[Lothithil]

Mac in Martinique
Chapter Three, Good and Bad

It was a long walk back to the bungalow that my friends and I were sharing during our travel-holiday. It gave me plenty of time to work off my excess adrenaline after the incident at Ricky’s shop. I wondered if I was going to have trouble again with those men. They hadn’t looked particularly like the type who forgive-and-forget!

The sand beneath my feet was still radiating heat. Cool breezes from the water flowed in over the crashing surf, tugging at my hair and clothes. I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered if I should get it cut. It was longer now that I’d ever worn it before, and I kinda liked it.

Far out in the bay there were lights glittering on the water. Yachts of the rich and famous, no doubt. For the price of one of those expensive toys you could build yourself a house… a big house! Not that I wanted a house… not right now. I enjoy being able to move around, to not have to look back and worry about where I should be. I only had to think about where I am now… and where I might go next. I like that a lot!

There were yellow and blue lights under the trees and strains of laughter and music in the air; people enjoying paradise… oblivious to extortionists, pirates, or the troubles brewing back in the States. A part of my mind—the part I work really hard to try to ignore—wondered about the war in Viet Nam, and what I should be doing about it. But what can one man do? I swore that I’d never use a gun again… not even for Uncle Sam. But there must be something a man can do-- other than kill.

Mac strolled along the sand until he found the boardwalk that led to the bungalow. The shades were drawn but light flowed between the cracks, and as Mac drew near he saw a shadow of movement inside.

For a split second, Mac felt a wave of fear that those thugs had somehow found out where he was staying and that Mike and Jack were in danger. His heart began to beat a thousand miles an hour and he stumbled forward to see if his friends were all right, but then he heard the clear sound of Mike’s voice, singing. Mac paused on the porch, sucking in long breaths to calm himself, before he opened the door.

“Mac!” Mike turned around as the door squeaked open. “You took forever! I’ve been waiting to go find some food… you hungry?”

“Always,” Mac answered. “Where’s Jack?” he asked absently, having noticed what Mike was wearing. Sleeveless and strapless, it showed off her tan without showing too much, the light blue color accenting her eyes. Her hair was piled up in a loose bun, curling tendrils escaping the glittering net of pins.

‘How do women do that?’ Mac wondered, admiring the effect.

Mike noticed her friend staring, but she demurely kept her eyes lowered as if she hadn’t, and she hoped the blush creeping across her cheeks would be hidden by her makeup. “I don’t know where Jack is… I heard him come in about half an hour ago, but he must have went right back out again. I was in the shower. Let’s go.”

“Give me a minute,” Mac said. He was still dressed in swim trunks and a tank top. He dug into his suitcase and found something clean, then stepped behind the bamboo screen that was erected in front of the corner of the one-room house, shielding the primitive washroom and bath. The travel agency had described as ‘quaint and rustic’.

“Hurry! I’m starving!” Mike insisted playfully.

“Aren’t you going to give me time to take a shower, too?”

“You men,” Mike complained, even as she settled down on a chair to comfortably wait for her friend, “you just take forever getting ready to go out!”

“I just want to be beautiful for you,” Mac said sarcastically, tossing his sandy clothes over the divider onto the floor.

Mike sighed, then got up and gathered up the dirty clothes. “You men,” she said again, under her breath.

⌂

“I don’t want to be hearing what I’m hearing!” DuGaul slammed the telephone down, and then shoved it away from himself, violently. It struck the wall and fell to the floor, uttering a strangled ring like a protest at the rough treatment. “Those stinking, double-crossing pirates!”

“Now, now,” the man behind the desk spoke in a gentle voice, a slight French accent making the word into a soothing lullaby, “remember your blood pressure, David. Sit down and tell me, what is the problem?”

DuGaul ignored the invitation to sit; he began to pace the length of the room. “The problem, Mr. St. Just,” he said, his voice softer but still full of anger, “is that those stupid, stinking—“ he paused as St. Just glared at him mildly, “the agents that we have hired to bring in our product have not delivered. I have a detailed plan that relies on a strict timetable, and we have clients who expect a prompt delivery! This is going to foul up everything!”

“Maybe… maybe not.” St. Just leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, peering at DuGaul over his manicured nails. “Why did they fail to make the delivery?”

DuGaul finally sank into the chair next to the desk. “They claim that the payment was not in the agreed place.”

“Is there any chance that it was not there? Perhaps one of our runners developed sticky fingers.”

“No! I placed it there myself… yesterday afternoon! I wouldn’t trust a runner with a payment in gold. If those salty rednecks would just accept US currency… or francs, we wouldn’t have half the problems we do now! One sight of a pile of kuggerands and these local beach bums go nuts!”

“South African money is harder to trace,” St. Just said. “That makes it difficult for us now, for we might never find whoever took our gold. Still, we must make the effort, no? Perhaps some tourist found the place?”

“It was well camouflaged… they would have had to have been looking specifically for it,” DuGaul pounded the armrest of his chair in frustration. “I’ll bet anything that those blasted pirates took the money and lied about not finding it! Or couldn’t find it at all!”

“Go and look. And check with our man at the marina. Perhaps he noted some excessively happy tourists coming in from a dive on the reef.” St. Just turned his chair so that his back was toward DuGaul.

DuGaul stood, recognizing this as a dismissal. Just as he reached the door, the soft voice added, “And if you don’t find that gold, I will have to have you killed, David.”

DuGaul turned around, shocked. “Mr. St. Just! I—“

“You understand, David. As much as I worry about your health, I can’t tolerate failure. As you said, we have clients waiting.”


~~~tbc

[MacNymph]

What has Jack gone and done??

And that St. Just seems like a baddie you could sink your teeth into... one of those villians you love to hate.

Oh this is great!