Randy White - Hunter's moon

The woman called, “Harry! What the hell’s going on?”

The program director turned long enough to make a calming motion- No big deal -then pointed down the hall, mouthing the words Be right there.

So far, though, it was just the five us, plus the drunken anchorman. Danson had been babbling most of the way as Shana patted his head, and fed leading questions.

“Who’s the stupidest network anchor, Walt? Any of them ever accept sex for favors, Walt?”

Danson was drunk, but he was also cagey. I noticed he began softening his replies, throwing some compliments in-his reporter’s bullshit alarm going off, maybe, sobering the receptors. Did he know what she was doing?

“My darling girl, don’t you wish you had that beautiful little tape recorder I gave you for Christmas? Why… you could try to blackmail me with some of those questions.”

Yes, he knew.

Then, as we dumped him on the bed, Danson turned it around on the woman, saying, “Shana, you fool-you really think Harry’s coming back? We work for different networks, sweetie. New York calls a program director this late? There’s something big going on. He wants you to play nursemaid. But the son of a bitch doesn’t fool me.” Suddenly, the old anchorman was sitting, not sounding so drunk now, as he picked up the phone.

I said, “If that’s all you need, we’d better get going,” nudging Tomlinson, then Wilson, toward the door. But Tim, the Gnome, didn’t move.

“Hey,” he said, “what about a little something for the cause?” He put his huge hand out, palm up.

The woman was concentrating on the anchorman, who was saying into the phone, “Yes, the Walt Danson, young lady. And if you care about your career, you’d better get Bentley on the line immediately.” Weaving, eyes glassy, he used his TV voice to mitigate the slurring-an old pro used to rallying from a whiskey haze.

The Gnome cleared his throat. “Has the service been satisfactory, ma’am?”

The woman ignored him until he cleared his throat again. “Stop that disgusting noise! What do you want?”

Gnome said, “The mean guy promised us money,” as the anchorman snapped, “Hello… Baker? Yes, I know Harry’s on the other line. But I’m still managing editor, so he will take my call. Jesus… I’ll wait… but not very goddamn long!”

The woman started to say to the Gnome, “Yeah? Well, I didn’t promise to pay you-” but then gave up, whispering That jerk as she pointed at her purse, which was on the bed near Wilson. “Hand that to me.”

Wilson leaned to get the purse but fumbled it and the purse fell. He knelt to retrieve what spilled onto the floor.

The woman was coming around the bed, saying “Clumsy old fool,” as I moved between her and the president, telling everyone, “Forget about the tip. We’re leaving now.”

In the abrupt silence that followed, I realized I’d just said something that no waiter would ever say.

The woman was oblivious. But Danson noticed. As he waited for Bentley, he put his hand over the phone and stared at me. After a moment, he said, “You work hotel maintenance?”

Even drunk, he’d caught that.

Before I could answer, the president replied, “Yes, sir, he does,” sounding smooth and Southern. “Personally, I’d be very happy to accept any gratuity you kind people might offer.”

Head down, Wilson handed the purse to the woman with a slight bow-the compliant servant.

Danson was still staring, thinking about it. Interested but drunk, having trouble focusing as he turned his attention from me to Wilson. “How long have you been in Key West?”

“Longer than I planned to be, sir.”

“You’re from Georgia. No… the Carolinas.” The anchorman stumbled over Carolinas, but he got it out.

“You have an educated ear, sir.”

“Your face-is that a birthmark?”

The woman snapped, “Walt! Why the hell do you care?” as Wilson touched his cheek. “No, a fire. Not so long ago.”

“You look familiar.”

“Maybe so. We often remember people by their scars.”

“It’s not that. You remind me of someone.” Danson turned to the woman who was handing a wad of bills to the Gnome. “Who’s that actor? On the HBO series? He looks a little like him,” but then Danson’s attention suddenly returned to the phone. New York was on the line.

“It’s about time, Bentley! Tell me everything you told that asshole Harry. Who’s missing?”

I took the Gnome by the wrist and pulled him along, trailing Wilson and Tomlinson across the room.

The president had his hand on the doorknob as the old anchorman said “My God” in a whisper before gathering himself. “Yes. I would say it’s one hell of a story.”

The Gnome said, “Call if we can be of assistance,” to the woman who paid no attention because she was sitting on the bed now, eyes eager, listening to Danson say, “Yes, well… that’s the question. Kidnapped or did he just take off? Where was he last seen?”

I held the door, waiting to file out, staying calm, hearing Danson say, “Florida? We’re in Florida. Check his bio-wasn’t he stationed in Key West for a while? Christ, for all we know, he’s someplace around here.”

I was imagining the anchorman’s eyes boring into my back as I stepped into the hall.

As the door swung closed, Danson was saying, “That’s what I’m saying. For a wimp like Kal Wilson to do something so crazy? It means he’s gone insane.”

Twenty minutes after midnight, under sail aboard No Mas, President Wilson dropped his headphones on the galley table and pushed the telegraph key away. “Damn. He’s either not receiving or he’s afraid to send.”

“Your contact on the mainland?”

“It’s Vue. I can tell you that now. He has a similar setup on Ligarto Island.” Meaning, the shortwave transmitter.

The reason the president could tell us was that we’d pulled anchor and were under way. Five hours ahead of schedule. Presumably, we’d be together for the next three days, on our way to Mexico. No risk of security breaches.

Tomlinson was at the wheel. As we talked, the sailboat’s engine cavitated, the hull shuddered. No Mas rolled, cookware rattling, then resumed her beam-sea rhythm. He was steering south toward the sea channel, the darkness of the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

“I knew the Secret Service would figure out I was gone. But I was hoping to have at least a couple of days head start.” Wilson had said variations of the same over the last hour.

I was wondering about the man’s timing. Would being discovered endanger whatever it was he had planned? I decided the subject was taboo for now. Instead, I asked, “What will the Secret Service do to Vue?”

“Hopefully, he saw it coming and got off the island. He works for me, not the Secret Service. But he’s good at anticipating what the agents are thinking.

“I left a letter in my cabin, handwritten, exonerating him. I said I was leaving because I wanted time alone. That Vue didn’t know I’d left until it was too late to stop me.”

“If he didn’t see it coming?”

“Taken by surprise? They’d put Vue in a room and question him for a long, long time-pointless, because he won’t tell them anything.”

Even so, Wilson was troubled by the prospect of his friend being detained. His hands disseminated, boxing the transmitter, coiling the antenna. My guess: He had been counting on Vue’s help throughout the trip.

Wilson straightened for a moment, alert to a change in the sea. He’d taken off the goatee but not the synthetic scar. I watched him cross the cabin and press his face to the porthole. “We’re passing Fort Taylor, the old Key West sub base. Wray and I spent a few nights at the Truman Summer White House; his personal quarters-another perk of being president. You’d be amazed at how simple the furnishings are. Politicians weren’t treated like royalty in those days.”