Authors: John Gordon Davis
‘Wherabouts did this plane crash? So I can stay away.’
Old Charlie waved his hand. ‘Over east somewheres an’ I don’t want to know more. I just knows where the fish hangs out.’
‘What boats have you got?’ He felt feverish.
‘You lookin’ at it. Or that one.’ He pointed.
It was a speedboat with a small cabin and one outboard engine. Morgan didn’t trust it to cross the Gulf Stream. The little yacht Charlie was on looked all right, but would be slow.
‘Anything faster? Like one of those?’ He pointed at the long cigarette boats.
‘Those belong to Black Cat an’ the boys, an’ they ain’t in the habit of charterin’ to nobody.’
‘Who’s Black Cat?’
Old Charlie smirked again. ‘Black Cat’s Mr Big aroun’ these islands.’
‘Is he black?’
‘As the ace of spades.’
‘Why’s he called Cat?’
‘I can take a guess,’ old Charlie said. ‘Most rental boats are already hired for today, anyways, you gotta book.’
Morgan clambered onto the little boat and examined it quickly. It was a twenty-four-foot sloop, called
Rosemary.
Her rigging looked all right. It had a cabin, a small galley, two bunks, a toilet, the standard layout. It looked a good little boat, but six knots would be top speed. He looked feverishly across the harbour for other people moving about. He saw a boat enter the harbour, mean and sleek. It swung towards the jetty. Three men were in it, all black. It roared towards them, then swung into an arrogant turn, broadside on to the jetty. A tall black man leapt out and came striding up the jetty.
‘That’s him,’ old Charlie said.
He was lean and powerful, and Morgan’s blood ran cold. He looked like a cat, face round, his eyes slanted and piercing, his ears unusually pointed. He strode, with a face like thunder. The two men followed, hefting aqualung tanks.
‘Come back for air refills,’ old Charlie said. ‘They madder ‘n hell.’
Black Cat strode furiously past, off the jetty, and across the waterfront road, heading for Fred’s Eating House. He disappeared inside. Morgan turned back to old Charlie. ‘Okay, I’ll take it. For three days. Is she ready to go?’
‘Hundred bucks per twenty-four hours,’ old Charlie said happily. ‘Plus a hundred bucks deposit on the rods and gear. Take a couple of hours to crank her up.’
‘Two
hours
?’
‘Got to change the oil, an’ tank her up. An’ I guess you’d like ice, and bait.’
‘Forget the ice and bait. I want her ready in half an hour.’
‘Get the ice an’ bait same place as the diesel. Booze an’ some cans of food aboard, yer pays at the end for what you takes.’
‘One hour – maximum. This is my
holiday,
man!’
‘No can do,’ Charlie said happily ‘Two hours.’
He wanted to hurry straight back to the hotel, but he dared not walk past Fred’s. Black Cat had not yet come out. Morgan turned left, away from Fred’s. He walked feverishly along the waterfront, trying to look casual. He took the first road to the right. He walked fast, past old houses and shops. At the end of the block he turned right again. Now he was in a road behind Fred’s. He walked for three blocks. Then turned right again, back to the hotel.
He did not look left or right in the foyer. He mounted the stairs, two at a time.
He scratched lightly on the door, then put in the key.
She sat on the bed, her back in the corner, the pistol in her hand, her head hanging. She was deep asleep.
He closed the door and locked it. He looked at his watch. Only twenty minutes had passed since he left Charlie.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the cold shower. He stripped off and stepped under it. He let the water beat down on his head then turned his face into it. He soaped himself, and washed his hair. He dried himself, and he was sweating again. He washed his clothes, and pulled them on wet. He put more black rinse in his hair. He looked at his watch. All that had only taken twenty minutes.
Then there was a loud knock on the door.
He froze. Anna woke up with a start. He held up a warning finger at her. The knock came again, louder. ‘This is the manager! Open up!’
‘What is it?’
‘Open up, man, I wanna talk to ya!’
He knew it wasn’t the manager. He cursed himself for answering. He pulled the dead pilot’s gun out of his pocket. His hands were shaking. ‘Go away, I’m resting!’
‘You the folks at Fred’s Eatin’ House this mornin’ early?’
His hammering heart missed a beat. ‘No! – go away or I’ll call the police!’
‘Police? …’ Contemptuously. ‘Listen, man, you the folks were out watchin’ the sunrise?’
‘No! – we only arrived this morning, so go away!’
Striding footsteps. Then a knocking on the room next door. Morgan whispered feverishly: ‘Get ready. Leave some things behind, like a pair of panties.’
There was more knocking, further down the corridor. Anna hurried into the bathroom and started collecting her things.
The knocking was further away now. Then he heard a voice: ‘Hey, what you doin’?’
There was the sound of argument. Morgan waited, tensely. Then the sound of striding footsteps. They clattered down the stairs.
Morgan turned feverishly to the window.
A young black man came striding out of the hotel. Morgan could not see his face, but it was not Black Cat. The man disappeared around the corner, in the direction of Fred’s Eating House.
‘Come on!’
Anna emerged from the hotel, turned right, away from the waterfront. Morgan followed, ten paces behind, carrying the bag. The gun was tucked into his waistband, under his shirt. The other gun was in the bag. It felt as if all eyes were watching them. Anna walked up the street, desperately trying to look casual. At the end of the block, she turned left.
It felt better, out of sight of the main road. They walked three blocks down the back street, twenty yards apart. There were plenty of people about, mostly black. Anna came to the road that led down to Fred’s. The windows down there seemed to shriek at her. She crossed the road. Out of sight of Fred’s.
At the end of the next block she turned left. Down there was the harbour. Morgan looked desperately for Charlie’s yacht. It was not there yet. But Black Cat’s boat was still there. They walked down towards the waterfront. On the corner was a dress shop. Morgan hissed to her and she glanced back. He nodded at the shop. She turned into it.
Morgan followed her inside. Anna pretended to examine dresses. A black sales girl came to Morgan.
‘I’m just looking. Something for my wife’s birthday.’
‘We have those sundresses …’
The girl left him alone after a minute. He could see the jetty through the shop window. He looked at his watch.
Still forty-five minutes to wait …
He pretended to look at dresses. Dress after dress.
‘What’s your wife’s size, sir?’
He turned to the sales girl harassedly. ‘Your size.’
‘That’s ten, sir.’
‘May I try these on?’ Anna called across the shop.
Just then he saw Black Cat’s men hurrying onto the jetty again, carrying four aqualung tanks. Morgan stiffened, his heart knocking with relief. He waited for Black Cat to appear. He did not. The two men got to the end of the jetty, hefted the tanks into the boat. Morgan waited for Black Cat. The two men untied the boat, and his heart sank. The boat surged away. It went roaring across the harbour towards the open sea.
Ten minutes later he saw Charlie’s little yacht chugging across the harbour.
‘I think I’ll have to bring my wife here,’ he said loudly so Anna would hear.
Anna emerged from the changing cubicle in a yellow frock.
‘I’ll take it,’ she said.
It seemed a long walk. In the blinding glare of the sun. The whole world watching. A hundred yards away were the windows of Fred’s Eating House.
They crossed the street, side by side. They walked onto the jetty. Morgan could feel eyes everywhere. Old Charlie was waiting, wreathed in enamel smiles. The engine was running. ‘Hi,’ Charlie beamed.
Anna clambered down into the cockpit. ‘This is my wife.’ They shook hands. ‘Go and put the stuff below.’
‘Say,’ Charlie said cheerfully above the engine noise, ‘youse ain’t the couple out watchin’ the sunrise this mornin’, is yer?’
Morgan’s heart missed a beat again. ‘What?’
Old Charlie said, ‘Heard at the fuel jetty the boys is lookin’ for a couple who was out watchin’ the sunrise. Figure they know somethin’ about this plane.’
‘No, we only arrived this morning, on the seaplane. Let’s go. Where’re the charts?’
Old Charlie lifted a seat-cushion and pulled out one old, folded chart. ‘The boys is runnin’ round town like blue-arsed flies. Boy, is this town gonna jump!’
Morgan snatched the chart and unfolded it. It trembled. ‘Were they witnesses to the crash?’
‘Witnesses, hell. Black Cat an’ the boys figure they were
flyin’ the plane. Cos the pilots sure as hell weren’t. They been found very dead down south somewheres.’
Morgan felt his stomach contract. He feverishly tried to concentrate on the chart. It only showed the Bimini islands. The coast of Florida was not shown. ‘Where’re your other charts?’
‘Got none. What you need more charts for?’
Morgan turned to the engine controls. Throttle, gears. How do I start her? With a crank?’
‘Right. Under here.’ Charlie started to lift a hatch.
‘Never mind. Compass. Knot log. Okay, Charlie, untie her.’
‘Whatsa hurry? I better show you the ropes …’
‘I know the ropes. Untie her please!’
Charlie said, ‘You better come back before dark. Or go into South Bimini. There’s a storm warnin’ out for tonight.’
He didn’t care if there was a hurricane coming. ‘I will.’
Old Charlie clambered up onto the jetty. Morgan looked back at Fred’s. Charlie untied the bowline. Morgan pulled it in. Charlie walked creakily down the jetty, and untied the stern-line. Morgan pulled it in. Charlie shoved against the gunnel. Morgan turned the tiller hard over, and eased open the throttle. He waved to Charlie.
‘So long.’ The yacht began to throb away from the jetty. ‘Stay below,’ he called to Anna.
The boat went chugging through the harbour. He looked back. Charlie was watching them, but there was nobody else on the jetty. He turned the tiller, pointed her towards the harbour mouth. He looked back again.
The yacht went chugging between the boats towards the open sea. It looked as if there was only a slight swell out there. Oh God, he dreaded what lay behind him. Those fast boats. He willed the little yacht to go faster. Now he was entering the harbour mouth. He looked at the wind direction.
‘Come up and take the helm.’
He pointed the boat into the wind, and Anna took the tiller. He clambered to the mast, unlashed the ties, then started to winch up the mainsail. It went up jerkily, flapping. He cleated the halyard, then hurried to the bows and unleashed the foresail. He pulled it up, it flapped noisily. He shouted:
‘Steer two-seven-zero.’
She turned onto course. The sails stiffened and the boat surged.
He pulled in the sheets and cleated them. He took over the tiller again.
Two-seven-zero, due west. That was the best he could do without a chart. But that would find Florida.
‘Open two of Charlie’s beers.’
She went down the hatch. She came back up with two cold cans. She passed him one. He upended it to his salty, bristly mouth, and swallowed.
He looked back at Bimini. It was still large as life. He looked at the knot log. Five knots with both engine and sail.
‘About fifteen hours to Florida.’ He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. ‘About two o’clock tomorrow morning we’ll get there.’
It felt as if he were trying to shake off the hounds of hell.
He awoke with the crashing of sea. He struggled off the bunk, and another wave hit with a thud like cannon. He clung, then grabbed a lifeline out of the locker. He clawed up the hatch.
Anna sat at the tiller, her hair flying, water running off her exhausted face. The sky was an ugly grey. The sea was running in big, ragged swells. Another wave struck and spray flew, and the bows reared up. He clawed his way over to her and sat.
‘
How long has it been like this?
’
‘
About three hours. It’s been coming up steadily.
’
‘
Why didn’t you wake me? Have you seen any boats?
’
‘
Only one sail boat, heading for Bimini.
’
The storm warning would keep most boats in port – it should keep Black Cat there too. He shackled on his lifeline, and hooked it to the rail. The knot log read thirty-seven nautical miles. Halfway to Florida. He looked at his watch. Just after five o’clock. Thirty-seven miles divided by seven hours – they were averaging five knots. He had slept nearly six hours. He said, ‘Go below and get some sleep.’
She unclipped her lifeline and clawed across the cockpit. She clambered down the hatch. She was cold and sodden. He shouted, ‘Pass me a beer, please.’
The yacht was ploughing up the side of a big running swell. Up, up she ploughed, then the crest hit her with a thud and she shuddered and spray flew; then
down
plunged her bows. She went ploughing, down into the trough on the other side, and the next swell was coming.
Anna clawed up the hatch again, a beer in one hand.. He stretched and took it. ‘Can you light me a cigarette?’
She disappeared again. He upended the can to his mouth. It tasted like nectar. Anna reappeared, and held out a cigarette to him. He took a deep drag. It tasted like food. The yacht was ploughing up the side of the swell. The crest hit and the spray flew and his cigarette was knocked sideways in his mouth.
It was soaked. He threw it over the side angrily.
He looked astern. There were no boats to be seen.
In the night the big winds came.
They came out of the south-east, whistling louder and harder, and the
Rosemary
lurched and surged, her rigging straining. And the seas ran harder and deeper and faster and the waves crashed harder and louder and the spray flew like grapeshot. The
Rosemary
ploughed up, up the running swells, heeled over, sails straining, and over the crests she went and then
down,
down the other side; then the bows rearing up again, the thud, the spray flying, and then down,
down
she plunged again into the next trough. Morgan sat hunched, his head turned against the flying sea, the tiller wrenching in his hand, trying to hold the course, the bows swinging and rearing and crashing, the compass needle swinging wildly. The cabin hatch slid open and Anna’s head appeared. He shouted: ‘
Stay down! …
’