People were still three and four deep as we passed the Sawyer hotel. The vast lawn was peppered with curious tourists, dwarfed in front of the mammoth, pale pink monument to fun. The architecture was sterile, designed to awe the guests and not distract them from the main objective of passing their dollars across the gaining tables under the illusion they were being entertained. The building sprawled across the waterfront between the harbor and the wide boulevard at the edge of a solid business district. Beyond it I saw three cruise ships at anchor; with the swarm from those boats plus the plane influx the casino must be jumping.
The police station was tucked away where it wouldn’t jar the sensibilities of visitors. It was as new as the airport. Sawyer had paid handsomely for his land and rights. There was a small plaque on the waiting room wall giving credit to his generosity. I was taken in through a rear door. The phony stewardess who had shot the pilot sat on a wooden bench, handcuffed to it, weeping slow tears, left in limbo to build horrid fantasies of what would happen to her. I sat down beside her, massaged her taut neck, told her to stick to the truth, and said again I’d intercede. She was too cute to waste away in a women’s prison. She gave me a wan smile, put her head on my shoulder and got it wet. A matron came and took her away. They didn’t want her depression eased.
I was left alone for an hour. The worry treatment. I worried. I couldn’t blow my cover and it would be embarrassing to ask Sawyer to pull rank for me so soon. I had to stay put and play the silly game, see where it led and go from there.
Two men finally dropped the shoe, coming through a door labeled administration. One was the cop who had driven the van, the other wore civilian whites.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” white-suit said. He didn’t sound sorry, but veddy veddy British. It startles most Americans to hear a black islander clip his words like an Oxford don. “Why did you wear a gun?”
I didn’t tell him. I said, “That’s the way I carry it.”
He didn’t like it. “Only our island authorities are permitted to bear arms, Mr. Carter. You have violated...”
“As chief of security for the biggest hotel here, don’t I qualify as authority?”
“Only within that property. As I was about to say, you have violated our constitution, which is grounds for your expulsion from this country.”
I grinned at him, picturing David Hawk’s apoplexy if I phoned to say I was being deported. It was time to apply acupuncture to authority’s nerve chain of command.
I said thoughtfully, “I’d better call Tom Sawyer and tell him. He won’t be happy.”
That stung. A finger ran around inside his shirt collar as though it were a tightening noose.
“You... ah... have a personal acquaintance with Mr. Sawyer?”
“We’re half brothers. He’s the elder.”
“Uh... I’ll make further inquiries of my... uh, superiors.” He looked a trifle peaked and turned to the cop. “Howard, hold him in the detention pen while I see what...” He let the sentence trail off, he was in such a hurry to be out the door.
Neither of them could work in my bureaucracy or on my police force. The gun had thrown them in such a tizzy they hadn’t thought to look further. Nobody had found the thin stiletto against my forearm. I didn’t want to make any more waves until I had to. News of my part in the hijack attempt apparently had not filtered down to this level, but a higher official ought to know and react to that. I went with meekly Howard through the booking office, down a corridor between cells to a tank at the end.
The place was oblong-shaped with facing benches against two walls. A fat man I took to be an American salesman slumped on one, drunk, one eye turning purple, cowering at the back corner as far as he could get from the other occupant. That was a Negro, big, mean, ugly, stretched out on the other slab. He lay there until Howard went away and the corridor gate clanged after him, then he unfolded, stood up grinning, and tried to walk a circle around me. I turned with him.
“Stay still,” he said.
He tried to walk behind me again but I kept facing him. Without warning he shot a fist at my middle. I took the wrist and flipped him over my head to the floor on his back. He looked pleased, as if that was what he wanted, and came up to a crouch ready to lunge. When he saw the stiletto waiting to take his gut out, he backed off, shrugged, and sat down. I got the idea he wasn’t really interested in trouble, that he had a job, was paid to put prisoners in the proper frame of mind to ante up anything the jailer asked or confess whatever the cops wanted. I had thought of catching a nap while I waited, but decided against St now and sat on the other end of the bench from the drunk, keeping an eye on the big black man.
He didn’t move again for the next half hour. Then a cop I hadn’t seen before came, opened the door and waved me out. The drunk tried to rush to the opening but the Negro caught him and knocked him down. I used the edge of my hand against the thick neck and dropped him. I stared at the cop until his eyes fell.
“Put him somewhere else,” I said. “Or I’ll talk to our consul.” In any event I meant to get word to Fleming that this pigsty needed hosing down.
From the cop’s expression he thought so too. It was in his favor that he dragged the unconscious man out to the corridor, left him there, locked the grille and steered me back to the booking office.
Tara Sawyer was there, holding my Luger. For an improbable moment I thought she was helping me break out. She was indignant enough. But three policemen stood behind her, nervously, and the man who had questioned me was in a sweat.
“Your arrest was a mistake, Mr. Carter. I apologize for uh... the misunderstanding.” He gave me my suitcase.
He hobbled for apples while Tara passed me the gun. I holstered it and we went out through the door he held open. One thing the jail had going for it — it was cooler than the street. Even in 74-degree February the pavement and the buildings bounced heat at us. I raised an eyebrow at the girl. She was still huffy.
“How ridiculous. I went straight to Dr. Fleming; his first official act was to order your release and give you permission to carry that gun anywhere you want on Grand LaClare Island. And Nick, today Fleming’s addressing Parliament in special session at Government House. He gave us tickets to the visitors’ gallery, he wants you to hear him. One-thirty. We have time for drinks and lunch.”
I leered at her. “Is that all?”
She hugged my arm. “Before the speech, yes. With you, I don’t want to be rushed, and I’m too famished to pass up food.”
There wasn’t a chance of getting a cab. The streets were filled with dancing, singing, music, people too jubilant to wait for the evening fiesta. We walked, dodging the jumping figures, keeping close to the market stalls that displayed “native” handicrafts imported from New Jersey to Singapore to Grand LaClare.
Between the market and the hotel stretched a row of business buildings and beyond them curved a shell drive circling in to the hotel front entrance. The lobby was unexpectedly large, framed by glass-faced shops, with the casino archway to the right. I started toward the desk but Tara dug a key out of her bag. She had already registered for me. We worked out way through the tourists to the elevator and rode to the top floor.
Tara led me to a suite, a big one facing the bay. I looked down on a wide palm-studded lawn, a white beach, sail boats dotting the green and blue water. Money. Lots of it everywhere you looked. After the night flight and the jail I felt too dirty to even sit on the rich furniture. I went through the bedroom and the bath. The shower was big enough for two. I called to Tara.
“Bring fresh clothes and let’s get clean.”
“Oh, no,” her laugh came back. “Not on an empty stomach. My suite’s next door and I’ll wash there.”