Off the Chart

by James W. Hall

  Either he was alive or else in the first few minutes of death some lagging senses still operated and allowed the freshly departed one final glimpse of the world’s harsh beauty.

  Thorn scanned his body. Felt the throbbing crack in his skull, worked lower through his neck and chest and torso, where the twin wounds from Vic’s fountain pen had begun to fester, then went guardedly down to his crotch to see if there was deadness there or the warm flow of blood, or any sign that Vic had completed his castration. But he felt nothing, and with a heave of relief, he sent his mind down each leg. Both of them were numb but with growing twinges of awareness, the creak and swell and bruised tenderness of kneecaps and shinbone and the other dozen parts that apparently had been well scuffed as he was locked inside that custom-fitted cage.

  Flexing his parts, he was surprised to discover there was give in the metal. Softer than steel. Tin perhaps. He could twist his foot to the side, wriggle it a half-inch against the bite of the bands, and feel some elastic movement. He tried his wrists, up and back, bringing sudden blood to his arm and waking a hundred needles that poked in unison into his flesh.

  Some of the men below him had started dinking pebbles at him. Bits of food. A rabble collecting, other men waking their brethren from slumber, gabbling at them and pointing up at Thorn. Oh, what fun. A man hanging from a tree in a metal suit. Still half-dark, a cloudy twilight, a hot storm building in the western sky. Pebbles struck his belly and his arms and one sharp stone drew a trickle of blood from his cheek. A couple of tall Hispanic men stood aloof at the back of the mob, watching carefully with the cold disdain of professionals.

  Small dark women joined the fray, flinging whatever they could grab in wild pitches that mostly missed. The high, wailing jibber of another continent, another race. Thorn was feeling oddly detached. Working his wrist against the supple restraints. Feeling the pressure on the arches of his feet and his crotch, a pinching at both his armpits. Tailored a bit too tight across the chest. That suit would need some letting out if he was going to wear it in polite gatherings. Which this gang assembling below him most definitely was not.

  He’d spotted a cabin off to one end of the encampment. Boards nailed across its windows and a couple across the door. A prison cell. And though he had no more than that to go on, it seemed ample evidence to assume that this was where Janey Sugarman had been stashed.

  Which gave new energy to his rocking movements, done in full view of the crowd below but no doubt mistaken for the flinching of panic. Thorn could feel the metal at his right wrist already on the verge of parting, so he began to work on a fresh band at the other wrist. Back and forth, trying to duplicate the motion exactly, making a crease and working it till the soft tin began to split.

  Changing his focus, Thorn peered at the two strips of metal that were only inches from his eyes and detected the silver puddles where the separate bands had been fused. The end of one band overlapping the end of another, the joints held together by a simple dot of solder, not welding at all. Like those plastic straps used to seal cardboard boxes. Impossible to break with a tug, but pry a fingernail under the juncture, they popped easily apart.

  What it looked like was that all Thorn had to do was work his hands free, then reach up and peel apart each and every seam. The soldering would have been sufficient if the frame held a corpse, but for a live man, a man brimming with fury, the gibbet wouldn’t last a day of serious testing. If he had a day. If he had an hour. He wasn’t sure. Hadn’t heard that part of the plan.

  Beyond that, the physics of his situation were sketchy. He was having trouble feeling how his weight was distributed, some on his lower parts, some on his crotch. It would seem like the helmet should be taking most of the stress, except that’s not how it felt. There were chains connecting the helmet directly to his lower parts, and when he jiggled the few inches he could manage, shifting slightly off-center, he felt the pressure mostly on his feet. Which was excellent. He sure as hell didn’t want to peel out of the suit only to find that he’d suddenly shifted his entire mass to the band around his throat.

  On the flight he’d had Marty on the run, milking him for the facts, but he hadn’t thought to question him about how they planned to extort the code from Anne. They’d hinted torture, but Thorn had been imagining a gun at his temple, and in his scenario Anne had immediately wilted. Without consciously realizing he was doing it, Thorn had pictured that moment as his best chance for escape. The split second when the gang of pirates turned to the computer and tried out the code and showed it off to the others, he’d make his break.

  But he hadn’t pictured the gibbet cage. Had underestimated Vic Joy’s devotion to the outrageous. Thorn’s mistake. He wouldn’t do it again. If there was an again. If there was an hour. Or ten minutes.

  He worked his wrists against the pliant tin and ducked and cringed as the hail of pebbles continued.

  The cigar was for show. Vic didn’t like the taste, but it gave him a certain gravity, which he felt he needed in this situation, so he lit up and took a puff or two, but after five minutes he dropped the stinking thing on the plank floor of the screened-in dining hall and stubbed it out with the heel of his boot. They’d only been at this for minutes, barely gotten past the howdy-dos, and already things had tightened up. Language barrier for starters, not to mention the culture gap.

  In all there were four of them, the leaders of the rabble hooting outside. Three Chinese guys who between them controlled hundreds of ships in the Far East. Two of the Chinese guys were so indistinguishable to Vic, it would’ve taken him a week with a microscope and color chart to tell them apart. The fourth man was a tall, slender, bearded Latino who resembled the ancient news photos of a young Fidel coming down from the hills in triumph. That was Ramon Bella, a Venezuelan who’d been buying most of the yachts and sailboats Vic had commandeered in the last few years. His phone pal till today.

  Ramon was businesslike, razor smart, and though this was the first time Vic had met the man in the flesh, he felt the beginnings of rapport. But the Chinese fucks were another story. Snippy little men who twittered incessantly to one another, then shook their heads at once like three toy monkeys on a stick.

  Side by side they sat in stiff-backed wooden chairs. One medium height, while the twins were barely five feet. Those two short ones wore dark pajama pants and white blousy shirts, and the third guy, the bigger one who spoke a few words of English, had on a dark blue jumpsuit like a paramedic.

  Ad lib time hadn’t gone well. Nobody talking. Vic doing all the adding and libbing, floundering around, trying to warm them up, get them to laugh, anything. Without planning it, he’d started telling them about the movie he was planning. A full-length feature film. Lots of action, derring-do, pirates as heroes, get the facts right for once. But they’d looked at him blankly, not saying a word, so he decided, fuck it, it was time to deliver the pitch.

  Vic stepped in front of them and looked at each up close—the Chinese guys stared back at him as coldly as three slit-eyed copperheads.

  He started his spiel with a little history, talking about Sir Francis Drake. A guy empowered by the queen of England herself to attack the Spanish Main. Vic reminding the Chinese guys how Drake had taken the Cacafuego near Cape San Francisco just north of the equator, not all that far from where they stood right now. A ship laden with gold and silver bars, silver coins, tons of bullion. The greatest pirate haul of all time. Drake went on to sack cities, plunder cathedrals, pillage and more pillage. Even got knighted for his efforts, retired to the English countryside. Maybe, just maybe, they’d get that lucky themselves, find a country that valued their hard work, rewarded them with that nation’s highest honor. He knew it was a little extreme, but it had happened once; why not again?

  The Chinese guys looked puzzled or bored, so he brought the speech to a close, saying that all Sir Francis Drake had done was nothing compared to what they were going to accomplish, with their concerted efforts, their joined forces, their synergy. And of course with V
ic Joy’s leadership.

  When he was done, the Chinese guys talked among themselves for a few seconds, then the whole bunch of them snickered. Looking at Vic and tittering like twelve-year-olds. Like Vic had just told a long and idiotic joke. Like they’d never heard of Drake or Sir Henry Morgan or William Dampier. Doing what they were doing without any historical perspective, without a sense of the tradition or dignity of their profession. Bunch of savages.

  Vic waved his hand like he was washing away a bad smell.

  “Marty, talk to these friends of yours. They’re starting to piss me off.”

  “They’re not my friends, Vic. I talk to them on the phone is all.”

  “You must’ve been talking to their goddamn translator then, ’cause we don’t seem to be getting through to these guys.”

  “They got more English than they’re letting on, Vic.”

  “Ask ’em why they came all this way if they don’t want to deal.”

  “You ask them. It’s your goddamn party.”

  Vic turned back to them again. Toughest audience he’d ever had. He looked around the big dining room, gathering himself. Eyes falling on a small brown thing up high in the far corner. He stepped that way, peered up. Thing was hugging the wood, some kind of brown furry creature.

  “It’s a bat, Vic. They’re all over the place.” Marty pointed around the room. And Vic saw them, counted a dozen, and stopped.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “It’s the jungle, man. That’s the way it is.”

  Vic had just been looking at the Chinese guys and hadn’t been tuned in to anything else, but now as he glanced around he noticed on the front windowsill the long green shape of an iguana. Sunning itself there. Big saw-toothed hump running down its back. Eyes closed, dreaming of fruit. Twice as big as any he’d seen before in the Keys. Last time he’d been here to drop the girl off, seal up her cabin, and split. He’d taken only the quickest look and liked the lay of the land.

  “Fucking place is infested,” Vic said.

  “They live here,” Marty said. “We’re just passing through.”

  Vic looked back at the Chinese men. Six eyes staring at him uneasily like they thought Vic was about to crack. He cleared his throat, rubbed his hands together, got back to it.

  “All right, gentlemen. So come on, what’s the fucking point here? If you don’t want to join forces, why come all this way? You writing this off on your taxes? A little expense-paid holiday?”

  One of the Chinamen chattered something back at Vic.

  “They want the code,” Ramon Bella said. “That’s why we’re here, to get the code.”

  “You understand that gobbledygook, Ramon?”

  Ramon made no gesture, just looked deep into Vic’s eyes. Bella’s fatigues were scruffier than Vic’s and Marty’s. Hard-used. Just one more reason that Vic now felt the sudden sting of silliness, like he’d overdressed, overprepared, overdone the whole goddamn gathering, like he was an impostor, a clown, a boy among men. And these guys were the real thing. No bullshit slingers, just ruthless brutes full of contempt for this gaudy American.

  The same sensation had come in waves all his fucking life. From the Harlan playground right on till today. Kids mocking him, making fun of his gift of gab, his talk talk talk. And Vic fighting back the only way he knew, with more words and more. Heaping them on, talking till his antagonists were dizzy and exhausted and walked away. Later on he beat back the sensation by listing to himself all his successes. The zeros on his bank account. The yachts he’d taken, the lives he’d snuffed. He didn’t need to impress a bunch of Chinese fucks. Who the hell were those little twits? Paint some whiskers on their upper lips, they’d look like mole rats.

  Then why the hell was he feeling that rube-from-the-hills thing? That squirmy, holding-back-a-fart feeling that he was being ridiculed, playing the fool. Heat flushing his cheeks. That queasy sense that everything in Vic Joy’s world was founded on a lie, teetering near collapse. Why the hell was that, when all the facts said otherwise?

  “You want the code, do you?”

  The Chinaman in the jumpsuit said, “We don’t need history lesson. We know plenty of history already. What we need is the code.”

  “So you’ll get the code. But you’ll damn well pay for it.”

  “Of course,” the Chinaman said. “We prepare for that.”

  Ramon Bella rose and sighed with exasperation.

  “I’ve set up my laptop, Vic, over here on the big table. Satellite relay. We need a demonstration, then we negotiate the numbers.”

  “And then what? Go our separate ways?” Vic said. “Miss this golden opportunity to merge our skills, blend our organizations?”

  “We’re independents, Vic. None of us are looking for a leader. We are leaders.”

  “Apparently there was a misunderstanding then.” Vic swung around and stared at Marty. “Or was there?”

  Marty gave him back the look.

  “You pulling a Salbone on me, Marty? That what it is? Somebody make you a better offer?”

  “Fuck, no. They wanted the code, you wanted a meeting. I made both things happen.”

  “You sure, Marty? You positive about that?”

  “I may have fudged a little about them wanting to work with you. But that’s all. I didn’t think you’d mind. That’s how you operate, right? A little exaggeration now and then. It’s a simple deal. You give them the code, make some money, everybody’s happy. What do you care? They’re over on one side of the world doing their thing, we’re over here doing ours.”

  Vic rubbed the bristles on his cheek and looked at the gathered men, then back at Marty.

  “It’s okay when I fudge, Marty. But you don’t get the same privileges.”

  Ramon walked over to the head table and fiddled with his laptop.

  “Okay,” said Ramon. “We will see it before we buy it. And I pray that no one has exaggerated what this process can do. We have all put ourselves in an awkward position by coming here, Vic, and I know I speak for my friends when I say that if this is some kind of hoax, we’re going to be gravely disappointed.”

  “Go get Anne, Marty.”

  “Anne?” Ramon asked.

  “My sister. She’s the expert in the code.”

  “You don’t know how to operate it yourself, Vic?”

  “Anne’s the expert.”

  Ramon gave the Chinamen a darting look.

  “All right then,” he said. “Someone should go get Anne. The expert.”

  Vic was about to say something more, give him assurances, soothe the guy, when he saw the bright green lump on the floor in front of him. A frog looking up at him with red bulging eyes. A frog had hopped out of nowhere during Vic’s speech. A goddamn frog mocking him, too.

  “Am I seeing things, Marty? Does that fucking frog have red eyes?”

  “It’s a frog, man. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I know it’s a frog. But look at it. Jesus Christ, you didn’t tell me there were all these fucking outer space things here.”

  Ramon cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, yeah, okay.” Vic motioned at Marty. “Go get Anne. Time for the demonstration. On your way back point out Thorn. Let her know what’s at stake here.”

  As Marty was turning to leave, outside on the plaza a woman shrieked and a man barked an order and another man laughed raucously. Vic leaned to the side and peered out a window. Thorn was still swaying in his gibbet cage, but the pack of idiots was no longer tossing rocks at him. They’d moved several yards away and had circled something he couldn’t see. Vic walked out to the porch for a better view.

  “Marty! Get out here.”

  Messina trotted to the porch.

  “Some of those coolie dumbshits pulled the boards down and carried that little girl out of her cabin and now they’re messing with her. Go get Annie and hurry up. We got to get this done before it all turns to shit.”

  “What about the kid?”

  “Kid’s irrelevant. Thorn’ll sign
whatever I put in front of him. I’ll fucking cut off little pieces of him till he signs. We don’t need the girl.”

  “Just going to let those wolves have her?”

  “Do what I said, go get Anne. She shows these guys the code, we get our money and we get the hell out of this stinking jungle.”

  “You wanted a pirate hideaway, Vic. I thought you liked this place.”

  “Too creepy for me, man, way too many weird creatures.”

  Thirty-One

  Kirk Graham had been staring at the fuel gauge for the last hour. Glancing now and then at the rest of his instruments, keeping them on course, but mainly watching that needle fall. When they sighted the first dark silhouette of land, he seemed to start breathing again.

  “It’s a miracle we made it.”

  “We haven’t yet,” Sugarman said.

  Alexandra leaned forward from the first row.

  “Hey, whose plane is this anyway?”

  “Guy I play tennis with,” Kirk said. “Judge Carney, Seventeenth Circuit. Has a weekend place down in Tavernier.”

  “Oh, great,” Sugar said. “A judge.”

  “It’s all right,” Kirk said. “Bobby’s cool. Did some crazy stuff himself back in the bad old days. If we make up a good-enough story, embellish it a little, he’ll love that he was part of something colorful.”

  “Embellish it?” Alex said. “Let’s hope we have to.”

  Lawton shouted from the last row.

  “You heard this one?”

  “What, Dad?”

  “‘A good explanation never explains anything.’”

  “That’s good,” Sugarman said. “Keep that one in the routine, Lawton.”

  Kirk skimmed north along the coastline, jungle, jungle, and more jungle. No clearings. No sign of civilization of any kind. Some rivers, estuaries, lagoons. But Sugarman saw nothing resembling the Gray Ghost Lodge.

  “You sure about the coordinates, Kirk?”

  “We’re close. You said you didn’t want me to fly right into the place.”

  “Right,” Sugar said. “Yeah, that’s good.”