Riptide

CHAPTER 20

If you look at a map of southeast Florida, you see a string of islands. Just offshore from Miami are Miami Beach, Virginia Key, and Key Biscayne, all sedimentary barrier islands that began as sandbars, the ocean currents depositing tiny particles of limestone and quartz over the millennia. The islands farther south along the Florida Keys began as coral reefs, the skeletal remains of ancient marine animals. The early sailors — Spanish, English, and Dutch — faced a perilous journey through the Straits, avoiding the Florida Reef to the west and the Great Bahama Bank to the east.

A ridge of limestone sand only six feet below the surface, the Great Bahama Bank runs close to the Biminis, which appear on maps as a cartographer’s mistake, tiny splashes of ink from a fountain pen. No casinos or fancy nightclubs on these islands. Just waters rich with fish and saloons with shutters open to the southeast breeze. Ernest Hemingway fished and wrote and drank in the Biminis and did all three better than anyone else. More than four hundred years earlier, a Spanish explorer set out for Bimini, lured by tales that the island’s waters could turn old men into youths. Juan Ponce de Leon never found the fountain of youth but on Easter Sunday in 1513 he saw the sedimentary barrier islands that would become Miami Beach and Key Biscayne. Rather than step ashore, Ponce de Leon sailed northward along the coastline of what he believed to be an island he named Florida. He landed near what is now St. Augustine, far from Bimini and without finding magic waters to soothe the aches of a fifty-three-year-old explorer.

Two years later he again sailed, this time exploring the southwest coast of Florida. It was there, probably near Sanibel Island, that the Spaniards came upon the Caloosa Indians. Like the native Hawaiians encountered by Captain Cook two hundred years later, the Caloosas were warriors. They were deadly with bow and arrow and hurled spears from crotched sticks. When the soldiers commanded the Caloosas to convert to Catholicism, the proud warriors responded with battle cries and a hail of arrows, killing many of the Spaniards, including Ponce de Leon.

Europeans had discovered the New World.

“Better secure your gear below, Charlie,” Jake Lassiter said. “We’ll be going too fast to troll, and bouncing through the chop, you may break something.”

Charlie Riggs frowned and held on to the rail of the Big Daddy, an excessively well-equipped fifty-eight-foot Hatteras that was swaying at anchor three hundred yards off the Key Biscayne shore. “Don’t know why I agreed to this. I could be in Bimini in thirty minutes by seaplane, have my first Acanthocybium solandri by noon.”

“Sounds serious. Can you take penicillin for it?”

“Wahoo, Jake. Ever see one burn up a reel? Just a flash of steel blue… whoosh… like a rocket, it’s gone.”

“Well, the fish will wait, and I need your help,” Lassiter said.

“You want to chat or you expecting a body to pop up?”

“I don’t know what’s going on. The other day, at Matheson Hammock, I didn’t exactly tell Detective Farrell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Ah, and you want to atone for your sin, expiatum peccatum.”

“Not really. I want to tie some loose ends together, then go to Farrell. For starters, I’m trying to figure out what Berto was doing on the beach a day before he was killed.”

“Getting a suntan was out of the question, I suppose.”

“He was with the best board sailor in the world, a guy who also thinks he’s a reincarnated Hawaiian king and seems to yearn for the good old days of war canoes and flaming arrows.”

Charlie reached into a pocket of his bush jacket and withdrew his pipe. He tamped tobacco into the bowl and struck three matches in the ocean breeze before giving up. “Am I supposed to find anything suspicious in that? I’m sure Berto saw many people his last few days, some of them far more unsavory than an athlete with a sense of ethnic heritage.”

“It’s hard to explain, Charlie, but the two of them didn’t fit together. No common ground. Certainly not windsurfing…”

“Then perhaps drug smuggling…”

They both let it hang there.

“Sorry, Jake, but I’ve never adhered to Chilon’s admonition, ‘De mortuis nihil nisi bonum.’ If I only spoke kindly of the dead, I’d have very little to say. Little indeed.”

A white-coated waiter offered them pina coladas from a tray. A prerace buffet was in full swing, the yacht club brass, some ABC dignitaries, and assorted hangers-on spearing cold shrimp and slathering duck pate on crackers. Lassiter and Riggs moved farther down the rail, but the partygoers crowded their way. A man in a faded madras sports coat was engaged in animated conversation with Paul Flanigan, the boat’s owner, and a yacht club honcho.

“What the hell we gonna do tonight?” the man asked.

“Nothing to do on Bimini but fish, drink, and screw, and you can’t fish at night,” Flanigan said. He was an old Bimini hand, two-time winner of the Adam Clayton Powell Memorial Fishing Contest.

Jake Lassiter led Doc Riggs toward the stern, then pointed toward the beach. “There he is, rigging for the crossing. Here, use these.” Lassiter handed over his binoculars.

Doc Riggs peered through the high-powered lenses. “Strong, athletic, not much else I could say from here.”

“Keaka Kealia is the fastest sailor who ever lived,” Lassiter said. “He shattered the Crossbow’s record by more than four knots.”

Riggs thought about it a moment. “Which means he broke the forty-knot barrier.”

“Right. A space-age trimaran goes thirty-six knots, and nobody comes close for ten years. Then a descendant of Polynesian warriors obliterates the record standing on a sliver of fiberglass with a tiny patch of sail.”

“Which tells us what, Jake?”

“That he’s tough, single-minded, fearless. Probably egocentric. Loves a one-man sport, not a team player.”

“But a killer?”

Lassiter shook his head. “Who knows? When we get to Bimini, we’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him about Berto’s death. You watch for his reaction, judge his respiration for me, watch for an increase in body temperature.”

“You really think I can do that?”

“You’re the human polygraph machine. You’ve done it before.”

“Jake, I hate to shatter your illusions, but I was faking it. When I got a confession out of the woman who brained her husband with the frozen rack of lamb, I was making it up as I went along. She went for it and gave me the murder weapon before it defrosted.”

“Maybe you can fake out the reincarnated Polynesian king.”

Charlie Riggs laughed. “ Rex non potest peccare. The king can do no wrong.”

The racers would put their boards into the water in the shadow of the old lighthouse. They would head due east where the bottom falls away quickly to two hundred feet just north of Fowey Rocks, and soon they would reach the Gulf Stream, a warm, choppy river flowing north, the water two thousand feet deep. Then on to the Great Bahama Bank, the bottom coming up suddenly again near the Biminis.

Two Zodiacs, inflatable boats with egg-beater motors, were ferrying race officials and medical personnel to a Magnum 63 that would follow the sailors while the Big Daddy would lead them. Though the Magnum was glitzy and had twin staterooms furnished like luxury hotel suites, it was long and sleek and could hit sixty miles an hour.

Even had he seen the last passenger to scramble into the Zodiac, Jake Lassiter wouldn’t have known him. No one else on the Magnum knew him either, and by the time the strangely dressed man climbed unsteadily from the ladder and onto the deck, he could have been the answer to the question: What’s wrong with this picture?

“You can’t come aboard in those shoes,” said Commodore Ralph Whittaker, an aging mariner whose white slacks and white shirt with epaulets matched his white mustache and beard.

The man stood on one foot, took off his worn leather loafers, and climbed aboard. The big toe of his right foot peeked through a hole in his thin black sock. The commodore eyed the man suspiciously.

“Marlin,” the stranger announced with authority, as if the name demanded recognition and respect.

“You have the wrong boat,” the commodore said. “No fishing here. We’re bringing up the rear of a race.”

The man tried again. “Harry Marlin.”

“No blue marlin, no white marlin, no hairy marlin, whatever that is. This is no fishing trip, just a bunch of Hawaiians and hippies and beach bums and what have you.”

“The name’s Marlin! Harry Marlin. Jake Lassiter said I could go along.” It was a bluff, but it couldn’t fail, Harry figured. He’d hung around the sponsors’ tent long enough that morning to find out which boat Lassiter was on, and then headed for one of the others.

“All right then,” the commodore said, warming up. “There’s plenty of room on this baby, eh. Help yourself to a Bloody Mary.” Which is just what Harry Marlin did, to steady his nerves, then below he went, wondering if the boat was going to rock back and forth like this once they got going. He still wore his jacket, the green-and-black camouflage number from the army surplus store, while everyone else was in short-sleeve knits and shorts. Harry was wearing shorts, too — khaki safari shorts like an English gentleman in India — but with the camouflage jacket, they made him seem even more out of place. He didn’t care. The jacket hid a shoulder holster, and it held a loaded Police Bulldog. 38 Special.

Jake Lassiter trained the binoculars on the beach again, this time searching for a sailor in a one-piece suit, cut low in front and high over the hip. He found her, tugging on a skin-tight wet suit. Nearby, Keaka Kealia adjusted the weight of a yellow waterproof backpack that was slung across his shoulders. Lila wore an identical pack. Up and down the beach, the young competitors stood on the bleached sand, loosening up, stretching hamstrings, their minds visualizing the rough crossing, preparing for a test of body and mind in the same, silent ritual athletes have employed since the days of ancient Greece.

The starter blew the air horn, one minute until the start. The athletes, sun-darkened bodies in stark contrast to the white beach, moved to their positions. The horn sounded again, and the twenty-eight competitors grabbed their rigs and lugged them into the water, a Le Mans start. Lila struggled a bit as she beach-started, the backpack swinging free under one arm. Keaka hopped onto the board and was the first sailor through the shore break, Gary Koenigsberg three board lengths behind. Mickey Kerbel, a former Israeli paratrooper, cut upwind of Koenigsberg, stealing his air, and briefly taking second place. Leslie Weeks, an Australian woman, was next. A Canadian whose sail was emblazoned with a maple leaf was close behind, in a dead heat with Frangoise Duvalier.

Within minutes, all the boards were in open water, and the pack thinned out. The water was calm except for the wind chop. Unlike the smaller boards that become airborne on the lip of the slightest wave, the big cruising boards stayed in the water as sailors leaned back, trimmed their sails tight, and headed toward the horizon. As they neared the Gulf Stream, they routinely adjusted to the ocean swells with reflexes that had been honed on waters from the Tasman Sea to the Mediterranean. Some cursed themselves for rigging too big as the wind pounded at a steady twenty knots from the north, guaranteeing five hours of unremitting pain on shoulders, elbows, and wrists. Others yearned for more Mylar as they had rigged too small. In the front, his sail trimmed perfectly, Keaka Kealia led the pack.

Jake Lassiter watched from the stern of the Big Daddy as Keaka broke for an early lead. From the bow of the Magnum trailing the last racer, Harry Marlin watched, too, but soon lost sight of him. Harry had figured that the added weight of the coupons would drag on the Hawaiian, holding him back. Nearly every competitor carried a small pack containing water bottles and granola bars, but those, he thought, weighed far less than the coupons. The Magnum was getting reports from the ABC helicopter, and Harry learned he had been wrong — Keaka Kealia was leading the race, far out of sight of the trailing boat. Shouldn’t worry, though, where was the bastard going on that board, the Bermuda Triangle?

From the Big Daddy, Lassiter looked for Lila but couldn’t see her. Lost in the pack somewhere. He thought she would lead the women, but there was local talent Carolyn Kvajic leading with Frangoise Duvalier from France second, and Luisa Vazquez from Cuba third. Where was Lila?

Three Bloody Marys and two dozen raw oysters on an empty stomach. That is not the prescribed breakfast for someone about to cross the Gulf Stream, but Harry Marlin did not know that. Among the many other things that Harry Marlin did not know was that he was prone to seasickness. He learned this fact after slurping down oyster number six, a juicy Apalachicola.

Harry had spent some time in small motorboats lazing on the flat water of Lake Okeechobee, waiting for bass to jump aboard. It was different here, the Magnum pitching over the chop, kicking spray onto the deck. Harry decided to stay dry below, nursing a fourth Bloody Mary, sweat beading on his forehead, bile churning in his stomach.

The windsurfers were battling the chop, too, bouncing over small waves, feeling it in knees and ankles, fighting off muscle cramps, fatigue, and stiff backs from being locked into one tack for hours, straining against the wind.

“ABC says the Hawaiian’s still leading, about half a mile in front of Kerbel and Koenigsberg,” the commodore said, poking his head below to grab a cup of tea. “Hey, you feeling all right, Mr. Marlin?”

Harry nodded and mouthed the word “fine,” but his eyes were glassy and he looked as if he’d be over the rail any minute.

“Hang in there,” the commodore said. “You’ll feel better when we’re out of the Stream.”

Harry lay down on a cushioned built-in sofa and tried to I sleep, but he couldn’t. Sweat poured from him. He burped and tasted half-digested oyster. Whose idea was this, anyway? Violet’s, of course. Everything was her idea.

The Magnum was bouncing over the waves now, and Harry gritted his teeth and concentrated on keeping his stomach from somersaulting. Time passed. Slowly. Queasily. Excruciatingly.

He felt weak, disoriented, but finally the water calmed.

They were out of the Gulf Stream. Harry climbed to the deck on shaky legs. The radio crackled from the helicopter. Keaka Kealia was a mile in front, Frangoise Duvalier leading the women.

“Almost there,” the commodore told anyone who would listen. “That Hawaiian has it locked up. He’s got us for the appearance fee plus first prize, he’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.”

Despite his discomfort, Harry Marlin smiled to himself. The Hawaiian’ll be laughing all the way to the Great Bahama Bank, but I got the last laugh ‘cause that dumb-ass is doing it for 10 percent. Shit, I’d a given him a third, easy.

A mile off the coast of North Bimini, the Big Daddy pulled under a finish line strung between two barges, the checkered flag popping in the wind. Paul Flanigan killed the engines and prepared to tie up at the barge. From the stern Jake Lassiter could see Keaka Kealia a hundred yards behind them, heading for an easy victory. The ABC helicopter circled overhead, capturing the winning moment on videotape. A round of applause went up from the yacht club members on the Big Daddy — those still sober enough to bring their hands together — and Keaka nodded as he sailed by. Which is what he did, sailed right by, didn’t stop, didn’t tie up at the barge for the awards, the champagne, and the calypso band.

Jake Lassiter saw it happen: Keaka Kealia tipping the mast slightly forward, shifting weight to his front foot, falling off the wind. Heading southeast toward Turtle Rock. The trip across the Florida Straits was a beam reach, 90 degrees off the wind. Now Keaka was on a broad reach, 135 degrees off the wind, the fastest angle for the board, and with the trade winds humming at close to twenty-five knots in the open waters, he was zipping along, bouncing off small chop, the board planing now with only the stern in the water.

“Charlie, wake up and look at this!” Lassiter shouted.

Charlie Riggs opened his eyes but didn’t move from the deck; hair. A plaid blanket was tucked up under his chin. “ Quid tunc? I always get sleepy on boats.”

“The reincarnated warrior just called an audible.”

“Hmmm?”

“Called his own number, but damned if I know the play.”

On the Magnum, still two miles from the finish line, the radio crackled again with static and a voice from the helicopter. Harry Marlin couldn’t make out the words. The commodore strained to listen, then fiddled with his mustache. His face had a look of consternation. “Didn’t stop? Hell’s bells.”

“What’s wrong?” Harry Marlin asked, sensing trouble even through a haze of Stolichnaya and seasickness.

“Copter says the Hawaiian finished, just kept on going, bearing off to starboard.”

Harry’s stomach lurched, and not from the oysters. The son of a bitch was way out of sight. What was happening? Then that old feeling — fear and shame, letting Violet down — the same feeling when he came back empty-handed the first time from the theater.

Time to take control. “Let’s go get him! He double-crossed me, the bastard.”

The commodore had his thumbs in his belt and looked sideways at Harry. “Take it easy, Mr. Marlin. It’s his problem if R he doesn’t stick around for the ceremony. I’ll take it up with the board of directors. He could be disqualified for conduct unbecoming a yachtsman, might have to forfeit the first prize. ‘ This is quite unprecedented, you know.”

“Screw the prize and screw you!” Harry shouted, and the commodore blanched. This friend of Lassiter would never be admitted to the yacht club, the commodore quickly decided. Harry Marlin stood there in his camouflage jacket, safari shorts, and stockinged feet, the hole in his sock larger now. He felt helpless.

But only for a moment.

He had never pulled a gun on anyone, ever. Until now.

Harry reached inside the jacket, and drew out his Police Bulldog. 38 Special, and summoning his deepest voice, ordered the commodore, “Follow that friggin’ board.”