by L. J. Martin
My seat is, of course, ten rows apart from Simone and the kids, which means I will have trouble doing my job. She is mobbed by a bunch of groupies in the foyer. That means an attack would be almost impossible to defend, but once they get them seated in the sixth row from the stage, she can watch in relative safety. When the lights dim, I move to the outer aisle and down near the end of their row, where I can respond quickly. I’m only there five minutes after the lights dim when an usher strides down and informs me, I can’t stand in the aisle just to get closer to the stage.
Trying to be as nice as possible, and having trouble understanding the nasty little prick's cockney accent, I explain I’m on the job. I have my bounty hunter, bail enforcement officer’s badge, which says Bail Enforcement in large and Wyoming in small print. He seems adequately impressed at first, then doubting.
He retreats, but by the middle of the third song, Yellow Submarine, a beefy dude with a flat-top haircut, and no neck, in a black and yellow printed security jacket strides my way and taps me on the shoulder. He’s got a spider tat on a cheekbone, which tells me he’s likely not ex-military. More likely a local tough who impressed the O2 manager who likely wouldn’t know a tough guy from a gumball. I’ve seen him coming, of course, but had high hopes he’d wander on by.
He doesn’t. His shoulders are thrown back and hands combat ready at his sides. His see-how-tough-I-am stance.
“On the job, pardner,” I say, and turn my attention back to the stage.
“Let’s talk in the lobby,” he says, and has me by the elbow and tries to pull me to follow.
I politely break his grasp and repeat. “I’m on the job, like you, and can’t do my job outside.”
“You’re bloody cheeky. Look, mate, you’re coming if I have to drag you.”
I show him the brass as a last attempt to leave me be.
“Fucking,” it comes out ‘fookin’, “badge don’t mean piss. Come on,” he again tries to tug me after him.
I’m getting a little irritated and hold back. He tries to put me in a come-along, wrist bent backward, but I spin, give him a short one just under the rib cage and hold him up to keep him from doubling. I’m close enough that no one in the crowd seems to notice, and he ‘oofs’ and his eyes bulge as he tries to catch his breath.
14
When Butch, the security guy, focuses again, I suggest, “Pardner, you’re making a scene.”
“Piss off. My name’s…name’s not pardner,” he says, gasping.
I move close to him and speak barely over a whisper. “Okay, Butch, I really don’t give a flying fuck what your name is. I’m working here, and it would be very embarrassing and probably cost you your lousy job if I mopped the aisle up with you. Most of these theaters hate blood on the wall and carpets, and you should hate it, particularly if it’s your blood. I’m no threat to you or your crew or your patrons, unless someone accosts my client. Now, the good move would be to leave me the fuck alone to do my job and maybe you’ll keep yours. You won’t be able to do yours if you’re sucking oxygen in the emergency room.”
We’ve caught the attention of a few in the crowd, including Simone, but she remains seated and only gives me a pissed off glare and shake of the head.
Rather than him heading back up, I admire the security guy for going six rows down and taking a seat on a short stairway that leads to the stage. I’m sure the Cheatles are his first responsibility. I give him a nod, but he ignores it.
I’m on my feet, leaning against the wall, watching the show but mostly eyeballing the crowd seated around my charge, until the show ends. I’m not overly thrilled as there are two curtain calls as the crowd gives the Cheatles standing ovations.
Then it’s over and the crowd starts out. I see it’s eleven and the ship is due to sail at 3:00 a.m. It’s only a half hour away, but of course Simone and her hangers-on head for the stage. Butch stops them, but Simone hands him a card that apparently is an invitation to come backstage. Of course, I haven’t been informed of this possibility. I still haven’t had a real heart-to-heart with Simone, so I take a deep breath and hustle to sidle up with her as Butch steps aside to let them pass. But, of course, he puts a hand in the middle of my chest and stops me.
“Card says four,” he growls.
“Simone,” I call after her, but she turns and gives me the finger and Patty, Terry and bald-boy Bryan all laugh. Which pisses me off totally…not quite totally or I’d drop Butch in his tracks.
“You’re working for her?” Butch asks, with a curl of his lip.
“You ever bodyguard?” I ask.
“Some,” he replies.
“Then you know what pricks these rich, spoiled bitches can be. Now, do me a solid and let me do my friggin’ job.”
He gives me a knowing smile, I don’t know if it’s because he does understand or because he remembers the poke to his solar plexus, but he steps aside and lets me pass.
I stay unobtrusive as Simone and the shitheads knock back a few shots with the band, then, when I see it’s midnight, move over to Simone.
“Gotta go. The ship sails.”
She gives me a dirty look. “We have time.”
“Gotta go. The ship sails,” I repeat.
“Go, we’ll catch up,” she says, and reaches for another shot.
“Is that on your diabetic diet?” I ask.
She glances around to make sure I haven’t been overheard, then snaps at me, “Shut the fuck up about that. No one knows. It wouldn’t be good for my career.”
“If you don’t gather up your gaggle, I’m going to shout it out to all these creeps and drop a note to the London Times.”
She gets red in the face, but then turns and yells at the rest. “Ship sails soon. Let’s go.”
After hugs all around, we leave and catch cabs.
Connie’s and my suite is on Deck Seven, a Category Two cabin with veranda—fairly modest but plenty for two weeks—Simone and Patty share a two-bedroom Grand Suite above us on Deck Eight, only two cabins away at the bow end of the ship. Beside us is a small suite like Connie’s and mine but occupied by Gretchen. Across the hall from Gretchen, Terry and Bryan share a cabin identical to ours but with twin beds, I presume. But they spend so much time up in Simone's suite they might as well have all their things there. Come to think of it they may share a queen bed. And may be queens. I remember Simone did say they weren’t her boyfriends.
Whatever the hell we all are, I’m glad we’re sailing soon. It will be hard for Simone to get very far from me on board ship.
As is normal when we board, or bags are taken, and I know will be scanned. We pass through a metal detector so anything that is untoward has been packed and well disguised as computer or camera gear.
We're also photographed, and each given a credit-card-sized ID card which will identify us as we disembark and return to the ship. Each time it's scanned the computer will flash our pictures. I've studied cruise ship protocol and know not only when leaving or returning to the ship, but when entering a dining room, you're asked for your suite number. Then you're highly complimented when the host or waiter calls you by name. Of course, when they plug in our suite number, your name and picture appear on the computer in front of them. You think they're looking for a table to seat you, but actually they're identifying you, so they can personalize your visit.
Not only that, but each crew member in the service areas are given pictures of all guests and quizzed as to their names.
Among the first pieces of business aboard the ship is a lifeboat and life preserver drill, where we're all called to our respective stations and instructed how to use the preserver, even down to blowing the whistle. I already knew how to blow a whistle.
We awaken, docked at Honfleur, France, on the Atlantic. We’re just inside the mouth of the Seine River. Just looking out at the historic city I’m already wishing this was truly a vacation and that I didn’t have to concern myself with a gaggle of snot-nosed brats. But a hundred grand is a hundred grand, and more impo
rtantly Connie wanted me to take the gig. I’ve made arrangements to meet little Miss Simone for breakfast, with the threat of quitting and ratting her out to the world regarding her diabetes. For some reason she fears that, and I finally have a wedge I can use to move her. She fears the world knowing; she fears her father knowing she's an abhorrent patient.
Connie has come down as well but taken a seat across the main dining room on Deck Four. She wisely advised me to conduct this dressing-down without anyone else within hearing. I already have a short-stack with a side of ham and two over easy when Simone arrives—a combination I had to give strict instructions to the waiter in order to achieve. I’m at a table for two, and even though I told her this conversation was to be private, she shows up with big boy Bryan in tow.
“Let’s get another table,” she says as they approach, nearly twenty minutes late, of course.
“No. You and I are having breakfast. Bry baby can go over and join Connie if he needs his hand held or jump the fuck overboard for all I give a rat’s ass.”
“Wow, did ol’ Mikey ever get up on the wrong side. I think I’ll eat with Bryan.”
She starts to turn and walk away, and he’s grinning like he just won the lottery.
“London Times,” I say, and she stops short and turns back.
“You’re a real prick,” she says, low enough that other diners don’t hear.
I point at where Connie is seated with a couple of blue hairs. “Over there, Bry.”
“Go,” Simone snaps at him, and his face falls but he strides away, and she takes a seat.
I wave the waiter over and she orders. When the obvious Arab waiter—his name tag says Hussein—pours her coffee then hurries away, I lay into her.
“How many times have you had a half dozen stinking, sweaty, barely-human fat men hold you down and ravish every opening you have?”
She glares at me. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”
“One you need to consider. I’m on the payroll to guard you. You have to take that seriously or I’m quitting and going on the TV talk circuit. How’s that?”
She takes a sip of her coffee and stares out at the city, then turns back. “Look, this is going to be a long two weeks. How about we try and get along?”
"Maybe three weeks. Your old man wants me along to Cannes, too."
"No fucking way!" She looks totally exasperated.
"Way."
"Bullshit."
"No, no bull. I can always give your old man, the BBC, and the National Enquirer, a call and rat you out." I can't help but smile.
"All right, all right, I surrender."
“Good,” I say. “And this is how we get along. And I'm signed on for three weeks. The Cannes Film Festival and all. You read me in on everything you do outside the privacy of your bedroom and bathroom, and I want to know who is in there with you.”
She laughs. “You some kind of freak?”
I nod. “Damn right I am. I’m a freak for doing my job.? I had a young lady much like you get kidnapped before I reported for my first day of work. Kidnappers are not nice, particularly to beautiful young women.”
“You noticed. I thought maybe you’re gay?”
15
I think she thinks she’s offending me. She’s not. I have some gay friends and even served with a very tough gay Marine.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do in the privacy of your bedroom. I don’t want it in my face, so to speak. Sally, I’ve known some very tough gay guys. But no, Connie is my lady and you’re my job. Do you have your alarm?”
She rolls her eyes but reaches down and snags it out of her purse, and holds it out, showing it off like a cat who’s brought a mouse to the lady of the house. "It's Simone, not Sally."
“Good. Don’t go anywhere without your alarm, and even if you’re in the sack with some good lookin’ dude, it’s on the bed stand. Understand?”
“Yes, Mikey.”
“I don’t give a damn what you call me, so long as you let me do my job. Does Mort know you drink like the proverbial fish?”
“No, and don’t tell him. He’d go crazy.”
“Good, I have another hammer over you to keep you in line.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Just follow the rules. I have your phone number. Give me your phone.”
She hands it over and I program my number in, with an AAA before Mike, so it goes to number one on her contact list.
“I’m AAAMike, top of the list. Don’t use the alarm unless you feel threatened. If you use it, and I'm not next to you, I'll come like a freight train, and it's likely to be anything but pretty. The phone will work most of where we’ll be when in port. If you hit that alarm, know I’ll come like a Sherman tank, and I don’t want to hurt someone for calling you a name or short-changing you. Got it? You put me on the wrong trail, I could end up in a cell, and I can’t keep you from getting dragged off by that half-dozen filthy throwbacks if I’m the guest of the boys in blue.”
“I got it, and I get it.”
“Good, I’ll leave you alone in your cabin, but when you’re ready to leave it, call me so I can flank you. Every time, even if you're only stepping down the hall.”
“Flank me. Well, flank you too, futher mucker,” she says, and laughs.
“So, I can be close by.”
“Hell, I’m hoping over here I’ll just be another strawberry blonde.”
Before she can get it out, two teeny boppers stop at the table, breathlessly, and ask for her autograph, which she gives graciously, I'm happy to note. Happy she's not a total asshole.
“I guess that answers that,” I say.
The waiter arrives with her granola and some frozen concoction.
I take the last bite of hotcake and rise. “I’ll send Bryan over. I’m finishing my coffee with Connie. Don’t leave the room without touching base with me, from now on.”
She gives me that phony smile, but nods.
So, I add, "The captain has invited a few to view the bridge, and if I'm going to do my job, it's important I know every crack and cranny of the territory I'm working. The visit is scheduled for 9 A M and I'd like to go. Please don't plan to leave your suite until ten or after."
"Nowhere to go that early,” she replies, with a shrug.
Before I leave, I give her an honest smile. “I’m glad we had this heart to heart, and hope you are?”
“It’ll have to do,” she says, and again I get the phony smile.
I guess she’s right. It’ll have to do.
I start the day out pissed as Simone and crew decide Rouen, a winery and ancient town tour, is their excursion. I’ve decided not to express my opinion in these matters unless asked—and I’m not asked.
The reason I’m silently seething is Normandy is an alternative destination, where 156 thousand brave allied soldiers stormed a handful of beaches to begin freeing Europe from Nazism. On a plateau above Omaha Beach, 9,386 marble crosses and Stars of David are aligned, where our dead are buried. It’s a somber but historic place I’d love to see, and one these kids should see.
I will come back, I promise myself.
To play it safe, I’ve had to rearrange our transportation to a limo as opposed to the tour buses arranged by the ship. And for 10:30 a.m., after I've had my tour of the bridge.
I enjoy meeting Captain Van Groot, in a most perfunctory manor, and his First Mate Armundsen who actually conducts the class, and seeing the workings of a modern cruise ship.
We are off on an hour-and-a-half drive to Rouen, a town of towers and spires and the capital of Normandy. A happy place I’m told, if you consider where Joan of Arc was toasted at the stake in 1431 a happiness.
Connie and I stay as far front in the limo as we can place our backsides, and I guess Gretchen identifies with us older types as she sits forward also. That’s fine as we get to know her. I’ve read some of her background that Connie was able to gather. There was nothing in any of Connie's reports on Gretchen, Bryan
or Terry of any consequence.
Connie and I are able to drift ten paces behind the kids and follow them without being too obtrusive. I’m happy to say, my client does not try to ditch us.
It’s a good day. We’re back on Blue Pearl safely, and Simone is in her cabin dressing for supper as are we.
The food aboard is great, and you can get damn near anything you want, lobster or a fat rib steak with every meal, should you so desire.
If the rest of the trip is as easy as this, it will be the proverbial lark.
Mumin is enjoying himself. His cabin is modest but far nicer than any apartment he’s ever had and a thousand times nicer than the hut in Somalia where he was raised. Mumin, along with his associate Sa’id, did visit Sheik Ali Hassan, the Mullah in charge of this mission, in his palace deep in the Libyan dessert near Wadi Al Hayaa, and near Ubari Airport. Ali Hassan is the mastermind behind Operation Bloody Blue. But even it wasn’t finished as nicely as his cabin. Even though it was five hundred times larger.
He’s spent his first day on board wandering from place to place to check on his charges. He has not made contact with Abdul as he will be almost constantly on the lower decks and will be working nights. This concerns Mumin as Abdul is responsible for unloading and hiding the munitions that come on board in foodstuffs. He does find Mohamid, who’s repainting some trim on an upper deck. He’s happy to note that Mohamid does not acknowledge him in any way. Mohamid, born an American, is a valuable asset. Hussein is working as a waiter, and Alia, the only female operative, as a bartender. Mumin is happy to see they seem to fit right into their jobs and as instructed ignore him. He also sees Habte, who’s a steward on the same floor he occupies. He has yet to see Gama, a cook’s helper; Omar, who’s working in the laundry; Rajah, a floor steward; Sa'id, who’s been a longtime associate of Mumin, also a steward; Enrique and Salazar, both welders; but he will come across them eventually. Long before their mission becomes known to the infidels.