Tricky Business (26 page)

Bobby Kemp figured he had one chance here.

“OK, Tark, please, listen to me. Forget one million. I'll give you three million.
Three million dollars,
Tark.”

Tark was loving this.

“Bobby, you stupid little pink shit,” he said. “I
got
three million. I got
ten
million. I got
all
of it, Bobby, except the little tip I'm leaving for the Coast Guard. I got the cash here, and I got the product stashed away back in the Bahamas where nobody'll find it. Nobody'll even
look
for me,'cause I'll be dead. Just like you, Bobby.” He raised his gun.

“Tark, man, please,” said Kemp. “Let's work something out, man. I got other money, OK? You can have it, OK, Tark?
OK?
Just tell me what you want.”

Tark said, “I want you to shut the fuck up,” and he pulled the trigger.

 

ARNIE AND PHIL, ANCIENT HEARTS THUMPING from two sets of stairs, staggered into the first-floor casino and looked around for somebody to tell about the killings out back. The first vaguely official person they saw was Joe Sarmino, at his bartender post. They lurched over. Arnie put one hand on a barstool for support and used the other to gesture for Joe's attention.

“Cahhh,” Arnie told him. “Cahhhhh.” He had too little breath to get the rest of it out. He motioned for Phil to pick up the narrative.

“Cahhhhh,” said Phil.

“You guys OK?” said Joe. “You need some water?”

“Police,” said Arnie.

“Police,” agreed Phil.

“Police?” said Joe.

“Call the police,” said Arnie. “You need to call the police right now.”

“What for do you need the police?” said Joe.

“They're killing people,” said Arnie.

“Back there,” said Phil.

“Who is?” said Joe.

“Some guys with guns,” said Arnie.

“And the shell,” said Phil.

“The shell?” said Joe.

“It killed that guy,” said Phil.

“With a gun,” said Arnie.

“The shell did?” said Joe.

“Yes,” said Arnie and Phil, together.

“So you got to call the police now,” said Arnie.

“We in the ocean,” Joe pointed out. “They don't got no police out here.”

“Who needs the police?” said Mara Purvis, who had just arrived at the bar to fill a fresh set of drink orders.

Arnie turned to her. “Listen,” he said, “we need to call somebody right now, because we just saw some guys killing some guys.”

“What?”
said Mara. “Where?”

“Out back,” said Arnie, gesturing. “They shot them.”

“One of them was the shell,” said Phil.

“They shot the shell?” said Mara.

“No,” said Phil. “He shot the guy.”

“The shell did?” said Mara.

“Yes,” said Arnie. “The shell killed a guy, and some other guys killed the other guys. With guns. Back there. We need to call somebody. They're on the ship.”

“Arnie,” said Mara, “are you guys on some kind of medication you're not supposed to take with alcohol?”

“We're not drunk,” said Arnie. “I'm telling you, we saw it with our eyes, guys shooting with guns.”

“And the shell,” said Phil.

Mara looked at Joe and said, “Do you know what they're talking about?”

“I dunno,” he said. “But I tell you one thing. Three minutes ago, right before they get here, I see two big guys come out of there”—he pointed to the door at the stern—“and I don't see those guys here before. They was carrying gym bags, and they went up the stairs.”

“Oh my God,” said Mara. “What's going on?”

“I dunno,” said Joe. “Like I say before, sometimes things happen on this boat I don't wanna know nothing about.”

“You think they're gonna rob the casino? I mean the cashier on the second deck?”

“Could be,” said Joe. “That's the way they went.”

“Oh my God,” said Mara.

“We need to tell somebody,” said Arnie.

“Manny,” said Mara. “We should tell Manny.”

“Your boss?” said Arnie. “The one was yelling at you before?”

“Yeah.”

“You can't tell him,” said Arnie.

“Why not?” said Mara.

“He's dead,” said Arnie.

“He's the one the shell shot,” said Phil.

“Oh my God,” said Mara.

“We need to tell somebody,” said Arnie.

“Should we go up and warn the cashier?” said Mara.

“If they gonna rob them,” said Joe, “they already up there by now. You don't wanna go there.”

Mara thought, then said, “The captain. We could tell him, and he could call the Coast Guard or the cops or somebody.”

“OK,” said Arnie. “Let's go tell him. We'll go with you, tell him what we saw.”

“OK,” said Mara. “Joe, do you have a phone?”

“I got a cell phone.”

“OK, you call somebody in Miami, the police, or the Coast Guard, somebody, and tell them we think there's a robbery, OK? And they should send somebody out here.”

“OK,” said Joe. “I try.”

“OK,” said Mara. “C'mon, you guys.”

Mara headed for the stairs, followed by Arnie and Phil.

“A nice, relaxing night, you said,” said Phil.

“Don't start,” said Arnie.

As they disappeared into the stairway, Joe reached under the cash register and grabbed his cell phone. He was trying to decide whether to call directory assistance for the Coast Guard, or just 911. Then he looked at the phone screen: NO SERVICE.

He stared at the phone, trying to decide what to do next. Above him, on the TV set, the NewsPlex Nine co-anchors were looking excited.

“. . . first piece of good news in a while,” the female was saying. She looked at the male.

“That's right,” he said. “We have received word that NewsPlex Nine reporter Summer Westfall and cameraman Javier Santiago have both survived the crash of the NewsPlex Nine NewsVan that we reported just minutes ago.” He looked at the female anchor.

“According to police radio reports,” she said, “Summer and Javier were injured, and are being placed aboard an ambulance now.”

“We have no word yet on the seriousness of their injuries,” said the male, “but we will, of course, be following this breaking story closely.”

“Our prayers are with these two courageous members of the NewsPlex Nine family,” said the female, her eyes moistening.

“We've been through a lot tonight here at NewsPlex Nine,” said the male anchor, “and if it's not too unprofessional, I think this good news is a good reason for a good old-fashioned hug.”

He turned to the female anchor, and she to him, and they held each other in an embrace—an embrace that, to the anchors' spouses, watching from their respective homes, seemed to last just a tad too long.

 

In the transom of Tark's boat, Frank fought yet another wave of nausea brought on by swallowing his own blood. He was worried that if he vomited, he'd choke to death, his mouth sealed tight by the layers of duct tape.

Frank was aware that the boat was tied up to the stern of the
Extravaganza.
He figured, from the number of shots Tark and Kaz had fired, that the ship crew had been taken out. He'd seen Tark and Kaz leave the boat, and then Rebar and Holman, so he knew for now he was alone on the boat. He could hear Tark's voice—the sea and wind were calmer here in the shelter of the big ship—but he couldn't make out the words.

Frank figured now was his best, probably only, chance to do anything about his situation. If he could get his hands in front of him, now bound tightly by the wrists behind him, he could get the duct tape off his mouth, maybe find something to use as a weapon. He knew some people could do this, were limber enough to get their arms down around their legs and feet and then up in front. But he didn't know if he was one of those people. He was a big, stocky guy, and his arms weren't particularly long. But this was his only chance, so he rolled to his side and began working his hands down his back, and right away he could feel how tight it was—
this isn't gonna work, you can't do this
—but he forced himself to keep trying because this was all he could think of and if he didn't get this tape off soon he was fucked.

 

FAY, COMING FAST THROUGH THE DOOR FROM the portside deck, ran directly into Wally, who was on his way outside for one last, desperate attempt to have a non-moronic conversation with her or, failing that, to hurl himself into the sea.

“Umfh,”
she said.

“Sorry,” he said. “Look, that thing about Leonardo DiCaprio, I was just . . .”

“Shut up,” she said. “Do you know where the bridge is?”

“The what?”

“The bridge. The
bridge.
Where the captain steers the ship.”

“Oh yeah,” said Wally, wanting to punch himself in the face for forgetting what a bridge was. “It's up these stairs behind where we, OK, there's actually two sets of stairs, but you . . .”

Fay grabbed his arms. “Show me where it is,” she said.

“Is something wrong?”

“Just
take me there right now,
OK?”

“OK,” said Wally, turning toward the stairs to the third deck, clueless about what was going on, but happy that, for whatever reason, she was actually choosing to remain, however briefly, in his company.

TO REACH THE BRIDGE OF THE
EXTRAVAGANZA OF the Seas,
you entered a small hallway at the forward end of the big third-deck salon, the one where the band played. You then climbed a narrow stairway. The bottom of the stairway was guarded by a heavy steel door that said NO ADMITTANCE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and had an electronic lock with a keypad that required a five-digit code. The door had been installed to prevent hijackings, but First Officer Hank Wilde could never remember the damn code, especially after he'd been drinking, so it was his custom to start each trip by tying the door open with a piece of rope.

And so it was open now as Captain Eddie Smith stood at the bridge, keeping the ship pointed into the wind and drifting with the Gulf Stream, waiting for Manny Arquero to get on the two-way radio and tell him the transfer was complete. He looked at his watch.
Should be any minute now.
His mind was on getting back to Miami now, back to his wife and little boy.

He glanced at the small TV mounted in the control console. On the screen, the male and the female anchors were both looking close to tears; in the upper-right-hand corner the red letters spelled TRAGEDY STRIKES NEWSPLEX NINE AGAIN. Eddie turned the volume up slightly.

“. . . incredible turn of events,” the male anchor was saying. “We are now getting word that the ambulance carrying NewsPlex Nine reporter Summer Westfall and cameraman Javier Santiago from the scene of the NewsVan Nine crash in the Westchester area has itself been involved in an accident.” He looked at the female anchor.

“What makes this all the more unbelievable,” she said, “is that, from what we are hearing on the police radio, the ambulance apparently collided head-on with a
second
NewsPlex Nine van, on its way to the scene, carrying NewsPlex Nine reporter Carlosina Verdad and cameraman Doug Pilcher.” She looked at the male.

“We are still awaiting word on whether there have been any injuries, or I guess I should say
additional
injuries,” he said.

“Meanwhile,” the female said, “our thoughts and prayers go out to Carlosina, and Doug, and Summer, and . . . and Summer's cameraman . . .”

“Javier,” said the male.

“Yes, of course, Javier, as well as the other members of the NewsPlex Nine family who have been victims of this devastating killer storm, Hector, which has already tragically claimed the lives of . . .”

“HEY! ANYBODY HERE?”

Eddie shut off the TV, shouted down the stairway, “Who is it?”

“It's Ted and Johnny,” Ted shouted back.

“Who?” said Eddie.

“Ted and Johnny,” said Ted, now clumping up the stairs, Johnny right behind him. “We're in the band.”

“You're not supposed to be up here,” said Eddie.

“I know, but something bad happened,” said Ted.

“You gotta call the cops,” said Johnny. “They're shooting back there.”

“What?” said Eddie. “Where?”