Blackwater Sound by James W. Hall Page A

going fishing.”
    â€œPlans’ve changed,” Arnold said. “You and I, we’re going to have to keep our heads down for a while, Lawton. Not have any contact.”
    Lawton followed Arnold over to the Bertram. Printed in gold letters across the stern was the boat’s name: You Bet Your Ass .
    Arnold climbed aboard and Lawton loosened the lines from the dock cleats and tossed them over the rail to Arnold. Arnold grabbed them and let them fall at his feet. He didn’t coil them like he usually did. He just let them lie there, in a mad tangle on the deck.

Six
    Arnold slipped the box into the cockpit storage locker. He dug out the ignition keys and handed them to Lawton, then turned and lifted his eyes and watched the laughing gulls spinning over Neon Leon’s, a few of them diving down at the roof shrieking as though whatever had turned off the television had also driven them insane.
    â€œI got to use the head, get rid of this beer. I’ll be up top in a minute.”
    â€œIt’s true, isn’t it, Arnold? I used to arrest you?”
    â€œYes, it’s true.”
    â€œWhy was that? You a dope peddler?”
    â€œNo, it wasn’t dope, Lawton. I never dabbled in dope.”
    He turned and gave Arnold a long look. “Don’t tell me you were a professional killer.”
    Arnold patted him on the shoulder. “You get us a little downstream, I’ll be right up.”
    â€œWe going fishing, catch some dolphin?”
    â€œNot today, Lawton. I need to get you back, safe and sound. I’ll stick around till Alexandra gets home, then I got a couple of things I gotta attend to. We’ll go fishing soon as this thing gets cleared up. I promise.”
    â€œDon’t worry about your boat. Go on, take a piss. You can trust me.”
    â€œI know I can.”
    â€œHey, Arnold, is this guy Braswell trying to kill us?”
    â€œNo, Lawton. Braswell went over to the Bahamas. He’s hanging out in Marsh Harbor, trying to locate a blue marlin. No, we’re fine. We’re just dandy.”
    â€œHe’s after that fish you told me about? One with the transmitter on it? Looks like a cigar?”
    â€œThat’s right, Lawton. He’s chasing that fish. He doesn’t have time for a couple of old farts like us.”
    Arnold gave his shoulder another pat, then headed for the cabin.
    Lawton climbed the ladder to the flybridge and started the big engines. Nudging the right throttle, then the left, twisting the wheel, he eased the Bertram away from the dock and out into the dark, oily center of the Miami River.
    A hundred yards away, a squat, thick-necked tugboat was chugging toward them like some kind of irritable bulldog, so Lawton edged Arnold’s sleek white yacht over to the right half of the river.
    He kept the Bertram idling forward, two knots, three, inhaling the river scents, industrial smells of kerosene and turpentine and a burnt coffee odor, all of it riding the sugary breeze.
    Lawton Collins always had an easy hand with boats. As close to a natural gift as he could claim. He wasn’t a certified captain, hadn’t taken the Coast Guard courses, and he didn’t know all the niceties of radar and GPS and Loran, and he knew next to nothing about the big turbo-charged diesels belowdecks, but Lawton could still handlea boat with charmed certainty. Didn’t matter how big or small the craft was. Give him a target on a nautical chart, set him behind the controls, and he’d roll through fifteen-foot seas or search out the twisting channels through treacherous shallows and get to his destination every time. It was one of the few skills he still possessed. Almost the only talent that hadn’t deserted him these last years as his limbs were crabbed by arthritis and his brain hollowed out.
    Soon as his hands were on the controls of a boat, he was rejuvenated. Muscles springy, heart alert. Mind of a twenty-year-old.
    As the big boat