astronauts on takeoff.
The white sun shone fiercely on the torn-up water, and every instant the gap between the two boats narrowed. Sandra and Joey had their elbows locked like kids on a roller coaster. Off the wide transom of the salvage craft fanned a peacock's tail of flattened wake, and the cigarette homed in like a missile on that swath. Ponte was grinning now. He held up his dainty gun and yelped. His goons smiled. Victory was on the horizon and the horizon was scudding toward them. They were so close that they could see the rust bubbles in the salvage craft's gray paint, could see the lumps in the old boat's imperfect welds. They were almost ready to start shooting. The engines of the blue boat sounded full of steely joy.
There was no way, above that potent motor noise and the glad hissing of the water, that the thugs could hear the coast guard helicopter approaching from behind, coming at them low and hard, its rotor blades pitched frantically forward, a machine gun poking out of its bulletproof belly at a jaunty angle like the dick of a dog.
Nor did they yet see the two marine patrol cutters closing in from seaward in a neat V.
They saw only the lumbering craft ahead of them.
There was something pathetic in its attempt to outrun them, pathetic like a hobbled cow trying to escape a lion. Through the glare of the pilothouse windows, they could see the silhouettes of Clem Sanders and his crew. Either they would surrender the emeralds or they would die.
Then the driver of the cigarette noticed the circle of dented water where it was beaten down by the force of the chopper's blades. He looked over his shoulder, the others followed his eyes. There the helicopter was, not more than fifty feet above the water, not more than a hundred yards behind them and closing fast.
'Ditch the guns,' the driver screamed. 'Drop 'em low over the side, right now.'
He said it in such a knowing panic that no one hesitated a second. Five firearms of assorted make and caliber were jettisoned, adding to the untold number of weapons scuttled in the Florida Straits. In another fifteen seconds the aircraft was directly over them, hovering in the hot sky like an apocalyptic bug, and a stern voice bizarrely amplified was ordering them to halt their vessel and stop their engines. The driver throttled back and looked at Charlie Ponte. Ponte stood numbly by, sweat-soaked and bewildered. The salvage craft slowed and began to circle, came back as if to gloat. From over the horizon came the twin wakes of the converging cutters, completing the elegant geometry of a capture at sea.
Joey squeezed Sandra's knee. Then, as the chopper was descending, bringing its pontoons close to the water, he got up and walked over to Ponte. The Boss was so boggled that Joey had to tap him on the shoulder. 'Mr. Ponte,' he shouted above the whooshing clatter, 'we're fucked heah. Attempted piracy. You know that, right?'
Ponte didn't answer. He looked straight ahead; his goons milled stupidly around the cockpit.
'Well, lissena me,' Joey continued. 'I can take care of it.'
The little mobster glared at the kid, his glance emerging from under one eyebrow. The chopper had set down, its slowing rotors still churning the water like a blender.
'I can't fight you, Mr. Ponte. I can't run away. I know that. You wanna kill me, kill my brother, sooner or later you will. But inna meantime I can get us outta this. Now here's the deal.'
Ponte's lip pulled back as if to protest. Who was this fucking nobody to tell him what the deal was? But he looked down at his dainty feet and let Joey continue.
'You lemme handle this. I get us off, you gimme ten minutes to explain things. That's all I'm asking. After that, you do what you want.'
Ponte said nothing. Joey pressed. 'Gimme your hand on it.' Grudgingly, the little gangster held out a damp and slippery mitt. But the eyes were unyielding, they promised revenge.
Three guardsmen were standing on the pontoons of the chopper. They had repeating rifles. The cutters had closed in. Clem Sanders was edging his slow boat nearer. And it was hot as hell in the merciless sun.
— 48 -
'What the hayle-' said Clem Sanders, leaning on the railing of his old gray salvage boat. His bleached blue eyes were narrowed against the glare and he was trying to act like he hadn't almost wet his jumpsuit while the cigarette was pursuing him.
The salvage craft was tied up to one of the patrol cutters. Ponte's blue boat was tied up to the other. The helicopter sat between them like a dragonfly on a swimming pool.
'Hi, Clem,' Joey said. 'Sorry for all the, like, commotion.'
The coast guard guys from the chopper hadn't lowered their rifles. One of the men from the marine patrol, a beefy guy with a crew cut and Ray-Bans, said in a surprisingly squeaky voice, 'You wanna tell us what this is all about?'
'Just wanted to see how the search was going,' Joey said. 'My brother's one a the investors.'
The marine patrolman looked dubiously at the boatload of thugs, sizing them up while they fried in the sun. Charlie Ponte with his soaked silver jacket and hair spiked around his bald spot like a crown. Tony with his evil lip, his toupee blown cockeyed; Bruno with the blank dumb gaze of the enforcer; the two from Miami dressed in blue suits and shiny black shoes in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. ' 'Zat so, Clem?' he asked.
The treasure hunter shot a hard look at Joey before he answered. ' 'Tis,' he said.
The cop frowned down at his fingernails. The boats and the chopper rocked lightly together in the morning's weak breeze. 'Then why the hell'd ya call us?'
For an instant Sanders looked almost sheepish. 'Didn't know they'd be here,' the salvor said. 'Didn't recognize the craft.'
'It's my fault,' Joey offered. 'I shoulda let 'im know. But it was like, ya know, a whim.'
'A whim,' the cop with the Ray-Bans repeated. The boatload of thugs did not strike him as a whimsical group, and he managed to look skeptical behind his opaque glasses. But no crime had been committed as far as he could tell. 'So Clem, whaddya want us to do?'
Clem Sanders savored the moment. His boat was taller than the others, and he loomed on the deck like a preacher casting his blessing across the waters. He didn't need to look down to know that the desperadoes in the cigarette were going through a purgatory of helplessness: the ocean revealed guilt even as it offered absolution, and Sanders let the guilty squirm. He cleared his throat, scanned the sky. To the north, the low land of the Keys was just barely visible, a smudge on the horizon. To the south was the indigo ribbon of the Gulf Stream, winding its way to the ends of the earth.
'No need to trouble about these people,' he said at last. 'But if you'd be so kind as to cruise on in with us-'
Sandra suddenly got up from the stern settee. Her hair was mussed, her pale skin was splotched pink with sun and fear, but she managed to sound calm and self-contained, poised within her own crisp outline. 'Mr. Sanders, would it be O.K. if Joey and I rode in with you?'
The little flotilla bobbed in the water, the guardsmen finally brought their rifles to their sides, and Clem Sanders smiled like a politician pinching babies. 'Well, of course, little lady. If you like.'
Sandra smiled as one of the marine cops reached a hand to help her over the gunwale. Joey followed. But if he felt relief, Charlie Ponte squelched it in a second.
'See ya later,' the little mobster said. He tried to make it sound casual and friendly. It didn't. 'We got a date.'
Joey just nodded, then trailed Sandra as she climbed a rusty ladder that brought them to Clem Sanders's side. Lines were uncleated, fenders brought in. Above the noise of starting engines, the treasure hunter said to Joey, 'Kid, what the hayle you doin' here? You said you wanted to stay outta the public part.'
'Those guys,' said Joey, by way of answer, 'they like persuaded me to change my mind.'
Very Key West. The scene at Mallory Dock was very Key West.
As the crew was tying up, Joey looked out from the deck of the salvage craft. Pier bums, their beards stiff with salt and old food, were milling around, sucking their gums. Aging hippies with gray feet swarmed toward the spectacle like pigeons to a tower. But mostly Joey saw cameras. Local cable crews, network gangs from Miami, tourists with video zooms-they were all there to document this old Key West tradition, this miracle of money coming
