Benchley, Peter (24 page)

“No problem.” Coffin looked at the waves. “Still blowin” pretty good.”

“Aye, but she’s swinging around to the west. Ought to be a right nice evening to take a plunge.”

“What time?”

“Say seven. This time we’ll be punctual.”

“Okay.” Coffin peeled off the wet suit and dove into the water.

On the way back to St. David’s, David and Gail counted ampules. She had already bagged a hundred lots of fifty, but two or three times that amount remained, piled on the bunks, wrapped in towels, filling the rusty sink. To keep the ampules from smashing, Treece drove slowly, letting the boat wallow in the rolling seas.

They were still counting and bagging ampules an hour and a half later when Treece nosed

Corsair

up to the dock.

When they had tied off the last bag, Sanders said, “That’s it: twenty-three thousand two hundred and seventy.”

“So about twenty-eight thousand, all told.”

Treece looked at the heaps of plastic bags on the deck. “We’re going to make the Baggie company rich.”

Gail calculated figures in her head. “At this rate, even if we up it to fifty thousand a day, we’ve got nine or ten days to go.”

“Aye, and that time we do not have.”

After lunch, Treece left the house and walked down the hill. Gail stood at the sink, washing the dishes. Sanders came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her neck. “It’ll take him at least twenty minutes, down and back,” he said. “We could accomplish a lot in twenty minutes.”

She leaned back against him. “You think?”

“Come on.” He took her arm and led her to the bedroom.

They made love, with quiet, gentle passion. When they were finished, Gail saw that David’s eyes were moist. “What’s the matter?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

“All right, you’re not crying. Why are your eyes wet?”

Sanders started to deny that his eyes were wet, but, instead, he rolled onto his back and said, “I was thinking how lucky I am … what it would be like if you died and I knew I’d never ever be able to hold you again. I wonder how he can live with that.”

Gail touched his lips. “I guess you live with memories.”

They heard the kitchen door open. Sanders got out of bed and pulled on his bathing suit.

Kevin stood in the kitchen with Treece. His huge brown belly spilled over his tight tank suit, concealing it almost entirely. The only other clothing he wore was a pair of dusty old wing-tipped brown shoes without laces. The look on his face radiated intense dislike for everything.

Treece patted Kevin’s fleshy shoulder and said to Sanders, “He can’t wait to plunge all this lard into the briny. A regular sea horse. When was your last dip, Kevin? Fifty-five, was it?”

Kevin grunted sullenly.

They walked down the path to the dock. When he saw the ampules in the boat, Kevin’s eyes widened.

“Shit,” he said. “That the lot?”

“No. That’s what we got so far. There’s a whole pisspot left.”

“How many?”

“Who knows?” Treece said, smiling. “This here’s all concerns you.” He started the compressor.

Sanders put on his wet suit. It was clammy and cold. “What about your friend down there …percy?”

“He’ll be in his hole asleep, probably. But you might drop him a fish anyway.”

Sanders looked at Treece’s bandaged hand. “I don’t have to feed it to him, do I?”

“No, just lay it over his hole, or nearby.

He’ll smell it out.”

It took Sanders and Kevin two hours to place the ampules in the cave. Sanders was cold and tired, but Kevin, who wore nothing but bathing suit and weight belt-no wet suit, no flippers-seemed unaffected by the water or the work.

Gripping the diving platform and resting on the surface for a moment before hauling himself aboard the boat, Sanders saw Kevin take the last bag of ampules from Treece and, without a word, submerge.

“I thought he didn’t like the water. He’s a machine.”

“Hates it,” Treece said, “but you give him a task to do and that’s what he is, a machine. If I have heavy salvage work, he’s the one I take; got about ten horsepower inside him, and so much lard that he never gets cold. He’s something of a paradox: greedy as hell, but so surly he can’t work with the people who’ve got the money to pay him.”

“You’ll pay him for this?”

“Aye. He’ll want a hundred dollars, I’ll offer twenty, and we’ll settle for fifty.”

“Not bad wages.”

“No, but he’s good. I could get all manner of idiots for five an hour, but they’d take all bloody day at it, then go drink up the proceeds and blab all over the island about

what they’ve been doing. Besides, Kevin doesn’t get much work. I like to do what I can.”

Sanders climbed into the boat and unzipped his wet suit. His chest and arms were goose flesh.

“Go on up and have a shower,” Treece said. “Kevin and I’ll finish up.”

Sanders shivered. “Okay.”

Treece took Sanders’ wet-suit jacket and hung it from a corner of the deckhouse roof.

“Sun’ll bake it warm before tonight.”

The walk up the hill warmed Sanders some, but not enough; he was still shivering when he reached the house. He poured himself a scotch and took it with him to the shower.

When he finished showering, he went to the bedroom. On the way, he caught a glimpse of Treece in the kitchen. He opened the bedroom door quietly-Gail was asleep-pulled on a pair of trousers, and put his wallet in a hip pocket.

Treece sat at the kitchen table, a glass of rum to his right, a pile of papers to his left, and the gold crucifix in front of him.

Sanders poured himself another drink. “Was it what you said? Fifty?”

“Aye.”

Sanders took two tens and a five from his wallet and put them on the table. “Our share.”

Treece contemplated the bills and said, “All right.” He tapped the crucifix with his finger.

“You’ve got that and a hell of a lot more, from your share of this.”

“What’s it worth?” Sanders had no idea of the value of

Spanish gold. In metal value alone, there were probably seven or eight ounces of gold-maybe twelve hundred dollars’ worth. The

gems were tiny.

“Roughly? If we wanted to sell it, if we could

sell it, if we had an open market for it-roughly a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Jesus Christ!” Sanders’ hand jumped, and he spilled scotch on the table.

“Don’t go spending it, “cause more’n likely you’ll never see it. Before there’s a farthing, we’ll have to get the lot up, have it appraised, report it to the bloody government, decide if we want to sell any or all of it, negotiate with the bastards-which can take months-and then, maybe …”

“Still, a hundred thousand! Where’s the value?”

“Premium, mostly, and that’s another problem.

Premium’s hard to set; it’s subjective.

What’s workmanship worth?” Treece cradled the crucifix in his palm. “Damn, but those Dutch Jews were craftsmen!”

“Dutch Jews? I thought this came from South America.”

“It did. But most of the fine jewelry-the stuff for royalty-was made by Dutch Jews hired by the Spaniards and shipped over to the New World. The Spaniards and the Indians couldn’t do this kind of work. The other thing you pay for is provenance.

That’s what I’ve got to keep looking for, the bloody provenance.”

“Why?”

“Like I told you before, folks are manufacturing stuff left and right and passing it off as Spanish.

You have to be able to prove, really prove,

where it came from.” Treece

slapped the pile of papers. “So it’s back to the bloody documents.”

“E.f. is a name, right? It has to be.”

Treece looked at Sanders as if he had uttered a remark of monumental stupidity.

Sanders flushed. “I mean … it’s not like the ‘D.g.” on the coin, or the other stuff, “King of Spain and the Indies.” E.f. is a person.”

“Aye, it’s a name. And in here I have the names of all the Spanish nobility in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. It’s not much help, but it’s a start.”

“Can I help?”

“No. It takes a practiced eye to know what to look for.” Treece handed the crucifix to Sanders. “Here’s a task for you: Figure out how Mr. Jesus comes apart.”

Sanders held the crucifix close to his face.

There was a faint hairline between the Christ’s neck and shoulders, and Sanders tried to turn the head. It didn’t budge. “I don’t know where to begin.” He took a sip of scotch, then failed to disguise a yawn.

“Best thing you could do,” Treece said, “is go fall down for a couple of hours. Three-thirty now; we should leave the dock by six. Earlier, if the breeze hasn’t slacked off some.”

“You’re right.” Sanders finished his drink and went into the bedroom.

Gail was curled, like a baby, on her side of the bed, snoring thickly through clogged sinuses.

Sanders stepped out of his trousers and crawled into bed.

He considered putting his hand over Gail’s nose, to make

her change position and, perhaps, stop snoring long enough for him to fall asleep. But suppose he woke her …

The next thing he knew, Treece was tapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Time to get wet again.”

The wind had shifted to the west and dropped to a pleasant breeze, and as they cruised along the south shore in the low sunlight, they could easily see the lines of reef.

Treece gave Sanders the wheel and said, “Just point her straight.” He went below, rooted around in some boxes, and reappeared with a thin rubber kitchen glove and some elastic bands.

“You can’t get that fist of yours in that glove,”

Sanders said.

“No.” Treece put the glove on the gunwale, took a knife from a sheath tacked to the bulkhead, and sliced the fingers off the glove. He handed Gail the glove, and she held it for him as he worked his hand into it. He slipped an elastic band around his wrist, sealing the top of the glove, then put on a wet-suit jacket and a rubber diving glove.

“You’re diving?” Gail said.

“How does your head feel?”

“Fair to poor.”

“I’m diving. I don’t think I could suffer being topside with all you experts below, anyway. My imagination’d drive me crazy.” Treece flexed his fingers; he could not close his fist. “Little water won’t hurt. This’ll keep the stink away from the gobblers.”

The lights in the Orange Grove Club shone brightly in the twilight. The setting sun made the surf line glow pink-white, but the beach itself was in shadow cast by the high cliffs. The calm sea permitted Treece to bring the boat to within twenty yards of shore. The beach was empty.

“Where is he?” Sanders asked.

“He’ll be along.” Treece looked at his watch. “We’re five minutes early.”

They waited, rocking softly. Every couple of minutes, Treece gave the engine a brief burst of power, to keep the boat from being swept ashore. The sky blue was darkening quickly.

At 7:15, Treece said, “It’s not like him to be late.”

“Want me to go check?” said Sanders.

“Check what? If he’s late, he’s late.”

“Maybe the hotel people are giving him grief …

about using the elevator or something.”

“All right.”

Sanders zipped up his wet-suit jacket and put on his flippers.

Gail said, “Be careful.”

“Of what? There’s nothing on that beach but crabs.”

“I don’t know, but… please.”

“I will.” Sanders put on his mask and fell into the water.

Five yards from shore, Sanders found that he could touch bottom. He took off his flippers and mask and trudged through the small waves. Standing on the beach, he looked left and right; he could see for at least a mile in both directions, and although the light was dim, he could tell that the beach was deserted. He dropped flippers and mask above the high-water mark and started for the cliffs, dark rock curtains looming into the indigo sky. Behind

him, to his right, a sliver of yellow was rising over the horizon: a new moon. He heard the muffled thuds and hisses of the waves on the sand and the whisper of wind through the foliage atop the cliffs.

As he stepped into the shadows, he looked up; he could see the rectangular elevator cage outlined against the sky. He walked toward the base of the elevator pole, intending to summon the cage to the bottom of the cliff. He could not see the pole, so he used the cage above him as a guide.

In full stride, he tripped on something and tumbled to his knees.

He couldn’t see anything. Still on his knees, he turned and felt with his hand. The smell of ordure filled his nostrils, and for a moment he thought he had fallen over a defecating animal. Then his fingers touched flesh, cooling: an arm. He drew a quick, shocked breath, felt a rush of fear, and probed with his fingers.

He leaned closer and saw Coffin’s glazed, lifeless eyes staring at the sky. Drying blood trickled from his mouth.

Sanders put his fingers to the base of Coffin’s neck and felt for a pulse: nothing. Then he sprang to his feet and ran.

He stopped at the water’s edge, just long enough to pull his flippers on his feet, then dove over a small wave and swam frantically toward the boat.

“He’s dead!” Sanders gasped as Treece dragged him aboard. “They must’ve thrown him off the cliff.”

Treece squeezed Sanders’ wrist. “You’re sure?”

“Positive! No breathing, no pulse,

no nothing.”

“Shitst”

Roughly, Treece cast Sanders’ hand away.

Sanders thought: That’s a strange elegy-shit. But what more was there to say? The expletive was eloquent enough, conveying anger and dismay.

He looked at Gail. Her whole body was shivering, and her breaths were short, almost sobs. She stared fixedly at the water. He went to her and put his arms around her. She did not react to his touch, did not recoil from the cold clamminess of his wet suit. He breathed on her hair and whispered, “Okay … okay.”

She looked up at him and said flatly, “I want to go home.”

“I know,” he said.

“I want to go home now. It can’t be worse than this.”

Sanders started to speak, but Treece, gazing at the cliffs, spoke first: “No goin’ home now.