This was different than what she knew of boardsailing: driven by the powerful wind, the board was out of the water more than in it, flying from swell to swell, slapping down with bone-jarring impact. The slightest adjustments in her knees or arms caused radical turns. Even with the harness shifting much of the work from her arms down to her hips, the pull on her shoulders was intense from the taut little three point two meter sail. Basically, she was hanging on for dear life.
For a few minutes, on that first tack, anyways. Then she began to get a feel for the maneuverability, and the amazing, skittish speed, and the impact every time she landed from a jump. Long about the time Desmond caught up to her, flying past with a gleeful shout, she was ready to try her first high speed power jibe. She cranked the board 90 degrees with the slightest rail-pressure, then took a flying tumble as she tried to flip the sail. "Damn," she said, popping up from under water and immediately getting slapped in the face with a warm, salty wave. She quickly swam to the board, worked it around into a downwind point, and then positioned herself under the sail, boom in hands, feet on board. She pushed up, lifting the tip of the sail out of the water. As the wind lifted her she quickly found her foot straps, hooked into the harness line, and took off, headed east now on a tack parallel to the beach. She worked the tack, jumping waves, carving turns, and watching the scenery. She passed the mansion on the hill, and discovered, beyond that point, another bay stretching into the distance. There were no hotels or houses on this next skein of beach, but two little deserted-looking islands beckoned at the other end of the virgin bay. She came about, headed back towards Naked Island, and once inside the bay turned the board further downwind. Desmond rocketed past, heading back to the hotel beach for a break, and she risked a quick hand wave then re-gripped the boom as she zoomed towards the beach, airborne from whitecap to wave like a flying fish.
A few seconds later she stepped off the board in shallow water and dropped the sail. She had landed well down the beach from the hotel. She looked around. In this fierce wind not a soul walked the shoreline. She headed towards the palm trees lined up along the edge of the sand. It took her just a moment to find the spot where they'd buried the dope. She moved the rock markers, and began to dig.
Get rid of the shit. That was her new plan. It would surely bring the bad boys out of the woodwork. Unfortunate about the lost leverage, Harry, she mused to herself as she threw the stash over her shoulder, but this is what I have to do. He would understand. Two pillow cases knotted together, with five foil-wrapped bricks in each one. She walked back to the water's edge, turned the board around and positioned the sail. She slung one bag over each shoulder, so the weight rested on her back, then picked up the mast, stepped into her footstraps, and headed out for a dope burial at sea.
She tacked as far upwind as she could, then came about and headed east towards the deserted islands and beach as soon as she'd cleared the point under the mansion. The intensity of the speed remained the same, but she felt more comfortable with it now. She used the swell-chop to launch herself, banking off one wave, flying up the face of another to propel herself into the air. All this with twenty pounds of ganja in a pair of sacks bouncing off her back.
Flying along on a cross-wind tack, she couldn't hear a thing except the howling wind, the sound of water, her board cutting and slashing through it. Still a good half-mile from the islands, where she had decided to dump the dope, she glanced back to get her bearings, and saw—just as she lost control and crashed into the sea—the hotel's speedboat, the cigarette cruiser she'd been skiing behind just the other day, headed full throttle in her direction, engine roar audible above the wind as it banged over the waves.
She quickly groped to the surface, fighting the tangle of pillowcases and harness lines and booms to get into position. The boat blasted by six feet from her head, whipping a turn so the driver could get a better look at her. It was Ruskin, in designer sunglasses of course!
She hurriedly positioned herself for a waterstart as Joey circled the boat around for another run at her. This time, he would probably not waste time just looking. As he charged, she could feel the sacks of pot swirling around her head; then the wind lifted the sail free and she followed, bursting clear of the water, hanging on to the booms. The weight of the dope and water in the bags pulled her back. But the wind was her savior, and it got her free and flying out of harm's way as Ruskin roared past.
Lucy leaned back, pulling the sail in tight, and pointed on a faster tack that took her straight at the two islands ahead. The boat engine raced again, buzzing like a deranged wasp as he turned it around. She chanced another glance back: Joey was bearing down directly on her once more! She was going incredibly fast, blasting over the waves, but all she had was the wind, and the damn boat probably had 500 horsepower! She concentrated on the near island, a few hundred yards away now. Another look back. He was closing in! She whipped a few turns, zig-zagging through the chop, to throw him off, but he stayed right on her tail, engine roaring as she homed in on the island just ahead.
With the downsurge of a swell she saw the island's jagged surrounding coral reef, exposed by low tide, just a few seconds before she was on it—those few seconds long enough for her to bank off a wave, plane up another, take to the air and fly over the exposed coral to land on the water beyond and keep moving. Joey didn't even see the reef. She had ten yards on him, and glanced back just as the cigarette boat at full throttle hit the reef she'd just flown over. The bow rammed into the reef, sending the stern up into the air, and catapulting Joey Ruskin into the water inside the reef just ahead of the boat, which flipped forward to land on top of him before exploding in a gas tank fireball. Lucy was fifty yards away, yet the shock wave from the explosion knocked her off her board. Underwater, in a semi-panic, this time she tore off the bags of pot dragging at her, and let them sink as she struggled to the surface. The flaming ruins of the boat sent a cloud of black smoke streaming into the wind, chunks of smoldering hull bobbed in the chop nearby, her sailboard drifted away, and still the norther ripped and howled around her.
Half-stunned, she swam over and pulled herself onto the sailboard. The island was just twenty yards away. She popped the mast loose from the board, released the sail, and belly-paddled herself to a little leeward beach, dragging sail, mast, and booms behind. Panting, she crawled up on shore, sat down, and, feeling an urge to burst into tears, instead started deep breathing, and seized control of herself. After a moment she stood up and walked over to the end of the island nearest the explosion. The fire had burned itself out quickly, reducing the cigarette boat to a smoldering, ruined butt. "Joey?" she called out plaintively. "Joey, are you there?"
She wandered back to her sailboard, and looked out to sea. The clouds were closer now, and she could see roiling, stormy movement on their dark undersides. There was nothing but wind-torn water and cloudy sky all the way to the horizon, and for a moment she forgot about Jamaica at her back, and felt as if she'd just landed on a deserted island. She was all alone. Down below, inside the reef, the bags of dope drifted on the bottom of the sea. She wondered, almost idly, if they might find it in the course of cleaning up this nightmare. She wondered if she ought to dive for it, take it out past the reef, and do a better job of burying it. Too late for that now—the buzz of an approaching speedboat became audible. A moment later, it arrived. On board were two members of the Jamaican Coast Guard, and Jefferson Hababi.
"So I said I was out sailing, and Joey came blasting along in the speedboat. I told them I guessed he was just showing off, and didn't see the reef."
"And they believed you?"
"Why shouldn't they? Junior Hababi wasn't about to question my story in front of them. I mean, maybe they're bought and paid for by Daddy, and maybe they're not, but he wasn't in any position to..."
"Right," said Harold, abruptly. She resented his tone, and the way he interrupted her. "So tell me again why you...what you were doing with the stuff out there, Lucy? I can't understand why..."
> "I told you, Harold. After I talked to Mrs. Wilson, I just wanted to...I wanted to concentrate on what happened to Angus Wilson, and the...shit, why are you so worried about the damned dope anyway, Harry? I made a man die today, I almost got killed myself, and you're grilling me, for God's sake! What are you, some kind of..."
"Hey, I'm sorry, Luce." He took her hands. They were in a taxi, headed into Ocho Negros for dinner. Lucy had insisted on off-campus dining. She didn't want to see any of the gang on this particular evening. "You didn't make him die. You saved your own life. Incredible, jumping the reef." He paused. "But I have to admit I'm sorry you unilaterally decided to get rid of our evidage. I mean leverence. Leverage. God, I've been talking too much patois. Starting to get to me, mon." He smiled. "Anyway, forgive me. I'll say no more about the pot. So you wanna hit Jack's for dinner?"
"Nah, something a little quieter, Harry. I'm kind of wiped out. Not everyday I dodge an exploding attack speedboat."
"No shit. Poor baby." He stroked her cheek gently. "Hey, I know this really good local place up on the hill behind Ochi. Authentic island cooking. Wanna check it out?"
"Sounds good, as long as there aren't any Grand Stranders around."
"I'm sure it's on the list of forbidden places. It's pretty funky up there." He leaned forward in the cab. "Hey mon, take us up to Round Hill Road. You know the Green Dolphin?"
"Yeah, mon," the cabbie nodded. "Bit out of the way, mon."
"That's right," said Harold. "Just what we're lookin' for."
Fifteen minutes up a winding road, from Ocho's American neon to sporadic residential lights, and finally into near total darkness, brought them to the Green Dolphin Restaurant, a low, dark, hand-made wooden building buried in a bower of banana trees. "You want I wait, mon?" said the cabbie, as he stopped by the front door, marked with a wooden sign with a green dolphin painted on it. "Won't be no cab up here later, mon."
"No use wasting your time. We'll figure something out," said Harold, handing him money.
"OK mon." They climbed out and he took off. They stood in the road for a few seconds, and when the motor noise faded they were bathed in the overpowering music of the night: birds, insects, frogs, the warm wind, soft now, blowing through the dark canyons and the hills above them. Stars glittered between the clouds—the tail end of the storm that had soaked the coast for three hours before moving over the mountains and down to Kingston. The low throb of a reggae bassline lulled them, pulled them down three wooden stairs to the front door of the Green Dolphin. Harold opened the door for her, and they went in.
The room glowed darkly, lit only by candles on the tabletops, heavily scented with cooking smells mixed with tobacco and ganja smoke, soft babble of patois, Marley on the system. The voices slowed as they walked in, and as her eyes adjusted Lucy knew why: they were the only white people there. But the smile of the dreadlocked man who led them to a table, and the way the other guests casually resumed eating, drinking, and carrying on, reminded her of what she had known ever since the first time she'd been on the island: black Jamaicans were friendly, non-racist people.
Harold knew the owner, Sonny Mance, and he knew the local dishes, so they got a taste of most everything on the menu. They sampled bammy, cho-cho, sprats, curry goat, and callaloo, hot jerk pork and briny escoveitched fish. They tasted pepperpot soup, pumpkin soup, and hard dough bread. They drank Red Stripe, Dragon Stout, and fish tea; and passed on the mushroom tea which was offered as an after-dinner pick-me-up. She was bloated to the max, but didn't let that stop her: she was working on a Matrimony fruit salad while waiting for her Irish Moss and a final nip of ortanique liqueur.
Afterwards, Harold paid the bill, they jived with Sonny a little, and then went outside. No cab in sight. They went back in to ask him to call a cab. The phone wasn't working. They decided to walk. Sonny said he'd try to find them a ride. They thanked him and took off down the hill. Probably six miles in the dark to Ocho Negros, and then five more down the waterfront to the hotel, but no matter. Lucy's terrors of the day receded as they strolled through the darkness, the road faintly gleaming in starlight before them. Distant dog-barks. They walked for fifteen minutes, passed a few houses, not a single car went by in either direction. She was falling in love with this odd man, who exhibited such a cynical zest for life, who played the fool one minute and demonstrated such competence the next. Who would have imagined, seeing him in the airport and remembering him from Dan's Tavern on East Seventh Street, that Harold Ipswich would know Sonny Mance and everything on his menu?
Exhausted from her sail, her escape, the afternoon with the coast guard, the major food and beer event of the evening, after half an hour trudging downhill, Lucy abruptly ran out of gas. She took Harry by the arm and wandered to the edge of a turn-out. Ocho Negros twinkled below, the curved bays laced with hotel lights, the dark sea stretching away to meet the stars. She slipped her arm around his waist. "Harry, I'm a wreck. I can't walk any farther. Will you carry me down there?"
"Five miles? No problem, doll," he said. "Climb aboard," he added, presenting his back. She leapt on, and off they staggered, laughing madly as he wove back and forth. They stopped after a moment, and he let go her legs. She kept her arms around his neck, legs dangling, body pressed against his back, simply feeling him, feeling, at the moment, that she truly wanted, in fact needed, to drag him into the bushes at the side of the road and have her way with him. Instead, the sound of a cranky unmuffled engine descending the road above them jarred her back from the land of lust to the reality of roadside. An old truck ground around the turn above them, one dim headlight enhanced with what appeared to be a flashlight held out the window on the passenger side, and rattled down to halt where they waited.
And so they trundled down into Ocho Rios with six friendly goats in the back of the truck, which had been dispensed by Sonny and which belonged to his brother-in-law, Ferguson Rainey, who was driving. Not wanting to chance a run-in with the ticket-writing gendarmes downtown, Ferguson dropped them on a corner a couple of blocks up the hill, where he was delivering his goats. On foot once again, they started down towards the coast road, where the cabs would be roaming.
Half a block down hill, in and out of storefront light, hand in hand they strolled. Two men stepped out from the darkness of trees at the side of the road and stopped in front of them. Rastas, one short and thick, the other tall, both with long dreads stuffed into knit caps, scruffy beards, sandals, jeans, t-shirts. The tall one said, "Excuse me, mon," but didn't get out of the way.
Harold said, "Yeah, OK." They waited a few seconds, then tried to pass. The man side-stepped, staying in the way. Lucy gripped Harold's hand. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Harold said calmly.
"What can you do for us is tell me, mon, where is de herb which you take de other night, mon? It is not belong to you, see, and there is very much concern that de rightful owners be havin' dere ganj, mon."
"And who might these rightful owners be?" Harold went on, seemingly not at all afraid. Lucy didn't understand it. The dudes radiated menace. She was fighting an impulse to run for it, but Harold was hanging on tight.
"Dis is not your busyness, mon," said the tall dread.
"So why is it yours?" Harold said, still entirely calm. He let Lucy's hand go.
"Because it is, mon," dread man answered, and with that, the shorter guy suddenly flourished a knife. "So be talkin' mon, or we be..."
Harold simultaneously kicked the tall one in the crotch and slammed the other one on the shoulder with the edge of his hand, sending the knife flying, then he followed with a punch in the stomach. The fat rasta folded over like his friend, who was half-crouched, groaning, holding his privates with both hands. Harold grabbed them and banged their heads together, then dragged them into the dark trees off the side of the road. "Let's get outta here, Lucy," he said, grabbing her hand and hustling down the road, towards the bright lights of downtown Ocho Negros. "There may be a few more of those boys lurking."
The whole thing had t
aken maybe fifteen seconds. And now it all added up. Prudence. Fumbling over a word. The third degree in the car. Now this display of elegant brutality.
She let him lead the way for a block and a half, to a local knock-off of an American icon: Kingston Fried Chicken, it said on the big neon sign, which featured a black rastafarian version of the colonel grinning down on the streets of Ocho Negros. There was enough light inside to ward off an army of drug-crazed bad boys, and a policeman directing traffic at the intersection twenty yards away. Lucy dragged him in and turned on him. "You're a cop, aren't you?" she said furiously. "You're no travel writer, you're a fucking po-liceman, Harold."
"Hey, calm down, Lucy," he took her hands. She shook loose.
"A goddamn cop. What in the hell are you doing here, Harry. You shit. I..." she felt the tears rising, and fought them down. "I can't believe it. You've been using me like a patsy. What the hell's going on, Harry, goddammit? Tell me it isn't true. Fuck," she said, and the tears came. "Fuck fuck fuck," she spit the curses out, sobbing. A large black woman with two small children eating chicken wings took the kids by their free hands and led them away, a frown on her face. Shaking her head at the disgusting language of the American tourists.
"It's not like it seems," Harry said. "Look, let's get back to the hotel where it's safe, and..."
"What's not like it seems, Harry? You're not a cop? Tell me it's true, Harry. Tell me you learned self-defense in your idle hours on East Ninth Street, so you could kick ass when the chance arose. Tell me Prudence Fallowsmith is your...is your mother's housekeeper's cousin. Tell me, Harry, tell me how much you love me." She grabbed him by the lapels of his linen jacket. "Tell me the truth, Harry."
Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1) Page 14
