Johnny nodded. The kid was sharp and eager to please. He reminded Johnny of himself at twenty, though he wondered if he’d been so obnoxiously bright.
“You were told to stay with me?”
“Yeah.”
“Sit down. What’s your name?”
The kid collapsed into a chair, adolescent-fashion. “Albert. I’ll take rum.”
“You’ll take lime squash or water when you work with me.” Johnny saw him look down, smiling at his hands. Albert would be hard to work with, he decided; too wild, too eager, too wise.
“What’s north of here?” he asked.
“More islands,” said Albert. “Her plane takes her to Grenada, but she asked the desk man about Laborie.”
Johnny waited, then said impatiently: “Don’t make me drag it out. How does she get to Laborie?”
“From Grenada she has to make other contacts. Maybe she gets a native schooner, or a freighter, or if she’s lucky she gets a deck ticket on one of Geest’s banana boats. That’ll take her to a smaller island, St. Vincent Then she has to hire a launch or a fishing boat for Laborie, twelve miles out.”
“You know the islands,” Johnny admitted. “What’s on Laborie?”
Albert looked pleased. “I’m the only man Cantino trusts out in the islands whether it’s rum, women, or dope. They’re like my back yard. Laborie?” He paused to give Johnny a sad look.
“It’s the end of the world, man. I never set foot on the island. We always unload onto native boats. About two thousand people live there. They fish, smuggle, raise some bananas, a little copra. No electricity. No roads. Mostly shingle shacks, some houses and rum-shops. One building they call a hotel...”
“Anyone in the hotel?”
“Rats, mostly. Some Canadian bought it two or three years ago and let it go to hell. They say he’s a rummy.”
Johnny felt the skin tighten on his face. Montana bordered on Canada; a man could slip over the line, take on a Canadian identity, then fly south. And the time checked. “You don’t know the guy’s name?”
“Mac something. Uhmmm... McLennon?”
“Close enough.” Johnny felt the pressure building up again. Finding the man was half the problem; now he wanted to finish it quickly. “Can you get us out tonight?”
“If you don’t mind the smell, I can get a boat.”
Johnny nodded. “And get me a gun. I had to travel clean.”
Albert looked down at his hands. “Cantino said you should make it look like a local job. We don’t use guns here.”
Johnny felt his nostrils burn with anger. “Why doesn’t Cantino mind his own business?”
Albert half-smiled, still looking at his hands. “I guess he’s got his orders.”
Johnny looked narrowly at the kid. Someone was twisting the screws — sending him weaponless to an island where he’d stand out like a naked bather in Grant Park, tying a wild kid on his back...
“Albert,” he said tightly. “You’re supposed to spy on me, aren’t you?”
Black eyes narrowed a split second, then flew wide. “Oh, no, man.”
“Don’t lie to me, kid. How do you report?”
Albert’s lips tightened, and he said nothing.
Johnny shot his foot out under the table, found the rung and kicked up and out with all his strength. The chair sailed backward and crashed to the floor. The kid landed on his back and slid halfway across the room.
The rumshop was silent as Albert rose, his face a dirty gray. He shot a scared look toward Johnny, who hadn’t moved. Then he brushed his hands over his white trousers, picked up the chair and carried it back to the table. By the time he was seated, the Indian was fondling his earring and the two Venezuelans had picked up their argument.
“I didn’t enjoy that,” said Johnny. “But I can’t work with a man I don’t trust. Now... give me the story or get out.”
“Okay.” Albert spoke in a low voice, looking down at his hands. “I report every day by telephone or cable. Where we are, where we plan to go. If I miss, they come looking. They figure you might run.”
Johnny’s fists tightened. “Why?”
“Cantino says you been ratholing cash. It’s a good sign.”
Johnny leaned back slowly, feeling trapped. They’d sweat him first, he decided. What they finally did would depend on how he handled this job. He’d be watched like a chain-smoker in a gunpowder plant.
“Okay,” he said. “The gun’s out. What do they use here?”
“Knife, electric cord. Best is a bicycle chain, then you dump the guy in the road and they call it hit-run. Happens all the time.”
“Except that Laborie has no roads.” He leaned across the table and drew Albert’s shirt apart. He’d noticed the scar when the kid fell; now it was revealed as a puckered furrow slashing across his chest from right shoulder to left rib cage. “How’d that happen?”
“A brawl down in San Fernando. Fella tried to give me a heart operation but he stood too far away. He didn’t get another swing.”
He sounds proud as a kid with a new car, thought Johnny. He’s hard for a kid — and the pratfall hadn’t bothered him at all.
“I meant the weapon, kid,” said Johnny.
“Oh. Cutlass.”
“They use ’em in Laborie?”
“It’s universal, man. The handy-dandy all purpose tool for cutting bamboo, cane, firewood, wives and other guys.”
“Okay. Here.” He drew his baggage check from his pocket. “Get my bags and a cab.”
Albert took the check and bobbed up. “What about the woman?” Cantino says you’ll have to take her out too.
“We’ll see. The man comes first.”
Albert nodded thoughtfully. “You take your time with her, huh?”
“Get the bags, kid.”
“Okay. But when the time comes...” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Let me do it, huh?”
Johnny felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. “Get the goddam bags. Now.”
He watched the kid go, feeling a faint sickness in his stomach. Everybody seemed to want the woman dead; now they even wanted to kill her for him.
In room 114, the telephone rang. It was the desk clerk again, asking Norma if she needed anything.
“No.” her voice rose. “I told you I’d call if I did.”
“Yes, madame.”
“Has anyone asked about me?”
“No, madame.”
“If they do, you’re not to tell them anything.”
“Yes, madame.”
She hung up, her nerves jumping. She wasn’t sure the five dollars she’d given him would buy his silence. She was beginning to hate Trinidad with its close, heavy air; its quick-moving people with their weird, sing-song English. Her skin crawled as she thought of the young porter who’d flaunted his horrible chest scar. In some strange way, he seemed to mutilate her body with his black, bouncing eyes.
She sagged into the chair at her dressing table and rubbed her eyes. Her lids felt gritty. She needed sleep, but she couldn’t unwind after twelve hours in the air. Leaning closer to her mirror, she could see tiny lines crossing and recrossing the skin below her eyes.
She stood and stripped off her blouse and skirt. The suit was unwearable now. Too bad her good summer things had worn out first. Those she’d bought were cheap and looked it. She thought of her furs and jewelry and furniture, sold for the sole purpose of staying alive. Sometimes even that had seemed a waste...
She lay down on the bed in her slip. The noisy air-conditioner blew cool air across her body. She debated spending the entire two days in her room; having her meals sent up, reading... It would distract her from the worry of seeing Howard again. You never knew what three years would do to a man, especially to Howard, with his leaps of enthusiasm and plunges of despair. Once he’d told her, “A dependable man would bore you, Norma.” And she’d answered, “Then please, Howard, bore me now and then.”