Robert Stone - A Flag for Sunrise

“I don’t see ’em every day. But I’m familiar with the weapon.”

“We may be dealing with unpleasant people and we may have to defend ourselves. How’s that grab you?”

“That’s how it always is,” Pablo said. After a moment, he said: “I hope you’re not talking about the U.S. Coast Guard.”

“Christ,” Negus said to him, “you think we plan to shoot it out with the goddamn U.S. Coast Guard? I was hoping you had more sense than that.”

“We won’t be dealing with any U.S. authorities. We’re not working in their jurisdiction and it’s unlikely we’ll even see them. So don’t worry about that.”

“Local-type cops, maybe?”

“Not too likely either. If we have that kind of problem we tend to run. We’re a lot faster than we look. Thanks to our engineer.”

Pablo surmised that Mr. Callahan was referring, to Tino. He nodded.

“It’s thieves I’m thinking about. We have a few exchanges to make with various parties that we’d like to see secure. Just so everybody keeps their side of the bargain.”

Pablo sipped his rum with satisfaction. It was everything he might have hoped.

“You got the right man, no shit, Mr. Callahan. I never backed out of a hassle in my life and I never let my people down neither.”

“We your people?” Negus asked him.

“You treat me right, you’re my people. Anybody that knows me knows that.”

“We don’t let our people down either, Pablo,” Callahan told him solemnly, “and we’ve been in business a long time.”

Pablo raised his hands, palms up.

“Good enough!”

Mr. Callahan rose to his feet. “Let’s have another drink, compañeros.… Deedee,” he called to the galley, “come and have one with us.” He started toward the single step that led up to the galley space and in climbing, tripped and staggered. Negus and Tino exchanged looks as he did so. For a moment, the Callahans whispered together in the galley, then returned; Deedee Callahan carried a tray with the bottles of rum and of tonic and some iced glasses. When she had settled herself in a captain’s chair everyone except Tino poured himself another drink. Then it seemed Mrs. Callahan was lighting a joint. She passed it to her husband, who passed it to Tino. Tino took two deep tokes and passed it on to Pablo. On this occasion he smoked some and passed the joint to Negus. Negus passed it back to Deedee Callahan without taking any. It went around again in the same fashion and then Mr. Callahan declined a third toke.

“Das all for me,” Tino said.

“Me, too,” said Pablo.

“Well,” said Mrs. Callahan, “the more for me.”

Pablo felt her eyes on him. He looked through the smoke into their blue watchfulness.

Tino stood up suddenly.

“Goin’ forward,” he announced. “Got to watch de bottom out here.”

“What about your chow?” Negus called after him, but he was gone.

Mrs. Callahan leaned back in her chair and finished the joint. Callahan was pouring himself another drink, Negus moodily finishing the one in his hand. The woman worked her joint down to a ring of resin, balancing it on her lip with a hemostat. When it was finished, she put the hemostat away.

“Want to help me out, Pablo?”

“Sure,” Pablo said.

From the galley, they could see Tino sitting in one of the cockpit chairs, his head and shoulders faintly green in the unnatural light of the Fathometer. A soft merengue was coming in over the UHF; Pablo watched Mrs. Callahan’s lower body, encased in the tightest of faded denim jeans, sway mellifluously to its beat. She was gathering metal plates from an overhead dish rack. For the first time he noticed a printed sign posted over the stove that read you BETTER BELIZE IT. When she turned to him he was laughing at the sign.

“What’s funny, pardner?” She smiled and brushed the damp hair from around her eyes. He could not tell how old she was — forty, more or less. Her face was lean, creased around the eyes, sun-cured. When she set the dishes down on the counter beside the stove, he felt her breast brush his bare arm, the nipple distinct and distended under the soft cotton of her sweat shirt.

“Just feelin’ good,” Pablo said.

“Feelin’ good is easy,” Mrs. Callahan said. She said it with such gravity that he felt compelled to reflection.

“No,” he said after a moment. “Not so easy.”

They watched each other, locked in the drug; she was looking at him with wary amusement, still easing to the merengue.

“Funny kind of boat this is,” Pablo said.

“Yes,” Deedee Callahan assured him. “This is your basic funny boat. Now do something for me, Pablo. Give the boys their vittles.”

She took the steak from the pan and placed a strip on each of the five dishes. On each dish she spooned out some of the greens from the stewpot, then handed two of the plates to Tabor. She winked at him and motioned with her head toward the dining compartment.

Pablo did not chafe under his servitude. He served Negus and Mr. Callahan graciously, setting the steaming plates before them.

I goddamn well got her, he was thinking. Any old damn time.

When he went back into the galley she gave him a plate for Tino in the cockpit. He brought it forward and placed it on the chart table; Tino gave him a brief bad eye in return. Pablo smiled. The man must know, he thought, what was passing between himself and Mrs. Callahan.

There was a plate for him steaming in the galley; he brought it down to the table and seated himself across from Negus and Callahan. Mrs. Callahan joined them presently, carrying her own plate and some salsa, salt and pepper on a tray. The Cloud took the gentle seas with a slow fore-and-aft pitch.

“Beats shrimping,” Pablo said, breaking the silence that had settled over the dinner table. He assaulted his tenderized steak with concentration.

“We’ll do some shrimping by and by,” Mr. Callahan told him. “But as you have undoubtedly surmised — shrimping is not how we make our way through life.”

“Yeah,” Pablo said. “I surmised that.”

“What else you surmised?” Negus asked him.

“You told me not to ask questions, cap,” Pablo said, “so I didn’t ask you any.” He looked around the table. “I’m easy to get along with.”

“Fred,” Mr. Callahan said to Negus, “you’re the best seaman in the world but you’re a balls of a politician.” He turned his soft look on Pablo. “What we’re wondering, fella — you being lately in the Coast Guard and all that — is what you make of us. We’re interested in your educated guess.”

“O.K.,” Pablo said. “You’re running something. I would have said dope but I don’t think so now. If you were going up to the States from a Dutch place like St. Joost I’d say diamonds. But you say you’re not messing with the States.” He cut himself another piece of steak. “Computer parts maybe. Calculators, like that. Only this boat’s not big enough for a high-scoring run with that kind of weight. And the whole deal feels sort of heavy-duty. Between one thing and another — guns. That’s a good old-time trade.”

“Yes, it is,” Callahan said.

“If we’re going to Cuba,” Pablo said, “we got our work cut out for us.”

“We’re not going to Cuba.”

“Well, good. If it’s not there it could be any one of ten or a dozen places. There’s lots of petty-ass politics down here, right? I don’t even follow it.”

“All right,” Callahan said. “Let me give you the word on a need-to-know basis as it were. You don’t need to know where we’re going. In a day or two we’ll be in Nieuw Utrecht on St. Joost taking on ice and groceries. After dark we’re loading cargo on the other side of the island. What we want from you is a little help with the groceries and what we especially want is you standing by while we take on the cargo. Also when we deliver it, because that’s the moment of truth, hombre . You’ll get to do some shrimping tomorrow night too, in case you’re interested.”