“Bro, have you ever read the actual accounts of the Celeste?” That superior grin came back to Eric’s face. “Most of the facts people give about it are from a fucking Arthur Conan Doyle story. That ship was found abandoned off the coast of Portugal, not anywhere near the Triangle, and there wasn’t anything mysterious about it.”
“Amazing.” Amber snorted, finally pushing back from the stack of books and highlighters in front of her. “You’ve never studied for a test in your life, but you know all that useless crap.”
“History Channel.” Eric finished his beer and tossed the bottle at a nearby trashcan. It missed, shattering against the concrete. He belched and laughed. “So you see, Cherrywine, there’s no reason to get those edible panties of yours in a bunch. Nothing scary is gonna happen out there.”
Justin raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you wanna go through it so bad?”
“To say I did it! Like jumping out of an airplane or some shit. I figure, if I gotta take the boat back to my father anyway, might as well make it interesting.” His smile drooped. “Besides, like I said, there are a few Sargasso stories that don’t add up.”
“What’s a ‘sargasm?’” Cherrywine asked.
“It’s when women tell Eric he’s good in bed,” Amber answered. Justin put a hand over his mouth to hold back laughter.
“Sargasso,” Eric corrected, shooting Amber a black look, “is the sea where the Triangle’s at. There are a few ships that just…BLINK!…vanished out there. Nobody knows where they went. No wreckage, no nothing.”
Cherrywine shook her head vehemently. “Uh uh, no way. I don’t wanna go.”
Eric swung his leg down, leaned over the table, and took off his sunglasses. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. “Okay, listen. It’s dangerous, sure, but I know the secret for getting through in one piece.”
Cherrywine came forward also, straining to hear him, her eyes big and round and moist. “What?”
“Whatever you do…you have to make sure…you stay in your room…and fuck the whole time you’re there!” He punctuated this by grabbing her arm, yanking her up from her seat, and pulling her into his lap. His hands roamed across her while she tittered and made feeble attempts to stop him. Justin tried not to use the opportunity to admire her, but it was hard. These were the type of women Eric surrounded himself with in a never-ending parade: completely reconditioned chassis, but the engine never fired on all cylinders. They didn’t stick around more than a week or two, and a few of them—usually the ones of Cherrywine’s social caliber—seemed to get a perpetual beaten-dog look in their eye when Eric got finished with them. Justin would see them slinking around campus days or weeks later, but they invariably scurried away whenever he tried to talk to them.
He realized Amber was watching him watch her. He expected a frown, but instead there was an oddly contemplative pucker to her thin lips.
“Hey!” Eric shouted suddenly, pounding a fist on the tabletop. “What the fuck’re you staring at?”
Justin jumped. He thought at first Eric was talking to him, but his gaze was directed elsewhere.
Their table sat at beach level, an easy stroll down to the sand and the small vessel piers sandwiched between the enormous cruise ship docks. The restaurant next door, a seafood joint called Bahama Best, had an outdoor area as well, but theirs was on an elevated sundeck overlooking the ocean. The table closest to the railing just above them was taken by five men, and all of them were staring down at Cherrywine as she squirmed in Eric’s lap.
“What’s up, shitheads?” Eric flew out of his chair, almost throwing Cherrywine to the ground. She managed to land awkwardly on her hands and one foot and then hurried to get out of Eric’s way.
Above them, the five men stayed perfectly still. One black man, one white, and three olive-skinned. Had to be locals. Three of them were pretty big too, muscles on top of muscles, the shirtless white guy a rippling tapestry of tattoos.
They looked like hard men, little more than big, hairy gorillas, and Justin had no doubt they could take Eric apart piece-by-piece without even breaking a sweat.
“Hey Eric…dude…maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
“You looking at her?” Eric shouted, pointing at Cherrywine. Her cheeks reddened as she looked at the ground. “Or maybe it’s my sweet ass you want, you faggots!”
“Eric, this is serious!” Amber hissed.“Those guys are gonna rip your spine out!”
“I ain’t scared of those island trash rump-riders! Hey fuckers, look somewhere else right now, or we’re gonna have a serious problem!”
Justin waited for them to respond. Waited for them to stand up, come down here, and administer a much-deserved beating that would put them both in the hospital.
Because Eric would never back down. Never had, in his entire life. And whatever obstacle he couldn’t squash with his fists, Donnie Renquist did with his money. Not to mention, if a fight started now, Justin would have to back Eric up, right? The guy was his best friend, had been since elementary school, and just because they hadn’t hung out much the last couple of years—with Eric taking up residence at the Delta Sig frat house, and Justin still living at home with his folks so he could afford to go to school—didn’t mean he could stand by and watch while Eric was used as a punching bag.
But, to Justin’s utter amazement, one of the men signaled the others, and they all looked away, toward where the ocean and sky seemed to stretch to infinity.
3
“That’s right, bitches!” Eric couldn’t resist shouting as he sat down. Probably a mistake to be stirring up a brawl—the less attention drawn to them right now, the better—but he just felt too good, too…invincible. He fervently believed in destiny, and it wasn’t part of his to get pinched by whatever passed for backwater Caribbean law enforcement around here.
“Goddamn you.” Amber shoved her chair back as she stood, slamming textbooks and throwing them into her bag. He caught the title of a couple: The Essence of Language, and Speech Mechanics. What was this bitch studying again? Poetry? Latin? Justin had told him once, but he’d forgotten. “You truly make me sick, you know that?”
“Oh boo hoo, Amber. I don’t know if I can go on living without your respect.”
She grabbed her bag and stormed off, walking barefoot across the hot sand. Justin ran after her, pussywhipped as ever, but she pulled away and stomped her narrow ass up the sidewalk toward the hotel. If any woman had ever tried that bullshit with Eric, she’d be walking home. Or, in this case, swimming home. He heard her say something to Justin about ‘needing to be alone.’ Bitch had to be on the rag, with a menstrual flow as heavy as the Mississippi.
Justin came back and sank into his chair. “Thanks a lot.”
“Not my fault, bro. I told you to never date a woman who can form her own opinions.”
“Advice from the master. You should write a book.”
“If she’s not back by four, we set sail without her.”
Justin frowned at him.
“I’m just saying, we’re on a schedule here!”
“I can go after her, if you want,” Cherrywine offered. “Sometimes a girl just needs to talk to another girl, ya know?”
Eric almost laughed at that. Judging from those uptight, frigid bitches Amber surrounded herself with at school, being saddled with this airhead probably wouldn’t improve her disposition. Which was exactly why he said, “You go do that, babe.”
“Okay!” Cherrywine paused in the act of getting up and gave him a beseeching, sidelong glance. “But don’t leave without me, honey, okay?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He reached out and grabbed a handful of her ass cheek as she stood, a mound so perfect and tightly curved it looked like half a basketball. She squealed and playfully slapped at him, but he thought he caught the slightest look of annoyance on her face. Maybe ol’ Cherrywine had a bit more fight in her than he thought.
He’d find out tonight, one way or another.
&n
bsp; From the corner of his eye, he caught Justin staring after her too.
“Nice, huh?” he asked. “You wanna take her for a test drive when I get finished?”
“No thanks, I’m watching my syphilis intake. So what strip club did you pick this one up in?”
“Love Makers. Place down by the airport. Had her give me a lap dance while I was waiting to check in for the flight.”
Justin’s jaw dropped. “I was joking, man. You really mean to tell me you just met that girl and you asked her to go to the Bahamas with you?”
“Sure, why not? She quit her job on the spot.” Eric shrugged. The stripper—who’d been wearing a g-string that had more in common with dental floss than clothing when he’d met her—was so excited, you’d think he just told her there was a half-off sale in the skank section of Victoria’s Secret. “I thought it was just gonna be the two of us trolling for women on the islands, but I had to bring someone after you invited the Ice Queen.”
Justin sighed. “Seriously man, you gotta cool it with that shit. I need you and Amber to get along. Preferably for the long term, but if not, at least for this trip.”
“Why? It’s not like you’re marrying her.” Eric noticed the look that passed over his friend’s face. “No.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not.”
“Brought the ring with me. I figured, you know, we’re out on the ocean, it’s romantic…”
“Bro…you’ve known her, what? A month?”
“Asshole. We’ve been together since sophomore year.”
“You are one sorry sack of whipped shit, my friend. Getting married to the first piece of ass that comes along? You will regret that.”
“I disagree. And I really just want everything to go smoothly when I ask her tonight.” Justin stuck a finger in his face. “You swear we’ll be back before Spring Break is over?”
“One night on the ocean tonight, a quick stop in Bermuda tomorrow, and then it’s straight back to Philly. My dad wants the boat back by Friday.”
“And why are we stopping in Bermuda again?”
Eric waved the question away. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll take five minutes, tops. You don’t even have to get off the boat.”
“All right. I’m holding you to that.”
“C’mon, let’s get the supplies aboard. I wanna be ready to shag ass when they get back.”
They stood and plowed across the beach, heading toward the wharf where his father’s boat, the MishMasher, stayed docked for nine months of the year.
As they reached the first of the wooden planks, Eric glanced back at the table of locals he’d taunted.
All five men stared right back, silent and still as gargoyles.
4
Damon knew it was going to be a shitty day.
First, his alarm didn’t go off. His roommate had eaten all the Froot Loops again, leaving him without breakfast. His boss at Bahama Best harangued him for being late and threatened to fire him.
But, when he saw the customers at table nine, he figured things were about to get worse.
Mambo, the bloated Bahamian who cooked in the back, slid Damon a tray with a large pitcher of beer and five mugs.
“Who’s this go to?” Damon asked, rushing to tie the strings on his Bahama Best apron. The restaurant logo—a picture of a boiling lobster with little sad brows floating above the eyes on their stalks—had made him swear off seafood forever.
“Table nine, near da railin, mon.”
Damon looked.
The five men seated at table nine were all staring intently over the edge of the sundeck, so he could study them without being noticed. Three were Latin descent; either Cubano or maybe Puerto Rican. Two of these were fit and muscled, but the third was a scrawny little dude with the build of a toothpick. One was black, definitely a native, sporting a nest of short dreadlocks as thick as snakes. The handle of a machete was visible over one shoulder, strapped to his back in a sheath. And the last man was a huge, shirtless hulking white guy, possibly American, whose biceps were as big around as Damon’s head. His chest, back and arms were covered in a rainbow of tattoos; barely an inch of non-pigmented skin remained. Damon might have said they were construction workers, but the closest work being done was the renovation of the Ocean Towers Hotel, nearly two miles down the beach. Long way to go to grab a beer during your break.
“Watch your step, white boy,” Mambo cautioned, flipping a filet on the grill.
“Right.” Rough customers occasionally came into the restaurant, but they were mostly tourists that got drunk and ran their mouths. Damon slid the tray off the counter and started across the sundeck, holding up a hand to keep the sun out of his eyes. Halfway there, the group turned in their chairs and spotted him.
He reached the table, tray balanced on his shoulder, and was opening his mouth to greet them when a shape lunged from the shadows under the table with a roar like an 8-cylinder engine.
Damon let out a squawk. His feet tangled as he tried to jump away. He felt himself falling backward. The tray of beer flew into the air as his hands followed instinct and moved to catch him. He sprawled on the wooden deck and looked up.
In front of him was the ugliest, mangiest pitbull he’d ever seen, its face nothing but scars and hardened flesh and crooked teeth. It lunged at him again, and he yelped and covered his face before realizing it was chained to the bottom of the table. It regarded him with cloudy eyes as growls and saliva spilled out of it slack jowls.
“Down, Cheech,” someone at the table above said in a thick, Spanish accent. The dog reluctantly retreated back under the table, where it scowled at him.
“Jesus!” Damon bounded to his feet. “You know, we don’t allow dogs in…”
He trailed.
The tray and mugs had rolled out of the way on the deck, the glass not even cracking. At least that wouldn’t come out of his paycheck. But the large pitcher of beer had somehow landed upside down in the lap of the tattooed guy, on a pair of black leather pants slick and shiny with alcohol.
Now that he was closer, Damon could see the tattoos were all intricate drawings of interwoven animals. Hawks, snakes, wolves, bears, sharks; anything and everything predatory. The guy’s face was rugged as stone, with a jaw big enough to chew through steel. Long, blonde, greasy hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes, cold chips of dull mica, regarded Damon without moving.
The thin, wiry Hispanic guy seated next to him cackled shrilly. “Oooo, little cabrón, you done messed the fuck up now!”
Tattoo picked back up the pitcher and set it on the table with smooth, measured movements. Then he opened his mouth and said slowly, “This was my favorite pair of pants, mate.”
“I…I’m really sorry, I—”
“Sorry ain’t gonna take the lager out of ‘em, now is it? Sorry ain’t gonna make you any less of a dumb shit.”
“I…I-I…” Damon looked around the table for help. The dreadlocked native reclined in his chair, looking up at the sky, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, but there was a lopsided grin on his lips as he listened. The skinny guy bounced in his seat with anticipation. That left the two Latino men on the far side of the table; one with a ponytail that had his face planted in one palm, the other watching Damon with a serene, neutral expression.
“Speak up, mate,” Tattoo prompted. The accent leaned toward British or Australian. He put a giant-sized hand against Damon’s shoulder and gave him a half-hearted shove that nearly threw him back off his feet. The little one laughed like a hyena, his voice as squeaky as a teenager breaching puberty. “Whatcha gonna do about this?”
“I’ll…bring you some more beer?”
Ponytail gave a sad shake of his head.
Tattoo moved fast. A muscular arm grabbed Damon by the front of his apron and dragged him almost down into the chair until their faces were an inch apart. The man used his free hand to reach down to his boot, and the next thing Damon knew, the blade of a wickedly thin knife was pressed against the underside of
his jaw. From the angle, he knew his body blocked anyone else in the restaurant from seeing what was happening. A shivering numbness froze up his muscles even in the day’s heat.
“Maybe I oughta make you pay for ‘em, mate,” his tormentor rasped in his ear.
“Make ‘im pay, Rabid!” the skinny dude agreed.
“Make you pay in blood,” Tattoo continued. The knife pressed against Damon’s unprotected throat felt like a razor-thin line of fire.
“I’m sorry,” Damon squeaked. He was afraid to move. Any more pressure and that blade would begin cutting through flesh. Warm piss pressed against the floodgate of his bladder.
“That’s enough.” This came from the Latino that had yet to speak. His eyes, two clear ovals the color of ripe kiwi skin, were almost unnaturally calm.
Tattoo glanced at him across the table. “But Cap’n—”
“Let him go. Now.”
The pressure on Damon’s throat disappeared. Tattoo flipped the knife and made it disappear as expertly as a magician before releasing his grip on the apron. Damon straightened and backed out of reach.
The man that had saved him—tall and lean, with short-cropped black hair and a floral-pattern Tommy Bahama shirt unbuttoned far enough to reveal the smooth, tanned expanse of his chest—said, “Just bring us another round, kid.”
Damon nodded quickly and found the strength to run. He looked over his shoulder several times on his way across the restaurant and back to the cook’s counter.
“Mambo,” he gasped. “Mambo, those guys threatened me with a knife!”
The cook looked up from his grill. “Who, Lito’s crew?” He chuckled. “Didn’t I tell you to watch your step?”
“You know them?” Damon looked back at the table. Once more, their attention was focused in the direction of the docks.
“Sure, dey come in whenever dey in port. Hadn’t seen dem much lately. Heard a rumor dey mighta pissed off de wrooooong people.”
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