A Pagan's Nightmare

by Ray Blackston

  “But I’m a speed reader.”

  “No kidding?”

  She leaned closer—and her perfume almost blew me into Nevada. “Seriously. Mind if I read some? Won’t take long.”

  I handed her the first six chapters.

  Lynn frowned and held the papers out in front of her bosom, as if they were a pittance. “C’mon, you can give me more than that.”

  I handed her twelve more chapters.

  “That’s more like it.”

  Pages fell into her lap every ten to fifteen seconds—I timed her while I waited for Mylan. Nothing better to do.

  Lynn seemed mildly interested, then mildly engrossed, and a couple minutes later she even managed a giggle. “This golf scene in Augusta… ‘Owned by the Master.’ “

  “You play golf, too?”

  She dropped that page into her lap. “A five handicap. Plus I’m a Tiger fan.”

  I watched fifteen more minutes tick off the clock while Lynn—the speed-reading cross-dressing golfer—devoured Larry’s manuscript.

  The message from Angie had me feeling a bit more confident about my marriage, though I knew better than to call her from here. So while I waited for Mylan to summon me back to his office, I decided to return a call to Larry. I was scrolling through my list of numbers when my phone rang.

  Larry had beat me to it. His seventh call in two hours.

  “Hello?”

  “What’s happenin’, Ned? I gotta know.”

  I stood and walked over to the window. I turned my back to Lynn and whispered into my cell. “At the moment, Larry, a she-male with great big eyelashes and black fishnet stockings is reading your stuff.”

  “Don’t joke with me, Ned.”

  “I’m not joking. And she could probably beat us both at golf.”

  Larry paused, as if shaken by unexpected news. “But what about the producer?”

  “Patience, Larry. In the meantime, update me on the girl.…”

  “Miranda? She only went out once with the news guy. Yesterday she asked me out.”

  “No kidding?”

  “She packed a picnic and drove us to Stone Mountain. We even practiced our swing dance on a big rock. I’ll never figure women out.”

  “Me, either.” I returned to my seat and told Larry that the next time I saw him in Atlanta, I would give him all the details. I relished face-to-face meetings when giving clients good news—and I was praying for good news.

  It was now 2:30, and from the lobby I could hear the muffled voice of Mylan yelling at someone on his phone. I set my cell back in my briefcase and looked up to see Lynn batting those great big eyelashes at me.

  “Do ya mind?” she said, pointing at my open briefcase.

  “Not at all.”

  She had just begun chapter nineteen when Mylan opened his door and waved me back in. When I stood, Lynn reached out and touched my sleeve. “Can I keep this to read while you’re in with—”

  “Sure… Knock yourself out.”

  19

  LANNY THOUGHT HE SAW a body bag. At this late hour,behind Castro’s unoccupied estate, he ran down the pier and past the yellow light and dropped to his knees. He opened the bundle—only to discover four life preservers rolled up in a black tarp.

  Beyond him, some fifty feet ahead, seawater lapped against the yacht. Behind him, some two hundred feet away, the Former Donald, MC Deluxe, and DJ Ned ran hunched-over in the dark, across the back lawn and onto the pier. They had run only a few feet when they suddenly stopped and lay low, afraid they’d be spotted by guards.

  From his kneeling position at the tarp, Lanny turned and waved the men onward. “C’mon, hurry,” he whispered, though they couldn’t hear him from such a distance. “There’s no one around… yet.”

  The threesome hurried down the pier and arrived panting beside their friend. “Why did you run off and leave us?” Ned asked, hands on hips and gasping for breath.

  “I thought I saw a body. And I feared it could be her.”

  MC kicked the tarp and life preservers. “Man, I seen plenty of body bags in my time, and that don’t look like no body bag.”

  “Well, it did from behind that stone wall.”

  The Former Donald strode ahead. “Will you guys stop arguing what is and what isn’t a body bag and help me steal this yacht?”

  The four men walked quietly down the last section of pier and stopped at the first tie rope, which was at least two inches in diameter and very taut. It was tied to a spike near Ned’s feet. Lanny looked up at the bow of the yacht, some twenty feet over his head.

  “Man, this thing is huge.”

  “Told ya,” said the Former Donald.

  MC began tugging and untying the front rope. Ned’s effort to assist lasted only a few seconds. “Maybe we should get a couple of us on board and get the engines running before we untie any ropes.”

  MC paused, let go of the rope. “Yeah, s’pose so.” He followed the other three toward a set of chrome stairs leading up to the yacht’s cabin. He muttered under his breath, “I don’t need no pudgy DJ tellin’ me how to steal a boat.”

  Lanny was first up the stairs and onto the second deck. Brass railings abounded, as did pictures of the owner. The captain’s area was a living room all by itself—plush red sofas, wet bar, Cuban art on three walls.

  From behind the captain’s area a faux roof extended overhead, open-air at the rear and covering a red marble hot tub. From the hot tub, one could see out the back of the boat. On top of the roof were deck chairs and a shell-shaped pool.

  In the dark shade of the second level, Lanny stared at the hot tub, remembering how much Miranda had wanted one. They had even talked once of installing one on Lanny’s patio should they marry. I’m coming for you, M. I’m on my way.

  The other three men quickly ascended the stairs and boarded. They, too, stood with mouths agape, stunned at the opulence.

  “Man, look at the size of that hot tub.”

  “Yeah,” said Lanny, still lost in reflection. “Not bad.”

  The Former Donald moved to the captain’s chair and began opening and shutting drawers and cabinets.

  MC came up behind him. “What’re we lookin’ for?”

  “Keys, man. We aren’t going anywhere without keys.”

  All four men spread out around the second level and began looking under vases, behind pictures, in the cupboard, anywhere, for a set of keys.

  After ten minutes of searching, MC stepped behind the wet bar and pulled open a cabinet but found it empty. He tugged on a drawer but found it locked. Then he peeked up at the others from behind bottles of rum. “What do the Spanish words Haves extras mean?” he asked.

  “They mean ‘spare keys,’” Ned replied.

  MC found a corkscrew and pried the drawer open. Inside it he found sets of many different keys, all tagged with Spanish notations.

  “What does caja de herramientas mean?”

  “Toolbox,” said Ned, watching anxiously from the opposing side of the bar.

  MC read the next tag. “What about equipaje de pesca?”

  “Fishing gear locker.”

  “What about camion militar?”

  “Castro’s military Jeep.”

  “What about yate muy grande?”

  DJ Ned smiled. “It means ‘Very large yacht.’”

  MC tossed the keys to the Former Donald, who inserted them in the ignition, goosed the throttle a bit, and turned the key. The sweet low gurgling from the back of the yacht summoned a round of high-fives.

  “Untie the ropes,” the Former Donald whispered. “Hurry.”

  MC was first to reach the stairs, where he hesitated and changed his mind. “Nope, no way. I got first dibs on steering the yacht, so you guys all go untie them ropes.”

  Lanny wedged past him on the stairs, descended two at a time, and went at the knots with quiet tenacity.

  Ned, too, stepped around MC and onto the first step. On his way down to help Lanny, he spoke over his shoulder. “MC, how many yachts h
ave you ever backed out of a dock?”

  “None, but I did row a canoe in the Hudson River once.”

  Ned waved him on. “Come help us with the ropes. Let Duck back the boat out, then you and I can drive.”

  Though he grumbled, MC followed them down the stairs. “As long as I can be first.”

  “You can be first.”

  In seconds they untied the ropes and climbed again the chrome stairs to the second level. All three looked on anxiously as the Former Donald backed the yacht away and swung the nose to the starboard side. This was slow going, and all feared that the deep gurgling sound would awaken the guards.

  Lanny stood lookout on the bow, which was the end closest to the compound. Beyond the dark mansion he saw Havana in slumber—except for one distant, hazily lit section of downtown. This was where the four spotlights still shone on their silhouettes upon the brick wall.

  The yacht had motored only a stone’s throw from the dock when an impatient MC took over at the steering wheel. He liked the chrome wheel’s hefty feel. “One day I’ll have me one of these.”

  The Former Donald attempted to offer pointers, but MC said he could handle it. He increased the power and stood with feet spread wide. His years on the streets had taught him how to fake confidence, and he was faking it for all he was worth. The engine noise was louder than he preferred, however, and this caused him to contort his face into a worried wince. His expression never changed as the noise leveled off to a steady hum and the yacht lumbered out into the bay.

  “Everybody cool?” he asked his mates.

  “Yeah,” Ned replied, watching the depth gauge drop from twelve feet to fifteen. “Just keep going.”

  Light from a quarter moon angled across the waters and across Lanny’s sneakers, which were covered in paint droplets. He gripped the railing and squeezed, hoping his nerves would exit through his hands. He looked again in the direction of the spotlights and wondered if any guards had come to check on them. He glanced at his watch. 1:14 a.m.

  Only twenty-eight minutes had passed since the foursome had bolted from work detail and ran down the streets toward Castro’s estate. Ned and the Former Donald kept lookout on the port and starboard sides, respectively. Lanny, however, remained on the bow, where he found himself with a bad case of the shakes. He was still not used to being on the run from authorities. He wasn’t even sure if his shakes were from the escape, or from the growing realization that he’d been looking for Miranda for two weeks and wasn’t a bit closer than when he began.

  Everything visible—the pier, the stone wall, the Castro estate— shrank in the darkness behind him, and he tried his best to consider the positives:

  A successful escape from the zealots.

  An ocean that appeared vacant.

  A quarter moon instead of full.

  MC Deluxe doing an adequate job of steering the yacht.

  So far, so good.

  It was 3:00 a.m. when Lanny discovered the big-screen TV in the stateroom, 3:10 when the Former Donald discovered French soaps in the showers, 3:15 when Ned discovered that there was no food on board. Only a stash of Cuban cigars in a cabinet, a single Reese’s peanut butter cup and a case of bottled water in the fridge, one frozen mullet in the freezer.

  Fish bait, at best.

  A toilet flushed. Then, up from the cabin came the Former Donald, gushing over his find. “Nine bedrooms, eight bathrooms, expensive soaps, a pool table. This baby is loaded.”

  He, DJ Ned, and Lanny peeked in each of the rooms—including a pink room set up for children—before claiming separate bedrooms. MC, without taking his hands from the wheel nor his eyes from the sea, claimed the stateroom. All that brass and hardwood was irresistible, and as captain MC felt entitled.

  Also hard to resist for MC was the shiny silver horn mounted left of the steering wheel. He wanted so badly to sound the horn to celebrate their escape. But he knew this was not wise, so he just rubbed the horn’s surface with his hand. He steered the yacht farther north—in the general direction of Miami—while his three passengers took showers and scrubbed the paint from their arms.

  Lanny and the others emerged one by one from below. Each was clean, each had wet, uncombed hair, and each had a towel around his neck. Lanny was first to ease into the red marble hot tub. He was quickly joined by DJ Ned, in Florida Gator gym shorts, and the Former Donald, who sported the boxers with the little ducks smiling from every square inch.

  The three exhaled a collective “Ahh” as the water jets hit their backs. Each man lay back with his head against the red marble, eyes shut, letting the pain of imprisonment bubble off while MC whistled at the helm. He loved being the skipper, though he was not a good whistler.

  Ned centered himself over a water jet and said, “This is so much better than white-washing graffiti, ain’t it, MC?”

  MC gave a thumbs-up and increased the throttle.

  Lanny got his mind off Miranda by thinking of the Cuban people. He wondered if they thought conditions were worse under communism or under Marvinism. He figured brainwashing was a large part of either doctrine, and deemed it a tie.

  20

  AFTER THE ESCAPEES had motored a safe distance from Havana—they had traveled ten nautical miles, and Cuba had just faded from sight—DJ Ned was the first to break the silence. He was sprawled in the hot tub as if he owned it. “What’s everybody going to do when we dock back in the States?”

  “Besides run?” asked the Former Donald. He and Lanny had just reentered the tub.

  “Yeah. . .besides that.”

  The Former Donald put his hands behind his head, as if he had it all figured out. “I have two friends in Orlando who are also posers. We’ll leave Florida and probably head for Montana in my truck. My uncle lives up there, says things aren’t so bad, less crowded.”

  Ned lifted his hands from underwater, admired his wrinkled fingertips for a moment, and pointed at Lanny. “How ‘bout you, Lann-o?”

  “I’ll just continue my search. I’ll run from whomever I need to run from, and pose when I need to pose. I’ll cash out my savings and won’t stop searching until I find Miranda.”

  The others all gave a thumbs-up or an affirming nod to Lanny’s resolve. MC Deluxe turned from the captain’s chair and said, “I never met any woman I felt that strongly about. I’m a career man, and I’m gonna continue my career… somewhere.”

  Lanny lay his head back against the edge of the hot tub and sighed. He had nothing else to add except, “What about you, Ned?”

  “I may try to get to England. I got a DJ buddy over there, so maybe I’ll move and change my name and go incognito.”

  “DJ Incognito!” said MC Deluxe, staring out the windshield, one hand on the wheel. “’Bout time we had some music.” He switched the yacht to auto-pilot and began pressing buttons on the CD player. The yacht’s stereo was mounted in teakwood, and situated so that a captain could reach it without getting out of his chair.

  MC opened the CD changer and found six CDs already in the system.

  “Man,” he said, shocked at what he’d discovered. “Castro listens to Mariah Carey.”

  Ned kept his eyes shut in the hot tub but shook his head in unbelief. “No Springsteen or Journey?”

  “Naw, man, none of that white stuff. Just Mariah and J-Lo and, aw, you guys won’t believe this!” He waved a shiny disc in the air.

  “What is that?” Lanny asked.

  “Castro got himself a Backstreet Boys CD.”

  Lanny woke early. At 6:55 a.m. he staggered out of his bedroom, came up on to the second level, and wandered over to the starboard side. He watched the sun rising over the Atlantic. Land was not visible in any direction, and he was shocked to see that their yacht was now adrift.

  No one at the helm. No captain. No gurgling engine noise.

  Lanny hurried below and found DJ Ned snoring in a blue bedroom, the Former Donald sleeping quietly in a green bedroom, and no sign at all of MC Deluxe. Lanny checked the stateroom and the other vacant bedro
oms, finding nothing but some crumbs on the floor of the pink room. Someone’s mess. He worried that MC had become shark food.

  And Lanny was largely correct.

  After an exhaustive search of the vessel, he found MC seated at the stern, hidden by a large ice cooler. MC’s legs dangled over the side, dark shades over his eyes. Blood seaped from his upper right arm, clotting fast but still in a slow stream toward his elbow. In his hands he held a thick fishing pole.

  Lanny rushed over to him. “Man, I thought you’d fallen overboard. How’d you cut your arm?”

  “Nope, didn’t fall. I read in a book once that certain fish can smell blood from a mile away, and so I cut myself and dripped it on our frozen mullet. Then I stuck a chunk of the mullet on my hook. Somebody gotta catch some food, ya know.”

  “Good thinking, MC,” Lanny said, impressed with his resourcefulness but queasy over the bloody arm. He sat down beside his new friend. “Any bites?”

  “Naw, but I just started five minutes ago. There’s another pole in the locker.” MC pointed to the closet beside the captain’s quarters, where he had spent the night among red satin sheets below a framed painting of Castro himself.

  Lanny retrieved the second pole and tied on a hook. He sat back down at the stern and baited his hook with a chunk of MC’s mullet.

  MC wiped some blood from his arm and spread it all over Lanny’s bait. “Now you’re ready. Throw it on out there.”

  Ten minutes later Lanny had not had a bite. Ten minutes and twenty seconds later, MC’s pole began quivering. Then bending. Then quivering and bending some more.

  Lanny’s whoop was followed closely by MC’s holler.

  It was only 7:10 a.m., and they had forgotten their comrades were asleep. But as long as there was a fish on someone’s line, there was going to be some whooping and hollering.

  The Former Donald came running out of his bedroom and onto the back deck, his hair sticking up at odd angles. “What are you guys yelling about? Y’all see some zealots? Are they chasing us?” He turned and looked in all directions, saw nothing but blue sea. “And just where are we?”