scenery so they won’t have any skeletons in the closet in the future.”
“An hour,” Hazel said pointedly. She wriggled still closer.
“It would be a shame to waste it,” I agreed.
There followed a mutual laying-on of hands. When it developed that we were wearing too many clothes for that form of exercise, we got rid of the clothes. The room’s air conditioning felt moist upon my bare flesh.
“Move your knee out of the way,” I said to Hazel.
“Out of the way of what?” she murmured.
“Out of the way of the machinery. That’s it. There.”
“Mmmmmmmmmmm!”
“Over the waves, baby. Over the waves.”
• • •
Within the given hour we stood on the dock looking down at the 38-foot length of the Calypso. I had trouble locating it at first amid the cluster of hulls and the forest of masts. When Hazel and I arrived at the dock, a five-minute walk from The Castaways, my glance ran up and down the maze of boats tied up in straggling rows until I came to a break in the ranks of white hulls. I stared for a moment before I realized I was looking at the Calypso. Its hull was dark blue and the superstructure was dark grey. The boat blended with the water while the other hulls stood out. I didn’t know Chico Wilson’s usual business, but if it was what I had a hunch it was, the sea-blending nonvisibility of his cruiser made a lot of sense.
We walked out on the stringpiece nearest the cruiser. “She doesn’t look fast,” Hazel observed. Hazel was in white minishorts and a bright-colored blouse. I was wearing wash slacks and a loud sport shirt she’d bought for me. Beneath the loose-fitting sport shirt I had on my shoulder holster.
The Calypso looked squat and heavy as it lay low in the water. “This test run is to make sure of its speed,” I said. “Although Erikson said the cruiser came well recommended.”
Chico Wilson popped his head out the pilothouse door and waved to us. “Jump aboard,” he called, eyeing Hazel’s shorts greedily. I could see Erikson in the pilot house with him.
I leaped down onto the weather-beaten fantail, then helped Hazel down. We walked over worn wooden planking to the forward cabin door. Wilson and Erikson met us there. “Chico’s going to give us a quick tour,” Erikson said.
I could see Hazel eyeing grease on the planking and chips out of the paint as she followed Wilson into the cabin. I had already noticed peeling deck paint and green, oxidized brasswork. Inside, the carpeting was threadbare and there were damp curls of dust in the corners. There was the musty odor of moldy cushions, and oil and gasoline fumes were thick enough to almost form a haze.
Erikson’s mouth was screwed up in distaste as he glanced around. Wilson saw it, too. “Don’t worry,” he said grinning. “She’s clean where it counts, the hull an’ the engine compartment.”
“Let’s see the engine,” Erikson said shortly. Wilson led the way amidships and pried up a double door in the flooring. Buried in the Calypso’s midsection were two brutish-looking in-line engines. “What horsepower?” Erikson asked.
“Three twenty each,” Wilson replied. “Jammed into the same space I pulled a single two-hundred-fifty-horsepower engine off its bed. Hell of a job, but it was worth it. When I cut these babies loose, the Coast Guard don’t know which way the old girl went.”
“What’s your cruising range?”
Wilson showed his white teeth again. “Well, it’s not Europe. Tank capacity’s four hundred eighty gallons, but when these two engines get to suckin’ juice at forty knots, this sweet bitch uses gasoline faster’n you can throw it overboard in five-gallon cans.”
“Forty knots,” Erikson repeated. He looked slightly mollified. “All right, take her outside and wring her out.”
I saw the back of Wilson’s hand trail across Hazel’s bare thigh as he passed her. She didn’t change expression. Up on the flying bridge I picked out a slightly less dirty seat cushion and sat down. Above my head I could see the corroded metal of the aluminum tuna tower.
Wilson started up the engines, which rumbled dutifully in a double-basso duet. He ran fore and aft like a monkey, casting off lines while Erikson fended us off the stringpiece with a boathook. Wilson sprinted back to the wheel and backed the Calypso away from the slip in a graceful arc, then threaded his way through the turns in the wharfage until he reached the channel leading to open water.
“How many in your crew?” Erikson raised his voice above the sound of the engines.
“Two reg’lar. My mate, Donnie Redmond, who can handle her as good as I can, an’ a kid to handle the bait for fishin’ parties.”
Outside the bight there was a pronounced swell. Wilson increased the speed, and the chest tones in the Calypso’s mechanical voice deepened. The boat seemed to climb a bit higher in the water as it surged smoothly through the waves rather than over them. Erikson stood at arm’s length from Wilson near the wheel; his body relaxed with the swaying motion in the manner of a man who has experienced several thousand hours in like circumstances.
Hazel remained on her feet, too, a half-dozen paces to the rear of the pair at the wheel. I noticed that her eyes were fixed on the huge maritime compass swung overhead so that it confronted the wheelsman without the necessity for his turning his head. I remembered again that Hazel had handled powerboats during her years on Florida’s Gulf Coast.
Erikson said something to Wilson that I couldn’t hear in the freshening breeze. Our speed increased, then increased again sharply. Sheets of water surged past the bridge at eye level, thrown off from the bow wave as the Calypso bored through the swell. The engines roared like monsters in travail as the swaying motion quickened to a plunging motion. The new gyrations of the Calypso reminded me forcefully that I was a land animal.
My sensations must have showed in my expression. Wilson glanced over at me, and a corner of his mouth curled. His
gaze passed on to Hazel, who was balancing easily against the boat’s motion, her red hair flying. Wilson’s white teeth gleamed in the provocative grin I was coming to dislike. He patted the steering wheel invitingly, in dumb show inviting Hazel to take over.
She looked at Erikson, waiting for a veto. When he provided none, she stepped up and took the wheel. The wind flattened her blouse to her body, delineating her large breasts. Wilson watched her hands on the wheel for a moment, then stepped aside to give her room. He saw her glance up at the compass, and his grin widened. “Nor’ by nor’west!” he bawled.
I could see Hazel’s lips move, but I couldn’t hear her voice in the whistling windstream. She must have repeated the direction, because the Calypso changed course gradually, then settled down to throwing water again. “By God, she can set a course!” Wilson roared in delight. “We’ve got us a sailor aboard!”
In a few moments Erikson tapped Hazel on the shoulder and motioned for her to give way at the wheel. He took over himself and began conning the boat in a series of sweeping turns, testing its maneuverability. Hazel came over and sat down beside me. Before she left the wheel, Hazel stooped and picked up something which she showed me as she sat down. It was a length of a lead pipe with a wooden handle.
Wilson sat down beside us, closer to Hazel than he needed to be. “That’s to repel boarders,” he informed us when he saw what Hazel held in her hand. “Lots of pirates in these waters.” He slipped an arm around Hazel’s waist. In seconds his hand had circumnavigated her body and the fingers at the end of the hand were cupping her breast.
Hazel twisted on the seat cushion, raised the lead pipe, and smashed it down upon the railing within inches of Wilson’s encircling arm. The pipe made a noticeable dent in the hard wood of the railing.
Wilson didn’t flinch. His fingers were no longer at Hazel’s breast, but he didn’t remove his arm. “You want to be a little bit careful with that thing,” he said.
“I was careful,” Hazel informed him sweetly. “That time.”
“I like it when they have a little spirit,” Wilson said to no one and everyone.
At the wheel Erikson raised his arm. Wilson started to get to his feet, but the blond man waved him off. He beckoned, and Hazel went to him and took the wheel. I couldn’t tell if Erikson had seen the byplay with the lead pipe or not. He sat down between Wilson and me.
“I want this cruiser cleaned,” he said to Wilson without preliminary. “And I mean cleaned thoroughly. If we had the time, I’d want it painted, inside and out. I want the bilge kept bone-dry, and I want extra vent holes bored and extra cutouts made along the floor near the gratings to permit air to reach all parts of the hull and bilge. Right this minute this boat is nothing but a floating gasoline tank.”
“You’re the doctor.” Wilson shrugged. “When we takin’ off for real?”
“Just as soon as I can get all the necessary gear together. I’d say no later than two weeks from today. If we string it out beyond that, we risk running into the early hurricane season. When we get back to The Castaways, I’ll give you another list of supplies I want brought aboard.”
“We goin’ in now?”
“Yes.”
Wilson returned to the wheel to relieve Hazel. “Why did you let Slater so far out of your sight on his way down here?” I asked Erikson. “After the problem you mentioned?”
“I think he’s settled down,” Erikson said absently. “He had a lot of accumulated steam to blow off.” The big man’s pale blue eyes were fixed upon a big patch of corrosion on a stanchion. I knew the unkempt condition of the Calypso must gripe his neat ex-Navy soul. “Actually, it’s Slater’s physical condition that makes me want to keep him off the shellac,” he continued. “We’re facing some hard, hard going down in the interior, and after years of disuse, I don’t know if his musculature will stand up to it.”
The Calypso slowed in its forward drive. Erikson stood up and looked forward. When I followed suit, I saw that we were approaching the Key West waterfront. I sat down again as Erikson rejoined Wilson at the wheel. I had felt chilled during our high-speed run on open water, but now the land heat rolled over the boat in a muggy tide. I could feel the perspiration starting again.
Hazel joined me, sat down, and slipped her hand into mine. “D’you think your boy Chico got your message?” I asked her.
“If he didn’t, the next one’ll cost him bridgework,” she promised. Her expression was concerned as she studied my face. “Let me handle him, okay?”
I said nothing as Wilson expertly conned the Calypso back into its slip.
• • •
Slater was waiting for us at The Castaways.
The Mexican boy Hazel had left on duty behind the bar leaned across it and said something to Slater as we entered. The burly man left his half-finished glass of beer and approached us. I was savoring the feel of the air conditioning. “The boy says you’re the one to see about gettin’ a room,” Slater said to Hazel.
She waited for a negative reaction from me. “No women above the first floor,” she said when I gave no sign. “That’s ironclad.”
“Suits me,” Slater shrugged. Money was changing hands between them when Erikson came through the front door. He walked directly to the stairway and went upstairs. He didn’t look at Slater, nor Slater at him. I stayed downstairs while Hazel took Slater up to get him settled. I’d have plenty of time to talk to him later. I wondered where Wilson was. Probably out picking up Erikson’s supplies.
Hazel came back downstairs and told the bartender that he could go. “It’s quite a crew you’ve put together,” she said to me quietly when she was sure no one could overhear.
I didn’t feel that I’d put it together, but I let it go. “Did you give friend Chico the same pitch about no women above the first floor when you roomed him?”
“I certainly did.”
“What did he say?”
“You won’t get mad?”
“No madder than I am already.”
She smiled reminiscently. “He said ‘Do you stay above the first floor?’ and when I said yes he said ‘Then I won’t need no other women up there.’ ”
“It sounds like him.”
“He’s funny, if you could only see it that way.” I said nothing, and she put her hand on my arm. “Let me handle him,” she said for the second time.
Erikson came downstairs and sat at the other end of the bar. When Hazel served him, he downed a beer in two gulps, said something to her, and went out the front door. I waited while she swished a bar rag along the mahogany bar top until she was opposite me. “He wants you to go down to the basement and give Wilson a hand unloading supplies from Wilson’s truck,” she murmured.
Rather than use the basement door inside the room in back of the bar, I went outside and walked down the alley. Some of the fishermen-faces in The Castaways were beginning to look familiar to me, and if the reverse were true, I didn’t want to call attention to myself by letting anyone see me make too familiar use of the lower floor.
It was twilight outside. Margaret Street looked deserted as I turned into the alley. Slanting outside doors led down a short flight of steps at the rear of the building into The Castaways’ basement. A mud-covered, rust-spotted pickup was parked there. It didn’t need Wilson’s name on it to proclaim its ownership. It was sister-under-the-skin to the Calypso.
Wilson emerged from the basement. “I was beginnin’ to think you was afraid to get your hands dirty,” he started in on me. “Stack this stuff inside.” He climbed into the body of the pickup.
We had a lot of chiefs and damn few Indians on this project, I reflected. I kept my mouth shut, though. I went back and forth to the basement with armloads of blue naval uniforms, khaki uniforms, rubber ponchos, and duffle bags crammed with weighty items. Inside the basement the air was musty and smelled of beer, but it was cooler than outside.
Next came several open boxes of what looked like radio equipment. When there was nothing left in the pickup exc
ept two small wooden crates, Wilson jumped down and carried one into the basement. I carried the other. For their size, they were deceptively heavy. Stenciled boldly on all sides of the crates was the single word CLASSIFIED. “What’s in these?” I asked Wilson as he closed the outer basement doors.
“You can read, can’t you?” he grunted.
I started to heat up until I realized that he didn’t know, either. He got into the pickup and drove off down the alley. I walked around to the front and went inside. I wanted a shower.
Hazel was busy at the tables. I climbed the stairs to our room. “Hey, Drake!” Slater called to me as I passed his open door. I went into his room. He seemed more tense than he had in San Diego. “Who’s the redhead at the bar?” he wanted to know.
“My girl.”
“Your girl! How’d you round up that bit of catnip?”
I decided that the truth couldn’t hurt anything. “She’s the moneyman.” I unbuttoned my sweat-soaked shirt and slipped out of it.
Slater cocked a heavy eyebrow. “All that and money, too,” he said admiringly. “What did Captain Bligh have to say?”
I knew he meant Erikson. “Nothing. Yet.” And now that I thought of it, it was strange that he hadn’t.
Slater’s gaze was on my chest where some of the scars from the plastic surgery transplants partly showed above my undershirt. “Somebody didn’t like you a whole lot one time, hmm?” he remarked.
I didn’t correct him. If he didn’t make the connection between the multicolored scars and my new face, it was all right with me. “Erikson said there was a load of stuff in the basement we’d move upstairs tonight after closin’ time,” Slater continued. “What d’you think of our boat captain?”
“I’ll let you meet him first.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I don’t have to like him if he gets the job done. On the water he seems capable enough.”
“He’s not gonna be on the water when we jump the fence at Gitmo,” Slater objected.
Operation Fireball Page 8