CHAPTER 35 – ROUGHING IT
“I’m sorry, Ms. Loeb, but it can’t be helped.”
The desk clerk at the Blue Water Hotel looked miserable.
“That’s simply not acceptable. Let me speak to Maurice.”
Scarne walked over.
“What’s going on?”
“The suite I asked for isn’t available. It’s my favorite. I always stay there.”
The clerk returned with “Maurice,” whose name tag said Hotel Manager.
“A broken pipe,” he said, wringing his hands. He had undoubtedly dealt with Alana before. “Water damage. Quite uninhabitable. We are so sorry. But we have a very nice cottage right near the beach. Much larger. At no extra charge. And, of course, you will be our guest at dinner tonight.”
“Sounds wonderful, darling” Scarne said, kissing her cheek. “Let’s rough it.” He didn’t care where he slept, as long as it was with this woman.
She smiled.
“All right. Why don’t you get us settled? I have something to do at the bank. I’ll be back in an hour.” She looked at the manager. “Would you arrange a taxi for me?”
“No need, Ms. Loeb. I’ll have one of the boys run you into town and wait for you.”
The Blue Water was an older resort. The cottage was simple but charming, with a small living room, kitchenette and a well-stocked wet bar. Off to one side was a large bedroom with an inviting king-sized bed, above which a large-paddled fan swirled slowly.
Their bags had been placed on a wicker chest at the foot of the bed. Both rooms had sliders that opened to a common lanai overlooking the Caribbean. A path that connected all the cottages ran down to the beach. Scarne took his toiletry kit into the bathroom. The step-in tub had a dual shower curtain held up by a tensile rod. Someone had left the clothes line extended from its small chrome grommet by the shower head to its receptacle on the opposite wall. It brought back memories of drying socks from the many nights Scarne had spent in motels across the United States. He thought about hanging something naughty for Alana to see but instead released the line and it fell to the bottom of the tub before slithering up sharply into its nest.
Scarne changed into a pair of blue cotton trousers and a light yellow Greg Norman golf shirt. He slipped his loafers back on and poured three fingers of Appleton premium rum over some ice, adding a squeeze of lime and a sugar cube. Twirling the homemade rum punch with his finger, he opened the sliding door and screen to the porch and sat down on a cushioned wicker swivel chair, kicked off his loafers and put his feet up.
He was on his third drink when Alana returned. She took the glass from his hand and led him by the hand to the big bed. Her eyes were hungry. The next several hours were a blur of lovemaking. They hardly spoke. The only sounds were sexual, augmented by the slow swishing of the fan paddles above them. She did things to him, and with him, that he could not have imagined – and, like most men, he imagined plenty. Near the end, she caught a look of surprise on his face, finished what she was doing, rolled away and started to cry softly.
“Alana, darling, what’s the matter?”
“Go to hell!”
He lay there confused, afraid to even touch a woman whose body moments before had eagerly accepted every exploration by his fingers and mouth. Finally, he let his hand slip to the base of her spine to the small tattoo, which he massaged gently until she fell asleep.
***
Scarne was awakened by the sensation of someone gently caressing his face and running fingers through his hair. Her face loomed above him, her blonde hair gently stirring with the breeze from the fan.
“I’m sorry, Jake.”
“There’s no need.”
“You are a beautiful man.”
“We missed dinner last night.”
“Did you mind?”
He slid his hand to her breast and began playing with a nipple. She laughed as they both watched it harden. He pinched it hard, like she liked. Then she swatted his hand away.
“No! I have to brush my teeth. And I want a shower. I can’t imagine what the maid will say about these sheets. You’ll just have to wait until after breakfast. I’m starving.”
She sprung out of bed as he reached for her, almost falling out of bed.
Just then the phone rang. She picked up the receiver and threw it to him.
“Answer it. It will get your mind off other things.”
“Not for long,” Scarne replied, but picked up the phone and said hello. He listened for a moment, looking increasingly perplexed.
“And he asked for me by name? Who did he say he was? Yes, you did the right thing. OK. I’ll be right over. Thank you.”
He sighed, looking at a naked Alana grinning mischievously.
“What is it?”
“The front desk. They said there is a man from Government House who wants to see me. Says it’s urgent. He’s waiting for me in the coffee shop. Something to do with my passport. Asked me to bring more identification. Can’t imagine what it’s about. Damned nuisance.”
“You must be on a watch list. The custom people are a little slow. They let you in the country and then they question you. Have I been making love to a terrorist?” She covered her breasts and pubic area in mock fear.
Scarne laughed. “You are the one who has terrorized me. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you want me to bring back some breakfast?”
“Oh yes, something decadent and gooey,” she laughed. “We can disguise the sheets.”
Scarne pulled on a pair of shorts and a golf shirt and slipped on his sandals. He grabbed his cell phone and went out through the sliders to the lanai and began walking down the path toward the main buildings. He barely noticed a small car idling in the road just below the path. He went down the stairs leading to the main walkway that led directly to the main hotel lobby. He was halfway there when he ran into the hotel manager.
“Good morning, Mr. Scarne. I hope you found the cottage to your satisfaction.”
“Yes, Maurice, it’s fine. Can you tell me how to get to the coffee shop?
“It’s just to the left of the lobby where you checked in. But it won’t be open for another 15 minutes. I can have something sent to your room.”
“That’s funny. The desk clerk said a man was asking for me and is now in the coffee shop. Maybe he was confused. Where else would he be waiting?”
The manager frowned.
“I have been on the desk until just now, Mr. Scarne. There was no one asking for you, and we didn’t call you. Are you sure?’
“Listen, it had to be ….”
Scarne stopped. He remembered the car idling near the cottage. Christ! He turned and ran, leaving the manager with his mouth agape. When he reached the lanai, the sliders were open. He heard a muffled scream and the sound of glass breaking. He dove through the bedroom and burst through the door into the bathroom. A man had Alana by the throat and was bending her body backwards over the sink. She was naked, but the man seemed oblivious to that. The floor was wet and slippery from Alana’s shower, and the assailant was sliding on the floor. His hands did not have a firm purchase on her neck.
The man seemed stunned by Scarne’s arrival. But instead of simply letting go of Alana he flung her towards him. Scarne automatically tried to keep her from falling. That gave the man enough time to reach into his waistband. Had he come out with a gun, there was little Scarne could have done about it. It would have been game, set and match. But the hand came out with a knife, which flicked open, straight from its scabbard, like a serpent’s tongue. Except that this tongue was five inches of polished tungsten steel and glittered.
Scarne pivoted and pushed Alana towards the door as the man slashed at his eyes. The turn saved his sight as the blade just nicked his eyebrow. The man immediately whipped his arm in the other direction. A pro. Scarne leaned backwards. The blade missed his throat by a fraction of an inch. The attacker squared himself, preparing for another assault. A small predator’s grin bared his teeth. He was in his element, his surprise at
Scarne’s arrival now an inconsequential memory. Scarne took a quick inventory of his opponent. Much shorter and at least 50 pounds heavier. If it was fat, it was hard fat. The man’s agility was obvious, as he rolled on the outside of his feet and swayed toward Scarne, the knife making lazy eights in front of him.
Scarne knew that the knife movement and swaying were intentional. A target’s instinct is to back away from an assailant while keeping his eyes riveted on the threatening blade, like a mongoose on a cobra’s head. But this cobra had two hands. The blow would come from the empty hand, and would be meant to disorient and stun. Then the deadly thrust. But Scarne was no stranger to hand-to-hand combat and had been taught by the best – Marine non-coms who had killed in many countries. He could almost hear the grizzled gunnery sergeant named Lunsford reciting the Marine Corps mantra: “Always close with an enemy. Straight up the middle, high diddle-diddle.” Less effective against a machine gun certainly, but not a bad tactic against a man trying to kill you with a bayonet or a knife. “Never let him thrust it into you,” Sgt. ‘Lungsfull’ as the young Marines dubbed him, had yelled. “Slashes hurt, thrusts kill. Eat the pain and spit it back at the motherfucker.”
Scarne suppressed the instinct to back away and looked straight into the man’s eyes. Then he charged. He was on the man before he could pull the blade back to where he could stab Scarne straight on. But it did some damage, cutting an ugly rent into Scarne’s side. Pain seared his flank. There are no rules in a knife fight, except winning. Scarne jabbed his outstretched fingers his into the man’s eyes. He shrieked and lurched backward, hands going to his face.
Scarne grabbed the knife hand but the man, still protecting his face, twisted away. He put his other arm around the man’s neck, burying his face in his thick brown hair. Scarne smelled expensive cologne, mingled with sweat. If he let go of the knife hand, he could use his right forearm as a pivot and strangle the man or maybe even break his neck. It would be close. The man could easily get lucky and slash Scarne badly before succumbing.
He never had to make a decision. The man pushed backwards and both men fell into the tub, with Scarne on the bottom taking the worst of it. His back and neck hit the tub wall hard and his breath whistled out between his teeth. He came close to losing consciousness. Only the white hot pain from the slice in his side and the cold spraying shower water kept his mind focused. As he went over, he caught a quick glimpse of Alana backed up against the sink but then had to concentrate on avoiding the knife the man was wildly swinging back over his shoulder in an attempt to slash his face. One thrust barely missed Scarne’s right eye and nicked his ear.
The man switched tactics and the blade moved downward out of Scarne’s vision and he braced himself for a cut into his groin. He twisted desperately and was rewarded with another bolt of pain, in his upper thigh. He became enraged. He let the man’s knife arm go and removed his grip on the man’s neck. The man, straining away from Scarne, lurched out of the tub. Scarne drew his knees to his chest and braced his back against the wall. He put his feet on the man’s buttocks and pushed his legs out savagely, sending him violently across the bathroom into the vanity and mirror on the opposite wall.
The man’s head smashed the mirror, which spiderwebbed, and the knife clattered to the floor. The man was momentarily stunned, both by the impact and the reversal in fortune. But then he whirled around and came at Scarne snarling with both hands, his face a mask of blood and hate. Scarne barely had time to get to his feet before the man had his hands around his throat. He started pushing Scarne into the corner nearest the shower head. Scarne’s sandals had come off and his feet began slipping on what he knew was his own blood, now mixing freely with the gore streaming from his assailant’s shattered face. He could see bits of glass embedded in the man’s cheeks and eyebrows. He put the heel of his left hand under the man’s chin and pried the head backwards while at the same time desperately reaching his right hand up to grab a purchase on the shower head. Instead, that hand closed on the circular escutcheon that surrounded the clothesline grommet.
Scarne felt the little button that started the line and grabbed it. He pulled it out just enough to wrap it around the meat of his hand. He swung that hand under the man’s left arm and used it to break its grip on his throat. Then he twisted violently to his right and stood up straight. Now his height became an advantage. He also had the added benefit of being in the tub, which gave him a few crucial inches. The man’s feet came off the floor and Scarne turned him around easily. The man’s arms shot out in a natural reaction to losing his balance. It cost him his life.
In another move that came instinctively from his military experience, Scarne wrapped the line around the man’s throat. He placed his other hand on the line and held the man off the floor. The man frantically tried to pry his fingers between the line and his neck. The line was thin but strong, like heavy- duty fishing line, and it bit deeply into the neck. Blood seeped down the throat. Scarne could see the man’s eyes bulging in the unshattered portion of the mirror across the floor. He looked into Scarne’s face in the mirror as his tongue started slithering out of his mouth. If he was seeking pity, he found none. Scarne was all business now. The strain in his own neck and shoulders pulled his cheeks back in a savage grimace. The man’s arms flopped and his legs collapsed, and almost pulling Scarne out of the tub. Scarne’s forearms looked like steel cables and felt like they were on fire, but he didn’t let up. He had once throttled a sentry who feigned unconsciousness and later shot one of his men in the back. He would never repeat that mistake. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the horrible gurgling sounds.
Soon all he heard was the shower. He looked into the mirror again. This guy wasn’t faking it. A warm stream ran down Scarne’s leg and he smelled the dead man’s urine. The line had disappeared entirely into his assailant’s neck. His face was a horrible blue. Above the sound of the shower water and the roaring in his ears, Scarne heard his name, as if from a distance. Alana was still standing naked at the entrance. She hadn’t fled. She stared at him with a strange fascination.
“Jake. Enough. For God’s sake. Enough.”
“Get out of here,” he said harshly through gritted teeth.
She lifted one of the complimentary robes hanging on the door and walked out. He heard her on the phone. He tried to let go of the cord, but it had bitten into his hands and he could barely unclench his fingers. He knelt in the tub to lower the dead man to the floor. Water from the shower cascaded over his body. He let it. He felt defiled. It took several minutes to open his hands. Then the pain hit. His side, his leg, both hands. He stood up, turned off the shower with his elbows and stepped out of the tub over the body. He leaned against the sink, breath rasping. The room stank; in death the man had lost control of more than his bladder. Scarne had trouble using his numbed hands and arms but managed to turn on the water in the sink and let it run over his cut and bruised palms. He knew he wouldn’t be swinging a golf club any time soon. Despite the pain, he pulled his wet and bloody shirt over his head. He used it to wipe off his face and then threw it into the tub. His vision swirled and his legs buckled. He pivoted, sank to his knees and vomited violently into the toilet.
CHAPTER 36 – BAD FOR THE TOURIST TRADE
When Scarne finally emerged from the bathroom, he found Alana sitting on the edge of the bed with a drink in her hand. She extended the shaking glass to him and he drained it. She stood and put her head into his chest, holding him tight. They stood like that, silently, until they heard the pounding at the door.
“Ms. Loeb! Ms. Loeb! Are you all right?”
It was Maurice. Scarne gently untangled from her.
“Are you OK?” She nodded and he kissed her. “Go sit out on the lanai.”
When he opened the door, the hotel manager recoiled. He was with a young man and behind them were two curious cleaning ladies.
“Mr. Scarne. What happened? When you dashed off I didn’t know what to think. Then Ms. Loeb called and asked for a doct
or.”
“There was an intruder.”
“My God. Is he gone?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Scarne listed against the door frame. He was woozy.
“Hey, easy, pal,” the other man said. “Let’s take a look at you.”
“This is Dr. Bonamo,” Maurice said. “He’s a guest. I asked him to help.”
Scarne led them into the cottage.
“Would you like me to call the police?” Maurice said.
From his tone, Scarne could tell that the manager would rather not involve the authorities in a simple break-in. It would be bad for the tourist trade.
“Do what you think is best,” Scarne said, pointing into the abattoir of a bathroom where a nearly decapitated body hung from the wall.
“Holy shit,” the doctor said. Then he turned to Maurice, whose face was a mask of horror. “Call the goddamn police, you idiot.” Then he sat Scarne on a chair and began tending to his wounds.
“Nothing appears to be broken,” he said after a few moments, “but you’re going to need some sutures. I’ll wash out the wounds. They don’t look too bad. Got any Listerine or alcohol?”
“In the bathroom,” Scarne said dryly.
“The hell with that,” the doctor said. “How about some vodka”? Then he smiled. “For internal and external use. What the fuck happened in there?”
For some reason the fact that the doctor was a fellow American pleased Scarne. He gave a short version of the event. It took his mind off the stinging of the vodka as the doctor, using some clean pillow cases, patted down Scarne’s slashes. He was particularly gentle with Scarne’s hands.
“Take a slug of this,” he said, putting the vodka bottle to Scarne’s lips. “It’s a sin to use it only as an antiseptic.”
Scarne took a deep swig. The doctor also took a belt.
“Drinking on the job. I hope your malpractice premiums are up to date.”
Bonamo laughed and told Scarne to hold a vodka-soaked napkin to the wound on his ear.
Two Jakes Page 28
