Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  Five minutes later, screwdriver in hand, he removed the port shelf in Marlene’s aft cabin. On each side of the cabin, removable shelves allowed access to the steering cable. He had inspected the starboard side of the mechanism—the cables branched around either side of the aft cabin via a network of pulleys—and had found everything in order. But as he aimed the flashlight into the port side, he saw it: a rectangular bundle of some sort covered carelessly in a plastic bag that had become hopelessly snagged in the forward-most pulley. He tore at the plastic and removed the box. A videotape! Jay was at once furious at whoever had done this. It was by far the most stupid place to store videotapes that Jay could think of. Then he realized they were not being stored; they were being hidden. He cleared the plastic bag from the pulley and, a few minutes later, returned the shelf to its proper position, the steering now operational.

  He motored back to Shilshole. The sail had been spoiled and he was soaking wet. When The Lady Fine was secure, Jay went below to change into his swim trunks and a T-shirt that he kept in a duffel bag in the forward cabin. He walked past the videotape and couldn’t resist. Still in his foul-weather gear he went topside and connected the boat to the pier electricity, went back below, and threw a switch that turned on the VCR. He placed the first of the two tapes inside and ran it while he changed.

  ***

  A smoke-filled room was illuminated by a single funnel of light over a table. A group of men and an ugly Chinese woman were playing poker. In the lower left-hand corner an arm came into view, carrying a newspaper. The newspaper stopped in front of the camera, close enough to read the date: August 14, two weeks ago. Jay knew he should turn off the tape; this was none of his business. He leaned forward anyway. That’s when Iben Holst walked into view on screen, carrying the newspaper. He sat down and spoke with a guy who had a pushed-in face, tacky clothes, and resembled Karl Malden. The Chinaman’s voice was hard to understand. He introduced the man to Holst as Roy… something. Jay watched a minute and then fast-forwarded the tape, intrigued. The tape cut to a new scene. “Roy,” Holst, and the Chinaman were arguing in an office that looked like a compartment in a mobile home. Mr. Roy, as the Chinaman called him, was apparently in debt to the tune of eleven grand and, after a moment, Holst was offering to get him hooked up with a loan shark. Jay wanted to turn the machine off but couldn’t. He continued to watch, his heart pounding now. He didn’t know who was who in this thing, but either Holst or Marlene had taped it for some reason and had then hidden the tape. It had none of the professional quality that Jay had seen on TV in clips of FBI Abscam cases: there was no clock running in the corner and the sound was poor. Then he realized that the newspaper Holst had been carrying had dated the tape, which explained why it had been held in view for such a long count. Holst was no FBI agent, that much was clear. The German was either protecting himself somehow, or blackmailing “Roy.” Jay fast-forward searched again, holding down a button in order to preview the action at a faster speed. He had managed to shed the wet clothing and, as he let the machine return to play, toweled himself off. The screen blinked and a new scene appeared. Jay let the action return to normal speed.

  “Jay?” He spun around, pulling the towel around his waist. Marlene stood on the ladder in the companionway, rain beating down on the overhead dodger, a puzzled expression on her face.

  He pushed the stop button. Click. “I went for a sail to test her in a gale. The steering stuck. I went overboard—damn near lost The Lady,” He picked up the tape box. “This jammed the steering mechanism. That’s why it’s been sticking lately. It was a stupid place to put tapes, Marlene. I was curious.”

  “What are they of?”

  “Come on! They were in your cabin.”

  “What?”

  He hesitated. “What’s going on? Tell me.”

  “In my cabin?”

  He nodded. “Under the shelf. The plastic bag had jammed the forward-most pulley.” Jay became angry. “What’s going on here, Marlene? Tell me.”

  She stared solemnly at him and inched her way down the steep stairs, then set her bags down.

  “Marlene?”

  “What are you doing?” she asked incredulously, still unable to believe Holst had hidden the tape on board The Lady. Why inside the shelf? Didn’t he have any sense? And just what was she supposed to tell Jay?

  “What is this?” He was holding the empty plastic cassette box in his hand and waving it about aimlessly. “What the hell is this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His face flushed. “Marlene, what’s going on? What are you involved in?” He walked over and took hold of her. It seemed impossible that Marlene could be involved in something like blackmail. Not Marlene, his Marlene.

  “I have never seen those tapes before. I swear to you.”

  He shook her gently. “Tell me the truth. Please, Marlene. I need the truth. I can help.”

  She stared at him, unable to speak.

  He stormed past her, turned, and glared. “I’m not coming back, Marlene. Not until you straighten this out. All I ask for is the truth. I have a right to the truth. That wasn’t so hard yesterday, was it?” He grabbed his wet clothes and slammed the door to the head behind himself. A moment later he came out and left.

  She glanced at the television. It was hissing, gray sparks dancing against a blue background. She walked unsteadily to the VCR and removed the tape from the machine. She saw the torn plastic bag on the cabin floor, picked up the tape box, and did her best at packaging it up. She hurried now, up the stairs, under the dodger, into her cabin. Both shelves were open. Which one had Holst hidden the tape in? She guessed the starboard section, placed the bundled tape inside, and replaced both teak shelves. She looked around the small cabin nervously. Holst had a ferocious temper; if she had guessed wrong there was no telling what he might do…

  ***

  The jukebox played Tower of Power. Behind Kepella a skinny black woman danced topless, a wad of one-dollar bills tucked into her G-string. Kepella, his back to the dancer, sat watching lights flash on an electronic pinball machine a few feet away where a black youth was busy scoring past 458,000. Two balls left. Roy slugged down the remaining vodka, holding the glass firmly in his hand. He swallowed sensually, a connoisseur savoring a fine wine. But this was raw vodka. And this was Roy Kepella’s seventh.

  Damn peaceful world, he thought. A couple of shots, that nice warm spot in the belly, the nice numb glow at the back of the skull; everyone seemed nice, happy; he felt happy enough, no big worries. Nothing major. He had puked once—nothing major. It left room for another couple of rounds. He wasn’t even thinking, really. Oh, a few images would surface and toy around on some level of consciousness, but nothing too pressing. His mind had all the fluidity of setting cement.

  Kepella paid for number eight. Ball five on the pinball light show, 678,000. Two free games. New high score. The thin dancer’s pelvis was rocking, her tits bouncing. Kepella turned around and tried to focus on her. Nice butt, he thought. Nice strong butt.

  He drank number eight painlessly. It was easy now. He was right back in the swing of things. He walked over to the pay phone, put in a quarter, and dialed a number. An answering service answered. Kepella left the pay phone number. A minute later the pay phone rang. He answered it quickly, but with all the coordination of a drunk. “Go,” he said, obliged to wait ten seconds. Then he said, “First call,” and hung up. He could picture Brandenburg on the other end, smiling perhaps, or nodding into the phone. Kepella had little tolerance for the Brandenburgs of the world. They were too young to have any real experience, yet they tossed their weight around.

  He walked over to the black man winning at pinball and slapped him on the back. The man missed a flipper shot; the steel ball rolled into the guts of the machine. Game over, a little light proclaimed. The black man turned and slugged Kepella in the gut, yelling, “Fuck off, man. You fucked up my game.” He stood Kepella up and slugged him hard. Two biker types stopped the black man. Kepella rest
ed on his knees, buckled over. The black man struggled. “Hey, you leave me be. This meathead fucked with my game. He fucked my game.”

  A man who moved with the assurance of a manager helped Kepella to his feet and escorted him to the door. “Sorry, my friend. I think it’s time you go home now.” He pushed the door open and helped Kepella to the sidewalk. Kepella looked around. First Avenue: the seedy side of Seattle. A bus pulled up and, without even reading the destination, Kepella painfully climbed the steps, pulling himself up along the rail. He reached the driver, searched his pockets, and stumbled back off the bus. He had had a ten-spot folded up in his wallet, tucked behind his driver’s license for emergencies. At a buck a drink he should have had two dollars somewhere, but if he did, he couldn’t find it.

  He started walking in the rain. He was ten blocks toward his apartment before he remembered that Brandenburg had insisted he hide himself once the deal was in full swing. Brandenburg wanted to take all precautions—and after his last meeting with John Chu and the Samoan, Kepella agreed.

  He turned around and, dragging his feet, headed for Rosie’s.

  ***

  Rosie opened the door to her apartment. She knew something was wrong. “Where you been, Roy?”

  His voice was drunk and angry. “I’m gonna stay with you for a while, if that’s all right.”

  “You drunk,” she informed him, her disappointment obvious.

  “You right,” he replied crisply, mocking her. “Can I borrow a twenty?”

  She went into the bedroom, came out, and handed him two tens. He jammed the money into his pocket and, without saying a word, walked past her. Rosie backed up against the wall, frightened of him. She let him leave and shut the door.

  Ten minutes later Kepella returned, a paper bag in his hand. A bottle of Papa. He headed straight to the kitchen, withdrew the bottle, unscrewed the cap, loving the familiar sound of a fresh seal being broken, and poured both him and Rosie a few fingers. He thrust the glass at her.

  “Your face bruised,” she said, accepting the glass with reluctance.

  “Do you mind if I stay with you? I can’t go back there.”

  “They beat you?”

  “We had a business meeting. I told you…”

  “Oh, Roy,” she said, setting her drink down and hugging him. As she hugged him, he swallowed half the vodka in the glass. He threw his head back and smiled pathetically at the yellowed ceiling. Without looking at him she said, “Let’s leave town, Roy. I have money saved—one hundred ten dollars. We take a bus someplace. Tomorrow morning I take money out of bank.” She looked up at him.

  Kepella shook his head. “No bus rides, honey.”

  “I never seen you like this.”

  “You’ve never seen the real Roy Kepella.” He pushed her away, a little roughly. “Rosie, I’d like to introduce you to the real Roy Kepella, who, through a unique set of circumstances, has returned from whence he came. Back from the grave, so to speak.” He lifted his glass and finished the booze. Back into the grave is more like it, he thought. “What? You’re not drinking?”

  She was staring at him. “You drunk. Why?”

  “Why?” he asked, pouring himself another. “But isn’t it obvious? I’m drunk because I’ve been drinking.” He laughed ghoulishly. “I thought that would have been obvious.”

  “I don’t think I like you drunk.”

  “My dear, you join a very long and well-established list of what I must admit are some very prominent people. You are not alone. No, you are not alone.”

  She crossed her arms defiantly.

  “Drink up, Rosie.”

  “No. I won’t drink with a drunk.”

  “Have your little toot then.”

  She scowled, reached for the drink, and drank it all at once. She placed it back on the worn counter with a thud. He immediately poured her another. She drank this quickly as well.

  “This how you want it, Roy?” She tossed her dark, coarse hair over to one side. Tears welled in her eyes. “This make you happy? What wrong? Pour me another. And another. I drink until I throw up, and then I drink some more. That what you want? That what you do?”

  He turned violently and hurled his glass against the wall. It shattered. Then he dropped to his knees and pressed his face against her chest, drooling onto her dress.

  She stroked his hair. “Why, Roy? Why?”

  He pushed away from her, still on his knees. She lost her balance and tumbled into the door. His moment of self-pity had vanished, replaced by the uncertain anger of a drunk. He poured a deep shot into her glass and drank it down. “Because,” he told her. “Because.”

  She lay on the floor, crying now. “Roy, what they done to you? My dear, sweet Roy. What they done?”

  He smiled grotesquely and began to laugh loudly. “The lion’s jaws,” he said, holding the bottle in front of himself and studying it. “The lion’s fucking jaws.”

  25

  The late afternoon sun, hidden behind hazy clouds, glowed like a cat’s eye caught in a headlight’s glare. Holst, a cup of coffee in hand, watched Marlene move restlessly around the galley. “I will try and arrange a meeting for tomorrow night. Will that work for you?”

  “That is fine. The sooner we get this over with the better.”

  “Is it Becker?”

  She snapped her head around. Since Jay had left the boat, Marlene had been a nervous wreck. “What?”

  “You are romantic with Becker, are you not?”

  “No.”

  “You have a hard time avoiding men, Marlene.”

  “Have I had a hard time avoiding you?”

  Holst looked away, pretending to have missed her comment. “He is a good worker. I will say that much.”

  “And a fine sailor.”

  He looked at his watch. “Where is he? Did you let him off early?”

  “No, he did not show up today.”

  Holst shrugged; for him, all the better. “Are you prepared for the next few weeks?”

  “Why do you keep asking me that? I act professional, make him an offer, and verify what he gives us. What is so difficult about that? It is why you wanted me along, is it not? Listen, the sooner the better.”

  “And you are certain you can verify what he offers us.”

  “If it is a circuit board, I can tell you what it does. That is why I am here, is it not?”

  “Kepella may be hard to handle. He is unpredictable.”

  “I will be fine. It is a business arrangement. I am very accustomed to making business arrangements. I do it for a living.”

  “I just wanted to warn you. Be delicate. We do not want him figuring this out. It would dry him up. He may be difficult. It may take several meetings.”

  Marlene, who had been watching through a porthole as a woman hosed down an adjacent boat, nodded. “You checked into him?”

  Holst sipped his coffee. “Becker?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have been over that. I would be remiss if I had not.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you seem different, like a man playing with a snake he knows is no longer venomous.”

  “A strange comparison.”

  “That is how it seems.”

  Holst shrugged and watched out a different porthole as a Coast Guard launch rounded the jetty and disappeared.

  “And what did you find out?”

  “He is perfect for us. He has virtually no credit rating. He has lived here, in Seattle, for a few years, playing music. It was good you noticed him. He travels with his band frequently and is basically a nomad. If anything should go wrong, I doubt that—”

  “No.”

  “—anyone would miss him.”

  “No!” She crossed her arms tightly.

  “Be careful, Marlene. What you do and do not tolerate is of no concern to me. Remember that. Besides, all I meant is that if we have to leave him somewhere for a while, no one will miss him. Relax. I am not going to harm anyone.
I abhor violence.” He looked at her and sighed.

  She did not believe a word he said.

  ***

  They drank their coffees in silence, he at the table, she standing by the small, stainless steel sink. She feared Jay would not be coming back, and she wanted to take it out on Holst, but she didn’t dare tell him what had happened. There was no telling how a man like Holst would react.

  “I will be going in a minute,” he said, standing and leaving the coffee cup on the table.

  She followed him out of the galley—something she never did. He turned and asked, “What is it?” Unable to think of what to say, she resorted to an indifferent shrug. He was headed back toward her cabin, not off the boat. Her heart raced. She wanted to stop him, but instead, stopped herself. She stood there listening to him bang around. She put her fingers in her mouth and chewed on the nails. Frantically she turned and hurried into the galley, and went about making more coffee.

  Holst entered slowly, angrily, his face red. He barked, “Why was this moved?” He held the tape in his hand.

  “Moved?” she tried innocently. “What is it?”

  Holst’s mind worked like a Swiss watch. “You said he did not come to work today. Was it him?”

  She thought quickly and said, “It was not him… It was me. I moved it.”

  Holst hurried down the companionway and grabbed her arm. “He saw the tape? Well, did he? Is that why he is not here?”

  “No,” she said unconvincingly. “It was me.”

  “Tell me.” The pressure of his grip increased.

  “No!”

  “Tell me.” He twisted her arm and forced her to her knees. “You tell me, Marlene. Tell me now, or the tape of your father goes in tomorrow’s mail.”

  “Let go!”

  “Did he see the tape?”

  “Why did you hide it here? It was so stupid to hide it in the steering path. You never told me.”

  His voice became calm. “You must tell me, Marlene.”