Buzz Cut (35 page)

"Okay, Thorn, so tell me. How would you propose for somebody to stop running away?"

"It would depend on what they were running from."

The
Lola Live
theme song began to play from the overhead speakers. Very loud, very upbeat. A few bars into it someone abruptly shut it off. They both looked up at the speakers waiting for Butler Jack to begin yammering. But nothing happened. A young guy in the hot tub whooped and splashed around. Everyone over there laughing at his hijinks.

"I hated being rich," she said. "That's one thing."

"Yeah," Thorn said. "I expect rich would be tough."

She eyed him. Tried to detect any irony in his face. But he was simply squinting across the bay, tracing the flight of a half-dozen gulls. A military jet was moving across the small hills, leaving a contrail like a fresh scar across the flawless blue. The chopper hung a few hundred feet off their starboard side, blurring the water's surface.

"If you're a woman, you're young, wealthy, and you're the least bit attractive, you find out pretty quick you can't trust anyone. You never know what it is that's motivating people. Somebody would get down on their knees, say they loved me, I'd never know why. But I was usually pretty sure it was either the shape of my breasts or the size of my father's bank account."

"No one ever knows why," Thorn said. He brought his eyes back from the distance. "Rich, poor, in between. Ugly, beautiful. It doesn't matter. People say they love each other all the time and you can never be sure what it means. Everyone's guessing, feeling their way in the dark."

"Oh, now there's a great fucking philosophy. Don't trust anybody. No matter what someone says, there's a lie in it somewhere. Everybody's manipulating everybody else. That's cynical as shit."

"Did I say that?"

"Yeah, you did."

"What I thought I said was you can't be sure why people do things. You'll never know what's going on in their heads. So you can turn that either way. Cynical. Not trust anybody. Or you can go the other direction. Take things at face value. Assume everybody is doing the best they can, telling the truth, the best they know it."

"You're a bleeding heart."

"I bleed a little."

"So when you catch Butler, what, you're gonna buy him a drink, sit down and have a friendly chat with the guy?"

"No," Thorn said. "I'm going to pinch his little fucking head off his neck is what I'm going to do."

"But he's doing the best he can."

"Yeah," said Thorn. "But it isn't good enough. Not by a long shot."

At Sugarman's request, the staff chief engineer, Stefano Maranzana, placed a radio call to the U.S. Coast Guard Station in Miami. He got through to Operations, requesting information on the current whereabouts of the S.S.
Juggernaut,
an ultra-large crude carrier that reportedly worked in the northern Caribbean and the Gulf. Its last reported location was dry dock in Baltimore, Maryland.

After a five-minute delay, Miami Coast Guard Lieutenant Bill Ciardi informed Maranzana that their float plan records showed the
Juggernaut
was currently at port in Freeport, Bahamas, taking on a cargo of crude oil. It was scheduled to begin its voyage around the Florida Straits later on that Monday morning, arriving at the Amoco refinery in Galveston by late Wednesday.

Sugarman held out his hand and Maranzana handed him the microphone.

"Lieutenant Ciardi, we have reason to believe," Sugarman said, "that the
Juggernaut
may be the target of either a hijack attempt or some form of terrorist sabotage."

Ciardi was silent for a moment. Static filling the radio room.

"Who am I speaking with?" Ciardi asked.

"Chief of Security Sugarman. Fiesta Cruise Lines."

"What is the basis for your suspicion of this terrorist attack sir?"

Sugarman told him about the paper they'd discovered.

"A sheet of paper?" Ciardi said.

"It appears to be an outline of his course of action. The paper was discovered in the cabin of a person who is the prime suspect in several crimes committed aboard the M.S.
Eclipse
in recent months."

"What kind of crimes, sir?"

"Casino theft and violence against persons."

"Have these crimes been reported to the Coast Guard? Do we have a case number?"

"They haven't been reported, no."

"And why is that?"

"You'd have to take that up with Morton Sampson."

"Have I heard you correctly, Mr. Sugarman? The
Juggernaut
is merely listed on this paper? Its name alone? No other details concerning this alleged terrorist conspiracy?"

"That's right. Just its name, but—"

Ciardi told him to hold on. There was a click and more static. Sugarman frowning around at the wall of dials and switches. He was gripping the microphone so hard he thought he heard the plastic crack along its seam. He forced himself to back off a notch. When Ciardi returned, the man was brisk.

"Mr. Sugarman, we will radio the
Juggernaut
and request that they perform an immediate internal security check."

"Hey, hold on," Sugarman said. "We need a good deal more than that. You need to keep them in port. Then land some of your engineering people, your explosives team, sweep every corner of the ship. There could be also something wrong with its navigational or electronics equipment. You should be looking for any kind of trouble they've experienced since leaving Baltimore. We're dealing with a man with a thorough knowledge of nautical electronics. He's shrewd and his plan seems to involve the extortion of a large sum of money. And we have a witness who puts him on the
Juggernaut
two days ago in Baltimore."

"Now we're talking about extortion? Not terrorism."

"Fifty-eight million dollars. We believe that will be his asking price."

"Mr. Sugarman, feel free to fax us whatever relevant information you may have. We'll review it and decide what appropriate action to take. Beyond that, I can't say we are persuaded to take further measures based on the information you've provided so far."

"Look, goddamn it, something very bad's about to go down. Something involving the
Juggernaut.
It would be a grave fucking error if you don't use all deliberate speed to get onto that goddamn ship and check it over with extreme care."

"Negative, Mr. Sugarman."

"Negative? That's all you got to say? Negative?"

"Apparently you're not aware of this, sir, but the United States Coast Guard is straining its resources at this moment. Our mission is primarily search and rescue. We help out with some drug interdiction, but we simply don't have the manpower to inspect a vessel based on a suspicious sheet of paper discovered in a cabin on a commercial cruise ship. Is that understood?"

Maranzana whispered to Sugarman, "It is Cuban rafting season. They are picking up hundreds of refugees every day. This is not a good time to ask favors of the Coast Guard."

"Understood," Sugar growled into the microphone, and clicked it off. "Understood."

***

Sugarman's plate was stacked high with pancakes, scrambled eggs, strips of bacon, sausage patties, and a cup of baked cinnamon apples. Heart food. He was wearing a pair of khaki slacks, a snug teal shirt with epaulets. Cordovan boat shoes, one of the leather laces flopping loose.

When he set his plate of food at the table and took the seat between Thorn and Monica, Thorn nodded at his shoelace and Sugar bent to retie it.

The TV people had rolled out a couple of cameras on trolleys and passengers were beginning to fill the front rows. Over in the hot tub, the gang of revelers continued to revel. For the last ten minutes they'd been singing a song in unison. So off key and out of sync it was impossible to comprehend.

"Monica wants out," Thorn said.

She glared at him.

Sugarman speared a baked apple and got it as far as his lips then set his fork down on the edge of his plate.

"Okay," Sugar said, giving her a strained smile. "We'll find another way then."

"This isn't my fight," she said. "Butler Jack can have his fifty-eight million for all I care. He'll do better things with it than my father."

Sugarman nodded thoughtfully.

"Probably right," he said. "I'd bail too if I could."

"What're they doing with the bodies? Jenkins and Cruz and Dorfman," Thorn said. "They going to take them ashore here?"

"No," Sugar said. "Sampson wants to keep them on ice till we return to Miami. Soon as it gets out about Dale Jenkins, the shit'll be all over the walls. Sampson wants enough time to invent a good lie. For now the story is, Dale has something contagious. Nobody's allowed in his room. The doc came up with the name of a tropical disease that'll keep him in quarantine."

"What bullshit." Thorn glared at Rafael.

"Next of kin?" Monica said. "Won't someone be looking for him, wondering where the hell he is?"

"The man's got no family. Apparently he's got a habit of lying low. A solitary drinker. All Sampson's worried about is this Brandy Wong woman finding out about the murder. The tropical disease thing is for her."

"Is there a law, reporting a murder in a timely fashion?"

"You got me," Sugarman said. "But the word is, we're going on like nothing's happened. Brandy's running around. She knows something's wrong, big news. But she doesn't know what. I'll give her till sunset before she cracks the shell."

"Oh, she'll know sooner than that," Thorn said. "Soon as
Lola Live
starts."

Monica said, "Forget it, I'm not going to do it."

"Nobody's asking you to do it," Thorn said. "I'm going to do it."

"You?"

"What? You think just because I never watch this shit I can't be a TV star? Hey, stick around."

Sugar gave Monica a small smile.

"He's crazy," Sugar said. "He's clinically out of it."

"Oh, by the way," Thorn said. "What is this shit about you and Jeannie, a divorce?"

"Where the hell'd you hear that?"

Thorn told him about Mrs. Miranda, his neighbor.

"Oh, that woman's got it screwed up as usual. Jeannie went off to California for a few weeks. That's all."

"California."

"Place called Sylvan Farms, near Santa Barbara. Some kind of holistic pregnancy clinic. She sent off for the literature, got all frenzied. Somehow or other these people guaranteed her she'd come home knocked up."

"She take along some of your frozen sperm?"

"I overnighted it out there on dry ice so it would be waiting for her. Can you believe it? I'm letting fly on one coast so she can get pregnant four thousand miles away. Of course, I got my doubts. I think the sperm thing is just a coverup. The place sounds more like a stud farm to me. She goes out there for three weeks, gets boffed by a long line of these surfer boys, comes home with her kettle bubbling."

"But you let her go anyway."

"Yes, I did. If that's what it takes to make her happy."

Monica shook her head.

"You're both crazy," she said.

Thorn raised his eyebrows, twiddled an imaginary cigar. Gave his Groucho imitation a little Mae West inflection. "You think this is crazy? Just wait, honey doll. They haven't even turned on the spotlights yet."

***

Monica thought they'd argue harder. Force her to go ahead with it. But they shrugged it off, Thorn getting up from breakfast, carrying his dictionary, giving her a wink, and going off with Sugarman. Not even a good-bye and good luck.

She sat at the table watching the TV crew work, the show's familiar set taking shape. A busboy came by, took the plates, asked her if she wanted anything to drink. She said no, she was just leaving. But she didn't get up.

She listened to the announcements coming over the loudspeakers, descriptions of the various excursions and tours around Nassau, Paradise Island, the marketplace, snorkeling the reef. As soon as
Lola Live
was over, the ship would dock. Around her people were grumbling, wanting to go ashore now. But the TV show needed an audience. How would it look, Lola sitting out on the deck of the
Eclipse
, nobody to clap, nobody to laugh at Rafael's drolleries? Apparently they'd made a tactical decision, anchor up just offshore, show the gorgeous skyline in the background. Keep their audience captive.

Monica got up, headed for the stern stairway. She carried her laundry bag, all her earthly possessions. She'd wander around for another hour, work her way down to the head of the gangway, maybe pick up some toiletries, any other supplies, charge them to her room, be among the first to disembark. Stay with the crowd, she'd be safe. Butler would be distracted by Thorn's little drama.

At the top of the stairs she stopped, turned back, leaned against the rail and gazed out at the island. The Bahamas would be fine. Get off, drift away from the docks, sniff around, find a job in one of the motels. Nobody had to know. Take back Irma Slater. Get another routine going. It would be fine, it would be a new adventure. Go over to Andros. Thorn had mentioned it. She'd heard before it was nice there. Not so touristy. Younger.

Maybe she could work her way down through the islands, St. Martin, Guadeloupe, Grenada, Martinique, Antigua, Nevis. There was no reason she couldn't do that. Explore the blue waters. Take her pad and pen and sharpen her drawing skills. It sounded good. It sounded very good. Romantic, exotic. She was young. She was smart and didn't mind hard work. She could let her hair grow back, maybe choose another name this time, a completely fresh identity. Monique, Manuela. Something with Gypsy charm. There were lots of islands. So many she didn't even know all their names.

All she had to do was walk down that gangplank, step off into a new world. All she had to do was wait till
Lola Live
was over.