A frown at that from Billy Boy, and that was fine. He didn't have to relish every order from the captain, just as long as they were carried out immediately, to the letter.
And God help him on the day he failed in that.
THE SAILBOAT SLOWED WHEN it spotted him. There was a figure in the bow-a man, bare chested, heavyset-who pointed toward him with one hairy arm and waved the sailboat's skipper onward with the other.
Moments later, Remo's would-be savior plucked a life preserver from the deck, between his feet, and tossed it overboard. The outsized doughnut trailed a nylon line behind it as it splashed down on the surface at about the same moment Remo was hauling himself over the rail and onto the deck.
The hairy lookout was slack jawed for a second, then got his wits together. "Are you all right, pal?"
"Getting better by the second," Remo said. "How long you been swimming around out here?" The spotter's lanky sidekick demanded. "Couple of hours."
"Huh," the taller of the two men said. "You damn lucky we came along. You damn lucky Dink's got good eyes."
The lookout, Dink, was staring hard at Remo. "Two hours?"
"My boat went down," said Remo, improvising on the spot. "Some kind of engine trouble. I don't know exactly what it was. First thing I knew about it was a little smoke, and then the damn thing blew. I swear she went down five minutes flat. I barely got over the side."
"Explosion, huh?" the tall man said, still sounding skeptical. "We didn't hear a thing or see no smoke."
"It was a couple of hours ago, like I said," Remo said. "I'm not sure that I could have lasted if you hadn't come along."
"Nobody lasts out here, without a deck beneath 'em," Dink replied. "What kinda boat was that? What did you call 'er?"
"Trudy," Remo said, answering the final question first. "A cigarette."
"Where from?" the tall man asked.
"St. Croix. Took off this morning, but I must've lost my way."
"Don't read the compass all that well, I take it?" There was clear suspicion in Dink's voice this time.
"Apparently," said Remo. "Maybe there was something wrong with it."
"You shoulda checked it out before you out to sea," the tall man groused. "Damn foolishness to take a chance with your equipment thataway."
"You're right, I guess. Of course, it wasn't really mine. I borrowed Trudy from a friend of mine, back in Miami."
"He'll be tickled pink to hear this news," said Dink.
Remo considered Dr. Harold Smith, then thought of Chiun and Stacy, riding with the pirates toward an unknown destination. "Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised," he said. "Speaking of news, where are we putting in for the report?"
"I reckon Fort-de-France would be the closest," Dink replied. "Right, Titch?"
"That's it," the tall man said, still frowning.
"Fort-de-France it is," Dink said. "We best be haulin' ass."
Chapter 13
Howard Morgan smiled obsequiously, turning on the well-oiled charm for Mr. Burston Sykes, of Bristol, Connecticut, and his young, blond wife. She was so young, in fact, that Morgan would have pegged her as the fat man's daughter if Sykes had not made a point of introducing her otherwise. The wedding ring on Mrs. Sykes's hand was new, the solitaire diamond on her engagement ring an easy four carats.
That spelled money, and Morgan didn't care if Ellie Sykes was Burston's daughter, as long as some of the fat American's dollars found their way into Morgan's pocket. The American was big in textiles, or so he said. Probably meant he ran sweatshops in Third World nations, but the source of his money was likewise a matter of total indifference to Morgan. The travel agent always focused on the bottom line-meaning his bottom line, the profit he could turn from any given deal.
In this case, Burston Sykes and his child bride were talking package tour, the kind of deal that would turn a handsome profit for the owner-operator of Trade Winds Travel. It meant a boat and crew, provisions, berths and tours on sundry islands-all paid in advance, with a sweet commission for Morgan himself.
It was the best deal he had closed that month-the best legitimate transaction, anyway-and Morgan was already calculating how to spend the money as he finished touching up the deal on paper. He was dotting i's and crossing t's while his clients sat beneath the lazy ceiling fan and sweated through their clothes.
"Damn hot in here," Burston Sykes said. "Why don't you spring for air-conditioning?" he groused.
"Bit pricey in the islands, don't you know? We have to make ends meet," Morgan said, striving just a little harder to preserve the phony smile. "Trimmin' expenses does the trick, you know?"
"It's still damn hot," Sykes told him. "Keep your patrons sweating, and you won't have much repeat business. You mark my words."
"Yes, sir, I'll keep that fact in mind." The paperwork was done, and Morgan spun the contract deftly, pushing it across the desk toward Burston Sykes, offering his fountain pen. "Now, if you'll just sign here, right at where X marks the spot..."
The textile magnate looked over the contract, pausing here and there to read the fine print in detail, before he signed and dated it, then passed it back to Morgan. "Done," he said.
"I'll get to work immediately," Morgan said, reserving his brightest smile for the fetching Mrs. Sykes, "as soon as you've filled out that check we spoke about...."
Sykes frowned and reached for his hip pocket, bringing out a checkbook that was probably real alligator hide. He used the pen Morgan had handed him, together with the contract. Despite his evident wealth and the relatively small fee involved, Sykes still showed visible reluctance as he filled out the check, looked it over and handed it to Morgan.
"We done here?" the businessman asked.
"Indeed we are, sir," Morgan answered. "All you and your lovely wife must do, from this point on, is pack your bags and find your way to the marina in the morning. Let's say tennish, shall we?"
"Ten o'clock it is," Sykes said.
"Your vessel is the yacht Christina," Morgan said. "She and her crew will be prepared to sail when you arrive."
"I hope so," Sykes informed him, shepherding the missus out of Morgan's office to the street, where afternoon was baking shadows on the sidewalk.
Howard Morgan smiled, folded the check in two and slipped it into his shirt pocket. It was damn good money, and his five percent was still enough to put fresh lobster on his plate for several nights if he was so inclined-or land a fresh piece in his bed, assuming that he felt like shelling out a good deal more.
If nothing else, the Sykes deal meant that he could close down for the day. He would have to, in any case, if he was going to arrange the details of the tour package he had sold. The yacht Christina was on call, he knew, together with her captain and a two-man crew, but there was shopping to be done-for food and liquor, any incidentals that a rich man and his wife would likely carry with them on a tour of the Caribbean.
He pushed back in his chair, the casters rasping on the vinyl floor, and rose to hit the kill switch on the coffee urn that occupied one corner of the Trade Winds office. Morgan was a coffee addict, even in the tropic heat, without an air conditioner, and certain clients also favored it above the cold drinks he kept handy in his minifridge.
He was about to flick the switch off when a voice behind him said, "I'll take some if you've got it made."
The sound made Morgan jump, as unexpected as it was, but the surprise paled when he turned and recognized the man who stood before his desk. "Er...Mr. Remo Rubble, isn't it?"
"That's very good."
The travel agent glanced in the direction of his office door, wondering why the damn cowbell suspended on a leather strap had failed to warn him of a new arrival in the Trade Winds office.
"Back so soon?" he said, cold perspiration forming on his face. "There's nothing wrong, I hope."