'You weren't tempted?'
She laughed. 'Maybe on the Cat Island thing. He was a good looking guy.'
We sat, sipped the champagne, and watched darkness descend swiftly on the quiet harbor. The only distraction was the ever present humming of highway traffic, blowing of car horns, and squealing of brakes.
Shortly before eight, we secured Picaroon and drove to Guy Robins' house. Kathy and Mildred Robins were fast friends ten minutes after they met. Guy and I went out back to cook. He worked his magic blackening the red fish. The entire evening was pleasant. Dinner was superb with a lightly chilled 1998 Soave Classico superior from Verona, Italy. We stayed until midnight.
We drove back to Picaroon and parked in one of the spaces reserved for slip 117. The headlights from the car illuminated the stern of the boat and something else, a man trying to get into the hatch. He didn't seem to be concerned about the headlights.
Telling Kathy to stay in the car, I cut the lights and reached for my trusty old. 357 magnum. It was not there. Then I remembered putting it below with my gear this morning. Easing out of the car, I walked to the edge of the pier. The figure still had his back to me, oblivious to the world around him. Jumping into the cockpit, and grabbing the man, I felt the cuts on my feet open up.
He was an old man smelling of gin and cigarettes. His blurry eyes looked at me with little understanding. He had wet himself.
'It's okay, old timer. You're on the wrong boat.'
'By God, laddie, I might be. My boat is the Gin Mill. Would you point me that way, kind sir?'
'What slip number?'
'I believe it is 121.'
After getting the drunk settled aboard his boat, I returned to Picaroon. We opened all the hatches and portholes to let the gentle breeze cool the cabin. Taking off my shoes, I saw that the cuts had not bled much, which meant they were healing.
'Jay, I'm going to bed. I know you have a rough day tomorrow.'
'Take the Vee-birth. I'll see you before I leave.'
She kissed me gently, softly, and went below.
An hour later, I eased down the companionway ladder and lay quietly on the portside bunk. Kathy was snoring softly; the accordion door separating the cabins half closed. The boat gently rocked on its mooring. I slid into a restless sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A warm hand touched my face. Half asleep, I turned into it as one does a lover's caress. Then I bolted upright, grabbing the arm roughly and twisting.
Kathy rolled with the motion, went from a grimace to a smile as I lessened the grip. 'Remind me never to wake you again. Coffee is ready.' She rubbed her wrist, brushed a hand through her hair, and smiled with an expression that held secret amusement.
'What time is it?'
'Seven-thirty.' Her mouth formed a sensual shape that reminded me it was good to be alive. 'Would you like some breakfast?'
'Thanks.'
Saying good-bye to Kathy, I left for Ocean Springs. Traffic was horrendous along the four-lane highway. Giant casinos were built on almost every available foot of beachfront property, some of the hotels bigger than those in Las Vegas and Atlantic City. One bragged of seventeen hundred rooms, the sixth largest hotel in the nation.
Dockside gambling, something I've never understood the definition of, had saved the economy on the coast, but it brought with it the evils inherent to the industry; the Mafia, drugs, prostitution, corruption, inflated real estate, and violent murder in all its hideous forms.
Passing by the Biloxi lighthouse, I could see Moran's Art Studio off to my left. The sun was blinding as I crossed the Biloxi Bay Bridge that withstood, for the most part, the ravages of Hurricane Camille in nineteen sixty nine.
Pulling into the parking lot of Joe Glossman's office, I sat for a moment enjoying the fresh, salt-tinged morning air, listening to the ping of the car's engine as it cooled. The building was in a trendy, rehabbed district, where the exteriors of old homes were converted into cafes, artist's studios, and shops. Down the block was the museum hosting the works of Walter Anderson, located next door to the community center where his infamous murals have been restored and revered. Taking my files, I got out and walked into a moment I'll never forget.
Glossman's secretary ushered me quickly into the inner office. Bill Moran stood beside Joe's desk, leaning over, conferring with him. To my left, sitting on a small sofa, were two men who, to the trained eye, had Federal Agent written all over them. They stood when I came in, arms at their sides, jackets unbuttoned.
Glossman stood and shook my hand. I nodded at Bill. 'Good, you are early. This is Agent Evans and Agent Mallory, from the FBI office in New Orleans. They are the two who did most of the leg work for us.'
The two agents extended their hands. Both had strong, firm handshakes. Dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and red ties, they seemed in top physical shape. One had black hair and hard, brown eyes, and a Jay Leno chin. The other was blond with a crew cut that I admired. His eyes were clear, blue, piercing, and almost acquisitive.
'Mr. Leicester,' Agent Mallory said. 'I've read your dossier. You lead an interesting life.' He looked at me, and then I noticed something about him. The sleepy appearance created by his drooping lids was deceptive, for the eyes beneath were alert and hard and calculating.
'My dossier…?'
Glossman spoke. 'Jay, have a seat. There are some things we need to discuss before Lynn arrives.'
Sitting down in the plain, though elegant office, I lay my small, flexible briefcase on the floor beside the chair and admired, again, the Moran painting behind Glossman's desk. The office reeked with the after-shave of five men. I wanted to open a window.
Bill Moran came and sat across from me, leaving a high-backed, leather chair between us. There was a tension in the room that had an electric quality. The cool leather on the arm of my chair felt expensive, and the deep pile of the carpet gave me a feeling of walking on air. Looking around the room, I felt financially inept and uneducated.
Glossman pressed a button on his desk and immediately his secretary entered with a silver tray that held delicate cups and saucers and an urn filled with coffee. There was an extra cup for Lynn, who was now five minutes late.
We finished our business and Glossman turned behind him and picked up a small white phone. He spoke softly for a moment, then replaced the instrument back on the credenza. 'The airplane was delayed coming out of Jackson. Lynn left our hangar ten minutes ago, should arrive momentarily.'
Lynn was escorted into the room a few moments later. I had forgotten how truly beautiful this woman was; the blond hair, blue eyes, high, sharp, cheekbones, little makeup, long firm legs. All this, added to the perfectly proportioned six-foot frame, created a synergism that would make most men cater to her every wish. She wore the same musk oil perfume that had so overwhelmed my small office on her first visit.
As if on command, we all stood when she entered. She looked quickly at me, then at the two other men, and at Joe Glossman and Bill Moran. There was an interval of silence, and when she sat down I heard the faint rustle of wool over nylon as she crossed her legs, the movement raising her skirt to uncover her lower thigh, its white flesh darkened by her stockings. The glimpse wasn't provocative, but struck me as something I wasn't supposed to see. I fastened my gaze on her face.
Glossman intoned in a fatherly voice. 'Lynn, before we begin our business meeting Jay will give us his final report on Rene's death. When he concludes, we will move on to the changeover of your father's company and Jay can leave us.'
'Very well.' She settled comfortably, confidently into the confines of the leather chair. Crossing her legs, again, the skirt rode even higher on her thighs. Tugging self-consciously at it, she looked at me silently for a moment. It was an odd look, as if from a great distance. 'Jay, I'm so glad to see that you are okay. Joe told me