King looked at him murderously and growled something through his stars and stripes.
‘Or do I leave you tied up, Mr King?’
Big King groaned and closed his eyes.
‘Okay,’ Morgan said. ‘But first I must find your gun.’
He clambered down the hatch to the accommodation. He started in the obvious places.
Five minutes later he had found an FN rifle and a 12 bore shotgun, and the ammunition. He locked the guns in the forward cabin. He took the ammunition with him, up to the helm. He said to Anna:
‘Untie his hands. Let him untie his own feet.’
Anna went to Big King. She knelt and wrestled the knot undone. She stood up, and came back to Morgan.
Big King wrestled his hands free. He sat up with a groan, flexing his hands. Then his big fingers wrestled loose the knot of his gag. He spat out the stars and stripes. He sat there, flexing his jaw.
‘You sonofabitch …’
Morgan picked up Anna’s bag and placed it at Big King’s feet. ‘Search it. For drugs.’
Big King scowled: then rummaged through the bag. He shoved it aside. ‘So what? I can’t look in the other place, can I?’ He started untying his feet.
‘Where?’ Anna demanded.
Big King suddenly looked embarrassed. ‘Ask your boyfriend,’ he muttered. He untied his feet, grunting. He sat there, massaging his big ankles.
Morgan said, ‘Get him a drink. What have you got, Mr King?’
‘Rum,’ Big King growled. ‘Straight,’ he added.
‘And the same for us,’ Morgan said. ‘And now will you please take the helm, Mr King?’
‘And will you please please please for Christ’s sake quit calling me Mr King?’
He lumbered over to the helm and snatched it. He looked at the compass, then looked at the receding shore lights. ‘Hey! – we’re going the wrong way for Saint Vincent’s!’
‘We’re going to Venezuela, Mr King.’
Big King stared at him. He whispered:
‘You’re gonna load this ship up with cocaine and run it back up the islands to Miami … You’re going to kill me and use my ship for one drug run?’
‘If I was going to kill you, why did I untie you?’
Big King glared. ‘What happens when we get to Venezuela?’
‘Mrs Smithers and I get off. You do what you like.’
Big King said slowly:
‘Pirates, Mister Smithers …’ He pointed west with a fat, gnarled finger. ‘Those waters are full of pirates! They board you, they murder you, they steal your boat, use it for one drug run up to Miami, then sink the boat to destroy the goddam evidence! Then start again …’
‘Mr King, I am the pirate, remember.’
Anna came up the hatch, with three glasses of dark rum. She put one in front of Big King. Morgan turned, and sat down at the dining table behind him. Anna slumped down beside him. She looked aft at the sea. Morgan said: ‘Nothing’s following us.’
He dragged his hands down his face. They were still trembly.
Anna took a mouthful of rum, threw back her head, and swallowed. It burned down into her gut, and she shuddered.
She took his hand, and squeezed it hard.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
They saw only some distant fishing craft all night. Before dawn the Kingfisher dropped anchor two hundred yards off the black, jungled coast of Venezuela.
It was humid, oily hot. A mile away the lights of Garrucha twinkled. Anna climbed down into the dinghy. Big King followed. Morgan climbed in, untied the painter and shoved off. Big King took up the oars and started rowing.
The dinghy crunched onto the beach and Morgan and Anna climbed out.
‘Well,’ Morgan said, ‘many thanks, Mr King.’
‘Oh, a pleasure,’ Big King glowered, ‘an absolute pleasure. Any time.’
‘I’ll send you a cheque for a thousand dollars to cover expenses and to compensate for the loss of your charter party. Care of the Heron Bar. I’m afraid I need all the cash I’ve got right now.’
‘Oh, sure. Send me a Get Well card, too.’
‘Goodbye, Mr King,’ Anna said, ‘and thank you.’
‘Oh sure,’ Big King said. ‘And will you do something for me?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you. But if you ever do, will you please please please not call me Mr King?’
‘What do we call you, then?’
‘I’m hoping you’ll never have to call me any goddam thing.’
‘What name do I put on the cheque?’ Morgan said.
Big King looked at him. ‘You really gonna send me a cheque?’
‘Yes.’
Big King looked away. He dug the oars into the water.
‘Morris Longbottom,’ he muttered.
Local knowledge, that’s what he desperately needed.
Big King had told him there was a railway station in Garrucha. There must also be a bus station. The port was only for fishing boats. There was no airport. But the jungle was full of airstrips used by smugglers for flipping drugs out of the country, Big King had said.
They walked fast along the beach towards the town. By now the British and the Yanks would have their people throughout the Caribbean looking for them. And so would the Russians.
In the sunrise they climbed up a rocky path, onto the road leading into Garrucha.
The town was not yet awake. They walked through the shacks on the outskirts. Then they were entering town. The shops were still shut. A woman in black was mopping the pavement. Down sidestreets, they could glimpse the harbour, fishing boats, nets. Ahead was a plaza, silent in the early morning.
It was lined with old buildings. On the opposite side of the square, a man was wiping down tables outside a café. They walked in and sat down in a far corner. The barman called, ‘Sí?’
