Assassin's Shadow

by Striker, Randy

  She thought for a moment. “One guy?”

  “Probably.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen one guy who fits the description—but I have seen half a dozen of them.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look so surprised, Dusky. You’ve been away for quite a while, remember? The islands in Pine Island Sound are no longer the tight little community of boating folk they once were. Oh, there are still plenty of great people around. Larry Davis still fishes around here, and Jim Lavender, the Hamiltons and Doug Fisher, Duke Sells, Ted Cole and Mike Fuery, and the rest. But there are more and more outsiders now. A lot of big money has been piped into some of the islands. Much of it foreign money. Like St. Carib—it used to be just another beautiful private island. The old owner threw great parties. He’d boat the whole staff of Cabbage Key and Useppa over, and we’d set dance-marathon records. But then, out of nowhere, some outsiders bought the place and completely renovated it. It was all very hush-hush for a while. Then, suddenly, there was a nationwide publicity push. Television, newspapers, magazines like the New Yorker—all about how St. Carib was the new jet-set fat farm. We were all kind of excited at first. But then some of their movie-star clientele started sneaking over here looking halfstarved and acting like they were too good for the place, and we suddenly weren’t very excited anymore. We get our share of film stars and big-time athletes at Cabbage Key, but they come here to let their hair down. They want to be treated like private people—no better or worse—and that’s just what they get. They don’t get fussed over, and we all have a good time. But those folks from St. Carib have been a real pain. I think the hunger or the program or something makes them mean. And it rubs off on the St. Carib staff, I think. You mentioned foreigners— they’re almost all foreigners. You know the type: European macho.”

  “All from one country?”

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. A couple of them look like Germans or Swedes—they’re blond, anyway. The rest of them are pretty dark. Some Italian, some Mediterranean, maybe.”

  “And they give you a hard time?”

  She nodded, stood, and checked her watch. “It’s about nine now. About midnight, when we want to close, is when the fun will probably begin. They get real nasty at closing time, and Rob isn’t here to put the fear in them, so it should be real interesting.”

  I was surprised. “You mean they’ll be here tonight?”

  “Not ‘be’ here, Dusky. They’re already here. Back in the bar. They’re drinking scotch like it’s due to be banned. They’ve got a new session starting tomorrow, and I guess they’re trying to get their minds right for all the chubby starlets they’ll have to service.”

  “You sound a little bitter, Kath.”

  “Not bitter. Just tired of getting pinched, Dusky.” She headed back toward the bar, then stopped suddenly, a quizzical expression on her face. “You know, you didn’t even tell me why you wanted the information.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Private, huh?”

  “For now.”

  She smiled, satisfied with the simple explanation. “Anyway, it’s good to see you around again, Dusky. And make sure you get a chance to see Larry Davis and the rest. They’d strangle me if I let you get away without saying hello.”

  6

  There were five of them at a table by the fireplace across from the piano in the bar.

  The bald man had changed clothes, but he was still sweating and still banging at the old upright, playing “As Time Goes By” with a Casablanca edge to it. Kathy stood behind the bar talking to a clutch of locals, laughing with them and freshening their drinks. A young married couple, looking as though they were fresh from an Iowa farm, played darts in the corner, giggling and nuzzling. The ceiling fan churned the light haze of cigarette smoke and spread the warmth of the fire.

  I went to an unoccupied corner of the bar, feeling the five St. Carib staffers eye me in sudden silence as I passed. Kathy brought me a Beck’s without my having to ask.

  “Our friends are over there in the corner.”

  “So I see.”

  “They’re staring at you.”

  “Must be my boyish good looks.”

  “Or it could be that scar on your cheek. New, isn’t it?”

  “Latest thing from Paris.”

  “You ordered it by mail?”

  “Won it, actually. Got second place in a knife fight. I’d have done better, but there was only one knife and it wasn’t mine.”

  She looked at me strangely. “You know, I can’t tell when you’re kidding and when you’re not.”

  “As long as I know, Kath. As long as I know.” I took a pull at the cold beer. “Marina’s off duty?”

  “What a question to ask another single lady. And yes, she is. The poor kid was whipped. It’ll take her a while to get in shape for this waitress work. But the girls say she’s willing. And that’s half the battle. By the way, she left special orders to be called no later than ten. Said she’s to meet a friend at the bar. Are you the friend?”

  “I try to be friendly with everyone.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  “Depends on who you talk to. Right now I’m going to be friendly with those fine fellows from St. Carib.”

  She picked up my beer, wiped the counter, and brought me another.

  “That tall dark one is the guy to watch. Where he goes, the others follow. Acts like he’s a plantation owner and everyone else is slave material. He about got into it one night with Larry. Rob broke it up. That’s as close as we’ve come to having a fight out here in three years. Everything was friendly and cozy until those guys started showing up. And truthfully, if there had been a fight between those two, I wouldn’t have known who to bet on. Larry is big enough, but that guy is just plain mean.”

  “Never bet against the Davis brothers or the Hamiltons. It’s a losing proposition in these parts.”

  “That’s true.”

  Nonchalantly, I swung around on my bar stool, pretending to watch the bald man pound the piano. He had switched from “As Time Goes By” to “Rum and Coca-Cola.” The tall dark guy Kathy was talking about sat at the head of the table, facing the bar. His black hair was carefully coiffured—the twenty-fourdollar windblown look. He wore a white sports shirt with St. Carib embroidered on the pocket, as did the other four. There was a gold chain around his neck, complete with obligatory unicorn horn. Digital watch and left wrist rested upon the table near his scotch, and left hand tapped two jeweled rings in time to the music. He was heavily corded more than heavily muscled, with broad plates of pectoral muscle visible within the open shirt. His face was of the classic Mediterranean mold: petulant mouth given to scorn, narrow dark eyes, and a very large nose that seemed to dominate whatever cheek and jaw development there may have been. Two others at the table seemed to be equally Mediterranean; both obviously in good shape, but reserved in the animated light of the man at the head of the table. The other two were blond hulks, all chest and forearms and biceps. They kept to themselves, apart from the others even though sitting at the same table. From the bits of conversation I heard, they sounded to be German.

  I looked back at Kathy. “What’s the tall guy’s name?”

  “Kind of a funny name,” she said softly. “What is it? Yeah, I remember—Matrah. I remember because he got mad at Larry for shortening it to Matt. That’s what the argument was all about.”

  “Takes offense easily, huh?”

  “Seems to.”

  “Like I said, I’ll try to be friendly.”

  I caught the tall one’s eye, smiled, waved briefly, and walked across the room to their table, beer in hand. They had been talking and laughing among themselves, but were suddenly silent as I neared. The tall one pretended not to notice me. I stood there for a moment, trying to look smaller than I am, gawky smile on my face, belly pushed out as far as I could get it. Finally, he had to notice.

  “Yes?” />
  “Hey, hope you guys don’t mind my interruptin’, but I couldn’t help noticin’ your shirts—you guys really work there at St. Carib, the fat farm?”

  The tall one tensed momentarily. He said, “Sir, I’m the director of St. Carib. These are a few of my employees. And none of us likes to hear St. Carib referred to as a fat farm. Understand?”

  With the flavor of accent there was a well-practiced coldness in his voice; the chill you get from headwaiters who notice you’re not wearing a tie.

  “What? Oh, hey, I’m sorry—no offense, you know. Just wondering if I could sit with you a minute, and maybe have you tell me a little about your fat—ah, your facility.” I patted myself on the stomach. “You can see I’m gettin’ a little pudgy and all, and I was thinkin’ about signin’ up for a class.”

  You could tell the thought of me at his plush resort amused him. He cringed visibly. He said, “I’m afraid you would have to take that up with one of my subordinates. They handle all the enrollment. I suggest you write us a letter—or better yet, contact your local Weight Watchers organization.”

  That got a laugh from the table. One of them chortled something in what sounded like Arabic. The tall one, Matrah, answered back, laughing, then turned his attention again to the piano player. The two Germans said nothing and looked glum.

  End of interview.

  I ambled back to the bar. Kathy was waiting with a fresh beer.

  “With that sparkling personality of yours, you just never meet a stranger, do you?”

  I held up crossed fingers. “After only a few words, Matrah and I are as close as this.”

  “Practically blood brothers, huh?”

  “Not quite, but I think if I had called St. Carib a fat farm again, we would have become blood brothers very soon.”

  She laughed. “What a charmer you are, Dusky MacMorgan. One in a million. But seriously, is he the guy you’re looking for?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I won’t know for a while.”

  “This becomes more and more mysterious.”

  “And more and more confidential. Okay?”

  She made a playground gesture I hadn’t seen in a long time. She twisted her lips between thumb and forefinger. “I just locked the secret and threw away the key.”

  “You can’t ask for better security than that.”

  Marina Cole came up the steps and into the bar at about eleven. If she was striking before, she was even more striking now. She had unbraided and washed her blond hair, and it hung down over her shoulders and feathered across her cheeks in translucent shades of wheat and gold. She wore a plain blue blouse and a wraparound skirt with tropical flowers on it in yellow and green. And she had stuck a big red hibiscus flower behind her ear. When she walked in, conversations halted abruptly, men turned, and even the bald piano player stumbled momentarily in “Old Cape Cod.” As if unaccustomed to such sudden attention, she hurried across the wooden floor and slid into the bar seat beside me.

  “You do make an entrance, Marina.”

  If not for the Gulf Stream tan, I would have guessed she was blushing. “Well, I hadn’t had a shower in days, and I had to wash my hair, and—but why in the hell am I embarrassed? At least I’m wearing clothes. You’re the one who knows how to make an entrance. Remember?”

  We both laughed. I said, “Yeah, but I’m not nearly as pretty as you. Have I said yet that you look very lovely indeed tonight?”

  She smiled, a woman who knew how to accept a compliment. “Why thank you, MacMorgan. I appreciate that.”

  As if on cue, Kathy brought us each a chilled glass of the house white wine. I held up my glass. “Here’s to a happy stay on Cabbage Key. May you enjoy your work, then continue on your journey.”

  She grinned, and we clinked glasses. “And may we both stay off sandbars.”

  “Right.”

  So we sipped at our wine and enjoyed the small talk common to new friends; enjoyed that probing ground of conversation that always includes childhood and old loves and, among sailors anyway, favorite boats and stories of storms.

  Marina had done her share of sailing, too. While her stock-exchange father stayed home and read about the sea, she was content only with the bulldog approach: She went out and did it. She had crewed for several of the New England ocean racers, then signed on for a transatlantic race that almost cost her her life.

  “We were twelve days out from Boston, and that far out it’s all big ocean,” she told me, the brown eyes glowing, enjoying her own tale. “Our boat was the thirty-eight-foot Steadfast, a lovely thing to look at and a dream to handle—and built for that kind of sail, too. We were seven, including the captain, and I was the only woman aboard. I worked hard to prove straightaway that I was there to sail, and not just to do more than my share of the cooking and cleaning, but you know how men are—”

  “I know how some men are, if that’s what you mean.”

  She reached over and patted my hand, face showing the proper chagrin. “I guess I should have qualified that.”

  “And on the other hand, I might be one of the worst.”

  She studied me momentarily, gave my hand a final squeeze, then continued her story. “Anyway, we were twelve days out and we could just feel that we were about to get it. Around midnight, the bottom dropped out of the barometer. It was eerie still; stars and moon all had a greenish cast, and the big starcut spinnaker we were carrying was dead empty. It was my watch and the captain was asleep below, so I told a couple of the guys to drop that spinnaker and get ready to do some quick reefing. They grumbled about my being overcautious, but thank God they finally did do it—because that squall hit about five minutes later. Really, Dusky, ‘squall’ seems like too weak a word for the storm that hit. It came blasting down out of Greenland, gusts to ninety knots. Seas went from five-foot swells to twenty-foot combers in no less than ten minutes.” She hesitated for a moment, reliving that storm in her own mind. “It all happened so quickly. It was so powerful that it actually took my breath away; I was in awe, my hands white on that big stainless wheel, knowing for the first time in my life that sense of having absolutely no control over my own destiny. Every sea washed us; like getting hit by God or something. As I said, it happened so quickly that no one had had a chance to call the captain. And in a storm like that, command has to change hands very quickly. So one of the guys with me in the cockpit unsnapped his lifeline and decided to try to get below. I knew he shouldn’t have tried it; I even yelled and told him not to. Those waves were about washing me away, and I had something to hang onto. But he was the macho type; had to prove himself, and he went anyway. The first crest that hit knocked him flat on his back. And the second washed him overboard. It happened so fast, Dusky, that it seemed like seconds later before I even heard him scream.”

  “So you lost him?”

  She was quiet for a long time. Then she looked at me, a strange wonderment on her face. “No,” she said softly. “We had been towing one of those patent logs astern during the day—you know those things with an impeller on a long line that measures speed and distance? At night we’d been hauling it in, for fear we’d get it fouled. Well, it was coiled beside me, and when I saw him go I grabbed the log, unsnapped my lifeline, and went over after him.” She rubbed at her forehead absently, as if perplexed by her own actions on that stormy night long ago. “I can’t really describe what I was feeling at that moment, Dusky. There was no fear involved. In that microsecond of decision it seemed that for the first and only time in my life, I was totally free. Free of everything . . . earthly, I guess. It was so simple. Just unsnap the lifeline and . . . and go.”

  She was quiet then, lost in the depths of her empty wineglass.

  “You got him?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I don’t know how. I got a grip on his foul-weather jacket, then he got a hold on the line. By that time, the others realized what had happened, and they helped haul us in.” She looked up quickly, her eyes searching mine. “You know, Dusky, that story�
�s been told a lot. But never by me. You’re the first person I’ve ever told. It’s such a private thing—that moment, that single moment of total freedom—that it would have seemed like a kind of blasphemy to go telling it around. It happened six years ago, and I guess I’ve spent those years trying to recapture that feeling. I worked briefly in one of the European branches of my father’s office, but I was too restless for that. So I worked at a French sailing school for a while, tried sky diving, got an adolescent interest in politics—my socialist period. Then I decided mountain climbing in Nepal was the thing to do—you know, find the secret of life on the highest peak.” She laughed shortly. “But the only thing I found in Nepal was a case of dysentery that just about did kill me. After that I spent a year experimenting with drugs. All kinds, but hallucinogens mostly. Drugs are such a lovely lie—and as deadly as they are lovely. Luckily, I realized that before it was too late. So then I went back to work for my father’s business, made enough money to buy my own sailboat, and here I am.”

  I signaled Kathy, and she brought us more wine. Marina’s hand trembled slightly as she brought the glass to her lips. In the soft light of the little bar, beneath the whirling shadows of the ceiling fan and the clinking grace of the old piano, I thought I had never seen a woman so lovely. I found myself taking her hand in mine.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She laughed nervously. “It must have sounded like I was boasting, but I wasn’t. . . .”

  “I know, Marina, I know. That’s why I thanked you. You’re a rare person, and I’m honored that you told me.”

  Her eyes searched mine. “And I don’t even know why I told you. We’ve only just met, and I barely know you. But there’s something in your eyes; I don’t understand your . . . your eyes. But they make me trust you.”

  “Enough to answer just one personal question?”

  She nodded, suddenly wary. “I guess. Sure.”

  “In the entire story, you never mentioned your husband. Why?”

  She shrugged. “There’s not much to tell, really. And it’s not a particularly interesting story.”