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By Philip Kerr
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Sample text
But then, it wasn't my boat. We got out of the Chevy. I fetched Melba's suitcase from the trunk and carried it into the yard, stepping carefully around or over tins of paint, buckets, lengths of rope and hose line, pieces of wood, old tyres, and oil cans. The office in a little wooden hut at the back was no less of a shambles than the yard. Mendy wasn't about to win the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval any time soon, but he knew boats, and since I knew them hardly at all this was just as well.
Ninety minutes later the doors of the wagon opened in front of a semicircular fortress that appeared to be built on an island. The fortress was made of sandstone bricks and about forty feet high with three storeys. It was old and ugly and looked as if it belonged properly in old Berlin, somewhere other than New York anyway, an impression that was reinforced by the view of lower Manhattan's much taller buildings. These stood gleaming on the opposite shore of a large expanse of water and resembled nothing so much as the walls of some modern Troy.
Said Melba. ' 'I'll be glad when we're off this tub,' I said, and fetched a bottle of rum from the chart drawer. After about three or four hours it got dark and I could see the lights of the US naval base at Guantanamo, twinkling on our port side. It was like staring at the ancient stars of some near galaxy that was at the same time a vision of the future in which American democracy ruled the world with a Colt in one hand and a stick of chewing gum in the other. Somewhere in the tropical darkness of that Yankee littoral thousands of men in white suits were engaged in the meaningless routines of their ocean-going imperial service.