Stuart Woods - Fast and Loose

“Oh, come on.”

“I am unaccustomed to self-induced discomfort,” Stone said. “That’s why I gave up camping.”

“What do you have against camping?” she asked.

“I don’t like sleeping on the hard ground in a tent, and mosquitoes carry disease.”

“You don’t like the outdoors?”

“Not for some things. Think of me as a great indoorsman.”

Jake arrived at the Boathouse and found his two operatives there, lingering over coffee. “Where’s the boat?” he asked.

“Two o’clock and a hundred meters,” the man said.

Jake surveyed the scene. “See that clump of bushes, about thirty yards from the stern of the boat?”

“Got it.”

“Pick up the briefcase and get over there. Assemble the rifle and silencer inside and put a round into the boat.”

“Where into the boat?”

“Below the waterline,” Jake said, “and near the stern. Don’t hit anybody.”

The man picked up the briefcase and hurried from the restaurant.

“You want to sink them?” Zelda asked.

“Humiliation is almost as good as a gunshot wound,” Jake said.

Five minutes passed, and Jake saw the bushes move. Another two minutes, and he saw a splash near the stern of the boat.

“Stone,” Marisa said.

“What?”

“My shoes are getting wet.”

“Look around — do you see any waves breaking over the boat?”

“I’m not kidding.”

Stone looked down at the space between them and found that his own shoes were getting wet. “We seem to have sprung a leak,” he said, heading for the dock.

By the time he reached it and got Marisa out of the boat, Stone was ankle deep in lake water. With the help of the dockmaster, he wrestled the boat onto the pontoon and tipped it over enough to empty out most of the water. “Are all your boats this leaky?” Stone asked the man.

“None of them, until now. They’ve all been recently refurbished.”

Stone inspected the little hole in the stern, then the sun glinted on copper. He reached into the boat and came back with a jacketed slug.

“What’s that?” the dockmaster asked.

“Something that fell out of my pocket,” Stone replied, looking carefully around for opposition but seeing none.

“Shall we get another boat?” Marisa asked.

“Let’s go home and get some dry shoes,” he said.

Stone and Marisa went upstairs to change, and he dumped his trousers, damp to the calf, into a hamper, along with his sweaty shirt and underwear, and put trees into his wet shoes. At least they had grown up wet, being alligator.

The phone rang, and he sat on the bedside and answered it. “Hello?”

“It’s Ed Rawls. How you doing?”

“I’m not sure,” Stone replied.

“That sounds ominous.”

“I was on the boat lake in Central Park after lunch, and somebody put a round through the stern of my rowboat. I found a.23 slug in the bottom of the boat after we hauled it in.”

“Just sitting there, not in your leg?”

“I figure it must have been fired into the water at the stern, and that took a lot of muzzle velocity off it, otherwise it might have hit one of us.”

“So you were rowing a lady around the Central Park boat lake? That doesn’t sound like you.”

“It doesn’t feel like me, either,” Stone said, “but I was cajoled into it with the promise of better things.”

Rawls chuckled. “Better collect before she forgets.”

“In the meantime, I’ve had a shot across my bows, even if it was into the stern.”

“They’re not going to go on warning you forever,” Ed said. “Maybe it’s time you made a move.”

“Maybe so. You got any suggestions?”

“Well, my source tells me that Macher is spending a few days on St. Clair’s yacht up here,” Rawls said. “I’ve seen the chopper going back and forth from Rockland.”

“You don’t have a rocket-propelled grenade launcher handy, do you?”

“Well, no, but I could probably find you one pretty quick. But that might be more of a statement than you want to make at this point in the game.”

“I guess so.”

“I wouldn’t rule it out for later, though,” Rawls said, “if they hurt somebody. In the meantime there might be another alternative.”

“Tell me.”

Rawls told him.

“I like it,” Stone said. “It’s better than tit for tat, but it doesn’t escalate things to the point where he’ll have to respond with something life-threatening.”

“I’ll take care of it, then,” Rawls said, and the two men hung up.

Marisa had sat down next to him, equally naked. “I seem to recall promising you better things in return for the boat ride.”

She pushed him back onto the bed.

“Do with me as you will,” Stone said.

And she did.

Erik Macher and his guests were just finishing their second bottle of wine with their lunch, when the captain came and motioned for Macher to leave the table.

“What is it?” Macher asked. “We’re having lunch.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the Coast Guard has just hailed us, and they’re coming aboard for an inspection.”

“What kind of inspection?” Macher demanded. He didn’t know anything about boats or the Coast Guard.

“It will be a routine equipment inspection,” the captain said. “They’ll want to see everything on the required emergency equipment list — life rafts, vests, flares, that sort of thing.”

“Is there any reason why that should disturb our lunch?”

“I just wanted you to be aware of their presence,” the captain said. “They’re coming aboard now from a rigid inflatable. Please excuse me.” He went to receive the boarding party.

A moment later, a young woman in uniform appeared in the dining room. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m Lieutenant Graves of the United States Coast Guard. We’ve come aboard to conduct an investigation.”

“An investigation?” Macher said. “I thought this was an equipment check.”

“That, too,” she replied. “Now, I’ll need the names, addresses, dates of birth, and Social Security numbers of everyone aboard, crew and guests, and I’ll need photo IDs for everyone. Please fill out these forms individually.” She distributed documents and pens.

“We’re in the middle of lunch,” Macher said, outraged.

“Not anymore,” she replied. “Please bring the completed forms, one at a time, to the afterdeck. In the meantime, members of my crew will be conducting a search belowdecks for contraband.”

“Contraband? What sort of contraband.”

“We’ll know it when we see it,” she said. “Now please fill out the forms, then come to the afterdeck, one at a time.”

“I’m terribly sorry about this,” Macher said to his guests, “but I suppose we’ll have to permit it.” Everyone began filling out the forms.

Macher brought up the rear of the procession to the afterdeck and handed the lieutenant his completed form. The yacht’s captain was there, watching as she inspected the yacht’s paperwork.

“Mr. Macher, you’re the owner here?”

“The owner, as you will have seen in our registration documents, is a Delaware corporation,” he replied stiffly.

“Do you represent the owner?”

“I am the president and chief executive officer of St. Clair Enterprises, which owns all of the stock in the corporation.”

“Then you are the owner, for the purposes of our investigation.”

“I suppose so.”

“Who, may I ask, occupies the large cabin and sitting room forward in the yacht?”

“That is the owner’s cabin, and I and my companion occupy it.”

“Then,” she said, holding up a zippered plastic bag half-filled with a white powder, “this belongs to you?”