The Methuselah Gene

by Jonathan Lowe

  Luckily, he hadn’t noticed me, or identified me. I was just another tourist waiting for the wife and kids. But my view of him was enough to bring me up to one hundred percent on the certainty scale about his identity.

  Frank Fisher, Tactar Pharmaceutical’s head of security:

  Hi, Frank.

  Bye, Frank.

  34

  “Buy you a drink?”

  The wiry man turned toward me at the restaurant’s bar, but held no recognition of me in his eyes. Of course I had a cap on now, purchased together with a twenty exposure Insty-Pic throwaway camera that made an interesting bulge in my pants pocket. I kept my bandaged hand out of sight, and gave Fisher’s friend my best Michael Keaton impression. He had a bit of a hair lip, partly covered by a thin mustache. His voice was nicotine guttural, his tone dismissive and not a bit suspicious. “It’s early fer that, don’t ya think?” he said, as though talking to the little voice in his head.

  “Not by much,” I said, and tapped my watch. “Just in time, I’d say.”

  Time, I thought. There was that four letter word again.

  I had no idea who he was. With little training and no makeup required, I decided he’d make a good character actor. The fiftyish world-weary villain, a man who knew too much and wasn’t talking, even when he realized he was living in a personal hell of his own creation, on borrowed time. It’s a dirty job, but . . .

  “How about a coffee, then,” I said, nodding toward the harbor, “long as it doesn’t taste like the bilge leaking outta that thing.”

  He stared at me more closely. I chuckled as I tilted my cap down a bit, just in case. “Ya goin’ on the Seven Seas?” he asked, and with a stern expression indicating he hoped the answer was no.

  I looked toward the big window beyond where the monsters were parked. One, two, three, four. And now I knew for sure which was his. “No,” I told him. “Mine’s the SS Norway. I’m Roger. Roger Corman.” B-Grade movie director? “I won this trip in a raffle, but couldn’t convince Nancy, my secretary, to go with me. She knows my taste in women.” I laughed and held out my good hand, which he only stared at. “And your name is . . .”

  “Frank. Frank Muller.”

  Ah, yes. Deceased audio book narrator . . . and with a nasally guttural voice? Not likely, pal. I smiled and snatched his hand, which felt like a dead mackerel. “Listen, Frank, I was wondering—”

  “Forget it,” he said, and suddenly pulled away.

  I was now looking at the back of his head. He proceeded to blow smoke rings toward the window. All four Titanic class passenger ships were still moored out there along the docks, due to the emergency docking of the cargo ship, which was taking on water. The freighter, assisted by two tugs, was being pumped out by a third, and from the hose that snaked up one side of the ship arched a geyser of water opposite her large enough to fill a swimming pool in two minutes.

  ‘Frank’ looked at his watch, and I looked at mine . . . and also at his camera case. He clutched the strap of the thing tightly, as though his left hand had seized and permanently frozen into a fist. I made a fist too, and thought about splaying Jeffers’ teeth. I ordered a coffee for both of us, but Frank ignored it. He was content being lost in thought, staring out that window and puffing at his cigarette. When I became desperate enough to use the restroom, I spoke to him casually in passing.

  “Listen, Frank,” I said, “Mister Fisher, he needs you to relax a bit more on this. Okay, Frank?” I emphasized the final Frank, and added a chuckle to my Goodfellas accent. Then I went into the restroom and waited.

  When the door finally opened, I was standing behind it. I was in my stocking feet by then. My shoes were in the stall, in front of the toilet, which I’d just flushed. ‘Frank’ didn’t see the elbow coming. I caught him right in the face with it, then used his backward momentum to propel him into the wall. He doubled up and wheezed like a defective accordion, then slipped to his knees. It was all very lucky for me, because I wouldn’t have had much of a chance with my wounded hand. But of course I had surprise on my side, and motivation from my other recent experiences.

  I locked the door, then ripped away his camera case. For good measure, I took his wallet too. I didn’t feel a gun anywhere, but found the prize—his cruise ticket, complete with boarding pass. In his camera case I found a camera. But beneath the camera, wrapped in gauze, I found something else.

  An ice pick?

  No, it was more like a syringe. The kind used on cattle or horses. It had a plunger, and the tip appeared to be hollow. I depressed the plunger a bit, and a tear of liquid appeared at the sharp end. Deciding to test it once more, I knelt beside my new buddy and put the tip to his throat. Having ratcheted his arm up behind his back, I checked his wallet, then said his real name aloud.

  “Walter Mills,” I read, trying to hold my surprise in check, “we meet at last.” I thought about taking out my flash camera and snapping his photo, but decided against it.

  His nose bled profusely. He blubbered at me, blood running between his teeth. “Who are you?”

  “CIA,” I told him.

  “Like bloody shit. Lemme see some ID.”

  “Okay,” I confessed. “Have it your way. I’m FBI. What are you?”

  He tried to look at me again, but I pressed the ice pick harder into his neck. Any more pressure, and his skin would puncture.

  “Who tipped ya about me?” he demanded.

  “Doesn’t matter, Walter. What matters is that I know who you are now. And so will my colleagues, sooner than you can say M-Telomerase.” I studied him, not letting my own confusion show while a theory was beginning to jell inside the jelly of my own brain. “What are you doing here anyway, Walter? You a hit man? Planning on icing someone with this pick?”

  I waited the bluff out, although there wasn’t much time.

  “You got all the answers,” Walter told me, “so why ya asking me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, “maybe because I’ve heard your name before. Someone else was using it.”

  “What the hell ya talkin’ about?”

  “I think you know, because if you don’t, it means Frank didn’t tell you the whole story, and they’re using you, Walter.” Just like they used me.

  “Screw you,” Walter said.

  “Have it your way. But if I were you, I’d get as far away from this as you can. And change your name, too.”

  I took off his belt, and tied his hands. Then I used my own belt to tie his belt to the stall. It was difficult, but I managed to pull it nice and tight, getting some white into his wrists as he spat.

  “We’ll meet again someday,” he vowed, matter-of-factly, as I made my way out.

  “Sure we will,” I replied, already feeling a giddy sense of anticipation.

  I slapped Walter’s wallet onto the bar in passing. The barkeep looked up. “Drinks for everyone,” I announced, “on the unsuccessful mugger in the bathroom.”

  Checking my new ticket outside, I walked with purposeful step toward the docks. I knew Walter wouldn’t be icing me anytime soon, whoever I was. Maybe he’d be too afraid to attempt completing his sanction now, too. Or even in telling Frank about it, just yet. I hoped so, anyway.

  The SS Seven Seas was a big ship, a floating city tethered at berth, eagerly awaiting departure. Walter’s luggage consisted of one large suitcase, directed to Cabin 55. The freighter cleared, I watched from the Lido deck as we finally pulled away. Once out to sea, still no one showed at Cabin 55—not Walter, not the purser, not the police. So I went up the hallway, let myself in, and then stretched out on the bed. It felt wonderful, almost unreal, until I opened my eyes and saw my reflected profile in the mirror above me. Then it was a stranger that seemed to stare back at me. As much a stranger as the image of a playboy might have been, or even a Hoover salesman on vacation. Older by ten years, this guy was, and as though he’d just returned from a protracted Mideast conflict only to become the victim of a train derailment.

  I decided to take a long h
ot shower, then I opened Walter’s suitcase. It contained clothes, mostly. Several festive pullover shirts still had their JC Penney price tags on them, from a Miami store. There was no incriminating evidence to link Walter to anything later, except for his syringe, which would no doubt have gone overboard, perhaps along with Jeffers’ body. And that bothered me. Why kill Jeffers? I wondered. Was Frank Fisher alone behind it, having been double-crossed like Kevin Connolly? Or was the ice pick for someone else? Either way, cruise ships made murder far too convenient. They didn’t have the security that planes did, either.

  Carson Jeffers, Tactar’s now infamous V.P., is rumored to have panicked as the FBI closed in, and so took an overdose of barbiturates before jumping overboard . . .

  A quiet murder at sea would not be Jeffers’ fate, I vowed. A quick end was too good for him, considering. He needed to be dragged through the media’s muck before being thrown in prison with the kind of men who would do real damage to his sense of self-importance. And I meant to send him there with a broken face.

  There was no TV in Cabin 55. Not even a radio. Economy class, perhaps. The cabin seemed small, but it did have a mini-bar fridge. I broke the seal on it, and gazed at the liquors inside. A cocktail in celebration for making it this far? Whiskey Sour? Screwdriver? I decided on both, but not in celebration. It was for the pain that had returned to my hand and thigh. I drank three mini bottles, although it was a poor substitute for the Dilaudid, now gone. Real celebration would not come for me until a resolution did, when Julie and I had a safe place to call home. And it didn’t matter to me if that home was in Nevada, Australia, or Easter Island anymore, with or without the help of the Witness Protection Program.

  I found a brochure in a dresser drawer that detailed the condos for sale on board. It described the SS Seven Seas as a 71,000 ton 780 foot luxury liner, which represented a new trend for the affluent. Buy a home from one thousand to three thousand square feet that sails the world, complete with full kitchen, one to three bedrooms, private whirlpool, terrace, and all the amenities, bells and whistles, for one and a half to five million dollars. There were over a hundred such suites available, in addition to the regular rooms, separated onto two private decks, A and D, with special catering, medical staff, and laundry service. Also a health spa, jogging track, putting green, helicopter pad, a massage therapy and beauty salon, pools, an office center, and even a pharmacy where all the prescription drugs and vitamin supplements people wanted were available in all sizes and potencies. Pills to pop to feel good, or at least better. Need a licensed stockbroker? No problem. There was an art gallery too, and a theater and lecture hall. Plus a library, a gourmet wine shop, and a nightclub. As a final touch, for those who wanted it all, there had even been a faux rock climbing wall constructed and attached to the rear smoke stack. And unlike any non-resident ship sailed by other cruise lines, like Carnival, Norwegian, Princess, Royal, or Celebrity, the itinerary included stops in Nassau, at the Cannes Film Festival, the Grand Prix in Monaco, and the Carnival in Rio.

  For further information, the brochure advised, simply contact on-board sales representative Ray Strickland.

  35

  Restaurant chatter is particularly festive on a cruise ship, I soon discovered, although I felt even more distant from it than usual here in the Jupiter room on the Promenade deck. A sustained high decibel level to the surrounding banter allowed me to selectively tune my ear much like a radio telescope dish does to background radiation emanating from all points of deep space. Turning my head slowly and focusing on the signals, then, I soon identified and deciphered many snippets of supposedly intelligent communication between the life forms out there huddled around their saucer shaped tables. What came to me included mumblings about Intel, imported beer, the Tour De France, senior pro golf, whale sightings, interior decorating for the colorblind, Leonardo as a name choice for a non Italian baby, premature liver spots, and the concept of Time itself.

  There was that cursed word again. How much of it did I have left?

  Unhappily, I didn’t know, and as I ate my Fettuccini Alfredo with roasted mushrooms, and sipped my lime flavored sparkling water, I heard or saw no sign of Carson Jeffers amid the many other mysteries of the universe. Even when my dinner guest finally joined me, and I was forced to contemplate a honey glazed hazelnut sherbet, I still hadn’t made any rational connections, and was becoming increasingly agitated. Because there remained several urgent phone calls I had to make before time ran out, and I needed to have something to say for myself when I called.

  Ray Strickland had something to say, for sure. His clarity and motivation was not in question, at least. He even made sense, at least if I was who I claimed to be and not an amateur sleuth on a quest for the Holy Grail of absolution and justice. When his spiel was finished, I tried to ease into my questions as nonchalantly as one-armed man utilizing a can opener.

  “So you’re saying I’d have complete privacy if I wished, with room service and catering. A special passkey is required, too?”

  A light came on in Strickland’s eyes, like a reflection from the light he saw—or thought he saw—at the end of the tunnel. I remembered seeing the light when I bought my last lemon several years previously. Used car salesmen or upscale real estate salesmen, it made no difference. When they anticipated The Close, they moved toward it inexorably. But I wouldn’t be walking into the light this time.

  “Electronic key,” he corrected me. “The code is changed monthly. And you can change your suite code as often as you wish.”

  He practically beamed at me.

  “So can I examine rooms on both decks?” I asked.

  Ray blinked. Had he heard this request before, recently? The lines in his forehead perceptibly lengthened. Now he looked like a human being again, neurosis revealed—a fortyish man with graying temples who had finally been promoted out of the antiseptic fluorescent light of some office high-rise, determined to survive the high seas. “I’m afraid not,” he said, with studied empathy, “but we do have a model exactly like the suite you’re interested in.”

  I felt like Carson or Kevin might have felt, looking for a way into my Alexandria apartment. “How about if I talk to someone already living in a similar suite? Do you have a list?”

  “A list?” The lines in his forehead became chasms. “I’m afraid—”

  “Okay,” I conceded, interrupting. I gestured defeat with a shrug.

  “This is not the way to do it, sir,” he told me.

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “Our residents do not like to be disturbed.”

  “I understand.”

  “If it were you on the list, I’m sure you would not like your name given to some . . . to another prospect.”

  I yawned. “So the yearly maintenance fee is what, again?”

  He froze for a moment before answering politely. “Fifteen thousand.”

  “Sounds a bit steep, just for laundry and room service.”

  “It covers more than that, Mr. Mills. It really is quite reasonable, considering.”

  “Considering I just popped for two million? And considering food could be another twenty grand, to say nothing of drinks?” I chuckled.

  He gestured broadly with his right hand, confident of his logic. “Look where you are, sir. On a floating palace, with the whole world coming to you, and with the scenery from your terrace always changing.”

  “Mostly ocean, though. Makes me seasick just thinking about it.”

  He was genuinely surprised. “What?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Guess I’ve had enough changing scenery in the last few years. Think it’s time for me to settle down, and feel the earth under my feet. The wide open spaces, without so many people popping pills when they’re not popping or bopping each other.”

  The light died in his eyes, as if a switch had been clicked. He looked at my bandaged hand, then slumped a bit, put his elbow on the table, and finally shielded his face as if to hide shame.
/>   “Tell me something, though,” I asked.

  He looked up at me from between his fingers. As a newer recruit, he hadn’t seen this coming. He’d been so certain of victory that my reaction was a shocker and an embarrassment. Recovery took time, but I waited patiently. “Yes?” he said finally.

  “Have you got any retired mafia types hidden away on board here?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, like ex hit men. Maybe a mob boss who squealed and wants to hide out. Or maybe he just wants to give up the rackets and enjoy the good life in a place where there aren’t any drive-by shooters named Vinnie or Butch.”

  Ray Strickland at first seemed offended, then impatient. His final transformation took less than five seconds. “All our residents are legitimate, I assure you,” he announced with marginally disguised disdain.

  No ‘sir’ this time, I noted. And already Ray was looking around for some means of escape. I shoveled a spoon of sherbet into my mouth, nodding. “What about Carson Jeffers? Name ring a bell?”

  I watched him closely for some reaction. There was only a second involved in it, but it was enough. The Adam’s apple didn’t bob, the eyes didn’t freeze, and the jaw muscles didn’t clench. “Who?” he said, and then looked at his watch.

  “Never mind,” I told him, and hooked my thumb. “Some guy said he overheard that you had a guy on board hiding out from the law. That’s all.”