Tricky Business (11 page)

“Leonard Bernstein?” said Frank.

Both frowns deepened.

“Never mind,” said Frank. “Let's get going.”

They clambered aboard, Frank first, then Juan, who stumbled as the boat pitched, almost fell, caught himself awkwardly on the gunwale. Tark grinned, opened the cabin door, and went inside. Frank started to follow, then looked back at Juan.

“You coming?” he said.

“No, I stay out here,” he said. “Away from that asshole.” Truth was, Juan was already feeling queasy. He knew he'd feel worse in the cabin. He hated this goddamn boat.

Frank turned and went into the cabin. It stank of sweat. Tark was crouched by the counter, rooting in the refrigerator. Behind him, sitting in a U-shaped nook around a table littered with an afternoon's worth of beer cans, were three men Frank had never seen before.

“Who's this?” Frank said.

“They're the crew,” said Tark, rising from the refrigerator, fresh beer in hand.

“Where's the regular crew?” said Frank. The regular crew was three skinny Bahamians. These were three big white guys.

“I got rid of them,” said Tark. “Them spades, all they wanna do is get high. These guys are better. More reliable.”

That got a smirk from the man sitting closest to Frank. He wore a black wool cap and a denim shirt with the sleeves cut off, so you could see his big arms, the arms of a dedicated steroid abuser. On his right biceps was a crude tattoo, most likely done in prison, that said “Kaz.” The next man was fatter, orange hair in a buzz cut, deep creases in the flesh of his neck. The farthest man, leaner than the other two, had a goatee and wore a bandanna and an ear-ring, like a pirate.

“I don't like this,” said Frank.

“You don't like what?” said Tark, showing Frank a big fake-innocent look.

Frank was a big man, and people who didn't know him were always surprised at how quickly he could draw a gun. It was in his hand now, a Glock 31, .357 caliber, 17-shot magazine, serious firepower, popular with law enforcement and professional criminals alike. It was pointed midway between Tark and the three guys, who shifted slightly but stayed seated.

“Hey, man,” said Tark, “what the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem,” said Frank, “is I don't know these guys.”

“I know them,” said Tark. “I'm vouching for them.”

“Somehow that doesn't reassure me,” said Frank. “I want to know why you didn't tell me about this.”

“I didn't think you'd give a shit.”

“You didn't? We use the same crew every time. Suddenly, tonight, we're about to go on a job, a very important job, and there's three guys I don't know from Britney Spears, and you didn't think I'd
give
a shit?”

“I told you, I know these guys. We go back, man. This here is Kaz, this here is Rebar, this here is Holman.”

Frank looked at the three of them watching him. The cabin was quiet except for the sounds of the water sloshing against the hull, the lines groaning. Frank reached behind him and opened the cabin door.

“Juan,” he said. “Get in here.”

Juan came in, saw the situation, the three new guys, the gun in Frank's hand. He reached under his poncho and pulled out his own pistol, also a Glock, the original, smaller, 9-millimeter model 17.

“Who's this?” he said.

“I'm wondering that myself,” said Frank. “I'm gonna ask you to keep these gentlemen company while I go outside and call Miami.”

“You guys smell beans in here?” said Tark, sniffing the air.

Juan swung his gun barrel toward Tark.

“You want to find out what a bullet smells like, asshole?” he said.

“Easy,” said Frank. “Let's not kill anybody just yet, OK? I'll be right back.”

He stepped outside, closed the door, pulled out his cell phone and held it up so he could read the display by the dock light. As he'd feared, it said NO SERVICE. He tried to place the call anyway. Nothing.

“Damn,” he said. He looked at his watch. Not enough time to go back and use the phone at the inn, which often didn't work anyway.

“Damn,” he said again. He rubbed his mouth, thinking, rain dripping down his face. He was in a bind. He needed Tark to run the boat. He needed a crew to transfer the shipments. He needed to get started. With this weather, they were already in danger of being late to the rendezvous.

Frank reopened the cabin door and stepped inside. Nobody had moved.

“OK,” he said. “Here's what. My associate is gonna pat you gentlemen down, one at a time.” He pointed to Kaz. “Starting with you.”

With feigned weariness, Kaz stood, turned, placed his hands against the wall and spread his legs.

“I'm guessing you've done this before,” said Frank.

Juan, with practiced efficiency, frisked Kaz, then Rebar, then Holman. Each time, he signaled to Frank: nothing.

“Now you,” said Frank, to Tark.

“I don't want that spic touching me,” said Tark.

“I don't care what you want,” said Frank, aiming the gun barrel a quarter-inch more Tark's way.

Tark sighed, then slowly set down his beer, turned, and leaned against the counter. Juan stepped up and patted him down. As he ran his hand up the inseam of Tark's shorts, Juan considered an uppercut to the crotch, make the man scream, pass out, maybe wind up losing a ball.

“Don't even think about it,” said Frank.

Juan finished, finding nothing. He stepped away.

“OK,” said Frank. “Here's the plan. You three are gonna stay right at that table until we get where we're going. My associate is going to stay right here keeping you company. You should know that my associate is an extremely good marksman.”

“We're supposed to stay here the whole time?” said Kaz.

“That's correct,” said Frank.

“What if I gotta take a shit?” said Kaz.

“Then you'll have to shit your pants,” said Frank. “So I advise restraint on your part. For my part, I'm going to stay right by our captain's side and assist him with his nautical tasks. I'm confident he'll get us to our destination quickly and efficiently, because he's a team player, because he's a professional, and because if I see even the slightest sign that he's fucking with me, fragments of his skull will come down as far away as Tampa. So is everyone clear on the plan?”

Frank smiled around at everybody. Nobody smiled back.

“Excellent,” said Frank. “Anchors aweigh.”

Tark, with Frank behind him, went up the small stairway to the bridge, started the engines, checked the gauges.

“I gotta cast off,” he said.

“After you,” said Frank.

As Tark crossed back through the cabin, he glanced over at the table. He and Kaz locked eyes for a millisecond, traded the tiniest of nods. Everything was going exactly according to plan.

 

WALLY, TED, JOHNNY, AND JOCK WERE CROSSING the causeway, heading from the mainland to Miami Beach in Johnny's 1987 Plymouth Voyager. Johnny was driving; Jock was riding shotgun; Wally and Ted were in the back seat; Muddy Waters was on the tape player. The minivan shuddered as wind gusts hit it, Johnny leaning over the steering wheel to squint into the rainy gloom.

“I can't believe we're going out in this shit,” he said. “Are we really
this
desperate for money?”

“I am,” said Wally, exhaling, handing the joint to Ted. “I'm very desperate. You want to know how desperate I am?”

“How desperate are you?” said Ted.

“I am so desperate,” said Wally, “that today I called the number for that guy who says you can get rich in real estate without putting up any of your own money. You know that guy? On TV? He's in Hawaii, has a major tan, and he has all these people come on and sit with him under the palm trees and give testimonials about how, six months ago, they were living in a refrigerator carton, and now, thanks to this guy's foolproof system, they're making eighty-seven-thousand dollars a month from real estate.”

“Why were they living in a refrigerator carton?” said Jock, reaching back to get the joint from Ted.

“I don't mean literally,” said Wally. “I just mean, they didn't have shit.”

Jock said, “Wouldn't bother me, living in a refrigerator carton, if I lived in Hawaii.” He took a hit.

“They don't
live
in Hawaii,” said Ted.

“Wally just said it was Hawaii,” said Johnny, accepting the joint from Jock.

“I know,” said Ted. “But they just fly them out to Hawaii, so everybody thinks, whoa, you do this real-estate deal, you have all this money, you can go to Hawaii.”

“If they have so much money,” said Jock, “why do they live in a refrigerator carton?”

“Listen,” said Wally, reaching forward and getting the joint from Johnny, “ just
forget
the refrigerator carton, OK? There
is
no refrigerator carton. I made the fucking refrigerator carton up.”

“But they
are
in Hawaii?” said Jock.

“Yes,” said Ted, “but they don't live there.”

“How do you know that?” said Johnny. “They might live there.”

“He could be right,” said Wally, handing the joint to Ted. “Some of them could live in Hawaii. I mean, just randomly.”

“Shit,” said Ted, “I'm trying to argue for
your
side, and now you're agreeing with
them.
”

“I'm not agreeing about the refrigerator carton,” said Wally. “I'm just agreeing about living in Hawaii, and I'm only partly agreeing on that.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jock. “You just said there
was
no refrigerator carton.”

“Jesus,” said Wally.

“So what happened?” said Ted, handing the joint forward to Jock.

“What happened when?” said Wally.

“What happened when you called the number?” said Ted.

“What number?” said Jock.

“The number on the infomercial,” said Ted.

“What infomercial?” said Jock.

“The one we're
talking
about, you moron,” said Ted.

“We're talking about an infomercial?” said Jock. He turned to Johnny: “Did you know that?”

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “But they're wrong about Hawaii.”

“Jesus,” said Wally.

“This one's done,” said Jock, popping the roach into his mouth.

“So what did happen?” said Ted.

“OK,” said Wally. “So I call the number, and this woman wants my credit-card number, so she can charge me fifty-nine ninety-five for the tapes. So I'm like, I don't have any credit left on my credit card. So she's like, well, you can send a check or money order for fifty-nine ninety-five. So I'm like, listen, I don't
have
fifty-nine ninety-five, which is why I need to get into real estate in the first place, so how about you let me have the tapes for no money down, and I pay you the money when I get rich from real estate? And she's like, no, we can't do that. And I'm like, why not? Doesn't the system work? I mean, the infomercial guy says it's foolproof, right? And she's like, well, I wouldn't know anything about that, sir. And I'm like, OK, can I talk to somebody who
does
know something about it? And she's like, well, you can talk to my supervisor. And I'm like, OK, will your supervisor be able to send me the tapes? And she's like, I wouldn't think so, sir, if you don't have the fifty-nine ninety-five. So I'm like, well then, can you explain to me how am I supposed to buy an entire fucking
house
with no money if you won't even let me have some fucking
tapes
? And she's like, sir, there is no call for that kind of language, and she hangs up.”

“Sounds like you're on your way to financial independence,” said Ted.

“No question,” said Wally. “I've taken that critical first step. Do we have another joint?”

“Right here,” said Jock, lighting it, taking a hit.

The car was silent, except for Muddy Waters.

“I bet hardly any customers show up tonight,” said Ted, looking out at the rain.

“We still gotta play,” said Wally.

“Easy night for the dealers and waitresses, though,” said Ted.

“You guys seen that new cocktail waitress?” said Johnny.

“Which one?” said Jock, exhaling.

“Whatshername. With the long hair and the legs,” said Johnny.

“Oh yeah,” said Jock, handing the joint to Johnny. “What's her name?”

“Fay,” said Wally.

“How do you know her name?” said Ted.

“I talked to her,” said Wally. He'd tried to strike up a conversation with her, which consisted of him saying hi, I'm Wally, and her saying, I'm Fay, then him saying, I'm in the band, and her saying, huh, not sounding impressed, then an awkward pause, then him saying, so, you work on the ship, and her saying, no I just enjoy wearing this stupid cocktail waitress outfit with the mesh stockings and the uncomfortable shoes, and then him trying to think of a clever come-back but not coming up with anything, just standing there grinning like a moron, and then her saying, I gotta go. He'd hoped to talk to her again, but so far he hadn't seen an opening, because she worked the second deck, and the band played on the third, and when they took a break and he went downstairs, she was always busy, carrying drinks through the smoke and the noise, and besides, he couldn't think of anything non-stupid to say, and besides, a woman who looked like that probably would never be interested in a guy like him, even if he wasn't the world's biggest fucking loser.