Ed Lacy - Blonde Bait

“That's the story, Hal,” I said, nodding at the wall clock as I stood up. “Time and tide, and all that—I have to go. The point is, I bought the dream deal and it's worked ever since. It was kicks seeing you and perhaps we'll run into each other again. But do me one favor. Don't ever ask around about me.”

“Mickey, I never saw you,” Hal said, following me up and out to the cockpit, his face ready to bust with questions. I didn't say a word but started the Diesels. Hal nodded as he listened to them, said, “Good clean power.”

Making sure the sail tracks and slides were clear, I started to untie the main sail from the boom, had the halyard ropes ready. I pulled the fenders on board as Hal jumped on the dock without my telling him, and tossed me the bow line. He couldn't hold his curiosity in any longer. As Hal untied the stern line he asked, “Mickey, how long ago was all this?”

“It wasn't yesterday.”

“But you're still able to tell it word for word?”

“Don't put me on the witness stand, Hal. I'd hardly forget something like this, or any of the details.”

“What happened to the first Sea Princess?”

“Rammed by a freighter and went down,” I said, lying smoothly. “Good-bye, Hal. Stern line.”

He threw me the line as he asked, “But Mickey, what happened?”

“We made Cuba after a rough trip,” I said, and put the wheel over as the Sea Princess pulled away from the dock. I waved at him.

“But the girl?” he shouted. “Where did she come from? How did she ever get on the island? And the gun and the money? Why was she on the run?”

The satisfaction I felt at this moment was almost childish. I knew it, yet I was enjoying it to the hilt. As the Sea Princess swung out to the harbor, headed for the channel, I called back, “You want the truth, Harold?”

“Of course,” he yelled.

“You forget that balance,” I yelled back.

He cupped his hands in front of his lips. “Mickey, you said the truth!”

“Okay,” I shouted back, giving the motors the gun. “This is the truth: I never bothered asking her!”

I didn't have the nerve to turn around and look at his stunned face.

II

For the last nine months or so Rose and I had been living in the Cayman Islands, about five hundred miles from Haiti. I went to Cuba for supplies every two months, or to Port-au-Prince, or to Kingston. Of course I could have bought most of what we needed in Georgetown, on Grand Cayman, but Rose was leery of us attracting attention, insisted I go elsewhere.

It usually took me about a week to make the journey to Haiti, and less to Cuba. I always anchored at night because there was a lot of boat traffic, and also I didn't know the waters well enough to take a chance on lashing the wheel while I got some shut-eye. I had mixed feelings about these little trips. I like to travel so I looked forward to them as a change from our little island, and I was also jittery. Rose would never go along and I was always surprised to find her when I returned, somehow expecting her to vanish as mysteriously as she had appeared. I think in the beginning she had the same feeling about me, that I might be taking off with the money she gave me for supplies. The money was a big problem with us for a time. In fact it took a hurricane to straighten Rose out about me and money. But I left the money with her when I went for supplies and that made me nervous, figuring she might be robbed or killed if anybody else got wind of the dough.

Now, as I sat by the wheel, waving at beat-up fishing boats, keeping the Sea Princess down to her sailing lines and racing toward Jamaica, I kept thinking about Hal. I'd lied to him. While that grandstand exit of mine was true— I never had asked Rose what she was running from—still, I sure wanted to. Not because I gave much of a damn as to what she had done. I was very fond of Rose and a man likes to know his woman's life almost as well as he knows her body. In time, piecemeal, she had told me much about herself, her childhood... but when it came to how and why she'd been on that two-bit Florida Key, Rose clammed up tight.

I never saw a woman, or a man, so terribly frightened. They—or he—or she—had really put fear into Rose. And it wasn't the type of fright that eased with time. Like I wanted her to sail with me to Haiti and Cuba, to see the sights, the towns, but she had this deadly fear of being around Americans, or tourists of any kind. On “our” island with Ansel and his family, the other islanders, she was at ease. But let her see a stranger, especially an American, and Rose went stiff with fear.

It was crazy because generally Rose is like me: an easygoing character too dumb to worry about things. Her fear didn't worry me—it annoyed me. I was getting a wee bit bored with the life we were leading. We had money and Rose was a beautiful woman and at times I would get to thinking how we could live it up—for awhile—in Miami or New York. I'd never lived big in my life and now the money gave me the itch.

But it was out until I knew the kind of jam Rose was in, for I sure didn't want to risk anything happening to her. That was what she couldn't understand—if I knew what the trouble was I might be able to protect her better. Like my showing off for Hal instead of buttoning my lip. Of course Hal was okay, but unless I knew what the score was, I could easily talk out of turn without even knowing it. A guy can't make like a dummy all the time.

But after one or two indirect attempts, I gave up asking Rose what she was running from. Merely asking could send her into a rage. In a way it didn't make sense; even if she had killed somebody, Rose shouldn't have been so scared outside the USA.

Once in Trinidad I met up with a retired army officer from Chicago. He was under forty-five and a real angle sharpie. He had retired on physical disability—“something” wrong with his back—and we met while racing underwater. Once a month he received the Chicago papers and had about a year's backlog in his bungalow. Since murder is generally nationwide news, I told my swimming buddy I wanted to check an old track bet and spent a few hours thumbing through the papers—starting two weeks before I found Rose on the Key. All I came up with was bloodshot eyes.

Of course, in various ways, I found out a great deal about Rose. Sometimes I was blunt about it. The day we sailed from the Key for Cuba I asked, “What's your name?”

“I told you, I'm Nancy and...”

“Honey, remember the dream-busters? We may be stopped by custom and/or the Coast Guard in Cuba, or anyplace else. My papers are okay: I have to keep them that way.”

“Can't you put me down as your wife?”

“Sure, but what's my darling wife's name?”

“Rose Marie Brown.”

“Brown? Come on, papers are the one thing on a boat that can throw...”

“It happens to be true! There are people named Smith, Brown, and Jones.”

“Okay. You're now Mrs. Mickey Whalen. We were married this morning in Key West but left the license and other papers at 'home.' The name is spelt M-i-k-i but pronounced Mickey. I'm part Greek and Portuguese. My grandpop came out of the Cape Verde Islands.”

“Whalen isn't a Greek name.”

“I once asked my old man about that. He said his father was a sailor and called Whalen because he was always on long whaling voyages. Anyway, it's my legal name. My old man was born and died in the USA with it. He was a sponge fisherman.”

“My Dad is dead, too. He was a streetcar conductor. When I was a kid, I'd spend some afternoons riding up front with him. It was a charge.”

The trip to Havana was rough and most of the time she stayed in the cabin, seasick. I tried to explain she would do better stretching out in the cockpit but she kept to my bunk.