Ocean Burning

by Henry Carver

  “That I’d been killed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nothing nearly that dramatic. The police pulled me over in downtown Guadalajara. I didn’t have a passport, so they wanted money. I didn’t have any, so they put me in lockup.”

  “And then?”

  “And that’s it. I sat there in lockup. I’m sure they thought I was just another tourist whose husband would come running in with a fat wallet. I couldn’t call you—you never had a phone.” She wiped away some of the tears herself, started to laugh. “Probably still don’t.”

  I grinned and nodded.

  “Eventually I got my brother in LA to wire them some money, and they cut me loose. But that was four, maybe five days after they picked me up. And you were gone.” She looked at me, long and hard.

  I detected something like reproach in her glance, as though I’d abandoned her. Something caught in my throat.

  ”Long gone, Frank,” she said.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I said. “Two days after you disappeared, the Federales kicked down my door.”

  She sat up straight, reached out and grabbed my hand again. “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone tipped them off about the engraving plates. Not that Mexicans particularly care about someone counterfeiting American dollars, but who turns down a softball? They knew exactly where everything was. Miguel and I got interrogated together, then separately, for days on end. For awhile there I thought they were going to forget the investigation. Just forget about us, lock us up and throw away the key.”

  She leaned in across the table. “Who tipped them off?” she whispered.

  I liked that she didn’t skirt around the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Her face was open, her red red mouth a little “O” of surprise and worry.

  “Miguel was pretty sure you did,” I said, and sat back and waited.

  For a minute she said nothing, didn’t react at all. Then her face blended into confusion, then contorted into rage. She closed one hand into a fist and brought it down on the tabletop, rattling the silverware together. Everyone looked at us.

  “He said what?” she said, her voice much too loud.

  I put both hands out, palms down, and lowered them, signaling for her to lower her voice.

  “He said what?” she repeated, in a hoarse whisper that sounded like a growl.

  “He said that you did it, turned us in for the reward. Said that you were the one that introduced us, after all.”

  “And you believe him?”

  I studied her face, and went with my gut. It never let me down, and right now is was telling me Carmen was telling the truth. Either that or she was giving an Oscar caliber performance.

  “No,” I said, and she let out the breath she had been holding. “No, I don’t believe him.”

  “You really don’t?” she sighed.

  “No. You were always a terrible liar, Carmen. Remember my surprise party?” We both laughed. “Besides, Miguel was somehow walking around downtown by the third night after the raid, and someone shot him. They called it a robbery,” I paused, “but it seemed too much of a coincidence. The thing about cutting a deal with the Federales is that they never keep their word.”

  “And what about you?” she asked.

  “Me? I’m still sending an envelope of cash to a police lieutenant every month. I probably will be as long as I want to stay in Mexico.”

  “And you bought the boat?”

  “With everything I had left. They had me close enough to the prison that I could smell it, and that was enough for me. I mean, it was the building next to the station—I could actually smell the place, Carmen. Talk about a deterrent. I haven’t even dreamed about easy money since then.”

  She seemed to imagine me locked up in there, and her smile collapsed. “It was my fault,” she said, and another tear rolled down her cheek.

  I felt my face soften. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “No, really. If I had never met Miguel, if I had never let him convince me how simple the whole plan would be to pull off, if I had never even told you about it…we would still be together.”

  The two-step in my chest turned into a tango. “We can be together,” I said.

  “Frank…”

  “Frank Conway!” The high-pitched voice pierced the air behind me. I turned reluctantly, and regretted it immediately.

  Maria stood behind me, dressed to the nines, her filmy dress perfectly white and contrasting against her nut brown skin. Her hair was up, her lips had been rouged.

  “Franky, Franky, Franky,” she said, and patted the side of my face. An empty wine glass hung loosely in one hand. I doubted it had been her first. “Como esta? How’s the date going?”

  “It’s not a date,” I said.

  “Hey lady, remember me?” Maria asked.

  “Of course,” Carmen said, “From the marina office. Maria, right?”

  “Not just the marina office, ba-by.” She stretched the word out in her mouth, a mockery of the American pronunciation. “Me and Frank, we used to date.”

  “Maria, please—”

  “But then he left. Stopped coming by. Wouldn’t even look at me. Isn’t that right, Frank?”

  I stared at her, tried to wish her away. “Sometimes things just don’t work out,” I said lamely.

  “Love ’em and leave ’em. Is that it?” Her smile morphed into something ugly. She hurled the wine glass at my head. I saw it coming, froze, ducked just in time. It whistled by my ear and shattered on the tile floor behind me.

  A man in suit and tie came up behind her, grabbed her by the arm. She didn’t fight him. “That’s what he does, girl. Love ’em and leave ’em. You be careful.” Carmen just nodded, and the man started to lead Maria away. “She’s muy bonita, Frank. And she has a thing for you. I can tell by the way she was asking after you at the office.”

  And then Maria was gone, led through some back entrance. People had been staring again, but one by one they returned to their meals, and the silence of the place filled up again with the murmur of other conversations.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “She’s right, you know,” Carmen said. “I got out of that jail, and you were just gone. Did you even look for me?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “But I’m the one who found you.” She stared at me.

  “Five years later,” I said. “How did you find me anyway?”

  “I looked, Frank.” She played with her napkin, and I could hear her foot jogging under the table like it always had when she was angry.

  “Hey, come on now. What do you say we get out of here.” I reached out, covered her hand in mine. “Just like old times.”

  She looked up at me, melted me again with those green eyes, and I could see the wheels spinning in her head. In another minute I would have her. I could feel it in my bones.

  “What about Ben?” Her hair glowed in the candlelight.

  “What about me?” I said.

  I looked up just in time to see Ben Hawking walking past the maitre d’s podium, not a hair out of place. He hooked around the other tables, spotted us, walked over and plopped down in our table’s empty seat.

  He clapped me on the back. “How you doing, Frank?” His other hand extended, and we shook again. I wondered if I would have to shake his hand every time I laid eyes on him.

  “We were just wondering where you were,” Carmen said.

  “Oh, just browsing the shops. I’m not late, am I?”

  “No,” I said quickly, “we were both early.”

  A bow-tied waiter materialized and took drink orders. Ben had a beer, Carmen a glass of red wine. I ordered the glass of whiskey I’d promised myself I wouldn’t drink.

  “So, how do you two know each other again?” Ben asked.

  “We met down here, in Mexico. I’ve been living here for awhile,” I said.

  “You know how it is, dear,” Carmen hooked her arm through his, “Americans down here always seem to find each
other.”

  “That’s true,” Ben said, and laughed. He seemed totally at ease, totally unaware of my history with his fiancee. I felt sorry for him.

  “What about you two?” I asked.

  “We met in Nevada,” he said.

  “Nevada?”

  “Yeah, I’m in banking up there, and Carmen was the assistant of the guy in the next office, if you can believe it.” He grinned.

  “You’re right, I can’t believe it,” I said. “Carmen, in an office job?”

  “She was very well qualified. And I guess it was love at first sight.” He elbowed me in the ribs. “It’s been the best six months of my life.”

  I made myself smile at him. “And now you’re here.”

  “Sure didn’t plan to be. The bank I work for owns Banco United. Every hear of it?”

  I nodded. “They have a building right near here. The tallest building in downtown, if I remember right.”

  “That’s right,” Ben said. “Upstairs in the commercial banking division, they had some trouble with figures adding up. There’s some money missing. When home office figured out I was down here on vacation and very close by, they asked me to manage the response.”

  “Ben,” Carmen said, “enough work talk. It’s boring.”

  Just then the waiter reappeared and took dinner orders. I put in for the Mahi Mahi after all, though I wasn’t planning on paying for it. After the waiter left, I said, “Pretty exciting stuff. A robbery.”

  “No, no,” Ben said, “nothing like that. Just a paperwork snafu, I’m sure. Carmen’s right, it can be pretty dry stuff.”

  “Wait, can I hear you say that again?” Carmen asked.

  “What, the part about work stuff being dry?”

  “No, the part where you said I’m right!” she said. The way she said it made it clear it was some kind of inside joke between them. They both laughed. She clutched at his arm, and he fed her a bit of the carne asada the waiter had brought him.

  I felt like I might throw up.

  “So, Frank,” he said, turning back to me, “tell me about the cruise we’re about to take. Is it true that there are pirates out there?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Carmen said, “it’s the twentieth century.”

  “No, he’s right.” I nodded. “It’s rare, and they aren’t out there on sailing ships, but there will always be people who will try and take what they want by force.”

  I stared right at Carmen as I delivered that last line.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Ben said, and we clinked glasses. “Excuse me for a second, I have to use the restroom.” He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the napkin, folded it neatly next to his plate, and headed for the back.

  I waited a few seconds, let him get out of earshot. “Why are you with this guy?”

  “He’s sweet,” she said.

  “He’s rich,” I said.

  “And you’re not sweet, Frank. You can be a real asshole.”

  “I’m poor. That’s what you really mean, right?”

  “It certainly doesn’t help.” She turned her nose up at me. “I think this was a mistake.”

  “Let’s get out of here, Carmen.” I reached out, touched her hand. She didn’t pull away. “Let him come out of the bathroom and find nothing but the bill. A guy like that, it won’t be the first time.”

  “Forget it,” she said. Then: “I’m in love with him.”

  “Shove off.”

  “I mean it. We’ve got something.”

  “And you and I didn’t?” I stood up, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I said forget about it. Let go of my arm.”

  “Come on,” I said, and started to pull.

  “Let go. Let go!” She hauled off and slapped me across the face, hard. It stung. More than that, it hurt. One tooth in particular started to throb, and my tongue felt like it might have a scratch. I’d forgotten how hard she could hit. Quickly, she sat down again.

  I stood there for a second. The moment was gone, and I knew it. Walking out the door this very second—that was the only thing to do. Those green eyes of hers went wet with tears and started to shimmer. She touched them with the corner of her napkin.

  My gut clenched. I forced myself back down into the padded restaurant chair.

  Ben emerged from the bathroom just a few seconds later, strode over to the table—the man was actually whistling—and looked me up and down, then peered at me more closely. “I think you might be allergic to Mahi Mahi.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I hate to say it,” he said, “but there’s something wrong with your face.”

  I almost decked him then and there.

  The rest of the dinner was a blur. I ignored the check until Ben picked it up, walked with them to the door, agreed that we would see each other at the slip the next morning. I didn’t expect them to show up.

  I’d like to say the loss of Carmen was the only thing on my mind, but her boyfriend’s wallet was right up there too. Visions of canned tuna were dancing around in my head again. It may sound unromantic, but then again, it’s hard be to romantic and hungry all at the same time. As the saying goes, the world is only three square meals away from anarchy.

  I unlocked the bike, steadied myself astride it, pointed it towards the marina. The cold air blowing into my face helped me focus, and, lost in thought, I was home before I knew it.

  The bike locked clicked easily into place, the concrete of the marina smooth and silent beneath my stumbling feet. A fresh breeze kicked up off the brine, and I paused in front of my boat, closed my eyes, let it take me for awhile.

  Then I climbed up onto the second level deck, found the bottle of whiskey, and started drinking.

  Chapter 4

  MY EYES BURROWED in on themselves. First light crested the treetops behind the marina as I lay sprawled in my canvas deck chair. I tried to curl into a ball, to hide from the coming day, and sent an empty liquor bottle tumbling off my chest. It rolled and bounced across the deck.

  I levered myself up, walked calmly to the rail, and vomited into the Pacific.

  The morning salute accomplished, I made my way shakily down the ladder and then down the stairs to the galley. Debated going totally sober; decided it would be madness on a morning like this. Made coffee, spiked it, drank it down like a man dying of dehydration. Indeed, I may have been well on my way. I chased the coffee with three glasses of water back to back to back. Water had never tasted so good.

  I walked down to the office, slunk under the windows on the off-chance Maria was in there, and took another shower. Back at the Purple, I cleared the junk out of the guest stateroom, made the bed with fresh linen, fluffed the pillows.

  My plan had been to eat something, but I discarded the idea as quickly as it came. The thought of canned tuna made me queasy.

  Instead, I climbed up onto deck and let the sun beat on me. Maybe I could sweat it out. I lit a cigarette, sucked on it, held my breath. My eyes locked onto the shoreline, and I watched.

  Waited.

  They wouldn’t show. I knew it in my bones.

  Five minutes later than planned, two figures carrying bags trekked down the concrete walkway towards me, riding out of the morning sun.

  I couldn’t believe it. One hand raised to shield my eyes, but I couldn’t make out any detail. The two figures oscillated wildly as the light diffused through the heat radiating up from the ground between us.

  Just my luck.

  Quick as I could, I made my way down to the main deck, took once last glance around for embarrassing debris, and vaulted over the gangway in a manly fashion.

  I still had my pride, after all.

  Carmen approached the Regal Purple, gave it once-over, snorted. She chucked her bag at me, and it caught me full in the chest. I took a step back, recovered, made like it hadn’t felt like a sack of lead weight launched from a catapult. I tossed the bag over the railing onto the bow, and watched Carmen cli
mb up and over and onto the boat. She never even looked at me, never said a word.

  I had forgotten Ben again, and turned back to him.

  He dropped his bag on the edge of the slip, clapped me on the shoulder, extended his hand.

  We shook. Again.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Hmm?”

  “About Carmen. She’s being a real—” he trailed off here, looked furtively side to side, “—a real pain,” he finished in a whisper.

  “Yeah,” I said. “No worries. I knew her—remember?”

  “Ha,” he clapped me on the shoulder again, climbed aboard.

  I watched him go, then noticed the long black duffel bag still sitting in front of me. The lady’s bag I didn’t mind, but this? I bent over and started groaning the moment I inverted my head. Through some heroic triumph of the will, I hoisted the thing and managed to give it a shove over the railing, then lugged myself over as well.

  “How about a tour?” Ben asked. Carmen seemed to have disappeared.

  “Sure,” I said, and ran him through all the best parts of my boat. We strolled through the living room that occupied most of the main deck. The floor was covered in industrial carpet, but it was nice enough. Ben tried out both the couch and the overstuffed chair, proclaiming each worthy. I pointed out the only real door up here, on the forward side of the room, that lead to the electrical closet, and asked him to steer clear. Larger than average portholes ran down both sides, bathing the room in natural light.

  “Downstairs,” I said, pointing, “is the galley, my stateroom, the two guest rooms, and room for supplies. You can see that when you carry your bag down.”

  Ben looked at me, listening intently, guileless.

  “Be careful moving along the sides of the boat. When you want to get from bow to stern, keep to the starboard side. You can squeeze by over on the port side, but most of the walkway over there is taken up by inflatable life raft.”

  “Expecting trouble?”

  “Always,” I said. “Besides, it’s regulation. Costs an arms and leg to make sure it’s charged, though. Hit the big button in an emergency and it’ll blow itself up.”

  “The big button?”