CHAPTER SIX
Dashing Skeet Burnisher
The docks of Callao were no different from those I had passed through in Portland, Marseilles or Southampton: Ships, boats and yachts of various sizes, shapes and nationalities berthed next to coils of rope, metal cargo containers, stacks of wooden crates and carelessly parked rusty forklifts. Rows of creaky piers stretched into the ocean, filled with dead fish, drunken sailors and cursing stevedores. Such constituted the best waterfronts around the globe: Vast fertile dumping grounds for those leaving on and returning from briny-laden adventures.
As disturbing as the thought was, I felt at home amid this troublesome water-meet-land gala. The transience of cargo, both human and commercial, provided a vindication for life's endless state of mutability and randomness. As the ocean whimsically tossed travelers upon its surface, so too were landlubbers unpredictably heaved by the affairs of humanity, seen and unseen. I considered this indiscriminate fickleness while standing near the entrance of a dank alleyway on Wharf Number Fifteen-and-one-half, making the final alterations to my ingenious disguise.
In order to reach Lima quickly, I graciously pledged a sizeable donation to Catholic Charities in Cuzco and in return managed to finagle my way onto a local charter flight. My fellow passengers, two-score in number, were members of the musically gifted Order of Saint Cecilia. While delayed on the tarmac, a fortuitous agreement was reached where I agreed to play the available Fender Dreadnought acoustic guitar and sing bass harmonies and, in turn, the sisters availed to me their collection of used clothing upon touchdown in Lima. In a truly mutually satisfying arrangement, I led a rousing set of spiritual rockabilly including Bach's "Sheep May Safely Graze", "Thou Art the Potter, I am the Clay", and -- as the encore piece -- a stirring belt down of Cash's "Burning Ring of Fire".
The pickings at the nunnery were, as anticipated, slim. Yet filled with gratitude for their kind assistance, and cheered by my melodic collaboration with these pious servants of humankind, I cobbled together a set of overalls, flannel shirt and a burlap bag to replace my plundered valise. Now, at least, I possessed two sets of clothing and the ability to blend in with common working folk.
Indeed, I roamed the oceanfront as a mid-western roughneck, my swagger evolving into that of a world-weary nomad seeking no more than his next mug of stale grog set beside a platter of cold grub. Sea salt filled the night air and thick banks of milky fog rolled in and over the dim wharf lights, as if challenging me to locate the precise quay of the MS Gangrene.
Beneath my convincing facade of foolery, I nervously wrestled with the concern I had missed the ship's departure altogether. After all, the note indicated neither time nor date, just the simple instruction to find Bridgework's cruise ship where I would be needed. Approaching a gathering of pea-coated swabbies out enjoying a smoke break presented me the opportunity to engage my newly designed persona.
"Ahoy there, mateys," My call that of a seasoned Oklahoman rigger at the end of his long gas-filled day. "Where can I find me a vessel known in Trident's world as Gangrene? She'd be a large rust bucket filled with the wealthiest passengers afloat under the Southern Cross this eve."
"You want 'em Gangrene?" a thin, jumpy member of the group stammered.
"The answer's 'aye', matey, and you should avast ye of your smoking habit."
"No time for litanies from ye, stranger, if it's knowledge ye seek." A burly, heavyset man wearing a dark blue knit cap stepped forward, his eyes jutting in different directions as he stroked his scraggily beard. "The Gangrene sits parked yonder and it's none of us who dare approach the cursed thing."
"'Parked'? I doffed the cowboy hat, my porkpie encased within, respectfully to him. "Don't you mean 'tied up'?"
"Parked is an apt description for what she is," he lamented, "and no barnacle in the briny deep desires to attach itself to her blighted hull."
"No salt soaked, steel kissing arthropod be me. I'm interested in inhabiting her topside."
"Aye, I suppose. It's a fate reversed, ye walking up the plank, then." He spat dramatically toward the pier, miscalculating the size of his belly. "Better one's back be driven by the point of a sword, till thee drops into the still waters of the Sargasso Sea."
"It's my good fortune, by the moons of Neptune, here lies the Pacific." We stared at one another as he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and performed additional saliva-removal from the front of his shirt. "Have you read much Coleridge, then?"
"Aye, I reckon. I keep the 'Rime' right here," he said, tapping a finger against the bridge of his nose.
"Indeed. Well, you were saying the Gangrene is located where?"
"That's her rear, yonder."
"Her aft."
"Aye, I suppose. 'Twould be that, too."
"I'll just be on me way," I said, shuffling my feet past the now morose group and tipping my hat once more, "Cheer up, now, y'all hear? Rumor has it a flock of albatross are headed this very way. Soon."
"Stranger," the burly man called out after me. "Consider ye warned about the perils of broaching the deck of Gangrene. It may not be an albatross ye finds about ye's neck." A tone of misgiving dominated the group's muttering a collective assent.
"Ye is grateful for thee's concern," I nautically replied.
Actually, I was neither thankful nor heeding his words as my focus shifted to the pier where the Gangrene subtly rocked with the moving tide. Near the entrance of the dock I hefted a bundle of discarded rope and, tucking it in the crook of my elbow, moved parallel along the opposite side of the lengthy wharf, slowing my pace to observe the activity surrounding the impressively turned-out cruise ship. At the base of its wide gangplank, three well-dressed, sizeable men stood under a dim light referencing the contents of a clipboard.
I stopped ten yards away, setting down my burlap sack and prop rope, pretending to tighten the lace of the ill-fitting boot on my right foot. The old theatre ruse provided a perfect vantage point to witness the arrival of two limousines, their brilliant headlights burning through the fog at the end of the dock. On the heels of the limos, three coach buses -- airbrakes blowing like agitated bulls in an overflowing arena -- ground their way into the narrow passage, blocking the entire entrance to the wharf.
Through the swirling mist came what first appeared like a parade of penguins waddling in formal attire and full-length evening gowns. I shifted my position, rolling back on my haunches behind a large porous crate containing fresh-caught, yet-flopping Pacific croaker. Wave after wave of partiers funneled onto the pier, some holding champagne glasses at a slant while others twirled their scarves playfully in the air. Some attempted a group sing-along of Broadway show tunes but, given the level of intoxication, their warbling medley came across more like a collective wheezing for medical assistance. At the head of the meandering procession crooning in an alarmingly off-key baritone was Bridgework himself, draped against Ethelene. Her woozy appearance indicated she was guilelessly mouthing lyrics.
I counted in excess of one hundred couples passing within feet of my clandestine post -- not including the occasional singleton jumbled among them -- but nowhere to be seen was Chip/Silly or the mysterious gray beard ponytailed man.
Nor Angel.
The darkness was instantly vanquished with the sudden illumination from the Gangrene's deck and cabin spotlights coming to life. I shut my eyes and slid back into the shadows of the croaker crate, listening as the mingling crowd guffawed and clucked over the now radiant ship.
"Listen up, friends and associates, listen up," Bridgework's voice carried over the clamor. I crept to the opposite side of the crate, leaning out far enough for a glimpse of the man himself in sharp profile as his breath plumed out into the damp night air. His pose was regal and his stance sure. "We'll have you all boarded in a matter of moments. The staff will see to your room assignments where you'll find your luggage waiting. Let me remind you of the champagne reception --"
"Hear, hear!" a voice shouted from deep within the pack.
"Being he
ld immediately in the upper forward lounge. I expect to see all of you there. We'll be shoving off as quickly as possible, once a few minor housekeeping details have been addressed."
"Cheers for Wayland," Ethelene shouted in a boisterous voice. "Give him a hoot and a holler!" The crowd erupted into lengthy applause and shrill whistles, patting Bridgework's shoulder and shaking his hand as the celebrants formed a slow-moving conga line snaking itself onboard. Several moments passed until the final reveler gained a grip on the rope handrail and began his way up on deck. Bridgework turned to face the three stewards.
"This is a direct order, not to be fouled up! I want that signal system fixed immediately so we are underway within the hour. Understood? Capito? ¿Entendido?"
"Sir, si, sir!"
"Advise the captain we're shoving off at the first available opportunity."
"Yes, sir!"
Two of the assistants followed Bridgework onto the Gangrene leaving behind the largest one, clipboard in hand, as gatekeeper. Slouching back into the darkness and rubbing my chin, it was time to assess the situation and formulate a plan to access the vessel. Calming my pressing sense of urgency, my choices were limited to two options: Leap the divide from pier-to-ship and hope to go undetected in the process; or march straight up the gangplank with confidence I would readily meld into life aboard Bridgework's private flagship. After brief consideration, as the seasonsed swabby predicted, fate prodded me to walk the plank and take a plunge into the unctuous culture of Gangrene.
I mustered to my feet, gathering up the bag and rope, and prepared to confront the guard when luck shone upon me again. There, less than a foot away, lay both a rubber mallet and medium-size pry bar, two useful props providing an advantage to my makeshift deception. I heaved to and casually strutted onto the wooden walkway, whistling a benign tune as though enjoying an evening stroll to the corner pub.
"Guten Abend," I smiled, greeting the muscular specimen wrapped tightly in his black sports coat.
"Move on, vagrant."
"Danke, mein guter Mann." With that, I started up the gangplank only to feel a crunching grip form around my bicep.
"Where you go, vagrant?"
"Why, I'm here to fix the communication problems," I replied, reverting to a friendly and non-threatening mid-western accent. The mixture of German and English, coupled with my cowboy manifestation, overwhelmed any misgivings he held about my assertion. I smile unpretentiously and maintained a workman's attitude. "The sooner I finish, the quicker you leave. The faster I'm home, the happier your boss."
He grunted, silently looking over the articles I carried and giving me a head-to-toe scan. "Who called you?"
"The boss sent me. Das höchste hohe!"
His entire face screwed itself into a small mass, as though he had consumed several pieces of freshly cut lemon. "Who?"
"My big boss," I replied emphatically while nodding my head toward the ship, "like your big boss."
"That's no good." He pulled me from the gangplank and shoved me backward. "You get outta here!"
"Okay, okay, back off, you big salami." I retreated a step and straightened the fabric on the front of my overalls. "I'll head home. When the phone rings asking why the job wasn't done, I'll say, 'Not sure, boss. Ask the big palooka guarding the gangplank. He had his reasons.'"
"Who called you again?"
"My boss."
"And who called him?"
"How should I know? Someone on this gimcracking tub!" I adjusted my grip on the rope and hoisted the bag higher up on my shoulder as though preparing to leave. "You'll receive a bill for my time. Guten Auben once more."
"Hold on, vagrant." The palooka drew out his cellular and, speaking in what I immediately identified as an inter-generational variation of a southern Czechoslovakian dialect, contacted someone in security. After a brief exchange, comprised mostly of grunting from his end, the guard clicked his phone shut and trained his gaze upon me. "You got identification, vagrant?"
Without hesitation, I delved into the burlap sack and produced my passport, flipping it open to my photo. "Company ID, my friend."
"Let's see," he said, reaching for the small booklet.
"Not so fast! That's corporate property. You can read the business name while I hold it."
"Bar On Von Deck Horn." He sounded out my name in oafish syllables as a foghorn let loose in the distance. "What is that?"
"A German company. You know, 'baronvon' means 'to maintain' or 'be in good health'. Sort of, roughly translated." I issued another friendly smile as he slowly agreed. "We also do a lot of work on ocean oil rigs, you see. Pump palaces, I call 'em. I'm based out of the United States headquarters in Oklahoma, hence the roughneck uniform."
"Aha," he said, his portly cranium signaling his agreement. "Tulsa?"
"Broken Arrow, actually. Beautiful country, lovely community, great people." I nonchalantly closed the passport and tucked it back within the folds of my attaché. There ensued a moment of uncomfortable silence as the big fellow appeared to be conjuring a mental image of the far-off city. "Fabulous Chinese takeout there."
"So, vagrant, you get a phone call in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, United States. Here you are fifteen minutes later?"
"Oh, if only that were so. I was actually in Lima for a conference, guest speaking, you know. 'The Top Ten Signs of Heliocentric Parallax Disorder'. Quite fascinating, really. Jeb Stuart, my supervisor, flagged me down and sent me out here. Post haste."
"From what hotel?"
"The conference is at the Ritz, of course." I was indignant at his suggestion that I would lecture anywhere else.
He raised the clipboard, balancing its base on his prominent abdomen, and clicked a ballpoint pen several times. "Your name?"
"Raleigh. Walter Raleigh." Just then the boisterous crowd broke into a glorious rendition of Oklahoma! that would have made both Rodgers and Hammerstein weep. "See? They're piping me aboard."
"You get on deck, you do your job, you don't speak to no one. When you're done, you come to me and say, 'The ship is ready'. Understood?"
I snapped off a smart salute and, containing my gratification at yet again slipping another security checkpoint, unhurriedly made my way up to topside.
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 14