Tux was leaning on the rail as the motorboat came alongside. He was thick-set, immensely powerful and swarthy. His washed-out blue eyes moved continuously and restlessly. His hard, brutal face was fleshy, and he badly needed a shave. He wore an open-necked black shirt, dirty white trousers and a yachting cap set jauntily over his right eye.
He was the only survivor of O’Brien’s drug-trafficking days: a dangerous man with a knife or a gun. O’Brien found him invaluable. He paid him well, and he had never known Tux to fall down on any job, no matter how hard or dangerous.
Tux lifted a languid finger to his cap as O’Brien climbed on board.
“Where is he?” O’Brien asked.
“Below,” Tux told him, and jerked his thumb to the companion ladder. Seated on an empty box, guarding the way down, was a big negro, naked to the waist, who grinned sheepishly at O’Brien, then got up and moved away from the door.
“What happened?” O’Brien asked.
“A little trouble,” Tux returned indifferently. He had spent all his life dealing with trouble. “I had to tap him, but we got away without being seen. He tried to get rough as we were bringing him over, so Solly had to tap him again.”
“Is he hurt?” O’Brien said sharply.
“Just a tap,” Tux said, shrugging. He was an expert at tapping people. He knew just where and how hard to hit them. “Nothing to it. Want to talk to him, boss?”
“Yes.”