Kells interrupted: “Didn’t I have my coat?”
“Hell, no! You were lucky to have pants the way those guys were working you over... We tried to carry you between us but we couldn’t make any headway that way — it was so dark and foggy we kept falling down. So the navigator fanned tail for the boat, and I drug you through a lot of brush and we got up here after a while. A half a dozen more guys went by on the way to the house — the island’s lousy with ’em. If it hadn’t been for the fog...”
Kells asked: “Bernie’s at the boat, now?”
“Sure — and a swell spot. The fog’s not quite so heavy down there and he can pick ’em off as soon as they show at the head of the wharf. Only I thought he’d shove off before this...”
“He’s waiting for us, sap.” Kells rose to his knees.
“Oh yeah? Maybe you can figure out a way for us to get there.”
Kells asked: “Which direction should the side of the cove be?”
“I haven’t the slightest.”
Kells got shakily to his feet, rubbed his head, then started down a shale bank to his left. He said: “Come on — we’ll have to take a chance.”
Borg got up and they went down the bank to a shallow draw. An occasional shot sounded on the far side of a low ridge to their right. The fog wasn’t quite so thick at the bottom of the draw; they went on, came out in a little while onto a narrow beach. There was a jagged spit of rock running out across the sand from one side of the draw. The fog was thinning.
They waited for the next shot; then Kells, calculating direction from the sound, said, “Come on” — they ran out along the rocks to the edge of the water.
Kells kicked off his shoes, waded in; Borg followed. The fog was heavy over the water — they swam blindly in the direction Kells figured the Comet to be. After a little while, the end of the wharf took form ahead, a bit to the right. They circled towards it, came up to the bow of the big cruiser. They swam around the cruiser, under the wharf and up to the Comet’s stern.
Kells grabbed the gunwale, pulled himself up a little way and called to Bernie. Bernie was crouched in the forward end of the cockpit behind the raised forward deck. He whirled and swung the gun towards Kells, and then he grinned broadly, put down the gun, crawled over and helped Kells climb aboard. He muttered, “Good huntin’,” went back and picked up the gun; Kells helped Borg.
Borg was winded; he lay at full length on the deck, gasping for breath. Kells started towards Bernie, and then his bad leg gave way, he fell down, crawled the rest of the way.
He said: “Get the engine started — I’ll take that for a minute.”
Bernie gave him the gun and a handful of shells, went down to the engine. Kells called to Borg, told him to work his way to the after line, cut it. There was a shot at the head of the wharf, a piece of wood was torn from the edge of the cowling, fell in splinters.
Borg rolled over slowly, got to his knees. He was still panting. He looked reproachfully at Kells, fumbled in his pocket and took out a small jackknife, started worming his way aft.
The engine went over with a roar.
There was an answering roar of shots from the shore.
Bernie came galloping up to the wheel. Kells glanced back at Borg, saw him sawing at the stern line; he took a bead on the bow line, pulled the trigger. The line frayed; Kells aimed again, gave it the other barrel.
Bernie said: “That’s enough — I can part it now...” He slid the clutch in, threw the wheel over.
Kells was hastily reloading. He glanced back at Borg, saw the stern line fall, saw Borg sink down exhausted, so flat that he was safe.
The bow line snapped. They skidded in a fast shallow arc toward the head of the wharf. There was a rattle of gunfire. Kells pushed the shotgun across the cowling, sighted. Two puffs of smoke grew over an overturned dinghy on the beach; he swung the barrel towards the smoke, pulled the trigger.
Then they straightened out, headed through the mouth of the cove towards the open sea. Bernie kicked the throttle. A few desultory shots popped behind them.
Kells put down the gun, sat down on the deck and rolled up his wet trouser leg. The leg wasn’t very nice to look at — Doc Janis’s dressing was hanging by a thin strip of adhesive. Kells called Borg.
Borg got up slowly. He came forward, squatted beside Kells.
Bernie yelled: “There’s some peroxide and stuff in the for’d locker on the port side — I busted it open.”
Borg went into the cabin.
Kells fished in his trouser pockets, brought out a wad of wet bills and some silver, spread it out on the deck beside him. There was a thousand-dollar note and the eight hundreds which Brand’s friend had paid off with after the fights. There was another wad of fifties, hundreds, and smaller bills. Fenner’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar check, Brand’s for a thousand, and around eight thousand in cash had been in the coat. And Fenner’s confession.
Kells looked up; Bernie was looking at him, grinned.
“Wet as usual,” he said. “You better take off your clothes an’ get in a bunk.”
Kells said: “Step on it. I’ve got to call up a friend of mine.”
He picked up several of the wet bills, folded them, put a halfdollar inside the fold to give them weight, slid them across the deck to Bernie.
“That ought to cover damages on the boat, too,” he said.
Borg came out of the cabin with an armful of absorbent cotton and adhesive and peroxide.
Kells picked up some more bills, rolled them into a ball and shoved them into Borg’s free hand, said: “Try to buy yourself a yacht with that...”
He counted what was left.
Borg poured peroxide on the leg.
Kells said: “I came out here with two grand.” He shoved the bills into a heap. There was a little pile of silver left. He counted it with his finger.
“Now I’ve got two — and seventy cents.” He picked up the silver, held it in his palm, smiled at Borg.
“Velvet.”
Bernie shouted: “God! I hope I remember the way back!”
Kells said; “Don’t let that worry you.” He stared forward into the fog.
The Heat
When Gerry Kells refused to join a racket, he was framed for murder, robbed, and shot up; so he decided to turn around and collect.
There was a small zebra galloping up and down the footboard. He was striped red, white, and blue, like a barber pole; his ears were tasseled, flopped back and forth awkwardly. Then he faded into a bright mist; the room tipped over to darkness. Kells yelled...
Then it was raining again outside. Gray...
After a while, Kells opened his eyes and looked up at Borg, said: “Hello, baby,” softly.
Borg giggled. He said: “Don’t be sentimental.”
Doc Janis came over and stared bleakly down over Borg’s shoulder. He said: “By God! I never saw such a tough egg.”
Kells blinked at him, closed his eyes. He heard Janis talking to Borg as if from a great distance: “Give him all the whiskey he wants, but no more of this. Understand?”
Kells wondered idly what this was. He mumbled, “Gimme drink a water,” and fell asleep.
When he awoke he lay with his eyes closed listening to rain beat against the windows. He lay like that a long time, without moving, and the past weeks slid into a long strip of motion picture film through his mind, before his closed eyes.