Or maybe crab, he told himself. After all, he knew what crabs ate. The thought evoked a quiet bark of a laugh, followed by a brief shudder. Was he safe, linked up with these men? They - he - had just killed Angelo Vorano, not twenty-four hours earlier. But Angelo wasn't part of the outfit, and Tony Piaggi was. He was their legitimacy, their pipeline to the street, and that made him safe - for a while. As long as Eddie stayed smart and alert.
'What room do you suppose this was?' Tucker asked Piaggi, just to make conversation.
'What do you mean?'
'When this was a ship, looks like it was a cabin or something,' he said, sealing the last envelope and placing it inside the beer cooler. 'I never thought about that.' Which was actually true.
'Captain's cabin, you think?' Tony wondered. It was something to pass the time, and he was thoroughly sick of what they'd done all night.
'Could be, I suppose. It's close to the bridge.' The man stood, stretching, wondering why it was that he had to do all the hard work. The answer came easily enough. Tony was a 'made' man. Eddie wanted to become one. He would never be, and neither would Angelo, Henry Tucker reflected, glad for it. He'd never trusted Angelo, and now he was no longer a problem. One thing about these people, they seemed to keep their word - and they would continue to, as long as he was their connection to the raw material, and not one minute longer. Tucker had no illusions about that. It had been good of Angelo to make his connection with Tony and Eddie, and Angelo's death had had exactly the effect on Henry that his own death would have on the other two: none. All men have their uses, Tucker told himself, closing the beer cooler. And the crabs had to eat too.
With luck that would be the last killing for a while. Tucker didn't shrink from it, but he disliked complications that often came from killing. A good business ran smoothly, without fuss, and made money for everyone, which kept everyone happy, even the customers at the far end of the process. Certainly this load would keep them happy. It was good Asian heroin, scientifically processed and moderately cut with nontoxic elements that would give the users a rocketship high and a calm, gentle descent back to whatever reality they were trying to escape. The sort of rush they would want to experience again, and so they'd return to their pushers, who could charge a little extra for this very good stuff. 'Asian Sweet' was already the trade name.
There was danger, having a street name. It gave the police something to target, a name to chase after, specific questions to ask, but that was the risk in having a hot product, and for that reason he'd selected his associates for their experience, connections, and security. His processing site had also been selected with an eye to security. They had a good five miles of visibility, and a fast boat with which to make their escape. Yeah, there was danger, to be sure, but all life was danger, and you measured risk against reward. Henry Tucker's reward for less than a single day's work was one hundred thousand dollars in untaxed cash, and he was willing to risk a lot for that. He was willing to risk far more for what Piaggi's connections could do, and now he had them interested. Soon they'd become as ambitious as he was.
The boat from Solomons arrived a few minutes early, with the propellers. The doctors hadn't told Kelly to keep Pam busy, but it was a simple enough prescription for her problems. Kelly wheeled the portable compressor back onto the dock and started it up, telling her how to regulate the airflow by keeping an eye on a gauge. Next he got the wrenches he needed and set them on the dock also.
'One finger, this one, two fingers, that one, and three fingers, this one here, okay?'
'Right,' Pam replied, impressed with Kelly's expertise. He was hamming things up a little, the rest of them knew, but that was okay with everyone.
Kelly climbed down the ladder into the water, and his first job was to check the threads on the prop shafts, which appeared to be in decent shape. He reached his hand out of the water with one finger up and was rewarded with the right wrench, which he used to remove the retaining nuts, then handed them up one at a time. The whole operation took only fifteen minutes, and the shiny new screws were fully attached, and new protective anodes set in place. He took his time giving the rudders a look, and decided that they'd be okay for the rest of the year, though Sam should keep an eye on them. It was a relief, as usual, to climb out of the water and breathe air that didn't taste like rubber.
'What do I owe you?' Rosen asked.
'For what?' Kelly took off his gear and switched off the compressor.
'I always pay a man for his work,' the surgeon said somewhat self-righteously.
Kelly had to laugh. 'Tell you what, if I ever need a back operation, you can make it a freebie. What is it you docs call this sort of thing?'
'Professional courtesy - but you're not a physician,' Rosen objected.
'And you're not a diver. You're not a seaman yet, either, but we're going to fix that today, Sam.'
'I was at the top of my Power Squadron class!' Rosen boomed.
'Doc, when we got kids from training school, we used to say, "That's fine, sonny, but this here's the fleet." Let me get the gear stowed and we'll see how well you can really drive this thing.'
'I bet I'm a better fisherman than you are,' Rosen proclaimed.
'Next they're going to see who can pee the farthest,' Sarah observed acidly to Pam.
'That, too.' Kelly laughed on his way back inside. Ten minutes later he'd cleaned off and changed into a T-shirt and cutoffs.
He took a place on the flying bridge and watched Rosen prepare his boat for getting under way. The surgeon actually impressed Kelly, particularly with his line handling.
'Next time let your blowers work for a while before you light off the engines,' Kelly said after Rosen started up.
'But it's a diesel.'
'Number one, "it" is a "she," okay? Number two, it's a good habit to get into. The next boat you drive might be gas. Safety, doc. You ever take a vacation and rent a boat?'
'Well, yes.'
'In surgery you do the same thing the same way, every time?' Kelly asked. 'Even when you don't really have to?'
Rosen nodded thoughtfully. 'I hear you.'
'Take her out.' Kelly waved. This Rosen did, and rather smartly, the surgeon thought. Kelly didn't: 'Less rudder, more screws. You won't always have a breeze helping you away from alongside. Propellers push water; rudders just direct it a little. You can always depend on your engines, especially at low speed. And steering breaks sometimes. Learn how to do without it.'
'Yes, Captain,' Rosen growled. It was like being an intern again, and Sam Rosen was used to having those people snap to his orders. Forty-eight, he thought, was a little old to be a student.
'You're the captain. I'm just the pilot. These are my waters, Sam.' Kelly turned to look down at the well deck. 'Don't laugh, ladies, it'll be your turn next. Pay attention!' Quietly: 'You're being a good sport, Sam.'
Fifteen minutes later they were drifting lazily on the tide, fishing lines out under a warm holiday sun. Kelly had little interest in fishing, and instead assigned himself lockout duty on the flying bridge while Sam taught Pam how to bait her line. Her enthusiasm surprised all of them. Sarah made sure that she was liberally covered with Coppertone to protect her pale skin, and Kelly wondered if a little tan would highlight her scars. Alone with his thoughts on the flying bridge, Kelly asked himself what sort of man would abuse a woman. He stared out through squinted eyes at a gently rolling surface dotted with boats. How many people like that were within his sight? Why was it that you couldn't tell from looking at them?