by Lyle Howard
“Well, I appreciate you keeping Mason occupied.”
Once they reached their table, Lauren allowed the Petty Officer to pull out her chair for her. “So what did you find out from the Captain?”
Simms bent forward and whispered into her ear. “I want you to stay here while I check something out, because if that guy is running this ship, then I’m a monkey’s uncle!”
54
Matt couldn’t take his eyes off the table across the dining room. As Simone continued to converse with the older couple about the pros and cons of auditory technology, she slowly realized that Matt’s attention was divided. This was beyond rude to her, since he was missing large parts of the conversation that Simone needed to be interpreted. She jabbed him with an elbow, and he quickly apologized to her and the others for his inattentiveness.
Simone used the best speech she could muster and thanked the couple for their insights. It was apparent that they felt strongly about wanting to fit in, but Simone was adamant in her beliefs.
Matt took Simone’s arm and looked her straight in the eyes. What he wanted to say was important. “Stay here,” he signed emphatically. “I don’t want you coming with me.”
“Where?” She asked.
“I’m going to get an autograph.”
Simone turned her head to see where Matt was now staring. “Bullshit,” she signed, using both hands. “Don’t you dare go over there!”
“I really just want to touch him, put my hand on his shoulder. I want to see if anything comes through.”
Simone took Matt’s hand and squeezed it to the point where she knew it would start to hurt. “You can’t trace the man in front of all these people! Do you know what you look like when it happens? They’re going to think you’re having a seizure! You can’t do it!”
Matt looked at his girlfriend’s concerned face, and then across the dining room to the table of ball players. He felt like his head was a compass needle, and his parents’ killer was due north. “Then I won’t engage him, I’ll just ask for an autograph. That’s all, no conversation. Do you have a pen with you?”
Simone frowned. “You know I always carry a pad of paper and a pen to communicate.”
“Let me borrow it. If he uses the pen, I might be able to get something from it.”
Simone reached into her clutch bag and took out the pad of paper and a pen. She held them up in the air just out of Matt’s reach. “I’m going with you.”
Matt shook his head stubbornly. “No, I want you to stay here.”
A smile came over Simone’s face. “No fucking way,” she said, using her voice.
The couple across the table were noticeably shocked by the unusual outburst and quickly turned away, pretending to be occupied with their own conversation.
Simone waved the paper and pen in front of Matt’s face. “I go where you go,” she signed. “If you think you can tell me what to do, then this relationship is built on a huge misconception. Don’t ever try to give me an order again!”
Matt’s face softened. Simon Goodman was not a young woman to be messed with. She was drawing a line in the sand that Matt understood was more like a line etched into stone. “Fine, you can come with me, but please don’t say anything.”
Simone’s eyes narrowed. “You just want me to look pretty?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“So, I don’t look pretty?”
Matt grabbed the paper and pen out of her hand. “Stop it. Now you’re just being a pain in the ass!”
Simone smiled and took Matt’s hand as they excused themselves from the other guests at their table.
“Excuse me,” Matt said, as he approached the table of ball players. “Could I get a couple of autographs?” He was standing right beside Anthony Magnetti, but he looked around the table at everyone but the batting coach. “I’ve lived in Jacksonville for most of my life, and I’m a big fan.”
Magnetti turned his head and eyed them both. “That’s an unusual accent you’ve got.”
For the first time in over ten years, Matt Walker was face to face with the man that had tried to kill him. “I lost my hearing as a child; I apologize for my poor speech.”
Seven other players had chosen to stay at the table instead of taking one of the ship tours. Most sat in stunned silence as their long-time assistant coach made an insensitive fool of himself.
“Please,” Magnetti begged, holding up his hands in surrender, “I didn’t realize that you couldn’t hear. I’m very sorry; can you read my lips?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
Matt paused. “Matt.”
“Just Matt? No last name?”
Matt placed his hand on the coach’s shoulder ignoring the last question. “Don’t worry about the miscommunication, it happens all the time. My girlfriend Simone is deaf as well.”
Magnetti stood and took Simone’s hand courteously. “Very nice to meet you; I’m Anthony Magnetti, the Jumbo Shrimps’ batting coach. But please, you can call me Tony.”
Matt interpreted for her. “She doesn’t read lips as well as I do. She’s never been able to hear.”
The coach waved his hands in a mad display of nonsensical gestures. “That’s very interesting; so you sign for her?”
Matt nodded. “Whenever possible.”
“So, Matt, can I ask you how you lost your hearing or is that frowned upon? I’ve never really had any interaction with deaf people other than seeing them from a distance.”
Matt continued to interpret his conversation for Simone. When he translated the coach’s question, she tugged on his arm to warn him.
Matt smiled. “Childhood accident. Wrong place at the wrong time.”
Magnetti looked curious. “Okay, I’ve clearly overstepped a boundary. I apologize.” He said, glancing around the table at his ballplayers. “Do I look as stupid as I feel?” He asked them.
They all nodded affirmatively.
Matt was quickly disappointed that the only sensation he was picking up was from the sports coat the killer was wearing. Magnetti had extended his hand, but Matt continued to interpret instead. If Simone hadn’t reminded him about the likely physical effects of the trace, Matt would have shaken the killer’s hand without a second thought. That’s why he was glad she was there. He needed someone to be his guardian angel.
Magnetti took the paper and pen from Simone and inscribed it with a nearly illegible signature. He passed the sheet around the table, and each player added their name to the souvenir. Some wrote a line or two, and one player even drew the “I Love You” hand sign below his name. When it had entirely circled the table, Magnetti handed it to Simone.
“You know,” the coach said, studying Matt’s face. “I saw the two of you across the room before, and I thought you looked familiar. Have we ever met before?”
Matt interpreted what Magnetti was saying, and Simone surreptitiously kicked Matt with her heel. He tried not to flinch, but she caught him square on his ankle bone. Matt scratched his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, quickly changing the subject. “Have you always been a batting coach?”
Magnetti picked the pen off the table and waggled it in front of him. “I played some college ball, then traveled a bit with a few minor league teams, but yeah, I guess my life has been mostly about baseball. Swinging a bat has always just come naturally to me. Can you play any sports?”
Simone read the translation, and Matt could tell that she was holding her frustration in check. “You’re aware that just because I can’t hear doesn’t mean that I can’t throw and catch, right?”
“I didn’t mean to imply…”
Matt snapped back with the facts. “The football huddle was invented at Gallaudet University so that the opposing team couldn’t see what play was being signed by the deaf quarterback.”
“I never kn
ew that,” Magnetti said, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
“And the hand signs used between a pitcher and catcher and those gestures your manager and coaches use to signal your players on the field…you can credit the deaf for those too.”
The players around the table nodded with admiration at the teenager who was taking their coach to task. It wasn’t something that happened very often.
Magnetti looked around the table and nodded to each of his players. “Isn’t that interesting, guys? You learn something new every day!”
Simone smiled.
“Well, thank you all for the autographs. We appreciate you being so nice.”
The players at the table waved politely.
Magnetti continued to look at Matt suspiciously. “Are you sure we haven’t met before? I can’t shake this feeling that we’ve crossed paths somewhere?”
Matt shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
The coach held his chin thoughtfully. It was like trying to grasp for something that was just beyond his reach. “Do you look like your father? Maybe I know him, and that’s why you seem so familiar.”
“My father passed away when I was young.”
Magnetti frowned. “That’s always tough on a kid. My dad is almost ninety now, and he can still do the New York Times crossword puzzle. Crazy, huh?”
“The world works in mysterious ways,” Matt said wistfully. “I miss my father every day.”
The coach reached out his hand, but Simone pulled Matt away.
“I never caught your full name, kid. Maybe I can leave some tickets at the ballpark for you and your girlfriend.”
Simone squeezed Matt’s upper arm like she was testing a melon for ripeness. This conversation was going to leave him black and blue if he persisted.
Matt and Simone turned to leave when Magnetti put his paw on Matt’s chest. “Your last name, kid? For the tickets?”
Simone looked at Matt with the same look one would give a dog that was about to pee on the rug. Her eyes screamed, “Don’t you do it!”.
But it had been over ten years since Matt needed to pee this badly. “The name is Walker, Matt Walker.”
55
As the small orchestra played its version of Barry Manilow’s “Copa Cabana,” Nick Coltello, Jimmy Diaz, and Gerald Banks stood at a window and watched the ocean waves seemingly fly by.
“Damn, we are really moving!” Coltello commented. “This fucker is fast!”
Banks looked around the dining room, not really wanted to be spotted conversing with the mobster and his enforcer. “We’re only running at sixty percent of our top speed right now,” Banks said, rubbing a smudge off the window with one of the napkins from a nearby table. “The Captain won’t open her up until we’re well out to sea. You won’t feel the difference though. We’re riding on the same cushion of air regardless of our velocity.”
Nicky the Knife gave Diaz a nudge with his shoulder. “You hear that, J.D.? We’re flying over the water! Can you freakin’ believe it? I never heard of such a thing! This is gonna be some successful venture for Peter Mason!”
Diaz nodded as the continued to stare down at the illuminated water around the hull of the ship. If he craned his head upward, he could look up one level and watch the feet of passengers making their way across the starboard-side glass walkway. That wasn’t something Diaz had any interest in attempting. When he escaped from Cuba with his family thirty two years ago, he swore it would be the last time he was on a boat. The Hydra was far from the derelict tub he and fifteen other refugees had made it to Florida on, but he still hated being on the water. Besides, saying “no” to Nicky was far more dangerous than crossing the Florida Straits in the middle of the night.
“So, when do we get to meet the man of the hour?” Nicky asked.
Banks looked at his watch. “I can get you ten minutes right now. He’s in his stateroom getting ready for dinner. He’s going over the list of VIP’s he wants to acknowledge.”
Coltello sounded personally offended. “You hear that Jimmy? He’s thanking all of his VIP’s! I wonder what it takes to become a very important person in Peter Mason’s world? Money? Influence? I got those things too.”
Diaz turned away from the miserable memories in the window and smiled at his boss. “You’ve got them in spades, boss. Just don’t forget why we came here. You need to concentrate on solving the problem. Don’t let petty little things sidetrack you. No one cares what Peter Mason thinks.” He held up two fingers to his eyes. “Focus.”
Coltello nodded his head toward Diaz so Banks could see. “He’s always looking after me. Loyal like a pit bull. That’s way more important than money or influence. If you’ve got loyalty,” he said, pointing at Banks, “then the world is your oyster! Remember, Nicholas Coltello told you that.”
Banks led his two guests toward the stern of the ship. They stepped between two tall yellow cones with the words “restricted to guests” stamped on them in bold black letters. Walking past them made Nicky feel special.
There was nautical artwork hanging on the walls. Pictures of various vessels throughout history filled the spaces between cabins. All of the rooms had single-hung doors except for the stateroom at the end of the corridor. Double-doors differentiated the owner’s stateroom from all of the rest. Banks rapped on the door and waited for a reply.
“Come in.”
Banks held open the door for his guests and then followed them in and closed it.
“Mr. Mason, I’d like to introduce you to Nicholas Coltello and his associate Jimmy Diaz. They were hoping to have a few minutes of your time, and I thought it important that you heard what they had to say.”
Mason had switched into a white jacket, but his bow tie was undone. He held out his hand to greet the two men and showed them to a nearby couch. On the table in front of the sofa sat an ice bucket, some short glasses, and an ancient bottle of Scotch. “Can I offer you gentlemen a drink?”
Nicky took a seat, but Jimmy Diaz preferred to stand behind the sofa with his hands clasped in front of him. It made him look like a bodyguard.
Nicky waved off the offer. “No thanks, we’re good. It looks like excellent Scotch though.
Mason and Banks took seats across from Coltello. Mason poured himself a minimal amount from the bottle and smiled as he sniffed the liquor’s bouquet. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Maybe another time,” Nicky said.
Mason crossed his legs and brushed a piece of lint off his knee before turning to Banks. “Fill me in, Gerald. What can I do for these gentlemen?”
“Uh, you can start off by talking directly to me,” Nicky intervened. “I’m sitting right here.” He looked over at Banks. “You can go now, Gerald. You’ve done your job. Tell the guests that Mr. Mason is going to be a little while.”
If Peter Mason had any idea of who was sitting across from him, his demeanor didn’t show it. “Stay where you are, Gerald,” he demanded. You don’t take orders from this man!”
Nicky rubbed his finger under his collar while Diaz remained silent. “My name is Coltello, Nicholas Coltello. Damn, I always wanted to say it like that!”
Banks stood up. “The passengers are getting antsy, Pete.” He walked over to the door and glanced back at his brother-in-law. There was a look of betrayal on Mason’s face. “I’ll tell them you’re not feeling well.”
Before Mason could argue, Banks was gone. Mason studied Nicky over the edge of his glass. “I apologize for being rude, Mr. Coltello. I didn’t mean any insult by not speaking to you directly. You have to understand that I am new to the North Florida area, and I’m still getting my bearings. Miami is my hometown, and I still have a lot of new faces to learn. Again, I apologize. Now, what is it that you do?”
Diaz saw the flinch, so he put his hand on Nicky’s shoulder to keep him from flying off the sofa. “I’m the owner of the
one-eleven nightclub across the street from your downtown offices. They call it the Three Aces.”
Mason took a small sip. “I get it; that’s clever.”
Diaz held firm, but it was getting more difficult by the second.
Nicky could feel his toes curling up in his shoes. He knew better than to make fists with his hands, but no one could see his feet. “Clever is what we were aiming for.”
Mason looked at his watch. “Well, it’s always a privilege to meet with local businessmen from the area. I look forward to one day stopping by your establishment and checking out the local scene as it were. Thank you for coming by to introduce yourself. I hope you enjoy the rest of the trip. The Hydra is hopefully the first of many ships which should, in turn, help the local businesses thrive, including your nightclub.” Mason stood up and placed his empty glass on the table. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a lot of other excited guests out there.”
Nicky the Knife’s head rose in union with Peter Mason. “Sit the fuck back down, you arrogant piece of shit!”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Nicky snarled pointing to the chair across from him. “You’d better sit down before I stand up, motherfucker!”
Diaz made a quick scan of the cabin to make sure there were no hammers present. Only five minutes had passed, and already any chance of negotiation had failed. Nicky might have set a new record.
Peter Mason remained standing, but his whole manner seemed to change, like a cloud’s shadow passing over the moon. Gone was the gracious host who minutes earlier appeared so sophisticated and naïve. Now the gloves were off, and his shoulders seemed to broaden as the smile vanished from his face. “You come into my stateroom, on my ship, on the most important evening in my company’s history, and you bark at me like some junkyard dog? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? If tonight were any other night, I’d be using what’s left of you for chum!”
Diaz still had a hand on Nicky’s shoulder, and he could feel the muscles tense beneath the fabric of his jacket. What was intended to be a peaceful discussion had deteriorated into a clash of titans. Diaz was smart enough to understand that this was enemy territory from the get-go and that Nicky was at a distinct disadvantage, but the mobster was too irrational to realize it.