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sixty-pound great barracuda. Two of them now.
"Swim easy," B.J. gasped. "Stay behind the boat. No matter what. Swim easy,
babe."
The cigar-shaped fish seemed to glide in the water. Back and forth with the
larger humans; touching their tails as if exploring; showing off sharp, pointy
teeth.
Feeling the pain in his upper back, B.J. finally floated under the schooner's
sagging bow. sprit. From there he could see the beach clearly.
He spotted the two barebacked blacks retreating up into the hills. He couldn't
see the rifleman anywhere.... He watched the blacks until they disappeared
into thick, thick jungle. Watched until the pain in his back was too great.
Then he and Ronnie paddled around the boata man and a woman-and the two big,
surging fish.
The Singers were careful not to make sudden movements as they swam. they were
careful to do as little splashing as possible. As little breathing.
And finally, when the young man and woman got into four or five feet of
water-when they could just touch bottom-the great barracudas turned away. The
fish flashed their tails and headed back
Ronnie ran the last fifty yards to shore.
As the Singers lay on the wet sand like shipwrecked survivors, Damian Rose
squeezed, squeezed, shot them both dead anyway.
to be simplistic about things, I just didn't want to live and die in some
godforsaken whistle-stop. Like Madame Bovary.
The Rose Diary
Coastown, San Dominica
At eleven o'clock that morning, Carrie Rose lounged beside a 2,500,000-gallon
saltwater swim ming pool at the Coastown Princess Hotel.
Next to her at the poolside bar, a thirty-three year-old stockbroker from New
York, Philip Becker, was lamenting the decline and fall of the good life. He
was also trying to put the make on Carrie.
"It is a sad, shitty affair." Philip Becker eulo gized San Dominica in a
most-good-natured way. "Here you finally make time for a vacation. You pay out
two thousand, say, for ten glorious days of not having to schlepp around
Manhattan with all the gum snappers, panhandlers, the general roll call of
sewer snipes.... And then suddenly, slambam, you don't just get a little rain
to ruin your good time.... You don't get a sunburn.... You get a bloody
revolution!"
Carrie shook out her long sandy hair, exposed the tiniest mother-of-pearl
earrings. She was beginning to smile at the way Becker was telling his
dimwitted stories.
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"I like the way you say that." She rested her hand on the back of his. "You
get a revolution!" she repeated his thought.
"That is exactly what we have here," the stockbroker said. "Machete knife
behind every palm tree. " He was beginning to stare openly at her breasts now;
her long legs; brown swimmer's stomach; her crotch.
"This Dred-excuse me, Colonel Dred-is going to do some major league
bloodletting now. Which means I'm going back to the safer confines of New
York."
"All of a sudden a hundred and fifty thousand tourists and landowners want to
get off this island at the same time," Carrie said. Philip Becker smiled. He
raised his glass in a mock salute. "to, uh... Colonel Monkey Dred,
who, uh, niined our respective vacations. Up yours, Monkey. 9
At which point Carrie Rose decided that she liked this one well enough. Philip
Lloyd Becker. A wonderfufly confident man. Nearly as smooth as Damian Simpson
Rose.
Smooth Philip continued to smile at her. He was gallant. Handsome. Physically
nice: a walking advertisement for -the New York Athletic Club. And he was as
empty-headed as the proverbial dizzy blonde.
When he finally asked her if she wanted to go back to his suite, Carrie said
yes. That was the beginning of a little cherchez la femme side plot. Also an
experiment.
Friday Afternoon
Down and out in Coastown, as disoriented as people in a Neil Simon situation,
Peter and Jane first got the bum's rush at San Dominica's Government House.
'Men at the Gleaner and the Evening Star newspaper offices.
"If, indeed, there is a mysterious white man involved, " a British-sounding
Uncle Tom at Government House explained, "he'll most surely turn up when we
catch Colonel Dred. And, right now, we are trying to put all our efforts into
catching Dred."
"Well, Jesus Christ, man. Don't let us keep you from the manhunt, " Peter said
before Jane could pull him away.
At noon the two of them wandered through the crowded Front Street marketplace.
Children were selling green coconuts, yams, fresh fish. Tinny record-shop
speakers blasted songs like "Kung Fu Fighting." Jane was getting leers and
lazy smiles from all the local males.
"Take a taxi ride, lady?"
"Eat me coconut?"
One block off Front Street they went out onto the very famous and beautiful
Horseshoe Beach.
"This could be the nicest day anywhere, ever," Jane said as -they began to
walk on the gleaming sand. "God!"
The entire surface of the Caribbean was nearly white, glittering with the
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brightest galaxy of stars. Jane's long blond curls were shining.... She was
the blond beauty you always see at the beaches but nobody ever seems to get.
As the two of them walked along-in spite of their best intentions not to-they
began to feet wonderfully calm and content. As if nothing really mattered
except the buttery sun, getting a tan, keeping the sea spray in their faces.
"It's so grand, Peter. Kowabunga! Old Indian expression of delight and
awe-from The Howdy Doody Show."
"Kind of makes you wonder why somebody would pick central Michigan to settle
in. Any cold climate. Oh, Caleb, isn't that the most gorgeous stretch of
tundra! Let's build our house there."
"Oh... hush, puppy."
WaMng barefoot, carrying loafers and sandals, they passed under a low wooden
pier. Pilings coated with seaweed and barnacles. Some sort of hot-
sauce-and-clams bar chattering overhead. As they emerged from under the dark,
rotting planks, Peter happened to glance up at the boardwalk. What he saw
snapped his perfect mood like a twig.
Sauntering along, carefree as tourists, were the black killers from Turtle
Bay. The Cuban and Kingfish Toone. Even more disturbing, the smaller of the
two was pointing down at the beach. Right at Jane and him.
"Janie, we don't have time to think this out," he said, "but I want you to get
ready to run like an absolute madwoman. The killers from Turtle Bay are at our
beach."
Meanwhile the two blacks hurried to a set of wooden stairs twisting down to
the sand. Dressed in lightweight suits and fedoras, they looked like duded-up
Caribbean businessmen.
Peter looked back once and saw the two men running. Strong-looking bastards.
Coming like goddamn madmen, knocking sunbathers down and stepping on them.
What the hell were they figuring on? A public execution?
"Let's go. Run!"
Split-splat. Split-splat. Bare feet kicked sand high, kiddng sand on people
sunbathing on either side of their nmwng track. Jane running fast, thank God.
Jesus!
Trying to keep up the pace, Peter bled for some smart idea of what to do now.
He looked back over his shoulder again. Almost trainwrecked into a family
drag-assing hotel towels,
American sun dreamers doing absolutely zilch, backing away from the chase.
Kitty Genovese goes to the Caribbean.
Stumbling through a particularly jammed beach towel Parking lot, Jane could
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