Berto sipped at his espresso and said, “For you, Jake, I’ll do it.”
“And I’ll make sure the bank forgets all about bribery charges. The bank will get close to fifty cents on the dollar which is fine for a bad loan. Vista Bank gets the condos, and you’re off to Wyoming.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Jake Lassiter wondered what it was like, one day the world tasting of champagne, the next day of ashes. Berto had seemed so strong, so much in control. But inside he was still a twelve-year-old kid floating on a raft across the Florida Straits. He was burned out now, caught in a maelstrom beyond his control — the deals, the drugs, the women, the money.
Always the money. The gods tempt us, Lassiter thought. They offer us riches and sweet smelling women, tres leches, each milk sweeter than the one before. But you cannot beat the gods. The grander house, the bigger deal, only mean more borrowed time, more risk. When you build your life on a house of cards, you never know when the joker will turn up. When you wheel and deal and borrow and spend, when your balance sheet is based on forecasts and projections, wishes and dreams, it is only a matter of time. One day, the mortgage comes due, and it all falls down. It only takes a missed step, a tax return that catches the computer’s eye, an oil shortage or an oil glut, a weakness for drink or drugs or soft skin.
We are so frail. The gods build us up, then wait. The fall from grace is a spectator sport, and those too meek to take the risks watch from afar and cluck their tongues knowingly.
“I wish I could turn back the clock for you,” Lassiter said finally.
“I have no regrets. It was a hell of a ride while it lasted.”
“Can you stay out of trouble?”
Berto gestured toward the federal agent. “If Franklin can get me through the week. I have to do a little favor for the DEA, part of my deal. I’m helping set up some doper from out west.”
Lassiter frowned. “Sounds dangerous.”
“Don’t worry, amigo. I’ll be in and out. The bust won’t come down until they bring the stuff in from the Bahamas, and I’ll be long gone by then.”
They looked into each other’s eyes, old friends grown apart with the years, drawn together for a moment by a flicker from the past.
“Take care of yourself, old buddy,” Lassiter said softly.
“I always do,” Berto replied with a laugh devoid of joy.
CHAPTER 11
What would she be like, Jake Lassiter wondered. Until now, Lila Summers had been a two-dimensional vision, a color photograph in a magazine, leaning back from the boom, leg muscles taut, turquoise swimsuit cut high over rounded hip, wild mane of hair frozen in the wind. In a photograph there are neither flaws nor words of rebuke, just timeless youth and beauty and joy.
She was not hard to spot. Every man on Concourse D either stopped dead in his tracks or suffered whiplash from a quick turn as she passed. Lila Summers was breathtaking in a white cotton sweatsuit — deep suntan set off by the snowy fabric — her thick hair butterscotched by the sun, bright hazel eyes flecked with green sparkles. She had a body that could be sensed even through the loose outfit, full breasts and strong legs. California-born and Hawaii-raised, she was tall and walked with a long stride. She carried a pink sail bag weighted down with her gear, but her sturdy arms and shoulders showed no strain. There was no mistaking that she was both an athlete and a woman, a perfect picture come to life.
Keaka Kealia walked a step behind her, his eyes lumps of coal, his skin the ruddy brown of cedar. He bounced on his toes gracefully, without swaying, his head perfectly still. Sinewy muscles stood out on either side of his neck, and his chest bulged through a black-and-red T-shirt with the logo of the World Cup Slalom Event in Japan. He looked like a sprinter, maybe even a wide receiver.
“I’m Jake Lassiter, your host.”
“Hello, Mr. Lassiter.” Lila Summers’s smile was polite, nothing more.
“Please call me Jake. Mr. Lassiter sounds like an undertaker.” I’m a fossil to her, he thought.
Keaka stepped between them and extended a hand. They went through that curious male dance, an arm- wrestling handshake, Keaka at first in control, then Lassiter battling to a draw. He could feel the faint traces of calluses on Keaka’s palm, remnants of hundreds of hours’ hanging from the booms. Before letting go, Keaka asked, “Do you have the check?”
Lila gave the Hawaiian a pained look. “Keaka, mind your manners, we’re in civilization now. Your direct ways might not be appreciated here.”
Tarzan and Jane, Lassiter thought.
“I’m only asking because last year I was stiffed in Mexico after an exhibition,” Keaka said. “Everything was mahana, then mahana came, but the pesos never did.”
It could have been a witty line, but the Hawaiian did not smile. Not a latter-day Duke Kahanamoku, joking with the tourists after riding waves at Diamond Head. No, this guy had all the charm of a hammerhead shark.
“Quite right to be concerned in this day and age of charlatans,” Lassiter said stiffly. “Check’s right here.” He patted his suit pocket, not liking the sound of his own voice. Uptight and pickle-assed, out of his element with the two great athletes. Wanting to tell them that he didn’t always tote a briefcase. But what would they know of a quarterback sack on third and long?
They loaded their gear into Lassiter’s old convertible and headed for Key Biscayne where their boards, masts, sails, and booms — shipped ahead from Hawaii — waited in storage sheds on the beach. Keaka and Lila checked into the Sonesta Beach Hotel and twenty minutes later were rigging their equipment in the white sand twenty yards from the Atlantic. Other competitors were fine-tuning their colorful sails, tugging lines taut, and bending masts to the proper angle. It was one of those postcard days, endless blue sky and temperature in the high seventies, wind humming a steady twenty knots from the east.
The beach was awash with young athletes, deeply tanned and exuberant, so that the pale couple — an old man and a sharp-featured, squinting woman — looked like characters from an Ingmar Bergman film, displaced persons drifting by. How long had it been since Samuel Kazdoy had walked along a beach, decades maybe, but here he was slogging through the deep sand in black oxfords and baggy pants, looking unsteady and ill at ease. Alongside was Violet Belfrey in a short skirt and tight blouse, guiding Kazdoy by the elbow, his chalky arm poking out of a short-sleeve white shirt.
“Keaka, these are friends of mine,” Lassiter said. “Violet and Sam, say hello to the greatest board sailor who ever lived.” They exchanged greetings and the old man inspected the board, running a hand over a hard rail, the bottom edge that speeds the craft through the water. “Keaka’s the first board sailor to have completed a three- sixty, a back sommersault off a wave. Now that it’s fairly common, he does them blindfolded.”
Violet’s gaze locked on the bulge in Keaka’s swim trunks. “Ah’d somersault on that thing any ole time he wants,” she stage-whispered to Lassiter.
Keaka Kealia silently continued rigging an old board dinged with scars from collisions with coral rocks. The professionals all used custom-made boards with airbrushed designs — rainbows or sunsets or sponsors’ logos — but Keaka’s board was decorated with the grim face of an ancient Hawaiian warrior, mouth curled open in a bloodthirsty scream. Because he had spent hundreds of hours on it, the board would give him a true reading of the conditions at a new sailing spot. How fast was the current? Were the waves crisp or mushy? Did the wind have holes or was it steady?
Violet was fidgeting, shielding her eyes from the glare. “When the hell they gonna do something?” she asked impatiently. Count Dracula would have been more comfortable in the midday sun.
“They’re adjusting the equipment,” Jake Lassiter said. “The sail has to be tuned just right for the strength of the wind. Think of the board as a sailboat, except you sail it standing up, and you use your feet and the angle of the mast to steer.”
“You should have seen that stinking boat I crossed the Atlantic on, the Petersburg,” Samuel Kazdoy said. “I
