jacket, safari shorts, and stockinged feet, the hole in his sock larger now. He felt helpless.
But only for a moment.
He had never pulled a gun on anyone, ever. Until now.
Harry reached inside the jacket, and drew out his Police Bulldog. 38 Special, and summoning his deepest voice, ordered the commodore, “Follow that friggin’ board.”
CHAPTER 21
Jake Lassiter heard a roar, two roars really, and he tried to separate them. First was a grinding yowl from overhead, where a twin-engine Grumman, a small seaplane, flew at two hundred feet, heading in the same direction as Keaka Kealia. Second was the throaty roar of two Italian MTU motors, four thousand horsepower in all, powering the Magnum across the water, cutting a path through the windsurfers who were trying to finish the race.
The big boat scattered the racers, red and blue and turquoise sails flattened against the water. Startled by the cacophonysome of the sailors jumped out of their foot straps. Others were swamped in the wake. Bedlam on the high seas.
“Pisshead powerboaters!” yelled Gary Koenigsberg after he coughed up several jiggers of the Atlantic Ocean. “Slow the fuck down. This ain’t the Santa Monica Freeway.”
Lila Summers never fell. From her position deep in the pack, she seemed ready for the madness. When the boat sped by, she spread her legs wide on the board and luffed the sail. Her big Mistral pitched in the Magnum’s wake but she kept her balance and slowly made her way toward the finish. The other racers cautiously water- started, cursing the huge Magnum. Then they took off in pursuit of the second prize.
The Magnum won the second prize, theoretically at least, as it was the next craft under the finish line. Its crossing did not go unnoticed on the barges. Couldn’t have. It flew by at sixty miles an hour, kicking up a spray that doused the victory cake, nearly electrocuted the electric bass player, and sent the calypso band’s steel drums rolling overboard. The Magnum carved a tight turn just past the Big Daddy and headed southeast after Keaka Kealia.
Jake Lassiter and Charlie Riggs watched it all, unable to do anything, stuck on a boat of drunken yacht clubbers swapping fish stories, oblivious to the commotion, while Keaka Kealia, a low-flying seaplane, and the pursuing Magnum headed for points unknown.
Harry Marlin aimed his. 38 Special at the right ear of Commodore Ralph Whittaker, who stood a foot behind the hired captain of the Magnum. The captain, a twenty-three-year-old marine mechanic with tattoos on each forearm, was thrilled. It was his first chance to open it up and the baby was purring, bouncing over the water, kidneys jarred on every smash. Harry held on to a rail with one hand and tried to steady the gun with the other. His arm was growing weary.
He had barely thought about it a minute ago. Just decided to hell with it, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. He had pulled the gun when the commodore refused to give chase, pulled it out like it was the most natural thing in the world. Felt good grabbing it from under the camouflage jacket, just like in the movies.
Now he was thinking about it. Thinking hard. Shit. What had he done? Gave his real name back there when he climbed aboard. Got his prints all over the boat. No more flipping hamburgers in South Beach, not even if he wanted to, because he’d just bought a one-way ticket out of town. But isn’t that what he wanted? It better be, because those coupons were everything now, and some two-bit punk was trying to heist them. Christ, can’t even think, the old salt babbling away.
“You’ve committed a felony on the high seas,” the commodore bellowed over the roar of the engines. “I’ll see you in Admiralty Court. And this race is FUBAR — fouled up beyond all recognition. I must warn you, if you’re taking us to Cuba, I seriously doubt we have sufficient fuel, at least at this speed.”
Harry drew back the hammer on the revolver. “Shut up, fish bait! We’re not going to Cuba, we’re going to the bank.”
The seaplane landed in the shallows near an exposed cluster of rocks. Less than a mile away, Keaka Kealia headed toward the same rocks, his sail vibrating with a high-pitched hum in the strong wind. From the bridge of the Magnum, Harry Marlin saw it all, had it figured out now.
Harry ordered the captain to pull between Keaka and the seaplane, and at near top speed, the Magnum swung in a wide arc in the shallow water, tumbling liquor bottles from the shelves, knocking club members into each other below deck. The Hawaiian was fast, but the Magnum had closed the gap and in a matter of seconds would cut him off. Killing the engines, the captain eased the boat directly in the path between Keaka and the waiting plane. The engines died, and in the silence, Harry Marlin could hear the gentle slap of waves against the hull. He could see Keaka Kealia heading straight for them.
Keaka had two choices. He could keep going straight at the boat and be splattered against its sleek hull, or he could bear off and head downwind to avoid the collision, but if he did that, he would lose his speed and would pass by the stern of the Magnum at a crawl. Even the dumb haole might pick him off with a clear shot like that. So he did neither one. He leaned back hard against the boom and raked the sail over the board, using every last breath from the wind. Unhooking the harness line from the boom, Keaka Kealia pumped the sail furiously to build speed, wincing with each movement as the tendons of his elbows, already swollen from the crossing, flared with pain. He watched the rollers hit the sandbar near Turtle Rock, and with the timing practiced on a thousand waves on Maui’s north shore, he took aim.
Harry Marlin stood motionless on the deck watching the Hawaiian approach, catching a glimpse of the yellow backpack. When he could see the grimace on the dark man’s face, Harry fired. The noise and jolt of the gun startled him and he hopped backward, tromping on the commodore’s deck shoes. “Jumping Jesus!” the commodore shouted. “You don’t shoot a sailor for leaving the course, you just penalize him.”
Wildly, again and again, Harry shot into the sky and into the water as the boat bobbed and dipped in the waves. Harry was faying to shoot a moving target while his own foundation was slipping out from under him. Sergeant York couldn’t have hit the broadside of a barn in these conditions, and Harry Marlin was no sharpshooter, just a guy who kept a gun under the lunch counter in case some freaked out Marielito with a Saturday night special showed up at closing time. Finally, Harry stopped shooting and simply watched. The crazy son of a bitch was coming right at him, right at the side of the Magnum, and there’d be a helluva mess of blood and splintered bone to clean up.
Then Keaka had what he wanted, the perfect wave. He got all of it, a huge roller, and just as the Magnum dropped into the trough, Keaka’s feet lifted against the foot straps and hurled the board off the lip. Airborne, he pumped the sail again, getting more lift, and he looked down to see Harry Marlin’s balding head, and Harry ducked, just in time, because the sharp fiberglass fin would have parted what was left of his hair. Keaka’s board was flying now, bow up, sail taut with wind. It landed on the far side of the Magnum, Keaka luffing the sail a moment. Then he hauled it back in, hooked into the harness line, and headed straight for the waiting seaplane.
The young boat captain tried to start the Magnum, but it wouldn’t turn over, just sat there coughing and sputtering, a million-dollar piece of junk, while the Hawaiian sailed away on a slab of fiberglass with a pole stuck into it. The captain tried again, muttering something about flooding out. Harry spat every curse he ever knew and invented a few more. He got off one more meaningless shot as the Magnum heaved in the waves and Keaka approached the seaplane. Harry screamed at the captain, who was hitting switches and twisting dials. He cursed the Hawaiian and every member of his family. He stomped his stockinged feet. Finally, his eyes filled with tears of frustration as he watched Keaka Kealia ditch his board and swim to the plane, where two hands hauled him aboard.
Keaka Kealia leaned out the door waving, holding up the yellow pouch, yelling something at him. With the boat’s engine dead, Keaka’s voice carried across the open sea. “Here we are, partner,” Keaka called out, spreading
