It took Brad Coleman several hours to fall asleep and then he awakened frequently, unsettled and restless. He had set the clock for six a.m. When the alarm went off, he was awake, listening to a hard rain beating against the house in the pitch black darkness. The morning walk would not happen. It was then he fell into a deep sleep and didn’t awaken until after ten o’clock. The sun was shining. He called Morgan, but she wasn’t at home. Her answering machine picked up. He explained what happened, said he would call her mid-afternoon, and to and make dinner plans.
The lunch hour was in full-swing when Coleman arrived at The Oyster Creek Inn. Typically, the bar was filled with watermen and construction workers, the dining room with women out for a day of shopping, and an assortment of professional types. It was a bigger crowd than Charles Clay had indicated. Wearing a blue blazer, tan slacks, a powder blue, open-collared shirt and tan loafers with no socks, there was nothing to distinguish him from any of the dining room crowd except his looks. Several women gave him a second look while he waited to be seated. Clay got to him before the host.
“Mr. Woodson, good to see you,” Charley said. “Could I invite you to join me for lunch?” He found it difficult to stifle a laugh at the show Clay was enjoying putting on.
“That would be very nice, Charles; thank you,” he said, not getting caught up in the charade. “You have a nice place here. Was it like this when you bought it?” Clay was guiding him to a table in the corner of the dining room closest to the boat dock. It provided an unobstructed view of the entire dock, the marsh, the creek that gave the restaurant its name and the Chester River in the distance. The table was somewhat removed from the rest and up one step on a small platform, so the attorney could not only enjoy privacy while he dined or conferred, but also oversee the whole room.
“No, I put quite a lot of money in it. Redid the whole place from kitchen to rest rooms. Everything except the bar. And I’m proud of it,” he said as they sat at the table. “Don’t think I’ll put The Covington House out of business, but some of their regulars have started comin’ out here occasionally. I took the liberty of puttin’ our order in earlier; I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“It’s cold, so it won’t take long to prepare. What would you like to drink?”
“Iced tea would be fine,” Coleman said. Clay raised his eyebrows.
“Henry?” Clay called out; a waiter appeared immediately. “Would you bring Mr. Woodson an iced tea, and I’ll have a little bourbon over ice.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said and was gone.
“So, you enjoyin’ the beach?” Clay asked. Coleman could tell he was probing; lawyers were never very subtle.
“Very much. Your house is beautiful, and Sangaree has so few people, it’s like having a private island. I thought your banker friend was going to be here.”
“He will be. I told him one o’clock, so we’d have a few minutes to chat first. No need for everybody to know everything. I think we have everything in place as far as you’re concerned. Couple of little local things to finalize, but that’ll be done in a day or so. They have no relation to your part of the operation. You said you would give me instructions regardin’ coordinates for the meeting at sea. Identification codes and so forth?”
“Yes.” Coleman pulled a thick envelope from his inside blazer pocket and gave it to Clay. “They’re all in there, as well as instructions for communications during the last twenty-four hours before the meet. I don’t like a lot of communication. We use a variety of frequencies, sometimes changing every few words, so that no one can pick up a coherent conversation. By the time they find where we are, the words are gone. No contact should be more than twenty seconds. Ten is preferred. I know changing frequencies is awkward, but it’s safer. And only one person is to be in contact and know the communication procedures.”
“I don’t see that as a problem,” Clay said.
“It can’t be. What kind of boat do you have meeting us?”
“It’s a sixty-eight foot shrimper. Won’t take any notice going out or coming in. Plenty of space and she moves pretty good,” Clay said.
“Be sure it meets with all Coast Guard regs; you don’t want to fall because of some simple oversight.”
“Don’t worry. I know you probably think of us as amateurs, and I guess in the great scheme of things we are, but we’ve been doing this for awhile and successfully, I might add.”
“No offense intended,” Coleman said.
“None taken. How soon can you deliver?”
“Once you give the word, we can have the boat moving within a day. From Jamaica, with the southeast trade winds at this time of year, four days on the water, five at the outside. You tell me.”
“When can you sail?” Clay asked.
“Soonest? Sunday night, Monday.”
“That would put you here next Thursday or Friday. We can be ready.”
“Do you have buyers lined up?”
“The word is out, and they’re anxious. Within a week of delivery, this business should be out of our hands.”
“That’s the way to do it.”
“When are you planning to leave South Carolina?” Clay asked.
“Sunday afternoon. I’ll need the bearer bonds Sunday morning. I don’t want them before then, and would prefer you deliver them, Charles.”
“That’s no problem. I have them available.”
While they were talking, Reichert passed through the bar. He didn’t see Ray Breslin, having a beer and observing Charley Clay’s table. Breslin’s eyes were blackened and purple as if he’d had a nose job, which, in essence, he had. There were several strips of tape across his nose, an amateur and futile effort to hold it straight.
Charley Clay saw Reichert working his way through the tables.
“Here’s Bill now,” Clay said, rising from his chair. “Glad you could make it, Bill. Meet Mr. Woodson, our southern representative.” He reached across the table to shake Coleman’s hand.
“Mr. Woodson.” The food Charley ordered for the three of them arrived as they were seating themselves.
“Looks wonderful, Charles,” Coleman said.
“It’s our seafood salad sampler. Shrimp, fresh tuna, and crab,” Clay said, pointing out each one. “I think you’ll find it enjoyable. It’s kind of a kick owning this place. I hope I own it forever, whatever forever is.”
“Then I hope that for you, too,” Coleman said.
“Bill, to catch you up, we’ve discussed all the logistics and arrangements and decided that our meeting should take place next Thursday or Friday.”
“That soon?” Reichert said. Clay didn’t acknowledge the question, Coleman noticed.
“I’ll need to get Mr. Woodson’s package from you on Sunday morning. Perhaps we could meet for an early breakfast at The Covington House.”
“I see no problem with that; everything is ready.” Reichert turned to Coleman. “What about the balance of the....”
“One of my attorneys will be contacting you with instructions on how to proceed with clearing that out,” Coleman said. “As I told Charles, he will be contacted with all of the last minute details. If you have your end taken care of, there should be no problems.”
“Will you be making the trip?” Reichert asked.
“I have a lot of interests to manage, Mr. Reichert, and they require my presence. My crews are very efficient, capable and trustworthy.”
“I hope so,” Reichert said.
“Be assured,” Coleman said with an edge in his voice.
“Enough business,” Clay said. “Let’s enjoy lunch. You said you were going to Palmetto last night. What did you think?”
“I had no idea how big it is. It’s a city. I did have a great meal, place called Les Pyranees. Are you familiar with it?”
“Can’t say as I am,” Clay said.
“I am,” Reichert said. “How did you find out about it? It’s a pretty well-kept secret over there. The residents like to keep it for themselves.”
“A friend introduced me to it.” Coleman saw Bill Reichert tense, but didn’t know why he would.
“You are in your friend’s debt. I think it’s the best in the South.”
Coleman watched Bill Reichert throughout the meal. He trusted Charles Clay, but the banker seemed unstable.
After graciously refusing Charles Clay’s offer of an evening together, Coleman left the restaurant and drove toward Sangaree Island and Morgan Hannah. He had just engineered an operation that would net millions of dollars, yet he was more excited about the dinner plans for the evening than he was about the risk of his venture and all of the money involved. That was a glorious feeling.
Karen Chaney sat in the parking lot of the Oyster Creek Inn for more than two hours after following Charley Clay from his office in downtown Covington. She saw Ray Breslin park and go into the bar and was amazed at the damage Sam Larkin had done to his face. The man looked like he tried to take on an eighteen-wheeler head-on. Her respect, as well as her wariness, for Sam Larkin grew. There was a dark corner in the man that he kept well-hidden. She wanted to check Breslin’s truck for front-end damage, but there was no way to do it without being seen. There would be time.
She also watched Bill Reichert pull in the parking lot and go inside. Other people came and went, and she was ready to call it an afternoon when she saw Charles Clay usher Bill Reichert and another man out on the porch to say their farewells. The man, whom she hadn’t seen enter because she wasn’t looking for him, grabbed her attention. His presence was commanding. He was handsome, a word that didn’t do him justice. She guessed he was Charley Clay’s house guest. It was obvious what Larkin meant when he described him as having confidence and money. It showed without effort.
As soon as the man and Bill Reichert left the parking lot, Karen drove home. There were no messages on her answering machine. She picked up the phone to call Dougherty, but there was no dial tone. She pressed the disconnect button twice, and there was still nothing.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hello?”
“Sam?”
“It never rang,” he said.
“I know. I just picked up to call Neil.”
“I didn’t expect you to be at home. I was going to leave a message.”
“What’s happening? I thought you’d still be at the beach.”
“I was, but no one was moving. About noon I went for a walk off the beach, and both Clay’s guest’s and Morgan Hannah’s cars were gone. So, with nobody left to watch, I came home.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure the house guest was with Clay at his restaurant. And you’re right. He does look rich, and he is handsome. I hope he’s not involved, ’cause I think I’m in love.”
“That sounds like him.”
“Bill Reichert was there, too. I guess they all had lunch. Oh, and so was Ray Breslin,but I don’t think he was invited to be part of the others’ lunch date. He didn’t come or go with them. Sam, Ray looked like he was hit by a truck. His eyes were black, nose taped; you sure did a job on him.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I know,” she said, sensing that was the end of that line of conversation.
“I went by Harry Tom’s on the way back to the house. Cedrick stopped by to see Skeeter again.”
“And?”
“Came early. During the storm. Skeeter talked to him and got another threat. Cedrick said they couldn’t wait much longer, that they’d use his dock with his cooperation or without it. Didn’t leave him much choice.”
“What did Skeeter say?”
“Told him to give him a couple of more days to set it up at home. I think Hamilton will get out there over the weekend.”
“Probably. I’m beginning to think things are getting close, and we’re essentially nowhere,” Karen said.
“I know.”
“Listen, since I’m home early and you’re home early, why don’t you go to the grocery store, pick up what we need for a good dinner and a nice breakfast and come over early. I believe with all your vast experience, you can tell if someone’s watching you and get in without being seen.”
“I can do that. Leave the patio doors open; I’ll probably come in through the back.”
“With stealth?”
“With stealth.”
As soon as she was off the phone with Sam, Karen dialed Neil Dougherty’s office number. She got the machine and left a message for him to call. She then dialed his pager, which she didn’t often do. Pagers always sounded like an emergency, which this wasn’t. She dialed in her number at the command and hung up. He would call when it was convenient. If it were an emergency, she would have dialed the pager again immediately, which would alert him to drop everything and call. She had only done that once, while working undercover in Panama City, Florida. She was badly beaten and left for dead by a street dealer who caught her in her apartment alone and, thinking she was a snitch, tried to teach her a final lesson. She couldn’t identify herself to him without jeopardizing the whole operation, so she tried to fight it out. She lost. It was the closest she had ever come to dying.
At five o’clock Sam had not arrived, and there was no word from Neil. She was ready to give him another try or call Sam to see what was keeping him. Two days of watching Clay and only two brief telephone conversations left her feeling isolated and alone. It made it easy to understand why women, or men for that matter, left at home all day alone, made the decision to drink for a living. The telephone rang before she could call anyone.
“I don’t care who you are,” she said, “Stay on the line. I want to talk to you.” There was silence.
“Belle?”
“Hey, Blue.” Back to normal.
“What in hell was that all about? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just haven’t had anyone to talk to and I’m lonely. I’ve been staking-out Charley Clay for two days, and Sam’s watching his beach house. We’ve only talked twice. Briefly. On the telephone. I think things are heating up and I’ve got nothing.”
“And you’re horny,” he said.
“And I’m horny. Satisfied?” Her brusque comment cut him short.
“Why don’t you give me a run-down on what’s happened since we talked.”
Karen went through every detail of the past few days: Sam’s confrontation with Breslin, Cedrick Hamilton’s second visit to Skeeter, and Charley Clay’s meetings with Bill Reichert.
“And that’s all I have. One threat. Nothing else. Oh, and Clay has a guest at his beach house. I forgot that. He met for lunch with Clay and Reichert today while Clay was on my leash.”
“Can you describe this house guest?”
“Six three or four, well-built, sandy hair, looks rich and is handsome beyond reason.”
“Very Tan? Like George Hamilton tan?”
“He’s better looking than George Hamilton and much more masculine, but, yes, very tan. What’s on your mind, Blue?” Karen was suddenly getting a lump of excitement in her stomach.”
“Can you get a picture of him and fax it to me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’s still here.”
“Try tomorrow.”
“Blue, what’s going on? Who is this guy or who do you think he is?”
“Obviously, I can’t tell who he is from down here, but it sounds a lot like a guy named Brad Coleman. If it is, you’re going to see me real soon.”
“Who’s Brad Coleman?”
“Probably the most sophisticated and successful importer of marijuana and hashish alive today. Estimated to be worth hundreds of millions of dollars from smuggling alone. Heaven only knows how much from investments, properties and companies he owns. I met him once in person during an investigation we were conducting on someone else. We questioned him, but he wasn’t involved. And you know what? I liked the guy.”
“Why haven’t you been after him? Because you liked him?” Karen chuckled.
“Oh, we’ve been after him. He’s on everyone’s list, including Interpol. The problem is he’s out in the open. He moves around, but he manages to hide all his dealings and his money is so well-covered that we’ve never been able to prove he’s anything other than a legitimate businessman. He’s uncanny.”
“No paper trails?”
“The guy’s a financial magician. Majored in International Finance at Cornell. We know he’s running a Continuing Criminal Enterprise, which could put him away forever, but nobody can prove it. Bust him and they’ll make you director of something,” Dougherty said. “I am an idiot. Duh! Why don’t I fax you a picture. We’ve got a couple of old ones. Give me about ten minutes. Karen, if I’m right, you were on the mark about the size of this operation; Coleman doesn’t deal in small stuff.”
“Get it to me, Blue.”
“You want to marry me again?”
“Blue,” she said with exasperation.
“I would you know.”
“I know you would,” she said and hung up the phone.
The ten minutes took forever. There was still no word from Sam. Finally, she heard the fax machine ring, the click and the drone of the roller as it pushed the picture out. She didn’t go over to the machine until she heard the signal that the transmission was complete, didn’t want to see half a picture and get confused. When she ripped it off and looked at it, a smile came across her face.
“Bingo!”
She picked up the phone and dialed Neil Dougherty’s pager, hung up and dialed again.
There was a small envelope stuck in the front door of Charley Clay’s beach house when Coleman returned from lunch. The flap was embossed with Morgan Hannah’s address. Her handwriting was exquisite, not calligraphy, but close to it.
Dear Sir,
Knowing that you are a pirate and all, and knowing
that I am not only putting my person, but also my dignity
in extreme jeopardy—though your gentlemanly behavior
last evening would indicate otherwise—why don’t you
join me for dinner at my home at six o’clock?
I will expect you unless I hear differently.
Affectionately,
Morgan
He folded the note and put it back in the envelope. What he said the night before—that he needed to think about her—was true. There was little in life he hadn’t done and almost nothing he couldn’t do, if he so chose. He could build a skyscraper, put up his own satellite, buy twin Lear jets, all things that only a handful of people in the world could even imagine doing, yet none of these things created any personal worth to his way of thinking. He liked the money, what it could do, but never considered it a monument to anything. Maybe because of the shallowness of what he did to earn it.
Now there was Morgan Hannah. The problems she presented were numerous and complicated. Time was a factor; in two days he would be gone. It was more dangerous to come to the states than stay away. After the Clay venture, he would never come back to South Carolina again. It was a rule. He couldn’t imagine Morgan Hannah ever throwing her life to the wind to gamble on him; he was a poor risk. The authorities would never stop trying to indict him. His only choice was to give it all up and distance himself from every part of the life he was living and had lived. That would also include the majority of the money he possessed.
He didn’t want to run, though he could do it in style. Being a fugitive wasn’t a life. The other possibility was a long shot, but not out of the question. He could become respectable. As far as he knew, the authorities had nothing they could prove to this point; if they did, he would be in jail. If they didn’t get him on this operation, which was unlikely since there was nothing to prove his involvement, and he retired to France, he could be home free. There would always be questions, but his moneys were so insulated and so few people in his business knew who their employer was, the likelihood of jeopardy was slim. It was something to think about.
At six o’clock he knocked on Morgan’s door. He was dressed casually: white linen slacks, Mediterranean sandals, a pale yellow, open-collared shirt with long sleeves and epaulets. It was the moment he had looked forward to since the night before. When she opened the door, she was even more impressive than he remembered. She, too, wore white slacks, but with a silk, taupe-colored blouse and a wide belt with a two-piece buckle in the shape of a crab.
“You look wonderful,” he said. “I’ve missed you today.”
“Thank you.” She led him into the living room. “Do you mind eating in? Anywhere I suggested after last night would be an anticlimax.”
“It’s a luxury for me. I eat in restaurants most of the time.” He took her by the elbows and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Are we deli-ing tonight or cooking?”
“We are cooking and you can help. But before that, why don’t you mix us a drink? Unless you’re starved, of course.”
“Martini’s?”
“Vodka martini’s on the rocks, down and dirty”
“I’ll do my best.”
For dinner Morgan prepared black sea bass, she purchased fresh in the afternoon. It was rolled in almonds, drizzled with a light cream sauce and baked. She served it with Florentine potatoes and fresh asparagus spears. It was a delightful dinner, and they enjoyed the playfulness and camaraderie of the kitchen.
He helped Morgan clear the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. It felt good. When everything was put away, he poured a brandy for each of them, and they went to the deck to watch the sky transfer itself into full night. The moon and stars appeared more three-dimensional than in any other place in the world that he had been.
“Did we accomplish any piracy today?” Morgan asked, smiling.
“I think so. I have many ships sailing the seas. Surely one of them must have come up with some booty or a wench or two.”
“What do you do with the wenches? When you’re through with them, I mean.”
“Throw them away or sell them.”
“Ahh. What did you really do today, if I may be so personal.”
“Slept late. After waking at six and seeing a deluge outside my window, I didn’t think it would be comfortable walking the beach. Then I had lunch with Charles at his restaurant and came back here to wait for six o’clock.”
“Still throwing the charm around, aren’t you?”
“I hope it’s working.” There was silence for a moment. “What are you thinking, Morgan?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” She didn’t say anything, just held her brandy snifter in both hands, warming it and looking out at the stars.
“I’m not sure what I think,” she said. “I’m not avoiding the issue; it’s just that all the things going through my mind are confusing, and I’m not used to being confused.”
“Tell me,” he said and closed his arm around her shoulder.
“I was married once. It wasn’t a fantastic marriage, but a good one. Solid. Since my husband died, I have never considered any kind of permanent relationship, have no need for one, yet for the past two days, every now and then, a stray thought regarding that has run through my mind. I don’t even know you.” She chuckled. “We’ve never been to bed together. Maybe we wouldn’t be physically compatible, though I find that hard to believe. Those thoughts are presumptuous, and they scare me, Brad. You scare me.”
“I scare you?” He turned to look at her.
“That you could make me think that way. I have no idea what you do, who you are. You say you’re a pirate, and that’s romantic and cute, but I don’t know where romantic and cute end and reality begins.” Brad shook his head and smiled.
“That’s pretty scary all right,” he said.
“It is. What about you? What are you thinking?”
“How much can I trust you?” He faced her. “Seriously.”
“Implicitly.” There was no quarter in her answer.
“I have to take you at your word because I think there is something going on here that I am not very experienced with. Those thoughts you just mentioned, I’ve had some of those, too. The difference is, Morgan, I’ve never been married, never been part of a permanent relationship in my life. My work wouldn’t allow it. Rarely have I ever spent more than a week in one other person’s company. I have no family, so there have never been any ties. You’re right; to think of that now is scary. For me, too.” He took a deep breath, felt a little dizzy and began a confession he never thought he would make.
“I think before we go any further, I must tell you something I have never told anyone who is not involved in my industry, and this may solve both of our problems. I am a pirate, of sorts. He paused.
“Please?”
“I arrange for, and sometimes participate in, the smuggling of marijuana and hashish. I’ve never been involved in hard drugs: cocaine or heroin or anything like that, and I’ve never been arrested nor served any time. Of course, that has been and always is a possibility. I’ve been able to accept that with a settled mind until now. Now the idea of spending years in prison is uncomfortable. That is my story.” He finished and realized he had been rehearsing that speech all afternoon. “I’ll leave if you prefer.” Again, there was silence. She was considering her answer.
“You’re not putting me in any jeopardy. I’m not sure what I think about all of this. It will take some thought. I don’t like what you tell me you do, but I appreciate that you did. It certainly indicates a great deal of trust. No, I don’t want you to leave.”
Morgan looked up at him. He pulled her forward and kissed her. There was no tentativeness, no exploring as there was the night before. She opened her mouth and let his tongue come inside. It was a strong kiss, one followed by another, his tongue circling the outside of her lips, feeling the smooth slickness of them.
“I want you to make love to me, Brad Coleman. That first and then I’ll think.”
He kissed her as they walked to her bedroom. His fingers were difficult to control when he unbuttoned her blouse. It was a new experience for him, something he couldn’t describe even to himself. When her blouse was off, she loosened her bra and let it fall to the floor. Her breasts were magnificent. He kissed each one, as his hands undid the buckle of her slacks.
Morgan went to the bed while Brad undressed. While she watched him, she gently circled a finger around her nipples keeping them closed and hard. His body was lean and muscular, as she had imagined. There were no tan-lines. The skin was smooth and unblemished. She watched the muscles in his back move when he bent over to remove his slacks and underwear. He was beautiful, and she needed to tell him that, she thought, in those words. She had never thought of a man that way.
“You’re beautiful,” she said as he approached the bed. He lay down beside her with no words, kissed her deeply, felt her move against him. The heat of her body enveloped him. A rose tint colored her face. His hands went down to her hips, a blind man sensing through his fingers the sculpture of her. He could feel her breath in his ear and knew her eyes were closed as were his. They shut out the rest of the world and existed in a universe of each other.