“Turn around and go now, while you still have a chance!” I shouted across the water. “This is a documented U.S. vessel in United States waters.”
Doubt crossed the face of the officer who resembled Saddam Hussein. Most likely he'd been told a story, a story that now wasn't standing up.
I watched the lights coming on, separating now, one heading south of us, the other moving toward the north to encircle our position. Armed to the teeth, these were warships with the ability to destroy even a ship in seconds. Were I a target, or a drug smuggler, or a Mexican warship threatening a peaceful pleasure craft, I'd have been petrified.
The Mexican patrol craft angled away from
Olympia,
gunned its engine, and ran south.
Ed Thomas poked his head out of the cabin in time to watch the pirate run away. He disappeared and then returned with Farrell and Claire.
“Are those friendlies?” he asked, his attention focused on the navy patrol boats.
“Like you wouldn't believe,” I said.
In two minutes both craft had throttled back and were puttering alongside, matching our more sedate pace. A black face leaned out of the pilothouse of the warship on our port side, a big white smile appearing on the man's grizzled features.
“Here we were, running around the ocean like our hair was on fire, and we run into you! What you doin' out here, Commander? Admiral MacGruder sends his compliments.”
“In all the oceans, in all the world, you just happen to sail into mine. Hello, Max. It's good to see you! And you can thank the admiral for me. How the hell have you been? I heard you were somewhere else.”
“They keep me hopping, they surely do! Sent me back to the Balkans, then to the Middle East, and then home again. I'm home for a day and a half when the admiral asks me for a favor. So I take these kids out on a training mission. And here you are! It's amazing!”
“You know this guy?” Thomas looked at the warship and back to me, bewilderment and disbelief written on his face. “You're a commander?”
“Lieutenant commander. Retired. And this guy is my best friend in the world. Known him all my adult life.”
“The United States Navy is escorting us into port?”
“Why not? Claire's a taxpayer.”
“I guess so.”
“I'm a taxpayer.
Olympia'
s a documented United States vessel. We're repatriating some United States currency that got stolen. After all, it's millions of dollars that won't go against the balance of payments on foreign debt. That's a good thing.”
“These are navy ships.”
“They just happen to be here. We just happened to be here. They're heading home after a short-term training mission. We're headed home after a pleasure sail. Leave it at that. Nobody's harmed. Everyone's happy.”
“We almost had an international incident.”
“Almost is the operative word. Nothing happened. Believe it.”
He shook his head. “God damn it, Caine, if you don't keep coming up with surprises. God damn it.”
“You upset?”
He laughed. “Hell, no. I've just never met anybody like you in my life. And I've met a lot of people.”
“Is that good?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But if I'd met you when I carried a badge, I'd probably have arrested you. Using the United States Navy as an escort service! Jesus Christ!” He laughed. It was a belly laugh, the most emotion he'd ever displayed. Farrell joined him, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. I don't know why, but I joined, too. It started as a chuckle, then real laughter, then progressed to great whoops, then knee-slapping, back-pounding guffaws, feeding upon itself until it went completely out of control. Young navy seamen came on deck of the warships to watch us, pointing and smiling. I caught Max's eye. He wore a huge grin, the best one I'd seen on him in a long, long time.
“Why don't you get us some more coffee, Ed?”
“Why the hell not?”
He kept laughing all the way down the ladder to the galley.
Claire looked at me, her face unreadable. “You are resourceful, I'll give you that.”
“That's comforting.”
“Barbara's right about you.”
“What'd she say?”
“It was woman talk. You wouldn't understand.”
“Oink, oink,” I said, my voice soft, wondering what the two women had talked about, and how much detail they'd
gone into. “Works both ways.” Claire smiled and put her hand on my shoulder, a friendly pat, not a lover's touch.
“She said you were a free spirit, one of the last cowboys, that if you could settle down, you'd make a good partner, but you'd never settle down. It would be cruel, like putting a wolf in a cage. She said the best would be to be your friend. It would be good, knowing there's a friend like you out there, somewhere.”
I nodded, following what made sense, but not following all of it. She was right. I didn't pretend to completely understand woman talk.
“Told you.”
“But what she said, it was good, wasn't it?”
“Of course, you silly man. It was very good.”
“Then I should just shut up, shouldn't I?”
“I think that would be a very good idea, John Caine.”
Waiting is hard. I never liked it, although the military and my current occupation demanded it more often than not. I did it; I just never liked it.
Waiting for a woman is similar, although there's an anticipation that makes it easier. And waiting for a woman is as common as waiting in the military.
I'd checked the boat stores twice, I'd checked the rigging three times. I'd checked my fuel and water and the spare electronic parts. I spent time in the bilge, making sure the batteries and the pumps worked.
Olympia
had full tanks; her provisions were secure. Everything was set. All I lacked was my passenger.
She'd said she'd meet me at the yacht club at ten. In three weeks we'd be in Honolulu. I looked at my Rolex. It was ten-thirty.
Barefoot, wearing shorts and my old cutoff sweatshirt that said SKI THE VOLCANO, I paced back and forth along the dock, eager to cast off my lines. If she waited much longer, we'd have to go tomorrow.
“John!”
Barbara Klein stood at the top of the dock. At first something about her didn't register. When I watched her walk down the dock after taking off her high heels, it did. She wore a tailored business suit, a frilly silk blouse, high heels and nylon stockings. She carried a black leather purse over her shoulder. Not exactly yachting garb. A sour knot began to form in the pit of my stomach.
“Barbara, what's up?”
“John, I wanted to tell you last night, but I couldn't.” Last
night had been a night to remember, memorable in many ways. Now I had the feeling it would have to do for a time, only a cherished memory. Her ardor came back after the money's return, and I was the lucky beneficiary. Only occasionally did the arm's-length appraisal reappear. Then she would peer at me with warm brown eyes that told me everything and nothing at all. She was honest to a fault and answered all my questions, but she volunteered nothing unless asked. The one thing she never did was speak of a long-term relationship.
“Tell me what?”
“I can't come with you.”
“Oh.”
“Too much is happening for me to get away.” She stood on the dock, looking up at me. “Can I come aboard?”
“I'm sorry. Sure.” I reached down and she grabbed my wrist and I hauled her up and over the railing.
“Claire's business is really going again. What none of us knew was that during all the bad times, Adrian kept working. He'd started collaborating with a hardware genius, a garage tinkerer. You know, like Jobs and Wozniak? Anyway, Adrian was frustrated because of the money shortage, but he stayed with it, coaxed the guy along. He worked on the software part of the unit.”
“What?”
“Adrian and this guy came up with a new product! It'll replace the personal computer, I think. It works with a telephone line, any kind! A pay phone, a cellular, anything, as long as it can access a phone line somewhere, somehow. It's a search engine for the Net, the Internet? And it's cheap! We can produce it for a whole lot less money than we could build a computer. Do you know what this means?”
“No.” And my enthusiasm wasn't high. I'd seen the computer Adrian had used and thought it a great tool. This was beyond me.
“This puts Petersoft on the ground floor of a revolution. We could be IBM in ten years!”
“I understand. You've got to be here.”
“Yes. I'm the godmother. I can't leave now.”
She was right. She was senior management at the bank. It was her account, and it would be irresponsible to just leave now, to sail away to Hawaii when the future of the company was at stake.
“They demonstrated it this morning as a surprise! I've got financing to arrange. I've got to help Claire get production up and running. Someone's got to get the patents and the copyrights worked out. There's a whole world to conquer!”
I patted her cheek. “And you're just the guy to do it, too.” “Was that condescending?”
“No. It was accurate. Go get 'em! You've got the know-how, you have the company, you have the product. Don't let anything stop you.”
“John, Iâ”
“This isn't sour grapes. I want you to go for it. You have the responsibility now.”
She put both hands on my face. My bruises had faded. Only the deepest cuts remained, scabbed over. My face still looked battered, but then it always did.
“John. We couldn't have done it without you. We all owe you so much.”
She made it sound like a good-citizenship award. “Go out and conquer the world, kid. That's what you have to do.” I kissed her. She didn't kiss me back, and I felt a little foolish.
She stepped away from me and dug into her purse. “This morning the board voted to give you a reward of common stock in addition to your fee. Congratulations. You now own ten thousand shares of Petersoft. It's undervalued now, worth about twenty thousand dollars, but when the new product comes out, it could be worth millions.” She handed me a brown envelope. I took it, but didn't open it.
“Thank you.”
She kissed my cheek, a sisterly kiss. “Thank you, John. You saved a lot of lives. By the way, Claire says good-bye and thank you, and wants you to know you can keep the guns.”
“Tell her thanks,” I said, feeling a kind of self-pitying sadness swelling my chest. “You need a lift down?”
She grinned. “Yeah!”
I picked her up and carefully eased her over the transom to the dock.
“This isn't the end, you know. We'll be friends. I like the idea of John Caine out there, wherever you are, knowing I could call you if I ever needed help.”
“I kind of like that, too.”
“I warned myself you'd get emotionally involved.”
“And you're not?”
“You know it was ⦠it was just what it was.”
“Exorcising demons.”
“Yes. Aside from the others, you saved me. From a lot of things.”
“They call me the exorcist.”
“You okay?”
I nodded. I wasn't, but I wasn't going to tell her.
“Write to me?”
I nodded. “I'll send a postcard.”
“Good-bye, John.”
I waved, then put my hands in the pockets of my shorts. I didn't trust my voice.
“Good sailing.”
“Thanks,” I croaked.
I watched her walk up the gangway, watched those strong, smooth legs, those trim hips beneath the tight skirt. I watched the curve of her rear as she bent down to put on her shoes at the dock. I watched her walk away, not looking back, holding her head high, her back straight, moving toward a new life.
Sometimes you work so hard to win, and you do, and then you lose anyway.
Barbara was right. There was no reason to come to Hawaii with me. She had her responsibilities. And if you really thought about it, she didn't need a boat bum in her life. Not permanently. Oh, it was fun while it lasted. It always is.
I smiled a grim smile, realizing I'd been used, my body,
my penis, just a warm comforting piece of flesh to chase the shakes away. In a way it was my reward for finding the money, a pat on the head for the good puppy. I felt soiled and used, probably the way women have been feeling for centuries.
I'd thought something might happen, misreading her vulnerability while at the same time missing what was going on in my own vacant and vacuous head. Coming on the heels of Kate's death, I thought I was ready for something, and maybe I was. But a relationship with a Barbara Klein wasn't it.
But it was nice while it lasted, the fun and games with the beautiful woman. Deep down, I knew she'd tire of the game and want something permanent. I just never thought she'd be the one to pull the plug, or as quickly. She never gave me the chance to see if we could have something permanent.
Could I do that? Could I commit to permanence? I didn't know the answer to that one. And fortunately now, I wouldn't have to find out.
It's about choices. It's all about choices. This life I'd chosen, the one I'd embraced, it wasn't compatible with the corporate culture. Hell, I didn't even know where home was, except for a lovely chain of islands floating in the middle of the Pacific.
I glanced back to where Barbara had disappeared. A figure stood on the top of the dock, looking down at me.
“Thought you'd get away without seeing me?” Sergeant Gregorio Esparza came down the ramp, dressed as I'd first seen him, looking like a hard-edged college student with an attitude.
“Sergeant Esparza.”
“Had a few questions, Caine.”
“Come aboard. Want a beer?”
“Sure.” The policeman leaped over the transom and found a comfortable cushion.
“I was just leaving,” I said, handing him an Edelweiss. “So if you're running me out of town, save your breath.”
“We thought about tar and feathers, but the Environmental Protection Agency would fine us for spreading the tar
around and the animal rights activists would sue if we used real feathers.”
“You see Mrs. Klein?”
He nodded. “I waited. Didn't want to interfere.” He took a long drink, looked at the bottle, then took another. Most people, used to the horse pish we Americans call beer, are vastly surprised with their first taste of the real thing.
“This beer?”
“Austrian. I get it from a guy in Long Beach.”
“Tastes like liquid bread.”
That was as good a description as any I'd heard.
“Give me a name,” said Esparza. “I won't arrest you.”
“A bribe.”
“Money, never. Beer, maybe. This beer, sure.” He drank more of the Edelweiss. “Wasn't going to arrest you anyway, but maybe you could give me his name?”
“Sure,” I said. “His name's Pa. He's a university professor who loves real beer; got the American concession and imports it himself.” I went below, found my Day-Timer, and wrote Pa's telephone number. I brought another beer when I returned.
“I left messages. You don't return your phone calls when you don't want something.”
Barbara and I had spent two weeks helping Claire put her life back together, starting with the company. Chawlie was, as I had predicted, unusually helpful, although we never would have succeeded without Barbara's guidance. She pointed us toward an excellent attorney who began unraveling Claire's legal and tax problems. With the cash in hand, she said, it wasn't difficult. Without it, she raised her hands in helpless supplication.
And when we met four of Chawlie's men at the airport to turn over two well-wrapped packages for bonded shipment to Honolulu, Barbara nearly had a heart attack, disbelieving they had come to help us. With guns all too visible, they stood silently behind Daniel, one of Chawlie's young nephews, as he negotiated the exchange. The entire operation lasted less than five minutes but felt like a lifetime.
And when we left the warehouse, she bombarded me with questions as to how I could know someone with access to that kind of money, with those kinds of thugs.
“Daniel is not a thug. He's a well-educated, polite young man.”
“You know what I meant,” she said.
“A friend of a friend.”
“And what was his fee for making the exchange?”
“Nothing.” Not even a fraction of a percentage point, the risk and the costs carried by my old friend, the lack not lost on the lady.
“So maybe he owes you something.”
“Owed, my love, owed. I'm sure he's calling it even right now.”
“So you'll do something to catch up?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
She remained silent, and then punched me in the arm. “I'll never understand men.”
“You couldn't,” I said. “You've never been a man.”
And she hit me again.
Now this policeman was asking where I'd been.
“I was busy.”
“Sure. It was only police business. A little murder. Or ten. How many, Caine?”
I shrugged.
“Okay. It's unclear. We've got it all worked out ⦠just the way we were supposed to, I guess.” He looked at meâno college student. “Is that the way we were supposed to work it out? The gang does de la Peña, then shoots it out with Stevenson, then the brother and sister factions fight to the death in Baja?”
“Isn't that what happened?”
“Officially. On both sides of the border. They apparently stole Mrs. Peters's Range Rover and used it to commit the crimes. Our investigation turned it up at Stevenson's house at the time of the shooting. Then it showed up stripped and abandoned in the mountains near Tecate.”