The drinking started early next day, and by two o’clock the patio was jammed with those taking after-lunch refreshment. When I came outside Owen Barr was hitting the stuff hard, or so it seemed. Maxine drank nothing. He lounged in the sun in a pair of plaid shorts, wearing the most pleasant expression he had in stock. Things were going smoothly for Stan. The first conference had evidently cleared the way. There would be other conferences with lawyers on each side, some outside help from the hierarchy. But Stan was on his way.
Gerry sat beside him, wearing a fetching bit of swim suit that wouldn’t have bandaged a sore thumb. She did Stan’s drinking for him and they held hands. Owen Barr kept away from her, but now and then looked bitterly in Maxine’s direction. When his glass was empty he held it out negligently and a houseboy would whisk it away and reinforce the ice with a jolt.
Charley Rinke and his wife played Canasta at a little table under a canopy of pink umbrella. Neither showed any interest in the game. Their fingers sorted the cards mechanically. Evelyn Rinke wore a big pair of sunglasses that masked any expression, but her complexion was sickly.
On the little dock that stuck out into the bay, Aimee, Diane and Macy waited while Rudy gassed up a sleek new speedboat. Rudy was wearing swimming trunks and seemed chipper, though he still limped painfully. Macy held tight to Aimee’s hand, probably not pleased at the prospect of bumping along the bay in the speedboat. Aimee was bundled in an orange lifejacket.
There was little conversation, either on the patio or on the dock. Even Aimee seemed to feel the undercurrent of tension, and chattered very little.
I shook my head at a tray of highballs offered by one of the help and walked toward the terrace. Taggart leaned against the rock wall surrounding the patio, wearing shorts and a T shirt over an impressive display of muscles. He glanced at me for a long moment when I went by.
On the patio behind me somebody lurched out of one of the chairs so that it skidded metallically on the paving. I looked back. Owen Barr closed in on me, grinning drunkenly. He had a half empty glass in one hand.
“Mal’ry,” he said slurringly. “Ol’ Pete Mal’ry. Ain’t you goin’ to have a drink, buddy?” He put a heavy arm around my shoulders as he caught up to me, leaned against me so I had to stop or let him fall.
“Here,” he said, extending the glass he held. “Y’take mine. Y’have my li’l drinky, Pete, an’ I’ll get another one.” He spoke loudly, breathing in my face. There wasn’t much of an alcoholic smell. I frowned.
He leaned his reddened face toward my ear, turned his face toward the bay. “I’ll be so terrible
I pushed him away from me. “Watch what you’re doing,” I said. “You spilled some on me. Get the hell out of here. If I want a drink I’ll go get one.”
He looked injured. He stood holding the glass in a tilted position in the palm of his hand, and his mouth sagged foolishly. I looked quickly at the people on the patio. No one was paying any attention to us.
“Well, I was — jus’ tryin’ to be helpful. Tha’s all I was doin’, Pete.” He shrugged and weaved back to the patio, slumped in a chair, looked at nobody. I went on down to the dock.
Rudy had capped the big red gas can and set it on the dock. He climbed into the driver’s seat now, started the motor. Aimee jiggled on one foot and then the other, impatient to go. Diane watched without interest.
The motor missed a couple of times. Rudy kneaded the accelerator. The flesh on his white back trembled loosely as he turned the wheel experimentally. The motor idled. He looked back over his shoulder at us.
“Better let me run it out into the bay and get the kinks out,” he said to Macy. “She hasn’t been used for a long time.” Macy waved him away. He seemed preoccupied. Aimee looked up at him unhappily but said nothing.
Diane glanced at Macy. He told her to let go the lines.
“You might as well ride along,” she said.
“I’ll wait till Rudy loosens it up,” Macy said. “Untie him.”
Diane kneeled and freed the rope, tossed it into the stern of the speedboat. Rudy eased away from the dock, upping speed gradually.
“I’ll swing around and pick you all up in a minute,” he yelled back over his shoulder. The front of the speedboat bucked out of the water, kicked spray high. Two hundred feet from the dock Rudy began to lop. As he did so the gleaming speedboat blew apart without warning. There was a flat booming noise, a geyser of water mixed with splinters of the hull and the roll of dirty smoke. It happened with the quickness of a magician’s sleight-of-hand trick. While the pieces of boat rained into the water and the echo of the blast rolled across the bay we were shocked still. I thought I saw Rudy hurled from the wreckage but I wasn’t sure. I watched the boil of soapy foam at the spot where the boat had exploded. Then I went into the water, diving off the dock, seeing in passing the shocked sick face of Diane, hearing Aimee’s open-mouthed cry as she realized something had gone wrong but wasn’t quite sure how bad it was.
I came up swimming hard toward the debris bobbing in the ruffled water. I had little hope of finding Rudy but I didn’t think about it. I tried to save as much strength as I could for the return trip, but I swam badly, hampered by my stiff sore arm. Every stroke made the arm ache fiercely. I didn’t look up until I brushed past a piece of the boat skin. Then I stopped swimming and treaded water, searching for some sign of Rudy. Twenty yards out I caught a glimpse of his head, then his back as he rolled to the surface, hung motionless for an instant in the swell. His lungs must have been almost full of air when he went into the water.
I struck out quickly, dived when I reached the approximate spot where I had seen him. Ten feet down in the murky water I caught an arm and hauled him up, my lungs weighted and burning. I didn’t pause to see what kind of shape he was in. I put a hand under his chin, towed the bloated leaden body. I couldn’t see well. Salt stung my eyes. I sighted the dock, swam toward it. I went very slowly. The fingers that gripped Rudy’s chin were sticky with something. I didn’t dare waste time and strength looking at him.
When I thought I was going to have to let him go to save myself, a head bobbed up in front of me, a muscular arm reached for Rudy. It was Taggart.
“I’ll take him,” he said. I released the burden of Rudy gratefully, went for the dock with slow slapping strokes, my arm muscles trembling. My breath came in little flutters. Hands reached down at the dock to help me from the water. I lay on my back on the rough flooring, chest heaving, muscles jumping in my legs. I was too exhausted to move a finger. Dimly I heard shouted orders. Somebody told the women to get away from there. Somebody else said in an awed voice, “Jesus, will you look at
They were pulling Rudy over the edge of the dock — what was left of him. His mangled, mashed body had washed clean of blood. One arm and part of his head were gone. I saw ribs gleam from a gaping tear in his side, the armless side. The blast had got him along the right side of his body. I looked away from it, sat up on the dock. I glanced down at my hand, the one that had towed Rudy. There were clots of red between the fingers. I washed the hand hurriedly in the bay, leaning over the edge of the dock.
It was oddly quiet now. There were six men on the dock. Nobody said anything. Taggart sat with his arms around his legs, his face against his knees. He breathed explosively. The wet T shirt clung to him, showed the tanned skin underneath. There were specks of red on his T shirt.
I stood up, hoping my legs would hold me, staggered a step to remain upright. I saw the women clustered on the patio, looking at us. One of them — it seemed to be Evelyn Rinke — held Aimee in her arms.
Macy stood near the ruined body of Rudy — the last one, the last of the old gang. His shoulders were bunched. His fingers flexed like snakes maneuvering to strike. He looked at Rudy for a long time, his face frozen. His head edged up and he looked out at the bay. Then he turned on stiff awkward legs. He looked at each of us with bleak angry eyes.
“I was supposed to be in that boat, wasn’t I?” he said. His voice was little more than a frightened hiss. “Me and Aimee.” A sudden breeze fluttered his hair. There was dead silence for a moment. Macy raised an arm suddenly, threateningly.
“Get out!” he screamed. His voice was a slow curling lash that probably could be heard on the patio. “I want everybody out of here. Quick! Get off this island! Pack and get out!” His whole body shook from the force of his rage. Charley Rinke shuffled his feet nervously. Maxine’s men looked at Stan questioningly. Stan nodded his head toward the house, his mouth grim. From a quick look at him I thought that Rudy’s sudden death had shaken him as much as anyone. They edged off the dock, plodded toward the house. Owen Barr followed, tottering in the
