But I see now it was just another move to take away my power. You keep surprising these guys, don’t you, Austin? Fighting Luis for that gun, almost shooting him. Hearing their plans through the open skylight, almost getting Kelly to join my team.
Gerry’s worried about me, and therefore Luis has been assigned the difficult task of keeping me in sight and at bay. I’m not a frightened wimp. I’m pissed as hell, a thinking, fighting dangerous hombre. Tied up with silver duct tape, yes, but far from helpless. I’ve temporarily lost my capacity for counter-attack, and it’s frustrating. The anger makes my tear ducts flow. But don’t worry, pal, Austin Carr will be back.
Beneath that endearing, disarming full-boat Carr grin beats the fearsome heart and steely mind of a warrior. And my weapon is words.
I just need to stop crying. “So, when is Gerry going to get rid of me, Luis?”
My ex-favorite bartender remains motionless and silent. He stands at the boat’s wheel like the Ancient Mariner, sturdy and fixed on his task. Maybe my question got lost in the wind and diesel engine noise.
I decide to shout it. “Hey, Luis. When is Gerry going to toss me over the side?”
He heard me that time, I know it. But he’s not talking. Gerry must have explained how dangerous I am, forbid Luis to engage me in conversation. Gerry knowing that if we talk, Luis will remember what a nice man I am, how unsuitable I am for drowning.
“Remember that night in the restaurant parking lot when those three guys jumped you? Remember how I helped you, Luis? I could have driven out of there, never looked back, right? But I didn’t, did I? I ran over fast as I could and fought beside you.”
Nothing. Not a twitch.
“Remember I’m the one who found your knife?”
Still nothing. The Ancient Mariner is made of stone. My silver bullet words bounce off. Damn. I can’t believe he won’t even talk to me. It’s not normal.
Good thing I never had to make a living selling stocks and bonds to guys like Luis.
“Before you dump my ass overboard, let’s have one last shot of Herradura together, okay? It would mean a lot to me, you’re being such a good friend and all.”
Immediately, I regret the sarcasm. That reminder of the parking lot was my hole card, my ace, my best shot at turning Luis around to my side. But I probably killed it with that nasty reference to friendship. Luis hates sarcasm and insincerity.
Luis’s arm moves a little and suddenly the pitch of the engines drops, the bow dips, and I can see a sliver of golden moon on the expanded night horizon. Did I piss off the Ancient Mariner? Is he slowing down to toss me over the side right now, save Gerry the trouble?
An old memory comes back to me, a very special little blue-bellied lizard. I must have been about ten years old at the time, playing with a friend, and we caught this lizard, tied a rock to his tail and threw him in my friend’s swimming pool.
I can still see that poor little guy clawing for the surface. He struggled for the longest time. Pawing the water. Flailing. When he stopped fighting, and we brought him back up dead, I never wanted to hurt another living thing. Don’t think I ever have, at least on purpose. Even spiders get carried out of my living quarters and dumped in the flower bed.
If Luis throws me overboard now, that little blue-bellied reptile will be the last thing on my mind. Payback from the Great Lizard Spirit.
“Why are we stopping?” I say.
“We have reached The Hole,” Luis says. He turns to look at me now, a half-smile on his face. Wow, Luis, I can’t take all this attention.
“What’s The Hole?” I ask. “Is this where I walk the plank?”
Luis shakes his head no. “Your time is not now. Gerry will sleep until the dawn.”
I hear both good and bad news in that line. More importantly, however, Luis is talking. Time to turn on the full-boat Carr charm, use those words like spears and daggers.
“So, what happens tomorrow morning?” I say.
Luis shrugs.
“Come on, Luis. Tell me. What happens?”
He turns his back on me, once again facing the ship’s bow, the horizon and that sliver of fourteen-carat moon. “I am sorry,” he says.
That sounds bad. Thoughts of that little lizard begin to creep back in my head, but I fight it off because of the look on Luis’s face when he said he was sorry. I saw pity, sadness, and I take heart. My ex-favorite bartender does not want me to die. In fact, he is deeply disturbed by whatever it is Gerry has planned.
And yet...if that’s how he feels, why would Luis let it happen? Hmm. Let’s see. Hard to say exactly, but whatever reasons he has for letting Gerry run his life, they are very important to Luis and probably go back many years, somehow involving my ex-favorite bartender’s honor, family, or both.
Luis will always do his duty, but he definitely feels sorry for me, and that makes him vulnerable. If I can find out exactly what those ties to Gerry are, maybe I can sever them.
FIFTY-THREE
I collect my thoughts. Breathe deeply and slowly. Chant a couple of stockbroker mantras. Woulda, shoulda, coulda. The market’s looking stronger. I need to sound calmer than I actually am because right up there with honor, duty, and sincerity, I believe Luis will appreciate even minor signs of bravery.
“So how long have you been working for Gerry?” I say.
He shrugs again. “What does it matter?”
He’s got a point. Still. “I want to know, that’s all. And you owe me an answer. I understand you can’t prevent what’s going to happen, but you can talk to me. At least let me understand why I’m going to die.”
Luis glances at me, and strange green shadows fly across his face again from the radar. There’s something else in his expression, too. It’s only a hunch, but maybe my ex-favorite bartender feels a bit strange out here on the Atlantic, bobbing over some place called The Hole like a discarded beer can. I’ve always believed the ocean makes people insignificant, part of something so big it defies identification.
“Gerry Burns has been my benefactor for nine years,” Luis says. “Since I was what you call a teenager.”
“Benefactor?”
“Did you not hear Nestor call him el patron?”
“Yes. So?”
“He is like our father, or perhaps, Godfather. The boss. It was the same for Nestor as it is for me, plus many others. El patron pays us good wages, helps us become American citizens, but also assists the small village where we were born.”
“In Mexico?”
“Yes. Zempoala. A fishing village near Vera Cruz. Senor Burns built a small hospital for our children, paid a doctor to live there and help our families.”
Benefactor isn’t such a terrible word now that I think about it. No blood connection with Luis’s family, no mention of love. I can see how Luis feels duty, an obligation, but the whole thing sounds like a business relationship to me. Giving Luis and his pals American jobs, a place to live, bonus pay in the form of hometown construction projects for their families.
“If el patron was your benefactor, why was Nestor so angry? And how about that guy I saw in your restaurant, the one dressed all in black? Did he work for Gerry, too?”
Luis doesn’t answer right away, and in his silence, the boat disturbs a flock of large birds roosting on the water. They flap and splash, take off in a squadron. The ruckus is louder than a helicopter. Pelicans, I imagine.
“Come on, Luis. Tell me. What difference does this stuff make now?”
Almost unperceptively, Luis’s punching bag shoulders lift then fall in a sigh. “El patron’s departure was a sudden thing. He left many, including Nestor, without jobs. The man dressed in black wanted me to help him take over some of Senor Burns’...operations.”
“He wanted you two to go into business for yourselves?”
“That is how el patron said it as well,” Luis says. “When I refused to betray our benefactor, we argued, and later in the parking lot he and the others tried to...change my mind.”
“Wh
o killed Cruz?”
“Alejandro. The man dressed in black.”
“That’s why you killed him? Because of Cruz?”
“Si.”
While I’m thinking this over, feeling better that Luis is giving up the skinny, but also unable to as yet find a wedge to slip between him and his benefactor, a previous conversation comes to mind. In the restaurant that evening, right after I saw Kelly for the first time in a year. The memory is a bit foggy, thanks to all the tequila I drank that night, but I think I recall the gist.
“If Gerry is your benefactor,” I say, “why did you warn me about Kelly that night in the bar?”
No answer. Have I touched a nerve?
“You were really warning me about Gerry, weren’t you? Trying to keep me from getting sucked into this.”
Luis shrugs. “I said only that Gerry’s woman could be deceiving you.”
Too bad I didn’t listen.
FIFTY-FOUR
The hazy, orange light of dawn brings texture and a bit of color to the Ancient Mariner’s silhouette. Strange that even on the boat, my ex-favorite bartender wears his standard, hombre-issue black slacks and white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Black Reeboks may be his only concession to functional deck wear, although he might have worn sneakers behind the bar as well. I don’t ever remember noticing Luis’s feet.
“Buenos dias,” I say.
No answer. Luis quit talking to me hours ago and it looks like the new day brings no change in this new non-verbal status. Damn. I was getting somewhere last night, too. I know it. That’s probably why he discontinued our conversation.
Below us on the main deck, the clatter of metal equipment draws my attention away from Luis. Must be Gerry working on something down there. A torture device, perhaps, or maybe he’s just rearranging deck shares to give himself a better view of the morning’s proceedings.
Today’s the day I feed the fish. I can feel it in my bladder.
“Bring him down here, Luis,” Gerry says.
My monster’s voice jolts me as if I’d been asleep. Maybe I was. My brain is so foggy. This horror at sea has begun to take on dreamlike qualities.
Luis touches something on the controls and spins away from the bow. He steps closer and kneels by the bench on which I lay bound with duct tape. His face looks even sadder than before, and I can’t help but imagine he’s thinking of my looming destruction. Wow. It’s crazy to think this, I know, but after everything’s that happened, everything that is about to happen, I still admire Luis and want him to like me. How freaking ridiculous is that?
“Can you sit up?” he says.
My attempt is feeble and Luis slips his arm under my shoulders to assist. When I’m sitting on the bench, my feet flat on the deck of this flying bridge, Luis yanks his big black switchblade from his pocket and deftly slices the tape around my ankles.
My leg muscles cramp as he pulls me into a standing position, and I need him for support. He offers a strong arm, supporting me under the armpits until the blood returns to my muscles.
“Come on, Luis,” Gerry says. “Get him down here.”
As my ex-favorite bartender leads me toward the stairway, guiding me toward oblivion, I feel something hard and heavy slide into the front pocket of my slacks. What the hell was that? Could it be? Did Luis just give me his switchblade? Or was it a roll of nickels for additional weight?
Even taped together, my hands can reach that pocket, or at least the fingers of my right hand can, and I try to confirm the identity of Luis’s gift. He slaps at my hand and shakes his head covertly. Oh. My. God. The famous full-boat Carr charm has once more worked its magic. It must be Luis’s knife.
Gerry waits for us at the bottom of the chrome step ladder. He’s holding something that looks like a leather virginity belt, only there’s a hollow cup-holder thing fixed to where one’s virginity would most be at risk. Some kind of fishing harness?
Oh, shit. Is he going to use me for bait? Austin Carr on a hook?
With Luis behind, steadying me with a hand at the scruff of my neck, I descend the stairs slowly and carefully. Don’t want to fall and break a leg before getting thrown overboard, do I?
“Ready for a swim?” Gerry says.
Ah, confirmation of my destiny. I like being right, of course. Who doesn’t? But here’s a case I could have easily lived with miscalculation. Ha. Lived with. Very funny, Austin. What a card.
One villain on each of my arms, Gerry and Luis escort me toward the boat’s fighting chair. The contraption is bolted to the main deck, and its steel frame, the head and foot rest remind me of a barber’s seat. What’s with this setup? Are we going to have a fishing tournament before I get tossed overboard? Maybe Kelly’s chopped up body is going to be the bait.
I stumble and almost fall as Gerry and Luis suddenly freeze. What are they staring at? I look up as Kelly’s red hair appears in the stairway, struggling now up onto the main deck.
Kelly, my Jersey Jezebel, is still alive? Oh, boy, is she. Kelly’s holding a pistol. No wait. The muzzle’s too big. Like a shotgun’s.
She points the weapon our way and I see it’s a flare gun, one of those doodads you shoot into the sky to signal distress. The redhead’s aiming it right between Gerry’s eyes.
Gimme a K, gimme an E, gimme an L,L, Y.
Yeah, Kelly.
FIFTY-FIVE
Seagulls circle the boat like Apaches. I can feel Gerry and Luis’s surprise in their grip, a sudden tension. Me, I can’t believe the famous, full-boat Carr luck. First Luis slips me his knife. Now Jezebel switches sides. Again.
Hope springs infernal.
After he gets a good look at that flare gun, Gerry lets go of my arm, takes a step in the redhead’s direction. “Hey, hon. You’re feeling better. That’s great. I thought you’d be out of it until—”
“Shut the fuck up,” she says.
Her gaze flits back and forth between Luis and Gerry, her lips pressed tight. Pissed as hell, this redhead. “I know you tried to kill me. I put those pills under my tongue last night, spit them into my hand. This morning I could see what they were. You didn’t give me two hundred milligrams of Oxycontin to help me sleep, you bastard.”
My thoughts exactly.
“Oxycontins? No way, hon. Just a couple more Percocets to make you—”
“One more word, I’m going to burn a hole in your fat stomach the size of a dinner plate. Now cut Austin’s hands loose, push him over here with me.”
Gerry and Luis glance at each other, some kind of signal apparently because the very next second I’m left wobbling on my own, Gerry moving one way, Luis the other. Coming at Kelly around the fighting chair from opposite directions.
Kelly’s eyes get bigger. Her jaw drops. She hesitates another second, then fires the flare gun at Gerry. Not the wisest choice in my estimation, although I can easily understand her impulse. Senor Burns is the world’s biggest creep.
There’s a whooshing sound, like the Fourth of July, and a red streak of sparkling mini-rocket exhaust zooms past my monster’s head, sails out across the calm morning sea. The seagulls squawk and disperse.
The redhead screams as Luis tackles her. The flare gun clatters onto the deck.
“Oh, God, Gerry. Please don’t kill me. Please.”
“I can’t stand the racket anymore,” Gerry says to Luis. “Put some tape across that big mouth.”
Kelly has cried and begged for her life steadily since Luis began to bind her wrists and ankles. Now he rips off a four-inch piece of duct tape and covers her lips. Her green eyes bloom to the size of teacups. The cords in her neck stretch taut as she flails her head back and forth.
“Grab her shoulders,” Gerry says.
Sweet Jesus. This is tough to watch. I feel my stomach turning sour, my knees getting weak again. Such a waste of redheaded talent.
Luis stands motionless. Is he refusing Gerry’s order? “Surely, patron, there has been enough killing.”
“Get her fucking shoulders,”
Gerry says. “You told me yourself we can’t take her through customs.”
“I will not do this,” Luis says.
Gerry stares at him. Seconds tick by. Finally Gerry shrugs. “Okay, fuck it. Go on back up to the flying bridge. I’ll handle this myself.”
Kelly’s body bucks wildly as Luis turns his back. Her throat makes awful sounds as Gerry drags her toward the railing.
I must say this is going exactly as I anticipated. Gerry wants no blood, no evidence on the boat. Gruesome as they are, staff reductions are to be carried out with a minimum of physical violence.
I think I’m going to throw up.
Gerry grab’s her waist and struggles to lift her onto the rail. Kelly’s emerald eyes bulge like a frog’s. I am once again reminded of that blue-bellied lizard of my nightmares. At least that little guy didn’t know what was going to happen to him. Kelly’s horror—mine, too—is the anticipation.
“Goodbye, hon,” Gerry says.
My monster lets go of her waist and begins to push on her shoulders. It’s a lot of weight for Gerry, and the redhead doesn’t slide easily. Her head shakes wildly, eyes aglow with fear, and then thrashing, she drops quietly out of sight.
I almost feel the splash more than hear her hitting the water, my gut imagining her panic, and my knees buckle beneath me. A glop of bile climbs my throat and splatters onto the deck.
The stench of my own vomit fills my nose. Breath comes in short, shallow gasps. Why doesn’t Gerry just shut the hell up and get this over with? Blabbermouth.
“Those shoulder straps okay?” Gerry says. “Not too tight, I hope.”
Bastard. Sitting in the fighting chair, though unbuckled to it, I am bridled by what Gerry called a stand-up fishing belt and harness. Straps circle my waist and chest as well my shoulders. Locking brass clips fix me to the harness, the pole, and the rod-mounted Penn 130 International reel.
“I think I see a school,” he says. “What luck.”