Icy Blue Descent jlm-4 Read online

  "Never."

  Sighing, I leaned back in the booth, finished my drink, and looked at the inlaid chart on the table. It showed the Bahamas.

  Lynn stiffened and seemed to shudder all over. She sat for a few seconds with her eyes closed, arms straight by her side, fists clinched so tight the blood was cut off from her fingers. Then, as if returning from a trance, she said, "You can take me back to the airport, now."

  Even in the dimness of the bar she was a strikingly beautiful woman. The high cheekbones and sharp features of her face caused the pale light to give her an eerie glow like that of a forbidden goddess, or an evil, iniquitous and peccant being.

  Stopping in the hotel lobby, I phoned Windom, alerting him we were on the way. Wanting to know what to expect, he was relieved to hear all was fine.

  There was little conversation during the drive to the airport. Butler Aviation allowed me to drive out onto the ramp, directly to the airplane. The co-pilot had the onboard auxiliary power unit running and started the right engine when he spotted our car. Windom stood at the bottom of the airstair door and helped Lynn aboard. By the time I drove back through the gate, they were taxing to the runway.

  Getting out and leaning against the wire fence, I watched the Falcon begin its takeoff roll, rotate, and climb into the blue evening sky heading directly into the sun. Suddenly a strange feeling came over me like a black storm cloud that I would wish before this was over I had boarded Joe Glossman's airplane back to Mississippi.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The ten thousand dollars felt heavy inside my coat pocket, like a weight-belt pulling me into the bottomless depths of the Gulf Stream. Down, down, until there was no light, just darkness and cold, a never-ending icy blue descent into nothingness.

  Driving out to Chalk Airlines, I booked a seat on the last flight of the day to Bimini. There was only time to call the rental agency and tell them where their car was parked. The agent informed me that it could not be left there, and must be turned in at one of their check-in counters at Miami International Airport. Informing him that the car was in Chalk's parking lot with the motor running and the air-conditioner blowing, I hung up. They were picking it up as we took off for Bimini.

  From Chalk's flight operation in Miami it is only forty-five miles due east to Bimini. The lumbering old Grumman Goose flew at a hundred knots low over the water. The beauty of crossing the Gulf Stream is worth the time spent. At first, it's the whites of the shallows, then the greens of deeper water and, finally, the inky purple of the Stream. Approaching Bimini the colors reverse, back to the greens, the white-sand bottoms, and finally leading to a piece of paradise on earth, an island in the Bahamas.

  The seaplane touched gently down in the channel between North and South Bimini. We taxied out of the water at the Custom's shack and the pilots shut down the engines. They were the same two Steve and I talked with in Miami.

  The airplane had a full passenger load, and the co-pilot got out and started unloading baggage. The Captain motioned for me to stay in my seat. As he came toward the exit he whispered to me, "The big, black Bahamian in the red cap standing over by the Custom's shack is the one who helped your girl on board."

  Claiming my bag, I went and stood in line to pass through Customs. It was imperative to see whom the big Bahamian met. Thinking back over the passengers on board, I tried to remember the faces. There was only one female and the rest appeared to be Latin American.

  The Customs agent gave me a hard time as I had no papers and did not know how long I'd be on the island. The Captain came over and said something to him and I was allowed to go on my way, but by then big Bahamian had disappeared with whomever he came to meet.

  Picking up my ditty bag, I walked the half-mile to the Complet Angler Inn. The route took me past the End of the World Bar. It was closed. At one time you couldn't get inside for the customers. It had a dirt floor and the bar was made from a ship's timber laid across two water barrels. Owned by two young men from Key Largo, who came to the island as fishermen with a shallow-draft, wide-beamed vessel called a Smack boat. They failed at making a living fishing for lobster. The Smack boat was swapped for the shack where they opened the bar. It must have been the 'end of the world' for them.

  Years had passed since I'd been to Bimini. The hustle and bustle along the narrow street surprised me. Small shops, bars, restaurants, and liquor stores along the shell-laden, pothole-strewn road took up almost every available foot of space. There were fifteen or more cars and trucks and even a Taxi. The last time I was here there was one car on the island. Everything was jammed up on the south end, which made sense, as that was where the marina and hotels were, but where were all these people coming from? The dope trafficking was thriving, but I never imagined this disaster.

  The Complet Angler Inn appeared in the distance. It is a three story, wood-frame building at least a hundred years old, and was the only hotel on the island for many years. Walking up the familiar steps and in through the front door, I could not help but pause and look at the big display of photographs mounted under glass next to the small check-in counter. They cover a whole wall. Many notable people are pictured showing off giant fish caught in the Stream. My favorite depicts two big men standing on the dock holding deep-sea fishing rods with the Gulf Stream as a backdrop. At first glance one sees a huge fish hanging between them, but upon closer inspection the fish turns out to be a naked young lady hanging upside down. She has a smile on her face. Ah, Bimini.

  A friendly clerk gave me a room on the third floor. The old stairs creaked as I climbed slowly up, the carpet long ago worn away. Throwing my bag on the bed, I noticed the place was the worse for wear. The room had not seen a coat of paint in years, water only trickled from the sink, and the toilet would not shut off. Having spent many nights here, it was rather sad to see it so run down.

  Heading back downstairs, I went into the bar. I always liked this bar with its low ceiling made of thick beams and dark paint. Two huge square posts stood in the middle of the room, probably holding up the entire hotel. On one of them was the 'hook.' A long rope, attached to the ceiling held a big washer; you swung the washer and attempted to ring the hook. Many a gin and tonic I lost betting on that hook. Trying it again, for old time's sake, I missed.

  Easing onto a stool, I was pleased to see the painting behind the bar was still there, only a little more soiled in spots. An old friend, who long ago ceased to worry about the problems of the world, created this canvas. The idea for the work came after a long night sitting at this same bar. It is modeled after Manet's 'OLYMPIA' that hangs in the Louvre in Paris. It is a damn wonderful painting and almost brought tears to my eyes to see it again.

  There was only one other patron in the bar and he was in no condition to talk, so I tried a shot in the dark with the gin-slinger. He was a short man with a stocky build, round face, and receding hairline. His age appeared to be around sixty and he held a stub of a cigar in the corner of his mouth as if it were a permanent part of his face. When he spoke the only thing that moved was the cigar.

  "What you smoking?" Any man worth his salt would talk about cigars.

  "What?" He seemed to have forgotten the protrusion sticking out from his lips.

  "Cigar…" I pointed to his face. "What kind of cigar?"

  "Oh, Cuban. Ain't no good since Castro took over the country. Used to be the best in the world. You drinking, or want to talk about cigars all night?"

  "Gin and tonic. Tanqueray if you have it?"

  "We got it."

  "How long you been on the island?"

  "You writing a book, Mon?"

  "Used to come over a lot, back when things were quieter. Everything's changed."

  "Yeah."

  "Ran into a big black dude wearing a red cap down at the Customs shack. Accidentally bumped into him and he raised all manner of hell. He's an angry man. You know him?"

  "That's old Mako. He wear that red cap all the time, won't take it off. Somebody split his scalp with a tuna gaff, l
eft some terrible scars. They say he flopped around on the end of that gaff like a big old fish until he finally got loose. Then he killed the man who hooked him with his bare hands. Just broke his neck. Left the man's head flopping around on his shoulders like a queer's wrist. He's a mean one, mister. I'd stay away from him if I was you."

  "Thanks for the advice."

  Slowly sipping on the gin, I thought that old Mako and I needed to get to know one another. Figuring out how was the problem.

  The view out the door of the bar lead into a large foyer with a big fireplace. It was a shrine to Ernest Hemingway, the writer, who put Bimini on the map with articles on big game fishing in Esquire magazine, and with his famous boxing matches with the natives. One celebrated fight involved the noted publisher, Joseph Knapp. The natives wrote a song about that fight. "Big fat man in de harbor. Tonight's the night we got fun…" The words are framed and hang on the wall of the foyer, along with hundreds of photos of Hemingway and his boat, Pilar.

  Hemingway might have put Bimini on the map, but it was Michael Lerner, of the women's store chain, who did the most for the island. Pumping millions into the economy, he funded the marine laboratory that thrives there today.

  Finishing the drink, I tipped the bartender a five spot and headed to the north end of the island where a large chunk of land has been bought by a Texas firm and turned into a private resort for the wealthy. It is simply known as the 'Compound' by the locals. There is a huge house on the point surrounded by smaller cabanas all protected by a ten-foot high chain link fence and a massive gate at the entrance. A private boat channel is used by the sportfishing boats belonging to the Compound and by the ferry launches used to pick up passengers who fly to the island in private aircraft. The airport is located on South Bimini and the only way to get to North Bimini is by ferryboat.

  The big house on the Compound is built like the conning tower of a ship and sits on the highest point on the island. Adam Clayton Powell once owned the house. I was afforded the opportunity to stay in the Compound for two weeks back during my flying days. Occupying a guesthouse on the west side of the island, the door opened up onto the water and the Gulf Stream ran within fifty feet of the beach. Waking in the morning with the smell of the Stream so strong your nose and mouth felt caked with salt, a smell so wonderful it is forever imbedded in my memory.

  It's a two-mile walk to the Compound gate. Leaving the noise and traffic at the south end of the narrow island, things quieted down. On the right were the houses of the charter boat captains and local commercial fishermen. Their back yards are the saltwater flats. All built the same, the homes are of concrete block, painted white, and trimmed with yellow or green or sometimes both. Each front yard has a four-foot high fence with corner posts topped with casts of pelicans, porpoise, or the fish the men chased in the Stream or out on the flats.

  On the west side, set high up on the dunes that run down to the water's edge, are the houses of the rich. Once past these, you enter Alicetown. This is where the true native Bahamians live as they have lived for the last three hundred years. They are poor, hard-working men and women of the sea. A few of them befriended me years ago.

  The marine laboratory is on the east side next to the flats. From the road you can see the holding pens for the sharks used for research.

  The narrow road winds its way through thin, scrawny scrub pine, continuing past the baseball field to the Compound gate. As I approached the gate, the sun was low on the horizon, the wind calm. The temperature was warm and I worked up a sweat during the walk. The gate was open, which surprised me. Walking on through, I started up the narrow lane leading to the beach. A hundred yards into the scrub pine thicket I heard a bolt slide back and forth on a rifle. It's a sound unmistakable to any other.

  "Where you think you going, Mon?" a threatening voice growled off to my left.

  Raising my hands, I turned slowly, looking for the voice. "Out to the beach to watch the sun set."

  "Lot's beach on dis island. Why here?"

  The voice was familiar. "Joseph, that you?"

  "Well, bless my soul, it's Cop'um Leicester." He lowered the rifle that had been aimed at my head. "What you doing on the island? Ain't seen no co'prite planes land today?"

  We shook hands.

  "Good to see you, Joseph. Still tending to the rich, I see."

  "Yep. How you get on de island, Cop'um?"

  "Came over on Chalk. Some business here."

  Joseph nodded. He would not pry. No one knew how old he was or where he came from. Twenty years ago he ran his own charter boat out of the public dock across from the Complet Angler. That's when we met, and he was old then. He lost his boat, along with a deckhand and two customers fifteen years ago in a freak weather phenomenon called a White Squall, a rare and violent storm that will capsize any unsuspecting vessel. I have witnessed this storm at sea; it is terrifying. Joseph survived for two days clinging to a bait box before being rescued by another fisherman. He lost everything and was forced to take the job as overseer at the Compound.

  Joseph was not a big man, but among the Bahamians he was respected as one of the toughest, a man not to be trifled with or taken lightly. Dark-skinned with a head of silver, wiry hair and thick lips, he has a smile that could make the saddest man feel better. Then there were the eyes, black, bottomless, and could back down the biggest of men. He was a good man, and I was proud to call him a friend.

  "How is the wife and all those kids we played baseball with? Let's see, you had them from age ten back down to two, enough to field your own team."

  "Wife died, Cop'um, along with two of the kids. They all had the fever."

  "I'm sorry, Joseph."

  "It's okay. I done remarried and had more kids, enough now for a football team. You know, like the one over on the mainland, named after the porpoise."

  "The Miami Dolphins?"

  "Yes, Cop'um, dat's the one. I heard the old Shoe retired."

  "The Shoe? Ah, Don Shula. Yeah, he had a good run, though."

  "You gonna be on the island long, Cop'um?"

  "Couple of days."

  "You welcome to stay at the Compound. Ain't nobody here but me."

  "Already settled in at the Angler."

  "Lot of good memories there for you, Cop'um."

  "It was a long time ago."

  "You need anything, call old Joseph. You a good man. Took me flying for the first time. Changed my whole outlook on life. Sho did 'preciate that."

  "It was my pleasure."

  "Sorry about the rifle. Thought you might be one of those dopers snooping around. They would like to get their hands on this Compound."

  "Forget it. Do the people from Houston still own the place?"

  "Same people own it. They don't come much any more, especially since dem folks flew the planes into them buildings up in the north. Ain't been nobody down since."

  "There is one thing you could help me with, Joseph. What can you tell me about the big one, the one they call Mako?"

  "He a bad one, that Mako. Works for the dopers sometimes. Used to be a good fisherman, worked the flats, but started taking the easy money. He a mean one, he is. If you have to deal with him be careful. He don't have no fear of dying. Such a man is dangerous, can only be killed."

  "I'll keep that in mind, Joseph. Is it okay if I go out to the beach, there's some thinking I need to do?"

  "You stay as long as you like. It's a good place to do your thinking. I won't lock up until you come out. I see you again before you leave, Cop'um?"

  "It's a promise."

  Walking out to the narrow sand beach on the west side, I arrived at the moment the sun touched the water. A flock of pelicans flew in tight formation, skimming low over the purple water of the Gulf Stream. The sun turned the sea into a molten caldron, fiery red and blazing. Joseph was right; this was a good place to do your thinking.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As the high wispy streaks of cirrus clouds turned an ashen gray and the sea lost its color, I though
t about Joseph. He had been a friend for twenty years, ever since I started flying out to Bimini. It was good to see him again, and it would be good to spend some time with him. At the moment, though, finding out who tortured and killed a twenty-four year old school teacher from Wiggins, Mississippi was top priority.

  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.