B003IKHEWG EBOK

by Mack Maloney

  “No,” Crash, Batman and Twitch all answered at once.

  Gunner shot back: “Hey, I said it pays good, and it does. And there’s no heavy lifting. They just need us to be visible, in the casino, in the stores. In the restaurants.”

  Another groan, especially from Crash, the designated wrangler of this reunion. Nothing was unfolding as he’d imagined it.

  “But if all they want us to do is walk around and look awake,” he asked Gunner, “what the hell is the helicopter for? Chasing shoplifters?”

  “Not exactly,” Gunner replied, again awkwardly. “The thing is, this place is so big, we might need it to fly some of the better customers from one end to the other.”

  Batman slumped down in his seat.

  “Just shoot me now,” he said.

  • PART THREE •

  The Ghosts of Happy-Happy

  6

  Present Day

  SINGAPORE.

  More ships were loaded and unloaded here than anywhere else in the world. Half the globe’s oil supply passed through its waters. Thousands of tons of raw goods, from sneakers to SUVs, arrived in its harbor every day. At any given hour, upwards of fifty ships could be in berth taking on or offloading cargo, with three times as many anchored offshore, waiting for their turn at the dock.

  On this early morning, three of those vessels belonged to Kilos Shipping. Two tankers and a container ship, they’d been loitering offshore since the previous afternoon. Singapore was the largest port in the world—so busy, ships sometimes had to wait a day or more to be unloaded.

  The Kilos ships had arrived here from three different points of the globe. This was not unusual. There were dozens of Kilos vessels traversing the oceans at any given time. For a few of them to wind up in Singapore on the same day was not uncommon.

  By 5 A.M., a berth had opened up for the first Kilos tanker. The harbormaster radioed the ship’s crew with the news. A harbor pilot was dispatched to help guide the vessel in. With any luck, the ship would be empty and on its way by noon.

  Oddly, though, no one on the tanker answered the harbormaster’s radio message. He sent another, to no avail. A call was placed to the tanker captain’s personal cell phone. Still no reply.

  This was strange. If anything, ship captains waited anxiously for the call to come into berth. Every minute spent at anchor was a minute they weren’t making money.

  By this time, the harbor pilot had arrived at the tanker. Warned by the harbormaster that he was getting no response from the ship, the harbor pilot climbed up to the tanker’s bridge and made a grisly discovery: The captain and the six-member crew were all dead. They’d been stripped naked, their throats slashed.

  The pilot immediately informed the harbormaster, who called the harbor police. Murders in the Port of Singapore, while not unheard of, were rare. But no one had ever heard of an entire crew being killed while their ship was waiting to dock.

  While the harbor police raced to the scene, the harbormaster had no choice but to continue unloading ships. They still had an open berth and many ships were waiting to dock. So the harbormaster went down to the next vessel on his list of loitering ships. It happened to be the container ship owned by Kilos.

  The harbormaster radioed the ship to tell them they were next in berth. But there was no reply. He tried again—still nothing.

  This time the harbormaster called the police directly. The cops boarded the container ship and made another gruesome find: The entire crew had been killed in the same way as those on their brother tanker ship: stripped naked, their throats slit.

  The harbormaster immediately called every ship waiting at anchor, asking for a status check. Every vessel replied, except the remaining Kilos tanker. The harbormaster got no answer from them—but by now he had a good idea what had happened.

  He had a hasty phone conversation with the chief of the harbor police.

  “Only one person could have done this,” the harbormaster said, his voice a whisper. “Someone who is ‘invisible,’ if you get my meaning. My inclination is not to pursue this any further, because I certainly don’t want those kinds of ghosts knocking at my bedroom door.”

  “Nor is it my desire to investigate it,” the harbor police chief admitted. “Or even report it to higher authorities. I don’t need any trouble with those spirits, either.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

  Then the harbormaster asked the chief, “What can we arrange for it to look like?”

  The chief was stumped. “Three simultaneous murder-suicides?” he said finally.

  The harbormaster was silent for a few more moments, then said: “Well, it’s nonsense, of course. But believe me, the alternative would be worse.”

  7

  Tang Island

  Indonesia

  The next night

  THE MAGICIAN WAS getting tired.

  He checked his watch.

  “How many more?” he asked his assistant wearily.

  “Just four,” was the reply. “They’ve been waiting the longest.”

  The magician adjusted his fez and straightened his long flowing robes. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered.

  His hut was built on stilts just like every other hut on the tiny, picturesque island. It was located close to the beach and looked out on the Strait of Malacca to the west and the Phillip Channel to the east.

  This island was one of literally thousands in the area, each its own little Bali Hai. Off in the distance, dominating the northern horizon, was the shimmering city-state of Singapore. On a night like this, with clear skies and calm seas, it looked like a real-life Shangri-La.

  The magician’s hut was cluttered with shelves that held the tools of his trade: potions, flash powder, a few skulls, empty bottles of many shapes and sizes. On the floor by his feet was a basket where he kept his money.

  “Let them in,” he finally told his assistant, not hiding his annoyance. “But after these four, I must go to sleep.”

  The four men climbed into the hut. The magician almost laughed when he saw them. The first two were twins, so big, they just about took up all the extra space in the hut. The third man, heavily tattooed, was more average size, as was the fourth, who was wearing a pair of ancient 501 jeans.

  The tattooed man was their spokesman.

  “Many thanks for seeing us,” he told the magician.

  “You brought money, I hope?” the magician asked.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “The correct amount?”

  “Yes, for sure.”

  The magician settled back down and fumbled for a cigarette.

  “What do you need my help for?” he asked them. “What is it that you want to accomplish?”

  “We want to become part of Zeek Kurjan’s pirate crew,” was the reply.

  The magician immediately blew some magic powder into the tattooed man’s face. Suddenly, the man couldn’t talk.

  “You cannot ever speak that name here or anywhere else,” the magician growled as the tattooed man’s face turned red and he began to choke. “Did you hear about those fools over in Singapore—those murdered crews? The police tried to hush it up, but that just guaranteed everyone would be buzzing about it. Those people who were killed were probably speaking that name carelessly, as you just did. That brings bad luck from which even I can’t save you.”

  The magician blew more powder into the man’s face and he recovered. The rest of the group shifted uneasily.

  “Our friend is a fool,” one of the large twins said. “But he speaks the truth. That is our dream. To make some real money.”

  The magician finally lit his cigarette. “This dream won’t come easy,” he told them. “You must prove yourself—all of you.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” the tattooed man said, though his tongue was still thick and aching. “We want to make our bones—and be noticed.”

  “So then go get noticed,” the magician replied through a cloud of smoke. “Why are you bothering m
e?”

  “Because we need your magic,” the man said. “This is what everyone has told us.”

  The magician took a long drag on his cigarette and sighed. He held out his hand. “Pay up first. Twenty dollars and no less.”

  The tattooed man collected five American dollars from each man and passed them to the magician. The bills were wet and ragged.

  The magician counted them out, then studied the line of bottles on the shelf behind him. He checked the money again, then selected an old quart-size juice bottle.

  He blew into the bottle then sealed it with a twist cap. He handed the bottle to the tattooed man.

  “When you go to make your bones,” the magician said, “open this first, pour it on your boat, and your boat will become invisible.”

  The tattooed man took the empty juice bottle, studied it, and then looked back at the magician.

  “But what about us?” he asked. “We want to be invisible, too.”

  The magician was perturbed. He took down a much smaller plastic Coke bottle, hastily blew into it, capped it and flipped it to the spokesman.

  “Here you go,” he said. “Open it, pour it on yourselves and you will become invisible, too—until you want to be seen, that is. Simple as that.”

  The magician yawned and crushed out his cigarette. The meeting was over.

  The four men got up to go, but the magician stopped them.

  “But don’t forget: Do not speak that name recklessly,” he told them, seriously. “Because if you do, that dream of yours will go up in smoke—and you’ll all go up with it.”

  THE SHIP APPEARED right on schedule.

  It was slowing down, as all ships did when leaving the Malacca Strait and entering the Phillip Channel, its engines reducing their sound from a dull roar to a low groan.

  Hiding in the reeds on the southern shore, the four fledgling pirates watched it go by. It was a small freighter, 120 feet long, just the type of game they wanted to take down first, to get their feet wet.

  By the time its bow light cut through some low fog, the freighter had slowed to barely five knots. The tattooed man started the engine on their motorboat and steered it out into the strait. It was midnight and a slight wind blowing off the islands had caused most of the thin mist to disappear.

  “Now?” one of the twins asked.

  The tattooed man took out the empty juice bottle the magician had given him, uncorked it and pretended to spill the air all over the boat.

  “We are now invisible,” he said. “I hope . . .”

  They allowed the ship to pass, and then the tattooed man opened the motorboat’s throttle and they were quickly roaring up to the back of the freighter.

  He turned the steering of the boat over to the other twin, and they almost capsized while changing places. Then the tattooed man took the long bamboo pole from the bottom of the motorboat and attached a hooked knife to one end.

  “You’re sure you are better with this than with a hook and rope?” one twin asked the tattooed man.

  “I’m sure,” he replied. “I have the magic.”

  They were now right up against the ship’s stern. The twins were doing their best to keep the boat out of the vessel’s wake, but it was becoming a rough ride.

  Nevertheless, the tattooed man stood on the motorboat’s bow and launched the bamboo stick up toward the ship’s railing. He missed. He tried again—another miss. A third time not only missed, but it was only by sheer good luck that he was able to catch the pole as it fell away from the freighter.

  This was not going well.

  The fourth man silently made his way to the front of the motorboat. He took the bamboo stick from the tattooed man and heaved it up toward the stern of the freighter. It caught the railing on the first try. Then he took the plastic Coke bottle from the tattooed man’s pocket, uncapped it and let the air within pour all over him. Then he yanked on the pole to make sure it was secure, put a big knife between his teeth, and started to climb.

  The tattooed man and the twins were astonished at their colleague’s actions. They weren’t even sure of his name. He was just the water taxi driver—the haki—they’d hired to take them to the magician’s hut, and he joined their band only because he had the last five dollars they needed to buy the magician’s bottle of air.

  He was about halfway up the side of the freighter when he looked back to see the tattooed man hesitating at the other end of the pole. He was losing his nerve.

  He called up to the haki. “Can you do this on your own?”

  “Rob the ship—by myself?” the haki yelled back.

  The tattooed man sucked it up, hastily poured some of the magician’s breath on himself, then grabbed the pole and started to climb unsteadily.

  The haki had reached the railing by this time. The ship’s deck was dark and slippery; the only light to be seen was coming from the bridge.

  The tattooed man arrived and the haki helped him over the railing.

  “It’s too dark,” the tattooed man complained.

  “But darkness helps,” the haki told him.

  Again the tattooed man asked him: “Can you do this alone?”

  He nodded impatiently. “OK—just watch my back.” The haki limped down the deck and climbed the ladder to the freighter’s bridge. He knocked hard on the door, causing it to swing open.

  The satchel full of money was sitting on the map table, right next to the door. The four people on the bridge didn’t say a word; they didn’t even look at him. The haki took the money and went back down the ladder.

  He made his way back to the railing to find the tattooed man already on the other side, ready to go down the pole. He was surprised the haki had returned so quickly. His eyes went wide when he saw the sack full of money.

  “The magician was right,” the haki told him. “They couldn’t see me.”

  The next night

  ONCE AGAIN, THE ship appeared right on time.

  It was small, a coastal freighter, identical to the vessel the night before. This type of ship was common in this region, delivering goods to the thousands of islands in the Java Sea and beyond.

  The twins were excited to no end.

  “Two ships in two nights,” one of them said. “Certain people will definitely take notice if we pull this off.”

  There were only three of them tonight. The tattooed man did not show up at the appointed time at their prearranged meeting place. He had taken his portion of the money from the night before and headed off to spend it on the Happy-Happy, local slang for “booze and women.” This was where a lot of would-be pirates floundered in their careers; the tattooed man had made himself $1,000 the night before, more money than he’d ever seen in his life. The temptation to blow it had been too much for him.

  So now it was just three.

  The trio had agreed to hang onto their booty. They’d splurged on only one thing: an ancient five-shot revolver they’d bought from a drug dealer on Goat Island. The weapon came with only three bullets, so they would have to be economical in how they used it.

  They waited for the freighter to go by. Then, as before, they emptied the magician’s breath onto the boat and themselves and started out into the channel.

  They were soon right up against the rear of the freighter. The haki used the bamboo stick and hook again. As before, he caught the rail on his first try. The twins held the boat steady as he shimmied up the pole and grasped on to the stern railing. With great athletic ability, he swung up and over the railing, landing square on his feet. He had the weapon up and ready.

  As before, he was gone for under a minute. When he reappeared at the railing, the twins thought something had gone wrong. But again, he was holding a bag that appeared to be full of cash. He slid down the pole and into the boat. The twins quickly motored away.

  “That was so easy,” one of the twins told him.

  “It’s that magician,” the haki replied. “His stuff really works.”

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT the trio were in their
same hiding spot. This time, the target ship was sailing westward. The two times before, their victims had been heading east.

  By now, they were accomplished at moving into position. Roaring out of the reeds, they were soon riding along the freighter’s stern. The haki did his thing with the empty bottles and his bamboo pole, and soon was standing on the railing again.

  Then one of the twins noticed something.

  “Isn’t this the ship we hit two nights ago?” he asked.

  The other twin studied the vessel’s stern. It did look the same—and its name appeared to have been painted over recently.

  “Lots of ships like this go through here,” he said. “But it does seem familiar.”

  They dropped the subject when they saw their colleague reappear on the railing, once again, waving a bag of money.

  “How does he do it?” one twin asked the other excitedly.

  “It’s magic,” his brother replied.

  The man came down the pole and off they went.

  THEY RETURNED TO their hideout—a shack at the edge of their home island—and for the third time, counted their loot.

  Each time it equaled $4,000. On the button.

  “We were lucky,” the haki told the twins as they examined the money. “We got all three ships just before they had to make their payrolls. That magician is a genius.”

  The twins contemplated the situation. The haki was a weird one. But it was hard to argue with what he’d done.

  Three nights, three attempts, three successes?

  The twins had never heard of anyone being such a good pirate.

  8

  The next night

  THE TWINS STAGGERED up the long set of steps to the hut where the haki said he lived.

  They found him in a room empty of everything except a bucket of rainwater. No mattress, no blanket to keep the centipedes off. Just the hard wooden floor. He was asleep, still fully clothed, wearing his 501 jeans as always.