Joseph was not a big man, but among the Bahamians he was respected as one of the toughest, a man not to be trifled with or taken lightly. Dark-skinned with a head of silver, wiry hair and thick lips, he has a smile that could make the saddest man feel better. Then there were the eyes, black, bottomless, and could back down the biggest of men. He was a good man, and I was proud to call him a friend.
"How is the wife and all those kids we played baseball with? Let's see, you had them from age ten back down to two, enough to field your own team."
"Wife died, Cop'um, along with two of the kids. They all had the fever."
"I'm sorry, Joseph."
"It's okay. I done remarried and had more kids, enough now for a football team. You know, like the one over on the mainland, named after the porpoise."
"The Miami Dolphins?"
"Yes, Cop'um, dat's the one. I heard the old Shoe retired."
"The Shoe? Ah, Don Shula. Yeah, he had a good run, though."
"You gonna be on the island long, Cop'um?"
"Couple of days."
"You welcome to stay at the Compound. Ain't nobody here but me."
"Already settled in at the Angler."
"Lot of good memories there for you, Cop'um."
"It was a long time ago."
"You need anything, call old Joseph. You a good man. Took me flying for the first time. Changed my whole outlook on life. Sho did 'preciate that."
"It was my pleasure."
"Sorry about the rifle. Thought you might be one of those dopers snooping around. They would like to get their hands on this Compound."
"Forget it. Do the people from Houston still own the place?"
"Same people own it. They don't come much any more, especially since dem folks flew the planes into them buildings up in the north. Ain't been nobody down since."
"There is one thing you could help me with, Joseph. What can you tell me about the big one, the one they call Mako?"
"He a bad one, that Mako. Works for the dopers sometimes. Used to be a good fisherman, worked the flats, but started taking the easy money. He a mean one, he is. If you have to deal with him be careful. He don't have no fear of dying. Such a man is dangerous, can only be killed."
"I'll keep that in mind, Joseph. Is it okay if I go out to the beach, there's some thinking I need to do?"
"You stay as long as you like. It's a good place to do your thinking. I won't lock up until you come out. I see you again before you leave, Cop'um?"
"It's a promise."
Walking out to the narrow sand beach on the west side, I arrived at the moment the sun touched the water. A flock of pelicans flew in tight formation, skimming low over the purple water of the Gulf Stream. The sun turned the sea into a molten caldron, fiery red and blazing. Joseph was right; this was a good place to do your thinking.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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.