In Baltimore the summer before, like a bonehead, I had borrowed money from a loan shark to catch up payments on a sailboat. The original interest rate soared and left me a few bucks shy. In a matter of hours, three goons showed up on my doorstep. Wiggling out the bathroom window, I went on the lam, staying a half step ahead of having my kneecaps shot out. My credit card was maxed out, the goons smelled blood, and I was reduced to busting into cigarette machines for cash.
Then, out of nowhere, fate threw me a dog bone. Scrounging for leftovers behind a pancake house, one eye glued on the door, I noticed in a discarded newspaper that a security guard had found the three goons dead. Each corpse had a long spike driven through its temple into the warehouse floor. That chilled not only my blood, but the loan shark's as well. I was a free man. Whoever bumped off the goons had nullified my debts.
A few mornings later at my office, I tipped a bicycle courier my last dollar for a narrow box containing one long-stemmed black rose. The card attached read:
Dear Frank,
You are my favorite shamus.
Listen: I scratch your back = you scratch mine.
I'll be in touch, sport.
xxx,
Jael
Enclosed in an envelope was a wallet-sized photo of a redheaded, older lady striking a fetching pose. Her features were flint hard, and those icy blue eyes intrigued me. Also inside was a clipping of a ten-year-old murder I had solved. Reading it again, I blushed. It was one the few times in my career that a lucky break tumbled into my lap. Who was Jael? I put out some feelers. Word circulated back she was a secretive and smart operator.
Days, weeks, months slipped by. I heard nothing more from Jael though I toted her portrait in my billfold. After all, she was my biggest fan. Business grew brisk and I forgot about Jael. The wives of philandering attorneys and doctors were paying me top dollar to film evidence for expensive, bitter divorces. By this summer's end, I fled town for Bermuda.
The first afternoon I was on a bus out of Hamilton shambling beside the pink sand beaches and ritzy resorts on Bermuda's south shore. As we jounced by roadsides abloom with red hibiscus, through half-lidded eyes I soaked up exotic scenery. As the bus lurched to my stop at the Blue Seahorse Hotel, I arose. A fat man chewing a cigar shoved past me. Angry, I righted myself.
"Excuse me." I gripped at my wallet sliding out a hip pocket and ensnared his meaty wrist. I twisted, hard.
The fat man grimaced, yanked to retract his arm. I'd nabbed him in the act and no pickpocket can afford publicity. He stretched around and muttered through the cigar: "Whoa, lighten up. I mooch off the fat cat tourists. That's all."
Blinking from the garlic breath washing over me, I released his wrist. "Better flag a different bus next time."
Rubbing his bruised wrist, the smiling fat man waved his cigar at the bus driver watching us in a mirror. "We're cool here," the fat man proclaimed. "No problem, no hassle." Flicking ashes as he lowered himself to the pavement, the fat man repeated, "We're cool." He disappeared into a mom-and-pop convenience store as I walked the other way down a lane to the Blue Seahorse.
Since it was well after 6 p.m., I returned to my room to don a suit and tie, then hurried to the hotel restaurant. A wahoo steak dinner was in order. A pianist glowered at an empty tip jar, so I plinked in a quarter. His snarl tickled me. An uniformed doorman ushered me out to a cool, starlit evening. Yes, I was downshifting into vacation mode. Lighting a mentholated cigarette, I strolled by sea grape hedges and through a moongate to a limestone cliff dropping to the Atlantic.
I detected muffled voices. One was tenor, the other bass. As I tiptoed away, a lady's scream choked off. A splash, then a louder one. Sprinting to the precipice, I fell down on all fours to lower myself to a narrow ledge. Groping in the semi-darkness, I reaped the straps to a haltertop. My loafers scuffed loose pebbles; a few scattered to spill into the surf churning far below. Alarmed, I raced back for help; however, the hotel concierge shrugged and laughed through my story.
"Guests swim there at night." He winked me in the eye. "For romantic reasons."
The concierge thrust a rum swizzle at me as the calypso band struck up a bright number. A lounge lizard kicked over his stool and slithered onto the octagonal dance floor, clapping hands to summon that blonde trainer who liked to show off during beach volleyball games. A milkmaidish brunette jostled my forearm, towed me to come partner with her. Sloughing off those talons, I ducked underneath a "Welcome!" banner draped overhead and strode to a rear exit.
"Son of a stinking bitch!" she bellowed after me.
Up early the next morning, I was jogging along the steep oceanfront trail when a motorboat anchored beneath the limestone cliff bounced into view. Two divers and a policeman were dragging a limp body aboard. A second corpse already lay sprawled at the policeman's boots. She was a blonde, naked to the waist, full breasts sunny-side up. The dead young man plopped beside her was clad in cutoffs and a cropped T-shirt. Before the policeman yanked up a tarpaulin, I saw gunshot wounds knocked through both their chests.
By the time I trotted back to my room, finished showering, and was leaving for breakfast, I swung the door wide and greeted two island policemen. Cedar cologne from the younger one was overpowering.
"I'm Sergeant Smathers. My mate is Galpirn," said the Peter O'Toole lookalike. "We understand that you reported a swimming incident to the concierge last evening."
My eyes darted from one humorless face to the other before noting their sidearms, Smathers' fingers roosting on his handle to draw if necessary. I discerned an odd tension directed at me. "Nothing actually," I downplayed it. "Couple of lovebirds out for a starlit dip. But hey, I eased off, didn't witness jack."
Smathers greasy gray eyes searched behind me. "Quirky how they just happened to frolic below where my constables fished two cadavers from the brine."
"How's that?" I asked.
"Yeah, a guy and a gal, early twenties, both zapped by a high-power rifle." Smathers eyes never stopped studying me.
"Out for some fresh air, I rejoined the mixer a few moments later. Never heard gunshots," I repeated. Galpirn's sideways slide, ever so subtle to block the doorway, didn't escape my notice.
Smathers jabbed his finger at me. "Johnson, I learned you're a private dick. I didn't learn why you're here. I know I don't like it. Surrender your passport. I'm saddled with a double homicide. For starters, you're my material witness."
Not bothering to protest, I extracted my passport from a hip pocket, tossed it over to him.
"If I ransack your belongings, I trust I wouldn't scare up an illegal firearm," Smathers said. "Such a gross violation would make you my permanent guest."
Exasperated, I skated aside, bowed with a flourish. "Do your thing, Sergeant. I carry no secrets. I know nothing about any murders or pack a big game rifle either."
Smathers puffed out his chest because he'd riled me. "My murder investigation is underway, Johnson. It is a police matter. Don't interfere," he warned before leaving.
After two cups of coffee and a hike uphill, breathless, I parked on a concrete bench for the bus. Across the street, the fat man sporting aviator shades and a floppy straw hat loitered behind a calabash tree perusing the Bermuda Sun. Three minutes later, the bus whined to a halt. He discarded the tabloid and bumbled to my side to board. For tailing me, he did an amateurish job camouflaging it.
Pretending to nap en route to Hamilton, I disembarked near the "Bird Cage" always vacant on Front Street. Bouncing off and from across the street, the fat man stalked me until I managed to elude him by entering a kaleidoscope of alleys. A Dachshund yapped behind a wrought iron gate in the courtyard I traversed. I resurfaced by the waterfront, invaded the ex-Armory remodeled into an upscale mall hosting boutiques, jewelers, and bookstores. Relaxed and casual shoppers resented my rushing past into a coffeehouse.
After ordering generic black java and doughnuts from a secluded booth, I started watching a young girl nearer the door experiment with her mother's lipstick tube. Gaudy pink soon smeared her sly lips. Too busy being amused, I missed who slipped in opposite me.
"Hello Frank," she rasped. "At long last we meet." Caught woefully off guard, I recognized the bemused face as that of Jael's. "Wrote you I'd be in touch." On her plastic tray melted a dish of sherbet. Her red hair combed back in a snug bun reminded me of a shiny new valentine.
My jaw tumbling slack, I nodded in awe.
"Quit your gawking like a horny teenager."
"How should one act in the company of a beautiful killer?" I asked, my taut smile belying my bone-numbing terror.
"Skip the sarcasm, sport," Jael ordered. "It doesn't become you."
I chewed, attempted to swallow and both times failed. "What do you want?"
"To cash in my chips," Jael said. Her broadening blue eyes dilated to a flat white akin to a movie screen lowered for the main feature.
"How did you corner me here?" I asked.
"Simple. I followed you all the way from Baltimore," said Jael. "Forget about that. Last night two tourists bought it through the heart from a sniping rifle."
"Yours, I suppose." Smathers' snarling still grated my ears.
"Shut up. Let me explain." Her sculpted fingernails gouging my leg under the table locked me in receive mode. "Those bullets had my initials etched on them."
"How do you figure?"
"The shooter aiming from Horseshoe Beach thought you and I were spooning on that ledge," she whispered. "The killer was my ex paroled from Leavenworth last Monday. Bad blood flows between us. He thinks we're an item and has vowed to kill me."
"So now you expect me to nail him first."
"Not exactly. You excel at prying around. That's why I picked you." Jael paused. "It's a cakewalk for you, Frank. You locate him. I deliver the coup de grace."
"I could forfeit my P.I. ticket for this," I tried to carp. "Not to mention rot in a dank U.K. prison subsisting on kidney pie."
"Shut up," Jael again ordered. From the angle of light slanted off her hair, I could scan clear down to the roots. She was a natural redhead. "I know he followed me and is laying low on the island. Where, I don't know. Smoke him out. I'll waste the SOB."
"What if I refuse you?" I had to ask.
"You won't," she said. "You keep personal ledgers balanced and don't like owing favors. Here, check these at your leisure."
Jael stood up, stretched to yawn, and swayed out the coffeeshop with my eyes glued to her departing ass. The mug shots she'd shoveled in my lap were the grizzled fat man minus cigar. A held up signboard identified him as Al Gremlin. Inside the saltwater taffy box was a .38 swaddled in cotton batting. It was for my protection. Her black rose, her letter, and her photograph -- thinking back, I realized Jael had been masterminding this whack job since last summer.
I flagged the next bus back to the Blue Seahorse Hotel. On the way, I pondered how to finagle a fake passport to flee Bermuda. God, faraway Baltimore and home never looked better to me. Soppy petals from red hibiscus slapping through the bus windows plastered my cheek.
Back at the hotel bar, over a scotch and soda, I put myself in an assassin's shoes. Where would I camp out? I'd need a vantage point, right? Some perch high and remote. Along the lighthouse road up a shrub-cladded knoll I'd counted a quintet of bungalows. It was reasonable to bet Gremlin hung out there with a bird's eye view and biding his time to strike.
Lighthouse tours were included in my vacation package and I was in the mood for sightseeing. A motor coach on the main drag picked me up and ascended a knoll to the highest point on Bermuda. The British Navy had erected this lighthouse there in colonial days to warn frigates away from the coral reefs. Once deposited, I lagged behind to break away from the others busy climbing the lighthouse steps. Following a paved road, I deviated onto a shortcut path leading to the five bungalows.
Out of breath from running, I went over and peeped into the rear window of the first bungalow. Luck was with me. I beheld how the budget-conscious traveler fared: a foldaway couch to slumber on, no maid service, and no ban on smoking indoors judging from Gremlin's scattered cigar butts. For a second, I envied the slob.
From the shore road, the persistent buzz of mopeds and scooters became a hornet trapped between my ears and wanting out. Further behind me, a cabin cruiser was steaming to dock in Hamilton for the night. Its first horn blast blew me against the stucco wall. The window slid up with noiseless ease. I hefted myself through, hoping Gremlin didn't waltz out of the head with guns blazing. Jael's .38, still wedged in my waistband, was small comfort.
The satellite-connect TV was showing a Benny Hill skit about nurses with low-cut blouses bulging melons for breasts. Its volume was muted. My first concern was to uncover Gremlin's big gun. I pawed through his piles, tipped the couch back. Nothing shook loose. The possible hiding places were narrowing fast. My heart hammered in my throat. I slipped open the oversized medicine cabinet, whistled between my teeth.
A semi-automatic, gas-operated, magazine-fed sniping rifle broken down into its various components dwelled inside, all taped into place. It was equipped with a silencer that fired subsonic ammunition and a heavy flash suppressor. Slick and professional, the beauty also featured a pistol-grip stock, a rubber recoil pad, and a 6-power night vision scope. The .38 became a toy. I smelled gun oil. Something new occurred to me. Once Gremlin realized he had liquidated the wrong targets on the ledge, he would try again.
Hoisted out the window ass first, I dropped to the ground, raced back down the path to the lighthouse. Yelling, I jumped on the motor coach creeping away with its door hissing shut.
I tumbled into a vacant seat beside an English lady pretty as a postcard.
"Hello. I'm a nanny back home," she spoke up. "What's your occupation, sir?"
"Selling hardware," I growled, speaking the first thing popping into my mind. "Shiny hammers, sharp nails. Dealing with stuff like that."
Tsk-tsking, she clutched her handbag to her chest.
At the stop sign, a motor coach headed for the lighthouse shuffled around us, and I couldn't miss a pair of beady eyes behind the window glass riveted on me: Al Gremlin. I almost saluted the fat man.
That night I summoned a taxi and arrived in Hamilton a few minutes before the bouncer barred the door to the Cheap Thrills Comedy Club. The cover charge was negligible since my greatest chance to stay alive was to loiter in public places. I ordered a scotch and soda, surveyed the back rows but saw no familiar faces. The warm-up acts relied on a batch of recycled fag jokes that were as lame as the first time told. The main joke man was a Canadian earning a ton of laughs about the follies of married couples. While clapping at the intermission, out of the corner of my eye through cigarette smoke, I observed Jael laughing at the bar lining the back wall.
She had little trouble picking me out and threading her way through tables and drunks, balancing two drinks in her hands. She was a Goddess in a sleeveless evening dress red as hibiscus. A feral passion I thought long shelved stirred my loins.
"You mind if I lag here, sport?" Jael asked, her words a sexy slur.
"Gremlin is holed up in a sleazy bungalow above my hotel," I told Jael. "Believe it or not, he's stashed the blunderbuss in his medicine cabinet."
Jael shrugged and laughed. "Did you get rid of it?"
"Look, my gig was to scout Gremlin, not to defang him," I said. "Mission accomplished."
"I simply cannot, you see, expedite my part as things stand," explained Jael. Her fingertip traced the circular rim of the cocktail glass. "Only a born fool would go up against an armed sniper." Her insistent eyes raked over me.
"Christ, you mean I'm on the hook for the rifle, too? Fine, yeah. Thanks for the drink and for nothing, too."We had weathered our first spat.
It was midnight on the dot when I invaded the Blue Seahorse lobby and took the steps to my room. From nose to toes, I sheathed myself in black. The compact flashlight came from my shaving kit. The .38 was loaded. Outside, I wondered if the fat man had centered his luminescent crosshairs on my back zigzagging up the side of the knoll. Hands on my knees, I rested halfway up under tall umbrella trees. Cold sweat trickled down my torso.
An oblong, orange moon rose to blaze over Bermuda and the first bungalow. Scurrying along the hedgerow, I was surprised the door stood slightly ajar. All quiet within, I toed it wider and squeezed into the kitchenette, the .38 wielded in outstretched arms. My eyes acclimated to the stale dimness. The bungalow appeared unoccupied by humans. I moved to the bathroom.
While aiming my flashlight beam at the medicine cabinet, my foot hooked something solid sprawled on the tiles. The something was Al Gremlin, a dead Al Gremlin. Oozing bile and blood, he'd been blasted through the chest, twice.
My closer inspection revealed three nail heads studding his temple. Twelve-inch galvanized nails had been pounded through his skull into the floor planks. A black rose gleamed by his elbow. With an unsteady hand, I retrieved the envelope addressed to me pinned to his shirt pocket.
Inside, my flashlight revealed a fake passport with my picture, a First Class airline ticket home to Baltimore, and thirty crisp $100 bills. I almost howled.
A letter also fluttered to the floor. It read:
Dear Frank,
You passed the test, but you
still owe me one, sport.
