The Web

I drove north, parallel to the waterfront. No boats were in dock and the gas station was still closed, a fuel- rationing schedule posted on the pump. A couple of children rode bikes up and down the waterfront, a woman pushed a baby stroller. Men sat with their feet in the water, and one lay stretched out on the dock, sleeping.

'Where's the airfield?'

'Just keep going.'

We passed the shops. A saltwater tang hung in the air; the temperature was a perfect eighty. The windows of Auntie Mae's Trading Post were filled with faded T-shirts and souvenirs and signs above the entrance advertising postal service and snacks and check cashing. Next door was the Aruk Market- two open-air stalls of fruit and vegetables. A few women squeezed and bagged the merchandise. As we passed, a couple of them smiled.

The adjoining building was white and shuttered with a Budweiser sign long depleted of neon-SLIM'S ORCHID BAR. Skinny, ragged specimens slouched in front, long-necks in hand. The Chop Suey Palace facade was red with gold lettering, and stone Fu dogs guarded the door. Three outdoor tables were set up in front. A dark-haired man sat at one of them drinking a beer and pushing something around his plate with chopsticks. He looked up but didn't smile.

Next came more stores, all empty, some of the windows boarded, then a freshly whitewashed block structure with several cars parked in front and a sign claiming: MUNICIPAL CENTER.North Beach began as more barrier reef and palms, sand dunes spotted with clumps of white-flowered beach plum. To the right a paved road twisted up the hillside. The stucco houses at the top had been turned to vanilla fudge by the morning sun. I spotted a church steeple and a copper peak below it.

'Is that where the clinic is?'

'Yup,' said Picker. 'Keep going.'

No more outlets appeared as we continued to hug the island's upper shore. No keyhole harbor on the north side, and the water was a little more active. Scattered swimmers stroked lazily and sunbathers offered themselves like bits of cookie batter, but birds outnumbered the human population by far, droves of them searching the water's edge for breakfast.

Front Street ended at a six-slot parking area. To the east was a fifteen-foot wall of untrimmed bamboo. Hand- lettered signs read PRIVATE PROPERTY and DEAD END NO OUTLET.

Picker leaned forward and pointed over my shoulder at a break in the bamboo. 'In there.'

I turned up a dirt path so narrow that bamboo brushed the sides of the Jeep. A hundred-yard drive brought a house into view.

More Cape Cod than Tahiti, its splintering planks hadn't been white in a long time. The front porch was piled high with junk, and a stovepipe vent spouted from the tar roof.

The property was wide and flat, maybe fifteen acres of red dirt walled by bamboo. The tall plants along the rear border looked puny backed by two hundred feet of sheer black rock.

The western edge of the volcanic range. The mountains hurled shadows so dark and defined they resembled paint splotches.

A smaller house sat fifty feet behind the first. Same construction and condition with a strange-looking doorway- bright white gingerbread molding that didn't fit.

Between the two buildings rested half the fuselage of a propeller plane, its sheet-metal edges sliced cleanly. The rest of the acreage was a grimy sculpture garden peppered with more plane carcasses, heaps of parts, and a few craft left intact.

As I pulled up a man wearing only dirty denim cutoffs came out of the bigger house knuckling his eyes and shoving limp yellow hair out of his face. The younger of the shark butchers we'd seen yesterday.

Picker drew back the Jeep's plastic window flap. 'Where's your father, Skip?'

The man rubbed his eyes again. ' 'Side.' His voice was thick and hoarse and peevish.

'We're renting a plane from him this morning.'

Skip tried to digest that. Finally he said, 'Yeah.'

'Where's the takeoff strip, Ly?' said Jo.

'Anywhere we please; these aren't jumbo jets. Let's get going.'

The two of them climbed out of the Jeep, and Picker went up to Skip and began talking. Jo hung back, mouth still busy, hands plucking at her vest.

'Poor thing,' said Robin. 'She's scared.'

As I started to turn the Jeep around, another bare-chested man came out of the house. Flowered boxer shorts. The same wide face as Skip but thirty years older. Sloping shoulders and a monumental gut. What was left of his hair was tan-gray. A two-week beard coated a face made for suspicion.

He pointed at us and approached the Jeep.

'You the doctor's new guests?' Heavy voice, like his son, but not as sleepy. 'Amalfi.' His tiny blue eyes were bloodshot but alert, his nose so flat it was almost flush. The beard was patchy and ingrown. The skin it didn't cover was a ruin of mounds and puckers.

'What's that you got?'

'French bulldog.'

'Never saw nothing like that in France.'

Robin stroked Spike, and Harry Amalfi drew back his head. 'Having a good time, miss?'

'Very much so.'

'Doctor treating you good?'

She nodded.

'Well, don't count on it.' He licked a finger and held it to the wind. 'Wanna go up in the air, too?'

'No thanks.'

He laughed, started coughing, and spat on the ground. 'Nervous?'

'Maybe some other time.'

'Don't worry, miss, my planes are all greased and tuned. I'm the only way to fly around here.'

'Thanks for the offer,' I said, and completed the turn. Amalfi put his hands on his hips and watched us, hitching up his shorts. The Pickers had gone inside the house with Skip.

As I drove away, I glanced back and got a closer look at the smaller house. The white molding around the door was a ring of sharks' jaws.

***

I got on Front Street and drove back toward South Beach. The man with the chopsticks was still in front of the Palace, and this time he stood as we approached and waved his arms, as if hailing a cab.

I pulled over and he trotted to the curb. He was around forty, average height and narrow build, with black hair combed down over his forehead and a black mustache too thin to see from a distance. The rest of his face was sallow and smooth, nearly hairless. He wore wide, black Porsche sunglasses, a short-sleeved blue button-down shirt, seersucker pants, and Top-Siders. Back at his table was a stuffed Filofax next to a platter of noodles-and- something, and three empty Sapporos.

He said 'Tom Creedman' in a tone that said we should recognize the name. When we didn't, he smiled unhappily and clicked his tongue. 'L.A., right?'

'Right.'

'New York,' he said, pointing to his chest. 'Before that, D.C. Used to work in the news business.' He paused, then dropped the names of a TV network and two major newspapers.

'Ah,' I said, as if all was clear. His smile warmed up.

'Care to join me for a beer?'

I looked at Robin. She nodded.

We got out and went over to his table, Spike in tow. He looked at the dog but didn't say anything. Then he stuck his head in the restaurant's open door. 'Jacqui!'

A statuesque woman came out, dishcloth balled in one hand. Her long dark hair was thick and wavy, crowning a full-lipped, golden face. A few lines but young skin. Her age was hard to gauge- anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five.

'The new guests up at Knife Castle,' Creedman told her. 'A round for everyone.'