Icy Blue Descent (Book 4 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)

by JC Simmons

  Mako was my next move. He obviously was a scumbag who sold out to the Snowpowder boys for the easy money. If he put Rene Renoir on board Chalk Airline's flight to Miami, then he could tell me the name of the boat that brought her to Bimini, and who owned it.

  Getting him to talk was going to be difficult. Any man who had his scalp ripped open by a tuna gaff then gets loose and, with his bare hands, kills the man who hooked him isn't someone who will talk easily. But the man had information I needed.

  Mako was big, but the question was, is he coordinated, quick, and in shape. To break a man's neck takes powerful arms, hands, and shoulders. It's no great feat for a big man to snap the neck of a small person. Though it is a big deal to the one getting his neck broken.

  It was dark, now, and the road back to the hotel led through Alicetown. At night it is no place for a man alone. Years ago two pilot friends of mine staying at the Compound decided some nightlife was in order. They walked down to the End of the World Bar and got drunk. On the way back, passing through Alicetown, they were hailed by two ladies of the evening. Making a bad decision, they were beaten and robbed by the whore's pimps. One ended up with a concussion. As a result of their indiscretion neither was able to work for several weeks. Their employer asked me to fly his jet back to Miami. When learning he had fired the pilots, I refused. The plane sat in Bimini for a long time.

  As I approached the village, six young males were sitting on a rusted out Cadillac listening to a portable radio turned as loud as it would go. Drawing abreast of them, they stopped their wild gyrations, turned the radio off, and looked me over. They said nothing, and I passed on by. Sometimes it pays to be big.

  Walking out onto the public docks, I strolled along the narrow piers looking at the boats moored in the slips to see if any were familiar. They were not. Two young men stood beside a sportfisherman tied bow to the pier. Unable to see the name of the vessel, I struck up a conversation. They hailed from Key West and were delivering the boat for the owner who would keep it in Bimini through the tuna and marlin runs. It was best to come over early, as docking space was nonexistent during peak season.

  Several sailboats were anchored out on the flats in the deep channel. Only two appeared to be occupied. It was possible Rene could have been brought over on a sailboat, but not probable. They are too slow. Whoever killed her traveled over from Nassau on a boat capable of handling the heavy winter seas, like a sportfisherman, or they flew her here.

  Walking back to the hotel, I thought about what needed to be done. Passing through the foyer, the huge marlin mounted over the fireplace loomed as large as a small car. Memories came rushing back as to how it felt fighting such a magnificent creature. How pleased the feeling when you released the tired, but uninjured fish. You knew how much you admired him, and you wondered what it thought about you. Then you tried not to think about the fish you had not released.

  In my room, I splashed musty-smelling water on my face and looked in the cracked mirror. The image staring back seemed unfamiliar, a man in his forties with short, ash-blond hair, greenish-blue eyes, and a fair complexion. The few scars on the angular face were familiar. They were the lessons learned, hard lessons. It was time to find some food.

  I remembered that the Bimini Inn used to have a good restaurant. At one time a giant of a man, nicknamed, Tiny, was the Chef. I hoped he was still there.

  On the way out, I stopped by the bar. It was dark inside, and I stood in the door until my eyes adjusted. One of the sailors from Key West was playing the 'hook' game. He took careful aim, swung the rope, and missed the whole post. Easing onto a stool, the bartender sat a gin and tonic with a twist in front of me.

  "It's an old custom, first drink of the night is on the house." He nodded toward the end of the bar. There sat Mako, drinking an Anchor Rode. It's a Bahamian beer, strong and aromatic with a bitter finish. We drank them on hot days fishing in the Stream. One each hour kept the dehydration down and the alcohol level tolerable.

  Sipping the gin, I came up with a plan for Mako. It was time to test the man. Word travels fast on a small island when strangers come, but he showed no knowledge of my existence. His attention was drawn to the 'hook' game. He saw easy marks in the two young sailors.

  It didn't take long to talk his way into the game. After losing five straight, he suggested upping the ante. He lost some more, then when each toss reached a hundred dollars; he was ready for the kill. If the men complained they would be beaten, or worse. It's a scam that's been going on a long time, in all sports.

  Getting up, I made my way toward the door. Passing by Mako, I swung my arm as if to wave good-bye to the bartender and knocked the red cap off his head. Two horrid rows of jagged scars glistened on the bald scalp. He stiffened, eyes blazing. Reaching down, I picked up the cap and handed it back to him.

  "My apologies. I didn't see you standing there, Scarhead. Bartender, give this man a beer on me." Turning, I headed for the door. Passing one of the sailors, I whispered that they were being played like a fish. He nodded his appreciation.

  Mako was bigger than he looked. I guessed six foot four or five and over three hundred pounds. He had a flat nose and thick lips that didn't hide his ruined teeth. The eyes were small and beady, and he had poor personal hygiene.

  Tiny was still the Chef at the Bimini Inn, and he treated me with a leisurely dinner of raw Conch salad and grilled tuna that was wonderful. I drank little wine, as there was a feeling that Mako would make himself known to me again before the night was over.

  After dinner, I walked down to the public docks. Turning onto the long wooden pier that ran out a hundred yards into the water, I spotted Mako hugging the shadows. He had not disappointed me. The light at the end of the pier was dim, but I could see water rushing by the pilings on the ebbing tide. Several big fish were holding stationary in the flow behind the wooden posts waiting for food to come drifting by.

  With my back to the shore, I was sure Mako's approach would be heard on the creaking planks of the dock. I was wrong. The rush of the wind ahead of the punch was my first warning. Stars exploded in my head, and I could feel myself sinking to my knees. That's when Mako made his first mistake. He backed up and laughed, a low, growling sound that would bring fear to a man's soul.

  "Gone teach you sum manners, white man. Teach you not to knock Mako's cap off. And learn you to never make fun of my head." He grunted crazily. "Yo head gonna look like Mako's when I get through."

  The stars cleared and I could feel my strength and coordination return. Lunging with my right hand I grabbed him by the balls and squeezed. With my left hand, I yanked one of his feet out from under him and he fell on his back. Sweat popped out and ran off him like water. He tried to kick, but I was on him. Powerful arms lashed out, but I was too close, too quick. A couple of short, hard punches to his temple ended the struggle. He had not uttered a sound since I grabbed him. He was tough.

  Dragging him over to the boat out of Key West, I threw him into the cockpit. Dipping a bucket of seawater, I poured it over his head. He started to come around. Taking a filet knife from a leather sheath by the fishing rods, I sat on his chest and made a cut across his neck, just deep enough so that he could feel it.

  "You hurt me, Mon," he grunted through clinched teeth. "You hurt Mako bad. What you want, Mon?"

  "Listen carefully, Scarhead. I'm only going to say this once." I cut a little deeper. "You put a drugged up young woman on the seaplane to Miami. Who ordered you to do that?"

  He shook his head, "Don't know what you talking about, Mon."

  Pushing the knife blade deeper into the cut, I said, "What boat did she come in on?"

  Struggling, he said, "A sportfisherman, Mon. Down from Nassau. Don't see the name."

  "You're a lying bucket of bilge water." Cutting deeper than I intended, a sudden flow of blood ran down onto the deck. It didn't appear to be arterial. "This is your last chance to tell me what I want to hear, then I'm going to cut your privates off and feed them to the fish down by
the pilings. You understand me?"

  Sweat glistened off the black face and he smelled like he hadn't bathed in a week. "The Sun Dog, Mon. The Sun Dog."

  "Who owns it?"

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and a tightening movement of his face formed a smile that substituted for a moan of pain. "You a mean one. Maybe I come work for you. We make a good team, Mon."

  "I don't think so. I hate bullies and will not tolerate the killing of young, innocent women. Now who owns the boat?"

  "Don't know his name. He a doper running the whole island chain. That's the truth, Mon."

  "How you know him?"

  "Guy works for him hired me to deliver around here. Don't know anything but a nickname. Calls himself Moley."

  Removing the knife from his neck, I said, "Get out of here before I change my mind about killing you."

  He stood slowly, feeling the cut in his neck with one hand and his testicles with the other. "You a mean one, Mon. We meet again some other time. Yes sir, we meet again."

  All of a sudden I was tired. The last four days was taking its toll. Washing the blood off the cockpit deck, I headed back to the Angler. Mako wouldn't give me any trouble tonight, but he might have a friend.

  The bartender sat a drink in front of me as I eased onto a stool in the bar. "Mako left behind you tonight, and he was plenty mad. You have any trouble?"

  "Nothing I couldn't handle. You got any kids?"

  "Why?"

  "Need someone to guard my door tonight, let me know if anyone comes around."

  "My thirteen year old is dependable. He watch your door. You pay him, but not too much. Don't want him spoiled."

  I slid a fifty under the drink. "Thanks."

  "The boy will be there in an hour."

  Thirty minutes later there was a soft tap on the door. He was a chip off the old block, a mirror image of his father with sun-bleached hair and a round, boyish face. Huge, alert eyes hidden far back under thin eyebrows danced and darted in the dim hallway. He was a young kid growing quickly into manhood on a dangerous and hard island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Handing him a twenty-dollar bill, the expression on his face told me I could sleep easy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Telling the young son of the bartender, whose name was Ansel, that someone might try and sneak up the stairs or climb up the outside of the hotel to get to me, I asked if he thought he could stay awake and if any of this frightened him in any way?

  With a wile grin, he said, "Papa told me you run up against Mako. I stay awake with no trouble, and tell you if anyone comes around." His face glistened with sweat in the darkened hall, the jaw set. A street-wise kid who was smart, tough, and brought up severely on the island to handle the harsh reality of life; he already thought like an adult.

  Confident in the boy, I lay down and remember nothing after my head hit the pillow. Sometime later, I woke aware of a presence in the room. Slowly opening my eyes, I found I was facing the wall, and the glow of false dawn etched odd angles on everything. Turning slowly, I saw the firm-set jaw of young Ansel.

  "You said to wake you at dawn, suh. It's about that time. Nobody came during the night. You want me to get you coffee? I can make some in the kitchen. Wouldn't mind a cup myself."

  "You go fix the coffee. I'll be down as soon as I dress."

  Downstairs, Ansel brewed a strong, black coffee on the gas stove of the tiny kitchen. The air was hot and sticky. He made the coffee the old way, grinding the beans, boiling them in a pot. No drip-grind or percolated for this kid. His movements were quick and sure in the small space.

  "My Maw, she cook here at the hotel. Taught me how to make the coffee. Good, yeah?"

  "Yes, Ansel. None ever better."

  He grinned, showing a youthful set of glistening teeth in the early morning light.

  "You know Joseph, the man who runs the Compound for the rich folks on the north end of the island?"

  "Yes suh, I know Mr. Joseph. He a good man. His number two boy, him and me play the baseball together and fish the flats.

  "Does he still live in the house by the Marine lab?"

  "Yes suh, all my life he been there."

  Handing him another twenty, I said, "You did a good job last night, thanks."

  His jaw dropped and his eyes bulged. "That's too much."

  "I may need some help, later. Can I count on you?"

  "You bet." He stuck the bill in the pocket of his worn, sun-bleached jeans.

  Back in the room, I thought about what Mako said concerning the Sun Dog coming over from Nassau. Figuring that island was my next move, I packed my ditty bag and checked out of the Complet Angler Inn.

  In the foyer, next to the counter, a schedule of Chalk Airline's routes was posted on the wall. The next flight to Nassau was not until tomorrow afternoon. That wouldn't do, I needed to get there today. Maybe Joseph could run me over in one of the Compound's sportfishing boats. It would put me in Nassau by mid-afternoon.

  The steps of the hotel were covered with dew. To the east, rays from the sun were shining on the bottom of low clouds left over from a dissipating line of thunderstorms. They were gunmetal blue and gray, then slowly turned a burnt orange, then fiery red. It was going to be a warm day, but now it was still cool and you could smell the wood fires of the cook stoves wafting over from Alicetown.

  Joseph's house appeared in the morning haze. It was not the biggest home along the street, but it was the neatest. Sitting on the side of a small dune, it was painted a bright white with green trim. The traditional fence was built of seashells and the pink, gold, and green of the queen conchs caused the fence to dance in a calliope of colors in the morning light.

  Joseph's was the only one without casts of sea life on the posts. When asked about this, he replied, "Cop'um, I love all the fish in the sea. They been good to me. Don't seem right to hang'em on my fence. Bet they wouldn't hang Joseph on their post if they had a fence."

  Made perfect sense to me.

  Joseph was sitting on his front steps drinking coffee when I walked up. He saw me coming from a long way off, but pretended not to notice until I entered his front gate. He did not see or hear things until they demanded his attention. "Learn a lot more that way," he used to say.

  "Morning, Cop'um. You stirring mighty early." The sun moved over his motionless face as over a portrait, one with an expression of impersonal courtesy.

  "How's the coffee?"

  "A cup with your name on it inside."

  "If it won't be too much of a bother."

  We sat and drank the coffee together in silence. The sun rose, bringing an oppressive heat. Joseph knew something was on my mind, but was too smart to ask.

  "Met up with Mako last night."

  "I heard." He leaned back loosely, in a manner of lazy relaxation, both legs extended, arms resting in two parallels on the steps, like someone who permitted himself to be at ease. "Not much happens on this sand spit that I don't know about. Rumor is you hurt him pretty bad."

  "Minor disagreement over manners. I need to get to Nassau, Joseph. Can you run me over in one of the Compound's boats?"

  "That's a seven hour run." His black eyes looked deep into mine, searching for some secret that I didn't even know. "Guess you wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

  I didn't say anything, let him mull it over.

  "Mr. Lauder is supposed to call today and I got to be here. You take the boat. Can you get it back tomorrow?"

  "No, I need someone to go with me and bring it back."

  "Let's take a walk."

  Joseph didn't inquire as to why I needed to get to Nassau, didn't tell me Chalk had a flight tomorrow afternoon, and he didn't hesitate to loan me one of the Compound's two million dollar fishing boats. He and I hunted the giant tuna and marlin together many times. He knew I could run the boat, but his trust in me was still warming after all these years.

  He pointed to a new blockhouse painted pink. "My long lived one stay here. He just got married."

  It is
tradition that a young man has a house ready for his new bride to move into. This one was not the Ritz, but it was functional and paid for.

  Joseph's oldest boy should be eighteen or nineteen years old. He was named after the Great Issach Light, a lighthouse north of Bimini, and was a natural-born athlete. When we played baseball with the kids, Issach was always the best at every aspect of the game.

  Joseph knocked on the door and grew impatient when no one answered. "That stuff going to whip that boy down, Cop'um. Guess it better to let them get it out of their system. They soon see there's other things in life than laying up pooching all day."

  "Pooching?"

  "Ah, Cop'um, you know. Making babies. Like the little dog poochies do when the female comes in heat. They be pooching."

  A bleary-eyed young man finally opened the door.

  "Get your britches on, boy. Cop'um Leicester's here and needs your help."

  "Oh, yeah, I remember you. Played baseball with us and took everyone riding in your airplane. What you need, Cop'um?" He did not look like his father, but possessed all of the features of his dead mother. Six feet tall with thick brown hair and a European nose, Issach was the picture of youthful health. His eyes danced with intelligence and a love of life.

  "Don't matter what. He needs your help. Now let's go."

  "Issach, I need you to run over to Nassau with me and bring back the Hatteras. You can beat nightfall if we leave now."

  "Sure. Will it be okay if my new bride comes along? She'd be good company on the trip back."

  "That's fine."

  "Make haste, boy. The day's awasting and the man's in a hurry."

  While Issach and Joseph checked the engines and loaded supplies aboard in case of mechanical trouble, I fueled the boat. It was a fifty-three foot Hatteras sportfisherman. She had a sixteen-foot beam, twin G.M. 12v71 TI diesel engines, and would run all day at twenty knots.

  The Compound's boats were rigged the same way, professionally outfitted for fishing, but still luxurious down below. This vessel was christened the Lady Lorraine.