“Put your hat on,” said Grampa. “Also your shoes. And come with us.”
The gangsters trooped out toward the dining room, Rita trudging beside Drop Dead. Hal knew he should go with them, but he did not want to miss this moment alone with Melanie.
“I wish to thank you for your support,” he said.
It was difficult to gauge the emotions flickering through those green eyes. “I’ll go you one further,” she said. “I won’t even print the fact that you’re a legitimate businessman.”
“That is very kind,” said Hal. “However, now that the cat has been released from the receptacle, I do not suppose there is any point in keeping my occupation a secret.”
“I’ll only use the information if necessary,” said Melanie. “After all, cats do have nine lives, in or out of bags.”
It was an awkward, formal conversation to be having with a woman whom Hal wanted to haul into the depths of the now-vacant room so he could demonstrate his bedclearing techniques. The covers belonged on the floor, and he wished to sweep them there in a manly display of gangland passion.
Then he would like to replay the entire scene with a rose between his teeth and Spanish guitars twitching vaguely in the background. Followed by the Hawaiian rendition with ukuleles and a yellow hibiscus, in this case tucked behind Melanie’s ear.
However, experience had taught Hal that men and women were constructed differently, and not only in the obvious sense. What might appear romantic to a fellow—that is, ranting, raving, ear-shattering sex—tended to be perceived by the woman as an act of animal lust.
He did not merely want to turn himself and Melanie into a display of neon electrification. He wished to win her hand in marriage, and for that, he must display restraint.
The question of future parenthood had managed to resolve itself without Hal’s conscious effort. He could see now that the only children he wanted to have were Melanie’s, and that he would marry her even if she chose to remain unmotherly.
Determined to show no sign of his inner agitation, he extended his arm to the lady. “Allow me to escort you to the dining room.”
Her lips pressed together, but he could not judge whether she was displaying disappointment or some other uncharted emotion. In her individualism, Melanie represented territory as unmapped as this island.
“If there is anything else I can do for you…?” Hal said.
Her short, dark lashes gave a startled blink, and her face tilted toward his. He was reminded of their encounter on the pier, and the thrill of tasting that full mouth for the first time.
“Well,” she said. “Actually, there is.”
“Yes?”
She reached up to trace his cheek. It had been some hours since Hal shaved, and by now the stubble must be sprouting like crabgrass in the springtime, but Melanie did not seem to mind.
“First,” she said, “you could kiss me.”
As there was nothing he would rather do, Hal seized her by the waist and lifted her toward him. She smelled, he noticed, of rain and mist and canned fruit salad, the kind with cherries in it.
But he had forgotten to shut the front door, and when portals are left open, any manner of creatures may walk through. In this case, the creature came in the form of the wizened Luigi.
“Hey, loverboy,” he said. “You better get yer gluteus maximus over to the mess hall. The inmates ain’t cooperatin’.”
With a forlorn sense of opportunities lost, Hal let Melanie slip from his arms. “Rain check?” he asked.
Melanie glanced out at the dank night air, where only a drizzle was still coming down. “I suppose. Under the circumstances.” But she didn’t sound happy about it.
It was the fate of responsible men, Hal supposed, to choose duty over love at least some of the time. He must rise to the occasion.
THE SCENE in the dining room almost compensated Melanie for what she had missed in the bedroom. The sight of Grampa Orion’s gang making nice with the passengers was priceless.
Children shrieked in terrified delight as Drop Dead poked his face from behind a chair. They pelted him with balled-up paper napkins until he vanished, only to loom again moments later like a figure from a Punch-and-Judy puppet show.
Cha Cha was demonstrating dance steps to a giddy Helen Malatesta, his round face barely reaching her chest as they tipped and tapped their way through the room. Bone Crusher exercised great restraint as he arm wrestled the purser across a table, while the Swamp Fox was helping some ladies light a fire in a metal wastepaper basket to warm themselves.
Judging by the stern expressions on the faces of the people near Noreen and Grampa, however, success was far from assured. Although small in stature, Gerard Germaine made an imposing figure as he folded his arms and planted his legs akimbo.
“I have no intention of deceiving the Coast Guard,” he boomed. “I’m shocked that you, Noreen, would ask us to pretend this island doesn’t exist.”
“But aren’t we being ungracious to our hosts if we betray their little secret?” Noreen persisted. “After all, Rita’s agreed to confess to the robbery and to doping the crew, so there’s nothing to be gained by blabbing.”
“I am not a liar,” responded Mr. Germaine.
Noreen turned a pleading face toward Hal. “Oh, dear,” she said, sighing. “I’ve done my best, but I’m afraid it’s not good enough.”
As Hal advanced toward the group, Melanie expected him to deliver the sort of smooth pep talk of which she knew him to be capable. But he surprised her.
“I agree with you,” he told the chain-store owner.
Grampa’s face reddened with anger. “I knew we could not depend on this turncoat!”
Noreen raised a cautionary hand. “I think we should let the Iceman finish.”
“Yes,” said the Swamp Fox darkly. “I would like to hear this.”
“I have spent my life telling lies,” Hal said into a room grown suddenly quiet. “I am not proud of that fact.”
“Nor should you be!” harrumphed Mr. Germaine.
“To tell a lie for profit, or ego, or even friendship, is a losing proposition,” said Hal.
“Well, here’s a how-de-do,” grumbled Cha Cha, who stopped whirling the doctor around and stood listening.
“You double-crossin’ us?” asked Bone Crusher in disbelief.
“I am giving the morality of the situation some thought,” said Hal. “As this is an unfamiliar activity for me, I am doing it slowly.”
Tears glittered in the eyes of Drop Dead, who sat in the midst of a circle of children. “The state and the feds is gonna come in here with all them rules. There goes our fun.”
“No more smokin’ in the kitchen,” said one of the tattooed cooks. “How’m I gonna flavor my barbecue sauce?”
“Yeah, waddabout our election pool?” asked Pixie LaBelle. “Every election, the boys and me, we make bets about which politician is gonna smear the other ones worse. The state don’t allow no betting.”
Luigi hung his head. “I unhitched the air bag in the limo, on account of I’m so short. I ain’t got no permit to do that. They’re gonna come in here and arrest me.”
Resolve replaced the confusion on Hal’s face. “This is not self-interest, is it? We are talking about preserving a vanishing way of life.”
“You mean like, a Rescue the Whales kind of thing?” asked Bitsy Germaine.
“We support the whales, in spite of what Ms. Samovar tried to do to us,” conceded her husband.
“Is it cowardly,” asked Hal, “to lie in order to save an ecosystem that is nearly extinct?”
“Who you calling extinct?” said Drop Dead.
“Us, you fool,” snapped Grampa. “He’s calling us old fossils.”
“Once a way of life is gone, it can never be revived,” Hal said. “Think of the Wild West. The gold rush era. The Roaring Twenties.”
“Prohibition,” said the Swamp Fox nostalgically.
“We will give some thought to your point,” said Mr. Germ
aine, drawing his wife aside.
Everyone looked to Hal. He gave them a weary smile. “At any rate, we must all go ashore sooner or later, and it appears the downpour is letting up.”
Suddenly, intensely, Melanie wished it would rain forever. She didn’t want to leave this topsy-turvy island behind, even to achieve her dreams of journalistic glory.
She didn’t want to leave Hal.
One more tumble in the hay, she told herself fiercely. That’s all I need. Just to clear my sinuses.
A short time later, Chet came to inform them that the ferryboat was landing. A hustle ensued, during which Luigi volunteered to drive the women and children the short distance to the pier, while the men would walk.
There was no need for the gangsters to evacuate, but, as the owner of the sunken ship, Cha Cha felt it best to be present when a report was made. As the owner of the island, Drop Dead wanted to know immediately how much was disclosed and by whom, so he insisted on going, too.
In the end, all the gangsters went, leaving behind only the resort employees and the McAllisters. Having resolved to retire from crime, these visitors wanted to enjoy the remainder of their final stay on the island.
Technically, Hal explained to Melanie, retirees were not banned. However, the McAllisters had decided to devote their sunset years to the doing of good works as a kind of atonement, and therefore wished to make a clean break from their former life.
It took four boatloads before all the refugees were evacuated, and they passed the time by singing camp songs under the direction of Captain Bowers and the first officer. “It Was Sad When the Great Ship Went Down” proved popular.
As they motored to shore with the last ferryload, Melanie relished the sting of the salt air and the genial humming of her fellow passengers. Beside her, a young woman fingered her restored diamond necklace wistfully.
“It’s almost like being on the Titanic, except with enough lifeboats and without Leonardo DiCaprio,” said the woman. “I don’t suppose anybody’ll make a movie about us, though.”
“Not unless I sell the miniseries rights,” said Melanie. She was already trying to figure out how to tell the tale without revealing the existence of Paraiso. An isolated, unnamed coastal town might make a reasonable substitute, she supposed.
Then she stole a look at Hal, who leaned on the railing staring into the darkness. He had a strong profile, with a sensitive quiver at the tip of his nose that she had never noticed before.
He radiated a resigned wistfulness, like a man who has lost his innocence but gained maturity in the process. Melanie was surprised to discover that she, too, felt as if she had left a part of herself on the island.
It certainly was not innocence.
When they reached the landing dock, cheers went up from the passengers already on shore. “I’ll ask the boatman to notify the Coast Guard now,” said Chet as he lifted a little boy onto the wharf.
Next, he reached a hand to Melanie, and with a hop she landed beside him. The young man straightened, and she realized he had in a matter of hours outgrown his postadolescent gawkiness.
“I don’t know if anybody’s thanked you,” she told Chet. “You’ve been terrific.”
He glanced toward his grandfather, who stood on the wharf surrounded by his gang. The distance between them stretched like a no-man’s-land. “I only wish Grampa were proud of me. But I guess I’ll never be the grandson he wants.”
Hal, after assisting the last of the evacuees, joined the two of them. “I meant what I said about going into business together.”
“You bet.” Chet shook his hand. From his coterie, Grampa glowered.
The boatman came to report that the Coast Guard had already narrowed its search to their vicinity, and that a cutter would arrive shortly. In the meantime, the passengers packed into the terminal in search of the hot-drinks dispenser.
Melanie remained outside with Hal, staring toward Paralso. Although it lay only a short distance offshore, it had vanished into the mist
“Once the gendarmes depart, I will escort you back to Las Vegas,” said the Iceman.
His formal manner was not encouraging, but, she reflected, he’d responded to her kiss in Grampa’s room. Or at least he’d been about to respond when they got interrupted.
The chill in the air reminded Melanie of exactly how hot and exciting Hal’s skin would feel against hers. She edged closer, yearning for his attention almost as much as his touch.
But his gaze remained fixed on the sea. Then she saw what he was looking at, a white blur looming ever larger until a Coast Guard cutter pulled to the pier.
Amid the calling of voices and the bustle of docking, a question hung in the air. Namely, would Gerard Germaine, who stood with one arm around his wife, spill the beans or keep the lid on?
Yolo Bowers presented himself to the captain of the cutter. Melanie caught snatches of his tale of drugged wine and the Jolly Roger getting its hull breached.
There were, she gathered, questions about how such a miraculous rescue had been effected and why the cruise ship had sunk so abruptly. The seagoing cop also said he would make sure to note the existence of treacherous rocks on his charts, but that, she supposed, might not be a bad thing, since it would steer future ships clear of Paraiso.
With the Jolly Roger’s captain and its owner present, and all passengers and crew accounted for, the Coast Guard captain seemed puzzled but not unduly suspicious. Then Gerard Germaine stepped forward.
“Have you something to add?” asked the captain.
The little man drew himself up. Beside her, Melanie felt Hal stiffen. “There is one thing,” said the chain-store owner.
They waited, scarcely breathing.
“An attempt was made to steal our valuables,” he said. “These have been returned. However, the would-be thief is also responsible for scuttling the ship, and I believe she should be brought to justice.”
That was it. No mention of a lighthouse or an island. Not even a complaint about the slow service in the dining room.
“She’s right here.” Captain Bowers indicated Rita, who stood pouting beside Drop Dead. “This is Margarita Samovar, our cruise organizer.”
“She’s already confessed her crime,” Cha Cha added quickly. “The guilty plea is a cinch.”
“No need to stick yer dern nose any further into our beeswax,” muttered Drop Dead.
“Is this true?” the Coast Guard captain asked Rita, who had somehow managed amid all the brouhaha to replace her black wig and reapply her raccoon makeup.
“Not exactly,” she said.
Although they were barely touching, Melanie could feel Hal’s heart pounding against his rib cage. Or maybe that was her heart. She wasn’t sure she could tell the difference.
“Not exactly?” the captain repeated, crooking an eyebrow.
“They ain’t tellin’ the whole truth.” Rita’s chin came up defiantly.
“Which part did they leave out?” asked the sheriff of the sea.
“The most important part,” said Rita.
12
DROP DEAD SCOWLED. Bone Crusher flexed his hands, and Grampa reached toward a bulge in his waistband.
“What’s the most important part?” asked the gendarme.
“I didn’t just rip off this ship,” said Rita. “I stole a lot of other stuff, too. Ask her.” She pointed at Melanie.
A ripple of relief ran through the group, tempered by a few suspicious snorts. But although Rita pursed her lips as Melanie gave the captain the names of law enforcement agencies in Switzerland, Canada and Mexico, she showed no signs of blowing the whistle.
The captain took Rita into custody. Spontaneous applause broke out among the gangsters.
Only Drop Dead appeared sympathetic. “Don’t forget, you got a job waitin’ when ya get out!”
“I’m countin’ on it,” said Rita.
Finally the Coast Guard disembarked with its prisoner, and buses arrived for the passengers. After tearful farewells and the provis
ion of markers for free stays in Las Vegas, the erstwhile crew and passengers of the Jolly Roger rode off.
The ferryman told the remaining small knot of gangsters that he would be making the trip back to the island as soon as he ate breakfast The pastries in the vending machines weren’t more than a week old. Would anyone care to join him?
No one would.
This was, Melanie realized as the seaman scrammed, a climactic moment of sorts, with Hal facing down, possibly for the last time, his onetime buddies in Grampa’s gang. Although the odds of a shootout seemed small, Hal steered her to one side, next to Chet.
She knew she should be quivering with joy, to find herself so close to a potential battle. Instead, she violated every principle of journalistic objectivity by clutching Chet’s arm and saying, “Can’t you stop them? What if Hal gets hurt?”
“Then my grandfather will have me to deal with,” the young man stated, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“I am glad that my grandson has finally found his manhood,” Grampa announced. “I am only sorry that it is against his own flesh and blood that he wishes to exercise it.”
“That depends on how my own flesh and blood behaves,” said Chet.
“As for myself,” Hal interjected, “I wish to apologize if I seem ungrateful, Grampa. You provided my mother with a job when she needed one and I have always considered you a friend.”
“I had a debt of loyalty to your late father,” the gangster said levelly. “You owe me nothing.”
“I also wish to apologize for living a lie,” the Iceman continued, “but I am not sorry that I refrained from icing anyone.”
“You gotta give the guy points for creativity,” muttered Bone Crusher.
“It is not exactly his fault that he brought a snoop onto the island, either,” said the Swamp Fox, “seeing as Rita set him up.”
“He coulda blabbed to the Coasties about the island,” conceded Drop Dead. “And he di’nt.”
Kidnapped / I Got You Babe Page 14
