by Rickie Blair
“I am very sorry, but the bar does not open until one. You can get a drink by the pool.”
“But the sign says—”
“Sign is wrong.”
Ruby’s breath came in ragged gusts and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. A face peered over the bar. She gasped and then slapped a hand on her chest. Looking up, she shook her head.
“You scared me.”
Dimitri tossed a folded scrap of blue cotton over the counter.
“Put this on.” He disappeared.
She picked up the fabric and shook it out. A maid’s uniform. She pulled off her khakis and T-shirt and stuffed them into her tote bag. Then she slipped on the uniform and buttoned the front.
“Where did you get this?”
“Crew laundry. From dryer. Does it fit?”
“It’s a little short.” She stood up, pulled the dress down as far as she could and walked out from behind the bar. A good eight inches of thigh separated her knees from the hem.
“Looks good. Turn around.”
“Never mind. It looks the same in the back. What’s the plan? And please tell me it includes a bath.”
“No bath. Sorry.” He took a large plastic garbage bag from behind the bar and handed it to her. “For your purse.”
She opened the garbage bag, stuffed in her tote bag and twisted the top in a knot.
“Follow me,” he said.
Ruby hurried to catch up, almost bumping into him when he stopped at the lounge entrance to look in both directions.
“What if somebody recognizes me?” she whispered.
“Maid carrying garbage. Who will look?”
Ah. ‘Maid Carrying Garbage.’ A walk-on. She nodded.
They set off down the promenade. Ruby rounded her shoulders and lowered her head whenever they saw a passenger.
Dimitri turned into a broad carpeted stairwell and they headed down. Each landing held a lavish fresh flower arrangement. The arrangements grew simpler as they descended until they reached a curtain of thick translucent plastic strips that spanned the entrance to a much narrower stairwell marked staff only. Dimitri parted the plastic strips and stepped through. Ruby followed.
After negotiating the open treads of the metal stairwell that led down to the next deck, she stepped into a corridor that ran the length of the ship. Ahead, shouts echoed off metal walls. The floor’s X-shaped metal bumps pressed into her sandals’ thin leather soles as she followed Dimitri down the corridor. As they walked past a glass-windowed door marked morgue. Ruby tugged at his sleeve. When he turned around, she pointed to the sign and raised her eyebrows.
The morgue’s door opened and a tiny woman came out carrying a huge flower arrangement. Birds of paradise and palm fronds towered over her head.
“Look out,” she said, peering around the vase.
They stood to one side as she passed them and disappeared down the hall.
“Morgue is for flowers,” Dimitri said, adding with a slight shrug, “but many passengers are old, so—”
“Sheesh. Enough.” Ruby made a face.
As they approached the marshaling area, the backup beepers and shouted commands grew louder. But a few yards before they reached the large open door, Dimitri slid open a much smaller door, pulled Ruby inside the darkened room beyond, and slid the door shut behind them. There was a pungent odor, so strong it made her gasp and cover her nose. When Dimitri snapped on the overhead light, it became obvious why. Discarded food and other organic waste filled yellow plastic barrels that lined two walls. Each of the large blue plastic barrels along the third wall were marked grease.
Dimitri pulled over a blue barrel and took off the lid.
“Get in,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
He placed a wooden box beside the empty barrel and wheeled over a handcart.
“This ship is—friendly with the environment. Cooking grease goes to farmers on island to run machinery.”
“Yeah,” Ruby said, “I remember reading that on the website. But what does that have to do with me?” She narrowed her eyes.
Dimitri pointed at the barrel.
“Get in. There is not much time. When we dock, the crew will take off garbage. You will be with it. Simple.”
She backed away from the barrel and shook her head.
“No way. I’m not getting in that. You’re crazy. How would I breathe?” Her voice rose. “How would I get out? No. No chance.” Flinging the garbage bag over her shoulder, she turned to the door.
He pulled her back.
“Listen. Every item on ship is checked. Many times. But not garbage.”
“Why can’t I leave by the gangplank like everybody else? I can disguise myself.” She pointed at her wig. “See?”
“You must go through checkpoint, and you need ship ID for that. For this,” he tapped the barrel, “nothing.”
Ruby pressed her lips flat and studied the barrel’s lid.
“There are no holes. How will I breathe?”
“I will leave lid loose and you will push it up.”
Ruby bent her head over the side for a sniff and snapped back. “Whoa. I don’t think this is too clean.”
Dimitri handed her more garbage bags.
“Change when you get out.”
With a loud sigh, she stepped onto the wooden box, arranged the garbage bags on the bottom and dropped in the one with her tote bag.
She turned back to Dimitri, grabbed his lapels and kissed him.
He grinned and winked at her.
Ruby tucked a wad of bills into his shirt pocket.
“One thousand dollars. As promised.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I know.” She climbed into the barrel, the top of which came up to her chest, and crouched. Dimitri’s face obscured most of the circle of light that marked the top of the barrel. He drew his head back and closed the lid.
It was dark, and cramped. She held her breath a moment and then popped up, sending the lid flying.
“I can’t do this, it’s too small.”
“Yes, you can,” he said. “You can open lid any time.”
“It’s so … dark.”
“You can do this.”
Ruby sighed and crouched again. Dimitri lowered the lid, but before it was all the way down she panicked and popped up again.
He held the lid to one side.
“What is the problem?”
“It’s awful in there. And … dirty.” She shuddered.
Dimitri raised his eyebrows.
She shook out her arms and drew a deep breath.
“Okay. I’m ready.” She crouched down and the lid closed.
The barrel tipped as Dimitri slid it onto the handcart. The door slid open with a metallic whine. Ruby braced with both hands as the cart traveled, bump-bump-bump, over the metal floor, turned a corner, and stopped. She pushed the lid open a crack.
“Grease,” Dimitri said to someone Ruby couldn’t see.
“Over there,” a man said. “The last pallet by the door.”
Ruby dropped the lid back down and held her breath as the handcart rumbled on. It came to a sudden stop and she tipped forward, banging her shoulder. The barrel leaned to one side, thumped onto the ground and rocked. She held out her arms to either side to steady it. After a few seconds, the barrel settled down.
The lid opened a crack.
“Are you okay?” Dimitri whispered.
“Yes,” she squeaked. “How long?”
“Two hours only.” Then the lid shut and she was alone, enveloped in darkness.
* * *
At first, the cramped quarters weren’t so bad. Ruby spread out the garbage bags to cover as much of the barrel’s rancid interior as possible and crouched on them with her arms around her knees. She stretched her arms above her head and then raised her legs to rest her feet against the barrel’s sides. Then she crouched again, trying to find a position that didn’t leave her muscles screaming. Every so often she raised
the lid to let in fresh cool air and listen to the forklift engines, backup beepers, and shouted commands in the marshaling area. But she couldn’t see anything through the crack except for other garbage-filled boxes and barrels.
Eventually, despite the dark and the uncertainty and the close quarters, her eyelids drooped. She snapped her head back up several times, trying to stay awake. Two hours, Dimitri had said. Two hours …
A sudden movement startled her awake and, for a moment, Ruby had no idea where she was. She slapped a hand over her mouth. Had she cried out? The barrel tipped to one side, and she jammed her feet against it to stay upright. It hit the ground with a jolt and wobbled. Then nothing. Ruby waited a minute or two, then pushed on the lid. Fresh salt-tinged air poured in from the opening. The barrel must be outside. She let the lid drop back into place.
How long should she wait before climbing out? Sitting cross-legged on the barrel’s bottom, she pulled her purse from its garbage bag and took out her cellphone. Its greenish glow flooded the tiny compartment. There were no bars, but the clock said six thirty-seven. She should take another peek to see if anyone was around.
When Ruby raised a hand to push up on the lid, she heard voices. Then backup beepers. A forklift, probably. The thrum of the motor became louder until it reverberated through the barrel. She covered her ears. The noise stopped.
“Hey. Get over here,” someone called.
She heard running feet.
“Look at this barrel. The lid’s loose. We can’t send it that way. If that thing tips over, you’ll be cleaning it up for hours.”
Ruby held her breath. They didn’t mean her barrel, did they? A blow on the lid answered her question. More blows. Her ears ringing, she reached for the lid and pushed on it. It didn’t budge. Outside, the forklift engine thrummed again. It was moving away.
“No, come back,” she screamed, pounding on the lid. “I’m in here. Someone’s in here.” The engine noise grew fainter.
She pounded harder and yelled as loud as she could.
“Come back, please! I’m in here.”
She stopped hammering and listened. There was no sound outside the barrel. No talking, no footsteps, no forklift.
“No,” she moaned, her hand trailing down the side of the barrel, “come back, come back …” She slumped, wrapping her arms around her knees, and wailed in ragged gusts.
Over the next hour she pounded on the sides and lid of the barrel. She recalled her high school chemistry teacher explaining how much oxygen a person requires and how long it would last in an enclosed space before carbon dioxide overpowered them, but she couldn’t remember how long that was. Prolonged exercise used up the oxygen faster, she knew that. And endless pounding and screaming no doubt qualified as prolonged exercise.
Ruby wiped sweat off her face. Too bad Ethan wasn’t with her. He would know the answer. She giggled at the thought of his pink ruffled shirt and flaming red hair and then gave herself a hard slap. Was giddiness a side effect of suffocation? She couldn’t remember that, either. To stop the panic welling in her throat, she turned on the phone one more time. Still no bars. She licked her dry lips. If only she had some water. She closed her eyes.
“Please,” she whispered.
It was becoming harder and harder to breathe. She slumped against the side of the barrel, breathing shallowly, unable to move. Her mind drifted.
A tap, then another and another, rang in her ears. Ruby struggled to respond. But even to lift her hand was an effort.
“In here,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse. “I’m in here.”
Something scraped across the top of her prison. The lid popped open a crack and fingers reached in to wrench it all the way off. A face looked over the edge.
Dimitri.
Ruby, huddled in the bottom of the barrel, let the tears fall.
“Oh, my God,” she said between sobs, “I thought I was going to d-d-die.”
Dimitri reached in with both hands, pulled her to her feet, and lifted her over the edge.
She clung to him, still sobbing. Then she pulled back, wiped the tears from her face and wrinkled her nose. Her fingers smelled of rancid vegetables and unknown grease. She wiped her hands on the maid’s uniform and looked at Dimitri.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“I didn’t,” he said grimly, “until the foreman says one lid is loose and we should be more careful. I am very sorry.”
He led her to a wooden crate and helped her to sit down, then he went back to retrieve her tote bag from the barrel. Ruby looked around, still lightheaded. They were in an open-air wooden warehouse with a tin roof, filled with boxes and barrels, not far from the dock. She craned her neck to look over the top of the boxes. The Apollonis was still docked, its massive mooring ropes attached to the pier’s equally massive bollards, but the huge door that led into the ship’s marshaling area was raised and closed.
Dimitri returned with her bag, snapped open a plastic water bottle and handed it to her. Ruby took a long drink, letting the water slosh through her mouth and over her face, and rested the bottle on her knee with a sigh. She looked at him a moment and then raised the bottle again and took several long swallows. Placing the bottle on the crate beside her, she stood up and— “What the hell were you thinking?” she yelled. “I might have died. Of all the stupid—” she spluttered. “‘Get in the barrel, Ruby,’” she mimicked in a sing-song voice, “‘it’ll be fine.’”
Then she punched him as hard as she could in the stomach.
“Ow!” Dimitri puffed out air, more surprised than hurt. “But you are off ship,” he said. “Small complication, yes. But still—”
She glowered at him.
“Small complication? Small?”
He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to her. “My phone number.”
Ruby snatched the paper from his hand, flung her tote bag over her shoulder—wincing as it hit her aching back—and picked up the water bottle.
A sheepish Dimitri followed as she stomped to the warehouse entrance and the street beyond.
“I am sorry. I must go back to ship.”
“Whatever,” she said, without looking back.
Chapter Twenty-One
Antony dropped another armload of papers on the huge wooden dining table of the house in Boca Raton, separating them into piles. Scorching Florida sunshine poured in through the great room’s two-story windows and the air conditioning was on full blast. A Jack Russell terrier sat on one of two overstuffed beige linen sofas, its eyes fixed on Antony.
The doorbell sounded and the terrier exploded off the sofa in a barrage of barks, its nails scratching the hardwood floor as it skittered to the door at top speed. Antony shoved the animal out of the way with his foot and opened the door.
A tall lean man with light brown skin and black hair stood in the portico, a rental sports car parked in the driveway behind him. His linen sports jacket was slung over his shoulder by a thumb and his face, behind large rimmed glasses, was grave.
Antony tilted his head to the ceiling and uttered a heavy sigh.
“About time you got here.” He turned around. “Shut up,” he shouted at the dog, which barked and scrambled around the new arrival. Antony grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and tossed it to the center of the room. The terrier slid across the shiny floor for a few feet, then scuttled behind a sofa.
“Nice to see you, too,” Hari said, walking through the entrance and glancing around. “Where’s Zelda?”
“Visiting her sister in Brooklyn. I told her to stay there a while. She was getting on my nerves with her crying. And besides, I didn’t want her to see this.” Antony closed the door and pointed to the papers on the table.
The terrier crept out from behind the sofa and barked again.
“Shut up,” Antony yelled. He grabbed a stapler off the table and threw it at the dog, which darted back behind the furniture.
Hari dropped his jacket over an armchair and set his briefcase on the di
ning table.
“Zelda’s worked for you both a long time. It’s natural that she’d be upset. And I know I told you this on the phone, Antony, but I’m sorry for your loss.” He looked at the floor for a moment, shaking his head. “It seems so unreal. Why would Ruby …?”
His voice trailed off as Antony pivoted and walked to the rear windows. Antony stood, with his back to Hari, staring at the jacaranda and bougainvillea bushes behind the house. Ruby had selected those plants at a local nursery while he stood by, thumbing through his e-mails.
The swish-swish-swish of the huge ceiling fans was the only sound in the room. Hari cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, Antony, I wasn’t thinking—”
Antony wheeled around and walked briskly back to the table.
“Actually,” he said, pulling out a dining chair and sitting down, “I thought you’d be more upset.”
“What do you mean? I’m upset.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh, come on. I saw the way you used to look at her. The way the two of you used to laugh together.”
Hari stared at him, his brow furrowed.
“Why are you talking like this?” When Antony didn’t reply, Hari yanked out a chair and sat. Slumping in the chair, he drummed his fingers on the table. “What did you want me for, anyway? I’m assuming you didn’t ask me here to reminisce.”
Antony tossed two file folders down the table at him.
“We have to liquidate more assets. We’ve got to sell something. Figure it out.”
Hari stared at the folders, but left them on the table.
“No. We talked about this. The SEC’s suspicious and the board is balking. You can’t keep moving companies around and cashing in.”
Antony took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“There’s no reason to think that revenues won’t rebound in the next quarter or two. Then we can put everything back. But for now, we have no choice.”
Hari pushed the folder away, shaking his head.
“Antony, revenues will not rebound and you know that. We’ve emptied all the cookie jars, and Carvon is screwed. We’re screwed. I got you those bearer bonds, although it’s more than you deserve, and you promised me you would disappear. That I could get up at the shareholders’ meeting, deliver the bad news and pin it on you.” He pointed at Antony and said, “Criminal.” Then he pointed at himself and said, “State’s witness.” He raised his eyebrows. “Remember?”
