"Can we have some privacy?" He stretched out his long arm and pushed the door closed.
Chapter 7
At six feet in height, John Scott's dark hair was closely cropped, and his moustache neatly trimmed. Last year in London, he'd got into trouble after conning some of his friends from the underworld out of money and run off to sea, where he was now serving successfully as a galley cook.
It was supposed to be his morning lie-in, but when he opened his eyes and looked at the clock, he couldn't believe that it said only five o'clock. He quickly reached over and punched off the alarm before it went off and woke his cabin mate.
Tony Lester was short and fat and sported an American GI haircut.
"Morning, John." His voice floated across the room.
John wasn't really sure how to take him. Most people, you either liked them or you didn't. Tony was a bit strange. He’d told John that before he signed on the ship, he’d graduated from the N.Y.U. School of Law. And yet he felt like a loser, such a sorry chump. His stories could drone on, seamlessly, forever. They went on for so long that they became genuinely annoying and then swung back around to being hilarious.
He’d found that out the first night they’d met. Tony was moving on to another story about something or other.
"Stop there, I'm going to sleep."
"You want a tab?" said Tony. ‘My brother was a great believer in the easiest way. Pop a pill, get unconscious."
"No."
"They're in my case if you change your mind. Are you sure?"
This guy is a complicated character, thought John. He grasped Tony's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
"Tony, listen to me. Are you listening?" It took a moment, but he eventually murmured an affirmative. “The best thing you can do is leave me alone.” A lot of people lacked that gift: knowing when to fuck off.
Tony raised his arms to interlock his fingers behind his head for a moment before taking his diary from his briefcase. He was like clockwork; he always kept a log of what he had done each day. After a moment of staring at the blank page he gave a small shrug, his head still bent down. He wrote in neat, small capitals that ran along like hieroglyphics. John couldn't decipher them upside down.
He finished the sentence he was working on and put a full stop on the page as if he was stubbing out a cigarette, twisting the pen so it almost broke through the paper. John resisted the urge to lean forward to look. Tony ran his finger along the sentence, reading it to himself, tapping along the words as if they didn't make sense; then, he leant forward.
"Washington?" he asked.
John didn't know how to react to this.
"Tony, what are you writing?"
Tony jerked his head up and squinted. He opened his mouth to speak. Slowly his mouth started to move, but no words came out; then he started to stammer as if he was back in grade school.
"I'm ... I'm sorry," he began. "Oh ... it's about a group of people who live in past-time ... Washington." His words then came out in a string of furious spittle. "Writing is my passion." He paused, as if searching for something else to say.
John laughed, covering his mouth with his hand. Tony lifted a shoulder as if saying he had plenty more where that came from. That was the trouble with Tony – you just didn't know what to expect. He would say things like, "Trust me, you wouldn't want to know," which would get up most people's noses. "Nothing wrong with his brain," they’d say. "He’s sharp as a tack."
John believed he just pretended to be that way.
Later that day, John had to report to the dining room to discuss a menu for a VIP. Fifteen minutes later, he found himself sitting at a corner table in the massive restaurant. The blur of activity from the breakfast waiters made it look like a beehive, the maître d’ barking orders as he moved across to John, a file tucked under his arm.
“Honestly,” he grumbled as he thumped the file down on the table, “you’d think half of these guys had never bussed tables before….”
After the meeting, John wandered back to one of the main foyers, settled himself on the plush sofa and gazed around, thinking that life was good. No, life was great! He couldn’t help but feel a little bit mystified as to how well everything had worked out. His eyes kept flickering to the other side of the room.
The black and white checked marble floors were immaculate, the moldings on the wall exquisite. But it was neither of these that had caught his attention. She was totally still, wearing a red blouse and a string of pearls around her neck. Her hair was sleek, and cut to the level of her jawbone. With high cheekbones and an angular face, she was one of those striking women you would notice in any room. Her knees were clamped tightly together, and she stared at her hands the whole time, in a way that made it obvious she was trying not to look at him. But she was.
A waiter arrived with a trolley to serve late breakfast. She poured maple syrup all over her pancakes; after the first bite, he saw her lick her top lip. Shortly after, another woman joined her. She had a sort of bottom-of-the-well voice, a deep and strangled resonance, and was heavily pregnant. She seemed to be having a tough time in the weather; her movements were sluggish and her ankles and feet so swollen that she had to wear rubber flip flops.
On his way back to the galley, he saw her waiting by the elevator. She was dressed for the cameras: a snug black sweater and even tighter white jeans. He looked at her and smiled. He asked her name and said he couldn’t fathom how she had possibly got into those pants. A sharp ripple shot down her spine at the words. She clenched her fingers around the cord of her handbag as she fought the urge to whirl and swing her body.
Had she seen him watching her? Of course. She closed her eyes briefly, mentally kicking herself for being so obvious. But it wasn't like she had planned it.
Her figure was incredible and John had to make a conscious effort to stare at her face rather than her body during their conversation.
Later that evening, John stood at the back of the crowd in the bar area, searching for the woman who'd distracted him for the whole day. Almost everyone on the ship was in here tonight, thanks to the art auction that was taking place. When he finally spotted her, she was bidding against someone for an art piece that he thought looked like a cat had vomited on the canvas. Making his way across to her once the bidding ceased, he quietly asked if he could join her.
"Can I get you a drink?"
"A glass of Chardonnay would be nice." Drinda responded, a coy smile forming on her lips.
***
They were on their second glass of wine when they spotted the auctioneer’s assistant talking to people at the next table. He was asking for help to start the bidding, promising free art in exchange for their help in driving up prices. There were a couple of Filipino helpers who called out loudly every time someone made a bid and offered a false bid. John felt excited. He and Drinda sat together just observing the rest of the auction.
"So, what made you come on a cruise?"
"It's not important," she replied. "I had some personal problems."
Before John could say anything else, she smiled and began wiping her tearful eyes.
"Not to mention that my gran left me a little money," she explained, "so I thought I should splash out a bit."
She shook her head like she was sorry. He looked in her sweet, tear-stained face and told her it was okay. She leant in close to him.
"I do apologize," she said, embarrassment lacing her tone.
"Tell me what happened," he asked. She flared at that: she didn't really need a man's help.
"Really, it’s okay," said John, sensing her discomfort, and pushing his chair back to stand up. "Let's go to the champagne bar."
Smiling, she took his extended hand and let him lead her to the bar. There was a big silver wine bucket at the bar with about ten or so different bottles of champagne pressed into crushed ice.
"Why don't we just grab a bottle and go and relax?" John said.
" I think the barman is watching us."
The
barman had the look of a tall, handsome movie star, his beard trimmed with a sort of military precision. He stood a good head taller than John as he glared down at them.
"I hope he is capable of smiling," said Drinda quietly as they moved closer.
The barman had overheard her and grinned. He picked up a bottle of champagne and offered John and Drinda a glass each, placing on their table some little salty nibbles.
It was cool and quiet in the bar. John took his time, enjoying every minute with her. Her eyes zeroed in on the tiny white Band-Aid on John's finger.
"What happened?" She asked.
"I accidentally cut myself while slicing vegetables."
She moved closer and slowly reached out. Her soft fingers touched the skin around the Band-Aid and John felt a small shock of electricity run through his upper body. She had softest, most feminine hands he'd ever encountered.
He glanced at his watch. Best not be late, he thought. He had to be back in the galley to help with dinner. They both stood up and he put down some money, ready to go. He leant forward and kissed her on the cheek. On the way back to her cabin, she glanced over her shoulder and gave him a wave, arched an eyebrow, and was gone.
The next day, the ship began to make its way back to Miami. It was the last night of the cruise. Drinda had a relaxing day in the ship’s spa, enjoying one of its special pamper packages. John tiptoed in and had a peep. He left a note for Drinda to meet him at the captain's farewell party.
Later that evening, John couldn't help smiling when he saw her standing by the entrance to the Manhattan Room, an elegant bar at the ship's stern. Around the room, waitresses stood like soldiers, all holding trays of champagne and cocktails. The guests had begun gorging on canapés and sloshing down champagne that quickly went to their heads.
"Let's go next door." Drinda suggested – the band was loud and all she really wanted to do was have a real drink and talk. John nodded and walked to the bar. He was gone and back in record time with their drinks; he gulped down a little hoping it would soften the edge of his nerves. She was staring at the corner of the bar, chewing on her lip, clearly lost in thought.
"What are you thinking?"
"You should come and visit me in San Francisco," she said, her eyes still unfocussed in the distance. "You could even find a job in a restaurant."
He huffed a laugh. "Come on, you can't be serious."
"Just catch a flight." Her eyes focused on him, finally.
"I don't know." He stared into the distance for a long moment trying to decide if she was serious.
"There are some really good restaurants in San Francisco. When I go out to eat with friends, I often go to a little place called Prego – it's just halfway down the hill from where I live." She blushed and smiled at him, flicking her hair over her shoulder in a way she must have thought was alluring.
"Look, Drinda ..."
She stood up and pressed a thick cream-colored card into his hands. “Let me know.”
John took the card with a smile, thinking how good it would be to live with her. You could tell just by looking into her eyes that there was something very sincere about her.
They said their goodbyes and as he walked away, she called out:
"See you soon."
Chapter 8
It was an incredibly hot day. Members of the crew were rushing around getting ready for the turnaround. Decks were being hosed, cabins cleaned, and a cranky looking Korean guy, who was probably a lawyer or something like that in his own country, pushed past John while carrying some boxes. Why do people do that? thought John. Do they have some kind of mental deficiency when it comes to personal distances?
He squinted over at the man to check for signs of this, but was surprised to find the complete opposite as a Filipino man, dressed in a white boiler suit, called out to the guy in question and addressed him as ‘Sir’. John was soon to learn he was the chief engineer.
The captain then made an announcement over the tannoy that all passengers could disembark, and a man dressed in an officer’s uniform stood to the side of the deck, smiling politely and saying goodbye to each of the passengers as they went past.
John watched Drinda as she left the ship, taking particular interest in the dark-haired man she was talking to. With his charcoal suit, white cotton shirt and black tie, he looked every inch the respectable gentleman. Drinda smiled at the man, resting her hand on his arm, and John thought it a bit strange how they were acting – as if they had known each other for years. As she was walking down the gangway exit he noticed that she gave this person a small brown paper parcel. The man then shook hands with her and John overheard him say, “See you soon”. She nodded, smiling.
He began to wonder who this guy was. Could he just be a new friend she’d met, or maybe an old boyfriend? Whatever it was, it was intriguing the hell out of him, and he frowned as he watched her turn away from the man.
That very moment, Tony came along. John watched as he trudged along the deck with his shoulders hunched, his hands deep in his pockets and his head down as he made his way over. Looking up briefly, Tony nodded at him in acknowledgement.
"What’s wrong?" John asked.
"Do you know who that woman was?" replied Tony.
"Who?"
His gaze flickered to where Drinda had been just moments before. "The one you were talking to earlier? Just thought you’d like to know she spent a lot of time with another man."
"What do you mean?" asked John, stepping closer as he lowered his voice.
Tony raised his eyebrows. "She went to his cabin, and let me tell you, they weren't just talking."
John paused for a moment, taking this in. "Really, is that so?"
"I also remembered them sitting in the champagne bar," muttered Tony. “I saw them having a deep conversation, and she did more listening than speaking. I assumed he was her boyfriend by the way they had their lips locked together."
"What?”
"I saw you and the girl standing together by the elevator doors,” Tony explained. “After you left, he appeared. He put his hand on her shoulder, then kissed her on the cheek. It was interesting, he got in the elevator and his mouth opened to speak as he reached to stop the doors from shutting, but he was too late."
"And?" John asked, now more intrigued than ever.
"Well, I managed to read the first words on his lips before the doors closed."
John rolled his eyes; was Tony ever going to spit it out? "So what did he say?"
“He said ‘he would be perfect’ . . .”
"What does that mean? Who would be perfect? Do you know?" John continued to shoot questions at Tony but Tony wasn’t having any of it.
His cheeks flushed as he muttered, "See you later," shaking his head before John could get another word in. "Uh, I've got to go. I don't have time to talk right now, but I’ll see you when I see you." With that he walked off, head down and shoulders hunched once again, like he was trying to blend into the crowd.
Strange man, thought John.
At last, an opportunity was about to present itself to him. In two
weeks’ time, the ship was due to go up the coast of Mexico and sail into San Francisco Bay. A wicked glint rose in John's eyes as he exchanged his previously grim expression for one of superiority.
When he was in the crew bar a few days later, he saw a newspaper on one of the tables. It was a few days old, but he grabbed it anyway, and continued to scan through it, paying particular interest to the employment section. Upon looking at the adverts, John realized he would need a new identity if he were to stay in the States, but how?
After a couple of drinks, he started to formulate a plan: he could steal the personal information of his cabin mate, using his name and details to do whatever he needed to do while staying off the radar. This, however, was where things got tricky: in order to ‘become’ Tony Lester, he would need to gain his Social Security number, which was easier said than done. He knew he would be committing identity theft by stealing the
man’s name and papers, and there would be serious consequences if he got caught. He knew the dangers and the risks, but he was willing to take that chance. What other option did he have?
His mind made up, John went back down to his cabin; he needed to at least try to get some sleep.
On his way down, John’s attention was grabbed by an Asian man dressed in a white boiler suit. He sat on the steps of a narrow metal staircase, enjoying the last few puffs of his cigarette, looking out at the night. Down below, there were three decks below the waterline, the lowest of which was for the water tanks and the engines. The other two hid the crew cabins in an insane labyrinth of metal corridors and steps.
As John continued along the corridor, he saw two men, talking and laughing with each other. They both looked wiry-strong, their muscular arms rivered with popping blue veins. One man shook the other’s hand – John could tell he liked him – while the other man continued his conversation. John never stopped to talk; instead, he carried on walking, and before he knew it, he found his own cabin, which was right at the bottom of the ship. He extracted the key from his pocket and slid it into the metal lock with a steady hand. Turning it, he pushed and stepped into the cabin. Home sweet home.
The Assassin's Keeper Page 7