Willie, still wiping sand from his face and looking in the direction Maynard had walked, said, “That mon is bad. He always been treatenin me wit dat stupid knife. Somebody needs to keel that mon.”
Boiled Bob looked at Maynard, who said, “Like I said, I don’t like this homeless piece of shit coming in and smelling up the bar when I’m trying to enjoy a few beers.”
Bob set the dinghy back onto the sand, walked to the truck where their provisions were and came back with a fifth of rum. He lifted one side of the dinghy, placed the bottle under it and said to Willie, “Take it. It’s a housewarming gift for your new dinghy.”
Willie hesitantly crawled under the dinghy, and Boiled Bob let the side he’d held up settle onto the sand. He heard the metal cap turn on the glass rum bottle followed by several loud gulps. He then heard a muffled voice say, “Der holes in dis boat. I can see de moon.”
Boiled Bob heard another gulp from the rum bottle and then silence.
“He won’t remember a thing,” Bob said.
A few minutes later the three women returned with the drills, two oars and a paddle.
“LB, you crewed on the Happy Hobo a while back, didn’t you?” Boiled Bob asked.
“A couple of times, Boss.”
“You’ll be the first mate.”
Boiled Bob reminded the crew that Long Bill would captain the Happy Hobo in his absence and turned to walk in the opposite direction.
“Where you going, Boss?” Long Bill asked.
Boiled Bob turned back toward the crew and said, “Going to do some more damage while you get the boat ready.”
Maynard snorted and said, “I’m the most experienced captain here. Don’t you think I should take charge?”
“No. LB knows the boat better,” Boiled Bob said.
After a brief stare down, Maynard shrugged and stepped into the only functional dinghy left on the beach. The rest of the crew followed. Boiled Bob walked away, glad he could still intimidate Maynard—at least for now.
Boiled Bob walked down the beach to the ferry dock and a row of grey inflatable dinghies tied close to shore. They all were in good shape and had small, three-horsepower motors clamped to their wooden sterns. He knew which dinghy belonged to the Happy Hobo and hopped in, starting the three-horsepower motor with a pull of the rope, and steered toward its mother ship. Halfway to the Happy Hobo, he turned around and headed back to the dock, where he untied the remaining inflatable dinghies and tied them behind his.
On the ride to the Happy Hobo, Boiled Bob thought about two things. One was to figure out how to get rid of Maynard, who had become unmanageable. The other was the name given to him shortly after arriving to St. John, having been reminded of it earlier by Long Bill. It was a name given by the locals, who had a propensity for making up names for newcomers with abnormal behaviors, which was just about everybody who stayed on the island for more than a week. Boiled Bob arrived on the island as Bob—Bob Blight from Miami. He’d heard the whispers as he passed locals who thought of him as a burned-out druggie. Shortly after, he’d started to hear Boiled in front of Bob. Bob bristled at the description. His hair and beard were scruffy, and his wardrobe was a little ragged, but burn out… boiled? He did a lot of drugs, but only mind-expanding hallucinogenic drugs like LSD and magic mushrooms from Tortola. The drugs were an important part of his evolution as a philosopher of social revolution—and as a sex magnet. Young women were often attracted to him, at least compliant, when given enough liquor and quaaludes. That’s how he’d landed all of the women who’d followed him in the past three years. Most had gone away, stealing off with sailors in the night or returning to the US. It didn’t matter to Boiled Bob either way. He’d tired of them and was glad to see them go. He still had Pam and Mary and Tricia, proving that he wasn’t boiled—he was brilliant.
“Fucking locals,” he mumbled and motored to the Happy Hobo.
“What are we going to do with those?” Long Bill asked when Boiled Bob arrived at the Happy Hobo with the dinghies.
“We’ll take them with us. It’ll slow down any chase, and we’ll sell them for a lot of money down island.”
“Should I set sail?” Long Bill asked as he and the crew prepared the boat to leave the bay.
“Not yet. Secure the dinghies, and motor to the resort.”
Boiled Bob looked around at the few boats in the harbor and said, “Do it as quietly as possible so we don’t wake up anybody on those liveaboards.”
They headed north with six dinghies behind the ketch. Two dinghies upended after crashing into each other at the crest of a large wave just outside the bay.
“LB, what the hell are you doing? You’ve just ruined two good motors,” Boiled Bob said, looking behind them.
“I tied them up and thought I left plenty of room between them, but these seas are getting pretty big,” Long Bill replied.
The rest of the crew, except Maynard, watched the exchange, shrugged and went about their business of stowing their gear and readying the lines and sails for the sail down island. Maynard stood with a smirk and stared at Boiled Bob for a minute before turning to help the crew.
The resort was located two bays to the north, and the Happy Hobo and its new crew were there in less than twenty minutes. Several sailboats and a couple of dive boats were at anchor in the quiet bay. The sailboats were for day-charters. Nobody lived on them. Boiled Bob ignored the sailboats and stared at the dive boats. They belonged to Captain Jay, who Boiled Bob knew was off-island. If there was time, he’d sink them on his way out of the bay.
Long Bill leaned toward Boiled Bob and asked, “What’s the plan?”
Boiled Bob stared at the shoreline, looking for anybody who might notice the stolen yawl. “You, me and Tricia will take one of the dinghies to the dock. The rest will stay on the boat. Maynard will drive the boat. Don’t anchor. Motor near the mouth of the bay, and keep the lights off,” Boiled Bob said loud enough for the crew to hear. He saw questioning looks from a couple of his crew and added, “We don’t want any of the nighttime employees to see it, especially those useless security guards. Both are sailors and will recognize the boat and know something’s up.”
Maynard reached to the handle of his knife and said, “I want to go with you.”
Boiled Bob didn’t want Maynard near the security guards, who were armed only with two-way radios.
“You’re staying on the boat, Maynard.” He gauged Maynard’s reaction and then added, “With me and LB gone you’re the only one who can handle the boat in these seas. You’ll be more useful manning the helm until we come back.”
Maynard puffed out his chest and stepped into the cockpit.
Boiled Bob went below, opened his bag and grabbed two handguns. Returning to the deck he passed one to Long Bill and put the other in his front pocket. Neither gun was loaded. They stepped down into a dinghy, headed to the dock and tied up close to shore next to a half dozen other inflatable dinghies. Boiled Bob climbed onto the dock and looked back into the bay. The Happy Hobo was a couple of hundred yards from shore and partially screened by the anchored boats. Satisfied, he led Long Bill and Tricia past the dock and into the open lobby, which was empty of guests and employees. He told Tricia to keep watch and then led Long Bill up a flight of stairs. Once on the second floor, Boiled Bob took the handgun from his pocket and motioned Long Bill to do the same but saw that Long Bill had already taken his gun out.
Boiled Bob knew the layout well, having worked in the night auditor’s office for a couple of months during his first year on the island. He’d taken an accounting class during his short stint in college and learned little, but his general knowledge of the discipline’s principles and his ability to bullshit landed him a part-time job with the resort during the off season when employees were hard to find. He was fired after being accused of using Friday night deposits to buy and sell drugs on the weekend for a profit and then ret
urn the cash he’d taken on Sunday nights, before Monday’s deposit into the local bank. Boiled Bob had denied the charge, but management persisted in their accusation, and for days Boiled Bob stewed. He ended up carrying a large revenue posting machine down the steps on a dolly and dumping it off the end of the resort’s dock into the bay. That was the end of his short career as an assistant to the night auditor.
Revenge on the resort wasn’t the reason for his visit to the comptroller’s office. The night auditor happened to be Captain Jay’s girlfriend, Lisa. She’d humiliated him in front of people when he hit on her in a bar a couple of years earlier. After she’d called his behavior “obnoxious,” she grabbed his crotch, frowned, turned to her friends and said, “I think his penis is missing.”
Boiled Bob could hear the pecking of adding machines around the corner—too much noise for a single employee to make. This complicated things. He paused, and before he and Long Bill could turn the corner to the office, Tricia bounded up the stairway. At the top she whispered, “Two security guards are hiding in the bushes between the lobby and the bar. They saw us come in.”
Boiled Bob let out a sigh and said, “Shit.”
“Why aren’t they coming after us?” Long Bill asked.
Bob glanced down at the handgun Long Bill held and said, “Because, dipshit, they saw your gun. You should’ve kept it hidden like I told you to do.”
He told Tricia to return to the lobby and stay out of sight and motioned Long Bill to follow him. He watched Tricia head back down the stairway and admired her tight butt.
Giggles from the accounting office brought Boiled Bob back to real time. He and Long Bill entered the office and found three women busily adding receipts and shoving cash into zippered bank bags. They didn’t look up until Boiled Bob cocked his revolver and pointed it at them.
Bob ran his eyes up and down Lisa’s tall, athletic body and stayed on her long, brown hair for a moment. She was beautiful—and, as far as he was concerned, a royal bitch. Boiled Bob could never understand why she was so popular around the island.
“Hi, Lisa. Miss me?” Boiled Bob asked. He nodded to her co-workers and asked, “Why all the help? Is this place making that much money? It’s off-season. Can’t be that busy.”
She stood, looked at her co-workers and, with a nod, indicated for them to stay calm.
“We’re busy,” Lisa said and then smirked. “Oh, yeah, I miss you like I miss a venereal disease. What do you want, asshole?”
Boiled Bob waved the revolver and moved forward a step. “Still a ballsy, smart-ass bitch, aren’t you?” He stepped up to her desk and hit her on the side of her head with the revolver. She wavered, almost toppling over. Blood trickled down past her ear. He’d hit her harder than he’d expected to.
Long Bill backed up and asked, “Boss, you sure you want to do this?”
“Fuck you, LB. You can leave anytime you want.”
Long Bill looked toward the stairs and then back to the room. He stayed where he was.
“Good. Now, LB, find a bag and get those two to put all of the cash in it,” Boiled Bob said.
Lisa moved toward Boiled Bob. “Take the cash and leave, asshole,” she said, holding the side of her head. “You won’t get far.”
Boiled Bob hesitated and said nothing for a moment. He’d hoped to take any cash there was and rough up Lisa before sailing away. The presence of the guards and witnesses changed things. He’d thought about kidnapping Lisa but had not mentioned it to his crew and was undecided about it—until now. Now he had no choice. He needed her as a hostage now that he’d been seen. And there were her two co-workers. He could kill them or drop them off down island, but he wasn’t a killer, and having all three on the boat would be complicated—and there were the guards.
Boiled Bob looked around the room, thinking. He glanced at the door and said to Lisa, “You’re coming with us. You’re going to be our protection. Too bad your boyfriend can’t save you now.”
With that, Lisa bolted toward the door. Boiled Bob caught her arm and spun her around, pointed the revolver at her face and said, “Down.” He tightened his grip and twisted. She grimaced and went to her knees.
Long Bill held a plastic garbage bag with a fair amount of cash in it. “What do we do now, Boss?”
“Find some rope or tape, and tie those two up and gag them.”
Long Bill went through desk drawers and found two rolls of packing tape. He bound the two women to chairs and wrapped tape around their heads, covering their mouths.
Boiled Bob led Lisa down the stairs. At the bottom he called out to Tricia in a heavy whisper, “They still there?”
She backpedaled to the base of the stairs and said, “They’re still there. I heard them talking about their radios. I think they’re broken.”
Bob looked around, knowing there was no other way back to the dinghy. “Okay. We walk out of here and to the dock. LB, keep your weapon out.”
They walked out of the lobby and toward the dock. Boiled Bob saw the guards in the bushes. One of them shouted, “The police are on their way.”
“Bullshit!” Boiled Bob shouted. “Those clowns couldn’t find their way out of Cruz Bay. You pricks come after us, and she’s dead.” He held his gun above his head, making sure they saw it and then grabbed Lisa. One guard backed off and ran in the opposite direction.
“Let’s go,” Bob said to the group.
Lisa hesitated, and Boiled Bob wrenched her wrist up behind her back hard enough to make her cry out. They reached the dinghy dock, and Long Bill folded his tall frame into the rubber dinghy they’d come in. He pulled the chord to start the motor. Nothing. Boiled Bob nervously looked back toward the lobby. The police might be on their way if the guard who ran had found a phone, which didn’t worry him much. The police didn’t have a boat, and the coast guard boats were in St Thomas or Puerto Rico. With Captain Jay off-island they couldn’t call him, but a guard could call some of the island heroes—the part-time mercenary bastards who were always in his way, like Tommy Lowell and that big son-of-a bitch, Charlie Kline. They worried him. They were close to the Happy Hobo’s owner and, if currently on the island, might, no, would come after him, especially if Lisa was his hostage. He thought about leaving Lisa on the dock but dismissed that as soon as he realized that, sooner or later, he might need her as a hostage to negotiate his safety if they caught up with him. If Long Bill didn’t get the dinghy started he’d need her sooner rather than later.
“Come on, LB. Get the damn thing started,” Boiled Bob said, looking out into the moonlit bay. He couldn’t see the Happy Hobo, which was good. Maynard had hidden it behind the anchored boats in the bay. The seas had worsened. He saw large swells break onto the rocks on either side of the bay, sending white, frothing spray over and around them.
Long Bill tried a dozen more times to start the motor.
“Check the gas tank,” Boiled Bob said, nervously waving the revolver and looking toward the lobby.
“Damn, Boss. It’s empty, or close to it.”
“Jesus, LB. How can you be such a dipshit?”
Boiled Bob raged and waved the revolver aimlessly. Long Bill stared back wide-eyed and slunk as low as he could. He was still a big target.
All eyes were on the revolver, which only Bob knew wasn’t loaded. Everybody ducked or twisted sideways each time it pointed in their direction. It finally settled on Lisa, who managed to say, “Steal one of these dinghies, asshole.” She nodded to the group of inflatable dinghies tied next to theirs.
Boiled Bob wanted to shoot her. Her suggestion was genius. Why didn’t he think of it?
“LB, get into one of those dinghies, and check the gas,” Boiled Bob said and looked to the lobby again.
“Good news, Boss. This one’s full,” Long Bill said and started the motor with one pull.
“Get in,” Boiled Bob said to the two women.
Tricia hurried into the dinghy. Lisa had to be shoved. Boiled Bob followed, still waving his gun around. Long Bill took them out into the bay toward the Happy Hobo. The swells had found their way into the bay, rocking the boats at anchor with each passing wave and making for a rough dinghy ride.
Boiled Bob spotted the Happy Hobo motoring in circles at the bay’s entrance and ordered Long Bill to head out into the swells and come back to the sailboat with following seas. He reasoned it would be easier to land the dinghy and safely off-load in the dangerous seas going with the swells, rather than into them, though he wasn’t sure. Either way would be bad.
Long Bill swung the dinghy close to the rocks on the south side of the bay in order to run parallel with the swells before turning northeast to run with them. Boiled Bob looked over at Lisa and saw her unclasp her bracelet. He wondered why. At the closest point to the rocks, just as Boiled Bob decided to grab Lisa, she jumped, taking with her the plastic bag of cash that Long Bill had tossed into the bottom of the dinghy. Boiled Bob was able to grab the bag, which tore, sending most of the cash into the rough sea and some into the dinghy. He paid no attention to the cash. He saw the heavy seas smash Lisa into the rocks and the backwash bring her back toward the dinghy, face down. In seconds the water covered her.
“Shit!” Boiled Bob shouted. “Get us over there. We need her—alive.”
Long Bill drove the dinghy to where they had last seen Lisa. They were dangerously close to the rocks. Boiled Bob reached into the water and luckily grabbed an arm just as a large wave hit the dinghy. Long Bill gunned the motor and turned the handle as far as he could to the left, swinging the dinghy to the right and out into the bay, away from the rocks. Boiled Bob lost his grip on the arm and stared back to the churning sea near the rocks.
“Shit!” he shouted again. “Get us back there.”
“But, Boss!” Long Bill shouted and turned the bow of the dinghy into the next giant swell. Water crashed over the boat and drenched everybody in it.
Boiled Bob glared at Long Bill, water dripping off his face. “Get us back there. We need her with us.”
A Fortnight of Fury Page 2