A groan went up around the killing ground, as disappointed gamblers realized all bets were off. Both men were dead, their deaths so nearly simultaneous that no one could have named a winner if his life depended on it.
Two men gone, and while the bout had been exhilarating, Kidd could not help thinking that he had no ready means of filling vacancies these days. Of course, they ran across the odd rogue every now and then who jumped at a chance to join the band, but they were few and far between. Most killers with that kind of nerve were operating on their own, freelance, or working for the syndicates that smuggled weapons, drugs and men among the islands, or to the United States.
Kidd was about to rise up from his throne when Billy Teach stepped up beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Kidd turned to face his first lieutenant, scowling at the hand until it was removed.
"Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, but we've got another prize comin' our way."
"Says who?"
"Our man in Puerta Plata. Morgan."
"Well," Kidd said, "he hasn't failed us yet. We'd best be getting ready to receive more guests."
"Aye, sir."
"And, Billy?"
"Sir?"
Kidd nodded to the corpses stretched out on the ground within a few short paces of his chair. "Have someone haul that rubbish out beyond the reef, will you? Sharks have to eat, the same as anybody else."
Chapter 10
The sailor's name was not Enrique. Standing on the pier beside the Melody, Howard Morgan introduced the slender, twenty-something man as Pablo Altamira, and it hardly seemed worth Remo's time to ask for ID to verify the name. Remo didn't overlook the stylized tattoo of a sailboat on the web of skin between the young man's thumb and forefinger.
Among Latino gangs of the Caribbean and South America, he knew, that symbol indicated that its bearer was involved in smuggling, typically of drugs. So far, so good.
Tattoos aside, it would have taken psychic powers to peg Pablo as a bad guy at first glance. He had movie-star looks and wore his hair long, tied back in a ponytail that hung below his collar. Perfect teeth flashed in a smile as he was introduced to Remo first, then Stacy and finally Chiun. The old Korean, for his part, merely glared at them all from the helm, like an unpleasant sea captain forced out of retirement. Their so-called guide was casual but stylish in a chambray shirt, new Levi's jeans and a pair of spotless deck shoes worn without the benefit of socks. "Pablo knows all the islands hereabouts," Morgan was telling them, while his companion smiled and nodded in agreement. "You've my word that he'll show you things the average tourist never sees."
"I'm counting on it," Remo said. "How much?"
"A very modest twenty-five per day, U.S.," said Morgan.
"Very modest," Pablo echoed.
"It's a deal," said Remo. "When can we get under way?"
"Immediately, if not sooner," the travel agent answered.
"Great. Let's do it, then."
Remo endured another flaccid handshake, slipping Morgan a fifty-dollar tip that put some extra wattage in his smile. "Most generous, I'm sure," the travel agent said. "If I can ever help you with your travel needs again, don't hesitate to call."
"We'll definitely be in touch," said Remo, who read the insincerity in Morgan's behavior like he read the white letters on a red stop sign.
Pablo stood with them and watched as Morgan made his way back down the pier. When he was beyond recall, the newest member of their crew turned on another gleaming smile and nodded toward the Melody.
"Shall we be going, then, senor?" he asked.
"Suits me," said Remo, turning to include his "wife" in the exchange. "You ready, darling?"
"As I'll ever be," said Stacy Armitage.
Remo spent several minutes showing Pablo around the Melody, from her controls to such essentials as the galley, heads and sleeping quarters. The new member of their crew said little, but Remo had the feeling that he was sizing things up, taking the measure of the multimillion-dollar cabin cruiser and her passengers.
Toward what end?
It was a gamble, trusting Howard Morgan to produce a member of the pirate gang. Hell, Remo wasn't even sure there was a pirate gang, at this point, in the sense of one cohesive group that watched the ports and preyed on boats repeatedly. For all he knew, the death of Richard Armitage and the abduction of his wife could just as easily have been a one-time thing, or perpetrated by a loose-knit group that roved among the many islands of the blue Caribbean, killing time here and there between raids, living off the proceeds of their latest depredation until cash ran short again.
Still, there was the tattoo on Pablo Altamira's hand if that meant anything. Not much, Remo decided, as he thought about the countless Latin gang members in North and South America who sported tattoos on their hands. More to the point, while wanna-bes would seldom go so far as getting a tattoo, the marks were seen on many ex-gang members who had left a life of crime behind them, but who never had the inclination or the cash to have the brands removed.
So, he had nothing yet, except a young man without references beyond one dipsy travel agent, who was on the payroll now, for good or ill. If he turned out to be a spotter for the hypothetical buccaneers, so much the better. And if not... well, hiring him would mean that they had blown their chance to act as bait.
It troubled Remo that so much hinged upon his chance meeting with Ethan Humphrey in a bar, some fourteen hours earlier. The old man was eccentric, granted, but his personal enthusiasm for the sea rovers of yesteryear didn't mean he was presently involved in hijacking or worse. If that were true, then it would naturally follow that dragons were slain at Renaissance festivals, while Civil War "recreation" groups would be marching on Atlanta and Gettysburg, armed to the teeth.
Pablo met Chiun, after a fashion, in one of the main cabins, where Chiun had staked himself out, staring at the grainy image on a twenty-inch wallmounted LCD television screen. He wasn't squinting-Remo, in his whole life, had not known a man of any age with keener eyes-but Chiun was leaning forward slightly, hands braced on his knees, as he sat in a modified lotus position.
"What's on, Little Father?" Remo asked him.
"Butt Master," Chiun replied, his tone somehow combining fascination and disgust.
Remo stepped closer, peering at the screen. Three shapely women dressed in leotards stood with their backs to the camera, bent forward at the waist, as if to moon their audience. Their thighs were working, in and out, some kind of bellows action, as if each of them were holding an accordion between her knees. Instead, as Remo finally made out, their legs were clutching strange devices that resembled giant, twisted paper clips.
"Didn't Suzanne Autumns sell those things years ago?" Remo asked. "Isn't she the one who got bonked in the brain when one of her models lost control of the thing and it flew out from between her thighs?"
A moment later Suzanne Autumns herself appeared on-screen, looking twenty years older than she had ten years ago-and not much prettier. A Farrah-style hairdo, as outdated as her acting career, couldn't fully disguise the surgery scars on Autumns's scalp. "Now with rubber Thigh-Grip-Ers, so they're safer than ever!" she recited from a cue card.
"She talks like she has marbles in her mouth," Remo said.
"Butt Master is still better than Pec Man," Chiun informed him solemnly.
"He's right, senor," said Pablo, chiming in for the first time without a pointed invitation to speak. "I've seen the Pec Man ads. They suck big time. And they have Lady Pec Man, too. The things those women do with-"