City Airport. Locker 388.
His eyes narrowed. Was this what the killers had been looking for? The reason why they had so savagely tortured the dead man?
He dropped the wig into the grave and the key into his pocket.
‘Come on, Randy!’ he said sharply. ‘Let’s get him buried.’
Chapter Three
T he Dominico Restaurant was ideally situated before a small bay guarded from the open sea by a series of sand banks. It was built under the shade of palms, cypress and spider orchid trees which formed a protection against the wind and the sun.
The restaurant was a long single storey building of hardwood with a palm-thatched roof and had direct access to the carefully raked sand leading in a gentle slope to the sea. Part of it was closed behind glass and air-conditioned: the rest was open for those who liked the heat and preferred the night breezes to eating in the cooler temperature rooms.
The beach had its own bar, its mattresses and sun umbrellas, neatly set out with enough space between each umbrella to give reasonable privacy.
Coming upon the restaurant from down a broad sandy road, Harry paused, surprised by its elegance, its style and its atmosphere of opulent luxury.
‘There it is,’ Randy said, a touch of pride in his voice. ‘Right now, you’re seeing it at its best: not a client in sight. In another week, it’ll be smothered with great tits, fat bottoms and inflated bellies. Then it doesn’t look so hot.’ He glanced at his watch. The time was just after 08.00 hours. ‘Solo could be at the market, but come on. Manuel will be here.’
They walked over to the building and into the shade of the veranda’s roof. As they paused amid the unset tables, a giant of a man came from the restaurant and out onto the veranda. His small, black eyes swept over Harry and then to Randy. His face lit up with a wide smile of welcome.
‘Randy . . . you small sonofabitch! So at last you arrive!’ An immense hairy hand engulfed Randy’s hand, pumped enthusiastically and the other hand descended on Randy’s back with an exploding report that made Randy stagger.
Harry guessed this was Solo Dominico, the owner of the restaurant.
During the brief welcome, he scrutinised Solo closely.
Wearing a white singlet and white cotton trousers, some six foot three in height and built like a gorilla, Dominico gave the impression of massive strength and authority. His swarthy complexion, his drooping black moustache, and his alert piercing eyes added to his picturesque appearance.
‘You all set to work?’ Dominico was demanding. ‘You going to sing and play the box again?’
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ Randy said, rescuing his hand and shaking his numbed fingers ‘Solo, meet Harry Mitchell: ex-top sergeant, Paratroops, three years in Vietnam and an
Olympic swimmer, I told you about him. He’s looking for a job.’
Dominico turned to Harry. The two men looked directly at each other.
‘Vietnam, hey? You met my son: Sam Dominico: 3rd Company, Marines?’
‘No, I didn’t meet him, but I know of the 3rd Company: a fine outfit,’ Harry said.
‘You bet the Paratroopers are a fine outfit too.’ Dominico extended his hand. ‘You want a job? Can you swim?’
Harry shook hands. The grip that enfolded his fingers was firm and hard but not challenging. He had been prepared to squeeze back.
‘Swim? I told you!’ Randy said impatiently. ‘He nearly won a gold medal. Of course he can swim!’
‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ Dominico was still staring at Harry. ‘You want a lifeguard job? It pays thirty a week and all found. You want it?’
‘I’m looking for some sun and air,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not fussy what I do. If you want a lifeguard, I’ll be a lifeguard. Randy said there were chores . . . so okay, I’ll do chores.’
Dominico studied him then smiled.
‘So you’re hired. I’ve got to go to the market. I’m late now.’
He turned to Randy. ‘You take your old cabin. Harry can have the
His eyes narrowed. Was this what the killers had been looking for? The reason why they had so savagely tortured the dead man?
He dropped the wig into the grave and the key into his pocket.
‘Come on, Randy!’ he said sharply. ‘Let’s get him buried.’
Chapter Three
T he Dominico Restaurant was ideally situated before a small bay guarded from the open sea by a series of sand banks. It was built under the shade of palms, cypress and spider orchid trees which formed a protection against the wind and the sun.
The restaurant was a long single storey building of hardwood with a palm-thatched roof and had direct access to the carefully raked sand leading in a gentle slope to the sea. Part of it was closed behind glass and air-conditioned: the rest was open for those who liked the heat and preferred the night breezes to eating in the cooler temperature rooms.
The beach had its own bar, its mattresses and sun umbrellas, neatly set out with enough space between each umbrella to give reasonable privacy.
Coming upon the restaurant from down a broad sandy road, Harry paused, surprised by its elegance, its style and its atmosphere of opulent luxury.
‘There it is,’ Randy said, a touch of pride in his voice. ‘Right now, you’re seeing it at its best: not a client in sight. In another week, it’ll be smothered with great tits, fat bottoms and inflated bellies. Then it doesn’t look so hot.’ He glanced at his watch. The time was just after 08.00 hours. ‘Solo could be at the market, but come on. Manuel will be here.’
They walked over to the building and into the shade of the veranda’s roof. As they paused amid the unset tables, a giant of a man came from the restaurant and out onto the veranda. His small, black eyes swept over Harry and then to Randy. His face lit up with a wide smile of welcome.
‘Randy . . . you small sonofabitch! So at last you arrive!’ An immense hairy hand engulfed Randy’s hand, pumped enthusiastically and the other hand descended on Randy’s back with an exploding report that made Randy stagger.
Harry guessed this was Solo Dominico, the owner of the restaurant.
During the brief welcome, he scrutinised Solo closely.
Wearing a white singlet and white cotton trousers, some six foot three in height and built like a gorilla, Dominico gave the impression of massive strength and authority. His swarthy complexion, his drooping black moustache, and his alert piercing eyes added to his picturesque appearance.
‘You all set to work?’ Dominico was demanding. ‘You going to sing and play the box again?’
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ Randy said, rescuing his hand and shaking his numbed fingers ‘Solo, meet Harry Mitchell: ex-top sergeant, Paratroops, three years in Vietnam and an
Olympic swimmer, I told you about him. He’s looking for a job.’
Dominico turned to Harry. The two men looked directly at each other.
‘Vietnam, hey? You met my son: Sam Dominico: 3rd Company, Marines?’
‘No, I didn’t meet him, but I know of the 3rd Company: a fine outfit,’ Harry said.
‘You bet the Paratroopers are a fine outfit too.’ Dominico extended his hand. ‘You want a job? Can you swim?’
Harry shook hands. The grip that enfolded his fingers was firm and hard but not challenging. He had been prepared to squeeze back.
‘Swim? I told you!’ Randy said impatiently. ‘He nearly won a gold medal. Of course he can swim!’
‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ Dominico was still staring at Harry. ‘You want a lifeguard job? It pays thirty a week and all found. You want it?’
‘I’m looking for some sun and air,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not fussy what I do. If you want a lifeguard, I’ll be a lifeguard. Randy said there were chores . . . so okay, I’ll do chores.’
Dominico studied him then smiled.
‘So you’re hired. I’ve got to go to the market. I’m late now.’
He turned to Randy. ‘You take your old cabin. Harry can have the
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