by Jay Giles
“And chocolate.” I grinned. “We’re eating healthy, but we’re also getting dessert.”
“Fine.” She smiled as our waiter returned and began de-corking the bottle. With three twists of his wrist, he had the cork out, handed it to me. I gave it a sniff. Nodded. He poured a swish. I slugged a swig. Pronounced it superb. He filled the glasses.
I held mine up. “To fallen comrades.”
Su raised hers. “We’ll miss them,” she agreed as we clinked glasses. She took a sip, put her glass on the table. “Will, if you wanted a whole new crew, I’d understand. I can take a bus back to Rio.”
That came out of nowhere. I certainly wasn’t thinking about more crew. I’d learned enough from Ollie and Nestor that I thought the two of us could skipper the Venetian on to Florida. I sat back in my seat. Duh. Maybe this was her way of saying she’d had enough and wanted out. “Do you not want to go the rest of the way?”
“I do, but I’m not a seaman...seawoman...whatever.”
The realization hit me. I didn’t want her to leave. She was an odd person, prickly and private, at times even intimidating. By all rights, I should welcome the opportunity to send her packing. But I was strangely attracted to her. Not that it mattered; I didn’t think she was attracted to me in the least.
“Will, why are you staring at me?”
“Staring?”
“You went into a trance.” She leaned forward, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Long day...the wine...I guess it caught-up with me.” Flustered, I took a sip of my wine, tried to piece together the right words. “I’d like you to stay. After all we’ve been through, it only seems right we finish the trip together.”
“Fine. I just wanted to be sure.”
Pointy toes arrived and placed salads in front of us. He returned moments later with a pepper grinder the size of a coat rack. We both shook our heads. Two bites into my salad, Su put her fork down. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
She smiled, tucked her hair behind her ear. “Are you wealthy?”
“Me? Hardly. Why?”
“You were so generous with Father Dom. You didn’t have to give him all that money, but you did. I wondered why?”
Again, I sat back in my seat. Why had I? Guilt, of course. I’d lived, Ollie and Nestor hadn’t. Regret that I was in Brazil and not home for my dad. He may not have recognized me anymore, but I was his son, and I should have been with him when he died. Anger at Sloane for putting me in this position. Anger at myself for letting him.
She mistook my hesitancy for reluctance to answer. “Too personal. Forget I ask,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“No, it’s okay.” I leaned forward, rested my arms on the table, pushed salad around on my plate, and told myself, forget all that guilt and anger, focus on what that money would accomplish. “Father Dom’s a good man. You don’t find many with a heart as big as his. That money will help him do so much good. Life—at least to me—isn’t about how much money you can accumulate, it’s about how much good can you do. I wish I could have given him more.”
Her hair fell from behind her ear and hid the scar but not her smile. She reached over and put her hand on top of mine. “You’re a good man, too, Will Taggert.”
If I was taken aback by her question, I was even more surprised by her touch. I’m sure I reddened. She gave my hand a little squeeze and the moment was over.
The rest of the dinner was polite chit chat. What we needed to do tomorrow. When we could get underway. The fish turned out to a local catch with a honey orange glaze. Quite tasty. The bread was every bit as good as I expected. And I had molten chocolate cake for dessert. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed chocolate until I tasted that first spoonful.
Su watched in amusement as I ate every drop and licked the plate. Mornings on the boat, she’d gotten me exercising. “Tomorrow,” she said, “you double your exercise to burn off those calories.”
I studied her to see if she was kidding. She wasn’t.
Dinner finished, I paid the check, we left, stopping at a market on the way back to the skiff to buy breakfast.
On board the Venetian, we headed to our cabins. I fell asleep quickly, but it didn’t last long.
I was awakened by a disturbing thumpa bumpa thumpa bumpa noise.
Chapter 2
Barefoot, in my boxers, I went to investigate. The noise led me to the engine room, where I found Su wearing an oversized gray tee-shirt, hair pulled back in a ponytail, standing in several inches of water, pointing a flashlight at the two pieces of machinery causing the racket.
“What are those?” I shouted.
“Bilge pumps,” she yelled back, moving the beam of light between the two pumps.
Every time I’d been in this engine room it had been bone dry. “We’ve never had water in here.”
She pointed the flashlight at the water by my feet. “Yeah, well, we do now.”
I flipped on the light switch. In the stronger light, the pumps looked even older and moldier. I doubted they’d seen maintenance in years. “Should they be making that much noise?”
She threw up her hands. “How should I know?” She slapped the flashlight in my hand. “I told you I’m not a seaman,” she muttered as she left the engine room.
So much for the kinder, gentler Su. I wiggled my toes in the water. Better find out where it was coming from. Using the flashlight, I searched for signs of incoming water or bubbles indicating a leak. I did it systematically. Working my way from the stern to the bow. While I searched, the water gradually diminished to small puddles. In mid thumpa bumpa, the pumps stopped, leaving me with an echo of that horrible noise reverberating in my head. I’d have felt better if I’d found how the water got in. Not knowing was troubling.
Even after I returned to my cabin and flopped back in bed, worry and that damn echo kept me from getting back to sleep and consequently I overslept. When I woke and saw eleven ten on my watch, I jumped. Half of what was to be a busy day was gone. I hustled in and out of the bathroom, dressed, grabbed a bowl of granola and a glass of OJ, and when I didn’t see Su, went looking for her. The hunt ended when I saw the skiff was gone. Hmmm.
Let’s recap. In the past 24-hours: frightened, friendly, hostile, departed. And this was to be my sole companion for the trip across the Gulf.
I contemplated the wisdom of that as I finished my OJ and put my breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Since I was trapped on the boat, I used the time to sweep up the glass on the bridge. I got up what was on the floor and carefully wiggled the remaining shards from the window frames. As I carried a garbage bag of crinkly glass down the rear stairway, I caught a glimpse of the skiff returning to the Venetian.
I was peering over the stern rail as Su tied-up. “Good, you’re up,” she called out. “Help me with these groceries.”
She handed me four brown paper bags full to the top. When the fourth one was on board, I reached my hand down and helped her up the ladder.
“Thank you,” she said standing on the deck and beaming. We were back to friendly. In the galley, as we unloaded the groceries, abruptly she said, “Close your eyes.”
“Why?” Friendly had been followed by hostile, before.
“I’ve got a taste treat for you,” she said still smiling.
I’ve never liked games where you have to close your eyes.
“C’mon. You’re going to like this.”
I closed them
“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.”
I did.
She placed something on my tongue and immediately I knew I liked it. “Mmmm, chocolate.”
“Yes, but what’s inside?”
I bit down. Tasted coffee. I opened my eyes. “Coffee bean?”
“Yes,” she said pleased with herself. “Last night, you liked that chocolate cake so much I got you chocolate covered raisins, nuts, and these.” She popped one in her mouth. “Pretty good, huh?”
I a
te another one. They were good. “Thank you.”
She turned serious. “It’s dark chocolate which has antioxidants.”
Of course, she wouldn’t buy that bad milk chocolate. “How did you buy all this?” I asked her. “Did you have money? Do I owe you for it?”
“When you didn’t get up. I went in your cabin and got the credit card.” She looked a little hesitant. “Was that okay?”
I’d used the Jesuit philosophy of, it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission, a few times myself. “Sure.”
“We still need bottled water,” she said as she put things in the refrigerator, “and I stopped at the restaurant from last night and asked them where they buy wine. We should stop there and pick up a few bottles.”
The credit card got plenty of use that day. Besides, bottled water and wine, I charged lunch, dinner, and topped off the Venetian’s fuel tanks. The big bucks charges were with the funeral home—two caskets and the services of a funeral director to pick up the bodies at the police morgue, do what grisly things needed to be done, and handle transport to the church and cemetery. Sloane would have a fit about the caskets, but I was over worrying about him.
At the church the following day, Su and I stood solemnly in the first row as a small, wrinkled woman with her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun and wearing a black dress buttoned tight to the neck coaxed a low moaning dirge out of an ancient organ. It set a gloomy mood as Ollie and Nestor’s caskets were brought down the aisle to the bema. Father Dom trailed behind the caskets, singing softly, his gaze on the hymnal open in his hands. He paused at our pew to offer a short condolence before continuing on to the sanctuary. Processional song finished, Ms. Organ Player launched like a demon into the musical equivalent of fire and brimstone.
“She’s making my head hurt,” Su whispered.
She seemed on a mission to see how much depressing sound she could generate. Father Dom listened, tugging on his beard, an enigmatic smile on his face. He said the homily in Portuguese, so I didn’t understand a word said, although I got the gist—repent now, sinners, or enjoy hell for eternity. As if to underscore his message, he went overboard with incense. A cloud of the stuff seemed to settle over us, making my eyes burn and my nose run.
The service ended with Ms. Organ Player stomping on the organ pedals, banging her fingers on the keys, and upping the volume for an ear-splitting crescendo as the caskets were carried out.
The ride to the cemetery was in the funeral home’s 1965 black Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. It was long and low with a pile of chrome at both ends and that soft cushy ride that was a hallmark of luxury back in the day.
If I’d been expecting Forest Lawn with its massive monuments and carefully tended landscaping, I’d have been disappointed. The Caddy pulled-up to a small, flat piece of ground, mostly dirt with a few patches of grass, surrounded by a dilapidated Victorian iron fence. The markers were small stones and simple wooden crosses.
Our driver stopped near the front gate, hopped out of the car, and held the Caddy’s door open for us. We stepped out, watched and waited as the caskets were unloaded from the hearse. When they were ready, Su took my arm and we followed the pallbearers carrying the caskets to the two open graves on the cemetery’s far side.
At the gravesite, Father Dom’s remarks were brief. He recited the Lord’s Prayer in English, made the sign of the cross, and it was over.
On the ride back, Su picked-up on how I was feeling. “You look sad. We get underway, you’ll feel better.”
She was right, but there was a problem that had to be dealt with first.
Joey was standing on the curb in front of the church. “Hey, just who I was lookin’ for. Got a minute?”
Internal alarm bells went off. Yesterday, we’d concluded our business with the police. There was no reason Joey needed to see us again. Something had changed for him to be standing here waiting for us. I noticed he wasn’t looking at me, his gaze was on Su, who’d backed-up a half-step to put me between the two of them.
“Sure, whatever you need,” I said breezily. ”But I don’t want to keep Father Dom waiting. We owe him for the service. Let us take care of that and we’ll be right back.”
“That’s cool. How long you think you’ll be?”
“Five, ten minutes maybe.”
He shrugged. “I’ll be here.”
I put my arm around Su’s waist and steered her toward the church’s front doors. As soon as they closed behind us, she pulled away to face me. “You know what he’s here for? To arrest me because I’ve—”
“We’re wasting time,” I grabbed her hand and pulled her after me. “We have to find the back way out of here.”
Ironically, it was Ms. Organist who led us through a series of back rooms to a door that led out on an alley. Su thanked her in Portuguese, and we took off running. I looked at my watch. We’d used up three of our minutes. At the crossing street, we peered around the corner to see if Joey was still there.
Yep. And two blue uniformed officers were with him. Any small doubt I had that this wasn’t an arrest evaporated.
We walked sedately across the intersection so we didn’t attract attention, then beat feet back to the skiff. On board the Venetian, Su ran the winch and hauled-up the anchor while I fired-up the engines. I glanced at my watch again as we cleared the buoys marking the entrance to Maceio harbor—twenty-two minutes. Checking behind us, no police boats were giving chase.
Skipping town like this bothered me. The police had obviously ID’d Su for some offense and I had no doubt she was guilty based on the way she’d acted earlier. Having her arrested—even having her detained for questioning—would have meant abandoning her or staying longer to win her freedom. Neither of which I wanted to do.
She joined me on the bridge. “Thank you,” she said and handed me a plastic cup filled with chocolate covered peanuts. “That’s to hold you over while I make you a real thank you dinner.” She gave me a hug and went down the ladder to the galley.
Once again, dinner was delayed.
Twenty minutes out of harbor, the bilge pumps kicked in. I put the Venetian on cruise control and raced to the engine room and stepped into a half-inch of water. This time I could see where the water was coming in. The port driveshaft was leaking, probably caused by my racing the engines to break the rope. This wasn’t something I could fix. If the bilge pumps failed at sea, the Venetian might sink.
The racket brought Su, too. Peering in the doorway, she shouted, “Can you tell where it’s coming from?”
I pointed it out to her.
“How much is coming in?”
I had no idea. I did know our alternatives: Head back to port to get it fixed and risk having Su arrested or have it hanging over our heads as we made our way across the Gulf to Florida.
Chapter 3
The sensible thing would have been to turn the Venetian around immediately. Get the boat fixed. Sort out Su’s situation. Get home safe and sound. So what if Sloane jumped angrily up and down because his precious boat’s arrival was delayed. The way this trip had gone, this was my last job for Sloane, anyway.
What kept me from making that quick U-turn was Su. Again, my sensible side said don’t get involved with a woman hiding her past and afraid of the police. She was from a different world. We had nothing in common, no shared future beyond the Venetian’s arrival in Florida. My attraction to her was a mistake. It was one-sided, little more than wishful thinking, and bound to land me in trouble.
It should have been an easy decision. Still, I hesitated.
While I stood there fretting, the bilge pumps abruptly shut off. Hurriedly, I started flipping the pump’s switches, pressing buttons, trying to initiate a reboot. Nothing worked. Crazed, I did it all again. Still nothing. About to do it a third time out of sheer panic, I noticed no more water had accumulated underfoot. Wondering why, I checked the driveshaft. The leak had stopped.
No leak, ergo no need for pumps. Drained by the fright, I left the engine room for the
main deck. From the rail, Maceio had become a small dot on the horizon.
Su appeared next to me. “Dinner in half-an-hour.”
I nodded. The easiest decision is no decision. There would be no turnaround; we‘d continue on to Florida.
Dinner was grilled fish, sweet potatoes, and salad. While Su put portions on plates, I opened a bottle of wine. We carried plates, wine, and glasses to the upper-level sundeck and ate there. I wanted to be close to the bridge. The aft deck, where we usually ate, was still marked by Ollie and Nestor’s bloodstains. We were settled in seats, starting on our food, when Su said, “I hope you enjoy dinner. It’s a thank you for not letting them take me away.”
I finished a bite of fish. Whatever she’d topped it with—it tasted like a lemon and crushed peanuts—was delicious. “We’re a team,” I told her lightly. “I wasn’t about to let them bust that up.”
She smiled briefly. “I was with some bad people,” she said and her face became rueful, “and did some stupid—”
“You don’t—”
“Yes, I do. You need to understand. The police would have me rat out these people—is that how you say it?”
I nodded.
“If I did, they would kill me.”
“How would they know it was you?”
She smiled knowingly. “Bribes.” She took a sip of her wine. “I tried to get away from them once before, and they did this to me.” I knew she was referring to the scar that ran down her face. “When we get to America, I’ll disappear. They’ll never find me.”
I smiled understandingly. She’d spun a story she thought would be easy for me to accept. In my practice of family and immigration law, I’d heard many stories made to fit the facts and present the person in the best light.
The rest of dinner was polite chitchat. There were times where I had the opportunity to probe, but I let them pass. Getting the truth from this woman would be a long, protracted struggle. I didn’t want the fight and I didn’t want to know the bad stuff. I wanted to see the woman sitting across from me as slightly mysterious but good at heart. Lingering over the last of the wine, I could almost make myself believe it. Almost.