As the high wispy streaks of cirrus clouds turned an ashen gray and the sea lost its color, I thought about Joseph. He had been a friend for twenty years, ever since I started flying out to Bimini. It was good to see him again, and it would be good to spend some time with him. At the moment, though, finding out who tortured and killed a twenty-four year old school teacher from Wiggins, Mississippi was top priority.
Mako was my next move. He obviously was a scumbag who sold out to the Snowpowder boys for the easy money. If he put Rene Renoir on board Chalk Airline's flight to Miami, then he could tell me the name of the boat that brought her to Bimini, and who owned it.
Getting him to talk was going to be difficult. Any man who had his scalp ripped open by a tuna gaff then gets loose and, with his bare hands, kills the man who hooked him isn't someone who will talk easily. But the man had information I needed.
Mako was big, but the question was, is he coordinated, quick, and in shape. To break a man's neck takes powerful arms, hands, and shoulders. It's no great feat for a big man to snap the neck of a small person. Though it is a big deal to the one getting his neck broken.
It was dark, now, and the road back to the hotel led through Alicetown. At night it is no place for a man alone. Years ago two pilot friends of mine staying at the Compound decided some nightlife was in order. They walked down to the End of the World Bar and got drunk. On the way back, passing through Alicetown, they were hailed by two ladies of the evening. Making a bad decision, they were beaten and robbed by the whore's pimps. One ended up with a concussion. As a result of their indiscretion neither was able to work for several weeks. Their employer asked me to fly his jet back to Miami. When learning he had fired the pilots, I refused. The plane sat in Bimini for a long time.
As I approached the village, six young males were sitting on a rusted out Cadillac listening to a portable radio turned as loud as it would go. Drawing abreast of them, they stopped their wild gyrations, turned the radio off, and looked me over. They said nothing, and I passed on by. Sometimes it pays to be big.
Walking out onto the public docks, I strolled along the narrow piers looking at the boats moored in the slips to see if any were familiar. They were not. Two young men stood beside a sportfisherman tied bow to the pier. Unable to see the name of the vessel, I struck up a conversation. They hailed from Key West and were delivering the boat for the owner who would keep it in Bimini through the tuna and marlin runs. It was best to come over early, as docking space was nonexistent during peak season.
Several sailboats were anchored out on the flats in the deep channel. Only two appeared to be occupied. It was possible Rene could have been brought over on a sailboat, but not probable. They are too slow. Whoever killed her traveled over from Nassau on a boat capable of handling the heavy winter seas, like a sportfisherman, or they flew her here.
Walking back to the hotel, I thought about what needed to be done. Passing through the foyer, the huge marlin mounted over the fireplace loomed as large as a small car. Memories came rushing back as to how it felt fighting such a magnificent creature. How pleased the feeling when you released the tired, but uninjured fish. You knew how much you admired him, and you wondered what it thought about you. Then you tried not to think about the fish you had not released.
In my room, I splashed musty-smelling water on my face and looked in the cracked mirror. The image staring back seemed unfamiliar, a man in his forties with short, ash-blond hair, greenish-blue eyes, and a fair complexion. The few scars on the angular face were familiar. They were the lessons learned, hard lessons. It was time to find some food.
I remembered that the Bimini Inn used to have a good restaurant. At one time a giant of a man, nicknamed, Tiny, was the Chef. I hoped he was still there.
On the way out, I stopped by the bar. It was dark inside, and I stood in the door until my eyes adjusted. One of the sailors from Key West was playing the 'hook' game. He took careful aim, swung the rope, and missed the whole post. Easing onto a stool, the bartender sat a gin and tonic with a twist in front of me.
"It's an old custom, first drink of the night is on the house." He nodded toward the end of the bar. There sat Mako, drinking an Anchor Rode. It's a Bahamian beer, strong and aromatic with a bitter finish. We drank them on hot days fishing in the Stream. One each hour kept the dehydration down and the alcohol level tolerable.
Sipping the gin, I came up with a plan for Mako. It was time to test the man. Word travels fast on a small island when strangers come, but he showed no knowledge of my existence. His attention was drawn to the 'hook' game. He saw easy marks in the two young sailors.
It didn't take long to talk his way into the game. After losing five straight, he suggested upping the ante. He lost some more, then when each toss reached a hundred dollars; he was ready for the kill. If the men complained they would be beaten, or worse. It's a scam that's been going on a long time, in all sports.
Getting up, I made my way toward the door. Passing by Mako, I swung my arm as if to wave good-bye to the bartender and knocked the red cap off his head. Two horrid rows of jagged scars glistened on the bald scalp. He stiffened, eyes blazing. Reaching down, I picked up the cap and handed it back to him.
"My apologies. I didn't see you standing there, Scarhead. Bartender, give this man a beer on me." Turning, I headed for the door. Passing one of the sailors, I whispered that they were being played like a fish. He nodded his appreciation.
Mako was bigger than he looked. I guessed six foot four or five and over three hundred pounds. He had a flat nose and thick lips that didn't hide his ruined teeth. The eyes were small and beady, and he had poor personal hygiene.
Tiny was still the Chef at the Bimini Inn, and he treated me with a leisurely dinner of raw Conch salad and grilled tuna that was wonderful. I drank little wine, as there was a feeling that Mako would make himself known to me again before the night was over.
After dinner, I walked down to the public docks. Turning onto the long wooden pier that ran out a hundred yards into the water, I spotted Mako hugging the shadows. He had not disappointed me. The light at the end of the pier was dim, but I could see water rushing by the pilings on the ebbing tide. Several big fish were holding stationary in the flow behind the wooden posts waiting for food to come drifting by.
With my back to the shore, I was sure Mako's approach would be heard on the creaking planks of the dock. I was wrong. The rush of the wind ahead of the punch was my first warning. Stars exploded in my head, and I could feel myself sinking to my knees. That's when Mako made his first mistake. He backed up and laughed, a low, growling sound that would bring fear to a man's soul.
"Gone teach you sum manners, white man. Teach you not to knock Mako's cap off. And learn you to never make fun of my head." He grunted crazily. "Yo head gonna look like Mako's when I get through."
The stars cleared and I could feel my strength and coordination return. Lunging with my right hand I grabbed him by the balls and squeezed. With my left hand, I yanked one of his feet out from under him and he fell on his back. Sweat popped out and ran off him like water. He tried to kick, but I was on him. Powerful arms lashed out, but I was too close, too quick. A couple of short, hard punches to his temple ended the struggle. He had not uttered a sound since I grabbed him. He was tough.
Dragging him over to the boat out of Key West, I threw him into the cockpit. Dipping a bucket of seawater, I poured it over his head. He started to come around. Taking a filet knife from a leather sheath by the fishing rods, I sat on his chest and made a cut across his neck, just deep enough so that he could feel it.
"You hurt me, Mon," he grunted through clinched teeth. "You hurt Mako bad. What you want, Mon?"
"Listen carefully, Scarhead. I'm only going to say this once." I cut a little deeper. "You put a drugged up young woman on the seaplane to Miami. Who ordered you to do that?"
He shook his head, "Don't know what you talking about, Mon."
Pushing the knife blade deeper into the cut, I said, "What boat did she come in on?"
Struggling, he said, "A sportfisherman, Mon. Down from Nassau. Don't see the name."
"You're a lying bucket of bilge water." Cutting deeper than I intended, a sudden flow of blood ran down onto the deck. It didn't appear to be arterial. "This is your last chance to tell me what I want to hear, then I'm going to cut your privates off and feed them to the fish down by the pilings. You understand me?"
Sweat glistened off the black face and he smelled like he hadn't bathed in a week. "The Sun Dog, Mon. The Sun Dog."
"Who owns it?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, and a tightening movement of his face formed a smile that substituted for a moan of pain. "You a mean one. Maybe I come work for you. We make a good team, Mon."
"I don't think so. I hate bullies and will not tolerate the killing of young, innocent women. Now who owns the boat?"
"Don't know his name. He a doper running the whole island chain. That's the truth, Mon."
"How you know him?"
"Guy works for him hired me to deliver around here. Don't know anything but a nickname. Calls himself Moley."
Removing the knife from his neck, I said, "Get out of here before I change my mind about killing you."
He stood slowly, feeling the cut in his neck with one hand and his testicles with the other. "You a mean one, Mon. We meet again some other time. Yes sir, we meet again."
All of a sudden I was tired. The last four days was taking its toll. Washing the blood off the cockpit deck, I headed back to the Angler. Mako wouldn't give me any trouble tonight, but he might have a friend.
The bartender sat a drink in front of me as I eased onto a stool in the bar. "Mako left behind you tonight, and he was plenty mad. You have any trouble?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle. You got any kids?"
"Why?"
"Need someone to guard my door tonight, let me know if anyone comes around."
"My thirteen year old is dependable. He watch your door. You pay him, but not too much. Don't want him spoiled."
I slid a fifty under the drink. "Thanks."
"The boy will be there in an hour."
Thirty minutes later there was a soft tap on the door. He was a chip off the old block, a mirror image of his father with sun-bleached hair and a round, boyish face. Huge, alert eyes hidden far back under thin eyebrows danced and darted in the dim hallway. He was a young kid growing quickly into manhood on a dangerous and hard island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Handing him a twenty-dollar bill, the expression on his face told me I could sleep easy.