Thus was our introduction to the domino scene. Four men settled around the table and drew from the pile of dominoes. The first man began by laying a tile in the center of the table, and each man would place his answering domino with a violent slap. A crisscrossed network of dominoes grew with alarming rapidity, as each man seemed to know exactly what the next move would be before it happened. As the table filled to capacity, play slowed and sweat would bead on the brows of the players.
When O’Neil said, “I be flashin’ blood,” he had placed a tile that he anticipated could not be answered by the next man, in this case Kelvin. O’Neil would gesture with his tile as if he were dashing drops from it onto the spot that Kelvin could not fill. Then Kelvin would sheepishly admit, “I be wet.”
These men had mastered dominoes in a way I had not thought possible, and their over-the-top theatrics were a great joy to behold. How Kelvin could accurately count dominos, to the point where he knew what was left within one or two tiles, yet be unable to program his own synthesizer was beyond me.
“Kelvin,” I admitted in awe, “If you counted cards instead of dominoes you would surely be living on the top floor of Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. It’s ludicrous!”
“When I move, you move!” Charles suddenly blurted in tune.
Cheers resounded from the crowd at his words. Now it was my turn to knit brows in confusion. The Jamaicans watched me with amusement.
“Yeeeessss,” Charles boomed with the mock gravity of a professor. “You said ludicrous. Thus I quote the song from Ludacris. Surely a man as knowledgeable as you would know Ludacris? No? Jesus, Brian, stick to your damn science books. No wonder you can’t get laid.”
The Jamaicans bellowed with approval, forcing me to confess, “I be wet.”
2
Two weeks passed before we shaped the Jamaicans into a nominally functioning aspect of our operation. We could smell things improving, even if we had not yet tasted it: four G2 near-miss cruises in a row were technically failures all. The Widow Maker began sucking the soul from another auctioneer, but hope fluttered in the dark like a lone candle.
Yet Charles, too, was beginning to crack under the strain and began drinking heavily and complaining heartily. He ate almost nothing, making his already gaunt frame even more emaciated. Fortunately I had no indication of his sexual potency. Though he had boldly claimed an occasional half-day off upon arrival, only now did he actually take it.
Majesty of the Seas docked nearly twenty hours in Nassau, giving ample time for play. Some damn fine beaches were in the Bahamas, and we were damn happy to lay on one. Near the cruise ship port, on the aptly named Paradise Island, stretched a white sand beach of tropical fantasies everywhere. The taxi ride, however, was a nightmare. Charles tried to purge his frustrations entirely before reaching the beach. If this allowed us a few unmolested hours at play, great, but I feared that he would not stop bitching once he got started. So Charles griped and moaned all while in the taxi and also throughout the walk to the beach.
Rarely did a day pass without Charles expounding upon his disappointment with this assignment. He was always the vocal one, of course. He liked to pat himself on the back for having married a strong woman who spoke her mind, but actually cut her off every time she attempted to do so. Tatli reflected her culture by accepting this quietly, letting him blather on without seeming to take offense. Eventually she would make some amusing demonstration to indicate she was finished being his sounding board.
I was thoroughly interested in watching an auctioneering couple function, but worried about being intrusive. When stress swelled and tempers flashed, I was invariably nearby. Indeed, our three fates were so closely linked as to be family. Only when they seriously discussed quitting Sundance did I feel my presence was inappropriate. Yet each time I rose to leave, they insisted I remain.
A ribbon of spotless, fine sand undulated onward in both directions. Our rear flank was protected by thick palm forests, while before us stretched the aqua-green of a perfect sea. The water was simply amazing, with gyrating phantoms of sunlight spearing down all the way to the clean bottom.
With Charles still griping, we unloaded our beach bags of the essentials. For Tatli: designer sunglasses and imported tanning lotion. For me: a cigar and Civil War History magazine. For Charles: a little plastic baggy holding… something.
“What the hell is that?” I asked, trying to identify the damp clump inside the kitchen bag. “I swear I just saw it move.”
“Don’t ask,” Tatli answered with a roll of her eyes. Charles abruptly stripped naked right there on the crowded beach.
“Is that your swim suit?” I asked, astounded. “In a plastic baggy. Wet?”
“Yes,” he answered with his sepulchral baritone. He gave a wiggle and a hop, then lamely explained, “Not easy to put on wet clothes.”
“Isn’t that, like, really uncomfortable? And a little creepy? And can’t you hide behind a towel or a tree or something, for cryin’ out loud?”
“You get used to it,” he defended simply.
“I don’t know, man,” I said doubtfully. “Sounds like a bad horror movie. The Creature from the Wet Baggy. Tatli, if you are as freaked out as I am by that thing he’s wearing, I happily volunteer to put the sunscreen on your back. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Oh?” Charles retorted. “You aren’t afraid of The Bride of the Creature from the Wet Baggy?”
For the first time I saw that the skinny Englishman was painted with dozens of tattoos. On each breast was inked a matching image of some strange crossover between a seahorse and a scorpion. His navel was ringed with a tribal sun, and his upper arms were covered with numerous individual works, as well.
“Wow,” I breathed. “How many tattoos do you have?”
Charles chuckled. “I had forgotten about them, they are so old. I don’t know how many I have. Tatli, do you remember?”
She shook her head in the negative.
“And Tatli?” I inquired innocently, “Anything you would like to show me? Please?”
“I don’t think her bikini hides much,” Charles rebutted drily as he slid onto his beach towel beside her.
A welcome moment of silence settled over us as we regarded the surf. Waves thumped into the shore closer and closer to our feet with each successive effort. Foaming crests surged over the white sand. The humidity hugged us close, but our sweat seemed right at home under the hot tropical sun.
Tatli, caught up in the vibrant beauty, whispered, “What a magical and wonderful place.”
“I’ll take you to a magical and wonderful place, baby,” I quipped.
Tatli giggled, bringing a snort from Charles. “Must you hit on my wife, Brian?”
“Oh, I don’t have to,” I replied heartily. “I just prefer to.”
“As I was saying,” Charles continued griping with a huff, “That goddamn Hot Man....”
Charles began his bitching again, and Tatli gave me a profound look. I did not understand the meaning, but I would soon enough!
A strong Bahamian man approached along the surf. The hair on his upper body was tightly curled, like a spattering of freckles across his burly chest. Atop his head he toted a large, beat up box. He was all smiles as he scrunched over the sand towards us. In his hand was a dinner knife with the handle swathed in tape.
“Piña colada in a coconut?” he asked with a grin. His teeth were brilliant white and nearly perfect, had he not been missing one. “Ten dollars! Don’t like piña colada? Got rum punch, too!”
Abandoning Charles and his griping, Tatli approached the Bahamian. He swung the box from his head down onto the sand and squatted over it, as did Tatli. They conversed, but were too far away to be heard. As his expression changed, I sensed this was not a usual haggling. First he registered excitement at a sale, then surprise, then became desperate as a fish caught on the end of Tatli’s line.
He cracked a coconut for the drink by tapping it with the handle of his dinner knife, then expertly
popped the top off. He slid the dull blade along the lid to pull the coconut meat away cleanly. He held this morsel up to Tatli and, to our shock, fed it directly to her in a decidedly arousing manner. Charles raised an eyebrow.
The Bahamian held the coconut high as Tatli leaned back and opened her mouth wide. Luxuriously he poured the milk into her open, craving mouth. Clear liquid dribbled down her face and smooth neck to mingle with her sweat. The hot Bahamian beach just got much, much hotter.
Charles watched silently, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“After seeing that,” I asserted, “I am gonna flirt with her all day.”
A moment later Tatli slipped delicately over the sands with a piña colada in her hand and a devilish grin on her face. The Bahamian bounded along behind her with drinks for Charles and I. Needless to say, there was no erotic milk pouring ceremony for us.
Afterwards, the Bahamian returned to his box of supplies and looked down on it with a rueful shake of his head. Suddenly he leaned back and roared with laughter. A cluster of seagulls flapped off with a screech, and the crashing surf sang a duet with his guffaw. Satisfied, he hefted the box back onto his head and trudged on down the beach, hawking his stuff anew.
Quite self-satisfied, Tatli settled onto her towel between us.
“So,” Charles began, his baritone rising with amusement. “How much?”
“Three for one,” she answered with a deceptively innocent-sounding giggle. Tatli’s performance had the desired effect, and Charles quickly dropped all griping about money. I vowed that, from this point on, I would never again mistake Tatli for a Raphael angel.
The sun sank deep into our skin, and sweat crawled over our curves lovingly. Time surged like the waves; fear crashed over us, that we should be working, then calm came as a soothing drain back into the great expanse of the sea. Tatli was content to bake all day long, but after the growing waves forced us to retreat further up the beach, Charles and I opted for some water time.
We sloshed through the fabulous blue to where the swells rose above our heads. A mere twenty feet from the rioting edge of surf and sand, the waves broke over themselves at some eight feet high.
Though neither of us had body surfed before, the play came naturally. We worked away from the beach, swimming and splashing, until the swells and surge rushed towards the beach. We tried to position ourselves before the crest, which rocketed us towards the beach. It was an amazingly smooth ride, from swell to sand, and we both found ourselves preferring the messy, foam-choked ride on top of the crest. The water burbled and spit all about us as we were forcibly dumped onto the beach like so much flotsam.
Perhaps Freud would have something to say about my preference for the chaotic, tumultuous ride atop the wave rather than before it, and my joy at each violent smash into the sand. Again and again I rode and tumbled and smashed face-first into the beach. My skin blazed with the sandblasting, and salt stung every agitated inch. I loved it.
Eventually the waves grew unusually violent for the Bahamas, but we were already inured to the rough tumbling. Powerful waves forced an odd mixture of invisibly fine sand and water directly into my nose, and I could feel sand literally pouring through my nasal passages. I would stand up shakily and blow my nose, bringing a small handful of sand to my palm.
All told, Charles, Tatli and I spent five hours on the beach. If life is made of moments, this was one to cherish. Amazingly, the good time coasted even through the taxi ride back to the ship, even if Charles got naked again. The sand in his throat made his deep baritone exceptionally gravelly. He would have made the perfect narrator for a horror story. He dabbed his towel gingerly over a nasty scrape across his forearm and said, “Brian, did I mention that I talked to Gene yesterday?”
“The Gene?” I replied, surprised. “Isn’t that kind of a big deal?”
“Yes,” he agreed. In the back of the taxi he began awkwardly removing his bathing suit, despite the presence of me and the untold filth on the seats. Sharp elbows jabbed at both Tatli and I as he worked the cumbersome article off and stuffed it into his little plastic baggy.
“There!” he growled with pride as he zipped up the top. “Ready for next week.”
For a moment he sat naked in the dirty taxi, apparently having forgotten where he was or what he was doing. His untanned derrière glowed white and was caked with sand. Tatli fished through her beach bag in search of his shorts.
“Ah, yes: the phone call. Gene wanted to get a firsthand report of the difficulties on Majesty. I took the opportunity to give him a verbal review of you. He didn’t seem surprised at all when I told him how good you are. In fact, he said he had a good feeling about you all along.”
“Awesome! That’s the impression I got, but I’ve been fooled by less.”
“He said that your being promoted to associate was technically premature, even though Mary Elizabeth OK’d it. So he got it officially cleared by Frederick, still before the normal four unpaid weeks, I might add. Congrats. Doesn’t change anything, of course, but believe me, it’s a good thing any time Frederick hears your name.”
“Wow,” I mused. “I can still recall, ever since I was a little boy, what my father told me. He said, ‘Brian, someday you will be sitting in a filthy taxi in the Bahamas with a naked, wet Vincent Price. And he will offer you a promotion.’ But I never really believed it would happen.”
Charles raised an inquiring brow at my sarcasm, but before he could answer Tatli threw his shorts into his face.
3
That night I schmoozed at the Champagne Bar, my favorite aspect of work. After all, I could show off my well-tailored suit, drink martinis, and smoke cigars. What more could a man ask for, barring perhaps Angelina Jolie? Even better, my task was to talk about art appreciation with like-minded people. As an art auctioneer, that was surprisingly rare.
The bartender made a mean martini called the Yvette: equal parts Ketel One vodka and Gran Marnier with an orange slice. It was a heavy, aromatic drink; smooth but potent. And expensive. Alas, the price gouging of Majesty continued. I received no crew discount and had to pay twelve bucks for a Bahama Mama like everyone else. My sweet Yvette was even more, so I sipped slowly and lovingly.
The Champagne Bar was quiet, but was usually so. The vibe of the room catered to only truly formal occasions, which generally turned off all but the richest guests. Many were further dissuaded by the presence of numerous officers in starched white jackets and shiny accoutrements standing stiffly and speaking quietly with each other. I recognized Roosevelt Reddick among them.
Before lighting my Partagas Black Label cigar, I wandered over to join one of the few guests present. A man with a double chin was admiring our Picasso lithograph placed as bait. A spot light focused on the item to great effect, but he did not seem particularly impressed with the tornado-like scratching that cunningly depicted a minotaur standing over a naked woman.
“That is an original Picasso,” I said to the man wearing an unbuttoned brown blazer that fell to the sides of his ample belly. He frowned at the etching a moment longer, then shrugged.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “I like to look at art, but I don’t always get it.”
“Picasso is not easy stuff,” I agreed. “I spent years in college learning what was up. I’m Brian, the art auctioneer.”
He introduced himself as John and said, “I always stop by the displays. Sometimes I take pictures of what I like. I have some nice backgrounds for my computer that way.”
“That’s an interesting idea,” I said. “I never would have thought of that. Of course, the real thing is orders of magnitude better than anything else.”
While John reviewed the Picasso further, I noticed the group of officers had split. Only Chief Officer Reddick remained. From across the room he stared at me with ice-blue eyes.
“So,” John said lightly, with a shiver of chin. “On Majesty of the Seas, do you have any real art?”
“I daresay most people would define an original Pic
asso as real art.”
“No, no,” John said. His jowls wiggled gravely as he shook his head. “I mean by someone who can at least paint. This guy is no Michelangelo.”
“Oh, I quite agree. He’s much better.”
“How can you possibly say that?” John scoffed. “I’ve seen some of Picasso’s stuff. My eight-year-old granddaughter could do it!”
“You are of course referring to his later works,” I said, “Though you may not know it. Picasso would thank you for that because simplicity was his goal at the end. Picasso began as a traditional painter, you know. He could out-paint Michelangelo younger than I could legally drink a beer.
“Now, Michelangelo was amazing, to be sure. He mastered both sculpture and painting, from his perfect statue of David to the wondrous Sistine ceiling. He was also an architect, by the way.”
“Yes,” John said, nodding vigorously. “That’s what I’m talking about. A real master.”
“He was indeed, but he never achieved anything even close to what Picasso did. There is one simple, tangible reason why Picasso is the greatest artist who ever lived. He did something far beyond the wildest dreams of Michelangelo and Da Vinci.”
“And that is?”
Before I could answer, I was interrupted by Reddick’s frantically waving me over. I tried to gesture him off, but he was obviously impatient and adamant to speak with me immediately.
“Hold that thought, John,” I said. “The chief officer is calling for me. Would you please excuse me a moment?”
I left John hanging, and walked over to Reddick. As I approached, my internal alarm bells began to toll. Reddick launched into me even as I approached.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I am working.”
“You are drinking.”
“I am networking,” I explained. “This is a huge part of the art world. Buying art is as much about the dealer as the art, because provenance and reputation are paramount in large purchase decisions. This is where I establish a rapport with qualified buyers.”
Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 8