“What the hell is wrong with you, Jones?”
“Top of the morning to ya?”
“You’re not Irish.”
“Neither are the words Notre or Dame, and it doesn’t stop them.”
“Jones, I’m very busy.”
“Relax, BJ. You’re on a cruise.”
“You think I’ve got time to relax?”
“You’re going to give yourself a coronary.”
“You are going to give me a coronary.”
I wished. “Speaking of coronaries, I just met a fan of yours.”
“There are lots of my fans here.”
“Yeah, but this fan has a special place in his heart reserved for you.”
“You get used to being a hero, Jones. Not that you’d know.”
“Yeah, a hero. That’s what this guy said when you brushed off his grandfather.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“You were going to do a cross to a hospital as part of the television coverage from Pittsburgh.”
“I do a lot of those.”
“Well, you didn’t do this one. They rolled the old guy out on life support to wait for you—his hero, so-called—and you just didn’t show up. A room full of sick oldies and kids. And the great BJ Baker didn’t bother to come.”
“I’m sure I had a reason.”
“I’m sure every scumbag in the world who ever crapped on the little people had a reason. You probably had to polish your Heisman.”
He looked at me. Safe to say it wasn’t a look of love.
“You’re a class act, Jones.”
“If by that you mean I’ve never jilted a dying man in a hospital, you’d be right.”
“So a hospital didn’t get its five seconds of fame. So what? When did this travesty occur?”
“Just before Christmas.”
“You mean the whiteout game? I had to leave before we got stuck for a week in Pittsburgh under ten feet of snow.”
“As long as you got home okay, BJ. That’s the main thing.”
“Look, Jones. What can I tell you? I’m not responsible for the weather or airline delays or old men in hospitals. Life’s tough.”
“Yeah, it is. You’re right. Life in Palm Beach is a grind, I get it. And guys who worked their backsides off in steel mills to give your old football team a place to play your little game should stop complaining about the cancer it stuck in their lungs and suck it up. Except they can’t suck it up, ’cause their lungs just don’t work. And of course, my bad, they didn’t complain, ’cause guys like that never do. It’s their grandsons doing the moaning for them.” I shook my head. “And the old guy says you’re his hero. Geez, did the guy never watch any quarterbacks play?”
BJ leaned in close to me. I had to give it to him. He was one intimidating piece of work, even on the wrong side of seventy. His nostrils flared like a bull again. He puffed out his chest and made to let me have it.
But then he didn’t. He just turned and strode away at a rapid rate of knots. I didn’t watch him go. I was done with him. I sat at my empty bar and waited for Danielle to come and save me.
Cassandra and Ron found me before Danielle did. Cassandra looked like my car after a good session at the car wash. She was radiant and relaxed and her skin shone like it had been covered in butter and the butter had soaked in. Her hair had been styled and her nails were polished like a trophy.
“You look like a million dollars,” I said, and then wondered if she would take offense. Looking like a million bucks in Palm Beach was probably no kind of compliment at all. She smiled.
“You’re too kind. But it’s amazing what a good soaking and buffing can do to an old chassis.”
She wasn’t all Palm Beach. She was wearing a summer dress that I’m sure the fashion police would have argued shouldn’t have worked on a woman her age. But it did. It worked because she ate healthily and stayed active, and because she didn’t give a damn what the fashion police thought. She liked to look elegant but she clearly didn’t do it for them. She did it for herself. And maybe a little bit for Ron.
I offered her a hand onto one of the bar stools and Ron took the next one along.
“Seen Danielle?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“How was the island?” Cassandra asked.
“It’s nice,” I said. “But it’s no Longboard Kelly’s.”
She smiled again. “It’s a beautiful planet but nowhere beats home.”
I would have toasted that, but I didn’t have a drink. Which was rectified when a bartender skipped in under the bar and took up station.
“I’ll be opening up in just a moment,” she said. “But can I get you something while I do?”
Ron and I both looked at Cassandra. “Three beers,” she said.
“Domestic or imported?”
“Domestic,” she said. “We’re in the Bahamas still, aren’t we?”
The bartender opened three bottles and poured them into plastic cups. We each took one.
“Cheers,” said Cassandra.
“Cheers,” said Ron.
I just nodded. I liked Cassandra a lot. But I kept finding myself putting her into pigeonholes because of where she lived. And she kept breaking out of my pigeonholes. I sipped the beer and glanced toward the island. I wondered where Danielle was. I wondered where Anastasia was. I wondered where Guy X, or Francis Martelli, was. I wondered how I was going to prove their relationship for Frederick. Maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe he’d find out the old-fashioned way. Maybe they’d eventually tell him. Then I thought about him going overboard and I wondered if they ever would tell him, and I shivered at the idea that maybe Frederick’s own wife wasn’t just having an affair. Maybe she wanted him dead.
“Goose walk over your grave?” asked Cassandra.
“Too many thoughts, too small a head,” I said.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
I shrugged. Sometimes it was probably true. But there were plenty of times it wasn’t true at all. Sometimes I gave myself way too much credit. Sometimes my confidence outmatched my ability. I brushed the thought away with a sip of beer.
“What’s the plan for this evening?” I asked.
“It’s auction night,” Cassandra said. That reminded me of the rings. Maybe they were still on the ship, maybe they weren’t. I had no idea. And with the sun dropping low in the sky, within an hour neither would Lucas. I thought about texting him and telling him to get back to land before he lost the light. Then I remembered who I was thinking about. Lucas could navigate by the stars, or the scent on the wind, or the way the magnetic poles affected the stiffness in his hands.
“You going to buy anything?” I asked.
Cassandra sipped her beer. “I doubt it. Football memorabilia is not really my thing.”
“I saw a Gauguin in there,” I said. Ron shot me a look from behind her.
“I’m more a Monet fan,” she said. “And Ron likes Warhol.”
Ron nodded. “Soup cans. Genius.”
I couldn’t tell if he was serious, so I smiled like an idiot and kept my mouth shut.
“We’re going to the captain’s dinner first. Are you doing that?” she asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. We’ll see what Danielle wants to do, but I think a quiet night might be order.”
“Of course,” she said. “How self-absorbed I am. I can’t believe you went overboard. Are you all right?”
“He didn’t really go overboard,” said Ron. “He jumped.”
“To save someone. Frederick Connors. How is he?”
“I don’t think he’ll cruise again anytime soon,” I said.
“And Anastasia,” she said. “She must be mortified.”
I looked at Ron and he at me. Mortified was a good word. I wondered how Cassandra would feel when she found out that Ron had hidden the affair from her.
“I must find her at the dinner, Ron. Ask her if she needs anything.”
Ron nodded and said, �
��Here’s trouble.”
Trouble sauntered across the pool deck. It was my kind of trouble. Danielle strode toward us, oblivious to the heads she was turning.
“What are the odds of finding you all at a bar?” she said.
“Where have you been?” asked Cassandra.
“Checking out the boutiques.”
“Find anything good?”
“Nothing I couldn’t live without,” she said, looking at me.
“Drink?” I asked.
“Sure. Vodka tonic.” The way she said it set me on edge. Then I got it. She had been following Anastasia, and Cassandra didn’t know. I ordered Danielle’s drink and then looked at Ron over the bar. I was about to make a ham-fisted attempt at excuses when Ron slipped off his stool.
“Well, as much as I love smelling of salt water and beer, I’d best have a shower before this dinner.”
He offered his hand to Cassandra and she took it, setting the remains of her beer on the bar.
“Thank you for the drink, kind sir,” she said.
“Anytime.”
“I’ll see you later,” she said to Danielle, as if they had more to discuss.
Ron shot me a wink and then headed away across the pool deck. The bartender put Danielle’s drink down and she took the stool by me.
“So what happened?” I asked. “Where did Anastasia go?”
“She didn’t go anywhere.”
“She didn’t go anywhere?”
“She looked at trinkets in the stores and then she sat on a daiquiri for an hour. Then she took a walk along the promenade and came back on board.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. But I don’t want to talk about her. I want to talk about you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“You followed him.”
“Followed who?”
“The guy at the tiki bar,” she said. “So tell.” She sipped her drink and looked at me, waiting.
“How did you know that?”
“I saw you. You and Ron doing a slow motion tango on the beach. You guys are as subtle as a tax bill.”
“You were watching me?”
“No. I happened to see you, and you were watching something, so I started watching what you were watching. The guy at the tiki bar.”
“You were supposed to be watching Anastasia.”
“I was. I can do two things at once.”
“That’s why you’re the special agent and I’m good at opening pickle jars.”
“Sure it is. And it’s because I’m a woman and you’re a man. So what happened? I saw you follow him.”
I sipped my beer. Now I felt sheepish. She would have done a better job of following him and there would be no arguing otherwise.
“He went into the interior. Where we went earlier.”
“Yes.”
“He had a crew card for the gate.”
“Of course.”
“And he went to where the utility building and the plantation accommodations were.”
“And?”
“And I lost him.”
She frowned. “You lost him?”
I shrugged like it could have happened to anyone.
“Yeah. I got pulled up by an employee asking what I was doing there, and he got away.”
“He got away?”
“Yeah.”
“So you didn’t see what he did with the bag.”
“No. Wait. What bag?”
“The travel bag.”
“What travel bag? What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about?” she said. “What are you talking about? Why were you following him?”
“Because it was Guy X.”
“That was Guy X?”
“Yes.”
“The one having the affair?”
“Yes. Why are you talking about a bag?”
“You didn’t see it, did you?”
“See what?”
“The drop.”
“What drop?”
“The bag drop. That guy, your Guy X. He arrived with a blue travel bag.”
“Sure. Everyone’s got one. Even I’ve got one now.”
“And he left the tiki bar with a blue bag.”
“Yes, I know. I followed him.”
“It wasn’t the same bag, MJ. They switched bags at the bar.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“How do you know they switched bags?”
“I was watching, MJ. You were watching Guy X in order to connect him with Anastasia. I didn’t know it was Guy X. I thought you were watching him for some other reason. So I watched what he did, not who he met.”
“And you think he swapped bags?”
She swatted me on the head. “I don’t think it. I know it. He put his bag on the ground near the side of the bar. A little later, another bag was put next to his.”
“By who?”
“The bartender.”
“The inside man.”
“You’re quick when you want to be.”
“You’re making me feel bad about myself.”
“Grow a pair, MJ.”
“So he took the second bag when he left.”
“Right.”
“And I lost him.”
“You did. It happens.”
“That didn’t make me feel better.”
“Suck it up, MJ.”
I took a long drink of my beer. “Well, I’ve got some news for you.”
“Hit me.”
“Ron got the guy’s name from security.”
“Nice. Do tell.”
“Francis Martelli.”
“Francis? He didn’t look like a Francis. He’s a Frankie, for sure.”
“And that’s why I love you.”
“That’s why?”
“One of a library of reasons. So when I went after him, Ron went to the dock to make sure he didn’t double back.”
“See, you guys are good at this stuff.”
“And when I got back, we asked security to alert us when he got back onto the ship.”
“Good thinking.”
“And they said he was already checked back on board.”
“Did he beat Ron there?”
“No chance. I followed him for a few minutes. Ron went straight across the beach to the dock.”
“So how?”
I shrugged. Another thing I didn’t know.
“This whole thing is weird,” she said.
“Tell me about it.”
We sipped our drinks and thought on it. I wasn’t coming up with anything, but I didn’t want to tell Danielle that.
“I’ve got nothing,” she said. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. You?”
“Had a burger for lunch.”
“You guys really know how to stakeout.”
“I would’ve gotten you something but I know you all prefer donuts on a stakeout.”
“You’re a card.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“I need to think, and to think, I need to eat.”
“Then let’s test that get whatever you want by phone thing.”
We returned to our suite. The last of the sun was sending spears across the sky as the final few passengers left the beach empty and alone. The beach didn’t look sad about it. If anything it looked relieved. A cleanup crew was already marching in a line across the sand, picking up the beachgoers’ debris. It never ceases to amaze me how much crap people can leave on a beach. When running along City Beach in the evenings, we always find litter. Cans, wrappers, plastic bags, fast-food containers. And there are trash cans at every entrance, just like trash cans line the beach on Paradise Cay. The name seemed ironic now.
People were buzzing. Either because they were already buzzed from day-drinking, or because they were feeling that natural instinct all animals felt as day turns to night. On the African savanna, dusk is rush hour. The day animals take their last drink at the waterhole before finding their sleeping quarters, and the night animals ge
t up and take a drink at the waterhole before setting off for a night of roaming and hunting. A lot of activity. I had seen it on Wild Kingdom a long time ago. Wild Kingdom didn’t lie. Lucas had said it best. The animals feed at sundown. Even the higher-level mammals.
Some people were settling in for a big night at the bar by the pool. Other were changing out of their beach gear to nab a good spot at the buffet. Cassandra and her gang were dressing up for the captain’s dinner, which sounded like a fancy affair and not at all my cup of joe. The restaurants were preparing for the onslaught, and the bars were preparing for the post-dinner avalanche. The casino was ramping up. The night animals were at the waterhole.
We went to our suite. I had no intention of changing clothes for dinner or any other reason. Danielle decided my lunch choice had given her a hankering for a burger with bacon and cheese, with lots of fries. She was thin and athletic and looked like she wouldn’t go near a fat-laced burger, and maybe the point was that she very rarely did. But when she did, she went all the way. I picked up the phone and asked if I could order something and was told that yes, Mr. Jones, you can have whatever you like, which was an offer I could have gotten used to. I ordered Danielle’s grease trap and a plate of fries for myself. Although I’m still reasonably athletic, I’m not as thin as Danielle, and I do have a tendency to enjoy burgers more often than she does. But I had already eaten one on the beach, and wasn’t that hungry, so I went with the fries and then as an afterthought ordered a chef’s salad, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and a bottle of water.
Dinner arrived as breakfast had, except this time, there was just one delivery guy. He wheeled the cart in but we told him we’d be happy to set it all up ourselves. There were plates and cutlery and a little vase with a single rose in it, which I smelled. It had no scent but I was impressed that it wasn’t plastic. We took it all out onto the balcony and ate under muted lights.
I felt the slight shudder as I stuffed some fries in my mouth. It could have been an earthquake. I had felt a similar sensation when I played ball in Modesto, California. The kind of brief movement that makes you think you had a tiny dizzy spell. A teammate from the Bay Area had told me it was a little tremor, which I hadn’t believed at first, until I felt the same thing again three times in a week. Either I had a neurological disorder or the tremors were real. I asked my teammate if the tremors were a sign that we were coming up on a big one, and he said that the little ones were like a release valve, and we should worry if we didn’t feel them.
Cruise Control Page 15
