by Jeff Soloway
Chapter 12
Back in our room, I asked my mom to sit down on her bed. She did, and also folded her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl, to signal her willingness to mock any chastisement. She assumed I’d be on her case for flirting.
“Mom, something terrible happened.” I realized I had adopted the tone of a doctor, sorrowful yet composed. I even had my hands clasped behind my back.
My mother, as usual, put me in my place. “Just say it.”
“Clark’s dead.”
She let her ironic smile linger for just a moment, in case this was a joke. The smile faded, but her hands remained clasped, as mine were. Both of us were afraid of making sudden foolish movements. “How do you know?”
“I found him in his room. I called the doctors. He wasn’t breathing.”
She turned to look out the sliding-glass doors, but in selecting her last outfit, she had hung several dresses from the curtain rod, so the view was hidden. No place to escape to, even in her imagination.
Someone knocked at our door. I hesitated. “Should I—”
“Just open it.”
Another knock. I opened the door to an RMB security officer. His tag read JOKO and INDONESIA. “Mr. and Mrs. Smalls? Please come with us.”
“Why?”
“Please now.” Joko lifted one eyebrow, the smallest, most polite gesture for indicating the futility of refusal.
“Can you come, Mom?”
“Of course.” She smiled graciously, but Joko was already moving.
* * *
—
My mother and I followed our silent Virgil to the elevator, which brought us down below the passenger floors to the ship’s underworld. Joko then led us along the ship’s artery, a long blue corridor that American cruise ship crews call the I-95 and British the M-1. We passed servers pushing carts of dirty buffet dishes and jumpsuited crewmen hauling clanking pallet jacks. These noisy shades were too busy with their otherworldly duties to acknowledge or even look at us, but they always managed to avoid contact.
On the way, an overhead voice commanded the air:
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Cruise Director Steve Gouda. Welcome again to the Carlton Chomp Cruise on our very classiest cruise ship, the Iron Lady. We are currently on our way to beautiful Elysian Island, in the western Bahamas, less than one hundred silky-smooth nautical miles from Miami.”
I bent my head against the noise, but it was like trying to dodge an air raid.
“No cruise is like any other cruise, because each one is so much better than the last. But this cruise is unique in world history. This cruise features the opportunity to meet, hang with, dine with, and even—if we’re lucky—bust a few moves with former president Carlton Chomp!”
Steve paused. Chompians on the decks above were probably cheering wildly, but here none of the workers even paused to mop their sweat.
“As you know,” Steve continued, “fun, though your highest priority, is not our highest priority. Our highest priority is your safety. And so for the safety of all our guests and for the president himself, we will be instituting bag and body checks at entry points throughout the ship. Please bring along your cruise ID whenever you leave your room. Your president thanks you. And so does your cruise director! Steve out.”
Joko led us into a room that was like a miniature classroom, with a hulking teacher’s desk looming over a dozen chairs with attached writing paddles. In the back were three computer stalls, a wall-mounted television, and a bookcase with copies of Teach Yourself English, Accounting for Dummies, Win the Customer!, and other titles designed to help you sharpen your inner corporate tool. In my old cruise familiarization trips, this room was where travel writers would be served their propaganda before being let loose at the buffet and bar. For cruise employees, this room served as community center, human resources office, lecture hall, Internet café, and movie theater. On the walls were posters restating, over a tropical beach background, RMB rules and slogans. One of the largest, titled “Anti-Values,” listed attitudes and speech habits prohibited at all times in passenger spaces, including Disdain, Sarcasm, and Constructive Criticism. At the back, waves swished against a porthole.
A man whose body was all spheres of various sizes—bald head, bulbous cheeks, a beach-ball belly—offered his squishy hand to my mother and introduced himself as Charles Bullinski, the chief security officer. His name tag revealed that he came from New York. He ordered Joko to shut the door. “Nobody comes in. Got it?”
Joko inclined his head. My mother and I sat in the writing chairs.
Bullinksi leaned his butt against the front of the desk, just like a teacher. His eyes kept flashing toward the door. He began by apologizing for our trauma, then got down to business. “They say you were the one who found the deceased. Is that right?”
I nodded.
“And you were the one”—he turned to my mother—“who was supposed to share his room. Until you switched. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew him well.”
“Of course. What happened to him?”
The security officer pressed his lips together, sucked in his cheeks, and slowly shook his head. It seemed a practiced gesture of sympathy. Cruise ship staff, like any service staff who deal with the elderly, are accustomed to presenting bad news. It’s been estimated that, worldwide, three people die on a cruise each week. “Do you want me to call someone from the Care Team?”
“No,” I said.
His cheeks reinflated. “Oh, thank God.”
My mother took the single deep breath that was all she needed to find her mental equilibrium. “Officer Bullinksi—”
“Call me Chuck. Short for Chuckles. Not really.” He smiled mournfully. Just because he was used to discussing death didn’t mean he was good at it. Cruise staff are rarely hired for their solemnity and tact. “I’m like you, I grieve on the inside. See, I’m from Staten Island.”
“Ex-NYPD?” I guessed.
“Retired as lieutenant. Last ten years on the Counterterrorism Bureau.”
“I live in Brooklyn.”
Chuckles looked as if I’d just named his favorite deli in Great Kills. I was a member of his metropolitan tribe. We could talk sense together.
“Are there many terrorists in Staten Island?” my mother asked.
“Oh, I was all over. Must have had coffee with every imam between Perth Amboy and Yonkers! But cruise ships are fun too.”
“Tell us how he died, Chuck.” My mother leaned attentively forward, her shock already overcome, her grief—if there was any—set aside. Her mind was always cutting away ballast.
“Hard to say. We were hoping you two, being so close to the deceased—”
My mother lifted her hand. “Let me clear something up. As of several days ago, Clark and I were no longer friends. I’m sorry to say he was a bit of a jackass. Nonetheless, I’m the one who will have to call his sister. My son is sweet but useless in these situations. So what I need now from you is information. Why did he die?”
“I just know he had injuries. The doctor figures he died about an hour, half an hour before his team got there. We’re thinking maybe during the evacuation drill.”
“What kind of injuries?” I asked.
“Lacerations. Cuts. Was he, by any chance, depressed? Because we’re thinking—can’t know for sure—can’t ever know—but you can imagine.”
“Imagine what?” I asked.
“It’s just a theory.”
“Go on.”
“He killed himself.”
The room fell silent. Even the waves splattering against the porthole glass made no sound, as if the ocean too wanted to hear our reaction.
“That,” I said, “is insane.”
“Shut up, Jacob.” My mother slapped her palm on the paddle desk. “We’re not talki
ng about you right now. Someone has died. This man’s idea is not at all insane. Clark obviously had issues. His surgery altered his body, and then his mind.”
Chuckles perked up. “Surgery?”
“Yes, surgery! Bariatric. It made him lose his mind. This kind of thing happens all the time, I’m sure you’ve noticed. As when some divorcée gets a boob job and spends the next six months rampaging on OkCupid. I should have recognized Clark’s breakdown. Instead I just thought he was a creep. I was unjust. But I never wanted him to kill himself! Do you have to write that down for people?”
“Chuck,” I said, “I saw a lot of blood. Are you saying Clark slit his wrists in his bed?”
“I said shut up, Jacob!”
Chuckles winced. “Not quite.”
“Then how did he kill himself?” I asked.
“The doctor thinks—who can say?—we’re not talking a professional medical examiner here—but he thinks the guy probably stabbed himself.”
“Stabbing,” I said, “is not how people kill themselves.”
“Oh, I’ve seen all kinds. It’s a real cultural thing. You know. Japan.”
“Did you find the knife?”
“We think it got lost in the confusion. All that medical staff.”
Chuckles may have been an ex-cop, but he had the soul of a company man. I could see why he’d risen through the ranks in a high-profile, high-politics bureau of the NYPD. Successful bureaucrats, like PR staffers, are more than good liars. They’re good believers. They meld themselves completely with their institutional mission. A murder on a cruise ship should never happen; therefore, Chuckles refused to believe in it.
My mother nodded at me, acknowledging my perception and at the same apologizing for blowing up at me. “Clark was not a samurai.”
“People have mysteries,” Chuckles insisted. “You have mysteries. Also lies. Like pretending our staff sent you up to Chomp’s room for an interview. Nice trick, Jacob. Now, imagine if I told Chomp’s people you lied to them.” He shook his head rapidly. The mask seemed to be slipping from his bulbous face. “Which I would never. Because they piss me off. See, Chomp’s people think they’re cops. It’s a real problem. They’ve got a list of suspects.”
“Who’s on it?”
“Everyone who had access to the room.”
“How many was that? A dozen crew members?” Cleaners, stewards, security would all have pass cards. Chomp’s people would see the list of weird Latin and South Asian names, some of them Muslim-sounding, and see murder and anti-Chomp conspiracy down the line.
“Maybe. Plus you. You had a cardkey for his room. Why was that? Your mom says you were all no longer friends.”
The room seemed to contract around Chuckles’s face. The slug of his tongue emerged from its shell to lick his lips.
My mother sneered, an expression I’d never seen from her. Perhaps she’d picked it up in recent years from adversaries in the conference room. “My son was with me all afternoon.”
“He was alone when he found Clark.”
“A steward was with me,” I reminded him.
“Besides that moment, he was never out of my sight!”
“Sure.” Chuckles shrugged. “And why would you lie? You’re only his mother.”
I jumped in before she went for his eyes. “You must have cameras in the hall.”
“Not by the staterooms. We respect passengers’ privacy. We’re questioning all the stewards and attendants on the deck. So are Chomp’s people. Thing is, the crew members belonged there. You didn’t.”
“I’ve worked with RMB before. People know me. They’ll tell you—”
“Doesn’t matter what people know. What matters is what they believe. Christ, Jacob, I’m trying to tell you. I like you. I can work with you. But you’ve got to help me out. Otherwise they’ll nail whoever they can, maybe one of our people and maybe you.”
“It’s your investigation. It’s your ship.”
“No, it’s Chomp’s. His people want to take over. That goon Harvey wanted to put the steward in the brig. We don’t have a brig! It’s just a closet that locks. They’ve grilled a dozen people so far. The hotel manager’s losing it. We’re already short-staffed because their security geniuses made us leave so many crew members at port. Most of the Arabs. All six guys from Syria. Even some Christian woman from Benin. I think they confused it with Yemen. They’ve got a guy stationed on the bridge at all times, just in case the captain tries something funny. Like what? Launch the torpedoes?”
“Why does Captain Prosti allow it?”
“Because it’s Chomp’s bridge, Chomp’s ship. He paid for it. He owns it.”
“He’s got you fooled. Chomp’s not as rich as he says, or he wouldn’t be running around the country doing rallies and cruise ship fundraisers. He lost his power when he quit. That’s why none of the networks are covering his speech tomorrow. Not even Fox.”
“Tell his friends in the TSA and everywhere else. He’s not president, but he’s got enough power left to keep us all from working again.”
Someone was pounding on the door. Chuckles shouted, “Don’t let them in.”
But Joko was already pushing open the door. A titan in a suit sneered at him as he shouldered his way inside. I recognized the titan and his enormous ears from the stage of the Sailaway Party. Behind him came two bodyguards in CHOMP team jackets. One was Jimbo, the big-bellied veteran guard who’d failed to protect Chomp’s suite from me. He moved slowly now, almost wearily. His collar rubbed against his neck scar, as if to give him something to be stoic about. The other guard was younger, leaner, and more eager. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he came in, as if his brain was blasting entrance music.
Joko gave us the smallest shrug and stood beside the door.
Chuckles greeted them with an expression of barely disguised impatience. It struck me as convincing, but then, much of counterterrorism consists of impressing outside security dignitaries with the urgency of your work. “Mr. and Madame Smalls, meet Harvey Salamone. Mr. Chomp’s head of security.”
“President Chomp,” Harvey corrected. His ears looked even bigger than they had on stage, flippers you could slap people around with.
“That’s what I meant.”
Harvey snorted.
My mother tapped her nails quickly against the desk. I had been interrogated before, but never with my mother. Would anxiety bring out her sarcasm? I hoped it would. A preemptive verbal attack against an overconfident enemy was just the thing to provoke a revealing response.
“Want to sit?” asked Chuck.
Harvey preferred to loom. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said to me and my mother.
My mother shaded her eyes from the overhead lighting as she peered up into his face. “You don’t look sorry.”
“That’s because I’m worried about the president. My job is to keep him alive. Before we boarded, we received a credible threat on his life. And now your friend is dead—”
“Ex-friend,” she murmured.
“And we don’t know why. But we know a few things. Number one, we know that any number of little Islamic yahoos could have sneaked into his room.” He side-eyed Joko.
Some people claim to appreciate the honesty of the openly racist. I’d rather they disavow bigotry, however insincerely. Hypocrisy is the tribute we pay to our shame. “Don’t your guards have cardkeys too?” I asked him.
His voice more purr than growl, “Don’t ask questions,” Harvey advised, “that might upset the boys.”
The two guards were stepping toward me from the door, slowly, to show that I posed no threat.
My mother rapped on her desk. “Chuck!”
“Hold on,” said Chuckles. The guards grinned.
“Stop,” Harvey said, and the men did. “We’re not accusing anybody. We’re just suspecting. That’s
our job. No offense intended.”
But I saw the pleasure he took in our fear, in his commands, and in the alacrity with which his men obeyed them.
“Number two.” Harvey grinned at having kept his place. “We know your friend was detained outside the port during a security breach. We saw the tape. Guess what? You were on it too. Fighting.”
“I was defending Clark. No one arrested me.”
“No. Somehow you stayed out of trouble. You talked yourself right onto the ship and right into the president’s suite. Pretty slick. And then you were discovered with the body. So let’s start with who’s funding you. North Korea? The DNC?”
“Kooser’s Cruisers.”
“Funny. New York City prick. I know guys like you. Laughing at Chomp in the debates, laughing at Chomp jokes on SNL and Rachel Maddow, laughing at all the redneck goobers who voted for him. Look at me. Laughing now? I’m no goober. I got all my teeth and all my brains. You fought with the man who later died. You had a key to his room. You found his body. You better explain.”
I felt a drop of sweat streak down my armpit. My body was confusing fear with guilt. This is why the innocent falsely confess. But I remembered my alibi. “The doctor said he died during the evacuation drill. My mother and I were at our muster station all through the drill. We can get witnesses.”
“That doctor is full of shit.” Harvey laid a huge hand, warm as a heating pad, on my shoulder. “I’m going to ask again. What were you doing in the dead man’s room? And this time I want you to remember where we are. A long way from the mainland. These are international waters. No cops, no courts. “
“Don’t touch him,” said my mother.
“Let me touch him,” Jimbo said.
“We have questions for her too.”
I sprang to my feet, flinging Harvey’s hand away. The chair crashed to the side. The bodyguards reached for weapons.
“Hey!”
Joko’s voice was stern and mighty, the last warning of a cop before he fires. We all turned to him.
