Here in the beating heart.
Do not thrust away the glimpse
Of our drenching in the misty rain.
“It’s beautiful,” Lassiter said. “Our drenching in the misty rain. What a sensual thought.”
“Maui is a very sensual place. It could be our place.”
She stood there, naked in front of the window, and Lassiter looked into the star bursts of her eyes and wondered if a second mission could drop the hydrogen bomb. But soon, it would be dark, and windsurfers don’t have running lights. As he slipped into the cold, wet swim trunks, his desire waned. They locked up the house, untied the boards, and headed back to Key Biscayne.
The weather had calmed, and the wind was nearly too light now, the typical pattern after a series of squalls. Three gray gulls, shrieking stridently, kept them company as they sailed up the coast. A single osprey, the Florida fish hawk, soared above them and dived suddenly, snatching a fish with its talons. The fish struggled for a moment, but the piercing claws would not release, and bird and prey disappeared toward land.
The beach was deserted in front of the hotel and they carried their equipment up the beach. As they neared the raised pool deck, Lassiter stopped suddenly and said, “How can Maui be our place?”
She looked puzzled.
“Keaka,” he said. “What about Keaka?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, innocent as a child bride.
“Where’s Keaka while you and I are riding horses in the mountains, windsurfing on unspoiled waters?”
“Does it matter?”
“Do you love him?”
“Love,” she said, pursing her lips and cocking her head as if trying out a new word. “Oh, Jake, you are a romantic, aren’t you? Look, I love what Keaka is. I love his strength and his pride and his independence. He’s free, and not many of us are.”
I’m not, Jake Lassiter thought. I’m tied to a clock and time sheets and to bloodsucking clients. “How could I be free?” he asked, not liking the sound of his own voice.
“By doing what you enjoy most.”
He laughed. “I’m too slow to cover the flanker over the middle. All I can do is put facts together, examine witnesses, argue the law, write briefs — all useless skills except to sell your life by the hour, lease each heartbeat to corporations and robber barons.”
“Jake, there’s something for you in the islands. There’s…”
“ Lila, there you are!”
Keaka carried a board under each arm, biceps pumped from hard sailing, looking powerful and dangerous. “You left your rig on the beach, you know what the blowing sand does to the sail.”
“Lots more sails where that came from,” Lila said.
Without acknowledging Lassiter’s presence, Keaka looked hard at Lila. “I know you’re tired,” he said, “but it’s our last race. After this, I’ve got other plans.”
“I know, I know.”
“Let’s get cleaned up now,” Keaka said. “I have to meet somebody on business.”
“Not the same business as the other night, I hope,” Lila said.
“No, even easier, and more profitable.”
Jake Lassiter wondered if he’d suddenly become invisible. Finally Lila turned to him and said apologetically, ” ‘Night, Jake. See you tomorrow. Thanks for filling me in about the location of the reef. Jake was very helpful, Keaka.”
“I’m sure he was,” Keaka Kealia said, shooting Lassiter the sideways look of a Doberman pinscher. “Say, lawyer…”
“Yeah.”
“You got a bruise on your lip. You bump into something?” I “Grabbed the boom with my face.”
“That’s what I thought. Got to be careful when you’re out ‘ of your element. Got to be real cautious or you can get hurt.”
Keaka smiled a malevolent grin, then hauled his rig back toward the hotel garage, Lila following behind. Alone now, a pair of images drifted through Lassiter’s mind — that first night outside the hotel, Lila’s hair flying, back arched against the wind, and now, her kisses still lingering on his lips.
It was after six o’clock when Lassiter found a pay phone to check with Cindy at the office. “Where you been?” Cindy shouted at him. “I waited so long for you, I’m missing happy hour at the Crazy Horse. Jeez, what a day, all hell’s broken loose since you beat the crap out of Thad Whitney.”
“Cindy, I didn’t beat the crap out of him. We just bumped into each other.”
“The way I hear it, you sucker-punched him, then trashed his china cabinet. Your partners are really pissed. The MP’s been reading the office manual all day. They’re gonna court-martial you or something, conduct unbecoming a partner. Maybe they’ll forgive you if you apologize to Thad.”
“I will… the same day the pope marries Madonna. What else?”
Cindy paused, and Lassiter imagined her running a finger through a permed curl, deep in thought. “Jake, don’t get in over your head. I don’t mean to be lecturing you since you’re my boss and you’re God knows how much older than I am. And you’re a real together guy, except
… except what you don’t know about women could fill Biscayne Bay and flood Miami Beach. So don’t go off the deep end, okay?”
“Hey, Cindy.”
“Yeah?”
“Throw me a life preserver.”
CHAPTER 19
Harry Marlin hoped she knew what she was doing. Christ, who was this guy anyway? You don’t just call somebody you don’t even know and say, how*bout taking some hot goods to the Bahamas for me. But that’s what Violet did, called a stranger at a hotel.
The Bahamas. Still got Bahamas on the brain. Now we got another partner, if he goes along with it. She sees the guy once and all she remembers, he’s the color of cordovan loafers, he’s sailing to the Bahamas, and his wang’s like a loaf of bread stuck in his shorts. Meets a guy on the beach, guy that knows the old man’s lawyer, for Christ’s sake, and brings him in on the deal. Said she had a feeling about the guy. Bet she did, too.
How the hell would Harry recognize the son of a bitch, he wasn’t gonna stare at the crotch of a guy walking into the bar, particularly the Organ Grinder, a topless joint on Collins Avenue just a block off the ocean.
Harry used to hang out there, knew the turf and felt at home. He could have gone to see the guy, but let the son of a bitch take a cab from his fancy-pants hotel. Probably wouldn’t even come. Told Violet he’d be there at eight, had to be back early because of the race tomorrow. Needed his sleep, friggin’ Boy Scout.
The Organ Grinder was nearly empty. Two guys, truck drivers maybe, sat around the three-sided bar that framed a small stage. They watched a hopelessly bored stripper, down to a red G-string, titless babe with short black hair, skinny with a soft ass, wrinkled and white like two scoops of cottage cheese. This place couldn’t attract your prime-grade talent, Harry thought, not for dollar tips in the garter belt.
“… I’m not perfect, but I’m perfect for you-ou…”
Music so loud your ears hurt, whatshername singing, Grace Jones, built like a licorice stick, hair cut like a Marine, a wild look like she’d bite it off she had half a chance.
The skinny stripper unhooked the G-string, wrapped it around a metal pole on the stage, rehooked it on the other side, and strung her legs around the pole, humping it to the music. Not bad, mushy ass and all, not bad and
