The Island by Peter Benchley

her up again. We’ll leave here at two.”
    “We’ll be here.”
    “I won’t wait for you.”
    “Where will you be till then?”
    Whitey pointed at the building. “Inside. Cyril’s Conch and Turtle Palace.” He smiled and put on his hat. “It’s out of the sun.” Completely covered in white, his face hidden by hat and sunglasses, Whitey looked like the Invisible Man.
    Maynard said kindly, “This climate must be terrible for you.”
    Whitey shrugged. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Us freaks get all the kinky broads.” He squeezed down the aisle between crates and cartons and opened the door.
    Maynard and Justin walked across the apron and into the building, following a man who had been the first to meet the plane and had taken from Whitey a single copy of Sunday’s Miami Herald. Inside the building, the man sat on a bench and read the comics.
    A young police officer, his uniform impeccably clean except for a coating of dust on his black shoes, stood behind the customs desk. He held out his hand to Maynard. “Passport, visa, return ticket.”
    Holding his satchel close to his body with his left hand, Maynard used his right to fish for his wallet and thumb through it until he found his Today identification card, which he passed to the officer. “We’re not staying,” he said, as if explaining everything.
    The policeman examined the card and held it up to Maynard’s face. “You come to a foreign country with this?” he said. “What you think we are?”
    Maynard was sweating. “You see, I called last night from Miami, and—”
    “What you think we are!?”
    Unnerved, Maynard hurried to deflect the policeman’s outrage before it could lead to an arrest and, ultimately, a search. He leaned on the desk and said confidentially, “I think you’re smarter than you’re letting on.”
    “What?”
    “Listen . . . you know what a press card is. I’m down here on a story for Today. I’m trying to keep it kind of quiet, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything.”
    “What story?”
    “Just between us?” Maynard raised his eyebrows and looked furtively from side to side. “We hear from a pretty good source that an American millionaire is about to buy up a whole island down here. Wants to turn it into a health spa. A lot of folks could get rich, but only if everyone can be kept honest. That’s what I’m here to see to.”
    Maynard had been thinking so fast that by the time he was finished, he had forgotten most of what he had said.
    The policeman seemed impressed. “And how long this take?”
    “Just till two o’clock. See? No bags, no nothing.”
    “And who’s that?” The policeman pointed at Justin.
    “My researcher.” Maynard added in a whisper, “He has a glandular problem. Don’t say anything to him; he’s sensitive.”
    “That so?” The policeman looked perplexed.
    “Anyhow, I called last night to make an appointment with Mr. Makepeace, but I’m not sure he got the message. How can I find out?”
    The policeman turned to the man sitting on the bench. “Hey, Birds.”
    “Hmmmmm?” The man didn’t look up from the comics.
    “This the fella. He been feedin’ me some line about a story.”
    “It’s no line!” Maynard said.
    “Sure. You got anything to declare?”
    “Well . . .” Remembering Baxter’s advice, Maynard tried to look abashed. “Yes, now that you mention it.”
    “Like what?”
    Very carefully, Maynard reached into his satchel. “I had no idea it was illegal until the pilot told me.” He handed over a copy of Hustler. “I hope you don’t think I meant to violate your laws.”
    “You lucky you told me,” said the policeman. “If I’d’ve found it in your bag, would’ve been a fifty-dollar fine.”
    “Yes, sir,” Maynard said.
    The commissioner finished reading the comics, unfolded his lanky frame from the bench, and stood up. He was roughly Maynard’s age and height, and he was built like a fork. If Maynard was correct in thinking of