by Dave Barry
“Because,” said Wilde, holding up his foam cup, “I have been drinking.”
“TWO BUD LIGHTS, ONE HEINEKEN, ONE BOURBONIT rocks, one Stoli diet Coke,” said Fay.
“Stoli and diet Coke?” said Joe Sarmino.
“That’s what the lady said,” said Fay.
“OK,” said Joe, picking up the Stolichnaya bottle. It did not actually contain Stolichnaya vodka; it contained a vodka called Wolf Dog, which was made in Dayton, Ohio, and which the Extravaganza purchased in ten-gallon plastic jugs. All the other vodka bottles displayed on the bar—Finlandia, Absolut, Smirnoff, etc.—were also filled with Wolf Dog. It had been the experience of the Extravaganza management that, although the customers often specified premium brands, most of them could not tell the difference, especially in mixed drinks, between Stolichnaya and Vick’s VapoRub.
On the TV screen, a man was broadcasting from a helicopter. Above him and to the right were big red letters that said NEWSPLEX NINE NEWSCHOPPER HELICAM. He was gesturing out of an open hatchway, pointing toward a scene below him, a residential neighborhood flooded with dark water, a half-dozen police and fire-rescue vehicles down there with their lights flashing. The image was bouncing around.
“What’s going on?” said Fay, pointing to the TV.
“I think maybe somebody got hurt,” said Joe, putting drinks on her tray. “I wasn’t watching too close.”
The reporter in the helicopter was saying, “. . . can see, these gusting winds are making it very difficult.”
“I’m surprised a helicopter can even fly in this,” said Fay.
“Must be a big story,” said Joe.
Now there was a little window on the lower left of the screen, showing the male and female anchors.
“Clark,” the male anchor said, “can you see from there exactly where the downed lines are?”
“Bill, I. . . hold it,” said the reporter. The helicopter appeared to be gyrating wildly now, the hatchway behind the man showing sky, then ground, then sky. The reporter appeared to be grabbing for something, then he disappeared from sight. A muffled voice said shit.
“Did somebody just say ‘shit’?” said Fay.
“Sound like,” said Joe.
“Clark?” said the male anchor.
On the screen, there was more gyrating, then, suddenly, blackness.
The female anchor said, “We seem to be having some technical problems with that live feed.”
The male anchor said, “We’ll be right back.”
“They’re busy tonight,” said Fay.
“Lotta news happening,” said Joe, putting the drinks on Fay’s tray. “Here you go. Stoli and diet Coke, man.”
“Thanks, Joe,” said Fay. “Listen, after I deliver these, I’m gonna duck outside and call my mother, so if Manny asks where I am, tell him I went to the ladies’ room, OK?”
“OK, but I don’t think we see Manny for a while.”
“Why not?”
“You feel that?” said Joe, pointing toward the floor. “We slowing down.”
Fay listened for a moment, then said, “Why?”
“I don’t know, but sometimes the boat slows down out here, and when that happens, Manny goes to down there in the back with some guys, and you don’t see him again for a while.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” said Joe. “I don’t want to know. On this boat, the less you know, the better.”
ON THE FIRST DECK, THE ABUELAS WERE IN THEIR usual corner, punching the PLAY buttons on their usual quarter slot machines, complaining in Spanish about their usual bad luck.
Ni agua, they were saying, mantralike. Not even water. But their poor return on investment did not keep them from shoving more quarters into the slots. They did not notice that the boat was slowing, and they barely glanced up as Conrad Conch passed by, a mass of shuffling pinkness, heading toward the stern.
Nine
THE INSTANT THAT JOHNNY AND THE CONTUSIONS stopped playing, Connie, the grieving divorcée, reappeared, and before the other band members had put their amps on STANDBY, she and Jock were in a full-body clamp, mouths locked, with major tongue penetration.
“Hey, Jock,” said Ted, to Jock’s back. “Your wife asked me to remind you to pick up some Pampers on the way home.”
“For the baby,” said Wally.
“He means the babies,” corrected Ted. “The three little babies you have at home, with your wife.”
“Who you’re married to,” said Wally.
Jock unlocked his mouth from Connie’s and said to her, “They’re just messing with you. I don’t have kids.”
“I don’t give a shit,” said Connie, locking back on.
“So,” Ted said to Wally, “Johnny and me were gonna go out on deck and try to identify constellations in the subtropical sky.”
“I’ll catch up with you,” said Wally. “I’m going downstairs for a little while.”
“Really?” said Ted. “What’s downstairs?”
“Nobody,” said Wally.
“With the legs,” said Ted. “Good luck with that. How much time you figure we have?”
Wally looked at his watch. The band was supposed to take a fifteen-minute break. “You think we can get away with a half hour?” he said.
“Fine by me,” said Ted. “Question is, can Jock survive a half hour?”
Jock unlocked. “I’ll be fine,” he said.
“You’ll be fine more than once,” said Connie.
“We’ll be in the kitchen,” said Jock, heading toward the buffet area, his right hand on Connie’s butt, her left hand on his.
“They make a nice couple,” said Ted.
“A lot in common,” said Wally.
“He’s gonna do her in Emeril’s kitchen?” said Johnny.
“That’s Jock,” said Wally. “Always with the romantic gesture.”
“Nothing says true love,” said Wally, “like getting nailed on a stainless-steel counter.”
“Twice,” said Ted. “In a half hour.”
“I bet there’s roaches in there the size of raccoons,” said Johnny.
“They’ll just have to wait their turn,” said Wally. “Jock is only human.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” said Ted. “Anyway, we’ll catch you later.”
“Don’t get blown off the ship,” said Wally. “Or, if you do, leave the car keys.”
“Seems to me,” said Ted, “you’re the one who’s gonna get blown off.”
ON THE FIRST DECK, MARA PURVIS WAS ATTEMPTING to explain a point of etiquette to the three dudes wearing ball caps backward.
“What you need to understand,” she was saying, “is that just because you buy a Bud Light from a person, that doesn’t mean you can grab that person’s ass. Even when you give the person four dollars and say keep the change, which is a tip of a whole fifty cents, that is not the same thing as an agreement between you and me that you have purchased the right to touch any portion of my body, OK?”
“We were just having some fun,” said the first dude.
“But it’s not fun for me,” said Mara. “Don’t you get that?”
“Get what?” said the dude.
Mara sighed. “Let me ask you something,” she said. “Do you have a sister?”
“Yeah,” said the dude.
“Would you want one of these guys grabbing her ass?” said Mara.
“I grab his sister’s ass all the time,” said the second dude, who then dodged a punch from the first dude.
“His sister is a ho,” said the third dude, dodging a second punch.
“But seriously,” said Mara. “You get my point, right?”
“Yeah,” said the first dude.
“Then tell me what it is,” said Mara.
“If I want to touch your ass,” said the first dude, “I need to give you a bigger tip.” All three dudes cracked up.
“Jesus,” said Mara, shaking her head.
Arnie walked up, trailed by Phil. “Hey there, gorgeo
us,” he said. “These ruffians giving you any trouble?”
“Not really,” said Mara. “They’re just young and stupid. Some day they’ll be older. Although probably just as stupid.”
“If we’re so stupid, and you’re so smart,” said the third dude, “how come we’re college students, and you’re a cocktail waitress?”
“College students,” said Arnie. “Now THAT’S an achievement. They only let in, what, seventy-eight million people a year?”
“What’s this got to do with you, Pops?” said the first dude.
“I ain’t your pop,” said Arnie. To Phil, he said, “How come everybody thinks I’m their pop?”
“You got a paternal way about you,” said Phil.
“We’ll catch you later, sweets,” said the first dude, to Mara. “When we need more beer.” He faked a grab at Mara’s butt, and she flinched.
The dudes drifted off, laughing. Mara watched them for a moment, shook her head, said, “What am I doing here?”
“Hey,” said Arnie, touching her shoulder, “you’re not taking those idiots seriously, are you?”
“No,” said Mara. “I’m just, I think maybe I’m getting too old for this, you know? Night after night.”
“Hey,” said Arnie, “you’re not old.”
“Trust us,” said Phil. “We know from old.”
“You got your whole life ahead of you,” said Arnie.
“I know,” said Mara. “That’s the problem. I mean, I look ahead at my whole life, and all I see is more nights like this, and more idiots like that.” She patted Arnie’s hand. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue, but I got to get back to work. You guys need anything?”
“No, thanks. We’re heading outside, get some air. Getting smoky in here.”
“It’s blowing pretty hard out there,” said Mara.
“We’re going out the back of the boat,” said Arnie. “Out of the wind.”
“That’s supposed to be crew only back there,” said Mara. “They don’t even let us go back there. Manny’s real strict about that.”
“So if he sees us, he’ll tell us to leave,” said Arnie. “That’s the beauty of being an old fart. We go wherever we want, but nobody ever gets mad. They just figure we’re senile.”
“Which we are,” said Phil.
“Speak for yourself,” said Arnie. “I have all my faculties.”
“You have them,” said Phil, “but you don’t always bring them with you.”
“Anyway,” said Mara, “be careful out there.”
She headed back into the crowd for more drink orders. Arnie and Phil headed toward the stern. They paused by the first-deck bar to look up at the TV set, which showed a male announcer and a female announcer, both looking grim. In the upper right-hand corner of the screen were large red letters spelling out the words KILLER STORM DEATH TOLL MOUNTS, and under that, NEWSCHOPPER NINE CRASHES WITH 3 ABOARD.
“. . . apparent death toll raised to six in this killer storm,” the male was saying, “as, incredibly, the lives of three more members of the NewsPlex Nine news family apparently were claimed just minutes ago in a tragic helicopter crash in Westchester.” He looked at the female anchor.
“We have dispatched the NewsPlex Nine Satellite News Van to the scene,” she said, “and we hope to have a live report from there shortly.” She looked at the male anchor.
“Already,” he said, “tributes have begun flowing in to the NewsPlex Nine NewsCenter in memory of these three courageous . . .”
“Are they saying six people are dead?” said Phil.
“Sounded like that,” said Arnie.
“Six people dead in this storm,” said Phil, “and I let you get me out on a boat.”
“Don’t be an old lady,” said Arnie. “This is a big boat here, run by professionals. They wouldn’t leave the dock if it wasn’t safe. You see anybody dying out here?”
“Not yet,” said Phil.
FRANK LAY ON HIS SIDE WITH HIS FACE TOWARD the gunwale, keeping his mouth open so the blood could flow out. It felt like the bleeding was worse now. He wondered how much longer he could keep losing blood at this rate. Although currently that was not his biggest concern. His biggest concern was what Tark was going to do to him. He understood now that Tark wasn’t keeping him alive for any rational purpose, something that might give Frank a tactical chance, a bargaining lever. No, Tark was keeping him alive because Tark was a psycho dirtbag who enjoyed hurting people. He had taken his time doing whatever he did to Juan, Kaz telling him hurry up, man, get it over with, Tark answering relax, we got plenty of time, then resuming his knife work, humming along to Juan’s agony, sometimes whistling.
Whistling.
Juan had still been alive when they heaved him over the side. Even in the noise of the storm, Frank could hear him moaning. Then the splash. Frank hoped for his friend’s sake that he would die quickly.
That had been a few minutes ago. Frank thought he’d heard somebody go back into the cabin, but he wasn’t sure; he couldn’t tell if Tark was still out here, behind him. And he didn’t want to roll over and look. He hated to admit it, but he was afraid to look. He felt like a child, pretending that if he held still and closed his eyes, the monster wouldn’t see him.
More minutes went by. Frank still heard nobody behind him. He began to feel a tiny tickling of hope. It had to be time for the rendezvous. That would keep Tark busy. Obviously, Tark was planning some kind of ambush, but maybe somebody on the ship would notice something wrong. Maybe somebody would see Frank lying here. Maybe they’d be ready for whatever Tark was planning to do. Maybe they’d rescue Frank. Maybe . . .
“Hey there, Chief,” said Tark’s rasping voice, right in his ear. “Bet you thought I forgot about you, huh?”
FAY UNLOADED HER DRINKS, COLLECTED HER money, pretended not to see a couple of customers waving her over, looked around for Manny, and started for the port door to the outside second deck. She was almost there when she was intercepted by Wally, who was pretending that he just happened to spontaneously be in the area.
“Oh, hey there,” he said, in an unnaturally perky voice.
“Hi,” said Fay. “I’m just on my way out to . . .”
“Lovely weather, huh?” he said. He sounded to Fay as though he were reading a script.
She said, “Yeah, well, I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .”
“I thought I saw Leonardo da Vinci,” said Wally.
“What?” said Fay.
“DiCaprio, I mean,” said Wally. “Leonardo DiCaprio.” Sweat beads were popping out on his upper lip.
“Leonardo DiCaprio?” said Fay.
“From the Titanic,” said Wally. “Leonardo DiCaprio. So I don’t want to make you nervous. Ha ha!” He wiped his lip with his sleeve.
“Listen,” said Fay. “I’m going to walk away now, and you’re going to stay right here, OK?”
“OK,” said Wally. “I just meant, the weather . . .”
“I have to go now,” said Fay, going.
Wally watched her until she was through the door, then he turned and began slowly and methodically banging his forehead against the front of a slot machine. A large woman, a veteran slots player holding a plastic cup of quarters, paused on her way to the ladies’ room and watched Wally for a moment. Then she put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Honey, I know exactly how you feel.”
AT THE STERN OF THE EXTRAVAGANZA, MANNY Arquero, Hank Wilde, and four other men stood on the deck above a platform that jutted out from the ship, just above the water, illuminated by two bluish lights mounted flush on the ship’s hull. Arquero was holding an AK-47 set on full automatic. Wilde was holding a cell phone. Stacked behind them were twenty-two extra-large black polyester duffel bags, each one jammed with cash.
“There he is,” said Arquero.
Wilde peered through the rain and saw the pale shape of the fishing boat, its lights out, moving slowly toward the ship. He speed-dialed a number on his cell phone.
Lou Tarant answered immediately
.
“What,” he said.
“We’re bringing home Chinese food tonight,” said Wilde.
“OK, good,” said Tarant. “Before you hang up, you seen the guy that owns the restaurant?”
“The guy that owns it?”
“Yeah. Is he there? At the restaurant?”
“Nope. Least not as far as I know.”
“Well, keep an eye out, and let me know if you see him, OK? Because I want to talk to him right away. I don’t want him to go nowhere ’til I talk to him, understand?”
“OK,” said Wilde, but Tarant had hung up. Wilde turned to Arquero.
“You seen Bobby Kemp tonight?” he said.
“No,” said Arquero. “He don’t come on the ship much. Why?”
“Lou is looking for him. Says he wants to talk to him right away. Says don’t let him go nowhere.”
“That don’t sound too good for Bobby,” said Arquero, smiling.
The fishing boat was close now, coming into the shelter of the massive bulk of the Extravaganza, which was pointing straight into the wind, not moving on its own power, just drifting with the Gulf Stream. The fishing boat began to turn, getting ready to back in and raft up with its stern against the ship. Arquero unclipped a two-way radio from his belt and held it to his lips.
“Captain,” he said.
“Right here,” said the voice of Eddie Smith.
“It’s time,” said Arquero. “Hold it steady.”
“OK, lemme know when you’re done.”
“This won’t take long,” said Arquero.
Ten
ON THE TOP DECK, JOHNNY AND TED HUDDLED behind a stack of rubber lifeboats, Johnny holding in a lungful of smoke, Ted examining the minuscule roach to see if there was any hope for it.
“OK,” said Johnny, exhaling, “here’s my point.”
“What?” said Ted. He popped the roach into his mouth.
“They’re in Hawaii, right?” said Johnny.
Ted swallowed, then said, “Who is?”
“The infomercial people,” said Johnny. “Who don’t live in the refrigerator cartons.”