“But aren’t you a detective, Dusky? Isn’t that the role you’re playing? You know—sniff out the facts; solve the case?” She reached into the pocket of her robe, hesitated when I lifted the .38, then went ahead, a strange smile on her face.
“Cigarette?” she said.
“No thanks.”
She bent over the kerosene lamp, then exhaled without inhaling, holding the cigarette in her right hand, elbow bent. “I don’t smoke either. Funny, huh? But I decided this was a good night to start. I had this professor in college who had a theory about smoking. He said that when all those facts about cigarettes causing cancer came out, people started smoking because they had repressed suicidal tendencies. Do you believe that, Dusky?”
“I’ve had enough of your boomerang talk—that’s just about exactly what I believe.”
“Ready for a few straight facts, huh?”
“That’s right, Saxan.”
“Sam Spade would be proud, Dusky.”
She walked across the room, switched on the desk light, then lay back on the couch. She crossed her legs, pulling the robe up to her thighs. “Here, does this fit the scene better? But I should be a dishwater blonde, right?” Her eyes were troubled, glassy, like someone teetering on the edge. “And sexually, I guess I should be a little more . . . conventional. But at least I have the cigarette!”
I went over to her quickly, took her arm, and shook her lightly.
“Damn it, Saxan, that’s enough. Snap out of it!”
Her eyes grew wide, her mouth trembled, and then she fell back on the couch, wilting in her own tears. The sobs came in long swells of anguish, wracking her whole body. I pulled her close and held her.
“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think, Dusky.”
“And maybe it’s worse than you think, Saxan.”
She pulled away from me, smoothed the robe down, and wiped her eyes. She sniffed and looked into my eyes sadly. “So this is where you tell me how you have it figured, right? Let’s hear the facts, Sam. I’ll correct you when you’re wrong.”
I had been holding her hand. I released it, letting it fall back into her lap. “Okay. Fine, Saxan. You know, you really got to me—you did. Sure, you’re very beautiful, and you’re very intelligent and all, but there was something else about you that attracted me. I mean, you really had me; really took me in—”
“Just the facts, Sam! . . . please.”
She had that wild, teetering look again. “The facts, Saxan? Okay, how’s this? You get all involved with this feminist group, SELF. Now this little group isn’t like most feminist organizations. This group is made up of honest to God man-haters. Like that little gem Misty, who tried to knock my head off about twenty minutes ago. And Barbara.”
“Barbara?”
“That’s right, Barbara. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I mean, you want the whole investigation laid out for you, right? Okay, so these women are not only man-haters, they’re lesbians. That makes things very comfy and very damn private. So one of your people—that Abhner dame, probably—comes up with this wild scheme. The government has this island in Florida available to qualified organizations. Well, SELF qualifies, but you know you can’t come up with the matching funds it takes to run a place like this. I mean, it is expensive, right?”
“Extremely expensive, Dusky.”
“So you notice there’s a lot of drugrunning going on down here. And all you have to do is read the newspapers to know that the big-time drugrunners carry one hell of a lot of money aboard. Sometimes as much as a half million, and it’s all in cash. And it’s safe cash, too—stuff the IRS boys have never heard of. So you put your little heads together and figure out a way to get it. First you have to bait them in. You stick some half-naked charmer like Barbara on a beach—”
“That’s not true!”
“—and she’s carrying just the right amount of explosives. Women can learn how to be carpenters and plumbers—you said that yourself. Explosives would be a snap for someone like you. Once the charge is set, the chick bails out. She always carries a lifejacket so she can make it to shore. Then you hire some goons to search the wreck for you. They use mullet nets and scuba gear. The drug boys invariably hide their loot in the bilge. It sinks fast while the rest of the boat burns. It probably takes awhile to find the money, but you do okay. . . .”
“Dusky, you’re wrong about—”
I took her arms and shook her again. “Damn it, you wanted the facts, so now I’m giving them to you!” She sat back wearily on the couch, resigned to listen. “But you had some problems after blowing up the Blind Luck. You didn’t get to Barbara first. We did. And you learned enough from her to know we might be hooked up with some kind of law-enforcement agency. It put a real cramp in your style. How were you going to bring back your pontoon boat and unload the money with us around? We’d probably be asleep—but you couldn’t take that chance, could you, Saxan?” I watched her closely now as I spoke; watched the words hit her—and the words seemed to hurt. “So you made a little visit to my bed in the infirmary—”
“Oh God, Dusky, you’re so wrong. . . .”
“And you arranged to have someone else visit Westy.”
She put her hands in her face, crying now.
“You really had me, Saxan. I fell for your cock-and-bull story. And you know what really hurts? You still have me—that’s the kind of idiot I am. I thought that night really meant something.”
“It did!” She stood up, near hysterics. “Dammit, Dusky, it meant everything! No, you listen for a minute! Just shut up and listen!” She pulled the robe tight around her neck, trembling in the hot June night. “You’re wrong about Barbara. You’re wrong about all of our women. Sure, some of them are homosexual. And there are even a couple of sickos like Misty and her friends, who would do anything Ms. Abhner told them to do. But the rest of the women aren’t involved at all, Dusky! It’s only me—can’t you understand that? Eleven months ago, this woman I’d never met before came to me. Her name was Gloria Abhner. She was very cryptic, that first meeting, but she made it clear she had come up with a way to make a great deal of money. I was interested, of course. As you said, running this island is very expensive. We were about to lose the place—and after all the hard work we’d put into it!”
“So you naturally gave in, right?” I said. “After all, you wouldn’t have to kill that many people—and only men—”
“Damn it, Dusky, can’t you just listen for a minute?” She took me by the shoulders when she said it, eyes pleading, hurt.
“Okay,” I said. “Go ahead.”
She stood up and began to pace before me. “This woman said that what we would be doing would not be illegal—that we would be required only to hold and then transport certain articles to the mainland for her. For that, she said, we would be well paid.”
“And you agreed?”
“No. Can you believe that? Well, I didn’t. It was very obvious to me that what she would be doing was illegal. And I couldn’t take the chance of getting SELF involved, because, no matter what you think, Dusky, it is a very worthwhile organization. So I politely declined, said goodbye to her, and thought that was the end of it.”
“But it wasn’t?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry to say it wasn’t. I began to get unsigned letters. But it was pretty obvious who they were from. They were threatening letters. Blackmail, you might say.” She looked at me, that strange sadness in her eyes. “Do you know what would happen, Dusky, if, say, the Miami Herald came out with a story about how the government is underwriting an island full of homosexuals?” She snapped her fingers. “The public outcry would close us down like that. So, she had us. I finally agreed—with the understanding that we would only act as a clearing house for whatever in the hell she had planned.”
“You never knew?”
She chuckled sourly. “I’m a very bright woman, remember, Dusky? I figured it out after she blew up the first boat. But then she really had us. Don’t you see? We
were accomplices to murder, then. All of us! Every woman here—even though I was the only one to know what was going on. Ms. Abhner recruited Misty and a couple of others on her own. The sickos stick together, you see.”
She fell back on the couch wearily and took my hand. It was the gesture of someone being swept away by despair. I squeezed the hand and noticed that she squeezed back.
“But why Mahogany Key, Saxan? Why was this Abhner dame so desperate that you help? Why not just work the whole scam on her own?”
She shrugged. “I’ve thought about that. You see, she needed someone with an unimpeachable public base to move the money. But, better than that, she had a tax-exempt organization in us. Big donations from private sources are commonplace. A lot of wealthy people like to remain anonymous when they make large donations. It was a perfect way for her to launder the money back into legitimate use.”
“Barbara wasn’t involved at all?”
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. I don’t know who was actually finding the boats and setting the charges. I suppose it was those horrible fishermen—but you see now, don’t you, why I couldn’t turn them in to the authorities?” She took a deep breath and shuddered. “What happened to Barbara was one of the unexpected tragedies. And God knows, there have been enough of those around here lately.” She turned to me then, reached up and touched my face. “But one thing I want you to know, Dusky. I want you to know that when I came to you that night it was because I wanted to. It was because, suddenly, you made me care so much that—”
“How very sweet. And how very disgusting!”
I reached for the .38 and found nothing. It glimmered on the desk beneath the light where I had left it when I went to Saxan. And I knew then that it was over; knew that whatever she had wanted to say to me would now be left unfinished.
In the doorway stood the rotund figure of Ms. Gloria Abhner.
And in her meaty right hand was a 9mm Parabellum. . . .
15
The Parabellum is a singularly brutal-looking handgun.
It’s also—and usually incorrectly—called a German Luger.
Whatever she called it, this Ms. Abhner held it as if she knew how to use it. She obviously had a taste for fine weaponry.
“What a sweet little scene you two have been playing,” she said in her froggish voice. She motioned at Saxan. “And I had such confidence in your . . . how should I say this? Your taste in lovers.”
“Shut up!” Saxan yelled wildly. She made a lurching step toward the old woman, but I caught her and pulled her back. She wasn’t crying now. She was furious. “Haven’t you already done your best to ruin my life? If you’re going to kill us, kill us. But don’t torment me any more, you . . . you bitch!”
Abhner walked slowly from the door to the desk and picked up the .38. She studied it momentarily, then slipped it into the pocket of her baggy dress. She still wore the floppy, wide-brimmed hat—a ludicrous sight in light of the weapon she held.
“I was most distressed to find Misty and her friend locked away,” she said. “They were rather upset about it. Killing mad, you might say. They are hunting your Irish friend down right now, Mr. MacMorgan. And they’ll take no foolish chances this time. They’re armed—”
Just as the words left her mouth, the sound of gunfire echoed through the morning darkness. A smile creased her face.
“Ah,” she said. “That would be them now. And since your friend was unarmed—isn’t that right?—I think we may safely assume that he is quite dead.”
I forced my voice to be steady. “You’re wrong, lady. He was armed. And I imagine he’s on his way up here right now.”
It was a lie. And she wasn’t about to go for it. “No, I think not, Mr. MacMorgan. A nice try, but I know better. You were both carefully frisked, remember?” She patted the pocket of her dress. “And this is my revolver.”
“So what are you going to do with us?”
Standing in the shadows now, her body mimed surprise. “Why, kill you, of course! It’s all arranged, you see. I’ll have your boat within the next few hours. Then I’ll just tap you on the head, run you out a couple of miles, and set the correct charge.”
She made an exploding motion with her hands. “Just one more boat dynamited, you see? The authorities will assume the drugrunners are at war again—and that you just happened to get in the way.”
I had to keep her talking; had to give myself time to think, to come up with a plan. “So you were the one setting the charges? But how? Why would they let you aboard? Those guys are suspicious of everyone—especially some old dame—”
“I have my methods,” she said cryptically. “I have my ways.”
And that’s when I knew; knew for the first time that my earliest suspicions—abandoned after Saxan’s confession—were correct.
But I never got a chance to confront Abhner with it.
And she never got a chance to say another word to me.
At that moment, my wild Irish friend, Westy O’Davis, came crashing through the door. There was an odd expression on his face—almost as if he was enjoying himself. I noticed that he was bleeding from the nose, and that his dark shirt was soaked with something.
“I’ll shoot them both!”
The figure in the hat spun to fire, but the Irishman ducked under the handgun, head low, shoulders wide, and hit her with a force that would have snapped the neck of any normal human being.
“Saxan—jump behind the couch!”
She didn’t have to. Even as I said it, I was lifting her up and dumping her safely behind it.
I ran across the room and picked up the Parabellum.
I could have stopped them. And I almost did. But O’Davis still had that crazy look of delight on his face; an Irishman’s delight in a two-fisted, noholds-barred fight.
They seemed to be evenly matched for a while. Saxan’s desk toppled beneath their weight. And then the bookcase came down. I grabbed the kerosene light, holding it up for safety—and to make sure the .38 didn’t reappear from the dress pocket.
Finally, O’Davis ended the fight with a series of crashing right hands to the head. The figure in the dress lay on the floor, still breathing. The hat was gone. And so was the wig.
The Irishman climbed unsteadily to his feet. He looked offended. “I’d like ta thank ye fer the help, Yank! Was it that ye wanted ta see this creature beat the devil out o’ me?”
“You’re a growing boy,” I said. “You need your exercise.”
I studied the blood on his shirt. “Did Misty and her friend shoot you?”
“Me? Hah! The likes o’ them shootin’ me—now that is somethin’ ta smile about. Didn’t even have ta hurt them, I didn’t. They’re tied up down at the quay, they are.”
“So where did the blood come from?”
He touched his nose gingerly. He looked almost embarrassed. “Ah . . . well . . . the tall one may have got one good lick in—but I was off my guard!” He moved his nose from side to side. “Lord o’ saints, I think the nasty woman may o’ broken me fine face.”
“Join the club,” I said.
Saxan came crawling out from behind the couch. There was a look of shock upon her face. She walked slowly to where her Ms. Gloria Abhner lay unconscious. “My God,” she said, “it’s not even a . . .” She looked at me, incredulous.
I bent down over the body, checking pulse and pupils. The rank smell of cigar smoke was strong on the dress, and the makeup didn’t help anymore.
“It’s Chief Petty Officer Spears, United States Coast Guard,” I said.
16
It was the anniversary of our country’s independence: a calm July morning, and the sea around my Calda Bank piling house was a sheen of turquoise clear to the horizon, soft and swollen, like a mirage. It was one of those uncommonly clear days. Pelicans wheeled and crashed, feeding in the distance. And you could see fish moving over the bottom through the water a long way off.
I stood by the rail on my rickety wooden porch, enjoying it a
ll. It was going to be a hot day, but there was a freshness to the heat, and the sun felt good on bare chest and legs. I slipped back inside, cracked open an icy Tuborg, tapped the first dip of Copenhagen between cheek and gum, then went back outside to watch the Irishman.
He had left three days earlier in the Whaler, a sly-dog expression on his face.
It was an expression I had come to know well; a look that made me uncomfortable.
“Now look, O’Davis,” I had said. “If you’re going to go in town and cat around on your own—that’s one thing. In fact, I wish you luck. But if you’re going ashore with any idea of surprising me—”
“Brother MacMorgan, please! Give me a little credit, me boy. Was it not meself who saved yer life?”
“Oh, Lord. . . .”
“Fer what was it? The third time? Aye.” He had his hands on his hips, that leprechaun expression on his face. “I’ve saved yer shabby life three times, an’ now ye have the nerve ta lecture me! Can’t ye see, lad, that I only have yer best interest in mind?”
“Do I have to hear this again?”
“Like those fine little oriental folk say: you save a man’s life, an’ yer responsible fer that life.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “So ya see, Yank, it’s only fer a little recreation that I’m goin’ inta Key West. That an’ rent a wee small sailboat so as not to lose me touch at the tiller.”
The “wee small sailboat” O’Davis had rented was a thirty-two-foot Morgan, booms fore and aft under full canvas. It was painted a bright yellow, and, I noted wryly, there wasn’t enough wind, so he had its little diesel engine revved up, puttering the sleek windship along.
I took a sip of the cold Tuborg and watched him move it expertly along the marker maze of Calda Bank.
The Deadlier Sex Page 15
