“You woke up early to tell me you need more sleep?”
“I had a chase last night that kept me up way too late.”
“What was her name?”
“No, not that. Some asshole stole my underwear from the laundry room. Can you believe that shit? Groupies are nice, but those Calvin Kleins were worth $40 a piece.”
“Just page me when you’re ready to go out,” I said, then strolled up to the top deck with a steaming mug of coffee. I wanted to honor the beautiful, nearby Blue Mountains and their noble coffee plantations that made life so much better for us all. From on high I watched the dock and the comings and goings of all the little people below. The comings were all taxis, but who did I see going? Why, Leo, of course.
I swallowed my anger while watching him trudge off with a beach bag and today’s hottie. Well, that was that. I was done with him. Sure, I understood that I was the ‘new guy’ on Conquest now, but I wasn’t some groupie begging for his time. I was tempted to steal his underwear and throw it overboard. My disappointment funk smoldered low but hot. I had held out one last hope to relive some of the old days, but you never can. Instead I used the afternoon to shop for a nice box of chocolates as thank-you to the poor accountant who handled our mess from last cruise.
But the real port of call drama came in Cozumel, where Bill and Dusty bullied me into joining them for a downright uncomfortable afternoon of play.
The sky was thick with clouds pregnant with moisture, but Bill insisted we rent scooters and tour the island. We quickly passed through the cluster of tourist-centric shops to the edge of ‘real’ Mexico, where our destination was an old gas station-turned-scooter rental. The windows were gone, replaced by hurricane-proof plywood with a hand-painted scooter menu.
Just as we arrived, the clouds opened into a piddling, warm rain. The portly and mustachioed man sitting beside the available scooters jumped up and ran inside, as if that was the cue he was waiting for. He slammed the door shut in our faces, followed by the clicking of the lock.
“So much for that,” Dusty said sourly, glancing at the door’s sun-faded map of Cozumel. “What now?”
“There’s still lots of places in Cozumel that are fun,” I offered. “We could party as Carlos & Charlie’s, for example, though I don’t want to get too drunk. I still have a ton of paperwork to enter tonight. Or there’s Chankanaab.”
“No, I want a drink,” Bill said. “And services.”
“Yes, services,” Dusty agreed with an emphasis that brought a grin from Bill.
“I’d imagine there is someplace to drink at Chankanaab,” I said. “I think we can swim with dolphins at Chankanaab.”
“How far is it, do you think?” Bill asked Dusty, ignoring me.
“Can’t be too far,” Dusty answered. “The island is only ten miles across at its widest.”
“Chankanaab is only about ten minutes by taxi,” I said, wiping rainwater from my face. “I think we should go to Chankanaab.”
“Will you shut the hell up?” Bill finally bellowed in my face.
“I just like saying Chankanaab,” I explained calmly.
“Let’s walk, then,” Bill ordered. Even though Dusty had seniority in both age and the company, Bill was the natural leader here. As soon as he began marching, Dusty high-stepped to keep stride and I tagged along behind. We soon left the thin strip of civilization along the coast and entered the steaming wild. The jungles of Cozumel had trees on par with a two-story building. They reminded me of the Mayan men who lived here: solid and strong and short. The stroll in the warm Mexican rain through the jungle was actually quite pleasant.
“You remember Germaine?” Dusty asked Bill. “He got booted from Navigator of the Seas. Can you believe that?”
“No shit?” Bill asked, surprised. “Germaine was the biggest earner I ever met!”
“Get this: they up and raised the goals by thirty thousand dollars per cruise. Germaine only made G1 three cruises in a row, so he demanded they lower the goals back to where they used to be. One week after he mouths off, he misses G1 and they boot him. Once! His associate stepped up and is already the biggest earner at sea. He’s got three associates and still makes a killing.”
“Three goddamn associates? Things are changing,” Bill said. “No more lone wolf days.”
I just shook my head in wonder. So ship nightmares weren’t relegated to crappy old ships like the Widow Maker. Even the big boys can lose.
“You ever been on one of those monster RCI ships?” Dusty asked Bill.
“Nope. Just Norwegian Cruise Lines and Carnival.”
“Don’t get me started on NCL!” Dusty lamented to the rain. “Those Norwegians are stiff sons of bitches. On my first NCL ship, half of my art storage was blocked by this big, locked closet. I asked them to remove the lock every cruise for two months straight, because I really needed that space. They never got around to it, so I finally cut the lock off myself. You’ll never guess what was in it.
“Jimmy Hoffa?”
“Enough weapons to supply a guerilla army.”
“Like the one in Chankanaab?” I asked. They ignored me.
“I called security right away, of course,” Dusty continued. “They had all sorts of assault rifles and shotguns and stuff. Don’t think they aren’t prepared for pirates, my friend.”
“Did they have one of those sonic weapons?” Bill asked. “Like they used on the Seabourn ship against the pirates in Somalia?”
“How would I know?” Dusty asked. “I’m from Canada, what do I know about assault weapons? You’re the American. Anyway, Chief of Security ran down at Mach Three to chastise me like I was some meddlesome child. They did a complete inventory on the spot to make sure I didn’t take anything, and kept searching my cabin every cruise for a month. What, they thought I was going to sneak a stolen assault rifle into America after 9/11?”
We were now a long way out of town, but to my surprise a staggered line of people disappeared before us into the distance. There were small clumps of Asians and random Caribbeans. No Mexicans walked along the road, and there were no cars at all. Not that Cozumel had many of those, anyway.
“I sense we aren’t heading towards the Mayan ruins of El Cedral,” I finally said. “Where are we going?”
As answer Bill and Dusty shared a glance and sniggered. Eventually we arrived at a low compound extending into the mist-shrouded forest. The buildings were low, forming left and right wings reaching out from a central bar. The bar was built of thick wooden beams, with no walls front or back, but covered by a tin roof that clattered with the rain. Mexican bolero music blared from speakers perched beside Corona-drinking parrots. Rainwater poured down the gutter-less roof, creating a shimmering view of the rainforest as if looking through a waterfall. Only one car occupied the lumpy, rivulet-streaked dirt parking lot.
“Say, this license plate is not from Quintana Roo,” I commented.
Bill stared at the empty bar room with a gleam in his eye, and Dusty licked his chops like, well, Bill eyeing his room stewardess.
“Quintana Roo is the state of Mexico that Cozumel is in,” I added just to be annoying. “Someone drove from Quintana Roo in the Yucatan and ferried over to this shithole.”
They continued to ignore me.
“I just like to say Quintana Roo,” I finished quietly to myself. Something was up, but they weren’t talking. We had followed a long line of men here, yet not a single person sat in the bar, nor played at either pool table. Only then did I realize that the long line of pedestrians were only men. Understanding washed over me with the warm rain.
“Oh no,” I lamented into the drizzling heavens. “We’re not at Salsa, are we?”
Both men burst out laughing.
“Why not?” Bill asked. “You got a cock, don’t you?”
“I find it distressing that I have to answer that again,” I snapped back, but Bill and Dusty shared more vulgar laughter at my expense.
Salsa. The Salsa. We were at the most notorious bro
thel on Cozumel!
We passed through the waterfall to gain entry to the bar, and Dusty nodded to the small, powerful, Mayan bartender. His features looked incredibly noble, with a bold, wide and proud nose and stern forehead. If he had been wearing jade and a quetzal feather instead of a beer-stained T-shirt, I could have pictured him leading Mayan warriors in fending off conquistadores. I called him 16 Rabbit.
Dusty’s silent order was for three Coronas and a rack of balls for the pool table. Soon we were standing around the decidedly off-balance table, and numerous women materialized from behind curtains and doorways. Like the bartender, they were also all Mayan, but mostly overweight. I didn’t want to contemplate the stains on their clothing. Bill temporarily ignored the women and racked the balls, but Dusty was already perusing the wares.
“Don’t panic, Buzz,” Bill said as he chalked his cue. “I’ve never been to a brothel before, either.”
“Oh, I never said I haven’t been to a brothel before,” I replied somewhat smugly.
“Bullshit,” he quietly scoffed.
I was a little displeased at his lack of reaction, but not surprised.
“No, really. I lived in Reno for years. Believe it or not, a friend of mine who owned an apartment building in Vegas was considering purchasing a brothel. He was big on thinking outside the box. He flew up for a few days and we toured them in the deserts outside Reno, Carson City, and Fallon. There’s a big Air Force base out there, so there’s lots of brothels: the Kit Kat Ranch, the Moonlight Bunny Ranch, Sage Ranch.”
“Let me guess,” Bill said blandly, “You didn’t screw anyone, but just looked.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Not as disappointed as the hooker you would have hired,” he jibed. “You’re such a pussy. I actually do believe you because you’re too stupid to lie. For most guys, the hard part is getting through the front door. But you, Buzz, you even date a goddamn stripper and don’t screw her. What a waste of time.”
Bill and I played a game of pool, or tried to. While the periphery filled with women of all ages, they kept their distance. It was actually Dusty who kept pestering us. He would grab Bill’s shoulder when he was taking a shot, just to point out another chubby Mayan who caught his fancy.
“Look at that one,” he would say, or, “Oh, look at her!”
“Just pick one, will you?” Bill snapped.
“I think I just did,” Dusty said with a grin. “See the one over there?”
“You mean that girl by the Negra Modelo sign?” I asked. “What, is she even legal?”
“I’ll just pretend you didn’t say that,” Dusty replied blandly. “Last time she said she’s twenty. I doubt it, but as long as she’s less than half my age, it’s all good.”
“Looks like she eats a barrel of pork everyday,” Bill commented, sizing her up. “Am I missing out on something here? Everyone around me porks the fat ones. She does have big tits, though.”
But Dusty was already wandering away as if in a trance, muttering absently about her smooth skin. Bill and I just shrugged and returned to pool. Every shot rolled into the same corner because the table was so off-kilter, but we didn’t care. I actually enjoyed shooting pool and listening to the rain. Listening to Bill’s perspective? Not so much.
“Dusty suggested this place,” Bill marveled. “What a great idea. You don’t have to deal with any of the bullshit women put you through and you get what you want.”
“If all you want is sex,” I answered. “But you have to pay for it.”
“So what? Otherwise you pay for dinner and drinks, and you still have to beg for it. Cut to the chase, man.”
After the second game, Bill motioned for two of the girls to join us. He specifically pointed to the most and least beautiful women in the room.
“I’ve no doubt you selected Bonita for you,” I said sarcastically to Bill, “But did you have to choose Fea for me?”
“How do you know their names?”
“Bonita means ‘pretty’ and fea means ‘ugly’,” I explained. “Come on, Bill, you know I’m not going there.”
“You scared to play some pool?” he asked. Then, to the ladies, “Shall we play a game of doubles, ladies?”
“What you have in mind?” asked Fea in fair English. She was without a doubt the least attractive prostitute I had ever seen. Not that I really felt qualified to make such a judgment, but I was being honest about having toured half a dozen Nevada brothels. Fea was perhaps thirty and perhaps five and a half feet tall, and definitely two hundred pounds. While her nose was Mayan broad, it was turned up in an ungainly, almost snout-like way. Her nose alone had more moles than I cared to count. It looked like a domino.
“Just pool for now,” Bill answered her. “Since you are taller, you can partner with my friend Brian here.”
Fea slid up close to me, but I fended her off by handing her my pool cue.
We played a game of doubles, but Bill was obviously much more interested in sizing up Bonita than anything else. She never said a word, but smiled suggestively and giggled at every comment he made. About halfway through the game, I went back to the bar to bring another round of beer. When I returned, Bill and Bonita were gone. Fea was leaning back against the pool table, fondling the pool cue suggestively.
Fea smiled at me.
I politely smiled at her.
“Game is over,” she said. “You want... more?”
I sipped my beer slowly, stalling for time. “Another game of pool sounds great!”
So another game passed tensely, while Fea thoroughly trounced me. No doubt her looks provided her ample time to play pool. After a while, Dusty reappeared from behind the curtain. His long, sandy hair was a mass of disarray, and a line of sweat ran down his cheek. He wore a stupefied grin while ordering two shots of tequila from the bar. With a new limp he returned with the drinks to his companion.
“You want different game?” Fea asked after a second one-sided game.
“How about some food?” I replied.
“We have best salsa on island,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
“I didn’t come here for salsa,” I said pointedly.
“Oh,” she replied, disappointed. As she left me, she gestured to the trees beyond the wall of rainwater. “We have best salsa on island. Avocados from those trees.”
And so I was mercifully left to myself for a while. I returned to the bar and ordered some salsa and a fresh mango juice from 16 Rabbit. I enjoyed watching the rain pound harder and harder. The salsa came in a bowl the size of a cantaloupe and was, without a doubt, the best I had ever had in my life. The tomatoes were neither diced nor smashed into mush, but piled in a mound of meaty chunks the size of ice cubes. Mixed in equal proportion with the hearty tomatoes were chunks of rich, creamy avocado. The whole was covered with a veritable salad of cilantro. The snappy cilantro and ground garlic made it flavorful, but not spicy. It was so good, in fact, that a full hour passed before I knew it.
In all that time I never saw any of the men we followed here leaving. Apparently Bill and Dusty were not the only ones planning on maximizing their time here. I, on the other hand, was not at all interesting in doing so. I was getting impatient to move on, but walking back to the ship was not at all desirable. I was finally dry, and outside was raining dogs, cats, and all manner of farm animals, as Bianca liked to say. I asked the bartender to call me a taxi.
After a long while, the rain came down so hard the metal roof shuddered and shook. I seriously wondered if the building could handle it. There was still no sign of the taxi, so I inquired.
“Taxi no aquí?” 16 Rabbit said with obviously fake surprise. He wiped his hands on his nasty T-shirt and suggested, “Salsa while you wait?”
In the end, I had to walk back to Conquest in the rain or endure another few hours being accosted by Fea and her cohorts. Of course, I wasn’t allowed to leave before paying everyone’s tab with my beleaguered credit card.
Chapter 14. Ecstasy
&nbs
p; 1
The final evening of my second, and final, cruise on Conquest presented me with an opportunity I had been secretly hoping for. While on my way to the art gallery in the Pissarro Room, I noticed two men conversing behind the podium of the Renoir restaurant. With nothing much to do before dinner on the last night of the cruise, the ship’s two Maitre d’s were chatting idly before the guests arrived. The short, solidly built man with very dark skin and gray hair ringing his balding head was Ganesh, the Maitre d’ of the Monet Dining Room. Ferrand, the handsome Frenchman in charge of Renoir, was the junior in rank.
Just two months ago these men had stabbed me in the back. During Gunnar’s thinly disguised case of prejudice in denying me my stripe and, thusly, my Bianca, these men had offered to assist me in my defense. They recognized Gunnar for what he was: a prejudiced coward. Alas, I did not recognize them for what they were: lying cowards. When I presented my case to Carnival’s executives, both men claimed ignorance of everything.
I smoothed my suit, arranged my tie and approached them with a neutral expression. Part of me wanted to grin like an idiot and another part wanted to tell them both to kiss my ass.
“Brian!” Ferrand greeted with his usual obsequious smile. He glanced at my Pronto Uomo suit and commented, “You are looking sharp.”
“Thank you,” I replied blandly. “My new career demands a certain... panache.”
Ganesh gave me a quick smile and held out his hand. “Hello, Brian.”
I paused a second before shaking his hand.
“Leo mentioned that you are an art auctioneer,” Ganesh continued, nodding with approval. “You seem to have done very well for yourself in a very short time.”
“I have,” I agreed. “No thanks to either of you.”
“Well,” Ganesh said, turning to Ferrand. “I think we both knew Brian would find success. Don’t you agree, Ferrand?”
“Oh, I do,” the curly-haired Frenchman replied, nodding a moment longer than he should.
The awkwardness of the moment extended as they faced each other behind the protection of the podium. Their body language clearly indicated they could care less about what happened.
Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 21
