She looked at me over the empty glass. “We came here as tourists, pure and simple. Bucks worked for us briefly. Then he quit. We haven’t seen him since.”
“All pure and simple,” I said.
“That’s right — and you can get the hell off this boat, Ed, or should I say Mr. Rivers?”
“Maybe I’ll stick around and talk to your father.”
“Alex will tell you the same thing I have.”
“I don’t doubt that, D. D. But I’d like to hear it from him. There might be a minor variation or two.”
“Not tonight,” she said. “Over the side with you, or I’ll radio the authorities.”
She set the glass beside the chair. She stood up. Maybe it was the liquor, or she was dredging deep into her reserves. The weakness in her was gone now.
I went over the side and got in the flat-bottom. As I cast off, I looked up at her. She’d followed me to the rail.
“Ed...”
I sat holding the oars while the skiff drifted a few feet.
“Ed, thanks anyhow for fishing me out of the drink.”
“Any time,” I said.
As I rowed in, I reflected on the fact that she could have phrased it differently, taken a completely opposite mental attitude and point of view. After all, if I hadn’t gone out to the Sprite, she never would have fallen overboard and endangered her life in the first place.
I docked the flat-bottom, walked down the rickety wooden pier, and spotted a light under the pines thirty yards or so away.
The light came from a weathered, frame cottage that was mostly screened-in porch. At a table on the porch the bait camp operator was wolfing fish and hush-puppies, washing the grub down with coffee from a thick mug. He was still clothed only in jeans and sneakers. I wondered if he’d ever had a shirt on.
Swarms of mosquitoes welting my hands and face, I knocked on the screen door. The proprietor belched comfortably, got to his feet, and picked up a newspaper from a pile of magazines on an old rattan chair.
He cracked the door, reached out with the newspaper, and scared the mosquitoes off. Then he told me to come in.
He took in my rumpled condition. “You lost my boat?”
“No, it’s snugged in the slip.”
“That’s good.” He returned to the table and resumed eating, having a wonderful time with handfuls of greasy mullet.
He stopped eating when I moved to the table and shoved my identification under his nose. “Ed Rivers, the private cop. I’ve heard of you. Regular Tampa landmark, ain’t you. Only I told you the first time you was here, I don’t know nothing about the Sprite or the people on her. The water’s for free. She can anchor where she likes.”
“You’re not at all curious.”
“Nope. Don’t pay.”
“The Sprite came from Peru.”
“Did she?”
“Not by herself,” I said.
“Don’t seem likely, does it?”
“There had to be a crew. Must be a deckhand or two kicking around someplace.”
He continued eating, digging chunks of white flesh of mullet with his fingers and shoving them into the fish oil smear of his mouth. “I figure they’re Americans on the boat, or foreign folks with the right papers. Ain’t heard of no law getting broke. Don’t believe in poking my nose, neither.”
I creased a twenty dollar bill and laid it beside his plate. A brown lump of hush-puppy stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Two fellows,” he said. “They were on the Sprite when she dropped anchor.”
“Do you know their names?”
“Heard them talking. Kincaid and Smith.”
“Where are they now?”
“Don’t know.” He slid the twenty off the table. “They came ashore the day after she anchored. Way they acted, I figured they’d been in ship’s quarters long enough. Wanted pavement under their feet and bright lights around them.”
“When was that?”
“Couple weeks ago. Maybe longer. I think it was on a Thursday. You know how it is. Same hot sun, same sky day after day. Time don’t mean much.”
“Have they been back?”
He nodded. “Now and then.”
“Like on a schedule?”
“How would I know?”
“What do they look like?”
“I dunno. Just a couple guys.” He thought for a moment. “Dressed okay, talked polite. But tough. Not in the mouth or walk where it don’t count. Tough.”
“You know the Scanlons?”
“I’ve seen them.” He pinched up the last flecks of mullet. “They go out to the Sprite regular.”
“They didn’t come in on her?”
“Nope. Showed up the day she got in, though.”
“Sounds like,” I said, “they came from some place else, arriving here specifically to meet the Sprite.”
He grunted. He’d had his quota of talking for a week.
Chapter Seven
Maria Scanlon was waiting beside my car, a dumpy, drab figure in the early evening.
“I recognized your car, Mr. Rivers,” she explained with a motion of her hand. “I wanted to see you. I’ve been trying to call your office.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Why... Bucks Jordan — and you.” Her sturdiness of stance misfired. She looked lonely. On her face was an unhealthy eagerness.
“I wanted to give you a chance to explain,” she said. She licked her lips. Her eyes glinted with a sensual willingness to partake of the troubles of a world gone wrong.
“Lady, I don’t follow you.”
“Don’t be afraid,” she coaxed.
“But there’s no explanation to make.”
She laid her hand on my arm. “You can trust me. You were looking for Bucks. A little later I heard on the newscasts that he was dead, beaten to death.” She leaned toward me and I automatically leaned back. “Were you forced to fight for your life?”
“The last time I saw you, Mrs. Scanlon, you were defending Bucks.”
“Alex was being unjust to him. But Bucks is dead now.”
“Beyond help.”
“Yes. He doesn’t have to be vicious any longer.” She let her hand slide down my arm and fall at her side. “Once he had the innocence of a child, like the rest of us. As you yourself had. Life has put some rough edges on you... Oh, they’re very visible to me. But it isn’t too late. If you were defending yourself...”
“Do you know why I wanted to see Bucks?”
“I suspect the reason,” she said. “He must have had something you wanted.” Unconsciously, her gaze flicked toward the dark hulk of the Sprite riding silently in the bay.
“You know what he took off the schooner?” I asked.
“I’m not aware...”
“Kincaid and Smith were after the same thing. Two of them looking for Bucks, weren’t they?”
“Kincaid and Smith... You know them?”
“Come on,” I said coldly. “Bucks made the heist and the panthers were set loose. Where are they now?”
“I think you’re confused.”
“Then you better clear me on a point or two,” I said.
She wheeled and started away. I grabbed her arm harder than I intended and jerked her toward me. She grimaced and half-kneeled in sudden pain. “I understand,” she said softly. “It’s the mode of action that’s been instilled in you.”
“Get off the pink cloud, Maria, and start talking.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re acting very wrongly.”