Dead Man's Walk (The Shell Scott Mysteries), page 22
Why, hell, it was a welcome!
I wondered how come, how it had happened. Dria had probably had something to do with it. And, judging by the happy expression on Farrow's face, the word must have reached him about Rule. Maybe about Mordieux, too, for apparently he knew his troubles now were over. I could also see what looked like the whole gang from the late Count Mordieux’ sanctuary. It would appear that the word had spread from person to person, from group to group....
A welcome. Imagine that. For me. It made me feel kind of good. After all, nothing like this had ever happened to me before. How many times in a guy's life does he get welcomed by an island? I could even hear some voices shouting over the sound of the band. There was a gang of natives shouting something that sounded like “Sail Coat.” Or “Shales Goat.” Something like that.
Ah, then I got it. It was “Shell Scott,” only the accent made it sound a bit gargled. Who cared? I thought. And then I thought: Careful here. Mustn't let this whooping and waving go to your head. Don't want to go getting a swelled noodle. But it was grand. There must have been a couple of thousand people out there, on and near the dock, gay and happy people, welcoming me, their hero. Careful, I thought again.
But at least I wanted to make them glad they'd come. I had it all planned. I'd cut the engines at just the right time so the boat would coast to the dock, slowly, slowly, as I coaxed the old steering wheel around, and then gently kissed the bumpers against the dock.
I gave myself plenty of time, whipped the engines into reverse briefly, then supped her into neutral, and coaxed the wheel a bit. She came around just right. Maybe a little fast, I thought, but good enough.
This was a moment when—I'll be honest—if somebody else had been coaxing the “Wanderer” into her berth I'd have been way up for'ard, close to my people.
Once I saw Errol Flynn aboard the “Sirocco,” coming into the harbor at Newport Beach, California. It was late in the afternoon, about an hour before sunset—like this—and he'd been standing clear up forward on the bow or spit or boom, whatever's up there, gazing off into space, the wind ruffling his hair. It was a grand sight. That man knew how to do things, all right.
Just my luck, I thought. Got to be stuck here in this stinking wheelhouse. At a time like this, too. The yelling began to sound a lot louder. A lot louder. Some of the people even appeared to be trying to get off the dock. We seemed to be going damned fast out here, at that. I'd cut the engines, hadn't I? Yeah. No noise—except for all that wild screaming. I mean, the cheers and huzzahs and such. Well, maybe there were a couple screams in it.
If I hadn't known it was impossible I'd have thought we were picking up speed. How could it be? One crazy guy jumped off the dock and started swimming. We were awfully close. Going fast as hell. How could it be?
I kept smiling. Couldn't think of anything else to do. A hero should smile! — careful. Besides, I was remembering Flynn. Ah, how he'd looked up there on the bow or spit or boom, with the wind ruffling his hair, filling the sails....
Uh-uh.
Something had stuck me there.
How had it gone?
...Filling the sails ... That was it.
I knew I'd get it in a minute.
Meanwhile, more people were jumping off the dock.
Not enough, though. Even then I knew it wouldn't be enough.
What was that thought again?
Filling the sails!
Sails?
SAILS!
Oh, nuts, I thought. I left all those sails up. I've got to get them down. I've got to get those sails down fast!
There were at least three seconds remaining in which to do it. I don't know why, but I really did start out to yank them down, like a madwoman bringing in the wash. I got two steps outside the wheelhouse. And...
I guess you know what happened. Sure you do, you smart thing. Yeah, I merely knocked down about three fifths of the dock. And I won't tell you how many people. And I knocked a big hole in the bow—or spit, or boom, whatever the hell it is—of the “Wanderer II."
Of course, due to my wisdom in leaving the wheel-house to take in the wash, I was out in the open when we hit. Not only in the open but moving briskly. One foot touched the deck, then the other, kind of on tiptoe, and then—away I went.
Over the side, and down. Hit some crumbling wood, like pilings, on the way. Then I was in the water. Wondering if I should stay there. Seriously considering staying there. No, I decided, I'd have to face it
So I went back up.
My head popped up above the water, and I dog-paddled, feeling a little unhappy.
But there was one consolation, if that's the word: I had lots of company.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Well, actually, Dria,” I said, sipping my after-dinner drink, “in a way it's a good thing it happened. If it hadn't, I might have gotten a swelled noodle."
“They were remarkably good-natured about it, weren't they. Shell?"
“Yeah. Only one guy hit me. And he was a little guy, anyway.” I rubbed my nose. “He would aim at the only spot everybody else had missed, though. I was kind of hoping I could save my nose."
“That's an odd—"
“Skip it. Did they find the ‘SeaHeaven’ yet?"
“Not the last I heard, Shell. But it must be out there."
“Yeah. That's what I figured."
Dria and I were sitting on the terrace before the Sunrise Hotel. It was well after dark, and the torches were lighted and waving in the damned wind. After I'd made a speech at the dock—which wasn't bad, all things considered—I'd showered, shaved, and dressed in dry clothes. Then I'd picked up Dria for dinner.
The Pratts, and Rule's chum Charley, were in the custody of Sergeant Rivera; in time they might be hauled to the States for just disposition of their various cases pending there. The new corpses were at the local funeral parlor. I'd explained everything nine times. I guessed I'd be on my way to the States myself—as soon as they got the “Wanderer” repaired.
The interim would be a good time for me to get healed, I thought. I had several patches on my head, both wrists were bandaged, and there were a few items larger than Band-Aids elsewhere. It hurt to breathe—but breathing this clear air was restorative all by itself. Here there were millions more stars than are seen from smoggy L.A. Millions of millions.
I looked up at them, thinking. In the days ahead there was much I wanted to do. Heal, for one thing. But also I looked forward to swimming, lazing on the black-sand and white-sand beaches of Verde, roaming the island, maybe learning a little more about voodoo, the real voodoo.
There were things to settle with John Farrow, too. The way it had turned out, I was one of the few remaining owners of the Sunrise. We weren't sure what would happen to Rule's interest. But at least it wouldn't be Marcus Rule's. Or Danny Pratt's. That, too, would be worked out.
I guess the local citizens of Verde had decided not to elect me King of the Island, but there was, still, a kind of giggling rapport.
Odds and ends. It would all take time. But I had the time. Time to climb Damballah-Loa and look down into the dead volcano. And visit a rain forest I'd heard was on the north end of the island. Odds and ends.
And time to get to know Chicha a little better, maybe. Earlier she'd said hello, and a little more.
And, of course, much time for that which was, perhaps, most important of all. Time for Alexandria Maria Ducharme. Dria of the mystic eyes, and sweet lips, and good heart. Let it happen, I thought. Take it as it comes. There was no rush; lazy days stretched ahead. I looked at the bright stars and thought about it....
* * * *
Well, that didn't happen yesterday; none of it happened yesterday. But it was not so very long ago. When I got back to the States, to L.A., the old life went on. But often I remembered another life, a different way of life, on Verde. And I hear of Verde, once in a while.
They tell me that sometimes at night, around the fires in the sanctuaries, or even in the Valley of the Dead at the full of the moon, the old hungan speak of that day, while the loa Mordieux still walked upon the earth of Verde, when there came the white-haired hungan of strange and violent powers. Poison did not sicken him, nor did bullets wound; and there was that day when he and Mordieux met in terrible battle.
Ah, they say, that was a day of wonders, and at the end they stood before us, the black one and the white one together, and told us things that were strange, that were strange and true. Yes, and we have used the good loa, though some there are who are boko and macandal, and who work with both hands. But things have been well since that day. In strange ways these things happen.... Ah, but that was a day.
Or so they tell me.
* * * *
Maybe I'll go back myself some day, and find out what is said around the fires of the humfos. I think fondly of green and lovely Verde, and of the Sunrise—which is thriving. Dria is still there. And Chicha. And many friends in what was Count Mordieux’ sanctuary, and elsewhere on the island, too. Maybe I'll go back. It would be a good place to die.
But I'm not thinking about dying yet. No, sir. Not for another hundred years or so. No, at the moment, in my apartment at the Spartan Apartment Hotel, I was thinking...
But that's another story.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1965 by Richard S. Prather
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ISBN 978-1-4804-9898-3
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Richard S. Prather, Dead Man's Walk (The Shell Scott Mysteries)
