Chemo said he didn’t have any more money. The kid said he’d take Chemo’s wristwatch, but Chemo said no, he didn’t want to give it up. It was a Heuer diving watch, silver and gold links, made in Switzerland. Chemo had swiped it off a young architect who was overdosing in the men’s room at the club. While the jerk was lying there in the stall, trying to swallow his tongue, Chemo grabbed his wrist and replaced the Heuer with his own thirty-dollar Seiko with the fake alligator band.
“No jet ski without a deposit,” said the kid with yellow hair.
“How about a gun?” Chemo said.
“What kind?”
Chemo showed him the .22 and the kid said okay, since it was a Beretta he’d hang onto it. He stuck it in the front of his chinos and led Chemo to the jet ski. He showed Chemo how the choke and the throttle worked, and tossed him a bright red life vest.
“You can change in the shed,” the kid said.
“Change?”
“You got a swimsuit, right?” The kid hopped back on the dock and gave Chemo the keys. “Man, you don’t want to ride these things in heavy pants.”
“I guess not,” said Chemo, unbuckling his trousers.
A shrimper named Joey agreed to take Christina Marks anywhere she wanted. When she gave him a hundred-dollar bill, Joey looked at it and said, “Where you going, Havana?”
“Stiltsville,” Christina said, climbing into the pungent shrimp boat. “And I need a favor.”
“You bet,” said Joey, tossing off the ropes.
“After you drop me off, I need you to stay close. Just in case.”
Joey aimed the bow down the canal, toward the mouth of Norris Cut. “In case what?” he asked.
“In case the man I’m going to see doesn’t want me to stay.”
Joey grinned and said, “I can’t imagine that. Here, you want a beer?”
He motored down the ocean side of Key Biscayne in amiable silence. Christina stood next to him at the wheel, guardedly watching the swarm of hungry seagulls that wailed and dove behind the stern. When the shrimp boat passed the Cape Florida lighthouse at the tip of the island, Christina saw the stilt houses to the south.
“Which one?” Joey shouted over the engines. When Christina pointed, Joey smiled and gave her a crusty wink.
“What’s that mean?”
“Him,” Joey said. “Why didn’t you say so?”
They were maybe two hundred yards off the radio towers and making the wide turn into the channel when Joey nudged Christina Marks and pointed with his chin. Up ahead, something swift and yellow was crossing one of the tidal flats, bouncing severely in the choppy water. It was an odd, gumdrop-shaped craft, and a tall pale figure appeared to be standing in the middle, holding on with both arms.
Joey eased back on the throttle to give way.
“I hate those fool things,” he said. “Damn tourists don’t know where the hell they’re going.”
They watched it cross from the starboard side, no more than thirty yards ahead of them. Joey frowned and said, “I’ll be goddamned.” He snatched a rag from his tool box and wiped the salty film from the shrimp boat’s windshield.
“Look,” he said to Christina. “Now you’ve seen it all.”
The tall pale man driving the jet ski was nude except for his soggy Jockey shorts.
And black sunglasses.
And a gleaming wristwatch.
And an Ingram .45 submachine gun strapped on his bare shoulder.
Christina Marks was astonished. “What do you suppose he’s doing out here with that?”
“Whatever the hell he wants,” said Joey the shrimper.
13
Earlier that day, Tina and two of her girlfriends had appeared at the stilt house in a borrowed Bayliner Capri. They saw Mick Stranahan sleeping on the roof beneath the windmill, the Remington shotgun at his side.
Tina’s friends were alarmed. They voted to stay in the boat while Tina went up on the dock and approached the house.
“Richie wants me back,” she called to Stranahan.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What?”
“I said, Richie wants me back. I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Why?” Stranahan said, his voice thick.