Blown

by Mark Haskell Smith

  Farther out, past the break, the boat settled into a steady thrum. Neal tapped Pearson on the shoulder. “I’m prepared to offer you a substantial reward for your help today.”

  Pearson laughed. “That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” He turned to Piet. “Where would we be without the kindness of pinkies?”

  Neal looked at both men and, for the first time, wondered if they were in some kind of alliance.

  Piet handed Neal a pair of binoculars. “Keep an eye on the sailboat.”

  Seo-yun wished she’d listened to her dad and kept taking Tae Kwon Do classes. Then maybe she could let out a ferocious kihap and leap into a spinning, flying kick to the head of the guy with the speargun. Snap his neck and send him flying overboard. But she couldn’t do any of that; she’d stopped taking lessons when she was eight, preferring math and computer games to anything requiring human contact. She hardly remembered how to throw a punch. She decided that when she got back to the city, she’d enroll in self-defense classes. It would be good to learn some technique and get a little exercise, get out of the house more.

  Seo-yun liked being outside. She liked being out on the water. The air was fresh and clean, and the sun warmed her skin. Her body felt good. Her mind was alert. She felt alive. Best of all, her cell phone didn’t get any reception. Her hair whipped across her face and spray from a wave blew over her. Why did she work so hard to create a life spent entirely indoors? What had she been thinking?

  She looked off at the sailboat. It appeared to be getting closer. It wasn’t much of a chase, really. Bryan had nowhere to hide and they had the advantage of engine power. Still, sometimes his boat looked farther away than it was. It was hard to tell.

  What would she say when they caught him? Was she going to scold him? How could you betray your fiduciary duty? Tell him she had no choice but to write up a negative performance review in his personnel file? Or would she take him aside and tell him that she admired what he’d done: he’d taken a chance, he’d broken free. She kind of felt like giving him a high five.

  The idea of going back to New York—days spent in the office breathing filtered air and the toxic off-gassing of thousands of computer servers churning data, and nights in her austere apartment eating takeout with her fiancé—was too much. Returning to Wall Street and the life she had, just thinking about it, caused her throat to clench. And that’s when it occurred to her that she didn’t have to go back.

  Piet squinted off at the horizon.

  Neal pointed toward a sailboat out ahead of them. “I think that’s him.”

  It was hard to say; they weren’t close enough to make a positive ID. Piet tapped Neal’s arm. “Give me those for a second.” Neal handed him the binoculars. Piet tried to get a visual, but the powerboat was bouncing too much. Even looking for a few seconds caused his stomach to lurch.

  While they stood at the wheel, Neal leaned in and tried to whisper above the whine of the engines and the hiss of the hull cutting through the ocean. “What do you think? Can we take him?”

  Piet didn’t respond.

  “He’s got to reload it, right? He can only shoot one of us at a time.”

  Piet turned to Neal. “After he shoots you, I’ll jump him while he’s trying to reload. Is that your plan?”

  “That’s not what I had in mind.”

  Neal moved off to the side. Piet turned the powerboat a few degrees, trying to find an angle to intercept the sailboat. This kind of thing—the heroic gesture, the “Let’s kick their ass while they’re reloading”—this was what amateurs did. They watched a bunch of movies, thought they had the reflexes of a ninja and just needed the right moment to make their move. Of course when they did, the next thing they knew there’s a spear sticking out of their forehead. Cause of death: stupid Hollywood movies. Piet wished he could give Neal some advice: stay out of the way and let a professional deal with this. Not that Piet had any great ideas about how to disarm the guy. Sometimes the smartest thing to do was play it out. See where things went. It wasn’t heroic, but it was better than pulling a harpoon out of your neck. Nobody was going to get hurt until they found LeBlanc and the money. Then things would get interesting. Heroic action might need to be taken. Right now the best plan Piet could think of was to let Neal antagonize the guy until he fired his spear, and then that would be the right moment to do something. It would be even better if LeBlanc got skewered. Best would be if they all killed each other and he and Seo-yun could take the money and go away together.

  Piet sighed. He really was a romantic at heart.

  Pearson thought about Winslow Homer, J. M. W. Turner, and Hokusai. They were great painters of water. But so were Claude Monet and Emil Nolde. Their work was different in style and tone, but each of them understood something about how to see. They got it. Among contemporary painters, David Hockney was the master of the splash and ripple, no contest, and Pearson was a big fan of his work. But Hockney mostly painted swimming pools. The ocean was a whole different beast. It was a shame that so many paintings of seascapes were lame. It was always a glint of sunset and a touch of white on the cresting waves; there was never any depth, no appreciation for the power of the ocean. Pearson had a lot of practice painting seascapes, although most of them were cheesy sunsets with happy dolphins and splashing whale flukes. But he loved painting the ocean, it was a beautiful thing to do—technically challenging too, the way the sun refracted off the waves, the surface shifting and changing; that kind of light and movement was extremely hard to evoke in a two-dimensional oil painting.

  A painting by Gustave Caillebotte came to his mind. It wasn’t a seascape. It was called Les raboteurs de parquet and it was probably his favorite. It was perfect. He aspired to paint like that. Every detail was sublime: the light streaming through the window, the stripes of the wood, the way the muscles of the men scraping the floor revealed motion and energy, the bottle of wine by the fireplace, the way Caillebotte balanced the figures in the frame, the palette—it was a painting that fired on all cylinders. It was hanging in the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. He could go see it. He could go see all the art.

  Pearson watched the American lean close to the little person and whisper. He tightened his grip on the speargun. They were probably planning something, some attempt to overpower him. He expected it. He was ready. The job wasn’t done. He didn’t have the money yet. As Pablo Picasso famously said, “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” That was a good thing. He would need a lot of art, because it was about to get real dusty in his soul.

  Bryan watched the powerboat slowly closing the space between them. It was almost imperceptible yet relentless, like watching a swimming pool fill one drop at a time. Unless they ran out of fuel or their engines broke down, or some magic wind picked him up and carried him away, they were eventually going to catch him.

  And then what? Would they try to arrest him? He was in international waters now, and even if they had policemen with them, they had no jurisdiction. They would want to recover the money, but again, they had no legal recourse. There was always the very real possibility they would resort to piracy—keelhaul him, make him walk the plank, or just drag him back to George Town in handcuffs.

  Maybe he could cut a deal. Bryan started to think about his negotiating positions. He could give them all the cash and keep the boat. He still had over a million dollars in Cuffy’s bank account. It wouldn’t keep him financially secure forever, but it was more than most people in the world had and, with compound interest and a low-key lifestyle, he might be able to get by just fine. He’d start by demanding to keep the boat and $5 million and let them haggle him down. Then they could go home victorious. It was a win-win.

  Bryan was surprised that he didn’t feel panicked or scared or angry. What a strange sensation. The embezzlement had been a big idea, a bold plan that he’d managed to, until this new wrinkle, pull off. Knowing he’d done that gave him a sense of satisfaction that was hard to define. But then killing Leighton had ruined everything. It r
eally had.

  Neal didn’t know if they would ever close the gap between their powerboat and the white dot on the horizon, but eventually the sleek sailboat came into full view. Neal could see that LeBlanc had the wind at his back, attempting to outrun them. He checked the gas gauge on the powerboat and looked at Piet.

  “A quarter of a tank?”

  Piet shot him an irritated look. “I didn’t have time to fill up the tank.”

  “Do we have enough?”

  Piet shrugged. “If the wind picks up, we’ll run out of gas before we catch him.”

  The idea that they might be stuck in the ocean, out of gas and out of luck, and with LeBlanc so close, sent a surge of panic through Neal. “But then what? We’re just going to float around the ocean?”

  “Then we call the Joint Marine Unit to come rescue us.”

  Pearson seemed to have overheard them and moved toward Seo-yun. He stuck the speargun under her chin and looked at Piet. “We are not calling the police.”

  Neal scowled at Pearson. “Leave her alone.”

  Pearson smiled. Neal wanted to say something more, to make sure Pearson understood that he wouldn’t allow him to spear Seo-yun. He didn’t know why, but he felt like saying she was innocent or not a part of this, but that wasn’t true. She was a part of it. Still, he wanted to protect her somehow, even though he didn’t have to. Piet cut the motors and let the powerboat slosh in its wake. Pearson turned and glared at Piet. “What are you doing?”

  Piet stepped away from the wheel. “Not her.”

  “Or what? What’re you gonna do?”

  Piet and Pearson eyed each other, and Neal could tell that Piet was really trying to control his temper. The boat drifted, the engines idling. Neal heard waves smacking into the hull, violently rocking the boat from side to side. Behind Pearson, in the distance, he saw clouds moving overhead as the wind seemed to pick up. Neal wanted to say something, to intervene in some way. He locked eyes with Seo-yun, but it seemed that she was having an out-of-body experience.

  Piet repeated himself. “Not her.”

  Neal tried to back Piet up. “Be reasonable.”

  Pearson stared at Neal and then Piet. He seemed to be trying to make a decision. Finally he lowered the speargun and said, “Let’s go then.”

  Piet turned back to the wheel and opened up the throttle.

  Neal was impressed. It turned out that Piet was something of an expert powerboat pilot. The wind seemed to have died down, or perhaps LeBlanc didn’t know how to take full advantage of what wind there was. They slowly gained on him and then, almost shockingly, they pulled up alongside LeBlanc’s boat without the hulls even touching. Pearson was the first to make the jump into the sailboat, followed by Seo-yun, Piet, and then Neal. LeBlanc sat with his hand on the wheel and the wind blowing through his hair, seemingly enjoying the beautiful day at sea, amused at the arrival of what Neal decided might be the strangest posse in history. For some reason the Hall and Oates song “Sara Smile” was playing on the boat’s sound system. It surprised Neal, temporarily threw him off balance. Bart had been a huge Hall and Oates fan. There was no way LeBlanc could’ve known that. It was just serendipity.

  Neal looked at Seo-yun and said, “Bart loves this song.” But if she heard him, she didn’t respond. She was looking at LeBlanc.

  Piet turned to Neal and said, “Tie her off.”

  “What?”

  “Tie the fucking …” Piet pointed at the speedboat, but it had drifted about twenty feet from the sailboat, which was continuing along as if nothing had changed. He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Oh, for fuck’s sake …”

  Neal felt a flash of anger. “Why is that my job? I’m not a nautical person.”

  Piet glared at Neal and said something that sounded like “Bai chupa patin.”

  Neal didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound good and it felt like the final straw. He was about to lose his shit, about to throw a tantrum. He’d reached his limit—the stress of the chase, the night in jail, the weird sexual energy between Piet and Seo-yun, the artist with the speargun—it was all too much. Had Piet forgotten who was working for whom? He reminded himself to take a breath. Anger never helped and it wasn’t going to be helpful now. He needed to keep cool. Neal tried to reassure Piet. “I’ll expense the boat. Don’t worry.”

  Piet was about to respond when Pearson reminded them he was there by pointing the speargun at LeBlanc and saying, “Where’s the money?”

  LeBlanc smiled. “In the aft cabin.” He reached into his pocket and handed a key to Pearson. “There’s also some chilled Petit Chablis and a selection of gourmet cheeses in the fridge if you’re feeling hungry.” LeBlanc turned to Seo-yun and smiled. “Soy? Would you mind opening the wine?”

  Seo-yun nodded. “I could use a drink.”

  Neal sat down across from LeBlanc. Normally when he finally caught up to a scofflaw he’d feel a sense of satisfaction, of justice being served, karma ripening, scores settled, scales balanced, but looking at LeBlanc, he didn’t feel any of that. He just felt numb.

  LeBlanc smiled at Neal. “I had heard you were good at your job. Sorry we never met at the office.”

  Neal didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

  “Where did I mess up?”

  “A deleted text message.”

  LeBlanc grimaced, then laughed and shook his head. “Damn.”

  “And give her credit, she unraveled a couple of your trades.”

  LeBlanc sighed. “She’s good.”

  Neal couldn’t help himself; he said, “Looks like it’s game over.”

  LeBlanc looked at him. “I doubt the game is even in the second half.”

  Neal didn’t know what he was talking about. How could this guy sit there and act as though nothing was happening? Maybe he wouldn’t go to jail, but Neal was taking the money back. Although now that he thought about it, the guy with the speargun needed to be dealt with. That might prove to be a tricky negotiation. But then everyone has his price. He was confident that the artist wouldn’t want to be responsible for a massacre. If it cost the firm a million dollars, at least he would have recovered most of it. He might not be able to bring LeBlanc to justice, but the CEO would be happy enough that he didn’t get away with it.

  Seo-yun came back with the bottle and some glasses. She poured the wine. “Nice boat.”

  LeBlanc took a glass. “Not as fast as I’d hoped.”

  Piet stood there, staring at them. LeBlanc turned to Piet. “And who are you?”

  Piet didn’t respond, so Seo-yun said, “His name is Piet. He’s a private dick.”

  LeBlanc said, “Of course he is.” Then he raised his glass. “To Wall Street.”

  Neal tasted the wine. It was cool and refreshing with a hint of melon and citrus. He gave LeBlanc a knowing smile. “Nice minerality.” Seo-yun and LeBlanc exchanged a glance. Neal shrugged. “I learned that in a class.”

  Seo-yun tasted her wine and looked around. “I could get used to this.”

  They sat there for a moment, enjoying the wind and the sun, the fresh air, the sound of the boat cutting through the water. It was nice, like being on vacation. Neal realized that he needed some time off. He was going to put in for some vacation as soon as he got back to the office.

  “Where’s the guy with the speargun?” Seo-yun asked Piet.

  “He’s counting the money.”

  LeBlanc drained his glass and said, “And trying to decide how many of us he has to kill to keep it.”

  Neal stood. “I’m going to see what he’s up to.”

  Neal found Pearson in the aft cabin, lying on the floor in a pile of money, muttering names of famous painters. Neal recognized a few of the artists Pearson invoked—Monet and Manet, obviously, but also Bonnard, Morisot, and Biva—then came the names he didn’t recognize.

  “Are you going to start collecting art?”

  Pearson laughed. “This time next year I’ll be in a bistrot on Saint-Germain drinking wi
ne with my French girlfriend.”

  “You have a French girlfriend?”

  “I will. A beautiful woman with a nice handbag and clean hair. One who wears stripes all the time.”

  Neal didn’t know what that meant. “Stripes?”

  “Horizontal stripes are very French.”

  “I’ve been to Paris and I don’t remember seeing people wearing a lot of stripes.”

  Pearson’s smile faded. “Their flag has stripes.”

  Neal realized that he was annoying the artist, that this was not going to push the conversation where it needed to be pushed. “You’re right. That’s absolutely true.”

  Pearson picked up a handful of cash and tossed it in the air.

  Neal smiled. “Okay. Well, tell you what. Let’s turn this boat around, go back to George Town, and I’ll let you walk with two of these bags, no questions asked.”

  “I count ten bags.”

  “Right. But that money belongs to the bank. If you take it all, you’re stealing. If I give you some, you earned it.”

  “That’s not your bank’s money anymore. If I’m stealing, I’m stealing from a stealer.”

  Neal held up his hands. “Three bags. You can live for years in Paris on that. But that’s the best I can do.”

  Pearson let loose a full-throated guffaw and then punched Neal in the stomach with so much force that Neal just folded in on himself, crumpling to the floor as if his bones had been knocked out of his body. Pearson stood over Neal and shook his head. “Three bags.”