Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

An East Indian stood at the bar fondling the gold ring in his ear. A pigeon-chested man with tattoo-blackened forearms sat three tables away complaining in French to a shaven-headed man in a dirty t-shirt. Two bearded men across the room argued in the harsh accents of Caracas.

Johnny felt the pressure build up inside him, washing away the fatigue of the twelve-hour flight. He always felt it before a hit — a taste of pennies in his mouth, the quick, fluttering heartbeat and the stretching of the skin across his cheekbones.

He saw Cantino’s man pause in the door, dark eyes bouncing about the room like a little black balls in a glass. He walked over to Johnny’s table, leaned forward, and spoke in the soft Trinidad singsong.

“She’s in the airport hotel, room 114. She catches a Beewee flight north in two days.”

Johnny sipped his lime squash, feeling let down. The operation was dragging. “Who’s watching her now?”

“The desk man. I gave him five bucks. Beewee money.”

“What if she goes out the back?”

“No, man. The place is surrounded by a chain-link fence and three strands of barbed wire. One gate and the parking lot man watches that. I gave him five, too. If she walks out he sends a kid ahead to tell us. If she rides out, he delays her at the gate and sends a cab ahead for us. Good?”

Johnny nodded. The kid was sharp and eager to please. He reminded Johnny of himself at twenty, though he wondered if he’d been so obnoxiously bright.

“You were told to stay with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Sit down. What’s your name?”

The kid collapsed into a chair, adolescent-fashion. “Albert. I’ll take rum.”

“You’ll take lime squash or water when you work with me.” Johnny saw him look down, smiling at his hands. Albert would be hard to work with, he decided; too wild, too eager, too wise.

“What’s north of here?” he asked.

“More islands,” said Albert. “Her plane takes her to Grenada, but she asked the desk man about Laborie.”

Johnny waited, then said impatiently: “Don’t make me drag it out. How does she get to Laborie?”

“From Grenada she has to make other contacts. Maybe she gets a native schooner, or a freighter, or if she’s lucky she gets a deck ticket on one of Geest’s banana boats. That’ll take her to a smaller island, St. Vincent Then she has to hire a launch or a fishing boat for Laborie, twelve miles out.”

“You know the islands,” Johnny admitted. “What’s on Laborie?”

Albert looked pleased. “I’m the only man Cantino trusts out in the islands whether it’s rum, women, or dope. They’re like my back yard. Laborie?” He paused to give Johnny a sad look.

“It’s the end of the world, man. I never set foot on the island. We always unload onto native boats. About two thousand people live there. They fish, smuggle, raise some bananas, a little copra. No electricity. No roads. Mostly shingle shacks, some houses and rum-shops. One building they call a hotel...”

“Anyone in the hotel?”

“Rats, mostly. Some Canadian bought it two or three years ago and let it go to hell. They say he’s a rummy.”

Johnny felt the skin tighten on his face. Montana bordered on Canada; a man could slip over the line, take on a Canadian identity, then fly south. And the time checked. “You don’t know the guy’s name?”

“Mac something. Uhmmm... McLennon?”

“Close enough.” Johnny felt the pressure building up again. Finding the man was half the problem; now he wanted to finish it quickly. “Can you get us out tonight?”

“If you don’t mind the smell, I can get a boat.”

Johnny nodded. “And get me a gun. I had to travel clean.”

Albert looked down at his hands. “Cantino said you should make it look like a local job. We don’t use guns here.”

Johnny felt his nostrils burn with anger. “Why doesn’t Cantino mind his own business?”

Albert half-smiled, still looking at his hands. “I guess he’s got his orders.”

Johnny looked narrowly at the kid. Someone was twisting the screws — sending him weaponless to an island where he’d stand out like a naked bather in Grant Park, tying a wild kid on his back...

“Albert,” he said tightly. “You’re supposed to spy on me, aren’t you?”

Black eyes narrowed a split second, then flew wide. “Oh, no, man.”

“Don’t lie to me, kid. How do you report?”

Albert’s lips tightened, and he said nothing.

Johnny shot his foot out under the table, found the rung and kicked up and out with all his strength. The chair sailed backward and crashed to the floor. The kid landed on his back and slid halfway across the room.

The rumshop was silent as Albert rose, his face a dirty gray. He shot a scared look toward Johnny, who hadn’t moved. Then he brushed his hands over his white trousers, picked up the chair and carried it back to the table. By the time he was seated, the Indian was fondling his earring and the two Venezuelans had picked up their argument.

“I didn’t enjoy that,” said Johnny. “But I can’t work with a man I don’t trust. Now... give me the story or get out.”