Riptide

CHAPTER 26

Another day down the drain. No sign of Keaka, no sign of Lila, and damn sure no sign of Sam’s coupons. Jake Lassiter returned to the Makawao Inn to find two messages. The first one had to be from Cindy:

Long days without lawyer,

Long nights without biker

Call home at last light.

The other… holy smokes… Meet me on top of Haleakala by the observation building, five o’clock today. Lila.

Lassiter found the desk clerk who took the call. A retiree from Arizona with leathery skin, a gravelly voice, and a good memory, he said a woman called just before noon. “Left no number, what she said is right there on the slip, word for word.”

“Five o’clock,” Lassiter said aloud, but mostly to himself.

“Kinda funny time to meet up there,” the desk clerk said. “Nearly dark, colder than my ex-wife’s bosom.”

Someone from the board shops in Paia told Lila he was there, Lassiter thought. And she wants to see him but doesn’t want to be seen. Things are looking up. But something about the message bothered him. What? So impersonal. On Bimini, the note had said “Love, Lila.” No love here, maybe it’ll take some misty rain for that.

It was almost three o’clock, and Lassiter knew they would have to get going. In his room, he tossed a sweater into a gym bag. Then the phone rang. Maybe Lila.

“Hey, jefe. You takin’ care of my big guy?”

“It’s supposed to be the other way around, Cindy. You calling him or me?”

“You mostly. Tell the Tubber I been cleaning his trailer, throwing out all the junk he doesn’t need.”

“Better wait till he gets home, then you tell him. What else?”

“Well, get a load of this. Seems they identified the boatnapper, the guy who says you’re his pal, one Harry Marlin.”

“Never heard of him,” Lassiter said.

“Keep listening. According to Sergeant Carraway, the Rodriguez kid identified Marlin’s mug shot as the guy coming out of the theater that night with the crowbar. Marlin has a record, just un poco of this, un poco of that, bolita and gambling stuff mostly, but he’s the number one suspect in the burglary.”

“Great, they arrest him?”

“Can’t find him, but Carraway says to tell you that a guy named H. Marlin booked a flight, Miami to Maui, about twenty-four hours before you two adventurers left town.”

Lassiter thought about it. The boatnapper Marlin yelling that Keaka double-crossed him. Now Keaka, Lila, Marlin, and Jake all on Maui. Okay, we’ve got enough to play bridge. “I’ll be looking for him. Talk to you tomorrow. Have to — “

“There’s more, Jake. Carraway interviewed Violet Belfrey, and guess what, she’s got a boyfriend named Harry Marlin. She says she casually mentioned to her beau that Mr. K. gave her a bunch of bonds in his office, never dreamed old Honest Harry would do anything like this, he being a hardworking guy and all. She’s just sick to death about the whole thing.”

“As Doc Riggs would say, that’s deridiculus!”

“I take it you doubt the lady’s story.”

“It’s all too convenient. She had the alibi of being with the old man all night. Her boyfriend pulls the B and E. I mean, who’s she kidding? Sam must want to string her up.”

“No dice. Feels sorry for her. Told her the burglary wasn’t her fault and says you’ll straighten everything out.”

“What the hell’s that mean?”

“Don’t ask me. You’re the lawyer. I’m just a lowly typist cum philosopher.”

Straighten everything out, Lassiter thought. How? Now there were two bad guys, Keaka Kealia and Harry Marlin, and two bad gals, don’t forget about them. Violet Belfrey and Lila Summers. But Lila wanted to come over to the other side. Isn’t that why she was calling? She wanted to join Jake’s team, which meant joining Jake. At least that’s what he hoped.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Well, if you’re interested in your formerly brilliant career, you’re still suspended here pending a Senior Council meeting tomorrow. The partners have been kissing mucho tuchis at the bank. I think they’re going to put a new regulation in the office manual. You can’t beat up a client without prior written approval from three members of the Executive Committee.”

“Cindy, I didn’t beat anybody up.”

“Whatever you say, su majestad. Anyway, that’s the news from Lake Okeechobee, where all the women are strong, the men shitty, and the children on dope.”

“Thanks, Cindy. Tubby and I will be back harassing you and loving you in no time.”

“Sure thing, but who’s gonna do which?” Cindy laughed and hung up.

It was cool and misty at the lower elevations. Low gray clouds hung over the Silversword Inn and a fine rain fell at the three-thousand-foot level. They passed farmers’ fields planted with sweet onions. Cattle and horses grazed in open pastures. Then the road became steeper, twisting higher past clusters of boulders on the lower slopes of the extinct volcano.

The Pontiac crept around the curves, nearly coming to a stop on some of the hairpin turns, and Jake Lassiter grew fidgety. “Want me to drive, Tubby? This is taking forever.”

“Nothin’ doing. I gotta earn my keep. Whatsa matter, afraid she won’t wait? Hey, weather here ain’t like on the postcards.”

By the time Tubby pulled into the parking lot near the observation building, they could see their breaths in the dim light. Clouds filled the giant crater, obscuring the thousand-foot cinder cones and blurring the bright red sand. A cold wind whipped across the unprotected peak. The few cars still at the summit began to leave. Soon they were alone and darkness came, the clouds obscuring the stars, the blackness enveloping them.

They waited.

No one came and no one went.

Not D. B. Cooper, not Jimmy Hoffa, and not Lila Summers.

Tubby kept the engine running with the heater on. “Hey, bro, we sit here all night, we’re gonna run out of gas.”

The only sounds were the off-key chugging of the Pontiac’s engine and the occasional rumbling of Tubby’s stomach. Nearly six-thirty.

“A little while longer,” Lassiter said.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, I think we’re on a wild-goose chase. She’s putting you on, a cockteaser if you ask me.”

“Another few minutes,” Lassiter said, wondering if he’d been twice the fool, once on Bimini — thoughts of the empty bed knifing him even now — and here in the vastness of the dark volcano. They sat in silence, finally making small talk like a couple of bored cops on surveillance.

“Hey, bro, you like lawyering for a living?” Tubby asked.

“It has its moments.”

“Whadaya do all day, I mean when you’re not in court pulling the wool over some judge’s eyes?”

“You think a lot. You plan strategy. You consider the strengths and weaknesses of your case, your witnesses, your evidence. Sometimes you bluff, sometimes you fold, sometimes you call. You play poker with ideas.”

“What cards you holding now?”

“Nothing but jokers, Tub. Tried to draw to an inside straight, a sucker bet. I thought I had a chance to break out of the mold, but maybe I belong back in Miami with all the grubby lawyers, playing their games, posturing for judges and juries and corporate boards.”

“Hey, at least you grabbed for the gusto.”

“Tub, you’ve reduced my life to a beer commercial.”

“What the hell else is there, bro?”

By seven o’clock, they’d run out of talk and called it quits. Tubby eased the Pontiac back onto two-lane Crater Road, both of them silent. They were alone in the night — not another car or light — as they took the winding turns at a crawl.

Lassiter heard it first but thought it was a plane. The noise grew louder in the darkness. “Tub, is there a car behind us?”

“Don’t see nothin’, but somethin’s stirring up a ruckus.”

There was a crash from behind, a scream of metal on metal, and Lassiter’s neck flipped back, then forward. He might sue this asshole for whiplash. Tubby’s foot slipped off the gas pedal as a second jolt hit them.

“Some jerkoff without lights, must be drunk.” Tubby’s eyes darted from the winding road to the rearview mirror. “Maybe a jeep or pickup truck, got a big-ass bumper on that baby. I’ll let him get around us.”

Tubby pulled partially off the road onto the narrow shoulder and came to a complete stop, but it was behind them again, banging away. The taillights burst, the clatter of broken glass mixing with the shriek of metal and squeal of tires, a nightmare of noise shattering the night.

Tubby hit the brakes hard, but the roaring engine rammed them again, shoving the Pontiac a hundred yards along the gravel berm.

Lassiter yelled at him. “Tubby, he doesn’t want to pass us! He wants to push us off the mountain. Step on it!”

Tubby jammed a giant foot on the gas, but he had to brake to make one of the hairpin turns, and it was there again on their tail. Then a burst of light, a painful blast, headlights on high beam plus a row of spots, bleaching them against the black backdrop. Momentarily blinded, Tubby sat on the brakes, and again it smashed into them, caving their rear bumper into the trunk.

“Them folks at Avis gonna be pissed.” Tubby yanked the wheel toward the center of the road as they were pushed again toward the berm. Then he stomped the accelerator, and while their pursuer was getting back onto the road, Tubby made it around the next bend, where he cut the headlights and slid off the pavement onto a gravel area by a lookout site. During the day, you could see a huge valley below, all the way to the north shore beaches. At night, it was a black hole.

Tubby smacked Lassiter in the shoulder. “Out, bro, hit the deck!”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Go, get out, one of us gonna make it, you’re not doing any good sitting next to me. Now git while the gittin’s good.”

Tubby leaned across and opened the passenger door.

Lassiter hesitated, stuck one foot out of the car, then stopped. “No, Tub. I’ll — “

“Out!” Tubby yelled again, and bashed Lassiter with a beefy forearm.

Lassiter hit the gravel just as Tubby was putting the Pontiac back onto the road, but there it was again, screaming around the turn, a blaze of lights leading the way. Facedown on the cold earth at the edge of the universe, Lassiter saw a souped-up Chevy Blazer with huge tires.

The Blazer growled viciously, circled the Pontiac, blocking its path, then swung around, and faced it head-on. The truck revved its engine and shot forward, splintering the front bumper, crushing the top of the hood, and exploding the radiator. The Pontiac stalled and Lassiter heard a sickly hacking sound as the engine gasped and sputtered. The Blazer backed up and charged again, giant wheels churning away in four-wheel drive. Another crash, the Blazer pushing the Pontiac backward, then a scraping sound as the car broke through the guardrail. It tumbled end over end, eerily silent, and then there was a flash of flame and an explosion deep from the dark valley below.

The Blazer backed up, its rooftop lights a cold, malevolent glare. Lassiter could see two shapes in the front, a huge man behind the wheel, a smaller figure next to him, but he could not make out their faces. Had they seen him? They were looking in his direction.

Lassiter buried his head in the cold gravel, shame sweeping over him. Total helplessness, total humiliation. He had been unprepared. Like Captain Cook who did not know the people or the land. So now, Lassiter lay there, his grief mixed with rage, his guilt overwhelming him. He tried to block it out with a heroic fantasy — Jake Lassiter, the avenger, springs at them, pulls them from the truck, throttles them to death with his bare hands. He pushed the fantasy away. Temporary insanity, a brief moment of wanting to die with Tubby. Then reality. There was nothing he could do, but that only added to the shame. His head stayed buried. The truck pulled slowly away and headed down the mountain, its powerful engine throbbing in the night.