Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [2]
The Colombian nodded.
“You do the loading,” the driver ordered Ruis. “I’m going aboard.”
The Colombians began tossing the pungent bales to the small man, who relayed them to Ruis. Winded from the effort, Ruis awkwardly hauled each of the fifty-pound bundles below, cramming it as far up the Donzi’s hull as it would go. After a few minutes the speedboat was nearly full.
“It won’t hold any more,” Ruis gasped. “There’s not enough room up there.”
“¡Silencio!” the small man commanded.
The driver stood on the deck of the freighter, talking quietly with the captain. To the south he could hear the sounds of more engines; more customers.
“Three kilos,” he said to the captain. “We can pay cash now.”
“Those are the rules. We aren’t supposed to even carry this shit,” the captain replied, handing a brown bag to the driver. “Grass is one thing. Cocaine is something else.”
“But not too risky for you, eh? Or your brother?”
The captain’s face darkened.
“Oh, I saw him in Miami the other day,” the driver continued. “Big car, pretty señorita. Last time I saw him he was on this boat; now he’s a big shot salesman.”
“It’s a big business, compadre,” the captain replied in a flat voice. “There’s plenty of room for people who don’t ask questions. Get the money.”
Back on the Donzi, the driver extracted a small blue Pan Am flight bag from a locked stowage shelf under the cockpit. The sides bulged.
“Hurry,” the small man urged. “We’re running out of room.”
“Start the engines,” the driver said. “Here goes.”
Quickly he scrambled up the rope ladder to the freighter’s deck. The small man turned the ignition key and idled the Donzi’s engines back as far as they would go.
“Hey, where’s he going?” Ruis demanded, wrestling with bale number thirteen. The small man moved against him and pressed a pistol into one of Ruis’s hands.
“Let the other bales go. Turn your back on the ship, and put the gun in the front of your pants. Use it only if I tell you.”
On deck, the Donzi’s driver handed the flight bag to the Colombian captain.
“It’s all there, Félix.”
“Bueno. I will count it.” The captain never took his eyes off the smuggler. One hand held the M-1, the other the Pan Am bag.
The driver monkey-climbed down the ladder, cast off the freighter’s rope and went to the wheel of the Donzi. “Hang on,” he yelled, slamming the throttle forward. The speedboat spun in an arc, hurling spray on the Night Owl’s deck.
The captain unzipped the flight bag.
“Madre de Dios,” he screamed. “¡Come mierda sinvergüenza!”
He dropped the satchel onto the wet deck and brought up his rifle.
“¡Fuego!” he cried. “¡Fuego!”
In the Donzi, the small man ducked when he saw flashes from the freighter and came up with his semiautomatic, firing. His hand shook.
Ruis never understood.
“Slow down! Christ! Slow down!” he yelled.
The speedboat accelerated like a rocket, throwing Ruis against the gunwale. The pistol dropped from his hand and clattered overboard. He clutched wildly for something to hang onto, but the Donzi plowed through a wave and bucked him up over the stern into the wake. From the freighter the splash sounded like a sack of cement.
“Jesus,” the small man said.
Rigid at the wheel, the driver never looked back. His eyes teared from the sharp wind. The speedboat raced eastward, out of rifle range, toward the Cape Florida lighthouse and home.
“Shit,” the small man exhaled. “Can Ruis swim?”
“I hope not—for his sake,” the driver said, shaking his head. “¡Mierda! It was a mistake to bring him.…”
By now the small man had stopped trembling. “What was in the bag?” he asked.
“Tampons,” the driver said.
ON THE FREIGHTER, the captain cursed and spit into the sea.
Ruis bobbed in the water while the Colombian crewmen watched silently. No one fired at him.
“¡Socorro!” Ruis cried. “Help!” His voice bounced off the hull like a dull chime.
¡“Por favor! Tengo miedo!” Ruis treaded water awkwardly. He was afraid to paddle toward the ladder, afraid to move a muscle in the sight of the rifles.
“Help!” he yelled plaintively. “¡Tiburón! Shark!