I was unlashing my guide pole, an eighteen-foot-long pipe I used for pushing the boat quietly across the flats. I held up one end of the pipe for Bill to see. “It’s made of boron,” I said. “Boron is an excellent conductor of electricity. If I’m holding onto the pole in a storm, I could get fried.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” said Bill.
“Let’s hope the storm stays away,” added Bob, and they again looked at each other with secret amusement, like they knew something very funny and weren’t supposed to let on.
We fished for two hours. They were both pretty good by then. They picked up the physical skills without any trouble, and neither one of them seemed to have any problem with patience.
One other time I felt that small stirring of alarm. Bob had a tarpon on, a good-sized one. He had fought it up to the boat after a couple of spectacular leaps. I hauled it up for him to see and to photograph if he wanted.
He didn’t want any pictures. As I turned away to release the fish, I heard Bill say softly, “If he’d made another run I’d have cut the line. You can’t get tired out.”
“I’m fine,” Bob told him.
Tired out for what? Not my business. I thought it must be another private joke. Still, the way they said it was not very funny, not even to them.
But right then the fish had given a lurch in my hands and I needed all my concentration to hold on to the tarpon until it was revived enough for me to let go. By the time the fish swam away I’d forgotten the remark.
Just about the time the tide started to change and the fishing slowed, a large sailboat glided into the lagoon. It was an Alden fifty-four-footer, a beautiful boat.
“Right on time,” Bob said.
They both turned to look at me, heads swiveling as if they were connected. Both faces had the same bland, smug look of disciplined amusement.
“Tide’s changing,” I said, trying to figure out why the hair on the back of my neck was rising. “We could head out to a wreck that’s not too far. Try for some other fish.”
“I think we’ll stay right here,” Bob said, and Bill added a quiet “Heh,” as he bent over and zipped open his gym bag.
I was standing on my platform above the motor, the long boron pole in my hands. I could see clearly down into Bill’s gym bag. It did not contain the sorts of things I expected—extra shirt, jacket, suntan lotion, snack foods.
What it did contain, among other things, was a Glock 9mm automatic pistol with a large silencer on the end.
Bill removed the pistol without any real hurry and aimed it at my belly button. “Okay, mud-boy,” he said. “It’s showtime.”
As he spoke, Bob was bending to his gym bag. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to come out with a candy bar, eithe
r.
Mud-boy. A Glock 9mm. The sailboat gliding in on cue.
“That sailboat’s gone,” Ed had said.
And here it was.
I may not be the smartest guy who ever lived, but I have never felt quite as stupid as I did right then.
Doyle gonna know you dropped the dime on him. And then of course he would come and look for me. Key West is on the way to a lot of really good hide-outs. Especially if you’re going by boat.
And if you have a small score to settle, settle it in beautiful Key West. Enjoy the fabled hospitality of our tropical island paradise while you kill the guy who brought you down.
All this flashed through my mind as I watched Bob bend to his gym bag.
At the moment the odds were me against one guy with a gun. It wasn’t going to get any better.
There’s a foot control for the small electric motor I sometimes use to move the boat silently. I stepped down on it. The boat gave a very small lurch; not much. Just enough to make Bill lose his balance for a half-second and take his gun off line. When the gun moved, so did I.
I swung the pole as hard as I could. It’s a big pole, but pretty light, and it whistled towards Bill’s head with surprising speed.
Surprising for Bill, anyway. It caught him right on the ear just as he recovered from the boat’s movement. He dropped the gun, stunned.