Paul Levine - Riptide

“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?”

The dark-haired man whirled around, revealing a naked look of surprise, almost fear, Lassiter thought. After an awkward moment of silence, Humberto Hernandez-Zaldivar said, “Jake, mi amigo, good to see you.”

Lassiter kept running in place. “Berto, what’re you doing here?”

Silence.

Lassiter had questioned enough witnesses to read the look on Berto’s face. He’s making it up, winging it.

“I thought I would find out what you saw in this windsurfing,” Berto said finally. He was wearing shorts and rubber thongs and a sleeveless top with tiny holes for air vents, a look popular in Little Havana. He nervously twirled a finger around his heavy gold chain.

Next to Berto was an Asian girl who looked about fifteen but must have been the flight attendant he’d mentioned in the restaurant. Then a bare-chested man slowly stood up from where he was crouching in the sand like Johnny Bench behind the plate.

Keaka Kealia.

Jake Lassiter stopped running in place and stood there with his hands on his hips, breathing hard. No one spoke.

Keaka’s board was pulled up on the beach, resting on its side in the shadow of the lighthouse, much farther out of the water than necessary to protect it from the shore break. Now what the hell was going on, Berto collecting autographs? Seemed like he should have more pressing things on his mind, like staying out of sight. The DEA agent was nowhere to be seen. A sniper could pick him off from the sand dunes, if there really were assassins.

Berto smiled and regained his composure. “Jake, this is Lee Hu, sweetest tiger lily in the land, and I think you know Keaka Kealia.”

“Hello, Lee Hu. Berto, I didn’t know you and Keaka were acquainted.”

“Just met,” Berto said. “Thought I might open a ski shop out west, have windsurfing equipment for summer business. Who better to talk to than the best, right, Keaka?”

Berto’s head swiveled to Keaka Kealia, looking for help, but the Hawaiian was silent. Lee Hu looked down at her tiny feet, and Lassiter looked too: nails painted glossy red, her toes positively edible. Her halter top was plastered against her small body by the November easterly. Long black hair fell in bangs in the front and straight to her shoulders in back, where the wind tossed it leeward. The total impression, Lassiter thought, was one of childlike sensuality.