Читать книгу A Woman Involved - John Davis Gordon - Страница 24

He was suddenly awake, just as it was getting dark. She was still deep asleep. He went into the bathroom, dashed cold water onto his face. He pulled on the clothes Mr Gillespie had provided. He unzipped Anna’s handgrip and took some money. Then he sat down, to wait for dark.

He parted the curtain. For a minute he watched. There was nobody to be seen in the garden. There was no light in the study window below.

He slid the window open. He swung his leg over the sill. He dropped onto the lawn below. He scrambled up and ran for the trees.

He ran at the wall, and jumped. He gripped the top and swung his leg up. He straddled it, then he rolled over.

He dropped into the road below. He scrambled up.

He walked down the road fast for a hundred yards, then he came to the beach. He started running.

The taxi dropped him off along the waterfront.

He walked feverishly towards the harbour. There were sailing boats, sport-fishing boats. He came to a handpainted sign. It read: Big King for Big Fish. It gave a telephone number. There were more signs. He pulled out his wallet and made a note.

Ahead there was a bar, overlooking the harbour. He made for it. He went in and signalled to the black barman. ‘Beer, please.’

He paid for it with one of Max Hapsburg’s fifty-dollar bills and got the change. ‘Have you got a telephone?’

‘Nope. Don’t work.’

Morgan pushed a dollar bill across the bar. ‘Where do I find Big King? I want to go fishing.’

The barman took the dollar. He jerked his head. ‘He’s anchored out there aways. See that hot-water boat?’

Morgan peered across the harbour. The launch was about forty feet long, with a flying bridge.

‘How do I get out there? Is there a rowboat?’

‘Sounds like five bucks to me.’

He would gladly have paid fifty.

The barman turned and yelled: ‘Take this gennelman to Big King …’

A black boy rowed him out. There were lights burning in Big King’s portholes. There was a rubber dinghy tied to the stern. Morgan grabbed the gunnel. He called, ‘Mr King?’

A head appeared at the aft hatch. It wore a baseball cap and the face was round and heavy. ‘Yeah?’

‘Can I rent your boat tomorrow?’

‘Nope,’ Big King said, ‘she’s already rented. For the next three days. After that, okay.’

‘Can you take me to Saint Vincent, day after tomorrow?’

‘Saint Vincent?’

Morgan gave the boy ten dollars, so he would remember him. And, hopefully, Saint Vincent. ‘Okay, son, Mr King will row me ashore.’ He climbed aboard the Kingfisher. He extended his hand. ‘My name is Smithers.’

Big King’s hand was big and rough.

‘Smithers, huh? Or Jones? What do you want to go to Saint Vincent for? Cos I don’t smuggle dope no more, got my ass burned.’

Morgan was measuring the man. Old, out of condition. ‘No dope. What do you charge a day?’

‘A hundred and fifty bucks, counting the rods and bait. Bring your own food and booze, cos I run no gin palace.’

Morgan said: ‘Can you get me and my wife to Saint Vincent tonight?’

‘Nope. Because I won’t be back by dawn to pick up my party.’

‘Six hundred dollars, to forget your party.’

‘Nope. Big King’s got a reputation to maintain.’

‘How much?’

‘Nope. There’s plenty of boats who’ll take you but they’ll cost you plenty more than six hundred bucks if you’re running grass.’

‘We’ll be carrying no drugs. You can search us.’

‘Yeah? – you going to let me look up your wife’s vagina? You can carry a lot of cocaine up there, in a condom. Sorry, mister, I got a party anyways.’

Morgan said, ‘Okay, Mr King, I’m sorry but it looks like we’re going to do this the hard way.’ He pulled out the gun.

He felt shaky. It was the first time he had ever used a gun unlawfully. ‘Start your engines and pull up your anchor, please.’

The Kingfisher chugged out of the harbour, into the small swells. Big King sat at the helm, big and sweaty, with a face like thunder. Morgan stood behind him. This had been so easy so far he desperately regretted not having brought Anna with him in the first place. He said: ‘Turn along the coast. Top speed.’

Big King said, ‘Jesus, you could have got a dozen guys to do this voluntary. What happens up the coast?’

‘You’re going to anchor while I fetch my wife.’ He could see Big King’s mind working on that one. ‘I’m going to tie you up while I do that, Mr King. I’m sorry to have to do this. I wish you were doing it voluntarily.’

Big King growled, ‘Okay, so I’ll do it voluntary.’

‘Too late, Mr King, I don’t trust you now.’

‘Jesus,’ Big King said. ‘The pot calling the kettle black.’

Morgan smiled, despite himself. It seemed the first time he had smiled in years.

The trees were silhouetted against the lamplights on the coast road, the houses twinkling between them. But the beach looked empty. When they were three hundred yards offshore, Morgan said: ‘Okay, douse your lights. Then drop the anchor.’

Big King put the engines into neutral. ‘Why don’t you drop the fuckin’ anchor? …’ He clambered along the gunnel, to the bows. He let the anchor go, with a splash. He came clambering back sullenly. ‘Now what, Admiral?’

‘Lie down, please. On your stomach.’

Big King muttered, ‘You not one of those, too, are you?’ But he lowered himself.

‘Hands together behind your back, please.’ Big King groaned and obeyed. Morgan pocketed the pistol. ‘Now, if you try anything funny it’s going to hurt. You, not me.’

He lashed Big King’s wrists together feverishly, then ran the rope down to his ankles. He lashed them together. Big King said bitterly, ‘Don’t cut the rope, it’s good rope.’

Morgan hurried to the locker, and snatched out a flag. It was American.

‘Open wide.’

‘Look,’ Big King moaned. ‘I won’t holler. Nobody’ll hear me, anyways.’

‘Open.’

‘Oh, shit …’

Morgan bound the gag around Big King’s bristly mouth.

He turned and hurried to the stern. He pulled the dinghy alongside and clambered down into it. He untied the painter, grabbed the oars and started rowing hard.

He feverishly pulled the dinghy up onto the sand. The dark beach seemed deserted.

He ran through the palms. To the road at the side of the consular residence. There was nobody to be seen. He took a run at the wall, and swung himself up.

He dropped into the dark garden below. He crouched, panting, peering.

There was no light in the consul’s study. He slipped through the trees, down the side of the house. His heart was knocking. He came opposite Anna’s window. He took a pebble out of his pocket. He carefully threw it against the window.

She appeared immediately, her face white. She opened the window. She swung her leg over the sill, then the other, clutching the bag. For a moment she sat, then she jumped.

She hit the grass, her knees bent, and she rolled. She scrambled up and ran into the darkness of the trees. Morgan grabbed her hand.

He leant against the wall, and laced his hands together. She put her foot into his hands, and she sprang. She clambered up on top of the wall; then she disappeared. Morgan jumped, and grabbed the top. He swung his leg up, and rolled over.

‘Walk naturally.’

He gripped her hand. It was clammy. She walked erect, her heart pounding, looking to neither left nor right. Ahead were the palms of the beach.

‘Now run!’

They ran through the dark palms. They came out onto the beach, panting. Out there was the unlit shape of the Kingfisher. They ran along the beach, to the dinghy. Morgan grabbed the painter and went splashing out into the sea.

‘Jump in.’

She splashed out to it, and clambered in. He climbed aboard, snatched up the oars and started to row.

She clambered shakily aboard the launch. Big King glowered at her from his horizontal position, bulging-eyed.

Morgan hurried to the wheel and started the engines. His hands were trembly. Then he clambered up to the bows. He heaved up the anchor, hand over hand. He lashed it down then came scrambling back to the wheelhouse. He put the engines into gear and opened the throttles. The boat eased forward, doem – doem – doem.

‘Take the wheel.’

She took it. Her face was gaunt in the glow of the instrument panel. Morgan snatched up a chart, and looked at it. Then grabbed the parallel rulers. He marked off a course for Venezuela.

‘Three-zero-five.’

He took back the helm and swung the boat onto the course. Then gave the helm back to her.

He looked behind, at the land. His mouth was dry.

There was not a sign of movement. He sighed out. They had made it . . . For a moment he felt euphoric. He turned and went back to Big King.

He squatted beside him. ‘Now, Mr King, are we going to be friends?’

Big King gargled into his gag and rolled his eye at him.

Morgan said: ‘That’s Mrs Smithers. She doesn’t like bad language. Or bloodshed. Now, I’m going to untie you, Mr King. But you must be polite.’

Big King looked at him murderously and growled something through his stars and stripes.

‘Or do I leave you tied up, Mr King?’

Big King groaned and closed his eyes.

‘Okay,’ Morgan said. ‘But first I must find your gun.’

He clambered down the hatch to the accommodation. He started in the obvious places.

Five minutes later he had found an FN rifle and a 12 bore shotgun, and the ammunition. He locked the guns in the forward cabin. He took the ammunition with him, up to the helm. He said to Anna:

‘Untie his hands. Let him untie his own feet.’

Anna went to Big King. She knelt and wrestled the knot undone. She stood up, and came back to Morgan.

Big King wrestled his hands free. He sat up with a groan, flexing his hands. Then his big fingers wrestled loose the knot of his gag. He spat out the stars and stripes. He sat there, flexing his jaw.

‘You sonofabitch …’

Morgan picked up Anna’s bag and placed it at Big King’s feet. ‘Search it. For drugs.’

Big King scowled: then rummaged through the bag. He shoved it aside. ‘So what? I can’t look in the other place, can I?’ He started untying his feet.

‘Where?’ Anna demanded.

Big King suddenly looked embarrassed. ‘Ask your boyfriend,’ he muttered. He untied his feet, grunting. He sat there, massaging his big ankles.

Morgan said, ‘Get him a drink. What have you got, Mr King?’

‘Rum,’ Big King growled. ‘Straight,’ he added.

‘And the same for us,’ Morgan said. ‘And now will you please take the helm, Mr King?’

‘And will you please please please for Christ’s sake quit calling me Mr King?’

He lumbered over to the helm and snatched it. He looked at the compass, then looked at the receding shore lights. ‘Hey! – we’re going the wrong way for Saint Vincent’s!’

‘We’re going to Venezuela, Mr King.’

Big King stared at him. He whispered:

‘You’re gonna load this ship up with cocaine and run it back up the islands to Miami … You’re going to kill me and use my ship for one drug run?’

‘If I was going to kill you, why did I untie you?’

Big King glared. ‘What happens when we get to Venezuela?’

‘Mrs Smithers and I get off. You do what you like.’

Big King said slowly:

‘Pirates, Mister Smithers …’ He pointed west with a fat, gnarled finger. ‘Those waters are full of pirates! They board you, they murder you, they steal your boat, use it for one drug run up to Miami, then sink the boat to destroy the goddam evidence! Then start again …’

‘Mr King, I am the pirate, remember.’

Anna came up the hatch, with three glasses of dark rum. She put one in front of Big King. Morgan turned, and sat down at the dining table behind him. Anna slumped down beside him. She looked aft at the sea. Morgan said: ‘Nothing’s following us.’

He dragged his hands down his face. They were still trembly.

Anna took a mouthful of rum, threw back her head, and swallowed. It burned down into her gut, and she shuddered.

She took his hand, and squeezed it hard.

‘Thank you,’ she said.