Mr. Goatee lifts his legs and feet out of the storage space, one at a time, his weapon leveled at a spot between Gerry and me. The gun in his hand is a revolver. Small caliber. Cheap and chromed. A Saturday night special. Seagulls squawk somewhere near the boat.
The diesel engines power down to an idle. The three of us stagger as the bow falls in the water and the slant of the floor changes. What do you want to bet Luis heard the gunshots and is headed downstairs right now to check it out?
Mr. Goatee reads the boat action the same way I do. He waves his pistol, directing Gerry and me around like an armed traffic cop. He’s in a hurry to make us sit on the opposite yellow bunk, out of his line of sight to the stairway. Can’t blame him for that. Luis is going to barrel down those stairs any second.
Kelly groans, clutches her shoulder. Blood flows between her fingers. At least she’s conscious, always an encouraging sign for us friends and family.
What the hell did I just say? Things are happening too fast. I’m confused. Do I want Kelly to get better? Or watch that bitch Jezebel bleed to death?
When Mr. Goatee has Gerry and me where he wants us—sitting together on that opposite bunk—he crouches against the far bulkhead and points his cheap chrome gun at the top of the stairs.
Sounds like Luis is up there, but he’s not in a big hurry to come down. My ex-favorite bartender is no dummy. And he can’t be part of Mr. Goatee’s surprise either, or this guy wouldn’t be aiming his revolver at Luis’s expected point of entry.
Without showing himself, Luis calls down. “Senor Burns? Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” Gerry says. “It’s Nestor. He shot Kelly.”
“Shut up,” Mr. Goatee says. He briefly aims the gun at Gerry’s head.
Nestor, huh? Too bad. I was starting to like calling him Mr. Goatee. Wonder why he shaved the beard off, anyway? Even finally ditched those gold chains? I thought the goatee made him look distinguished, worldly. Like the dragon tattoos on his forearms.
“Stand up,” Nestor says to Gerry.
Gerry’s a little shaky getting to his feet. He was Mr. Spry a few minutes ago. Maybe the excitement’s getting to him. Nestor locks an arm around Gerry’s neck and drags him into the center of the cabin, cuddles him between the yellow bunk beds. He touches the muzzle to Gerry’s neck, Nestor saying, “Luis? Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“I am holding a gun at el patron’s neck.”
“Why?” Luis asks. “Because you and others believe you have been cheated? You will destroy yourself by threatening Senor Burns.”
“I am not going to die. You must turn around the boat, take us back. El patron will find a little money for me and my family.”
“You are going to die, my friend,” Luis says. “This is now a certainty.”
Nestor seems a tad rattled by that line. The beads of sweat on his forehead turn into a steady stream down both temples. His eyes are blinking. He cringes backward, sucking deep breaths, tugging Gerry along with him.
“Turn the boat around, or I will shoot el patron,” Nestor says.
Silence from the top of the stairs.
Nestor calls out. “Luis?”
No answer.
“I will give you three seconds,” Nestor says. “If I do not hear the engines, feel the boat begin its return, I will shoot el patron in the head.”
Nothing from Luis.
FORTY-NINE
“One,” Nestor says.
I’m guessing it’s been a few years since someone held a gun to Senor Gerry Burns’ neck. His face looks as pasty gray as it was that day at the hospice. Only difference, this ghost-story make-up is a natural phenomenon.
Boy, that seems like a long time ago. Riding down that freight elevator with Kelly, the guys with the big gurneys. Those two dead bodies taking their last ride together. Talk about your basic bad omen. Wow. I should have locked myself in a closet until Christmas.
Nestor saying, “Two.”
A creak on the deck above barely reaches my ears. Tiny, quiet, almost not even there. But I hear it. Nestor doesn’t. Or least he doesn’t let on if he does. He’s too busy getting ready to say three, maybe pull the trigger. Or maybe not. Tough to tell. If he kills Gerry, Mr. Former Goatee—I mean Nestor—he would be giving up his only leverage with Luis. Call me cautious, but that doesn’t sound like a good idea.
It’s a bad play and I think Nestor’s figured it out. I’m watching his upper teeth bite his lower lip, no doubt trying to figure his next move, when I notice a change of light inside the cabin. I can’t describe the alteration much more, no big illumination, nor a plunge into darkness. Just a minor thickening of the room’s shadows, as if another source of light had been added from a second, slightly different direction.
“Three,” Nestor says.
He presses the muzzle hard into Gerry’s neck. His finger flexes against the trigger. Gerry’s nerves give out and he loses the ability to stand. His weight sags, his knees buckle, and suddenly he’s hanging himself in the crook of Nestor’s arm.
I hear a swishing sound, like a bat zipping past in a cave. Then a chucking noise, like a thrown knife, sticking into a tree trunk. Oh. My. God. Where did that come from? The black and chrome handle of Luis’s humongous switchblade, plus three or four inches of bare steel, suddenly emerges from the top of Nestor’s head. Buried like a shovel, the sharp heavy blade has pierced four or five inches of brain matter.
Sweet Jesus.
Nestor oozes to the floor like melting butter, the gun still in his hand. Blood runs across one eye and down his cheek in a thick stream. Gerry tumbles with him, still inside Nestor’s grip. The men meld into a single pile of twisted arms and legs.
Only then do I look up, see the open, two-foot-square skylight. I waste precious time in surprised gaping, admiring the knife throw, maybe waiting for Luis’s face to appear in the framed opening above.
What a goof I am. Slow, bordering on stupid. Takes me five or six, maybe ten seconds to remember there are loaded guns nearby and readily available for the grabbing.
My hands are free but my ankles are wrapped. I can only bunny hop toward the pile that is Gerry, Nestor, and Nestor’s Saturday night special. It’s close by, though. Maybe only three or four jumps. Jezebel’s semiautomatic is too far away, on the far side of the table.
Luis’s feet touch maybe two stairs on the way down into the cabin. His lean muscular frame is a streaking blur in the left corner of my vision. Like he jumped off the roof of a building.
I give up my rabbit hops and dive for Nestor’s gun. Luis is almost on top me.
My knees and belly slam against the floor as Luis hits me like a linebacker, but the fingers of my extended right hand touch warm metal. I scratch at the gun’s muzzle, trying to acquire a grip.
Luis scrambles on my back. Air rushes from my lungs. I’m in trouble, but I can’t quit. Have to battle with everything I’ve got.
My fingers wrap around the handle of Nestor’s revolver. I get a finger on the trigger.
I jerk-twist to the left, trying to aim the weapon at Luis, but his weight restricts me. His hand grips my wrist, then squeezes my arm like a carpenter’s vise. Damn, Luis is strong. Lifting all those beer kegs, maybe. My hand’s going numb. He’s bending my wrist backward. Keeping the muzzle away from himself.
Come on, Carr. This is it. Probably your one chance for survival.
I summon every bit of strength my muscles and spirit can possibly create. Got to wrestle this gun away from Luis. I’ve got to win.
The cry escaping my lips is a warrior’s shriek.
FIFTY
Fierce and wild though my shriek may be, the battle cry does little to improve my quickly deteriorating position. About as effective as General Custer calling for his mommy, actually. Guess there are good reasons I always felt safe at Luis’s bar. Strength. Quickness. El hombre.
My arm goes dead where Luis’s fingers clutch me. The weapon begins to slip from my fingers. Come on, Austin. Th
e prize is survival. Fight for your life, goddamnit. Luis gives my unconscious arm a brutal shake, and that’s the end. The Saturday night special rattles free onto the hardwood floor.
This is not good. I’ve got another problem, too. Luis’s weight not only prevents ninety-nine percent of my breathing, he anticipates every twist and roll I make to unseat him, pull air into my lungs. Now I know how those rodeo horses feel when some fat bronco rider stays on all the way to the horn.
A steely fist crashes into the back of my neck. My forehead slams the cabin floor. Pain erupts deep inside my brain. The last bit of my strength oozes away.
Luis flips me, squats on my chest. His knees mount my shoulders and he presses a forearm hard against my Adam’s apple. Plenty of hombre muscle behind that forearm, too. No air whatsoever seeps through my windpipe now. Blackness creeps around the edges of my vision.
Luis punches my nose. Stars and planets orbit inside the black universe behind my eyes. Blood gushes from my nostrils. Before The KO-Kid blacks out for the umpteenth time in two weeks, Luis lifts his arm, lets me catch a breath. While I’m sucking oxygen, he lifts his weight from my shoulders and stands above me.
I swipe the blood from my eyes, roll onto my hands and knees, gasping.
Luis picks up both guns and the roll of duct tape.
Minutes later I’m stretched out again as if nothing transpired since my last term at bed rest. No dinner invitation. No burgers. No Nestor. My chance came and went in less time than it takes to brew a fucking pot of coffee.
At least I’m still alive. For Nestor, pretty much everything came and went. I don’t imagine he survived Luis’s brain surgery.
When Luis grabs the embedded switchblade, Nestor doesn’t even twitch. My ex-favorite bartender has to work the blade briefly back and forth, too, like King Arthur tugging on Excalibur.
Luis next attends to on Kelly, stretching her out on the other bunk, cleaning and dressing her wound, giving her a couple of pills for the pain. She’s conscious throughout, holding onto the glass while she drinks, crying a little before and after, asking about her condition.
Gerry takes a shot of whisky. “You’ll be all right,” he says. “The bullet went right through.” Talking to Luis now, saying, “I’m going up top, get us moving again. Join me when you’re done playing nurse.”
Not so happy now, my Jersey cowboy. Sounds a little tired, a little pissed off. Poor baby. Did little Nestor-westor spoil your dinner party? I can’t see the son-of-a-bitch, but from the sound of his step, my former monster is dragging his fat ass up those stairs.
Luis finishes working on my nose with a wet towel and Q-Tips, saying, “Your nose is perhaps cracked, but not broken enough to set. The bleeding is stopped.”
“Thanks.”
“Would you like a drink of water?”
“I’d rather borrow your gun.”
Luis smiles. Nice to know I can still amuse el hombre.
Luis went up to the main deck a few minutes ago, and now, through the open skylight no one’s bothered to close yet, I can hear Luis talking with Gerry. Can’t quite make out all the words, so I scrunch myself down toward the foot of the bunk, sit up on the edge.
Gerry saying, “You don’t think we can bring her through customs?”
“Perhaps,” Luis says, “but it is taking a great risk. Her wound is clearly a gunshot. If they look closely, they will spend many hours searching the boat.”
“Shit,” Gerry says.
Down below the voices, I glance at Kelly. Her eyes are closed, her breathing regular and slow. Asleep, or maybe drugged from the pain pills. Wouldn’t mind a few narcotics myself once the end is in sight. Might as well slide into oblivion peacefully.
Gerry saying, “Can’t we hide her somewhere? Under the bunk like Nestor?”
“Yes. But again, it is risky. Sometimes they look everywhere. It depends on the mood of the Federales. If they find her hidden, we are both in serious trouble.”
Gerry grunts. “I can’t let them do that. You know I can’t. The theft of that Renoir is all over Interpol. I could lose everything.”
FIFTY-ONE
The diesel engines power back up, the boat’s bow lifts, and like a shove in the chest, the new angle pushes my weight back onto the bunk. With much effort and little grace, I worm myself back into a prone position, try to relax and think.
Listening to Gerry and Luis through the open skylight, sounds to me like Kelly might get tossed overboard along with yours truly. What do I do with this information? If I try to tell the redhead, would she believe me? Maybe, maybe not, but I can’t see any advantage in not telling her. I mean, if we work together, plan something, we can definitely improve the odds of extending our lifespan. Worth a try.
“Kelly?”
No answer.
Louder this time. “Kelly. Wake up. Did you hear them? Gerry’s going to kill you, too.”
No answer. Her steady, deep breathing makes me think she’s out cold.
The next time I open my eyes, darkness has invaded the cabin. The smell of seawater has replaced the aroma of fried burgers. The diesel engines buzz like a swarm of flying bugs, enveloping me in steady vibration. Reminds me of having a tooth drilled.
Been at least an hour since I heard any other sound. Even Kelly’s breathing has all but disappeared, hidden by the steady hum of the boat’s motors. I’ve been searching deep inside myself for a creative and workable plan, but all I can think of is my children, the likelihood I will never see them again.
If I really wanted to wallow, I could start blaming the ex-wife for this. The way my mind puts it together: If she hadn’t lost interest in sex after Ryan was born, I wouldn’t have gotten divorced, wouldn’t have chased Kelly, wouldn’t have been vulnerable to the redhead’s fatal deception.
Like almost every situation, we have a saying for this in the office. When some broker starts telling you he almost made this big score, you interrupt with “Woulda, shoulda, coulda, pal.” Or sometimes, if you really feel like sticking it to the bastard, you say, “Yes, and if the queen had balls, she’d be king.”
We stockbrokers know full well that “ifs” are a complete waste of time and psychic energy. Every salesman does. My wife did lose interest in me after the kids. I did decide to mess around on her, and I definitely got caught. I should have kept my mistress a secret. So really, what do I have to complain about? I’m here because of things I did, choices I made a long time ago.
Deal with it, Dickhead of the Year.
“How’s that shoulder, hon?”
It’s Gerry’s voice. Waking me up. He’s a fat dark shadow sitting on the edge of Kelly’s bunk, a silhouette beneath the forty-watt bulkhead light above her. One of Gerry’s hands holds a glass, the other offers her something in his palm. More pills?
“It hurts like hell,” she says.
“I know,” Gerry says. “You were groaning in your sleep.”
She was? I didn’t hear groaning.
“Take a couple more of these,” Gerry says. “You’ll feel better and sleep more soundly. I can’t get you to a doctor until tomorrow.”
I watch Kelly use one elbow to sit up. Her skin is pale, the red hair disheveled. She struggles to reach for the pills, so Gerry cradles her shoulders, pulls her into a sitting position.
“Don’t take those pills, Kelly,” I say. “He’s going to kill you.”
“What are you talking about?” Gerry says. Incredulous tone. Nice acting.
“I heard Luis tell him your gunshot wound will force Mexican customs to search the boat,” I say. “He’s afraid they’ll find the Renoir.”
Gerry laughs. But Kelly’s hand hesitates with the pills.
“That’s a good one,” Gerry says. “You come up with that bullshit all on your own? Or did you see it in a movie?”
“Think about it, Kelly,” I say. “Would he risk that Renoir for you?”
Gerry’s anger crosses the space between our two bunks like a cloud of hot smoke, his desire to strangle me c
learly visible. Or maybe Gerry wants to fire up a new cigar. He won’t though because Kelly the Jezebel might then easily recognize I’m telling truth about the poison.
Gerry saying, “You’re talking nonsense, Carr. I would never hurt Kelly, number one. And even if I did have such plans, there’s no way I would have spoken of them in front of you, would I?”
“Look up at the skylight,” I say. “It’s open. I heard them talking right after you were shot.”
Gerry’s silhouette turns to look at the skylight. Kelly doesn’t move. Her hand is frozen in mid-reach. Obviously, she’s concerned. Or at least thinking about what I’ve just told her. Why would Gerry look up at the skylight unless he worried what I’d heard?
Gerry grunts. “Honey, do what you want. You don’t trust me, don’t take the pills. Either way’s fine with me.”
Another two seconds of hesitation, Kelly slips the pills into her mouth.
Hasta la wego, Kelly. Pretty sure that medicine is going to cure your pain forever.
FIFTY-TWO
Flat on my back, staring up at a cloudless sky, zillions of stars begin to float in the inky blackness. They flickered before, like wind-tossed candles, but now the pinpoints of light have liquefied, slipping and sliding across my field of vision like melting ice cubes. I shudder when I realize I’m crying.
Sweet Jesus, Austin, are you wimping out? Has a pain-wracked body and a bruised spirit made a simpering boob of you? I suppose it would be understandable, especially for a New Jersey stockbroker. Especially after multiple betrayals, attempted murders, frequent beatings, torture, and facing death on the high seas. Or maybe I’m frightened to tears by the eerie, funhouse green glow of the radar screen casting strange light on Luis’s white dress shirt.
Luis with his sleeves rolled up.
Blinking, I reconsider my emotions. Am I really so frightened, filled with self-pity? Am I really such a wuss? Wait a minute. Bullshit. I’m frightened, sure. Who wouldn’t be in this situation? But I’m not sad, goddamnit. I’m angry. Frustrated. When Gerry and Luis brought me up to this flying bridge fifteen minutes ago, I figured it was because they didn’t want me keeping Kelly awake, maybe getting her to throw up those pills.