Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [87]
“Suppose she decides not to go with you?” I asked.
“I have to go,” Vivian said. “It’s all right. As soon as we get everything set up, I’ll come back, and we can be together again.”
“I look forward to that,” I said. “It’s been so much fun lately.”
The boat made a wide, sweeping turn, cut its throttle, and eased up to the pier. It wasn’t a big boat, but it was big enough to reach Cuba.
“Good man,” Williams said, checking his watch again. “Right on time.”
At that moment a car I didn’t recognize appeared above us on the ramp that led down to the sand. The Colonel and Williams must have been expecting it, because neither seemed surprised by its arrival. It was a black Chevrolet Impala circa 1968, with whitewall tires, tinted windows, and the horns of a steer for a hood ornament. Two men got out. One of them was Dominguez, the Colonel’s chauffeur. The other was a longhaired man in his early twenties in a dirty white tank top that revealed a pair of shoulders festooned with tattoos. The young man opened the trunk and lifted out a pair of weather-beaten suitcases. The two newcomers embraced for a long moment, and then the younger man got back in the car and drove off.
Dominguez watched the Impala wind its way back up the ramp, then picked up his bags and walked slowly toward us. He was obviously struggling and looked even worse than when I had seen him a few days earlier.
“Where are you off to, Rafael?” I asked. “Santiago province, by any chance?”
“You talk too much,” Williams said.
Dominguez studied me with his sad, sick eyes. “Good-bye, Jack. I don’t think I see you again after this,” he said. “I wish for you the best.”
I thanked him. Dominguez nodded grimly and walked slowly toward the boat, a suitcase in either hand, like an old man balancing on a tightrope. He was going home to die.
“You had better head down to the boat now, Colonel,” Williams said. “We don’t want to be out here too long.”
“Keep him here until we’re gone,” the Colonel said. “Then drive him home.”
Williams smiled ever so slightly. “Sure thing,” he replied. “Just like a chauffeur.”
“What about the fifty grand you owe me?” I asked.
“I’m giving you your life,” he said. “That should make us even.”
The wind picked up. I glanced over the Colonel’s shoulder and saw Nick stepping onto the boat at the end of the pier. Vivian embraced me, kissed me on the cheek, but I didn’t respond. I was too busy thinking about the way Williams had smiled when his boss had told him to drive me home after they took off. I searched Vivian’s dark eyes for any sign that she knew what was coming, but they told me nothing. Maybe she suspected what was about to go down, and maybe she didn’t. Then, all at once, she began to cry.
“We have to go now, dear,” the Colonel said in a soft voice. Vivian brushed her eyes with the back of her wrist and walked over to where her father stood. He put his arm around her shoulders, and together they turned and walked toward the pier. They had gone only a few yards when Vivian broke away from her father and ran back to me. She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me hard on the lips. Williams looked on impassively.
“I love you,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Go on, now. Give me a call when you can. I’ll be fine. Williams and I might even go for a beer or two. Isn’t that right, Williams?” Vivian turned to look at him.
“You bet,” he said, but this time he didn’t smile. His blue eyes were as hard as diamond drill bits.
Vivian turned back to me. She reached up and ran her index finger over the scar on my cheek. It was a familiar gesture. I remembered the first time she’d done it—back when I first told her about the shooting up in New York. I had always taken it as her way of telling me she understood my remorse, why I’d never had it removed, and why I never would. I told her back then that there were some