Randy White - Dead of Night

It was an hour before sunset; a bright, late afternoon. The shark’s pupils looked like obsidian bands set into molten gold. The eyes were goatlike from a distance. Closer, the impression changed. A shark’s retina has a prominent visual streak: a lucent horizontal band due to higher cell density in both cone and ganglion layers. Because of the streak, the eyes reminded me of a faraway nebula that I’ve seen many times through my telescope. The nebula is found in the belt of the constellation Orion.

That glittering streak on the optic disc, silver on gold, gave the impression that there was astronomy in the shark’s eyes. Comet streaks, galactic swirls, and the black vacuum of space.

I walked it another twenty minutes before I risked turning the big fish onto its belly again. It was soon conscious, but remained docile. I paid close attention, gauging the steadiness and the strength of its caudal stroke. The respiratory system was working, flushing water through its gills. Its head swung in opposition to its tail.

I continued to walk against the tide; walked until the animal began to thrash against my grip. I held it for a few moments longer, then released it with a firm and final push toward deeper water. He swam tentatively, as if dazed, big dorsal cutting the water… then exploded-torpedoing off at speed, throwing a burrowing wake.

Behind me, I was surprised to hear applause coming from the boats.

I waved Rona to shore and climbed aboard.

“That was incredible,” she said as I toweled off. She was bubbly, energized. “I’m so darn glad I came. I was dreading the trip… but to see something like that…”

I’d been cleaning my glasses but stopped. “Dreading what? I don’t get it.”

I watched her excitement drain. “Watching you save that shark, I’d almost forgotten. I wish I could forget. I wanted to wait, though, until you were done working before I told you.”

What the woman had come to tell me was that my friend Dr. Frieda Matthews had been involved in a terrible accident.

Serpiente

Talking on his motel phone, Frieda’s husband, Bob, had told Dasha, “My wife’s got the computer with her, but she won’t be home until late this afternoon. Should I have her call FedEx? Or I can give you her cell phone number.”

Jesus. The guy had the mentality of an eight-year-old. He was open to any stranger with a question.

Dasha repeated the number aloud while Aleski, sitting beside her in the white Mitsubishi SUV, wrote in his notebook.

One of Mr. Sweet’s stooge vice presidents at Tropicane Sugar had already told her that Frieda Matthews had been snooping around, asking questions about her dead brother. She claimed she was going to review his work, visit some of the water sample sites personally.

“They’re all remote places,” the stooge VP had told her. “Not easy to find.”

Dasha liked remote places. But she much preferred Mr. Sweet’s Bahamas retreat to this isolated section of Central Florida, miles of sugarcane planted close to narrow asphalt. Black earth that smelled of chemicals; vultures perched hump-shouldered on wires above their SUV rental as they sat parked on the side of the road making phone calls.

She now dialed the Tropicane VP a second time. The man’s secretary put her right through.

Dasha said to him, “I have a number for you to dial. Yes? Ask Dr. Matthews where her next stop will be, then call me with directions. Tell her we’d like to talk, share some stories about her brother.”

The stooge said he’d do it. Didn’t ask why, his manner making it clear he didn’t want to know.

Dasha started the car and touched a button, lowering her window.

There was that chemical stink again, but it was warm at least. The woman loved heat.

They’d flown in that morning, just the two of them and their pilot, Aleski’s cousin Broz. Came in one of Mr. Sweet’s three private aircraft, the Piper Malibu, a sevenseater prop plane that had three seats removed because it was used mostly to carry supplies. The man’s personal aircraft was a Gulfstream business jet; range: 6,000 miles, cruising speed: 550 knots. No one else was allowed to ride in the thing. Germs in a contained space? Unthinkable.

Mr. Earl would come later in the third plane, a refitted DC-3 cargo plane. It had a bed in the back, a VCR and stereo system. Nice.

The Piper was okay. Economical and fast. It covered the 187 nautical miles between Cay Sal Bank and West Palm Beach, where they cleared customs, in less than an hour.

The customs people recognized them. The “Vitamin Crew”-that’s the way they were known-always puddle-jumping back and forth, hauling supplies.

Inspectors hustled them through.

From West Palm, they’d barely gotten off the ground before they were landing again at Tropicane’s private airstrip between Kissimmee and Belle Glade. The rental was waiting, and now they’d been on the road less than an hour, things already falling into place.

Aleski rode in silence for a few minutes, the hectares of sugarcane reminding him of Cuba, his mind drifting, before he asked, “When we find this woman, how do you want to work it?”

Dasha said, “Remember the Greenie Weenie who started getting nosey? Maybe handle it the same way. Rent a storage garage, pay a year in advance. A place to dump this car. Maybe the body, too, depending on how it goes. Lock the doors, and fly out. Thirteen, fourteen months later, they find her. Maybe never.”

“Did you bring the drug?”

He meant the stuff Dr. Stokes provided. Hypodermics and a vial of something called Versed. Ten ccs would knock a two-hundred-pound man to his knees in seconds. Keep him out for half an hour, if that’s what she wanted. But the amount had to be right. Too much and he’d go into respiratory arrest.

Sometimes she wanted that, too.

Dasha told Aleski, “Yes, I have the hypodermic kit. But we don’t have to use it on the woman. Not right away, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Aleski had a deep, slow voice that fit his slow, slow intellect. But there was a little touch of excitement mixed in when they discussed Frieda Matthews. Dasha could guess why. He’d found a photo of the woman on the Internet. She wasn’t bad looking, with her short hair, the smile, the outdoorsy body.

Aleski liked what he saw.

“If we have time… if there’s no one around when we get to this storage garage, would it be possible for me… because I’ve been working so hard lately. Would it be okay for me to have a little fun? I haven’t had fun for a very long time.”

Oh yes, the man was excited. Dasha smiled, knew what was going to come next. “Of course, Aleski. You deserve your fun.”

“You could be there. In the same room, if you wanted, Dasha. I wouldn’t mind so much.”

He threw it out there as if it were a new idea.

“Would you like that?”

“I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Always the same.

The first few times, she’d found what the man did to women interesting. Once it had even excited her, because the woman was very beautiful even though she was in her fifties. Intriguing, the way a mature woman dealt with pain and humiliation. Now, though, the thought of seeing Aleski naked made her cringe. Even so, she said, “Whatever makes you happy. You are my partner.”

He grinned wickedly. “Yes, we are the best of partners! You give me such nice presents to unwrap! My little moodozvon pimp.”

Russian profanity. It was a game they played.

Dasha said she wasn’t a pimp; Aleski was a brainless bull, adding, “Ti deegeneeraat zasranees!” You’re a degenerate asshole!

He shot back, “Bliad! Yob tvoyu mat!” Whore! I would like to screw your mother!

“Shliushka? Pizda na palochke? Da, pajalsta.” That slut on a stick? Please do.