***
To say that a full security force had been stationed at the fore of the vessel would be a disservice to Bridgework's pack of thugs. Given the combined amount of beef, muscle and sinew packed onto various outer decks and clogging every square foot of passageway, it was remarkable the Gangrene's bow managed to stay above the waterline. Above and beyond the glistening squashes of the brutes shone the lights of Acapulco, distant and flickering along the dark coast, but nevertheless offering hope of continuing life once I jettisoned the rollicking and foreboding party ship. Reversing direction, I casually sauntered down the starboard rail toward the stern, believing the best chance of survival would be found by staying in the open.
By gumbo! Maybe even spend some time in the wheelhouse itself!
My optimism, tangible and tasty in the pleasant predawn air, quickly faded upon realizing I was walking directly toward Rico and a half-dozen of his steroidal hoods.
"Oh, I went a fishin' in the crick the other day," I began in singsong, hoping the spontaneous tune would serve as an innocent diversion, "and caught a catfish using an old bale of hay."
"You!" Rico grabbed the front of my overalls, his grip perilously close to the CerebStix. "What are you doing here?"
"Say, friend, what's with the shuttle service?" I politely removed his hand and continued with my solo. "Pulled that catfish from the water and without a doubt, smacked it on the head then caught me a trout!"
"You were supposed to be off the Gangrene!"
"Tell me about it, brother. It's like I've been working on the railroad around here, trying to keep this train running straight down the expressway track. That's despite the fact it's a ship we're on." I shifted my weight and started around him. "I appreciate all your help and the helping hands of your staff, I do, I do. I most certainly do."
"Halt." This time Rico leveraged my shoulder, squashing me against the rail. "What is your name again?"
"Raleigh," I replied, eyeballing him and his posse, who by now had closed around me. "Walter Raleigh."
Suspicion spread across Rico's forehead like lines of old ladies forming up for bingo night at the local auxiliary. "You were supposed to be all done before we left. But you stayed on." The formula slowly wrote itself out on the chalkboard in his mind. "You went against my orders. And then came the word of a stowaway. A threat to the boss. Who could that be, now?"
"Beats the dustbowl right out of me," I answered with a shrug of my shoulders. "I was just singing my song on my way to another repair assignment. The macro blades are malfunctioning on the fantail and I was hoping it'd be a quick fix, one that wouldn't hold up my leave in Acapulco, if you know know what I mean mean." I winked at the Cro-Magnon on my left, who broke into a smile.
"I want to hear more about your fishing trip."
"So you do. Well," I started up the tune once again, "I tugged on that trout and bit it square in the eye, finding out it tasted just like a bowl of caustic lye."
"Gross!"
"Shut up," Rico was in no mood for either fish stories or songs. "You're coming with me, Raleigh."
"What in the devil for? And, please, I insist you call me Walter."
"Shut up! Move!"
"What about the macro blades?"
Rico reefed on my elbow and shoulder. "Shut up and move already." The entourage clustered inward like a herd of steer escorting the farm's sole lamb to slaughter. "You're going to explain yourself to Mr. Moeziz."
"Mr. Moeziz?" My cover would be lifted within a minute's time spent with him. "Why, I just saw him down below. A very busy man. Perhaps this could wait for a bit, say after our call in Acapulco."
"Never." The herd trundled forward.
"I actually tried to speak with him, but he ignored me. Far too busy."
"You won't have that problem after my introduction," Rico smiled.
"Well, maybe I could save everyone some time, then. After all, I am Mr. Fix It."
"Okay, then, Walter Fix It." Rico halted the mini-stampede jusst short of the fore's security station. "How are you gonna save us time?"
"I was working down below, see? And this guy Burnisher, the magician, he was like trying to show me a trick. Personally, I think the son of a bitch was after my wallet --"
"He almost got mine last night," the Cro-Magnon chimed in. "The 'Sydney Opera House' trick, he called it."
"Shut up!"
"And I told him, 'Hey, I'm only here to manage a leak, see?'. And he says something about having this new Houdini trick, whereas he's all tied up and whatnot, and he's going to free his mind and body."
"Yeah? And?"
"Strange stuff coming from a man of orange, wouldn't you say? I mean, from him, you'd be thinking he'd talk about carrots or shallots or some other vegetables."
"Rutabagas. God, could my grandmother cook rutabagas," Cro-Magnon said, looking dreamily skyward.
"Where was the magician?" Rico applied a healthy grip to my windpipe.
"Down under," I squawked. "The second or third level. He said he needed to get his props from one of the cabins. I don't know --"
Rico let up a bit, allowing me to clear my throat.
"I don't know which one. I tried telling Mr. Moeziz, but he wouldn't stop long enough to hear the news. I know you're all looking for the magician, and that's where I'm at, too. Listen, pal, I'm just a working man, punching the clock. I want to sing me song and fix me fantail. Then off to the nearest panty shanty for a couple of cold grogs and a look see, no touch with the local talent. What'dya say, then, sport? Your turn to shine in front of Mr. Moeziz, not mine."
Again Rico's chalk met the board, carefully summing up the equation in his mind. "What level was he on?"
"Two! Wait, maybe three. It was three, I think. Could have been, I've been working in nearly every cabin on both levels. They sure do look alike. Two or three. Not sure." I smiled earnestly at the big suit before me, hoping my uncertainty would cost time. "But I'm sure if you search every room, he'll turn up in one of them. One of the middle ones. On the starboard side. Maybe start there. Won't Burnisher's apprehension please Mr. Bridgework to no end?"
"And what do you get out of it?"
"A chance to do my job and the opportunity for a night on the town." I peered anxiously over his shoulder, smiling at the thought of an imaginary mad bar scene in crazy Acapulco. A departing cruise liner, several hundred yards to our starboard, blasted a series of signals from its horn. "Bridgework and Moeziz are going to take a real fond liking to the person who makes the magician reappear."
"True that. Staple, escort Mr. Fix It to his job on the aft. Don't let him out of your sight. When you're done, bring him to me. We'll renew our conversation then, cowboy."
"Yee haw," I replied flatly. "Come on, Staple, we've got a tail to fan!"
Bidding the herd farewell, we reached the rear of the ship where the deck was deserted but for a few couples socializing with pre-sunrise cocktails in hand. The large holiday ship, lights ablaze and full of revelers, pushed slowly past to our left on its way into the Pacific. A smattering of larger, privately owned sailboats appeared in silhouette against the dark water, anchored in a sporadic pattern near the outer opening of the harbor.
"Here, hold this," I said, fishing out the rubber mallet and handing the burlap bag to Staple. "You may want to stand back a hair in case I hit the Errant Rivet. It's been known to happen with disastrous results."
Staple complied with my directive and, in a strange coincidence, as I brought the mallet down upon the stern's rail the Gangrene dropped a notch in speed. I strained myself looking into the darkness as the resulting wake swelled and splashed square on against the aft. "See, Staple? Look at that, will you?"
My abundantly sized escort tentatively crept up to the rail, keeping himself at arm's length from the overhang. "That's not good, is it?"
"Very clever, my jumbo chum. Now, I must hurry and get down there to do the proper repairs. Banging on things up here is only going to slow our rate of travel. Do you understand?"<
br />
"Completely," Staple nodded in agreement.
"What we need," I said in a contemplative manner, "is right there. I'll lower myself down on that halyard with you holding the other end, right? Make sure to have tight grip, I don't want to become chopper meat in the propellers. Not to mention how mad the captain and Mr. Bridgework would be having created such a mess."
Staple looked from me to the thick cable coiled in the corner of the afterdeck. "You think I'm going to keep you in one place holding onto that?"
"Right again, oh thick one. Hmmm. And it'd be damned difficult to access my work tools, swinging around at the end of that vine. What if we?" I tipped my cowboy hat back and put a finger to my chin. "No, no, no."
"What's your idea, Mr. Fix It? I'll tell you if it's no good or not." Staple's confidence in his own logic soared.
"Well, I was thinking," I said, stringing out my words in hope Staple would seize the occasion to buttress them. "If we took that halyard and tied one end to the stern rail. Then," I paused as though envisioning a three-dimensional blueprint, "the other end is secured to that lifeboat over there, and we lower the lifeboat into the water --"
"Then you could reach the ship standing up with your tools right next to you."
"Dry as a bone. No danger of becoming saltwater soaked propeller pâté. And when I'm done," I stuck an open hand in the air indicating the initiation of a high-five celebration, "you pull me around to the port side, we attach the hooks and -- bingo! -- back up topside I come. Job done, boss happy, beer to drink. After we see Rico, of course."
"I will buy the beer," Staple said, grinning as he hoisted the rucksack and slipped it under the tarpaulin covering the auxiliary boat. I grimaced as he stood terrifyingly close the same location I did earlier when depositing the shotgun and ammunition.
"Listen, Stapes old fellow, why don't you secure the end of the cable to that cleat over yonder. I'll hitch it to the bow of the lifeboat before we let it down off the davits. The cable should stay taut as I work my way around to the back, so if you could make sure the knot doesn't slip --"
"Gone with the tide, otherwise."
"Precisely, my studious steward. It would be some time before I caught up with the Gangrene again." As pleasant as Staple's company had become, I could not afford to idle away time on the lido deck any longer. Loosening the tie down, I climbed into the middle of the lifeboat and gestured for the loose end of the cable. "Let's get 'er done, bucko."
Accompanied by the lonesome tolling from the clanging bell of a harbor buoy, Staple proved of great assistance in ratcheting me -- astride the beam ends -- and the life boat gently toward the water's surface. I estimated the Gangrene was making six knots and, by my best calculations, would reach Acapulco landfall within the hour.
"Don't forget to tie it to the bow!"
"Roger, that," I called up to the big man. With no intention of tying my ride to anything, I braced my legs firmly against the base of the bench seat in front of me. Wrapping the cable around my left forearm, I took hold of the modest tiller with my right hand and steadied myself for the impact of touchdown. The hull dragged across the top of the ocean bringing an instant tension to the tiller and causing the lifeboat to skew toward the large ship. I fought back, pulling on the handle with all my weight while keeping in mind not to overcorrect the direction of the small craft. The spray of saltwater shot over me and, like the blade of a farm plow sunk into soft soil, the lifeboat bifurcated the ocean beneath it. "Release the davit lines!"
The slack on the cable immediately became taut, squeezing my arm like a jungle python and pulling me forward so my knee rammed the bench. Watching as the Gangrene steamed by on my left, I carefully angled the tiller so the bow of the lifeboat fell in line with the big ship's aft.
Now if only I can bear the pressure of acting as a human tow hitch.
I drafted into the ship's wake, finding a pocket of surf surprisingly placid a few yards from the massive hull in front of me. It was here at this very location I would ride the Gangrene as far shoreward as she would take me, not knowing when I would be forced to sever the piggyback union. That answer came swifter than I would have liked.
Movement from the deck two stories above caught my eye and, at first, I thought the darkened shadow of Staple was waving to me. I smiled and waved in return, as though working diligently to bring the small raft within spitting distance of the Gangrene aft. The outline of another figure appeared, immediately joined by a third. I hastily concluded Chip/Silly had been discovered and in the process, against prodigious odds, sensibly explained his predicament. My suspicion was confirmed by the first muzzle flash, suspending any internal debate over the timing and conditions of setting the lifeboat adrift.
Allowing the rope to slip from my arm, I dropped to the hull and kicked the rudder hard to port, holding it in place with one foot. Two rounds pinged off the opposite side of the craft in quick succession, encouraging me to reduce the radius of my being and pray the swell of the waves would help foul future marksmanship. Another two shots found the bow, barely inches from the top of my head, prompting a brief contemplation that either my prayers were highly effective or about to fail miserably. My heart pounded furiously with hope the momentum of the Gangrene would be great enough to open a chasm between us so I might make good my exodus. To my dismay, the lifeboat suddenly lit up as though hosting the opening act of Faithful Hill's amateur talent night.
"Dammit!" As much as I warmed to Staple in our brief partnership, a line of respect had been crossed and it was time to lower the heads of those using me as a target. In one precise move, I reached into the next bay and grabbed the shotgun. Rolling onto my back, I braced my feet against the side of the hull and racked off four shots in rapid sequence, spraying the Gangrene rail. I patiently aimed the next volley, accounting for the roll and speed of the receding ship, and extinguished the offending spotlight as if it were an ordinary fifteen-hundred watt clay pigeon. "Curtain closed!"
Without waiting for an answer from the crew, I fumbled in the darkness on unsteady feet and managed to drop the oars into the tholes on my first attempt. Between verses of Row, Row, Row Your Boat and a somber rendition of Michael, Row the Boat Ashore [inserting my name accordingly], I put my back and arms into the business of retreating to safety.
Over the caps of the waves I could see the Gangrene holding its course straight and true. It would be a matter of moments before word reached the bridge and action taken to circle back. Permission would be sought and granted from the harbor master for the ship to alter its present course and search for its "lost" lifeboat, which posed a hazard to navigation in the busy shipping lanes. I pulled on the oars all the harder and kept a firm gaze on my former conveyance, noting I was at a distinct disadvantage in both the horsepower and ballast divisions.
So intense was my concentration on the Gangrene increasing its distance from me, I neglected to realize I had inadvertently crossed into the outbound seagoing lane. Like an errant jaywalker tempting rush hour traffic on Amsterdam Avenue, my perpendicular path plotted the lifeboat at the perfect intersect for what turned out to be the Cullion Line’s Queen Albert II, reputedly the largest luxury ocean liner ever constructed.
I became aware of the QA II bearing down on me when noting a sound similar to the terrace pool being filled at Tumultuous Manor. In what has evolved into a delightful rite of springtime passage, Smudgely takes great pride in opening the favored swimming hole and -- in distinct contrast with his customary formal demeanor -- entertains the household staff for hours on end with a variety of tricks involving a common garden hose. The pleasant dalliance in picturing a warm afternoon in May where my pseudo-batman splashes water for the amusement of all was quickly shattered by multiple stimuli overburdening my central nervous system.
Foremost was the sense of physical disorientation. In the matter of a breath, I went from an approximate north-by-northeast heading to becoming nothing more than a spinning needle in the vortex of a whirlpool. This discombobul
ating gyration was followed by a series of eardrum-shattering blasts from a horn, one which seemed to suck the air from my body, leaving my soul attached to my earthly remains by a most brittle tether. Again and again the horn sounded, a thousand times louder than my screams as the little dory spun clockwise on the rise of a wave, smashing countless times against the dark barnacle-covered steel which appeared angry for not having severed me in two. I watched in horror as both oars snapped and shattered like twigs in a windstorm, becoming useless fragments of wood and leaving me holding their simple remnants in my paralyzed hands.
My mind is infected by few traumatic nightmares, but there are those which -- as a child -- haunted me so severely psychotherapy was ultimately deployed to subdue potentially lifelong debilitations. In the present calamitous circumstance unfolding in the Bahia De Acapulco, I stared down my greatest phobia: The irrational dread of being rammed by a mammoth sea vessel, forced helplessly into unwanted contact with its cold hull [complete with resident jellyfish, starfish, seaweed and sea spiders], and vacuumed against my will beneath the metallic monstrosity where spinning propellers -- their fins the size of country barn doors -- rotated systemically, yearning to pulverize me into a mangled mash of unidentifiable flesh and bone. For several years during my childhood and youth, when dabbling in the concept of reincarnation, I held forth a firm belief I had been ticketed aboard the ill-fated maiden voyage of the Titanic, for there was no plausible explanation as to how or why a young, landlocked New England boy would come to suffer such an inexplicable affliction. And, now, here I was -- as if foretold so many years ago while posturing in fright on a therapist's couch -- grappling with the reality of a fate most terrifying.
With little left to do, I summoned forth the watchwords given to me in counseling those years past -- sino testis protelo -- and allowed the fortitude located at the junction of my legs to dictate my behavior. Standing amidship in the lifeboat, I straddled the center bench and gripped the broken oar handles tightly in both hands, pushing against the steel beast determined to crush me. Slowly the lifeboat spun clockwise, its bow now heading toward shore while the stern rattled and cracked against the passing giant hull. Trembling in the face of all unholy to me, I stepped awkwardly to the rear of the craft and pushed again, sensing the weight of untold tons bearing down upon my very soul. Suddenly, the little skiff broke the suction of its behemoth cousin and rode the crest of the surf. I teetered from exhaustion and quickly squatted down on the last bench as we parted company, ten then fifteen then twenty feet away from the QA II. I timidly looked up the side of the passing monstrosity as though observing a skyscraper skimming the ocean's surface. There was no question, should I survive, I would face several months of intensive therapy at Dr. Hahmennum's practice upon my return to Faithful Hill.
The volume of water put forth by the titan pushed me farther outward from its cavernous pull. In a fit of enervation, I collapsed backward onto the seat and with a certain degree of self-pity, held myself tightly as the superstructure steamed by high above. Inertia took hold and I cared not for who was after me, what I possessed nor the fact I might be killed for it. All I could do at the moment was sit and breathe, short simple breaths signifying the basic essence of life yet in my body. Aloft in the night sky, tiny cabin lights twinkled against the blackness and another five short blasts from the QA II served notice I was no longer tangled in my worst subconscious web. The broad aft steamed by, with the discernible chop-chop-chop of the ship's propellers sending a final and lasting shiver up my spine. The lifeboat swelled and rocked in the wake of the QA II, prompting me to brace its sides.
Downrange, near the jutting point defining the dogleg in the bay, I spotted the unmistakable darkened shape of the Gangrene circling counterclockwise for its return run. It would only be a matter of minutes now and ironically, even with the QA II safely past, my sinking feeling returned. With no alternative available, I feebly stuck one arm in the water and desperately paddled. The swells being what they were, it quickly became apparent I would not make any headway in such a fashion. Another look at the distant Gangrene sent me scurrying toward the bow hoping to find something which would propel the boat. As a final alternative, I had to consider donning a lifejacket and taking the chance I could swim ashore without being detected by an enraged Rico, a surly Staple and a homicidal Moeziz. Such action would mean, of course, scuttling the hard-won flash drive, my laptop and cell phone.
"Neeyuk!" A beam of blistering white light blinded me. Shading my eyes allowed me to see the lifeboat about to collide bow-to-bow with another vessel mere feet from my face. "Not again!"
"¿Es usted ilegal, lleno de mala suerte o de llano estúpido?" a male voice called out with an offering of choices. The two boats walloped against one another, without any apparent damage to his weathered fishing craft, half-again the size of my skiff.
"I would say the middle one, I guess," I replied, attempting to translate in my now-addled mind.
"Ah, a gringo. With bad luck."
"Perhaps a touch of stupidity as well." I flashed my best stage smile into the glaring spotlight, unable to make out the face of its operator. "I apologize if I have invaded your fishing grounds."
"Que?"
"Soy un perro para conseguir de su manera."
"You are a dog, eh? Stranded in a boat?"
"So it would seem in some respects, yes. And I'm in your way." I glanced in the direction of the Gangrene, estimating it would be upon us in five to seven minutes.
"Those are your friends who come?" The beam of light swung toward the port entrance.
"Not necessarily. We had a bit of a falling out, you see."
"I know. I watch. Your night shot is good. But your steering is not."
"Well, I didn't actually see the Queen Albert coming." I let my words trail off and listened for a moment as the two boats bounced and clunked off one another. "Fortunately, I've some childhood experience in dodging oceangoing vessels."
"But you not juke this one, yes? No oars no more."
"I am at a bit of a disadvantage now, speaking in practical terms. Yes."
"And you want to get to shore. Set foot on land."
"Both feet, preferably. Indeed." There fell an awkward silence in which I suppose I might have filled by begging for a lift.
"You have money?"
"Not as such, per se. However, my good fellow, I can arrange to pay you once I am safely on terra firma and make a phone call. A single call." The image of Mia Kolpaux floating aloft in a white robe over my desk in the upstairs study filled my mind's eye like a religious icon. "Whatever your fee, I will meet it, double it and add a fifty percent gratuity. Post haste."
The man chuckled, causing the light to bounce up and down. "College boy, no?"
"State university, actually." The persecution continued to trail me, even while hunted on the high seas. "Summa cum laude."
"My son, he go to Cornell. Animal school."
"Go Big Red!" I offered enthusiastically, despite my preference for never spending a winter on East Hill in Ithaca. "Beat Big Green."
"Tuition is expensive in the Ivy League," his tone saddened. "And you have no financial aid on your person."
"That can be corrected quickly, my good man. I'm a firm believer in higher education, I am." I straightened my legs, steadying myself against the continuing roll of the waves.
"That may be so. But summer recess is here now. You offer me nothing but your good nature."
"It's all I packed," I replied, looking about the lifeboat sheepishly, "but I'll meet your price given a bit of time, a phone call and an ATM machine."
"So you say. Chirp, chirp, chirp. Hand me the gun," he said, snapping his fingers. "Be quick! Your friends approach."
"The shotgun?" It was idiotic of me to ask, as there was no other weapon near me. "This one?"
"Hand it here."
"It's the only one I've got!"
"You want to get to shore? You hand over the gun."
Averse to all my good s
ense and instincts, I reluctantly offered the shotgun barrel-first to the extended hand reaching down from the deck above. "I'll just gather my gear and be right --"
"Not so quick. Release the lifejackets."
"I beg your pardon, but why take the time?"
"Release the lifejackets! Make them float!" The man was agitated now and the distinct rattle of a round being chambered added to my feeling of impending desolation. "All of them!"
I complied without objection, placing the jackets in the water so they floated lazily on the lee side of the lifeboat. My idea being should I need one after this particular bout with piracy, they would not have drifted far. The Gangrene was now within a mile and closing fast at full speed, its brilliant floodlights kicking on as the final jacket dropped from my fingers.
"Now, pull the drain plug," the buccaneer demanded.
"But the boat will sink," I said, meekly stating the obvious. A blast of the Gangrene's horn served as a gentle reminder of what would be greeting me. "I'm not so sure we want to do that."
"Pull the plug or I blow a hole in the boat. And maybe you, too."
Again, with a smile, I carried out his wishes and popped open the plug as if I were uncorking a champagne bottle. "There," I said, assuming the shotgun barrel was trained directly at my chest, "we're taking on water now, as ordered, sir." The searchlights on the Gangrene scanned the bay surrounding the boats, close enough to hear its engines idle down.
"Walk up here. Move!"
The light shown to the bow of the fishing rig. I picked up my gear and slung it over my shoulder, stepping on the center bench as the lifeboat's aft submerged. "You may wish to make this brief, sir, as I am due at a swim meet in a matter of seconds."
My immediate life goal was reduced to reaching dry ground, embarking on a plane, flying north and landing, ultimately, in the soaking hot bath of my private quarters at the Manor. Enjoying a cup of Mrs. Potsdam's special English Breakfast tea would serve as a bonus. A bill to Sondheim for my time, as well as my advice he procure someone else to bring Bridgework into the fold, successfully rounded out this fantasy. I held a vision this case was, in terms of my involvement, arriving at a rapid conclusion.
"Give me the bag."
"Sure, why not?" I swung the haversack off my shoulder toward the beam of light, timing a half-gainer aft-side upon its release. The maneuver would deflect the main blast of birdshot and with good luck I would be deep in the briny before the trigger could be pulled again. Slinging the bag forward, I leapt straight up from the bench, turned my head about so my body would follow and arched my back while extending my arms. My form was beautifully executed, suffering only a lack of water in which to land. The pine constructed framing was, naturally, a poor substitute for the Pacific and, landing on my back staring at the night sky, I had cause to consider the boat's relative firmness.
"Incluso un pescado sabe su manera de nuevo al agua, amigo."
"Yes, well, I was headed in the right direction," I sputtered, regaining my wind.
"You can go down with your ship or join me here on mine. But please, gringo, no more jumping in the air. Someone get hurt, yes?" The coiled end of a rope landed on my chest. "You hurry. Your friends come and your feet get wet."
I dragged myself up the rope, heaving to over the edge of the well-used fishing vessel and landing on a collection of nets, buckets and old chum. "You don't lack for the tools of your trade."
"I like catching what I fish for."
"Si, I know." I rolled onto my knees, gaining a better view of my floating host. At first glance, it was as though Hemingway had returned -- or perhaps his distinctive white beard and ever-present turtleneck had never left -- the balmy latitudes of Central America. "They're going to be sore about the scuttled lifeboat."
"So?" Captain Ernest replied. "It will occupy their time once they find it. Give them much to do over little." He shut down the running lights on his craft, leaving us in total darkness, and kicked the engine into forward gear. The motor coughed, belched and built itself up to a low grinding speed, allowing us to putter along within the troughs of the rising waves. "We take our time getting home, yes?"
"Who am I to be in a rush?" I stood up and joined my rescuer by his side, extending my hand in gratitude while thankfully watching the Gangrene recede in the distance. "How can I ever thank you?"
"You will pay me," he said business-like, giving my hand one firm pump. "Cash money. If you don't, I bring you back to where I found you."
"You will be paid," I chuckled. I sensed the older man would, without care or hesitation, follow through on his statement. "Your name?"
The skipper looked me over once and picked up an unlit stogie wedged next to a compass on the dashboard. "Around the bay I am known as El Pulpo Malhumorado. The Angry Squid. But you may call me Jack."
"Thank you for everything, Jack."
"You're money is all that is owed me. I care nothing for your background or reason for being a one man navy gunboat." He lit the stogie and, in the brief second the flame illuminated his face, evidence of a lengthy scar on his cheek stood out. "There is one thing for me to know. Your name, amigo. After that, no questions."
"Me?" I tried to sound flattered while subduing the elation at my good fortune in meeting up with Jack the Angry Squid. "Why, you can call me Skeet. Skeet Raleigh. Mechanical magician at your service."
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 24
