was sick the whole time. Swore I’d never go near the water. Never did, not even the Staten Island ferry.”
Some of the competitors were carrying their equipment into the surf, boards held overheard, masts pointed downwind. Lassiter tried to bring the old man back into the 1990s: “This is only practice. On Saturday, they’ll go for the gold.”
“Jacob, did I ever tell you what they said in Kiev about New York?” Kazdoy asked, his mind somewhere between Key Biscayne and czarist Russia. “They said the streets of New York were paved with gold and when I got off that farshtinkener boat, I saw a man following a horse with a broom and pail, but… but…”
“… But what he was sweeping wasn’t gold,” Violet said, finishing the story that the old man had told a thousand times. Now Lassiter worried even more about Sam Kazdoy losing his sharpness. Lassiter had seen it happen before, a younger woman of shadowy background drawn to an old man’s money. In the beginning it’s innocent enough, the woman running errands, tidying up, providing companionship. Before you know it, her name pops up as joint owner on the old coot’s brokerage accounts.
Keaka finished tying the clew of his sail to the boom with an outhaul line. When the sail reached the perfect curvature, he jammed the mast into the sand and leaned back from the boom, testing the rigging against the steady easterly. The sail supported all his weight, a precise trim.
Lassiter watched him and said, “Keaka, I brought you a navigational chart, though I doubt you’ll need it. I’ll be in the lead judges’ boat, and if everything’s true to form, you’ll be right behind us and all the other racers can follow you. But this will give you an idea where we’re going. It’ll be a Le Mans start from the beach, then forty-eight miles due east across the Gulf Stream, finish just a mile or so off North Bimini at the Great Bahama Bank. There’ll be a finish line strung between two barges with checkered flags flying, so just sail under the line and tie up. The awards ceremony and a champagne celebration will take place right on the barge.”
“Finish at the Great Bahama Bank,” Keaka repeated.
Violet watched him crouch in the sand, her eyes still on groin patrol. “Smart to finish at a bank,” she said, nodding sagely. “Easier to pay off the winners.”
Keaka ignored her, tugged on his windsurfing gloves, and jogged into the water, carrying his equipment effortlessly. “Practice now,” he said without looking at them. Violet watched his muscular body disappear into the surf.
A moment later Lassiter caught sight of Lila Summers, twenty yards down the beach. Her hair was pulled straight back and tied in a ponytail, accentuating her cheekbones, the muscles in her calves undulating as she carried her rig into the water. He guided Kazdoy closer to the shore break.
“Here’s who I want you to see,” Lassiter said, pointing toward Lila’s board as it shredded the small offshore waves. “Watch her bottom turn.”
“That’s what I’m doing, boychik. My eyes still work, even if my schmeckel — “
“No, watch how, at the bottom of a wave, she climbs back up the face. Her bottom turn’s the best in the business.”
“Got some tuchis on her,” the old man agreed.
Lila rocketed down the face of a wave, her board etching a foamy wake. As the wave ran out of water, her back hand pulled hard on the boom, trimming the sail tight against the wind for an extra burst of speed. At the same time she jammed her back foot onto the downwind side, burying the rail, and the board carved a tight turn and shot up the face of the wave. A rooster tail of spray exploded from the stern.
“Now watch her,” Lassiter said. “You won’t see her change direction. One second she’s going one way, then slash, and she’s going the other.”
At the top of the wave, Lila shifted her weight to the inside rail and released pressure on the boom to let wind out of the sail. On command, the board pivoted on the shoulder of the wave, just inches from the breaking lip, and cut down across the face, never losing speed. The board was a fiberglass stiletto, flashing in the sun, cutting back and forth, bottom turn at the end of the wave, slicing to the top, then slashing back toward the bottom, Lila laughing into the wind, her honey hair flying.
The old man winked at Lassiter, gave him a sly grin, and said, “You got some eye for the maidels.”
“Sam, please,” Lassiter said. “She’s with Keaka.”
“So?”
“So, I don’t have a chance.”
“ Feh, and if you’ll pardon my English, bullshit. You want a piece of property to build a plant, sometimes another fellow wants it too, and maybe he can offer more than you. But maybe he has some unexpected tsuris. Maybe the IRS finds out about his second set of books or his unions strike or his wife finds out about his girlfriend. But one thing for sure, you can’t do nothing just staring at your pupik.”
Violet was growing restless and the old man was uncomfortable sinking into the sand. “ Boychik, we’re going to run along and get to the theater. You think about what I told you.” He toddled off, Violet hanging on like a platinum blond vulture.
Lassiter watched them go, wondering what he could do to protect his friend. Wondering too if he had any chance of recovering the stolen bonds. And wondering finally if winning Lila Summers might be more complicated than closing on a piece of real estate.
Alone with his thoughts, Jake Lassiter went about his chores as race organizer. Of all the serious board sailors in Miami, Lassiter was the obvious choice to run things. Unlike most of the boardheads who either lived in their beach vans or worked night jobs so they could sail all day, Lassiter was considered semirespectable. Plus he had a secretary and a photocopy machine, essential to organize anything from a car wash to a World Cup athletic event.
First Lassiter checked with Commodore Ralph Whittaker, the old fussbudget who ran the Coral Gables Yacht Club, which was providing the prize money. Next he confirmed starting times with the captains of the lead boat and the chase boat. He spoke to the medical personnel, then verified that hotel rooms would be ready for the network television crews. Finally, he ducked into a cabana, changed into a faded pair of surfing trunks, and rigged his own board. He chose a six-meter sail, bigger than most competitors would use on a day of strong, steady winds, but when you weigh 220, it takes a lot of canvas — actually Mylar — to get the board up on a plane.
He beach-started in the shore break, hopping onto the board between incoming waves, then guided it into open water. His knees flexed, adjusting to the rollers, and soon he was skipping across the top of the waves, bouncing over moving ledges of water. Offshore, the chop rolled toward land in evenly spaced swells, what the surfer kids called corduroy. Lassiter luxuriated in the strain on the arms, the tendons and muscles of the shoulders stretching as gusts tried to tear the sail away. It was a mixture of pleasure and sweet pain that nearly chased away the gray, cloudy thoughts that hovered over him.
Nearly, but not quite. Thoughts of Sam and Violet, and how the hell he would find the missing bonds. No word from Sergeant Carraway. Thoughts of the reptilian Thad Whitney and the fallen Berto, wondering if he had signed the papers.
Poor Berto.
Lassiter remembered their days in the public defender’s office, celebrating with pitchers of sangria and mountains of paella after tap-dancing an N.G. verdict from six citizens, good I and true. Thoughts of Lila Summers, too, and whether the beautiful athlete might find some redeeming value in a has-been linebacker who could spin a fair yarn.
Lassiter shifted his weight toward the bow, tilted the mast forward, and pushed the board off the wind. It jibed hard and fast on its rail, and Lassiter flipped the sail around in the extravagant gesture of a matador sweeping his cape. He headed due south on a broad reach, the coastline of Key Biscayne to starboard, the lighthouse at the tip of the island coming into view.
Finally, Lassiter angled toward shore, surfing over the incoming waves. In shallow water, he hopped off and hoisted the rig onto the beach. What he had in mind was a two-mile jog on the hard-packed sand, and then a pleasant sail back to the hotel. There were only a few people on the beach, Canadian tourists judging from their arctic pallor and French accents, plus a smattering of South American kids from expensive condos near the hotels. He started at an easy pace — pick it up, fifty-eight, Coach Paterno yelled from a faraway field. As he neared the old lighthouse that once warned ships of the treacherous reefs, he saw someone familiar. No, not here, what would he be doing…
“Berto. Berto, is that you?”
