by Susie Bright
* * *
Ray didn’t take Jazz to the yacht right away. Yet there was only so much you could do with nice dinners and anonymous hotel rooms. Ray could tell, despite the money he regularly deposited in her bank account, Jazz was losing interest. She was the kind of woman who always had other offers. So one night he told her about the boat. She was not as impressed as Ray had hoped, but he thought she’d perk up when she actually saw it. He arranged to pick her up at Brady’s on a Wednesday night.
On a whim he couldn’t have explained, Ray decided to take his family out on the yacht the weekend before his date with Jazz. It had been a while since he’d done so and the kids were excited. The captain he’d hired to maintain the yacht lived in a considerably smaller boat in the harbor and was free to take them Sunday afternoon. When they were all on board and the kids had explored below deck a bit, he asked the captain to take them out on the open sea. Despite all his love of the ocean, he had rarely taken the boat out of the bay.
Maureen declined to come on deck, and stayed in the cabin, reading a novel. As the Departure picked up speed, Ray stood with his hands on the shoulders of his youngest son, looking over the bow at the Pacific horizon.
“What do you think, son?”
“It’s so big, Daddy. Bigger than I ever thought.”
“You got that right,” Ray said. Here I am on the edge of all of this, he thought, and I’ve barely ventured out. Despite everything, I’m still a landlubber at heart. Still just a farm boy from Kansas. He told himself that he would change that. He would risk bigger things.
* * *
He had expected Jazz to be impressed with the yacht but she wasn’t. Ray was surprised at how well he’d learned to see the world through her eyes. It was nice for a boat, but as a place for a rendezvous, it wasn’t all that much. His electronic gadgetry meant nothing to her. That was the kind of background stuff she took for granted.
She did notice the surveillance cameras and gave him a funny look—a sly look that said she knew exactly what he planned to do with those. In fact, he had gotten them so that he could keep his eye on the vessel when he was elsewhere—as innocent as that. But Jazz would never take a thing at face value when she could read a lewd meaning into it. Ray wondered briefly what had happened to Jazz that she always saw life like this. But he realized he, too, could now see prurient motives in everything. She’d shown him that.
They had a drink. Then another. Ray tried to kiss her, but she pulled away, dancing on the opposite side of the small cabin, as enticing and remote as ever. Ray thought, I have a large yacht, more money than I know what to do with, and yet I have nothing to offer this woman. So he had another drink, a strong one, and then he told Jazz that he loved her.
She looked at him strangely, as she had on that very first night at Brady’s, as though he didn’t really grasp anything about her. “Let me take you to the wild side, baby.”
What would that be? Bondage? Strange sex toys? They’d already done that. But when Jazz pulled the hypo out of her purse, he saw that he had misunderstood. Ray was disappointed. Ah, only that. He could get drugs on his own. He had been trying them recreationally for a while; it was part of the culture at work.
Maybe when this night was over, maybe he would go home and see what he could do about patching up things with Maureen. The affair with Jazz seemed to be reaching the end of the line. Well, at least he’d probably get some kind of sex out of this. Ray smiled gamely, like a kid offered his first cigarette by a popular girl in middle school. Bravado is sometimes everything.
“Sure,” he said. He watched her passively as she got out the rest of the gear and readied the rig. Her expertise shone through and he was reminded of nothing so much as going to the doctor’s office as a kid and gravely watching the nurse as she prepared the vaccination. Maybe that was the right way to look at this. A vaccination against the shortcomings of living.
“You done this before, babe?”
Ray shook his head. He’d been afraid of needles as a boy. She was half his age, he thought—and yet there was a way in which she seemed almost maternal now, as if she were guiding him through some rite of passage.
At the same time, watching Jazz be focused like this, not theatrical, not “on,” he could see how young she really was. He caught a glimpse.
She looked him in the eyes again, and he was reminded of the first night he’d seen her—the way their gaze had locked. There was something fated between them that went back a thousand years. He felt a chill go up his spine and shivered.
“Don’t be afraid, darlin’,” she said. “I’ve done this a hundred times.”
He was afraid, though. Until he wasn’t.
* * *
Ray remained aware of Jazz for quite a while before he died—the way she tried to rouse him, speaking to him quietly and then more urgently, before finally giving up. His eyes were no longer open, though he had a sense of her presence. He heard the quick glug glug of the wine as she poured herself another glass, then felt her moving around the room, stepping over him to pull the curtain down and gently drawing the door closed behind her. Don’t leave me, Ray thought, as he heard the clicking of her heels recede down the dock. Don’t leave. And then the ocean rushed in where she had been, the beautiful ocean, and swept him out to sea.
MISCALCULATION
by Vinnie Hansen
Yacht Harbor
When the “Guitar Case Bandit” whipped open his case at the teller’s window, Molly’s mouth fell open. The black case on her counter was built for a ukulele, not a guitar! The media were such idiots—this had to be the fifth bank robbery in a month, and they still didn’t have the details right.
Two other tellers froze on command—Susanna and Amber—as well as the loan officer and branch manager. Molly forked over the bills, placing the final band of twenties in the uke case. “There you go, sir.”
Her heart hammered with the thrill of it all. The elusive bandit right in front of her!
“Thank you, Mo . . .”
Mo?
Maybe he was going to say “Ma’am.” The robber was noted for his politeness, or at least that’s what the Sentinel reported. Or maybe he read her name from her pin.
This guy gave every teller plenty of time to look him over: black Fedora, Bucci sunglasses, and a red ascot pulled over his lower face. Molly couldn’t help staring.
The Guitar Case Bandit had been holding up community banks and credit unions in Santa Cruz County for the last year and yet he’d strolled right in here unheeded, even with the sign on the door prohibiting caps and sunglasses.
“Aim those baby-blues somewhere else, dollface.” The man snapped his case shut.
A telltale mark on the case clasp caught her eye. She’d seen this ukulele case plenty of times. Her knees quivered like a jellyfish. She stared into the robber’s eyes. Dollface. She blushed.
He snapped his fingers like a six-shooter, “Here’s looking at you, kid,” and strode out of the credit union.
Molly’s life of serving John Q. Public for fourteen dollars an hour walked right out the door with him.
* * *
Molly played her ukulele every Saturday morning with the Sons of the Beach at the harbor mouth. Her new favorite instrument was her Rick Turner Rose Compass C-Tenor. This weekend, she couldn’t wait.
Smoothing Friday’s Sentinel onto her kitchen counter, she reread its crime coverage. In his usual modus operandi, the Guitar Case Bandit had walked away casually from her branch. He’d crossed the street into a hedged parking lot where the police patrol never spotted him. No street camera picked up a departing car with a likely driver. Possibly he had an accomplice or had hidden inside a vehicle. Molly couldn’t tell if the speculation came from the police department or the paper.
The bandit had made off with an “undisclosed amount of money.” But Molly knew the figure. Through the grapevine, she’d heard the other sums too. A cool million total.
The police sought the person of interest shown in a gr
ainy photograph, age about fifty, height about 5'10", weight 170. Gosh, that’s practically the same as me, Molly thought, I’m just two inches shorter.
“Everything about him was average,” the paper quoted the other teller, Susanna. Ha!
Susanna always dressed like the boat salesperson she used to be, before the recent downturn. But if Sue had been the least bit observant, she would’ve said something about the ukulele case. After all, Molly had introduced Sue to the instrument. Once Susanna spent a single morning playing at the Sons of the Beach group, she’d been hooked. Molly sniffed—not that Susanna had ever hired her for uke lessons.
Well, at least she’d kept her cool, Molly gave her that—better than Amber. Little drama queen had hyperventilated and required treatment from an EMT.
Still, Molly was miffed. She’d described the gun as a modern piece, no revolving chamber for the bullets. The reporter hadn’t bothered to quote her. The story didn’t mention the weapon at all.
The article ended with a hotline number.
They haven’t caught him yet and they aren’t about to—unless he decides not to cooperate with me. Molly packed her songbooks in her canvas tote bag and slipped on her wedged sandals and glass pendant that matched. Dress for success.
She strutted down the Harbor Beach breezeway, a bounce in her step. The Sons of the Beach congregated outside in front of the Kind Grind café, up to a hundred at a time.
Susanna stepped right in Molly’s path. Her glittery sandals sprayed sand and startled the seagull pecking up crumbs from her undoubtably gluten-free muffin. “You look like the cat who ate the canary.”
Leave it to Susanna to use a cliché.
Sue brushed off her low-cut Hawaiian sundress. There wasn’t that much to see. “Did you remember more from the bank robbery?”
“Nothing new to report.” Molly jammed her metal music stand into the sand.
Susanna inspected her. “Tangerine nail polish? What’s going on with that? A date?”
Molly glanced away toward one of the walkway benches. A bag overflowed with plastic leis, brought by the bandleader.
“Want a lei?” Molly asked.
“Sure.” Susanna frowned and tailed her.
Molly sighed. “Stop following me. I like privacy for my lays.”
“I swear you are in some kind of mood this morning.”
Molly threaded along the edge of the thickening crowd, mostly ukulele players, but also a keyboard, a mouth harp, and a bass. A black fabric case for the upright bass spilled over a cement bench. A ukulele case rested on the same, but its bright blue fabric sported a design of a topless woman cradling a strategically held uke. Molly lifted the bass case. Nothing buried.
She passed the drummers and the mandolin player, circling toward the harbor side of the beach where more experienced musicians grouped, the exclusive part of the ring where she never ventured. The guys over here sacrificed a view of the water for a view of the backsides of the women volleyball players.
She stopped in front of Rudy Carmona, and his agile fingers quit dancing along the frets of his koa wood instrument. Abalone shell gleamed around the sound hole.
“Well, hello there!”
In Levi’s and a muscle shirt, he looked anything but average. She’d never dreamed of talking to Rudy Carmona. Of course, in point of fact, she hadn’t yet spoken.
“You’re looking fine this a.m.” His dark eyes revealed nothing. Behind him, sailboats glided from the mouth of the harbor off on dolphin and whale adventures. Molly blinked nervously. Up close he even smelled good. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“So, you ditched your ukulele case?” she stammered.
He lifted his brows and strummed three quick C chords and then a B: Dah dah dah-duuuh.
Was he mocking her? Molly flushed again.
He dipped his cleft chin toward the bench. “Right there. Behind the bass.”
“The blue one?” she asked.
“You like it?”
“What happened to your usual case?”
Rudy sighed and scanned the crowd. He nodded to a hula dancer named Linda. She was possibly the Linda he’d had a fling with, although hard to tell—every other woman in the group was named Linda. “All those black cases look alike,” he said.
Molly pinned him with her eyes, the way she did with a customer bearing a questionable ID. “That’s why people mark them.” She could smell her own lavender essential oil, and she knew he must too.
He took hold of her arm. “We’ll discuss this at break.” He whispered in spite of the din of the others warming up. He leaned close to her ear. “On my boat.”
Her heart did a soft shoe to the tune of “(I’d Like to Get You on a) Slow Boat to China.”
* * *
The group had barely finished their opening song, “All of Me,” when Sue tapped Molly’s freckled arm. “What’s going on with you and Rudy Carmona?”
“I’m going on his boat at coffee break.”
“You?” Susanna’s eyes stretched wide. “And Rudy?”
“Want to chaperone?”
“You can’t be serious!”
“If we’re not back for the second set, call me.” Molly followed the band into “I’m in the Mood for Love,” but her friend could only stare.
* * *
Rudy’s sailboat, the Karma II, occupied a middle berth on N dock. The dock gate clanked shut behind them and they started down the slippery composite, which had replaced the old wood after the 2011 tsunami. The dock still creaked and swayed.
Rudy offered an arm to help her into his craft.
“Should we go below deck?” she asked. This was his secret lair, maybe all the money mounded on a table—his bed right next to it. She was shaking.
Rudy, who hadn’t said one word since they opened the gate, shook his head and led her to two beach chairs at the stern. Their brightly striped fiesta pattern surprised her.
“Sit.”
Molly settled into the low-slung canvas.
Rudy crossed his strong arms over his chest. He stared off at the view of the Crow’s Nest, a two-story watering hole on the side of the harbor mouth. A seal arced out of the water, took an airy breath, and swooshed back down, leaving a small ripple.
“So where’s your old case?” she asked.
“Gave it to Goodwill.”
“And a man ‘about fifty, height about 5'0", weight about 170,’ happened to buy it?”
“Get down to business,” he hissed.
She touched her lower lip. “We’d make a great team.”
* * *
“You better tell me what’s going on here.” Susanna had taken her chair and sounded even more bossy than usual.
Molly shook her curls.
“Where’s Rudy?”
“I left him winded.”
Sue’s thin eyebrows tried to fly up, but Botox froze them in place.
“Don’t get excited.” Molly smiled to know something Susanna didn’t—Susanna who strutted around the credit union like she intended to be branch manager before the year was out. “This has to stay very hush-hush.”
“Of course.”
Molly extracted her ukulele from her tote and began to tune. “I talked to him about a business deal.”
“Like something at the bank?” Susanna asked.
“Exactly.”
* * *
The Sons of the Beach wrapped up with their traditional morning finale, “Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone.” Molly hustled into the thick coffee aroma of the Kind Grind. She never ordered a soy milk chai here without thinking of the employee who’d been raped and locked in the refrigerator. Or the killer of two local police officers who’d worked here. It didn’t make sense. How could two horrific crimes be connected to a quaint coffee shop? In Santa Cruz? At the ukulele beach?
She sat over to the side and peeked around the wall to watch Susanna looking for her. Eventually Sue gave up and strode off rolling her cart full of gear.
Molly r
ubbed her chin, wondering if she’d settled for too little with Rudy. She’d started at 50 percent.
“No can do.” Rudy had kept his gaze on the pilings as if watching a cormorant sunning. His playful manner had evaporated.
“Are you in a position to negotiate?” she’d asked.
“Thirty-three percent. And that’s it.” Rudy sliced his hands through the air.
As she sipped her chai, Molly divided the loot by three in her head—simple math, but amazing how many people resorted to a calculator. With the cash she could pay off her condo. Maybe take that trip to Paris.
Her job didn’t used to be so bad, but now the customers who came into the credit union were mostly seniors who distrusted computers and still used checks, or the lonely who sought free coffee and someone to talk to.
Her phone vibrated. Molly checked the text message. Rudy must have gotten her number from the SOB site where she advertised her uke lessons.
Come to boat tonight. Work out details.
She snorted. Fat chance. She wasn’t getting on a sailboat alone with Rudy Carmona in the dark. As nice as that might be. Her mind drifted a moment before she responded: Maybe TTYL.
Molly drained the last of her chai, packed up her compass rose, and walked out into the salty breeze. A volleyball hottie soared vertically and slammed a spike. Yes!
* * *
“Where did you disappear to at the end?” Susanna’s indignation blared over the phone.
Molly drummed her fingers on her kitchen table. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me.”
“Right. We only walk to our cars together every single week.”
“Sorry.”
“I swear, since the holdup you’ve been acting like a prima donna.”
“Do you still own a gun?” Molly asked.
“Of course.” Impatience pinched Susanna’s husky voice. “Just went out to Markley’s Range last weekend.”
“Can I borrow it?”
“Why? Are you going to shoot Rudy Carmona?”
“I wouldn’t waste a bullet. He’s probably slept with twenty women in Sons of the Beach. I’m not that big of a fool.”
