The sun warmed and we made the trip with the top down. The drive took three hours. We called Guy Robins from Lil' Ray's seafood restaurant. He would meet us at the marina in an hour.
Joe Glossman's secretary confirmed the meeting was on schedule for three o'clock this afternoon.
We arrived at the Broadwater marina; slip 117, at the same time Guy Robins drove up. Kathy and he seemed to hit it off. We went aboard Picaroon. He gave me the keys to the engine and hatch cover.
"Come, Kathy. Let me show you around the boat. Jay knows the layout, hell, he taught me how to sail her."
Settling in the portside of the cockpit, I watched the people walking past admiring the boats docked in the marina. Several charter-fishing boats were returning from half-day trips loaded with their catch of red fish, snapper, and speckled trout.
Rubbing my hand along the combing, I remembered the day Guy bought Picaroon from the original owner. He did not like the name of the boat, but it is unlucky to change it, so he didn't. Guy was superstitious. She was a well-founded forty-foot, double-ended, steel-hulled, Colvin Archer design with a full keel, and sloop rigged. A strong and seaworthy, bluewater boat, she was a true pleasure to sail.
"It's a lovely vessel," Kathy said as they emerged from below. "There's so much room."
Guy looked at me. "Our house tonight, eight o'clock. We'll blacken some redfish."
I looked at Kathy, she nodded. It was settled.
Guy left to return to work. We stowed our gear aboard Picaroon.
"He seems like a nice man. He admires you, Jay."
"Yes. We've been friends a long time. You'll like his wife. I was in love with her once, but it was a long time ago."
She gave me a sly grin. "I may be jealous."
"You'd have no reason. My meeting is at three o'clock. It should not take over a couple of hours. Will you be all right, here, alone?"
"I'm a big girl, Mr. Leicester. Picaroon and I will get acquainted in your absence."
"If you need anything the phone has Guy's number on the speed-dial."
"Yes, he showed me. Don't worry, I'll be fine. Hurry back."
Driving east toward Ocean Springs and Glossman's office, I did not notice the new casinos and huge hotels recently built along the highway, or the heavy traffic, or the for sale signs on old, columned mansions with giant water oaks in the front yard, or any other of the terrible things dockside gambling has brought to this once peaceful coast. My thoughts were about the unpleasantness that had to be dealt with in this meeting.
It was close to five o'clock before we finished with everything that needed to be discussed. Plans were made to resume the next morning at nine a.m. Lynn Renoir would be there and arrangements were made for other persons involved to be present. Glossman said he would send a plane to pick up Lynn. The agenda included a final report from me on the death of Rene, and then the signing over of control of the Renoir Company and its vast holdings to Lynn. It would make her a rich and powerful woman. This was a meeting for which I would not be late.
Arriving back at the marina, I found Kathy sitting in the cockpit sipping champagne.
"How did it go?"
"It ran longer than expected. I hope you weren't bored?"
"On the contrary. I've had two offers to sail to Florida, an overnight fishing trip to somewhere called Cat Island, and one I cannot mention in mixed company."
"You weren't tempted?"
She laughed. "Maybe on the Cat Island thing. He was a good looking guy."
We sat, sipped the champagne, and watched darkness descend swiftly on the quiet harbor. The only distraction was the ever present humming of highway traffic, blowing of car horns, and squealing of brakes.
Shortly before eight, we secured Picaroon and drove to Guy Robins' house. Kathy and Mildred Robins were fast friends ten minutes after they met. Guy and I went out back to cook. He worked his magic blackening the red fish. The entire evening was pleasant. Dinner was superb with a lightly chilled 1998 Soave Classico superior from Verona, Italy. We stayed until midnight.
We drove back to Picaroon and parked in one of the spaces reserved for slip 117. The headlights from the car illuminated the stern of the boat and something else, a man trying to get into the hatch. He didn't seem to be concerned about the headlights.
Telling Kathy to stay in the car, I cut the lights and reached for my trusty old. 357 magnum. It was not there. Then I remembered putting it below with my gear this morning. Easing out of the car, I walked to the edge of the pier. The figure still had his back to me, oblivious to the world around him. Jumping into the cockpit, and grabbing the man, I felt the cuts on my feet open up.
He was an old man smelling of gin and cigarettes. His blurry eyes looked at me with little understanding. He had wet himself.
"It's okay, old timer. You're on the wrong boat."
"By God, laddie, I might be. My boat is the Gin Mill. Would you point me that way, kind sir?"
"What slip number?"
"I believe it is 121."
After getting the drunk settled aboard his boat, I returned to Picaroon. We opened all the hatches and portholes to let the gentle breeze cool the cabin. Taking off my shoes, I saw that the cuts had not bled much, which meant they were healing.
"Jay, I'm going to bed. I know you have a rough day tomorrow."
"Take the Vee-birth. I'll see you before I leave."
She kissed me gently, softly, and went below.
An hour later, I eased down the companionway ladder and lay quietly on the portside bunk. Kathy was snoring softly; the accordion door separating the cabins half closed. The boat gently rocked on its mooring. I slid into a restless sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A warm hand touched my face. Half asleep, I turned into it as one does a lover's caress. Then I bolted upright, grabbing the arm roughly and twisting.
Kathy rolled with the motion, went from a grimace to a smile as I lessened the grip. "Remind me never to wake you again. Coffee is ready." She rubbed her wrist, brushed a hand through her hair, and smiled with an expression that held secret amusement.
"What time is it?"
"Seven-thirty." Her mouth formed a sensual shape that reminded me it was good to be alive. "Would you like some breakfast?"
"Thanks."
Saying good-bye to Kathy, I left for Ocean Springs. Traffic was horrendous along the four-lane highway. Giant casinos were built on almost every available foot of beachfront property, some of the hotels bigger than those in Las Vegas and Atlantic City. One bragged of seventeen hundred rooms, the sixth largest hotel in the nation.
Dockside gambling, something I've never understood the definition of, had saved the economy on the coast, but it brought with it the evils inherent to the industry; the Mafia, drugs, prostitution, corruption, inflated real estate, and violent murder in all its hideous forms.
Passing by the Biloxi lighthouse, I could see Moran's Art Studio off to my left. The sun was blinding as I crossed the Biloxi Bay Bridge that withstood, for the most part, the ravages of Hurricane Camille in nineteen sixty nine.
Pulling into the parking lot of Joe Glossman's office, I sat for a moment enjoying the fresh, salt-tinged morning air, listening to the ping of the car's engine as it cooled. The building was in a trendy, rehabbed district, where the exteriors of old homes were converted into cafes, artist's studios, and shops. Down the block was the museum hosting the works of Walter Anderson, located next door to the community center where his infamous murals have been restored and revered. Taking my files, I got out and walked into a moment I'll never forget.
Glossman's secretary ushered me quickly into the inner office. Bill Moran stood beside Joe's desk, leaning over, conferring with him. To my left, sitting on a small sofa, were two men who, to the trained eye, had Federal Agent written all over them. They stood when I came in, arms at their sides, jackets unbuttoned.