Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  She offered him a hand and pulled him aboard confidently, smiling broadly. As he came aboard, she kissed him on the cheek.

  “What’s that for?” He was grinning like a schoolboy, wondering again why he said such things, why he made his stupid faces. He walked past her trying to let her out of an answer.

  She shrugged. He didn’t see it. “For coming in second.”

  “I’m sick of almost,” he mumbled. He turned to her and added briskly, “Let the bowline go as soon as I have the engine running.”

  She obeyed and moved forward. Jay moved aft, started the diesel, and unfastened the stern line.

  The Lady Fine moved slowly past the breakwater, Marlene on the bow watching Jay, who stared out to sea.

  The sky to the east was azure, to the west dotted with soft gray clouds. A fifteen-knot wind blew out of the west, causing occasional whitecaps on Puget Sound. The summer sun beat down on them. Her bathing suit, indeed, her whole being, was provocative. Jay couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Every time she moved, the thin blue fabric shifted teasingly. She would lean over here, bend over there, pull on a strap or reach down and tug the tiny bikini bottom. Maybe he felt this way because she had shown up to see the race. Maybe it was the kiss on the cheek as he had come aboard. Maybe it was her smooth, oiled skin, or her tiny suit. Europeans are different, he thought. Sophisticated, strong, and mature. Linda didn’t hold a candle to this woman.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “The sails…”

  Jay looked up: both sails were luffing. He didn’t even remember having put the sails up. He fell off some; the sails snapped back to life.

  “How long will you be in Seattle?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m curious.”

  She grinned. Jay felt himself blush. She said, “I do not know.” In certain light her hair glowed red. “I am to begin working soon. Hopefully, you and I will sail the regatta—”

  “Labor Day…”

  “Yes.” She paused. “I imagine sometime after that I will be leaving. Your brow is furrowed.”

  Marlene had told him about her boss, a man named Iben Holst, who ran an overseas sporting goods chain. She had left out most of the details. “Trim the Genny,” he instructed. “A little more. Good. See the difference?”

  She studied the genoa jib; Jay studied her. “Yes. And I can feel it, too.” The boat had heeled noticeably.

  Jay was thinking, And I can feel you. I’d like to tell you that I’m infatuated, but I’m scared of you. He said, “That’s right. Now you take the wheel. Point her upwind and trim the mains’il. I’ll take the Genny.” They switched places. Jay brushed a hand across her back as they did. She didn’t seem to notice. A moment later The Lady Fine heeled even farther into the water. She cheered and her chest swelled. The bottom of the stanchion caught the sea. Foam slapped the white fiberglass.

  “Fall off a bit… yes, great,” he said.

  She cheered enthusiastically; the wind whipped her hair.

  “Let go of the wheel,” he commanded.

  She did so. The Lady Fine headed immediately upwind. The sails flapped noisily. The sheets banged against the boom and mast frantically. He took two steps toward her, raising his voice to be heard. “Marlene,” he said loudly. She looked up at him. The green eyes. The tiny suit. Her chest heaved in and out, in and out.

  He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and pull her close. He wanted to feel her heart beat against his. He wanted to smell her hair and feel her cheek press against him. He took her face in his hands. The sails continued to flap, the sheets continued to rattle. It sounded as if the boat was shaking itself apart. They stared into each other’s eyes, their hearts pounding, their breathing shallow and uneven.

  It seemed to him an eternity. He didn’t need to kiss her—not that he could get up the nerve. A warm and vibrant energy passed between them, through his hands, through her soft cheeks. They were making love, sharing each other, eyes locked, the boat trembling in the wind. Had he been holding her a minute, an hour, a lifetime?

  “Never mind,” he said.

  She sighed.

  He lowered his hands; he noticed they were shaking.

  And so were hers.

  ***

  Jay had left an hour earlier. Running the engines on the way into Shilshole had warmed enough water for a quick shower. She was still thinking about him as the ship’s clock rang seven times. She wore white cotton pants, white sandals, and a pink blouse. A thin gold chain encircled her neck. With her feet kicked up on a sofa/bench midship, Marlene watched the news on a small Sony, a rum sunrise in hand. A paperback lay beside her.

  She never watched the lead stories, only tuning in to catch the weather forecast. Tonight’s called for a chance of rain. What else was new? She sipped her sunrise. As she switched off the set, Holst came aboard. Always the same time of night.

  He ducked to keep from bumping his head on the companionway and said, “It’s me.”

  “Who else?”

  “It might have been your sailor friend.”

  “Leave him out of this!”

  “Do not be sharp with me, Marlene.” Holst unzipped his black leather jacket. His turquoise eyes, always oddly distant, held her. Evil. “Let us not forget who is in charge.”

  “Do not try and make it sound like I wanted this job.”

  “You are here. You are a smart girl to cooperate. You would have been foolish to do otherwise.”

  Marlene hated being called a girl—she pictured braids and knee socks. She was a woman. “Just do not involve Jay any further. Leave him out of this.”

  “He likes you. He will not suspect anything.” Holst mixed himself a drink.

  She hated him. She despised his arrogance, his self-control, his self-assurance. He used people. Was there anything lower than a person who used others?

  “You use people. You used my father to get to me, now me to get the data. Where does it stop?”

  “It does not.” He stirred his cocktail. “Why should it stop?”

  “And this man Kepella. You use him, too.”

  “Of course.”

  “And none of this bothers you?”

  “Listen to me. You make it sound like I have a remote control device on everyone I work with. Not so. I have power over them, yes. But it is only power they willingly allow me to have. Your father made an illegal contribution—that was his mistake. Because of this, you agreed to help us here. That was your choice. This Kepella is all confused. He gambles too much. That is his problem. I simply take advantage of what is already there. You make me sound like the devil himself.”

  “To me you are,” she mumbled.

  “What did you say?” he asked angrily, as if he had not heard her.

  “Nothing.”

  Holst pushed her feet off the pad and sat down. Marlene straightened up—she didn’t like sitting this close to him. He placed his hand on her thigh, touching her ear with his other hand.

  She squirmed and pushed his hand away. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

  He put down his drink and kneeled in front of her. “You still do not understand this, do you, Marlene?” He looked into her eyes, then reached over and touched her breast.

  She slapped his hand away. “You are disgusting! Get away!”

  He shook his head. She had struck him. His face flushed. He felt tempted to beat her, right there and then. A good beating. He liked to beat girls. No girl had ever slapped Iben Holst. “Marlene, you will never strike me again. Never! And I will do whatever I like. Is that clear?”

  She looked away from him.

  “Your father’s reputation, his future, rests in your hands. It would be foolish not to cooperate with us. We all know how much you love your father.” Again, he touched her breast.

  She slid away from him.

  He grabbed her by her hair and wrestled her into submission. He tried to kiss her unmoving lips, slobberi
ng her face with his attempts. Then he grinned lasciviously. “Of course, you can always change your mind.” He laughed pathetically. “But you will not. Your father means too much to you, does he not?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He yanked harder on her hair. She squealed in pain. He asked, “Does he not?”

  “Yes,” she conceded.

  He released her. “That’s a good girl.” He smiled. “Be thankful I do not ask for more.” The smile widened into a grin. “I came to tell you that we are getting close now. It will be soon. I will be back tomorrow.”

  And with that said, he left her.

  11

  Trapped in a collapsing spiral, Roy Kepella began to worry. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this operation after all. Oh, he’d had his share of thrills in earlier years, though few and insignificant for the most part. His real service had begun when he’d been moved to Archives. Christ, he’d taken to it like a duck to water, reorganizing, restructuring, making himself an expert, so that he had to be noticed, had to be involved. He had seen others his age be quietly moved out of the inner circles. Not Roy Kepella, no sir. Make yourself important and they need you. That was why he had eagerly accepted the job from Brandenburg: they would notice him this time, probably hang a goddamned medal around his neck.

  Fritz Wilhelm. The Bureau had been after Wilhelm for a couple years now. Wilhelm trafficked stolen technologies—everything from computer parts to heat-seeking missiles. They had the proof. But they didn’t have Wilhelm. Not yet. The only one real chance at the man had been in Montreal, and somehow the network news had found out about the whole thing going down, and no FBI operation could be pulled off smoothly with the press lurking around, so they had been forced to let Wilhelm walk. The anchorman tore the Bureau apart on the evening news, and the heat followed from Capitol Hill. But policy was policy, and, like it or not, the director… the director was not about to have his boys attempt a major operation in front of network news cameras.

  Kepella kept trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing for his career. What would become of him if Wilhelm never showed? What if, for some reason, the operation fell apart on him? What then?

  Kepella left his apartment at 5:45. He drove carelessly, his mind on Wilhelm and Brandenburg rather than driving. He didn’t see the state trooper in time. The cop turned on the overhead lights just past the floating bridge. Kepella had been clocked at seventy-two mph.

  ***

  Fu Won’s provided small chunks of roast duck along with cocktails. Kepella wolfed down a few bites.

  Holst waited in his rental for twenty minutes, wanting to time his arrival to seem coincidental. Peace Brother let him pass.

  Kepella had lost one hundred and eighty-three dollars by the time Holst joined the game. They sat across from each other. Kepella looked terrible. He had obviously been sleeping poorly, if at all. Bags hung beneath his eyes. His hair was oily and unkempt. His face showed worry and neglect. He had leather lips and a nose like a yellow squash. He looked sad.

  Cocaine was passed around the table. Kepella didn’t touch it.

  Holst drew a pair of tens and bet ten dollars on the hand for good luck. Next to Kepella and Holst, an old white-haired Chinese everyone called Nim sat picking his teeth free of duck. The alcoholic woman named Patsy was there, as always. Fu dealt. He smiled often and sucked air through his teeth whenever shuffling.

  “How you, Iben?” asked Nim, showing off his pitted teeth.

  “Just right,” responded Holst. “And yourself?”

  Nim nodded and blinked. “How’s tricks, Roy?” he asked Kepella.

  “Shitty! Things have been going shitty, lately.” Kepella shrugged. “What the fuck do I care?”

  “What the fuck do any of us care?” questioned Patsy in her whiskey-cigarette baritone. “Let’s play poker, eh, boys?” Patsy was originally from the Bronx and had not a trace of Chinese to her accent, despite her Oriental appearance. She was missing her right incisor and her wig was awry on her head: she appeared to be leaning to her left, and top-heavy. She took a belt of a dark drink and threw two cards at Fu. “Hit me.”

  A few minutes later Kepella counted his chips—now two hundred and fifty down. After a fold, Fu asked to speak with him privately.

  The tables in the restaurant area were empty—no one eating. One of the waitresses was programming the jukebox, the other, cleaning ashtrays. Kepella and Fu sat down at a booth.

  Fu said, “Mr. Roy, I like very much to have you play. But business is business. I been extending you credit too long. I think it time you think about how you gonna pay me back. You see?”

  Kepella looked over at the man. What a scar. “I thought we had a deal?”

  “We do, Mr. Roy. I loan you plenty. But business is business. Cash only from now on. We talk about loan tomorrow, yes? We make it straight. Okay, Mr. Roy? How that sound?”

  “I don’t have any cash on me, Fu. I’d like to keep playing.”

  Fu shrugged. “I no make trouble, Mr. Roy. Cash. Business is business. Maybe ask Mr. Holst. He win plenty last couple days. Maybe he help you.”

  “But I hardly know the guy.” Kepella tossed it out there, like Georgie the bartender tossed duck scraps to the alley cats.

  “He nice man. Maybe he help you out.” Fu shrugged.

  Kepella’s pulse quickened. Perhaps this was the contact he’d been waiting for. His stomach grumbled.

  When they returned to the back room, passing the unmoving Peace Brother, Kepella said, “Iben”—he had never called him by his first name—“think I could bend your ear for a minute at the bar?”

  “Sure,” replied Holst, without asking any questions.

  Kepella’s excitement built.

  Holst was forty-one dollars ahead. He rose from his chair and left the room. Patsy passed some brutal wind and Fu said something to her in Chinese. She snarled at him and finished her drink.

  Georgie the bartender, an extremely short man, wore a ridiculously loud shirt. Kepella ordered, “The usual,” which meant he would be served a glass of water with a squeeze of lime that everyone else would think was vodka. Kepella paid Georgie well to pour water instead of Popov—and to buy the man’s silence. Georgie had not said a thing to anybody. Mr. Roy got what he paid for.

  Kepella asked Holst, “Know how much I’m down?”

  “No, Roy. No idea. Why?”

  “Nine grand.”

  Holst nearly smiled. “Sounds like a lot of money.”

  “Sounds like? It’s a fortune! Fu just handed me the riot act.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I’m out of the game unless I play with cash. I have this feeling that tomorrow the shit hits the fan. He wants to meet with me.” Kepella studied Holst, wondering what the man was thinking. “I could win it all back in one good night, you know I could. And seeing how you’ve taken a good bit from me, well, Christ, I’m flat out, Iben, and I wondered if maybe you could go me a couple hundred, you know, stake me. One good night, Iben, one good night is all. I can feel it, my friend. Tonight. I’m going to do it tonight!” He smiled and finished the drink, grimacing as if it was vodka.

  “Sure.”

  Kepella jerked. “What? No fooling?”

  Holst shook his head.

  “Hey! Great! Tonight’s the night, Iben, I’m telling ya.”

  “I’ll need something to back it up.”

  “Yeah, sure. Name it. What’s mine is yours.”

  “What do you have, Roy?”

  “How much are we talking?”

  “You tell me. How much are we talking, Roy?”

  “Five hundred?”

  “Sounds like a car to me.”

  “Hey! The car is worth five thousand easy.”

  Holst let some time lapse. “Sounds to me like in a few days Fu may own your car anyway. What else?” He wanted Kepella nervous.

  Kepella, feeling like the fisherman who, having waited all day for the bobber to move, suddenly feels the rod bend, said, �
�One good night, Iben. Tonight I buy Fu’s whole joint. I’m telling ya. I can feel it!”

  Holst glanced at his watch. “I must go.” He removed his checkbook and scribbled out a check for five hundred dollars. He handed it to Georgie. “Cash this for Roy.” Then he said in Chinese, “Tell Fu this guy plans on buying the place by sunset.” Behind him, Peace Brother, who had overheard the comment, laughed loudly. Holst patted Kepella on the back, nice and intimidating. “You are all set, Roy.”

  “Christ, Iben. I didn’t know you spoke Chinese.”

  Holst winked. “Only a few phrases, Roy. Be lucky.” He dropped a quarter on the bar and left without saying another word.

  Peace Brother grinned from his position against the far wall.

  Kepella lost the full five hundred within the hour. All according to plan. When he reentered the bar, the young Chinese woman, Rosie, was waiting for him, as she had for the past several evenings.

  He bought her a drink. “What brings you by this place?”

  “You,” she said bluntly. “I been thinking about you, Roy Kepella.”

  This was unfamiliar ground to Kepella. He assumed that Holst had hired the girl, so he tried to play along—but playing along was difficult for him. He moved awkwardly on the stool. “Good things, I hope,” he said cautiously.

  “You lonely. I lonely. We like each other.” She went back to the drink, taking small, uninterested sips.

  That’s a simple way to put it, Kepella thought. “Can’t argue with that.”

  “We the same, this way.”

  “Yeah, but you’re pretty and young. I’m old and—what’s the right word?—weathered.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you cute.” She blushed.

  Seeing her blush surprised him. The line seemed practiced. But how does one practice a blush? “We’re friends, Rosie. I like that.”

  “We talk. You and I talk. I like that very much.” She looked down at the bar. “You take me for a drive, Roy?”

  Kepella squelched a grin. “Where to?”

  She glared at him. “Just a drive. I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know why not.”

  “Just an expression. Sure, Rosie. What say we drive up to a view somewhere? Take in the city lights.”