Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,60
duck into the cabin, then exit carrying a fly rod case and an equipment bag, which he handed down to Hannah, who was waiting on eager tiptoes.
The man—Alberto Sabino, I had to remind myself—looked ready for a day of gentleman’s sport: loose pleated khaki slacks and a long-sleeved shirt that would have looked baggy on any guy who didn’t move with the same prissy, catlike grace. I watched as Diemer and Hannah shook hands, standing eye to eye. Then the man stepped aboard, saying what sounded like, “I have un nice char-DON-ay on ice . . . and sand-weeches for our lunch.”
I couldn’t hear Hannah’s reply over the noise of the engine as my former skiff pirouetted smartly, then started for the channel, the bow of the skiff—and Hannah Smith’s eyes—pointed directly at my stilthouse.
That’s when, from behind, the voice of another woman intruded, asking, “My god, what are you doing up so early? Your whole house shakes when you walk. I thought we were having an earthquake.”
I said, “Huh?” too dazed to grasp a situation that was deteriorating fast. Crescent Arturo had slipped up beside me, a beach towel around her shoulders for warmth but wearing nothing else but sandals and her pale lemon chemise.
Cressa said, “Like in a dream, you know? A bad dream about earthquakes.” Then she yawned, “You didn’t happen to start coffee, did you?”
“Go back inside,” I said, but kept my voice down. “And put some clothes on.”
“Well, excuse me all to hell,” the woman shot back in a way that guaranteed she wasn’t budging.
I remained focused on Hannah, watching as her expression showed surprise, then tightened and became grim. Shaking my head, smiling and holding my hands up to declare innocence didn’t help. Hannah only turned away and said to the jet-set assassin, “Pay no attention to those two on the stilthouse, Mr. Sabino. Most folks on the islands wear clothes and they’re sober by sunrise—but that’s for God to judge, not me.”
Diemer, who had his nose buried in his equipment bag, was confused for a moment but figured it out when he looked up. Even with a towel around her shoulders, Cressa Arturo’s physical assets were obvious, and the Brazilian’s eyes latched onto her body, a feral expression on his face. “Ahhh . . . yes, I see. Perhaps you can introduce me to that lady sometime. Es possible?”
Hannah, the fishing guide, knew damn well sound carries over water, but it didn’t stop her from replying in a sturdy voice, “Her? I wouldn’t advise it. That woman’s married and she’s already rich—not that it seems to matter much.”
Cressa stepped to the railing and asked, “Hey . . . is that bitch talking about me?”
Hannah put her hand on the throttle and warned, “Hang on, Mr. Sabino, those fish aren’t going to hook themselves.” Hannah gunned the engine, and my custom-built skiff launched itself onto a bay that was a gray mirror, mangroves to the west now golden with the light of a new day.
The towel dropped from Cressa’s shoulders while she gripped the railing and watched the boat. “That oversized Amazon was talking about me. What a catty bitch she is!” But then saw the look I was giving her and amended, “Although I suppose she could have gotten the wrong idea. Are you sure you two aren’t more than jogging buddies?”
I took a breath and let it out slowly, my eyes still on the skiff, watching a silver rooster tail appear behind the engine as Hannah jumped the sandbar off Green Point, no need to run the channel because she knew the water so well.
From inside the house, I heard Tomlinson call, “Who wants coffee? We’ve only got two beers left!”
The screen door opened, banged shut, and I heard the claw clatter of a dog trotting toward us. When the retriever came around the corner, he sat and made the grunting sound, his request to go ashore.
“That horrible dog,” Cressa said. “I’m going to have to wash all my clothes when I get back.”
I turned and signaled the dog—Heel—as I replied, “When Tomlinson comes out, tell him we’re not leaving for the Everglades today. I’ll be in the mangroves if he wants an explanation.”
—
I TRIED HANNAH’S CELL and left a message: “When you cool down, give me a call. It’s important.”
When I hung up, I thought, Bonehead. Too dramatic—how are you going to explain yourself? But then thought, A Brazilian killer shows up at Dinkin’s Bay and hires my running partner? Not