Ed Lacy - Blonde Bait

As we neared Havana I went below and told her, “There's an even chance customs will board us. Open your suitcase and put some clothes over the money. Keep it open and sloppy looking.”

She groaned and mumbled, “I've only the clothes I have on. Can't we hide it in the bilge, or someplace?”

“If they're looking, the first place they'll search will be the bilge or the rope locker. In the drawers, under the bunk, you'll find some of my shirts and stuff. Use them.”

She groaned again, put her hand over her mouth.

“I'll do it,” I said, glancing up through the hatch at the wheel.

Rose staggered to her feet, shaking her head.

I said, “Okay, you do it. And don't make with the suspicious eyes, you can handle the money.”

We slipped into the port of Havana without any trouble. It was late afternoon and the water smooth as glass. Rose came on deck, feeling fine and hungry. I said, “Let's get washed and see the town.”

“You go. I'll stay here.”

“Look, stop worrying about the dough. I'll put it in a safe place and get a kid to watch the boat. A kid I know. Nobody would think of robbing a tub like this.”

She shook her head, staring at the lights on the streets beyond the dock—fright in her eyes. She said, “My dress is wrinkled and dirty.”

“Rose, this ain't no tux I'm wearing.”

“There's too many Americans in Havana—for me!”

I shrugged. “We need food and supplies.”

She turned abruptly, went below. I wondered what she had steam up about. Rose came back on deck, holding a roll of money. “Here's $200, buy what you need. I'll wait.”

I went ashore and shopped fast, certain I'd return to find her gone. But I came back to see her underwear, stockings, and dress, drying on the boom. It was a warm sight. Rose popped out of the cabin with one of my sweatshirts over her bathing suit. She was sure a big woman, the shirt wasn't too loose on her.

We ate the meal I cooked, then sat up on deck, smoking. Glancing at the lights of the city, I said, “Tomorrow night we ought to step out. Havana is noted for its night life. Castro is lifting the lid.”

Rose tossed her cigarette over, watched it fizz out in the water and then went down into the cabin. In the dim light of the one bulb I watched her take off the sweatshirt, peel away the bathing suit. She stood at the steps of the hatchway, her body sun-red and white, shivering slightly, beautiful as every man's dream.

“Can't we make our own night life, Mickey?” she asked.

I tried to be casual as I flew down into the cabin.

We sailed from Havana late in the morning and spent the next few weeks working our way around Cuba. If we saw more than one American tourist in a town, we took off. In Matanzas Rose purchased shorts, jeans, a few plain dresses. Then we sailed to Cabanice Bay, Baracoa, skipped the US navy station near Guantanamo, went on to Manzanille and Cienfuegos. Of course, being a big woman—especially a big platinum blonde—Rose stood out like a Rolls-Royce in these little towns. But when I pointed this out she didn't seem disturbed. In a few weeks I learned her hair was dyed and its natural color was a mild, dirty-brown, which the sun soon bleached to a sandy tan.

In a tiny port called Banes we came across a wonderful cabinet maker. For fifty dollars he came aboard and made a false bottom in the cabinet on which the old alcohol stove rested, and fitted this with a concealed combination lock. Rose put the money in there and seemed more at ease once she had burnt the suitcase. It didn't take me long to make the combination. One morning while she was poking the boat pole in the sand for turtle eggs, and I was supposedly fixing the old motor, I counted the dough. There was $63,500—along with several pads covered with foreign writing: a tight, stingy, and neat penmanship. I thought it was Dutch or Swedish. I couldn't make it out. Rose had this and the money wrapped in oilskins.

Aside from that fast count I never touched a buck she didn't give me. There wasn't any need to. And the loot had me more than a little worried at first—if it was hot green, a place like Cuba is an absolutely wrong spot for passing it; they've seen too much queer money. But the money seemed okay, although often I found myself wondering what my story would be if the police ever came down on us. Not that I worried myself sick over this: most days I'd wake up with the sunlight flooding through one of the portholes and look at Rose sleeping in my arms, and nothing mattered very much.

Rose seemed happy. Unless we were in a fairly large town, or she saw an American man (she wasn't afraid of any women tourists) she didn't seem nervous. Of course living on an old tub like the Sea Princess wasn't exactly luxury. The cabin was cramped and lacked headroom. When it rained it was like being cooped up in a damp cell. Twice I saw her break down and bawl.

But to make up for any hardships, we had many fine days. It would be sunny and dry and we'd wake up and horse around in the bunk, enjoying each other and then maybe sleeping away the whole day. We both loved to sleep. We also enjoyed the same corny jokes and sometimes we'd get off on an old one and laugh all day like kids as we lounged around and maybe killed a bottle. Or we might get up at dawn and fish all day, or when we got the swimming lungs, swim and spear-fish until we were dead tired. We'd anchor off miles of perfect white beach and have it all to ourselves as we swam and made love. Except for this business about what she was running from, we hit it off, really got to know each other. I guess it was like one of these puzzle pictures—bit by bit as I put the pieces together I got a bigger and clearer picture of Rose.

We were resting on the beach outside Camechuela, broiling some rock hinds we'd just reeled in. I'd managed to open several drinking coconuts without hacking off my fingers and Rose was sitting near the fire, combing out her long hair. Suddenly she began to sing.

It was one of these old and always popular torch songs, “Melancholy Baby,” I think. For a second—the clean beach, the mild sun, the fire, a beautiful girl singing—it was all one big movie scene. Except, what was a mug like me doing in the scene? Her voice was okay. I said, “Honey, I never knew you could sing.”

“I really can't sing for Dooley's squat.”

“For—what?”

She smiled. “Expression my Pop used a great deal. It means: for nothing. But I've sung with a few small bands, worked as a solo in some so-called hot spots, and even had a singing number in a movie once.”

“Hey, you been in the movies?” I figured she'd probably been a chorus girl, or a cigarette gal.

Rose laughed. “Take the awe out of your voice—you sound like a true movie fan. Yes, I've been in several movies. Mostly roles one step above extra bits and usually ended on the cutting room floor.”

“Keep singing. I think you sing real fine.”

She laughed again. “Would you think I sang 'real fine' if I was a plain chick, didn't have breastworks?”

“What kind of a crack is that?”

“Don't get sore, I didn't mean it as a crack.” She slid over beside me. “I want you to know something, Mickey: the way we were thrown together—it didn't have to work out so good. But it has. I mean, I knew you'd go for me, for a time, because of my looks. But it's been so much more than that. Honestly, I like you. That's something I haven't told a man in a long, long time, if ever.”

I kissed her as roughly as I could—glad she wasn't a delicate chick. Feeling the cool warmth of her big body next to my hairy chest I knew she was right.

“Rose, honey, sure I go for your looks. How often does an average slob like me get to hold something like you? But...”

“You're not a slob, Mickey. Believe me, I'm an expert on slobs.”