Pirate (14 page)

STOKELY JONES HAD NEVER SEEN SO MANY RICH, BEAUTIFULLY
decked out white folk jammed into one small location in his whole damn life. Not only that, they were all floating. Of course, the boat they were floating on had to have cost at least fifty mil, but hey, this was the South of France!
La dolce vita
and shit.

He hadn’t met Hawke’s reason for his being here yet, some German baron or duke who owned this barge, but he’d sampled some of the hors d’oeuvres (prissy-ass version of pigs in a blanket and assorted sushi that looked like little flower arrangements), and he’d finally managed to get himself something to drink from one of the cute girls wandering around in short pleated sailor suits who didn’t speak word one of English.

A very tan couple was standing next to him sipping pink champagne. Lots of noisy gold jewelry. Major bling going on. Stoke had seen a lot of topless action around, but this woman was actually wearing one. Still, this being France, you could see right through it and there was a lot to see. He decided it was impolite not to speak so he said to the guy, “Hey, how you doing? Big boat, huh? What do you think one of these goes for?”

“Mais oui,”
the guy said,
“c’est formidable, le
Valkryie. You are
Americain, n’est-ce pas
?”

“Yeah, Ameri-
can.
I like that. Put the accent on the last syllable. Who can? Ameri-can! We ought to try that. You guys are French, unless I’m very much mistaken?”

“Mais certainement, monsieur,”
the French guy said, as if this were so damn obvious he couldn’t believe anybody was even dumb enough to ask the question. “My name is Marcel.”

“Stokely Jones, nice to meet you. In that case, Marcel, let me ask you a question. Why the hell does everybody over here in Europe call this stuff I’m drinking here ‘Coke Light’ instead of Diet Coke the way we call it in the U.S. of A.? You got any thoughts on that? Maybe it’s a marketing thing. Just curious. I had a hell of a time figuring it out. Almost died of thirst.”

“Pardon, monsieur?
I don’t understand.”

“No? Well, I mean, it’s confusing. Let’s take Bud Light, for example, what we Americans call the low-calorie Bud. You guys call that Diet Bud? I mean, just for instance.”

The woman huffed out something that sounded like
Oof!
and turned away to look at the sunset. It did wonders for her transparent white blouse but Stoke didn’t stare because the French guy was looking at him funny. Wanted to say something but not sure what. Like he couldn’t get his mouth hooked up to his brain. Husband, Stoke decided. Definitely husband. Oh, well.

Having just about exhausted his small talk repertoire, Marcel lobbed a lame one from the foul line, saying, “You are staying at the Hotel du Cap, Monsieur Jones?”

“Me? Way out of my price range. No, I myself like to keep it low key. I’m up at the Plage Publique.”

“The Public Beach?” The two of them looked at each other.

“You’ve heard of it, huh? Great views of the ocean. Cheap, too.”

“I would imagine so, monsieur,” the guy said. “Oof.”
Oof
was a big word in France, Stoke figured.

“Well, I guess I’ll let you guys circulate,” Stoke said to him and began to move away. He stopped and looked at the guy over his shoulder.

“Hey, Marcel, you know what French word I really like?” Stoke said. “Sangfroid. Sang-
fwa.
Love to say that word. Ice in your veins. I can relate to that. Nice talking to you. Keep it real, you two.”

Stoke made his way over to the starboard side and stood for a moment admiring the cockpit. The electronics and navionics and shit. Big flat-screen TV monitor in front of each wheel, which was something to see. Color GPS, weather sat, and radar displays. Underwater camera showing the bottom just below the boat in real time. Stoke looked at that for a second, thinking about why they might have that. Security? Maybe they did underwater exploration. Treasure hunters, maybe. Something.

He noticed the couple he’d been chatting with talking to a toady little man in a white jacket with brass buttons and epaulets and stuff. Looked like a baby admiral. He had two goons with him, big blond Teutonic types, muscle boys, wearing tight black T-shirts and shorts. The duke and duchess were holding their hands up in front to shield their mouths while they talked to the guy, but they kept looking over at Stoke so he could pretty well imagine who they were talking about.

The little egg-shaped admiral bobbed his head up and down. He had an expression of grave concern on his pink face as he headed through the crowd in Stoke’s direction. The two storm troopers were right behind him.

“May I help you, monsieur?” he asked in a not-too-friendly way, moving close to Stoke so nobody could overhear him. That meant he had to crane his head way the hell back to look all the way up at Stoke’s face.

“Help me? With what?”

That seemed to throw him.

“Are you finding everything you need?” he said. Translation, even though he was speaking plain, heavily accented English, I think you’re at the wrong party, dude.

“Am I finding everything I need,” Stoke said, smiling at the guy and putting one of his huge hands on the guy’s shoulder as a display of international friendship. “Well, that’s a damn good question and the answer is no, I’m not. Let me ask you something.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Where all the black folks at?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Black folks. Brothers. Negroes. Where can I find them?”

The little guy was starting to puff up like an overheated pastry.

“I’m sorry, sir, I do not understand.”

“That’s all right,” Stoke said, patting the guy on the back. He tried to be gentle but he thought he heard ribs cracking. “My name is Stokely Jones, Jr. You may have heard of my family. The West 138th Street Joneses of New York City? Ring a bell? No? We the ones everybody always trying to keep up with.”

“Monsieur, I beg your pardon, but I—”

“Am I on the right yacht? Maybe I read this thing wrong,” Stoke said, pulling the invitation Alex had given him out of his breast pocket. “It’s in French so I may be mixed up. Here, you read it, see what you think.”

The guy got all wide-eyed.

“You are Lord Alexander Hawke, monsieur?” the guy said, moving his lips while he read. Eyes, too, moving from the name handwritten on the card up to Stoke’s face and then back at the invitation.

“Hell, no, I ain’t!” Stoke laughed, pounding the guy so hard on the shoulder he almost drove him straight down through the teak deck. “But that’s a good one! Am I Alex Hawke? I gotta remember to tell him that one!”

“Well, then—”

“I work for the man. He couldn’t make it tonight so he gave me his invitation. That’s his boat over there. See it? The big black one all lit up and shit. Kinda blocking out the horizon. Called
Blackhawke.
Hell, we’re practically neighbors.”

“You are Lord Hawke’s guest.” His mood brightened considerably at this idea.

“Technically,” Stoke said. “But, since it’s your boat, not. In reality, I’m your guest. See what I’m saying?”

“Well—”

“Listen. No harm done, Admiral. I’m not insulted. Hell, don’t even think about it. Skin thicker than a New York City phone book. Yellow Pages. Hey, question, all right? Where’s the host at? You ain’t him, are you?”

“Certainly not, monsieur, I am the second chief steward aboard
Valkyrie.
My name is Bruno. The owner, Baron von Draxis, he is up on the bow. Giving a warm and welcoming toast to our guests at this moment. And unveiling an oil portrait of his newest project. An ocean liner. The world’s largest. She will be launched at Le Havre in a few short weeks.”

“Really? I’d like to catch that welcome toast. I love German warmth. But, listen, Bruno, do me a favor. I’m kind of a boat guy myself. Navy SEALs, shit like that. Do you think I could get a stem-to-stern tour of this thing? Just you and me?”

Stoke discreetly slipped a single Euro note into the guy’s breast pocket, sticking out right behind his little puffed-out polka-dot hanky. Bruno looked down at it, saw it was five hundred smackers. He looked around, then shoved the note down in his pocket.

“I should be delighted, monsieur. Shall we start here at the stern?”

“Certainly. Who are your two friends here?” Stoke said, smiling at the huge evil twins and sticking his hand out to the one on the left.

“Guten abend,”
the guy said. He sounded like a German Barry White.

“Where are my manners? Damn! I didn’t even say hello. How you doing? Stokely Jones, Jr., is my name. What’s yours?”

“Arnold,” the guy said, trying vainly to pulverize Stoke’s hand. Stoke managed to extract it without permanent nerve damage and offer it to the other guy.

“Stokely Jones, nice to meet you.”

“Arnold,” the second guy said.

“You’re Arnold, too? That must get confusing.”

Bruno said, “They are in charge of the baron’s security. Arnold and—”

“Listen, Admiral. Tell the two Arnolds you’ll catch up with them later. Got it? We’ll start at this end of the boat and work our way to the beginning. Lead on, Bruno,” Stoke said, “I’ll follow you.”

“Very good, Mr. Jones.”

“Auf wiedersehen,”
Stoke said, waving good-bye to the two Arnolds. And he really did get the feeling he’d be seeing them again.

Bruno led the way, grinning with pleasure, and gave Stokely a running description of everything they saw. The big stern section that swung open hydraulically, where they kept a whole lot of silver-painted wave-riders and two Riva launches. The walnut-paneled smoking room, the card room, the screening room, the antique-filled interiors designed, naturally, by the famous Luigi di Luigi of Milano and shit like that. The Bagni Volpi sheets, the Descamps towels, all those good-life things you saw in magazines.

Stoke wasn’t too impressed by much of what he saw below. All boats, no matter how much money you throw at them, are pretty much the same below decks. Long passageways with closed cabin doors on either side. The galley, full of smiling Italian cooks and waiters, always happy to have visitors. A monstrous sparkling engine room where the chief engineer and his mates gave detailed information regarding the two massive diesels. It was, in Stoke’s view, the most beautiful room on the boat. But Stoke had no time for that now.

“Where’s this baron bunk his ass?” Stoke asked the admiral, gently squeezing his shoulder in a conspiratorial way.

“Ah, he has a full beam owner’s stateroom just up at the end of this passageway. Afraid it’s off limits just at this moment.”

“Really? Why’s that?” Stoke kept moving, leading them down the corridor leading forward until they reached the wide double doors.

“Surely you can understand that—”

“Man got to have his privacy, yeah, I can understand that. Question. What’s below our feet? You got enough space down there for four or five New York City buses.”

“It’s just the bilges, very boring. Storage, fuel tanks. We motor a lot, so we have to carry many tons of fuel. Nothing very interesting, I assure you.”

“I’m already interested. So, how you get down there? I’ve been looking for a stairway or elevator.”

“I assure you it wouldn’t be of interest.”

“Maybe some other time, then. Hey, listen, this has been great. Fabulous. I’ve got to run along now, but I’d love you to do me a favor.” Stoke fished inside his wallet. The guy rose like a trout.

“Of course, sir, how may I be of further assistance?”

“I really am dying to see the man’s bedroom, see,” Stoke said, putting a thousand-Euro note in the leaping hand. “I’m redoing one of my client’s staterooms. Looking for decorating ideas, you understand. You don’t need to stick around, just open it up for me and get back to your guests, okay?”

“Well—”

“Our little secret, Bruno old pal. Don’t worry. Somebody sees me, I just got lost looking for the head.”

“You’re an interior decorator?”

“More of an interior designer. You may have heard of my firm. Jones and Jones of New York? I like these chairs, covered in white leather. Good look.”

“It’s not exactly leather,” Bruno said. “It’s the skin of whale scrotums.”

“Whale scrotums?” Stoke said. “See, that’s exactly the kind of decorating input I’m looking for!”

“The owner’s thinking of doing these companionway walls in aqua. What do you think?”

“Bad idea.”

“Really? How do you possibly know that without seeing it?”

“Tricks of the trade, Bruno. I don’t have to throw up on the shag to know it’s going to look bad.”

“Monsieur Jones, I can see you are a man of exquisite taste. Just don’t be too long in there. Five minutes, maximum.”

“Max,” Stoke said. “I’m not good, but I’m fast.”

The little guy inserted a card into the reader and the thick, varnished mahogany door hissed open an inch. Soundproof, Stoke thought.