Part 6 (2/2)
”Go ahead.”
He got out my side. It was a four-door sedan, and he opened the back door as I squirmed back away from him. If he headed toward the rear of the car, I was fine for the moment. But he came toward me and his knee hit my shoulder. As he grunted with surprise, I lunged up and grabbed him by the clothing and yanked him down, turning him as I brought him down, turning him away from the car, using leverage to drop him on his back. His head made a melony sound against the hardpan and he went loose. Somebody yelled, and as I got up, I drove my shoulder into the reopening door of the car, hammering it shut. But it didn't slam. It bounced off something, and a man screamed so loudly I guessed that he had his hand on the doorframe to pull himself up out of the seat. I scooted around the back end of the sedan, looking hard and fast for Cigarette. Nowhere in sight. I froze and then, as I heard a grunt of effort behind me, I dropped with the top of my left shoulder ablaze, swung my legs around and kicked his legs out from under him. As he went down I saw the glint of the blade in his hand. I bounded up before he did, and kicked him in the face with the side of my shoe as he started up. He rolled all the way over and ended up on his hands and knees, and so I kicked him again. Hands can be fragile. Broken hands hurt like sin. He ended up on his back, knife tinkling away under one of the cars. I didn't want to stay for names and serial numbers. I didn't know how badly I was bleeding. I piled into the pickup, started it in a hurry and backed out in a big swing, turning my lights on as I started forward. The one I had thumped first came wobbling out from beyond the other car. He came right out in front of the pickup, then tried to turn and run, but he entangled his feet and fell. I swerved away from the major portion of him, but my right front wheel went over both his knees, making a sickening celery sound, accompanied by a high gargling scream.
I kept checking myself on the fast ride back, listening to see if I felt faint or dizzy. My s.h.i.+rt was sopping wet in the shoulder area. I got aboard without incident, peeled the s.h.i.+rt off as soon as I was aboard and b.u.t.toned up.
Then I checked myself with mirrors. It was such a tiny gouge I almost felt let down. I had ducked almost all the way beneath the thrust. It had sliced the very top ridge of the muscle, torn some nerves, opened some blood vessels, but could almost be covered by a Band-Aid. I held cold-water pads on it until the bleeding stopped, and then used a mild antiseptic and pulled the edges together with narrow strips of tape. It was awkward having to work using the mirror, and the final product looked clumsy, but it was a lot better than where he had wanted to plant the blade-right to the hilt, six inches lower. And how had they planned to make that look like an accident? Maybe they had planned an accident so totally messy n.o.body would notice a knife wound.
I stretched out and unwound with a flagon of Boodles and ice. I had ruined one hand, one set of knees and the lower half of a face. Three men, one of whom was named Sully, taking orders from someone named Cappy. Reasonably competent professionals waiting for me in the dark, to inflict an accidental death. Maybe Jornalero had not moved quickly enough. Or had not believed me. At least I could give Jornalero a name now. And I could watch him closely to see what happened when I gave him the name.
On Friday morning Jornalero saw me immediately. He said it was a beautiful morning. No dispute. Bright and cool. He said he had been up very early for a sunrise sail on his catamaran. He said that his resolution for the new year was to do more sailing and get in better shape. I said my resolution was to keep breathing.
”Is there any reason to think you might not, Mr. McGee?”
I told him my three reasons. I could not give good descriptions of the men, but I had noticed that it was a recent dark-colored, four-door Pontiac, license USL 901. And the three men discussed giving me an accidental death on the orders of one Cappy. The only other name I had was Sully, who would probably never walk really well again. The expression on his face showed dismay and concern.
”I don't understand this at all,” he said. ”I was told there could have been a misunderstanding and I said that it would be wise to correct it, and I was told that it would be corrected right away. Would you please go back out to reception while I make a few phone calls.”
It was a long fifteen minutes before he sent for me. He seemed depressed: ”Sit down, Mr. McGee. Certain people found your performance last night impressive. I must say that I do too.”
”I made a call last night to a friend to see if it was police business, but there was no sheet on it, so I guess they didn't check into a Lauderdale hospital.”
”They managed to drive to... a different city. They're receiving medical attention.”
”Why the foul-up?”
”I'm very sorry, but I have been told not to discuss this with you any further.”
”What the h.e.l.l does that mean?”
”They want to settle for you. And close the books.”
”Look, does anybody disagree that Billy didn't order the killings and I didn't do them?”
”I think it's understood.”
”Then why, d.a.m.n it?”
”Let's just say it cleans up a certain situation.”
”There are men doing life in the slam because somebody wanted to clean up a certain situation.”
”Precisely.”
”And you are not kidding me?”
”I am telling you more than I should. I will even suggest to you that you take the money you received for recovering that yacht, and go away for a year or two.”
”Can you introduce me to somebody I can talk to about this mess?”
”Out of the question. Sorry I can't be of any more help.” He stood up. My signal to go.
”I have the funny feeling, Arturo, you would have helped if you could.”
”Sometimes there are no choices,” he said.
I kept hearing him say that as I drove through heavy traffic out of the city and north on the Interstate. I could eliminate my choices one by one. Go to the authorities? And what seems to be the trouble, sir? Well, some people want to kill me. Why is that? Because I located a boat with dead people on it. Did you kill them? No, sir. Oh, I see. They think you did? No, they know I didn't. Then why do they want to kill you? I think because they have to kill somebody-just to show they're on the job. Okay, who are these people? I haven't any idea. How do you know they want to kill you? They keep trying. I see. Mr. McGee, I am going to arrange an appointment for you with a man whose job it is to listen to people's troubles and problems.
Or I could undo the umbilical cords that affix the Busted Flush to the slip, and head down around the peninsula and somewhere up the other side. Find a place where I could anchor out, and use the dinghy for sh.o.r.eside supplies, live small and careful. And longer.
Or close up the Flush and fly to Cairns up there at the top end of Australia. Summer there, and the fis.h.i.+ng is good. Walk over to the aquarium at feeding time and study the dwarf crocodiles and think about Jornalero's a.s.sociates. Sample the brawny Australian beach la.s.sies who can windsurf all day without tiring a single muscle.
Hang around and let them keep trying.
When I walked out to the Flush I found a man sitting on the finger pier, legs dangling, staring at the Flush and tapping cigar ashes into the water. He looked fat, but from the way he carne to his feet, all in one motion, I knew he was in better shape than he looked. He wore a blue work s.h.i.+rt and khaki pants, a Greek seaman's cap and thick leather sandals. He was short and broad with a square jaw, no neck, a deep red sunburn, small brown eyes, deep-set, white eyebrows and lashes.
I was a good ten inches taller than he. He tilted his head and looked up at me and said, barely moving his lips, ”Three four nine one two three eight. In ten minutes. Now point to something over near the motel.”
I did as asked. He thanked me, touched his cap and went trudging away. I called that number ten minutes later.
”h.e.l.lo?”
”This is McGee.”
”Trav, how the h.e.l.l are you? Tommy T. told me to look you up when I got here.”
”How is old Tom?”
”He's fine. You going to be aboard about eight? I want to just stop on by and say h.e.l.lo.”
”I'll be right here.”
”Great! See you.” Whoever he was, he was careful.
Even though my security system indicated n.o.body had been aboard, I checked the whole houseboat carefully. And when I was through I put on snorkel and fins and took the big underwater light and checked the hull and all the adjacent pilings. I came up s.h.i.+vering and took a hot shower. And then there was nothing to do but cook something and wait for the man in the Greek hat.
Ten.
I LEFT one dim fantail light on. He tapped at the door at three minutes past eight. Same careful fellow. Or maybe not careful enough. I opened the door and he said, ”My name is Browder.”
”McGee,” I said, and stuck my hand out. He took it and I pulled him in and held tight as Meyer slid in behind him, closed the door with one hand and jabbed him once in the back with the barrel of my Colt Diamondback and then moved back away from him to what I had told Meyer is a safe and appropriate distance.
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