Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2)

by Brian David Bruns

  I stared at her, stunned as realization sunk in. “An inventory alone takes a full day.”

  “This is a good thing. Trust me.”

  Presumably the look on my face was not reassuring, because Mary Elizabeth immediately tried to coax an ally out of my by buttering me up. “Charles tells me that you did an entire auction last night.”

  “I did,” I said proudly. “I had already finished a number of auctions for Shawn when he was here, but this was the first one I organized from start to finish. The first twenty minutes were a bit rough, but after that I got smooth, baby.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “More than Charles sold the previous auction, if I recall correctly.”

  “Well, yeah,” I demurred, “But it was raining during my auction. His was during a gorgeous port of call. Hard to sell to people on the beach, you know?”

  “Oh, I know,” she said with a smile. “Even though I answer to Gene, I am on your side. Art swapping situations to the contrary. You seem to be doing well, so take credit for it. Shawn had great things to say about you, and so does Charles.”

  “Thank you,” I said earnestly.

  “So what are your ambitions? Do you want your own ship or to be an associate on a big ship? Both are highly profitable.”

  “I absolutely want my own ship,” I answered. “My girlfriend is waiting to join me. She’ll be brilliant at this.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Mary Elizabeth said happily. “I like auctioneering couples. They are far more stable than the single ones who get sidetracked by booze and sex. You were in the March training class, weren’t you?”

  “April. I was hoping to have a short vacation in September or October because my girlfriend is on vacation then.”

  “Six months is usual for auctioneers,” she agreed. “If I can make arrangements to pencil you both in the October advanced training class, you could both go directly from there to your next ship. How would that work?”

  “I think that would work marvelously! That way she won’t start another contract as a waitress.”

  “She already knows ships? Even better. Just make sure she resigns properly, because we don’t want Sundance accused of poaching talent. Anyway, don’t hesitate to keep me informed about your schedule and desires. I’m here to do what I can. In the meantime, you may need to go feed oxygen to Charles.”

  3

  That Miami afternoon Charles and I examined the D containers that had been craned into the bow storage area. They were ingeniously packed boxes of intricately folded sheets of 245 pound corrugated cardboard and a clean, new pallet. The whole tidy package sprang forth into a box of large dimensions capable of hauling 1200 pounds. The walls rose a cumbersome 45 inches, but were designed to slide open for easy front access and still sturdy when in place. It was a great example of how a little thought could elevate something as simple as a box into a masterpiece of engineering.

  Charles demonstrated how to unpack and assemble a D container. It was dirty work, and he folded his hands together awkwardly before him in order prevent soiling his clothing. He looked like a praying mantis.

  “After we pack up all the boxes, we will wrap them in plastic wrap, nice and snug. I want it waterproof. Once I was on a ship where the containers were left on the dock during a rainstorm. Can you believe that? That was in Barbados, which doesn’t have a hanger for such things. It was a pure goddamn miracle I didn’t lose millions that day.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t need a miracle like that,” I said quietly, daunted at the thought.

  “I would prefer to start in the morning. I’m going to bed early because it will be a long, long day of humping boxes. We can’t sell anything tonight anyway, because we won’t get credit for it. The new art data is for the oncoming work. So tomorrow morning, when you’re ready, call me so I can get it juicy for ya.”

  I blinked a moment, then asked, “Did you just say, ‘call me so I can get it juicy for ya?’”

  “I did,” he replied smugly.

  “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” I said, laughing. “Congrats, I have no idea what song that is.”

  “Me neither,” he admitted with a shrug of his skinny shoulders. The gesture combined with his folded hands reinforced his mantis look. “I just heard it the other day, but it sounded suitably naughty and hip-hoppy.”

  “Hip hop-like,” I corrected with a smile.

  4

  Because there was no auction, I went to bed way too early. A few hours before dawn I was already wide awake, so reluctantly decided to start on the packing. Though I knew the boson’s area was always stiflingly hot, perhaps I could get a big chunk of the work done before it got really really hot. I wore only shorts and sandals, leaving my tank top in the art locker.

  The hallway leading from the art locker to the boson’s area scared me. It was dark, long, and the high ceilings made the walls squeeze inward. Creepy claw marks marred the linoleum walls, as if crewmen were hauled against their will to the strange door at the end. Indeed, the only source of light escaped from around that thick metal door, hammered outward as it was, presumably from a demon locked behind pounding to escape. The stifling heat added to the impression.

  Perspiration already beaded upon my forehead from the heat, but as I crept to the metal door, rivulets of cold sweat trickled down my neck. Heat poured from the cracks of that scarred, battered door as if it held back the Inferno. Indeed, the boson’s area was directly beneath the bow, and several feet of steel under the torrid Caribbean sun inevitably creates a furnace. Even the relatively cool hours of night were not enough for it to dissipate.

  Ever-so-cautiously I opened the door, and was immediately assaulted by the heat. A huge chamber stretched far, far into the steaming dark. Countless chains hung above; heavy, motionless, sharp hooks dripping with moisture. A path meandered beneath the hulking shapes of everything needed to fix a ship at sea. I was pretty sure this was the set for Hellraiser, where condemned souls waited to be torn apart. Something dripped somewhere in the blackness. At any moment I expected to encounter a topless blonde bound for sacrifice and screaming in terror.

  Nearby was the boson’s tiny office, currently empty, of course. I peered inside and gasped at the stack of burnt ledgers. Despite myself, I opened a leather book, awed by its seared edges and ash-smeared entries in a tiny, foreign script. Only then did I notice that the ashtray, overflowing with bent and smashed cigarette butts, was currently in use. A fresh cigarette emitted a delicate line of smoke ramrod straight into the hot, unmoving air.

  Surely the boson wasn’t here in the middle of the night? There was only one way in or out, so he was in the shadows somewhere, presumably watching me. Perhaps he was summoning a demon. Perhaps he was a demon, busy devouring a bikini babe in this labyrinth. None of these thoughts were particularly helpful.

  Now more nervous than ever, I shivered at the sight of some odd black smear snaking across the floor into the confused depths. Was that ichor from the otherworldly beast within, or just engine grease? Then I heard something that made my blood run cold.

  A giggle.

  I froze into a crouch. Only my eyes moved, frantically searching among the hulking shapes for whoever made that noise. That was not my imagination, but a child, perhaps an adolescent, giggling in the labyrinth. But how could that be? Yet it obviously wasn’t a grown man I just heard. Who—or what—would play among the machinery in the middle of the night?

  The giggle sounded again, followed by a sharp, pained gasp, as if someone was being hurt. It repeated over and over, as if a ghostly reenactment of an untimely end echoing through time. My God, was this place actually haunted?

  A faint glow smoldered in the hot distance, wavering and orange. I inched closer. Whispering voices now teased my ears with a velvety prickle, but I could not make out the words. I paused just around the corner to the light, and peeked.

  Then I saw it. Aha! I knew it!

  Candles blazed around a metal table streaked with blood, and there, upon i
t, squirmed a gorgeous blonde awaiting sacrifice. She was chained at the wrists and ankles, wearing only her bra and panties. Sweat mingled with red slashes crisscrossing her belly. A dark figure towered above her, preparing to finish her off with great ceremony of movement. Its back was to me, and as I strained to get a look at his face, I tripped.

  With a clatter I tumbled into the light, breath expelling in a great gasp upon striking the steaming metal deck. I frantically scrambled to my knees, but the specter had already vanished.

  I gaped at the half-naked woman chained on the counter.

  She gaped at the half-naked man panting on the deck.

  She screamed at me.

  I screamed at her.

  It was not my finest moment. I fully intended to run like a little girl, but the victim’s odd curses made me pause.

  “Damn it, Erik!” she snarled into the void. “You’re gonna leave me like this? Are you goddamn kidding me?”

  “Wh-who?” I stammered.

  “Erik, the limp-dick boson, that’s who!” she snapped. “Erik! Come back here and unlock me, you stupid son of a bitch!”

  But the boson was nowhere to be found. The only trace of him was another abandoned cigarette smoking itself absently near a flickering red candle. Finally the woman gave up on him and took her frustration out on me.

  “You just gonna stand there like an idiot?” she yelled. “Get over here and unlock me!”

  Approaching, I finally realized what was actually happening. Those weren’t bloody gashes along her belly, but rivulets of hot wax dripped from a candle. Now this was my kind of foreplay!

  “The key’s on the table over there,” she ordered, nodding behind me. I took up the key and reluctantly began releasing the padlocks that chained her down. The young woman was obviously one of the dancers, evident by her phenomenal physique. She never looked at me, but focused on plucking bits of wax from her belly as soon as her hands were free. Once fully loosed, she snatched her dress from the table and tugged it over her head.

  She started to leave, but paused to look me up and down. With a mischievous smile she said, “Let’s do this again some time.”

  Then she stormed out, leaving me with the D containers and the creepy, lurking boson.

  5

  So I began to assemble all the boxes. Space was a severe limitation and I had to ensure they all had a place, so each path meandering through the greasy equipment became filled with fresh cardboard boxes and their pristine pallets. Eventually the dread machinery of the chamber was supplanted with my own junk. Trepidation melted away. I continually banged my head against hanging chains, caught my hair in their dangling hooks, or slammed my shoulders into jutting metal things. But eventually the containers were unpacked and placed where I could get at them while hauling cumbersome artwork. Of the boson, there remained no sign.

  Dawn came early and the tropical sun already blasted the metal deck mere feet above my head. In these conditions I had to box one thousand works of art. Swapping the art collection from a cruise ship should be outlawed by the Geneva Convention!

  Everything that was in the art locker had to go into a box, so I just systematically worked my way to the back. While it was fortunately a short jaunt from the art locker to the boson’s hell hole, I had to haul the laden cart over those damn lips in the hallway. Each trip sent a jolt of pain down my back until the ache overflowed into my loins.

  Humping boxes was not the way I preferred to be soaked in sweat with sore loins.

  D containers have high sides, so arranging frames inside was a chore. I had to bend all the way over the edge and heave and haul and push and arrange big frames while fully extended and bent in half. I would have preferred being drizzled with hot wax. Sweat burned my eyes and the many scrapes and burns that popped up from working with so much cardboard. After nearly four hours, all the locker’s artwork had been arranged tightly in the boxes.

  After this, I had to haul in the unframed artwork from my cabin. These prints were professionally matted and matched to a backing of foam board, then neatly shrink-wrapped in plastic. Thus, they were very light, very slippery, and exceptionally prone to static cling. Moving them was an electrically charged mess because corners slipped from my grasp and poked into my thighs or snagged walls. Everything I touched snapped at me, and it took all my patience to resist hurling the impish prints overboard. There were hundreds of the buggers, but I finally got to them all.

  Finally Charles and Tatli joined me in late morning. They were shocked when they saw me, head-to-toe filthy and sweaty. I gave them a grin that was more than a little crazy from the heat.

  “Why did you do this all yourself?” Charles demanded.

  “I wanted to,” I defended with strangely misplaced zeal. “It was a challenge.”

  “I’ll say,” Charles said, wonderingly. I suspected that he was more than a little pleased at not having to do the work himself.

  Actually, there was a reason why I slaved through the heat alone. I couldn’t say it, but I wanted to prove something to Charles and Tatli, and I want to prove something to myself. I loved hard work. That was the Iowan in me and I was damned proud of it. I had always worked harder than everyone around me, if admittedly not as smartly. So once I started this job, I wanted to claim it all as my own.

  “This little bit of achievement is my birthday present for myself. No doubt this is the only birthday humping I’m gonna get today.”

  “It’s your birthday?” Tatli asked. “Oh, Brian, you should have waited for us!”

  “’tis nothing!” I boomed melodramatically.

  “We’ll gather the art from the few displays around the ship,” Charles said. “I want to wait and make sure Hot Man is in his office when I take away the Rembrandt he’s been enjoying.”

  After everything was packed, Charles and I began the process of plastic-wrapping the D containers. Sundance had provided a dozen mega-sized rolls of the stuff, and Charles expertly danced around the boxes with a long, clinging line of green. The shriek of the plastic pulling from its roll echoed strangely through every corner of the hot metal prison. We actually burned our fingers on the cardboard tube, so fast did we work.

  Thus, after some six hours of insanely intense labor in brutal conditions, the packing was finished. That was step one.

  While Charles arranged to crane all the boxes onto the dock, I returned to my cabin to relax my brutalized muscles. But recovery was not meant to be. Just as I was about to nap, the phone rang.

  “Have you seen the boson?” Charles asked, fear in his voice.

  “What do you mean, exactly?” I asked warily.

  “He’s not answering his phone or his pager.”

  Relief flooded through me. I hadn’t wanted to explain that I had, indeed, seen the boson. But as awkward as that conversation would have been, the boson’s disappearance was worse.

  “We need him to work the crane!” Charles continued, voice cracking in concern. “You haven’t done anything to piss him off, too, have you?”

  “Uh... not exactly.”

  “Goddamn it, Brian!” he barked through the phone. “My new artwork is melting in the goddamn Bahamas, time is running out, and everyone on this ship has a problem with you.”

  “Not your wife,” I offered cheerily, but Charles just snorted and hung up.

  In fact, we never found the boson. An hour later the boson’s mate was called in and, with the assistance of two able seamen and a skiff loader, the boxes were eventually offloaded. I thought it would be a good feeling to see the fruit of my labor resting upon the Bahamian dock, but I was wrong. Like the boxes baking in the sun, the drama was just heating up.

  Just because the artwork was ashore did not mean our hands were washed of it. Until the local port authority signed for the artwork, Charles remained liable. The Bahamian refused to sign because, not surprisingly for such a major undertaking on short notice, there was a paperwork discrepancy. Until the port authority received an authorized bill of lading from Mary Eli
zabeth, he would not take financial responsibility for the artwork.

  Hours passed, and Charles paced back and forth the whole time. His skin reddened with the sun, but the smoke coming from his ears was indignation, not burning. Charles ranted at the port authority on the dock, and raged at the fleet manager on the phone. While he fumed, I fretted, because baking beside our fifteen outgoing D containers were a whopping twenty-two waiting to come aboard. Until we signed off on the one, we could not accept the other.

  The sun lowered in the sky, and our hour of departure grew imminent. Charles never once left the dock, and was dangerously close to watching Majesty leave from there. The worst part was that if the paperwork snafu did not clear, we would have to haul the fifteen boxes back aboard. Sundance would then have to send the twenty-two boxes to our next port, no doubt charging us for the expense, and the whole mess would repeat again. Missing auctions every step of the way, of course.

  But finally the proper forms were faxed in, and as the sun dropped below the horizon, twenty-two crates of new art were craned into the boson’s area. The few hairs on Charles not already grey had certainly gone over to the other side.

  Deep into the Nassau night Charles, Tatli, and I unpacked and inventoried the new art. Alas, we could not actually remove the items from the D containers because we could not yet place them in our art locker. All one thousand frames wore protective cardboard corners, stapled firmly. This explained why twenty-two incoming containers equaled fifteen outgoing: the corners added tremendous bulk. There was no hope of removing them without umpteen hours of labor.

  Finally becoming a blessing rather than a burden, the boson acquiesced to locking everything in his chamber for the night. No doubt because there would be no action with any dancers tonight!