Riptide

CHAPTER 19

Harry Marlin hoped she knew what she was doing. Christ, who was this guy anyway? You don’t just call somebody you don’t even know and say, how*bout taking some hot goods to the Bahamas for me. But that’s what Violet did, called a stranger at a hotel.

The Bahamas. Still got Bahamas on the brain. Now we got another partner, if he goes along with it. She sees the guy once and all she remembers, he’s the color of cordovan loafers, he’s sailing to the Bahamas, and his wang’s like a loaf of bread stuck in his shorts. Meets a guy on the beach, guy that knows the old man’s lawyer, for Christ’s sake, and brings him in on the deal. Said she had a feeling about the guy. Bet she did, too.

How the hell would Harry recognize the son of a bitch, he wasn’t gonna stare at the crotch of a guy walking into the bar, particularly the Organ Grinder, a topless joint on Collins Avenue just a block off the ocean.

Harry used to hang out there, knew the turf and felt at home. He could have gone to see the guy, but let the son of a bitch take a cab from his fancy-pants hotel. Probably wouldn’t even come. Told Violet he’d be there at eight, had to be back early because of the race tomorrow. Needed his sleep, friggin’ Boy Scout.

The Organ Grinder was nearly empty. Two guys, truck drivers maybe, sat around the three-sided bar that framed a small stage. They watched a hopelessly bored stripper, down to a red G-string, titless babe with short black hair, skinny with a soft ass, wrinkled and white like two scoops of cottage cheese. This place couldn’t attract your prime-grade talent, Harry thought, not for dollar tips in the garter belt.

“… I’m not perfect, but I’m perfect for you-ou…”

Music so loud your ears hurt, whatshername singing, Grace Jones, built like a licorice stick, hair cut like a Marine, a wild look like she’d bite it off she had half a chance.

The skinny stripper unhooked the G-string, wrapped it around a metal pole on the stage, rehooked it on the other side, and strung her legs around the pole, humping it to the music. Not bad, mushy ass and all, not bad and Harry felt a stirring.

Where was the guy anyway? Goddamn noise giving him a headache. Ever since Buddy Holly died, music’d been shit. Tried to hum it, “All my love, all my kissin’, you don’t know what you been missin’.” But the tune in his head couldn’t compete with the blasting tape that told him he was “addicted to love.”

When the music stopped, so did the stripper, boom, as if the factory whistle blew and the assembly line crashed, you weren’t gonna get one extra bump outta that bitch. Then she stretched out a leg and with her high-heel sequined shoe, she flicked off the light switch that illuminated the stage a whorey red.

Another girl would be out in a minute, but Harry wasn’t in the mood. It was eight-thirty and he would wait another five minutes, then fuck it. Harry went to the rest room in the back hauling a tote bag. He took a leak, studied the graffiti, felt for a forgotten quarter in the condom machine change slot, then came back out. In the rear of the joint, near the tables for private dances — ten-dollar minimum — was an aquarium. Funny, a bunch of fish in a place like this, but there it was. Harry walked over, aimlessly, looking at the fish, killing time.

Harry could tell from the way light reflected off the tank that someone had opened the front door, but he didn’t turn around. He was watching the tank, and as he did, a cream-colored lionfish sneaked up behind a blue-and-yellow angelfish, tailing it like a cop on surveillance. The angelfish would wiggle right, the lionfish would wiggle right, flaring its large gills, the mane of a lion. They swam inside a little cavern, out again, up and down, and finally, the lionfish grew tired of the game. It came from behind the angelfish and swallowed it whole, just swallowed it, no bites, no struggle. One second there were two fish, then there was one.

At about the same time that the Miami Beach fish population decreased by one, Harry saw a reflection in the glass tank, a man behind him, strong guy, the silhouette of sinewy muscles bulging from each side of his neck. Harry felt a shiver, then turned around to see the unsmiling face of Keaka Kealia.

They shook hands, Harry’s knuckles ricocheting off each other like billiard balls on a clean break.

Harry massaged his right hand with his left and said, “A guy walks into a bar with an alligator and asks the bartender if they serve lawyers…

Keaka was studying the smaller man as if he were a moderately interesting chimpanzee at the zoo.

“‘Sure,’ the bartender says. ‘Good,’ the guys says. ‘Give me a beer and my gator a lawyer!’”

Keaka didn’t smile.

“It’s a joke,” Harry said. “But I’m worried about the lawyer.”

“Lassiter?”

“Yeah. He’ll be there, won’t he?”

“In the lead boat, nothing to worry about.”

They talked about the coupons, Harry lifting the canvas tote bag with two hands. Keaka said, sure he could get them to Bimini if they fit into a backpack. The added weight, no problem, he was the best in the world. Customs? No problem. Customs doesn’t check guys coming over on a sanctioned, nationally televised windsurfing race.

“Okay, partner, you know where the Great Bahama Bank is?” Harry Marlin asked.

“Yeah,” Keaka Kealia said, showing the first trace of a smile. “It’s not hard to find.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“What?”

“At the bank. I’ll meet you at the Great Bahama Bank. At a teller’s window. You bring the coupons and we’ll settle up, a nice safe place for both of us, no monkey business there.”

Keaka spoke slowly then, as if he hadn’t understood what Harry said. “You want me to meet you at the Great Bahama Bank?”

Shit, Harry thought, this guy is two pickles short of a Whopper. Gotta explain it all twice. “That’s right, partner, any problem?”

“The Great Bahama Bank,” Keaka Kealia repeated. “That’s where I’ll be.”

Good, Harry Marlin said, relieved to have worked it out. Then Harry said that he’d be watching during the race, he’d be right behind, and not to be threatening or anything, but he’d be packing heat.

“No problem,” Keaka Kealia said, baring his teeth in what Harry Marlin mistook for a smile.

“Easy as pie,” Harry told Violet that night. “The sucker’s gonna do it for a ten percent commission — that’s what I called it, a commission. He’s taking the risk for a lousy ten percent and we’ll deposit more than a million in the Great Bahama Bank, just like some cocaine kingpins.”

“You gave him the coupons?” Violet asked.

“Not to worry, I got his pecker in my pocket.”

“Harry Marlin, you ain’t got but lint in your pocket.”

“Vi honey, I wish you wouldn’t be always putting me down that way. I got feelings, you know.”

“You? C’mon, Harry, you’re as sensitive as an aluminum foil condom. Now, tell me everything.”

“I told him I’d be on his tail, put the fear of a steel-jacketed. 38 caliber right into him.”

But Harry hadn’t seen any fear. He had watched the guy leave the bar, walking on the balls of his feet, head perfectly still, shoulders back, a cocky walk, an alert walk, like he could see all around him.

If the guy wasn’t so dumb, Harry Marlin thought, I’d be worried about him.

“Not much time to make plans,” Keaka Kealia told Lila Summers in their suite at the hotel. The sliding door on the balcony was open and the wind from the ocean rustled the drapes. “Better call Mikala. Has a friend here from ‘Nam can get us a plane.”

“What about the haole?” Lila asked.

“Stupid and weak,” Keaka said. “Thinks the Great Bahama Bank is a place to cash checks, has hands like a baby’s ass.”

“Haoles” Lila said, shaking her head.

“Thinks he can shoot me from a boat crossing the Gulf Stream.”

“Not unless he’s Buffalo Bill,” Lila said, laughing. They emptied the multicolored coupons into a yellow waterproof backpack, filling it. Lila hefted it and whistled. “It’s a load.”

“It’s our big chance.”

Lila walked to the balcony door, letting the ocean breeze cool her. “There’s a risk. The DEA knows we’re here, especially after the other night.”

“The DEA’s looking for drugs coming into the country, not bonds going out,” Keaka said. “That’s the beauty of it.”