CHAPTER
35 – ROUGHING IT
“I’m
sorry, Ms. Loeb, but it can’t be helped.”
The
desk clerk at the Blue Water Hotel looked miserable.
“That’s
simply not acceptable. Let me speak to Maurice.”
Scarne
walked over.
“What’s
going on?”
“The
suite I asked for isn’t available. It’s my favorite. I always stay there.”
The
clerk returned with “Maurice,” whose name tag said Hotel Manager.
“A
broken pipe,” he said, wringing his hands. He had undoubtedly dealt with Alana
before. “Water damage. Quite uninhabitable. We are so sorry. But we have a very
nice cottage right near the beach. Much larger. At no extra charge. And, of
course, you will be our guest at dinner tonight.”
“Sounds
wonderful, darling” Scarne said, kissing her cheek. “Let’s rough it.” He didn’t
care where he slept, as long as it was with this woman.
She
smiled.
“All
right. Why don’t you get us settled? I have something to do at the bank. I’ll
be back in an hour.” She looked at the manager. “Would you arrange a taxi for
me?”
“No
need, Ms. Loeb. I’ll have one of the boys run you into town and wait for you.”
The
Blue Water was an older resort. The cottage was simple but charming, with a
small living room, kitchenette and a well-stocked wet bar. Off to one side was
a large bedroom with an inviting king-sized bed, above which a large-paddled
fan swirled slowly.
Their
bags had been placed on a wicker chest at the foot of the bed. Both rooms had
sliders that opened to a common lanai overlooking the Caribbean. A path that
connected all the cottages ran down to the beach. Scarne took his toiletry kit
into the bathroom. The step-in tub had a dual shower curtain held up by a
tensile rod. Someone had left the clothes line extended from its small chrome
grommet by the shower head to its receptacle on the opposite wall. It brought
back memories of drying socks from the many nights Scarne had spent in motels
across the United States. He thought about hanging something naughty for Alana
to see but instead released the line and it fell to the bottom of the tub
before slithering up sharply into its nest.
Scarne
changed into a pair of blue cotton trousers and a light yellow Greg Norman golf
shirt. He slipped his loafers back on and poured three fingers of Appleton
premium rum over some ice, adding a squeeze of lime and a sugar cube. Twirling
the homemade rum punch with his finger, he opened the sliding door and screen
to the porch and sat down on a cushioned wicker swivel chair, kicked off his
loafers and put his feet up.
He
was on his third drink when Alana returned. She took the glass from his hand
and led him by the hand to the big bed. Her eyes were hungry. The next several
hours were a blur of lovemaking. They hardly spoke. The only sounds were
sexual, augmented by the slow swishing of the fan paddles above them. She did
things to him, and with him, that he could not have imagined – and, like most
men, he imagined plenty. Near the end, she caught a look of surprise on his
face, finished what she was doing, rolled away and started to cry softly.
“Alana,
darling, what’s the matter?”
“Go
to hell!”
He
lay there confused, afraid to even touch a woman whose body moments before had
eagerly accepted every exploration by his fingers and mouth. Finally, he let
his hand slip to the base of her spine to the small tattoo, which he massaged
gently until she fell asleep.
***
Scarne
was awakened by the sensation of someone gently caressing his face and running
fingers through his hair. Her face loomed above him, her blonde hair gently
stirring with the breeze from the fan.
“I’m
sorry, Jake.”
“There’s
no need.”
“You
are a beautiful man.”
“We
missed dinner last night.”
“Did
you mind?”
He
slid his hand to her breast and began playing with a nipple. She laughed as
they both watched it harden. He pinched it hard, like she liked. Then she
swatted his hand away.
“No!
I have to brush my teeth. And I want a shower. I can’t imagine what the maid
will say about these sheets. You’ll just have to wait until after breakfast.
I’m starving.”
She
sprung out of bed as he reached for her, almost falling out of bed.
Just
then the phone rang. She picked up the receiver and threw it to him.
“Answer
it. It will get your mind off other things.”
“Not
for long,” Scarne replied, but picked up the phone and said hello. He listened
for a moment, looking increasingly perplexed.
“And
he asked for me by name? Who did he say he was? Yes, you did the right thing.
OK. I’ll be right over. Thank you.”
He
sighed, looking at a naked Alana grinning mischievously.
“What
is it?”
“The
front desk. They said there is a man from Government House who wants to see me.
Says it’s urgent. He’s waiting for me in the coffee shop. Something to do with
my passport. Asked me to bring more identification. Can’t imagine what it’s
about. Damned nuisance.”
“You
must be on a watch list. The custom people are a little slow. They let you in
the country and then they question you. Have I been making love to a
terrorist?” She covered her breasts and pubic area in mock fear.
Scarne
laughed. “You are the one who has terrorized me. I’ll be back in a few minutes.
Do you want me to bring back some breakfast?”
“Oh
yes, something decadent and gooey,” she laughed. “We can disguise the sheets.”
Scarne
pulled on a pair of shorts and a golf shirt and slipped on his sandals. He
grabbed his cell phone and went out through the sliders to the lanai and began
walking down the path toward the main buildings. He barely noticed a small car
idling in the road just below the path. He went down the stairs leading to the
main walkway that led directly to the main hotel lobby. He was halfway there
when he ran into the hotel manager.
“Good
morning, Mr. Scarne. I hope you found the cottage to your satisfaction.”
“Yes,
Maurice, it’s fine. Can you tell me how to get to the coffee shop?
“It’s
just to the left of the lobby where you checked in. But it won’t be open for
another 15 minutes. I can have something sent to your room.”
“That’s
funny. The desk clerk said a man was asking for me and is now in the coffee
shop. Maybe he was confused. Where else would he be waiting?”
The
manager frowned.
“I
have been on the desk until just now, Mr. Scarne. There was no one asking for
you, and we didn’t call you. Are you sure?’
“Listen,
it had to be ….”
Scarne
stopped. He remembered the car idling near the cottage. Christ! He turned and
ran, leaving the manager with his mouth agape. When he reached the lanai, the
sliders were open. He heard a muffled scream and the sound of glass breaking.
He dove through the bedroom and burst through the door into the bathroom. A man
had Alana by the throat and was bending her body backwards over the sink. She
was naked, but the man seemed oblivious to that. The floor was wet and slippery
from Alana’s shower, and the assailant was sliding on the floor. His hands did
not have a firm purchase on her neck.
The
man seemed stunned by Scarne’s arrival. But instead of simply letting go of
Alana he flung her towards him. Scarne automatically tried to keep her from
falling. That gave the man enough time to reach into his waistband. Had he come
out with a gun, there was little Scarne could have done about it. It would have
been game, set and match. But the hand came out with a knife, which flicked
open, straight from its scabbard, like a serpent’s tongue. Except that this
tongue was five inches of polished tungsten steel and glittered.
Scarne
pivoted and pushed Alana towards the door as the man slashed at his eyes. The
turn saved his sight as the blade just nicked his eyebrow. The man immediately
whipped his arm in the other direction. A pro. Scarne leaned backwards. The
blade missed his throat by a fraction of an inch. The attacker squared himself,
preparing for another assault. A small predator’s grin bared his teeth. He was
in his element, his surprise at Scarne’s arrival now an inconsequential memory.
Scarne took a quick inventory of his opponent. Much shorter and at least 50
pounds heavier. If it was fat, it was hard fat. The man’s agility was obvious,
as he rolled on the outside of his feet and swayed toward Scarne, the knife
making lazy eights in front of him.
Scarne
knew that the knife movement and swaying were intentional. A target’s instinct
is to back away from an assailant while keeping his eyes riveted on the
threatening blade, like a mongoose on a cobra’s head. But this cobra had two
hands. The blow would come from the empty hand, and would be meant to disorient
and stun. Then the deadly thrust. But Scarne was no stranger to hand-to-hand
combat and had been taught by the best – Marine non-coms who had killed in many
countries. He could almost hear the grizzled gunnery sergeant named Lunsford
reciting the Marine Corps mantra: “Always close with an enemy. Straight up the
middle, high diddle-diddle.” Less effective against a machine gun certainly,
but not a bad tactic against a man trying to kill you with a bayonet or a
knife. “Never let him thrust it into you,” Sgt. ‘Lungsfull’ as the young
Marines dubbed him, had yelled. “Slashes hurt, thrusts kill. Eat the pain and
spit it back at the motherfucker.”
Scarne
suppressed the instinct to back away and looked straight into the man’s eyes.
Then he charged. He was on the man before he could pull the blade back to where
he could stab Scarne straight on. But it did some damage, cutting an ugly rent
into Scarne’s side. Pain seared his flank. There are no rules in a knife fight,
except winning. Scarne jabbed his outstretched fingers his into the man’s eyes.
He shrieked and lurched backward, hands going to his face.
Scarne
grabbed the knife hand but the man, still protecting his face, twisted away. He
put his other arm around the man’s neck, burying his face in his thick brown
hair. Scarne smelled expensive cologne, mingled with sweat. If he let go of the
knife hand, he could use his right forearm as a pivot and strangle the man or
maybe even break his neck. It would be close. The man could easily get lucky
and slash Scarne badly before succumbing.
He
never had to make a decision. The man pushed backwards and both men fell into
the tub, with Scarne on the bottom taking the worst of it. His back and neck
hit the tub wall hard and his breath whistled out between his teeth. He came
close to losing consciousness. Only the white hot pain from the slice in his
side and the cold spraying shower water kept his mind focused. As he went over,
he caught a quick glimpse of Alana backed up against the sink but then had to
concentrate on avoiding the knife the man was wildly swinging back over his
shoulder in an attempt to slash his face. One thrust barely missed Scarne’s
right eye and nicked his ear.
The
man switched tactics and the blade moved downward out of Scarne’s vision and he
braced himself for a cut into his groin. He twisted desperately and was
rewarded with another bolt of pain, in his upper thigh. He became enraged. He
let the man’s knife arm go and removed his grip on the man’s neck. The man,
straining away from Scarne, lurched out of the tub. Scarne drew his knees to
his chest and braced his back against the wall. He put his feet on the man’s
buttocks and pushed his legs out savagely, sending him violently across the
bathroom into the vanity and mirror on the opposite wall.
The
man’s head smashed the mirror, which spiderwebbed, and the knife clattered to
the floor. The man was momentarily stunned, both by the impact and the reversal
in fortune. But then he whirled around and came at Scarne snarling with both
hands, his face a mask of blood and hate. Scarne barely had time to get to his
feet before the man had his hands around his throat. He started pushing Scarne
into the corner nearest the shower head. Scarne’s sandals had come off and his
feet began slipping on what he knew was his own blood, now mixing freely with
the gore streaming from his assailant’s shattered face. He could see bits of
glass embedded in the man’s cheeks and eyebrows. He put the heel of his left
hand under the man’s chin and pried the head backwards while at the same time
desperately reaching his right hand up to grab a purchase on the shower head.
Instead, that hand closed on the circular escutcheon that surrounded the
clothesline grommet.
Scarne
felt the little button that started the line and grabbed it. He pulled it out
just enough to wrap it around the meat of his hand. He swung that hand under
the man’s left arm and used it to break its grip on his throat. Then he twisted
violently to his right and stood up straight. Now his height became an
advantage. He also had the added benefit of being in the tub, which gave him a
few crucial inches. The man’s feet came off the floor and Scarne turned him
around easily. The man’s arms shot out in a natural reaction to losing his
balance. It cost him his life.
In
another move that came instinctively from his military experience, Scarne
wrapped the line around the man’s throat. He placed his other hand on the line
and held the man off the floor. The man frantically tried to pry his fingers
between the line and his neck. The line was thin but strong, like heavy- duty
fishing line, and it bit deeply into the neck. Blood seeped down the throat.
Scarne could see the man’s eyes bulging in the unshattered portion of the
mirror across the floor. He looked into Scarne’s face in the mirror as his
tongue started slithering out of his mouth. If he was seeking pity, he found
none. Scarne was all business now. The strain in his own neck and shoulders
pulled his cheeks back in a savage grimace. The man’s arms flopped and his legs
collapsed, and almost pulling Scarne out of the tub. Scarne’s forearms looked
like steel cables and felt like they were on fire, but he didn’t let up. He had
once throttled a sentry who feigned unconsciousness and later shot one of his
men in the back. He would never repeat that mistake. He closed his eyes and
tried to block out the horrible gurgling sounds.