It ended for him in the next moment.
All of it, all the promised excitement of it, all the anticipated pleasure of working together with men who knew what they were doing, who had a definite scheme in mind and who were not afraid of its proper execution, all of it ended for him the moment he entered her because it was then that he ceased caring about Jason Trench or his plan, then that he knew the plan had been executed long ago, this morning when he had shot Stern. This, this now with a long-legged woman in a bed stinking of sweat and booze, this now was the reward to which he was entitled. This was where he wanted to be for the rest of the day. The hell with phase two of the operation out there on the water someplace. The hell with phase three, the hell with all of it but this woman spreading her legs under him. This woman — “Honey, honey, do it to me, give it to me, do it, do it” — was the honor and the glory and the pride and the spoils of a war without trumpets and banners. He romped upon her with a glee almost childish. He could remember running across a field of tall grass holding a little girl by the hand. He could remember clouds unfolding on the brow of a hill. He could remember his mother wearing a white dress and tucking a handkerchief into the cleft of her bosom. Secret after secret seemed perched upon the edge of definition as he moved inside this yielding woman, imploring, entreating, questioning, searching.
He came before he learned any of the answers.
“I’m gonna keep you here all day,” he whispered.
“All right,” she said.
“Even after they’re gone,” he said.
“All right.”
“Gonna keep you here forever.”
There had been twelve outside calls to the marina office so far that morning and afternoon. When the phone rang for the thirteenth time, Benny lifted it from the cradle and said, “Costigan’s Marina, good afternoon.”
“Who’s this?” the voice on the other end asked.
“Benny.”
“Benny who?”
“Benny Prager.”
“Where’s Luke?”
“Taking care of the boats, sir. Who’s this, please?”
“This is Joel Dodge, up Ramrod way.”
“Yes, Mr. Dodge?”
“I was wondering how it is down there,” Dodge said. “They keep yelling about a hurricane, but it looks fine here.”
“It’s fine here too, Mr. Dodge.”
“What’s Luke doing about the boats?”
“Well, sir, he moved some of them into the cove this morning, when he wasn’t sure. But we’re just leaving the rest where they are for now. He asked me to come in, and a few other fellows from Marathon, just in case he needs help moving them later on. I mean, if the hurricane should really start heading this way.”
“Then the boats are okay, huh? My boat’s okay?”
“Which one is that, sir?”
“The white Chris-Craft. Thirty-four-foot Constellation.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“You think I ought to drive down anyway? Just in case?”
“I wouldn’t advise it, sir,” Benny said. “Not unless you’d planned to use the boat today.”
“No, I hadn’t,” Dodge said.
“Then we’ve got everything under control here. Appreciate your offering help, though.”
“Well, I was just...” Dodge began, and then paused. “Long as everything’s okay.”
“Everything’s fine, sir.”
“Okay, thank you. Give my regards to Luke when he comes back in, will you? Tell him I called.”
“I certainly will, sir.”
“Thanks,” Dodge said, and hung up.
Benny put the phone back onto its cradle and turned to the other man in the office. “All they’re worried about is their boats,” he said, “each and every one of them.” He shook his head. “Come tomorrow morning, they’ll have a little bit more to worry about, huh?” He grinned. “Just a little bit more, I’d say.”
The seven drunks pulled up to the end of the marina’s pier at thirteen minutes past two. Jason, who had been watching the cutter through binoculars, barely had time to unstrap his automatic and throw it under some canvas on the nearest boat. The seven drunks were aboard a fifty-foot cruiser with twin Cadillacs, and they pulled the yacht into the pier as though anxious to carry half the pier away with them.
“Ahoy there!” the drunk at the wheel yelled down from the command bridge.
“Ahoy!” Jason answered.
“Ahoy!” the drunk shouted, and then burst out laughing. “We are in need of fuel.”
“I can let you have some gas,” Jason said.
“Are you Mr. Costigan?”
“No,” Jason said. “I work for him.”
“I do not wish to deal with menials,” the drunk said, and laughed. “And besides I do not wish gasoline.”
“You said you wanted fuel, sir.”
“Freddy, tie us up to this mangy dock while this fellow runs to fetch Mr. Costigan.”
“Mr. Costigan is busy right now,” Jason said.
“You tell him Horace Carmody needs fuel and he had better unbusy himself right away.”
“I can fill you up, Mr. Carmody, same as Mr. Costigan could.”
Freddy and another drunk had stumbled ashore and were fumbling with the lines, trying to tie up alongside the Diesel pump at the pier’s end. The other drunks aboard kept calling encouragement to the staggering pair while Horace Carmody on the command bridge put his hands on his hips and looked up at the sign and said, “Welcome to Costigan’s Marina! This is some auspittish welcome after traveling all the way from Bimini! You go get Mr. Costigan, young man, and tell him to get right down here to this pier right away. Something funny going on here, all right, when he doesn’t even want to come down to say hello to Horace Carmody.”
Jason had no idea who Horace Carmody was, except that he was a noisy drunk who said he wanted fuel but who also said he did not want fuel. Jason was expecting a signal from the cutter at any moment. Once that signal came, the next phase of the plan would be put into motion. He did not want Horace Carmody and his six drunken cronies cluttering up the waterfront with a yacht, not when an operation of this size was about to get under way. The two drunks on the dock had finally managed to get lines secured fore and aft, and one of the other drunks threw over some press lines while Carmody looked down from the bridge at Jason.
“What kind of fuel did you have in mind?” Jason asked pleasantly.
“Scotch,” Carmody said, and laughed. “Gin,” he said, and laughed again.
“Bourbon,” one of the other drunks shouted.
“Canadian!” another drunk yelled.
“You fellows must be having quite a little party,” Jason said pleasantly.
“Yes, sir, quite a little party, and none of your business to boot. You go get Mr. Costigan and tell him we would like a case of Scotch and a case of bourbon and a case of gin and a case of martinis.”
One of the drunks on the dock began laughing and almost fell into the water.
“We don’t carry liquor, sir,” Jason said politely. He was considering an alternate plan of action if he could not peaceably get rid of Carmody and his party. He would jump down into the boat where he’d thrown his .45, pick it up, and then escort Carmody and his drunken pals back to the repair shop at gunpoint.
“You are supposed to carry liquor,” Carmody said.