Power? Are you there?
No sign of the power, but Borg turned, both boots now pointed toward the stern. He walked out of the cabin and shut the door. A few seconds later, the engine roared and Short Sail surged forward again. I slid along the deck under the berth until I hit something fairly soft, possibly another duffel bag, making a thud that I hoped was dull. I glanced sideways and saw Tut-Tut clinging with both hands to the post that supported one corner of his berth. We stayed just like that. After a while, Tut-Tut started to shake. It was cold in the cabin, icy water so close all around, but I knew there was more to Tut-Tut’s shaking than the cold.
The roar of the engine changed pitch, rising even higher, and now we started pounding up and down, like we’d hit big waves. Big waves in the canal? I stuck my head out from under the berth and tried to see through the nearest porthole, high above. All I could make out was the driven snow zooming past in streaks of dots and dashes. The bow rose high and came banging down, crashing me into the underside of the berth above. I may even have called out in pain, a call lost in all the roaring and pounding. Tut-Tut was crying silently, his silvery tear tracks the brightest things in the cabin. I mouthed the words “it’s all right” to him, but I didn’t think he saw. He was back in rough water again, probably his worst nightmare.
On and on we went. I lost track of time but would have guessed that lots had gone by. How far could Short Sail go without refueling? The notion that we were headed for Haiti hit me; absolutely crazy, but it made sense in a nasty way. I wondered whether Tut-Tut was thinking the same thing.
All at once the pounding lessened and so did our speed. The hull tilted a bit to the right and Short Sail seemed to veer in that direction, making a long curve and then coming to rest—if constant rising and falling, pitching and rolling could be called coming to rest—with the engine idling. Lights shone through the portholes and then vanished. I heard Borg moving around on deck, and then came voices, not far away.
“Just hold the thing steady,” Borg said. The engine shut off, and now I could really hear the storm outside.
Borg grunted once out on the deck, then again, and after that there was just the storm. Even though the engine was off, we seemed to be turning, and as we turned, the rising and falling diminished a little, as though we’d found a bit of shelter. Then we just bobbed up and down, almost gently. Music started up, not far away. I could hear the bass—thump-de-dump-dah, thump-de-dump-dah.
Things went on like that for some time, and finally I just had to take a peek. I crawled out from under the berth, climbed on top of it, and peered out the porthole. Through the snow, blowing sideways now, I saw nothing but the stormy sea, stretching on and on into darkness. Way in the distance, the sky was all lit up and pinkish, typical New York nighttime sky.
I turned. Tut-Tut was also kneeling on a berth, but on the opposite side; the port side, actually: nautical lingo was a must on Uncle Joe’s boat. The view through Tut-Tut’s porthole was very different from mine—no empty ocean, but instead a white wall, rising and rising with no top in sight. A white wall? Someplace way out in the ocean? I didn’t understand this at all, but then I noticed a single word written in gold on that white wall: Boffo. A memory came: Ashanti and I researching Sheldon Gunn and all the things he owned, including Boffo, second-biggest yacht in the world.
Without a word, Tut-Tut and I slipped down and moved silently to the cabin door. We stood and listened, heard no one out there, just the storm and the faint music. My hand, kind of on its own, went to the latch and raised it. I opened the door a few inches. We looked out, saw no one aboard Short Sail, snow falling on the deck and on the throttle and all the other instruments on the console.
Tut-Tut and I stepped outside and saw that Short Sail was tied to a fold-down platform attached to Boffo’s stern. Boffo was on the move, but slowly, and towing us behind. Craning my neck to look up, I saw the open ends of three or four decks high above; a rope ladder dangled from the lowest one, reaching all the way down to the platform. There was nobody in sight, and nothing to hear but the storm—quieted down in Boffo’s lee—and the music, a little louder now. Thump-de-dump-dah, thump-de-dump-dah.
What were the choices? Looking back, I could make out the lit-up nighttime sky of the city but no buildings, not even the tallest towers: we were far from shore. Could we steal Short Sail, somehow ride her all the way back? Yes, I’d been on Uncle Joe’s boat—but I’d spent most of my time soaking up rays, not doing any actual driving, didn’t even know how to start the engine. We could go back to hiding in the cabin and wait for whatever was going to happen to happen. Or…
We stepped over Short Sail’s gunwale and onto the platform. I got a grip on the rope ladder, stuck my foot on the first rung, and started up. Ms. Kleinberg had tossed in some rope climbing in one practice, hoping to strengthen our upper bodies. This was like that, only a bit easier because your feet could help out.
I reached the railing of the lowest deck, peered over. The first thing I saw was a gym, a huge one behind glass walls, full of rows and rows of equipment. No one was working out and the only light came from an enormous flat-screen TV on the far wall, showing a sports highlight show. One of those everyday bits of programming: it made me want to be at home, safe in bed.
I looked down the ladder, saw Tut-Tut climbing fast. I stepped over the rail and onto the deck; Tut-Tut vaulted over the railing and landed softly beside me. We started walking forward, the gym on our left. I thought of checking our footprints again, then realized there was no snow on the deck. I bent and touched it, a heated deck, it turned out, that melted the snow away.
We went past the gym, came to an Olympic-size pool, also glassed-in, surrounded by umbrellas and palm trees; no one swimming or lounging. Tut-Tut and I kept going. The music was louder now, seemed to be floating down from somewhere above. After the swimming pool came a blank wall and then a staircase made of gleaming dark wood. We were standing at its base, unsure about what to do next, when a door opened just a few feet ahead of us and a waiter or steward or whatever you’d call them—he wore black pants and a short white jacket—stepped out with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket. Had he shot the slightest glance toward the stern, he couldn’t have missed us, but instead he turned and walked quickly the other way. Tut-Tut and I went up the stairs.
It turned out to be a graceful curving staircase, with a railing that seemed to be made of crystal. We were almost at the top, meaning the next deck, when the silver heart fluttered for a split second and I heard a voice saying Hey! Then came a sound that was kind of like static. It all seemed to be happening in my head and not in the outside world. A moment later the sound went dead.
I turned back to Tut-Tut and whispered, “Did you hear anything?”
“Music,” he whispered back.
“Whoa. You’re talking?”
His eyes opened wide. “Hey! Th-th-th-th—” He went silent, looked confused. So was I.
We reached the next level, found ourselves in a broad hallway lined with art and flowers. Stormy weather outside, and we were on the cold Atlantic, miles and miles from shore, but it felt like being in some amazing mansion on dry land. We passed what might have been an empty disco, with a stage that was revolving, although no one was on it, and walls that seemed to be made of zebra skins all stitched together. After that we emerged on an open deck with some huge metal sculptures on one side and a row of windows, like portholes but much bigger, on the other. All the portholes were dark except two. I peeked in the first one and saw a cabin, but nothing like the cabin on Short Sail; this cabin was huge and luxurious, with antique furniture and a bar that shone with silver and glass. The second lit cabin looked much the same, except for one difference: this one was occupied.
Two men sat across from each other at a delicate-looking little table, gold-trimmed espresso cups between them. The nearest man had a goatee and wore a white robe with one of those Middle Eastern headdresses; the other man was Borg.
Borg said somet
hing I couldn’t make out: Tut-Tut and I were in the open again, somewhat sheltered from the wind, but it was still blowing hard, driving streamers of snow high over our heads. The Middle Eastern man replied. Borg wrote on a piece of paper, handed it to the Middle Eastern man and left the room by a door on the far side.
The man rose, went to the wall, and took down a picture. There was a safe behind it. He touched a pad with the tip of his finger and the safe swung open. It was a big safe, with three shelves, each one crammed with cash, colorful money on the bottom two shelves and U.S. greenbacks on top. He checked the sheet of paper, then opened a closet beside the safe. Two large suitcases stood inside, fancy French ones—I recognized the logo because Nonna had the same kind. The man pulled the suitcases out of the closet and opened them both. They were each about half full of neatly folded clothes. He took all the clothes from one and transferred them to the other. Then he closed the full suitcase and stuck it back in the closet. After that, he drew the empty suitcase closer to the safe and began filling it with greenbacks, his lips moving like he was keeping silent count. In the end, the suitcase was so jam-packed he had to kneel on it to get it shut. He’d just finished that when a phone rang in the room; I heard it through the glass.
The man rose, crossed the room to a desk, answered the phone. He listened for a moment and hung up. Then he went to the safe, picked up the suitcase and tried to wedge it inside. The safe wasn’t big enough. The man carried the suitcase through an archway and into what I could see was a bedroom. He walked out seconds later without the suitcase, closed the safe and left the room.
Footsteps sounded from the direction of the disco. Tut-Tut and I ducked into the sculpture garden or whatever it was and hid behind a steel structure that looked like a flattened-out bear. The waiter, or maybe a different waiter, appeared, bearing an empty silver tray. He walked past the porthole we’d just been looking through and paused before a door. Beside the door was a touchpad, like the one on the safe. The waiter touched it; the door swung in; the waiter entered the room where Borg and the Middle Eastern man had met. The door closed in a slow and automatic way.
Twenty or thirty seconds later, the door opened again and the waiter emerged, now carrying the espresso cups on his silver tray. He headed back toward the disco, the door closing behind him. I didn’t think for a moment, just sprinted toward that shrinking space and dove through, Tut-Tut, so skinny, squeezing in behind me. The door closed and made a little click.
It was nice and warm inside. Tut-Tut and I exchanged a glance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I said.
He nodded, opened the closet, and took out the fancy suitcase, the one filled with clothes. Tut-Tut carried it through the archway and into the bedroom, a very fancy bedroom with a big round bed and mirrored walls. Our images moved back and forth as we searched the room, the movements growing more nervous as time passed. We ended up finding the second suitcase in what should have been the first place we looked, under the bed. Tut-Tut opened it just to be sure. U.S. greenbacks, nothing but hundreds that we could see, a small fortune—or maybe even a big one. We shoved the first suitcase, the one full of clothes, under the bed and took the second one, full of money, back into the main room.
Tut-Tut raised his chin in a now-what look. A good question. The only answer that came to mind—making off, or trying to make off, with Short Sail—was one I’d already rejected.
“Um,” I said. “Well…” And gazed at the suitcase, waiting for an idea. We had all that money, and Silas had the list of all the people who needed it, but how were we—
I felt a tiny pressure in my head, barely there. The silver heart fluttered the tiniest flutter. And then came Hey!
I glanced around, my own heart thumping, looking for the source of that hey. It was so clear! But there was only me and Tut-Tut.
“Did you say hey?” I asked him.
“I didn’t say anything,” Tut-Tut said. “And keep your voice down.”
I lowered my voice. “You’re talking again,” I said, touching his shoulder. “That must mean—”
And then again—Hey!—this time followed by another burst of static so loud it hurt my ears, but coming from inside my head, for sure. Then I felt it fully: the power, surging through me. I felt it surging through Tut-Tut, too, could also even see it in a way, just from the expression on his face. I put my glasses away.
Hey! The volume went down on the sound in my head, but the clarity rose, like a radio station tuned in properly. Hey! Robbie!
The voice was calling my name?
Do you read me? Come in. Over.
The voice: a dweeby voice, capable of saying dweeby things like over.
“Silas,” I said. “Yes, I hear you.”
Tut-Tut looked at me, amazed and worried, like I was flipping out.
“Don’t you hear Silas?” I said.
“No,” said Tut-Tut. He glanced around: no Silas in view.
Robbie? Do you read me? If you read me, don’t say you read me. Think it! Over.
“Huh?” I said.
Silence.
Huh, I thought.
What do you mean, “huh”? Over.
“What’s going on?” Tut-Tut said. “You look funny.”
“You don’t hear Silas?”
Tut-Tut glanced around. “Silas?”
“He’s not here,” I said. “But somehow he’s—”
What do you mean, “huh”? Over.
Huh means huh. Stop screwing around, Silas—this isn’t a good time. What’s happening?
Mental telepathy—that’s my power! It just came to me. I can communicate by thought and thought alone—who’s cooler than me? Oh, yeah—we’re on our way. Over.
Who’s on their way?
Me and Ashanti. And think “over.” You have to think “over” when you get to the end. Like this: over. Over.
I’m not thinking “over.” And you don’t even know where we are.
How come you’re so stubborn? And we don’t have to know where you are—we can’t go anywhere else.
What do you—
Over. I forgot “over.” Over.
For God’s sake!
Ow! That hurts my ears. Over.
What do you mean you can’t go anywhere else?
There’s no steering! Over and out.
Silence.
Silas? Silas?
Nothing.
I turned to Tut-Tut. He was watching me strangely. “They’re coming to get us,” I said. “Silas and Ashanti.”
“Yeah? How?”
“I’m not sure, but Silas can do mental telepathy now.”
“And you can do it back to him?” Tut-Tut said.
“I guess so.”
“Oh.”
Just a little “oh.” The idea—a crazy one—came to me that Tut-Tut was jealous. It made no sense, and this was not the time. If they were really coming—but how?—we had to find a safe place to—
The phone rang in the room, same phone that had summoned the Middle Eastern man. It rang six times and then went silent. That expression—danger in the air? I felt the truth of it at that moment.
I picked up the suitcase. Tut-Tut opened the door that led to the deck and the sculpture garden. We stuck our heads out for a quick peek. The coast was clear, maybe the wrong expression, since we were so far from shore. We stepped out, returned to the sculpture garden. Snow fell; wind blew. We sheltered behind the flattened-out bear, sitting together on the suitcase.
“I hope the power stays for a long time,” Tut-Tut said.
“Me too.”
“Do you think it could stay forever?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Why not? The look in Tut-Tut’s eyes made me wish I hadn’t said no about the power—especially since I couldn’t think of an actual reason. I was fumbling in my mind for some quick fix when I realized we were on the move. Not over the surface of the ocean—that was hard to judge, Boffo, so solid and enormous, being more like an island than
a ship, plus we had nothing to gauge motion against except snow falling in the night. No, the movement that caught my attention was up. We were rising, no doubt about it, not just Tut-Tut and me, but the whole sculpture garden and the deck beneath it. Up we went, as though on an enormous elevator, slow and silent.
We reached the next deck. Before us stood another glass wall, a glass wall of the smoky kind, that might front a nightclub, for example, not that I’d had any nightclub experience. But what we were gazing into was a nightclub, with little round tables, champagne, cigars, and a jazz combo—piano, bass, guitar, and a beautiful singer in a sparkling gown—on a small stage. She was singing a song I sort of recognized, possibly some old song by Frank Sinatra; my dad was a big fan. Not much of an audience: only two tables were occupied. At one, near the back, sat a few tough-looking guys in black uniforms; some sort of rifle or machine gun—I knew pretty much nothing about guns—hung on its strap from the back of an empty chair. At the other table, front and center, smoking the cigars and drinking the champagne—and not paying any attention to the band, even though they sounded great, the thump-de-dump-dah, thump-de-dump-dah of the bass seeming to vibrate through the whole ship—sat two older men in white robes, plus Sheldon Gunn in a black tuxedo. My uncle Joe wears shorts and flip-flops on his boat.
All that, I saw in passing, because we were still going up. The next deck, one from the top, came in view. It was dark, except for one light showing in a long rectangular window. On the other side of the window lay a bowling alley with a single lane. Borg was alone in the bowling alley, sitting at the desk where you keep score. He looked to the side. Someone was coming from that direction: the Middle Eastern man we’d seen in his cabin below.
The Middle Eastern man was carrying the suitcase. He laid it on the scorer’s table. Borg made an impatient gesture. The Middle Eastern man started to open the suitcase. From our angle, we couldn’t see into it, but had a good view of their faces as they got their first glimpse of the contents.
A good view, but a brief one, on account of how we were still rising. All we caught was initial dawning of their shocked reaction—stunned puzzlement mixed into the Middle Eastern guy’s, Borg showing something much uglier—and then they passed from view. The sculpture garden reached the top deck and came to a stop.
Robbie Forester and the Outlaws of Sherwood Street Page 18