"Looks a little thin on top," said Remo. "You should try some Rogaine."
"Jesus 'aitch!" the travel agent swore. "If you'd but let me speak a moment without smashing furniture or ripping out me hair, there may be something I can tell you."
"I've been counting on it," Remo said.
"You mentioned pirates, now," the travel agent muttered, struggling painfully to gain his feet. "Historically, this area-"
Remo grabbed the man by an earlobe. Howard Morgan never would have thought the most sensitive part of his body was his earlobe, so he got a real education in the next few seconds. The pain was excruciating, and it flooded his body from ear to toes.
He was mute with agony, although his mouth opened and closed, tears streamed down his face and his eyeballs rolled up into his head. He began to stutter finally, then a long low howl began to build up as the pain, impossibly, got worse.
Then, as if the heavens had opened up, the pain was gone.
But Mr. Remo Rubble still held on to the earlobe. Morgan's education continued.
"That was pain. This is no pain," Remo said, then tightened his fingers on the earlobe to an almost imperceptible degree. "You choose."
"No pain! Please, no pain!"
"If I want history," Remo said, "I'll stop by the library. The pirates I'm concerned with are alive and well right now, and one of them's your good friend Pablo Altamira."
"Pablo?" Morgan feigned amazement, lowering the red hand from his face. "He had the best of references. I would have trusted that boy with my life."
"Changed your mind, I see," Remo noted with a nod.
The first time he had given Morgan a full five seconds of the pain thing. But he was annoyed by this whole situation. Annoyed by people who dressed and talked like pirates. Annoyed by tiger sharks. Annoyed by Master Chiun the Moody. Annoyed by Stacy Armitage, because she was making him worry about her.
He gave Morgan ten seconds, and Morgan was blubbering and jerking involuntarily.
He gave Morgan ten more seconds, and Morgan was virtually unconscious from the pain.
"I guess at this moment," Remo said when he stopped, "I'm annoyed by you most of all." Morgan was different now. Not just different temporarily, but altered mentally. He had snapped and broken, and he was never going to get put together again. But he wasn't insane. Remo had stopped just in time.
"Talk," Remo said.
Morgan looked at Remo and did not see death. Death would have been preferable to the mind-expanding suffering he had just endured. He tried to speak and ended up baaing like a sheep.
Remo pinched him on the neck, and Morgan's bodily weakness seemed to recede.
"At your service," Morgan mewed.
"You book tours," said Remo, hoping to save time if he began the tale for Morgan. "Some of them include crewmen like Pablo-or Enrique. You remember him, don't you? He shipped out with Richard and Kelly Armitage, about a month ago. The man's dead, Morgan, but the woman made it out. You hear me? She can testify to your part in the scheme. How do they punish an accessory to piracy and murder here in the Dominican Republic?" Morgan wasn't afraid of the law. Nothing the Dominican jail could dish out would be as bad as the Earlobe Pinch of Remo Rubble.
"So, tell me about Captain Teach."
The travel agent's face went blank. "God's truth," he said, "I've never heard of him. I do all my communicatin' with a local jobber, and he sets up the contacts. He's an odd bird, too, I'll tell you that, and no mistake."
"His name?"
"Calls himself Ethan Humphrey. Old man, he is, got pirates on the brain. He runs an outfit here in town. The Cutlass Foundation, it's called. Some sort of research outfit, as he claims, but I'm not buyin' it."
"How often do you speak with him?" asked Remo.
"Maybe two or three times in a month," Morgan replies. "It all depends on prospects, see? Humphrey wants folks with money. Women, too, if it's convenient, but he don't want kids along if I can help it. Some of those want crewmen, like you did, sir. Others, I just point 'em where they want to go and get sufficient information for old Humphrey's playmates to identify 'em after, see?"
"It's clear," said Remo. "What about the crewmen you hire out?"
"They come around the day I need 'em," Morgan said, "with Humphrey's password. Never seen the same one twice."
"And you don't know the pirates? You can't tell me where they go to count their loot?"
"My honor, sir."
"In that case," Remo said, smiling, "I don't believe I need you anymore."
Morgan's face twitched. "No more earlobe, I beg of you, kind sir!"
Remo shook his head. "No more earlobe. I promise."
ETHAN HUMPHREY'S POWERBOAT had been christened the Mulligan Stew when he purchased it in 1990, and he had never taken time to change the name. It was inconsequential to him, like the color of the paint inside the master cabin. Humphrey cared no more about the vessel's name-or style, for that matter-than he did about the daily weather in Honduras, say, or the cost of bootleg videotapes in Beijing. What mattered was the fact that the Mulligan Stew was seaworthy, capable of taking Humphrey where he had to go, among the islands that were home.
The boat had cost him thirty-seven thousand dollars-more than Humphrey had paid for his small bachelor's home, back in Gainesville, when he went to work at U of F. It had wiped out three-quarters of his savings, but it was worth every dime for the freedom it gave him, the means of pursuing his lifelong desire.
Not that Humphrey could pursue that dream alone, of course. He was too old for that, by far. No pirate he, with years of sea raiding behind him, muscles toned from trimming sails, swabbing decks and hand-to-hand combat. He had missed his chance, spent years in school as both student and teacher, before he ever dreamed that the buccaneers he idealized still existed in a modern world of jet planes, nuclear power and the information superhighway. It had come as a complete surprise, the single greatest shock and thrill of Humphrey's life.
He was sailing this day, off to pay a little visit, as it were, but he wasn't sailing by himself. He knew the way by now-Kidd trusted him with that much, after all that he had done for the seagoing brotherhood-but Humphrey's strength and health were not what they had been in younger days. Whenever he went off to visit his new friends, Kidd needed warning in advance, and he would send along a man or two for crew and company.
This morning, waiting for him on the dock, were two of Kidd's men whom Humphrey recognized, although they hadn't previously pulled the escort duty. One was Pascoe, a stocky, balding sea dog in his late thirties, who shaved his scalp in defiance of the bare patch on top. He wore a tattoo of a grinning skull and crossbones on his chest, now covered by a denim work shirt with the sleeves cut off to show his burly, sunburned arms. The other was a skeletal rogue with greasy, shoulder-length hair, who called himself Finch. The long scar down his left cheek crinkled when he spoke and when he smiled-the latter event occasioned only by sporadic references to acts of bloodletting.
"You're late," Finch said, as Humphrey came along the pier. The duffel bag he carried as his only luggage was slung across one shoulder.
"No, I'm not." Humphrey didn't consult his wristwatch, knowing he was right on time. Finch always tried to pick an argument with anyone available, and it was best to put him in his place or simply ignore him. At the moment, Humphrey hoped he had done both.
"Let's get on with this," Pascoe said. "We're burning daylight."
Humphrey recognized the line but couldn't place it. Was it from a John Wayne movie? Never mind. He climbed the gangway, taking his time about it, dispensing with any further pleasantries. The men Kidd sent to chaperon him on these little jaunts weren't chosen for their winning personalities, nor were they meant to keep him entertained. Kidd never said as much, but Humphrey knew that even after all they'd been through, there was still suspicion in the pirate's mind, a fear that Humphrey would betray him somehow, change his mind about their mutual arrangement and lead the authorities to Kidd's lair. In that event, Humphrey knew, his payoff would be a swift death and a tumble overboard to feed the sharks, as befit any traitor.
But that would never happen, Humphrey knew. He had no intention of betraying Kidd or the others. It had never crossed his mind, in fact. Why should it, when the whole arrangement had been his idea to start with? He had dreamed about this moment all his life, without imagining that it could ever really come to pass. It was a fantasy from childhood, carried over into the adult domain with no good reason to suspect that he would ever have a chance to live it out.
How many men his age-or any age, for that matter-were ever privileged to truly realize their dreams? It was a first in his experience, and nothing in his life, he knew, would ever be the same again. He had already passed the point of no return, and there could be no turning back.
Not that he wanted to turn back.
Again, the possibility had never even crossed his mind.
"How long have you been waiting?" Humphrey asked, addressing the question to no one in particular.