printed before the government’s name change or else blithely ignoring it, noted the existence of a 2500-foot paved airstrip. “Is 2500 feet long for a runway?” I asked Maggot.
“Two five? Short as a quarterback’s dick.” He was evidently still thinking of the girl, for the obscenity was automatic and his voice was clipped and distant.
“Have you ever flown into Murder Cay?” I asked him.
The big shaggy head turned to look at me. He frowned and sucked on his cigarette and I somehow got the impression that my question had annoyed him, but when he answered his voice was mild enough. “It’s a snakepit, Nick. Leave it alone.”
“So who are the snakes?” I insisted.
“The dickheads who bought the place, of course.” He paused to pull on his beer bottle which, emptied, he tossed out through the tiny triangular window at his left elbow. “I ran a couple of passengers there before the dickheads bought the island. It was a real nice place two years ago; nothing but luxury houses for the super-rich, but then the snakes bought it and they’ve painted a big yellow cross on their runway. You know what a big yellow cross on a runway means? It means keep away if you want to go on living.”
“So who are the new owners?” I tried again.
“Never been introduced to them, Nick.”
“Drug people?”
“Of course!” The Maggot assumed I had already known that.
I looked down at the chart and saw that the island was not so very far off our course, and I knew that the Beechcraft was brim-full with fuel. “You fancy having a look at the island?”
The Maggot laughed. “What’s made you feel suicidal? Did you get bored with waiting for Ellen to drop her panties?”
“I’m just curious,” I said with as much innocence as I could muster, “but of course, if you’re scared of the place...”
“Oh, damn you.” I had reckoned that an accusation of fear would sting the Maggot, and even before he interrupted me he had banked the plane westwards. He snatched the chart off my lap and worked out a crude course for the remote island. “So why do you want to stir the bastards up?” he grumbled.
I told him about Hirondelle and how Deacon Billingsley had lied about the yacht’s fate, and I confessed that though there was nothing I could do about a corrupt policeman, nor about what I strongly suspected had been the murder of a yacht’s crew, I was still curious about the island.
“Billingsley’s a bastard.” The Maggot, who had lived long enough in the Bahamas to learn and relish all the important gossip, growled the verdict. “You want to stay upwind of him.”
“McIllvanney says that Billingsley owns a house on Murder Cay.”
“That figures,” the Maggot said gloomily. “The dickheads know that the best way of keeping the Americans off their backs is by buying themselves a slice of the local law.” His disgruntled voice made it seem as though the precautions of the drug smugglers formed a personal affront to his patriotism.
Yet if anyone’s patriotism should have been affronted by what happened in the islands, it was the Bahamians, for they were forced to endure the indignity of having another nation’s law-enforcement agencies operating in their waters. The islands had always been a smugglers’ paradise, and had proved a perfect place to stockpile cocaine before running it across the narrow Straits of Florida to the waiting American markets. The American government had pressed the Bahamians to clean out the drug lords, but instead the trade had flourished until the Americans finally insisted that their own coastguard be allowed to patrol Bahamian waters. A scintilla of Bahamian pride was preserved by the presence of a native officer on every American boat or helicopter, but no one really believed the polite fiction that the local officer was thus in command.
“But we ain’t in command either,” the Maggot said sourly. “We can stop a boat at sea, but we sure as hell can’t put a foot on dry
“Two five? Short as a quarterback’s dick.” He was evidently still thinking of the girl, for the obscenity was automatic and his voice was clipped and distant.
“Have you ever flown into Murder Cay?” I asked him.
The big shaggy head turned to look at me. He frowned and sucked on his cigarette and I somehow got the impression that my question had annoyed him, but when he answered his voice was mild enough. “It’s a snakepit, Nick. Leave it alone.”
“So who are the snakes?” I insisted.
“The dickheads who bought the place, of course.” He paused to pull on his beer bottle which, emptied, he tossed out through the tiny triangular window at his left elbow. “I ran a couple of passengers there before the dickheads bought the island. It was a real nice place two years ago; nothing but luxury houses for the super-rich, but then the snakes bought it and they’ve painted a big yellow cross on their runway. You know what a big yellow cross on a runway means? It means keep away if you want to go on living.”
“So who are the new owners?” I tried again.
“Never been introduced to them, Nick.”
“Drug people?”
“Of course!” The Maggot assumed I had already known that.
I looked down at the chart and saw that the island was not so very far off our course, and I knew that the Beechcraft was brim-full with fuel. “You fancy having a look at the island?”
The Maggot laughed. “What’s made you feel suicidal? Did you get bored with waiting for Ellen to drop her panties?”
“I’m just curious,” I said with as much innocence as I could muster, “but of course, if you’re scared of the place...”
“Oh, damn you.” I had reckoned that an accusation of fear would sting the Maggot, and even before he interrupted me he had banked the plane westwards. He snatched the chart off my lap and worked out a crude course for the remote island. “So why do you want to stir the bastards up?” he grumbled.
I told him about Hirondelle and how Deacon Billingsley had lied about the yacht’s fate, and I confessed that though there was nothing I could do about a corrupt policeman, nor about what I strongly suspected had been the murder of a yacht’s crew, I was still curious about the island.
“Billingsley’s a bastard.” The Maggot, who had lived long enough in the Bahamas to learn and relish all the important gossip, growled the verdict. “You want to stay upwind of him.”
“McIllvanney says that Billingsley owns a house on Murder Cay.”
“That figures,” the Maggot said gloomily. “The dickheads know that the best way of keeping the Americans off their backs is by buying themselves a slice of the local law.” His disgruntled voice made it seem as though the precautions of the drug smugglers formed a personal affront to his patriotism.
Yet if anyone’s patriotism should have been affronted by what happened in the islands, it was the Bahamians, for they were forced to endure the indignity of having another nation’s law-enforcement agencies operating in their waters. The islands had always been a smugglers’ paradise, and had proved a perfect place to stockpile cocaine before running it across the narrow Straits of Florida to the waiting American markets. The American government had pressed the Bahamians to clean out the drug lords, but instead the trade had flourished until the Americans finally insisted that their own coastguard be allowed to patrol Bahamian waters. A scintilla of Bahamian pride was preserved by the presence of a native officer on every American boat or helicopter, but no one really believed the polite fiction that the local officer was thus in command.
“But we ain’t in command either,” the Maggot said sourly. “We can stop a boat at sea, but we sure as hell can’t put a foot on dry
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