My success in getting the job and, thusly, my girl, was really to be shaped by the auctioneers I worked with. I had come with high hopes for working with the Rookie of the Year, but, alas, he was already a wreck when I met him. But what did the new auctioneer promise? Could I learn from him, or would he also be a man shredded by his ambitions and the pitiless sea? The Caribbean waters may not be so cruel, but the men who plied them have always been so, and would always be so.
5
The next afternoon, while moored at the Port of Miami, Shawn stared in disbelief at the security guards closing down the gangway. Four Filipino men in sweaters with epaulettes pulled up power cords and folded down trays. When the X-ray machine was safely secured, they hauled back the gangplank and dropped it to the carpet with a heavy clang. The look on Shawn’s face was nearly indescribable. Thunderstruck was the only word that came to mind.
“Son of a goddamn bitch,” he breathed. “He isn’t here. The new goddamn auctioneer isn’t here.”
“What does this mean?”
“Bastard!” he cried suddenly, ignoring me. A security guard glanced up, but Shawn was apparently addressing the heavens. “I’m so goddamn burned out, and now this! I am so screwed!”
“Shall I invoke the Chicken?” I asked calmly.
“Fuck the Chicken!” Shawn snapped.
We had waited all afternoon for the arrival of the new auctioneer and with each passing hour grew more and more agitated. Shawn had rubbed his silent cell phone obsessively between numerous calls to our fleet manager, Mary Elizabeth. She was the go-to gal in case of situations like this. But she had no idea of the whereabouts of this new auctioneer, this Charles. All she knew was that he was flying in from Turkey.
A handover to an oncoming auctioneer was a very stressful process that always required more time than was available. Even had Charles been waiting on the gangway as soon as it was cleared in the predawn by the port agent, time would have been tested. Arriving in the afternoon was unheard of. Not arriving at all was devastating on so many levels.
Auctioneers were by nature adaptable and could take most aspects of a handover in stride. After all, they were expected to maintain a constant revenue stream despite being dropped onto a foreign vessel with a foreign layout and foreign customs; all while being assisted by foreign employees and filling out foreign paperwork. And this was usually done under extreme jet lag, to boot. None of this fazed an auctioneer. But missing the ship, that was a new thing entirely!
“I’m screwed!” he howled again. “I can’t sign off with three million dollars of art still here. Until Charles signs for it, anything missing is out of my pocket. So now my flights are screwed. My hotel is screwed. My sign on tomorrow is screwed. That means my first cruise on the new ship is screwed. And my vacation was already screwed. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!”
Shawn took a deep breath to calm himself. He appeared about to speak, but instead hurriedly fumbled the bottle of Tums from his pocket. While chomping on cherry-flavored salvation, he explained our plan of action.
“OK, OK. I’m calm. First, I need to call Mary Elizabeth and tell her the bastard didn’t show up. My cabin was reserved for him, so I’ll have to talk to the purser to ensure I can remain another night. It’s a good thing I didn’t set foot off the ship, because then they could not legally allow me back on board without a signed form from the Chief Officer. That would have sucked beyond all comprehension.
“Anyway, tomorrow we are in Nassau. I’ll sign off there because surely the new guy, what’s his nuts… Charles… will sign on then. I’ll have to call and cancel my flights and hotel reservations and see when I will be allowed to sign on my new ship. Instead of flying to Maine, I’ll sign on at the next port of call. I think that’s St. John’s. Great. Goddamn great.”
“What can I do?”
“You need to get an auction going. Ordinarily we would already be setting up the auction in the Centrum by now, but the inventory required for the handover nixed that. We need to play this like a normal cruise now and get haulin’. Call the boys and then start pulling art for the auction. You know the drill.”
“Why bother? Leave it for the new guy. You’re already overworked. Just be done with it.”
“You don’t get it,” Shawn replied, shaking his head sadly. “What if he doesn’t show up at all? This is only a three day cruise. If there’s no revenue this first night, and whats-his-nuts doesn’t show up at all, then it goes on me as a failure. In fact, you do the auction. I lied to Mary Elizabeth that you did one already, anyway.”
“Thanks for that,” I said honestly. “But I still don’t get it. Surely you or Charles won’t be judged by revenue on only half a cruise?”
“Damn right we will!” Shawn snorted. “You don’t know Sundance. I once got a reprimand for bad sales on a ship that I never even set foot on. Gene laid into me for ten solid minutes before realizing his mistake. He never apologized. Our fat checks are apology enough. So start pulling the art now, so when the boys get here they can start hauling it to the Centrum.”
“Just chill, Shawn,” I said. “It’s my auction now, so you just do what you need to do.”
“What I need to do is a Steiner!” he cried as he rushed down the corridor. “Ha! Good luck with that, eh?”
So we went about our tasks with energy, if annoyance. The worst case scenario had just occurred and now it was time to deal with it. Setting up an auction required more time than we had, but with such talented and energetic assistants as Denny and Jesse we would survive. Usually the auctioneer preselected artwork with care, based upon cruise-long strategy, but today would be grab and go.
All too soon the many levels of the Centrum buzzed with guests browsing and carousing the art. Because there are so many little details to keep track of before an auction, I was too busy to be nervous about it. Not having my name on the bottom line surely helped that. But I was unnerved by Shawn taking up position by the champagne and downing glass after glass with abandon.
“The auction begins soon, folks!” I finally said into the microphone. It was strange hearing my own voice echoing over several floors. A dream come true, my ex-wife would surely have said. I wasn’t sure where to look as I spoke, because lines of people pushed into the dining room on one deck and poured out on another. As usual, I babbled ever onward.
“This preview is the time to see the artwork up close and personal. Anything you want to see on the auction block, just put a tag on it. There’s no obligation: it’s just a little sticky note on the frames, folks. When you register for the auction, you’ll get a bidding number, some tags and some free champagne. Take advantage of this time to see the art and ask questions! Don’t you worry, I’ll explain how it all works at the beginning of the auction.”
Denny and Jesse flitted around in a graceful swirl, grabbing tagged artwork and arranging it next to the auction block on the raised platform. Shawn, champagne in hand, spoke with a guest over the sales laptop. Amor plied the crowd with champagne. Time flew and I was in the zone. Of course, whenever I start talking I think I am in the zone.
Delusions of things going well usually don’t last long in auctions. The specter of bad luck still haunted us, a huge brute lurking in the wake. Just minutes before gavel time, Shawn rushed up to me with the sales laptop. His forehead was creased with worry and his puppy-dog brows expressed concern.
“Brian!” he whispered fiercely. “We need the art data!”
“What?” I asked, surprised. “You’ve been using the laptop for all preview. If there is no art data, what are you looking at?”
Shawn kept rolling his eyes as each wave of stress washed over him. Though bad timing, it was an easy fix. His capacity for handling the unexpected was nearly exhausted.
“It’s my fault,” he repeated with quick jerks of his head. His breath reeked of champagne. “To do the inventory for the handover, I kept last week’s art data. If we use last week’s art data it will overwrite my sales! I’m not losing my commissions from la
st cruise for this bastard.”
“His name is Charles,” I supplied in a soothing voice. “We have ten minutes, so just go swap the data now.”
“I’m busy talking to a guest,” he dismissed hurriedly. “Can you do it? Yes, you do it! I’m too busy to do it.”
“OK, OK,” I said exasperatedly. “Give me the diskette and I’ll be back in two minutes.”
“Bob’s your uncle!” he cried. He hurriedly exported the old art data onto a 3.5 inch diskette and handed it to me. “Fly, my pretty bird, to the ship’s computer. Fly!”
To illustrate, Shawn flapped his arms and hurled himself off the platform. He tumbled headlong into a group of guests who squawked and scattered with alarm. Too drunk to notice them, Shawn began raving, “I’m the chicken of the sea! The Holy Chicken of the sea! Bob’s your uncle and Fannie’s your goddamn aunt!”
Amor casually moved away from the prancing auctioneer, apparently convinced that he, too, was gay.
Swapping the art data was easy, if nerve-wracking. Exporting the old data encoded the file, so until new data was loaded, the laptop was blank. Thus the data was emailed days early. If it was running late, an auctioneer would stress. If it had not arrived by embarkation day, an auctioneer would panic. But I knew Sundance had safely emailed us the new data already, and it was waiting on the ship’s computer. I skipped behind the purser’s desk without a concern in the world, but suddenly stopped dead in my tracks.
Two computer technicians were squatting over the disjointed pieces of a computer, heads shaking solemnly, like surgeons who had just lost a patient in the operating room. It was the ship’s computer, our computer, the only computer with the art data.
I ran back to the Centrum and found Denny and Jesse trying diplomatically to stop Shawn from sucking down yet another glass of champagne. I quickly yanked it from his grip and exclaimed, “Shawn! The ship’s computer is dead!”
Jesse gasped, but Shawn just blearily looked my way, too drunk to focus.
“There’s no art data! The ship’s computer is toast. We need to auction in five minutes!”
Shawn gaped at me for a long moment as the magnitude of things pushed through the champagne. Some eighty guests were signed up and waiting, and the balconies teemed with waiting guests as well.
“Wha-what?” he asked, rolling his eyes again. The waves of stress no longer washed over him, but crashed wildly upon the reefs and shoals. Clearly he was about to lose it.
“Can we cancel an auction this late?” I asked.
“Can we stop gathering tagged artwork?” Denny asked.
“Can you make an announcement?” Jesse asked.
“Can I have a bottle of champagne?” Amor slipped in.
Shawn’s eye flopped every which way, like a fish out of water. Finally he raised his arms wide and cried out with great drama to the heavens. Or, rather, the guests on the balcony above.
“Why?” he boomed. “Why didn’t that bastard auctioneer show up, what’s his nuts?”
“My name,” a rich voice answered from behind us, “Is Charles.”
Chapter 4: The Chicken of Fate
1
We whirled to see a tall, slender man parting the crowd with his approach. He strode forward with such gaunt grace and expensive accoutrements that I wondered if he were a vampire.
Charles was extremely thin, a feature amplified by a ponytail of solid grey hair so long that it touched the small of his back. Yet his features were young and his skin white as if never yet touched by sun. A neatly trimmed goatee smirked beneath his pointed nose. I had seen a pencil-thin mustache before, but this was the first pencil-thin goatee I had ever seen. He wore an expensive, smartly cut three-piece suit, though wrinkles revealed it to have just been pulled from luggage.
“You’re Charles?” Shawn asked, gaping. “Bob’s your uncle pluckin’ chicken! When did you get on-board?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” he answered with his sepulchral voice. “My wife is with the purser right now. He said an auction was already going, so I didn’t bother calling but instead got dressed.”
“W-where the hell have you been?” Shawn demanded.
“Port security,” Charles deadpanned in a slightly British accent. “I’ll explain later. We used the guest gangway at the last second. So, shall I do the auction now that I am here?”
“I wish! No art data.”
Charles raised an eyebrow in surprise and viewed the crowd with wonder. “You went this far without art data?”
Shawn’s face clouded and I feared a meltdown was imminent. I jumped in first and said, “We’ll explain later. I have a paper catalogue in my cabin. Can we use that?”
“No way,” Charles replied, shaking his head with a swish of grey ponytail. “It’s hard enough doing an auction with new art using the computer. With a paper catalogue after twenty-six hours of travel would be impossible.”
“I’ll do it,” Shawn said abruptly. “I know all this artwork like the back of my hand. I’ll do it from memory.”
Charles whistled in admiration. “Surely not! Can’t we cancel or do something smaller than a full auction instead? How long is the cruise?”
“Too short,” Shawn answered. “You can invoice tomorrow. I’ll explain the Widow Maker later.”
“Sounds like much explaining will be happening later,” Charles observed drily.
Shawn’s infamous, lopsided grin suddenly sprouted and the twinkle blossomed in his eye. The transformation that occurred before us revealed exactly why this man had been the Rookie of the Year. He grabbed the microphone and strode up to the auction block. All evidence of champagne was gone.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called smoothly. “We are ready to begin. My name is Shawn and I want to welcome you all to the Majesty of the Seas. This cruise you are all in luck, because you get three auctioneers for the price of one! Tonight I’ll be hosting the auction, but tomorrow you will have Charles, the man with the ponytail over there. There is also our associate Brian, the big guy with the stupefied look on his face.”
2
Shawn was dazzling during his final performance on Majesty. I watched from behind a tangle of plants and was ready with the catalogue should he need it. Yet with each work of art brought to the auction block, Shawn rattled off without hesitation the name, the artist, and the year. Only twice did he pause and wait for me to verify the opening bid, and both times he was spot on. Awed, I double-checked his every statement by flipping through the cumbersome printout catalogue of some forty pages. He never once erred. His confidence and speed increased as he progressed, no doubt amplified by showmanship and champagne.
When the gavel struck for the final time, Shawn stumbled from the auction block like a soldier who had fought through an entire battle wounded. Charles and I both supported him with heartfelt compliments, but we all knew there was yet much work to be done.
The checkout process, normally chaotic, was now a nightmare. Many who purchased artwork were grateful to defer finalizing details until later in the cruise, but we had to fabricate a paper system to placate others, including the ship’s accountant. Ordinarily Denny and Jesse packed up the auction while Shawn and I closed sales, but tonight everyone was needed for maximum communication and minimum confusion. Hours slogged by, and eventually the dancers had to leave for their stage performance.
Thus it was extremely late when Shawn, Charles, and I finally slid the last work of art back into the locker. Shawn ceremoniously handed the keys to Charles, whose long, thin fingers gripped them. Charles intoned, “I don’t know about you, but I could use a sly drink.”
“Amen, brother!” Shawn bellowed.
“And you can have these Tums back.”
Sheepishly Shawn snatched back the scattered antacids that he had pulled from his pocket along with the keys. Charles smirked, but clearly understood.
We commandeered a large round table that looked comfortable upon the teak deck of the crew bar, but the effect was ruined by harsh lighting and its radian
t glare upon the lumpy white paint of the nearby bulkhead. The reflective tape on the numerous life jacket bins was blinding, and the lamps buzzing above also destroyed our view of the night sea. Charles indicated a preference for the smaller tables near the aft rail, under the stars and away from the bustle of the crew, but this was Shawn’s night.
“As I was saying,” Charles said, continuing the narration of his delays. He had been interrupted by a shop girl who felt the need for one last kiss on Shawn’s forehead. “Your Homeland Security leaves much to be desired. I was cleared by one group only to be detained by the next, neither of which communicated with the other. Had I chosen to run, I doubt any of those obese men could have caught me. Considering England is your one and only ally in your war with Iraq right now, I would think you would treat me a bit better!”
“Hey now,” Shawn rebutted. “I’m Canadian.”
“I jest,” Charles continued. “My wife, whom you will meet tomorrow, is Turkish. No doubt we were detained because of her. I certainly don’t blame you: Turks can be deceitful, tricky bastards.”
“Your wife is on-board with you?” I pressed excitedly. I could finally get to see the reality of my dreams for auctioneering with Bianca.
“Yes. She is sleeping. If she gets less than fourteen hours of beauty sleep a day, she is, well, a Turk. It’s all right, though, because as the Bard says, baby got back.”
“Huh,” I said in wonder. “All these years I had no idea that ‘the Bard’ was a reference to Sir Mix-A-Lot.”
“Shows what you know,” Charles mocked with his deep voice.
“Still sounds suitably English,” I replied with equal sarcasm. “Anyway, it’s a good thing she is in the cabin right now if you’re ripping on Turks.”
Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 5