The Island (8 page)

“Can you tell me how to get to the Caicos?”

“Yes, sir! Is that on the Beach?”

“No, ma’am. It’s a country. The Turks and Caicos Islands.”

“Oh sure! Let’s just have a look.” She opened her airline guide and thumbed through the T’s. “Golly, sir, I guess there isn’t any.”

“Isn’t any what?”

“Turks or Caicoses.”

“I see. Would you try Navidad for me?”

“Sure thing.” She flipped through the pages. “Here we are! Navidad. You can’t get there from here.”

“Right. Then where can I get there from?”

“Nowhere, I guess. See?” She turned the book around so Maynard could see the listing. “Air Sunrise: canceled. Out-Island Air: annulled. Air Eden: discontinued.”

Maynard said, “But people do get there.”

“Yes, sir. If you say so.”

“But
how?”

The girl shook her head. “Isn’t that something?”

“Perhaps somebody charters?”

“Could be. You could ask Reliable.” She pointed to the Reliable desk at the end of the corridor.

“Thanks for your help.”

“It’s been my pleasure, sir. Come see us again.”

Maynard waited for Justin, who scurried toward him with an armful of comic books. Together they walked to the Reliable desk.

A thin, leather-faced man behind the desk was filling out ticket forms, writing as slowly and carefully as a calligrapher. After every word, he licked the tip of his ball-point pen and held his breath before attacking the next syllable. His tongue was smeared with blue. Maynard guessed that the man was on the edge of illiteracy.

He waited for the man to complete a ticket, and then said, “Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to Turks and Caicos?”

“There’s no lights on the runways. Try to find the goddamn place at night, you’re like to end up in Africa.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“If they feel like flying.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Tropic Airaway. T and A, for short.” The man smiled. “That’s a joke.”

“Reliable doesn’t go down there any more?”

“Gov’ment pitched us out. Claimed we weren’t givin’ ’em regular service. How the hell you’re supposed to be regular when half the runways is full of potholes and the other half is underwater, well, that beats me.”

“D’you charter?”

“Sure. I’ll take you down there myself. Seven hundred and fifty bucks. Twin Beech.”

“Where’s the Tropic Airaway office?”

“Ain’t one. Fella does his business out of the bar.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Can’t miss him.” The man sniggered. “Unless he’s on his back on the floor by now.”

The bar was crowded and dark, but the white T-shirt with ‘TROPIC AIRAWAY’ stenciled on the back was clearly visible from the doorway. Maynard parked Justin in an empty seat beside the T-shirt and ordered him a Coke. Justin angled his Archie comic so that it caught the pinpoint of ceiling light, and started to read.

Maynard leaned forward, over Justin’s shoulder, and spoke to the Tropic Airaway man. “Pardon me. I gather you fly down to the Caicos.”

“Uh-huh.” He glanced at Maynard and returned to his piña colada.

“When’s the next flight?”

“I got a food plane going down tomorrow.”

“Can I book a couple of seats?”

“Nope.”

“Oh. You’re full?”

“Can’t take passengers. Only pilot rated for passengers goes on Wednesdays. Or Thursdays. Depending.”

“Oh.” Maynard thought, to hell with it. He said to Justin, “Drink up. We’ll see if we can catch a plane to New York.”

Justin slurped the last of his Coke and slid off the seat.

The man said, “I didn’t say you couldn’t go.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Nope. I said you couldn’t book passage.”

Maynard took a deep breath. “I see. So how do we . . .”

“I have to take you down for free.”

“Oh . . . well, that’s very nice of you.”

“ ’Course, there’s nothing to stop you from contributing to the cost of the fuel.”

“Sure. What’s a . . . fair contribution?”

“Fifty bucks a head. Cash. In advance.”

“You got it. What time?”

“Seven o’clock. Won’t wait for you.”

“What gate?”

“Gate? Shit.” The man tipped his head toward the runways. “Out there, on the apron.”

“What’s the equipment?”

The man looked at Maynard, and lowered his voice to a mocking basso. “Well, Captain, I tell you: The equipment is whatever freakin’ bird feels like starting in the morning.”

The only civil thing Maynard could think of to say was “Okay.” He took Justin’s hand and led him away from the bar.

The girl at the Courtesy Desk reserved a room for them at the airport hotel and directed them to the Courtesy Bus that would take them there.

In the little van, Maynard said to Justin, “Anything you want to do tonight?”

“I don’t care. Watch TV?”

“Hey, buddy, we’re in Miami. You should have a look at it.”

“Okay. We going somewhere tomorrow?”

“Maybe. I have to make a couple of calls.”

“I have school on Monday.”

“Monday may be a holiday. You never can tell.”

“What holiday?”

“Let’s wait and see.”

According to the overseas operator, there was only one phone line into the Turks and Caicos Islands. Usually, it was either busy or out of order. Most messages were received by radio and transmitted, at leisure, via the island grapevine. Furthermore, she argued, there was no point in trying to call the government on a Saturday night.

Maynard pleaded with her to try any number. He had to get a message through to the government. He wasn’t sure the islands
had
a government, but the argument seemed to work. The operator said she’d call back.

They watched the evening news—no mention of the New Jersey boats—and, at Justin’s insistence, “The Brady Bunch.” Maynard was about to call the overseas operator again, when the phone rang.

“I’ve got the Caicos for you,” the operator said. Behind her voice, Maynard heard a loud hum and a flurry of crackles.

“Who am I talking to?”

“I don’t know. I kept trying numbers till one answered.” There was a click, and the operator was gone.

“Hello? Hello?” The hum on the line pulsed, swelling and fading, swelling and fading. “Hello?”

“Same to you, then.” It was a woman’s voice, faint and far away.

“Who am I talking to?”

“Who you ringin’?”

Maynard spoke slowly, trying to enunciate every word clearly. “My name is Blair Maynard. I am from
Today
magazine. I am trying to contact someone in the government.”

“Birds,” said the woman.

“I’m sorry.” Maynard didn’t know how, but evidently he had offended the woman.

“Birds!” the woman repeated.

“What’s birds?”

“He’s
Birds. He the commissioner ’round here. Birds Makepeace.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Not here. He got no truck with Evvy.”

“Can you get a message to him for me?”

“What you want with Birds?”

“I would like to see him tomorrow. Can you tell him that?”

“I reckon he be around, ’less he fishin’.”

“Where are you?”

“Where am I?” The woman was puzzled. “I’m here. Where’re you?”

“No. I mean, are you in Grand Turk?”

“Grand Turk? What I be doin’ in Grand Turk?”

Maynard tried to recall the other large islands in the Caicos group. “Great Bone? Are you on Great Bone Cay?”

“I hope so,” she giggled. “Last time I looked.”

“And where is he? Where is Birds?”

“Not with me. I told you.”

“I under
stand
that. But where . . . ?”

A high, piercing whistle interrupted the connection. It was followed by three unhealthy-sounding snaps, and the line went dead. Even the hum was gone. Maynard hung up.

Justin was watching a “World of Survival” show about apes. “Did you get the appointment?”

Maynard laughed. “My application is being processed.” He picked up the phone and dialed
Today’
s New York number. At seven-thirty on a Saturday night there would be only one editorial employee on duty, sitting in the telex room, keeping watch for any crises that might occasion a change in a major story. By now, next week’s issue of the magazine had been closed for several hours, and nothing short of a presidential assassination or the outbreak of a major war could interfere with the press run.

“Campbell.”

“Ray, this is Blair Maynard. Can I give you a message for Hiller?”

“I’ll give you his home number.”

“I don’t want to bother him at home. I’d save it till Monday, but I’m not sure where I’ll be.” Maynard didn’t want to speak to Hiller. Hiller might refuse to let him go: The islands were the territory of the Atlanta bureau or, on an unproven story like this one, of a Miami-based stringer, and bureau chiefs were sensitive to intrusions from New York. Furthermore, Hiller would argue, Maynard had no right to abandon his department. But if Maynard went ahead, without first checking with Hiller, the worst that could happen on his return would be that Hiller would refuse to sign Maynard’s expense-account voucher for the trip. There were countless ways to pad subsequent expense accounts to make up for out-of-pocket costs. “Just tell him I’ve got a lead on the boat story, and I’ll call him when I can.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Ray. G’night.”

Maynard disconnected Justin from “Star Trek,” and they went downstairs. In the lobby they bought a small satchel which Maynard filled with toilet articles, underwear, and bathing suits. “We may go swimming,” he explained to Justin. “You don’t want to go to the beach in your Jockey shorts.”

They took a taxi from the hotel, and Maynard asked the driver to cruise along Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. “No one should be allowed to die before he sees the Fontainebleu,” he told Justin. “It may have gone the way of the dinosaurs, but it represents a critical step in the evolution of man.”

“It’s gross,” Justin said as the cab passed through the blue miasma that surrounded the Fontainebleu. And, at the end of the strip, he stated flatly, “They’re all gross.”

“So much for culture.” Maynard leaned forward and said to the driver, “Let’s go downtown.”

“Where downtown?”

“I don’t care. Show us the sights.”

“Sights.” The driver grunted. “They’re standing on every street corner. Only question is, D’you want Cuban or black or po’ white trash.”

It was after eight. Maynard was hungry, and Justin looked sleepy. “You want some food?”

Justin yawned. “Sure. Let’s go back to the hotel and have room service. Room service is cool.”

The driver took a right and started back toward the airport.

Justin suddenly sprang forward. “Hey, look!”

Ahead, on the right, Maynard saw a flashing neon sign:
Everglades Shooters’ Supermart.
“What the hell is that?” he asked the driver.

“What it says. A supermarket. They sell guns. Got a range out back. Like a bowling alley.”

“C’mon, Dad. Let’s stop.”

“I thought you wanted food.”

“I just want to have a look.”

“Okay.”

Without being told, the driver pulled over to the curb. “How long you be?”

“Couple of minutes. You don’t mind waiting?”

“I should ask for security, like your watch or a double saw. But that’s okay.”

It was, as advertised, a weapons supermarket, half a block long and a full block deep. There were four aisles, each marked with directional signs: on the left, 10-, 12-, and 16-gauge shotguns; on the right, rifles caliber .30-.06 to .44-.40; this way to handguns, automatic; that way to handguns, revolver; aisle number four for military rifles, to the rear for black-powder. A placard proclaimed this weekend’s special: a Marlin Golden 39A .22 lever-action rifle for $125, a Hammerli .45 Frontier revolver for $175. Buy two and get a box of bullets free. Each gun was in its own locked glass case. Green-jacketed salesmen patrolled the aisles, master keys chained to their belts.

There were six check-out counters, where clerks examined identification cards, took money, and wrapped purchases.

“It looks like an automat,” Maynard said.

“What’s an automat?” Justin didn’t wait for an answer. He darted ahead.

Maynard caught up with him at a wall case filled, on one side, with AR-15 combat rifles and, on the other, with similar-looking weapons called Valmets.

“Man!” Justin said. “Are they cool!”

“Can I help you?” A salesman had come up behind them. He was in his mid-forties, bulky, built like a footlocker with legs. He wore rimless glasses; his hair was slick with pomade, and he reeked of Aqua Velva.

“I didn’t know you could sell those,” Maynard said, with a gesture at the combat rifles.

“AR-15s? Sure. Of course, they’re not full-automatic. These are the sporters.”

“They can be changed over, can’t they?”

“Not by us. What a gunsmith does to them after they leave here, that’s not our affair.” The salesman extended his hand. “Stan Baxter. Call me Bax.”

As Baxter’s blazer moved, Maynard caught a glimpse of the butt of a revolver snugged against his belly in a small holster. “Maynard,” he said, and shook Baxter’s hand.

“And who might this be?” Baxter reached for Justin’s hand. “You look like a gun person to me.”

“Yeah.” Justin pointed at the Valmets. “They’re cool. What are they?”

“Finest military rifle ever made. Finnish design. They took the best of the AR-15 and married it to the best of the AK-47 and gave birth to the Valmet.”

“What’s so good about it?”

“Simplicity. Very few moving parts. Almost never jams, even in mud and sand. Much more reliable than either of its parents. Uses 7.62 NATO ammunition, interchangeable with almost every rifle in Eastern and Western Europe. That .225 the AR-15 uses does a fine job of tearing a man up, but it isn’t good at any distance. And sometimes the tumbling bullet’ll torque and stray on you. Valmet gives you a clean kill at great distance.”

Maynard said, “I thought these were ‘sporters.’ ”

“That they are.” Baxter winked. “But sport is always in the eye of the sportsman, isn’t it?”

Justin had moved down the aisle. He stood at a case filled with pistols. “Dad! Look at this.”