Passage by Night (v5) (2 page)

2
Spanish Cay

It was late evening when they came into Spanish Cay and the beach was a white line of surf fringed by palm trees etched against a vivid orange sky.

As the
Grace Abounding
rounded the point into Johnstown harbour, a deep-sea cruiser moved out into the channel and careless laughter drifted across the water, gay and transitory, blending into the darkness with the muted throb of the engine.

Manning reduced speed and took the boat in towards the crumbling stone jetty that formed the east side of the harbour. A tall, handsome black in the uniform of the colonial police sat on the wall and smoked a cigarette. He got to his feet and grabbed the line Seth threw to him.

Manning cut the engines, reached for his old reefer jacket and went out on deck where Morrison waited for him. When they climbed the rusty iron ladder to the jetty, the young policeman was sitting on the wall again.

He smiled, showing firm white teeth. 'Any luck, Mr Manning?'

Manning shook his head. 'Not a damned thing, Joe.' He turned to Morrison. 'Have you met Sergeant Howard yet? He stands for the Empire in these parts, or what's left of it. Keeps us all strictly in line.'

Morrison nodded. 'We ran across each other when I flew in yesterday. How about joining us for a drink, sergeant?'

'A little too early. Maybe I'll take you up on it later.'

'You do that,' Morrison said and they moved away along the jetty, leaving him talking to Seth.

They could hear the strange, pulsating rhythm of the
goombay,
the Nassavian version of the calypso, as they turned along the waterfront and approached the Caravel. It faced directly onto the harbour and the terrace at the front was shaded by sea-almond trees.

Originally a cheap waterfront hotel patronized by deep-sea fishermen, sponge divers and others whose source of income was considerably more dubious, the Caravel was haunted during the season by tourists in search of atmosphere. The tariff, along with the amenities, had altered accordingly, but most of the original clientele still frequented the place.

Except for the addition of a small casino, little of the original had been changed. Old-fashioned fans still revolved in the ceiling in preference to air conditioning and the walls contained long, illuminated tanks of tropical fish.

The small dance floor was ringed by tightly packed tables, most of which were already occupied, for in the out-islands it was customary to dine early. A calypso band played on a small dais in one corner beside an archway which was covered by a bead curtain; several couples were dancing.

Manning and Morrison pushed their way through the crowd and the American ordered gin slings. Jimmy Walker was sitting at the end of the bar, a half-empty glass in front of him. He wore an R.A.F. flying jacket with the insignia removed and his old uniform cap was tilted over the young, reckless face.

He grinned at Manning. 'Saw you anchored off Cat Cay this afternoon. Any luck?'

Manning shook his head. 'How's business?'

'Can't complain. Brought in a full load from Nassau this afternoon.'

'How you keep that old Walrus flying I'll never know,' Manning said. 'What about another drink?'

Walker emptied his glass and shook his head. 'Got to refuel at the wharf, I'm taking some people over to Nassau later on to connect with the midnight flight to Miami. Tell Maria I'm sorry to miss her number.'

'I'll do that,' Manning said gravely.

'I just bet you will.' Walker grinned impudently and turned away through the crowd.

Manning offered Morrison a cigarette and the American said, 'I'm not sure I care for that young man. Too cocky by half.'

'A little young, that's all,' Manning said. 'He thinks he's in love.'

'And isn't he?'

'Who knows? He's at an age when you fall in love with every personable woman you meet.'

'A phase I've never managed to grow out of, I'm happy to say.' Morrison emptied his glass. 'If you'll excuse me, I think I'll have a bath. What about joining me for dinner later?'

Manning shook his head. 'Thanks all the same.'

'Another time perhaps.' Morrison opened his wallet and laid several banknotes on the bar. 'A little something on account.'

Manning counted the money and frowned. 'We agreed on one-fifty a day. There's a hundred too much here.'

'I figure I owe you a new harpoon gun at least.' Morrison grinned. 'What time in the morning? I'm still set on getting that tuna.'

'No need to be too early. I'll meet you on the jetty at eight.'

'I'll be looking forward to it.'

The American moved away through the crowd and Manning put the money in his hip pocket and ordered a large rum. As he lit another cigarette, the drum rolled and the dance floor cleared at once. The lights dimmed and a spot picked out the archway beside the band.

When Maria Salas stepped through the bead curtain, there was a sudden general sigh as if the crowd had caught its breath. She was wearing black leather riding pants, a white silk shirt knotted at her waist and a black Cordoban hat tilted at an angle, shading her face.

For a moment she stood there as if waiting for something and her fingers gently stroked the guitar and she started to sing.

She didn't really have a voice and yet there was something there, a touch of the night perhaps, a dying fall that caught at the back of the throat. Probably no more than half a dozen people in the room understood what she was singing about, but it didn't matter.

Manning remembered their first meeting that hot July afternoon. The fishing boat from Cuba packed with refugees, drifting helplessly in the gulf. It had been her tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost, in spite of the situation, that had first attracted him.

It was not that she was beautiful. Her skin was olive-hued, the blue-black hair tied with a scarlet ribbon and yet, in that dramatic costume, every other woman in the room faded into insignificance.

As her song died away, there was a moment of breathless stillness followed by a roar of applause. She took it like a
torero
in the plaza at Mexico City, hat extended in her right hand, feet together. As Manning ordered another rum, she launched into a
flamenco,
dancing as she sang, stamping her high-heeled Spanish boots. She finished on a harsh, strident note that was infinitely exciting.

This time the applause was prolonged. She vanished through the bead curtain and returned to stand stiffly, heels together, turning slowly, her gaze travelling over the whole crowd. As her eyes met Manning's, he raised his glass and she nodded slightly. She gave them one more song and at the end danced out through the bead curtain still singing, her voice dying away into the distance.

The calypso band struck up another
goombay
and Manning pushed his way through the crowd and went into the casino. As yet it was early and business was slack. One or two people stood at the roulette table, but the blackjack dealer was playing patience to kill the time until the rush started.

Kurt Viner, the owner of the Caravel, was sitting at a desk in the far corner checking the previous night's takings, his manager hovering at his shoulder. A thin, greying German of fifty or so, he wore his white dinner jacket with a touch of aristocratic elegance.

As Manning entered the room, he looked up and waved. 'Harry, how goes it?'

Manning took the two hundred and fifty dollars Morrison had given him and dropped them on the desk. 'A little something on account. I've been letting the tab run away with me lately.'

Viner got to his feet and nodded to the manager. 'Credit Mr Manning's account. If you want me I'll be in the office.' He turned to Manning. 'Let's have a drink, Harry. Away from the noise.'

He crossed the green baize door in the corner and Manning followed him through. The room was beautifully furnished in contemporary Swedish style, the walls of natural wood panels alternating with handmade silk paper. A small bar curved out from the corner beside the window and Manning sat on one of the stools while Viner went behind.

'Morrison must be a good client. What's he do for a living?'

'Real estate or something like that,' Manning said. 'Does it matter? They're all the same. Paunchy, middle-aged businessmen with too much money looking for excitement. The first thing they do when they get here is unpack, dress like something out of Hemingway, come down to the wharf and expect to have a tuna handed to them on a platter.'

'For which they pay handsomely, remember,' Viner said. 'And in dollars. Such a useful currency these days.'

'A fact of which I'm duly grateful.'

'You don't like Morrison, then?'

'Thanks to him I lost a harpoon gun, but he insisted on paying for it and he knows I'm insured. I suppose he's better than most.'

'He must be. Two hundred and fifty dollars is a fair day's pay by any standards.' Viner hesitated and then said slowly, 'You know, your credit's always good here, Harry, but it's quite obvious you aren't even making a living at the moment.'

'Have you got a better suggestion?'

The German refilled his glass and said slowly, 'You go to Miami occasionally, don't you?'

Manning nodded. 'So what?'

'The
Grace Abounding
is a good-sized boat. You could carry passengers.'

Manning frowned. 'You mean Cuban refugees? Illegal immigrants? Have you any idea what the penalties are?'

'The rewards could be high.'

'You're telling me. Five years in jail. That coast is alive with small naval craft, especially since the Cuban crisis. What's your interest, anyway? You don't need that kind of money.'

'You could say I have an affinity for refugees. I was one myself for several years after the war.' Viner smiled. 'Think it over, Harry. The offer is still open.'

Manning emptied his glass and stood up. 'Thanks all the same, but things aren't quite that tough. See you later.'

He left the room and went through the casino into the bar. For a moment he hesitated and then went out into the foyer past the reception desk and mounted the stairs to the first floor.

He was immediately conscious of the quiet. He passed along the broad carpeted corridor and somewhere a woman laughed, the sound of it curiously remote. The music from below might have come from another world.

He opened the door at the end of the corridor and went in. The room was a place of shadows, one shaded lamp standing on a small table in the centre. The French windows stood open to the terrace, the curtain lifting slightly in the wind as he crossed the room.

She was sitting in the darkness in an old wicker chair, a robe wrapped closely about her against the chill of the night air.

'Hello, Harry!' she said softly.

He gave her a cigarette. As the match flared in his cupped hand, she leaned forward, the lines of her face thrown sharply into relief, the eyes dark pools.

'What kind of day have you had?'

'No worse than usual. It's a great life if you don't weaken.'

He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice and she shook her head. 'You can't go on like this, Harry, brooding about the past. You had a thriving business once in Havana, but you lost it. Why can't you accept that instead of living from day to day hoping for some miracle to give it back to you.'

'Nobody's having to support me,' he said. 'I'm making a living.'

'Only just.' There was an edge of anger in her voice. 'What kind of a life is this for a man like you? You started in Havana with nothing. Why can't you start again?'

'Maybe I'm tired,' he said. 'I'm fifteen years older, remember. I've just been talking to Viner. He wants me to start running refugees into Florida. A quick passage by night and no questions asked.'

She leaned forward in alarm. 'You didn't accept?'

'Don't worry,' he said. 'I've still got that much sense left.' He took the envelope from his shirt pocket and dropped it onto her lap. 'A letter from your mother.'

She got to her feet with a slight exclamation and hurried into the bedroom. He watched her feverishly tear open the envelope in the light of the lamp and turned away, leaning on the rail.

After a while she came back outside and stood beside him. 'How was Sanchez?'

'Seemed pretty fit to me.'

'Did he say anything?'

He looked down, trying to gauge the expression in her eyes, but her face was in shadow. 'Only that two of your people were murdered in Honduras last week. He told me to tell you to watch out. That Castro has a long arm.'

'Then he should take care,' she said simply. 'He might lose his hand.'

Manning frowned. 'Are you mixed up in anything, Maria? Anything I should know about?'

She smiled. 'Nothing for you to worry about, Harry. Nothing at all.'

Manning turned and leaned against the rail again and she stood beside him so that his shoulder touched hers lightly each time she stirred. The wind was freshening off the water and a light mist rolled across the harbour. He felt at peace and restless, happy and discontented, all at the same time. It had been a bad day and the past came too easily to mind. He sighed and straightened.