Liz’s phone rang in that moment. She crossed in front of Jamie and took it outside on deck.
“My mandate is to locate one or more oil pockets, three miles below, deep down under. That’s a tall order, as well you know. For all your ‘state-of-the-art’ equipment—and this space-age ship here—you’ve come up empty to date. Mat Anderson is asking me to work a miracle and find it, and to do that I have to close out all distraction. That is the only way that I can focus the only tool available to me, my psychic sight, to find the exact coordinates USOIL needs to drill out here. It’s an outrageous expectation, and of course you’re all skeptical—who wouldn’t be? But I’m going to do my damnedest to realize it.”
Jamie looked right into Jimbo’s eyes, her words intended for him alone. “But you do need to know that if I don’t get the support and cooperation Mat promised, I’m out of here. I have no intention of trying to win a popularity contest, or convince you of anything at all, while I’m attempting to tap into the substrata layer of the ocean floor.”
Jimbo looked straight back at Jamie, acknowledging her message. She wasn’t going to put up with attitude, and the buck stopped with him. The woman had personality. He liked that.
“The main reason I asked to speak to you all before we sail tomorrow: I made it very clear when I signed on for this that we steer clear of the Orca sanctuaries. I want to be sure that you all got that briefing.”
Sam interrupted. “We have carte blanche from the Canadians to navigate in their boundaries. We pass through the sanctuary on our way out into our target zone, right, Philippe?”
Philippe nodded, reluctantly. It was clear he didn’t approve.
Jamie answered Sam sharply. “Wrong. I don’t give a damn about government approval. I’m talking about what I need in order to do what I need to do. Period. You’ll have to navigate around the sanctuary. Whales before oil; life over money. These were my terms before signing on: the whales have to be protected. No disturbance to those sanctuaries: no radar, no sonar, no interference.” Again, she looked directly at Jimbo, speaking to him as the authority, completely dismissing Sam. “Captain, are we good?”
“We’re good,” Jimbo said. What he was thinking, but not saying, was, “Right, I’m supposed to navigate this big baby through the wild Pacific with no radar? Dream on.”
“One last thing. Give me a chance. You’ll see I’m not as weird as you think, and maybe you will learn something.” She sat back down and gave a hug to Fin. “There is so much more than what you see and hear, and what you believe is real. There is so much more I can show you, if you will just relax and let me in.”
There was an awkward silence. The team just sat there for a moment, obviously impacted by her words. In the end, whether or not they understood her, they had to get her on some level. Who could not be at least curious about the paranormal realms and dimensions that Jamie Hastings was reportedly able to enter and exit at will?
“… and with that,” Jamie said, closing, “I thank you for your time.”
Liz, who stood by the doorway, gave her the thumbs-up sign when no one was looking. Jamie had made her mark once again: she had put Sam in his place, and gained a little respect from the others. Most of all, she had set the boundaries, which most definitely needed to be established from the get-go.
From the looks of Jimbo’s toothy grin, Jamie knew she had broken through the bad first impression she had made with him, which was her fault for usurping his authority. But that was already behind them. Jimbo was impressed. Jamie was nothing like he had set her up to be in his mind. She was clear, she had a job to do, and she wasn’t going to waste anybody’s time telling ghost stories from the land of the “woo woo.”
He stood up, addressing everyone in the room, but his attention was on Sam. “You heard it, people. Every one of us here needs to help Miss Jamie do what she has come to do. Like she said, even if we don’t understand what it is she do …” he said, chuckling, “we’re gonna help her do it anyway.” He raised his beer bottle, as if to call for a toast. “Now, let’s get this Lady ready to sail! Berto, run your stock checks, and Bobby, are Mike and the crew on board?”
Bobby nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay then, excuse us, Miss Jamie, I’ve got to run a final inspection. I’ll see you at dinner.” He walked over to the bar with his empty beer bottle and set it in the tray. Fin got up and quietly joined Jimbo as he was walking out the door, looking back at Jamie, undecided whether to leave with Jimbo or follow his heart and go with her.
He barked twice and Jamie smiled. She got the message.
Jimbo turned to Liz, who was still standing at the doorway. “How about you give Miss Jamie the captain’s tour of the ship?”
“Absolutely!” she replied.
As she stood to leave, Jamie could feel Sam’s eyes burning a hole in her back. What had begun as a healthy dislike for each other seemed to be escalating into a full-blown war. She followed Liz, who chattered her way through the halls and the staterooms, all the public spaces—even the bridge. Jamie managed to tune out the drone of Liz’s mindless banter enough to get a sense of where she was, and what she had to work with.
Liz accompanied her back to her suite, where she had just enough time to grab a quick shower and freshen up before dinner, which she would have much preferred to eat in her cabin, room service style, but she knew she had to attempt to be social and take her place in the team.
She grabbed her purse and headed down to the dining room, where they had gathered. She was pleased to find they were respectfully waiting for her before sitting down to dinner. Jimbo motioned to her to take her seat at the head of the table, opposite him, and then the others took their seats as well. Jamie felt more comfortable—she was encouraged to see that the mood had lifted, and there was a sort of festive buzz in the air. And there was her new friend, Fin, who greeted her the minute she entered the room, before returning to Jimbo’s side.
Alberto came through the swinging doors of the galley bearing an enormous platter of steamed shrimp, fried calamari, and fries—a real New Orleans–style spicy seafood dinner. The beer was flowing and they all dove in, filling their plates to the brim—especially Jimbo. Alberto disappeared back into the galley, returning with a mountain of cracked crab, piled high on the tray. Sam made sure the beers kept on coming. Jamie could eat nothing but the fries, which she served herself—but her plate was noticeably empty.
Jimbo feasted like a man who hadn’t eaten for days. “Berto,” he said, groaning with pleasure, “you have outdone yourself.” He looked across the table, realizing Jamie was barely eating. “Hey now, Miss Jamie. We don’t stand on formality around here—dig in!”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Good? Girl, don’t tell me you don’t eat seafood!”
“No, actually I don’t.”
“Oh man, you’re a ‘vegetarian’?” he said, like she was diseased.
Jamie knew her being a vegetarian in this group would only make her more of an oddity. “It’s not a problem. I can always manage.”
Jimbo asked Alberto, “Did we not get the memo?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, hell! We sail in the morning, Chef!” He was annoyed, after Mat Anderson had made it very clear Jamie was to be given top VIP treatment aboard.
“Not a problem, Captain. I’ll have Domenico stop at the market on his way tomorrow morning.”
“You don’t know what you’re missin’!” Jimbo told Jamie.
“Sorry, I just don’t eat anything with eyes.”
Jimbo washed down a mouthful of fries with a big swig of beer. “Berto, you got anything ‘without eyes’ in the larder?”
“I’m already on it!” He disappeared into the galley and quickly returned with a beautiful mixed green salad in one hand, and an oil and vinegar cruet in the other. “Pasta is on the way,” he said, reassuringly.
“No, thanks—this is more than enough,” Jamie replied.
“Are you kidding? I can whip up
a beautiful pasta al pomodoro in five minutes.” Alberto walked away, back to his galley, not even giving Jamie time to refuse.
Jimbo peeled a few shrimp and leaned over to feed Fin, who was sitting there, patiently, knowing Jimbo never ate without sharing with him. He devoured the shrimp just as fast as Jimbo could peel them. “Ya hear that, boy? ‘No eyes’!”
Everyone around the table was so busy eating, no one else spoke.
Jimbo served himself a second helping of shrimp. “Mmmm, mmm. Way to go, Chef!”
Amazing scents came wafting out from the galley: Italian cooking, the unmistakable aroma of garlic browning in olive oil. Within a very few minutes, Alberto returned with a fabulous plate of spaghetti with sautéed cherry tomatoes for Jamie, and for the others, more shrimp, smoked salmon, and fresh sourdough bread, right from the oven.
“So grateful,” was all Jamie said. She really wanted to get the attention off herself, and to have the issue of her vegetarianism fade into the background, so that it didn’t become another factor separating her from the group.
Alberto grabbed two goblets and a beautiful bottle of Chianti from the wine rack. He removed the cork from the bottle and then served her, sensing she would enjoy a fine wine. Having served everyone, he finally sat down, in the seat next to her, and then poured himself a glass as well. None of the others were wine drinkers, so he made no pretense to serve anybody but Jamie and himself. He raised his glass to Jamie, “To you, Miss Jamie.”
She raised her glass as well and then Jimbo piped in. “Hear, hear!” he said, toasting Jamie with his bottle of beer, with the others joining in.
Alberto leaned close to Jamie and whispered, “Actually, I would much prefer a bowl of pasta myself, too, so don’t you worry—I know how to cook for you, and these guys could stand a little more greens in their diets.”
She liked him. Of everyone in the group, he seemed to be the easiest and most friendly of them all. And, of course, the most charming, which she noted for a second time.
Conversation ranged from predictions of the weather to technical things Jamie knew nothing about, and a sense of excitement prevailed. No one broached the subject of her work, and what they were expected to do, because there was no way of planning for what would happen. Orders from the top were simply to give her the space and tools she needed to do what she had to do—and it was left to everyone to figure that out. Their job was to manage the ship as usual, giving Jamie all the room and support she needed.
Having stuffed himself unmercifully, Jimbo was first to leave the table. He excused himself to go wash his hands and then, on returning, fell into his armchair. “Oh god, I think I ate too fast,” he said, patting his swollen stomach. With the exception of Liz, who barely ate, everyone else was filled to the brim as well, and one by one they pushed away from the table, stuffed. Alberto cleared some of the plates and then returned with steaming towels. When they were done, everyone moved into the TV room, leaving Jimbo the privacy of his space, into which he invited Jamie for a little private conversation.
He pulled a cigar and a cutter from a case on the table next to his chair, and sliced off the tip, to prepare for a smoke. Almost defiantly, he held the cigar between his fingers, about to light it, and said, “Needless to say, you don’t smoke.”
Jamie smiled. Her premonition had been right—the fun was about to begin. “When the occasion calls for it, I have been known to smoke a cigar or two.” She walked back over to the dining table, where her purse was hanging over the back of her chair. From it, she extracted a box of exclusive Cuban cigars. She carried it back over to Jimbo, placing it on the coffee table in front of him. “But I only smoke Cohibas.”
Jimbo looked down at the table, amazed. He could barely believe his eyes: a full box of Cohibas—a rare, exquisite cigar by any standards, and expensive. Damned expensive.
“This would qualify as one of those occasions,” she added, triumphantly.
He couldn’t contain his delight. “A cigar-smoking, vegetarian, San Francisco psychic! Haha! That’s rich, man. Wow. This is one unexpected surprise, Miss Jamie.” He ran his fingers over the name on the box. “Cohibas. Now how in the hell could you know?” He immediately put his cigar back in its case, and then picked up the box before him, dramatically passing it under his nose from corner to corner, breathing it in—savoring it. “I am without words.”
“Well, hey, Captain, they don’t call me ‘psychic’ for nothing, you know?”
Jimbo held the box in his hands, a precious gift that he wasn’t about to let go of, and he leaned back into the cushion of his armchair. He had a big Cheshire cat grin all over his face, like a kid at Christmas. “Call me Jimbo,” he said. He peeled back the protective wax-paper wrapper ceremoniously. “Wowza. Cohibas Esplendidos,” he said, and then carefully opened the hinge, broke the seals and meticulously extracted two cigars from the box. As generous as he always was, he never even considered offering one to anyone else. This was Jamie’s and his bonding moment, and no one else was invited.
Taking time to enjoy the ritual, he performed the tip-cutting ceremony, preparing for the smoke of a lifetime. “Cohibas,” he said. “This is really something, I tell you.”
“Shouldn’t we take these outside?” Jamie asked, knowing how invasive the smell of cigar smoke could be in closed spaces.
Jimbo’s eyes were shining, reflecting the flame of the lighter, as he leaned forward to light Jamie’s cigar. “Not with a box of Cohibas inside.” He delighted in Jamie’s style as she drew on her cigar, like a seasoned smoker, and then he lit his, breathing it in with gusto. “Oh yeah …” He got up and walked over to the bar, to a cabinet marked CAPTAIN’S STASH, from where he extracted a bottle of vintage scotch. He took two glasses and then set both bottle and glasses down on the table, and poured them both a drink.
Jamie raised her glass. “To special occasions!”
“Yes, ma’am. To many more.”
She sipped her scotch and puffed on the cigar, while Jimbo watched her, fascinated.
“I do apologize, Miss Jamie. I admit it—I had you figured as some kind of off-the-wall, woo woo mama. Guess you could say I had a bias. I am sorry about that. I should have known better. I should have trusted Mat—he knows what he’s doin’.”
“Off the wall, maybe … but ‘woo woo mama’? Now that’s a new one!” she replied.
“You’re one interesting woman, let me tell you.” He downed the entire glass of scotch and immediately poured himself another. He’d been drinking all afternoon at the bar, had umpteen beers at dinner, and now he was belting back the scotch. Doc, who observed quietly from across the room, kept close watch on him.
Jamie sipped her drink slowly. She didn’t really like the taste of hard liquor, but this was part of her rite of initiation with Jimbo. The scotch had to be drunk and the cigar had to be smoked. “So, tell me, how did you end up sailing ships?” she asked.
“Me? I’ve been on ships almost all my life—ever since I was a half-cocked stupid punk, old enough to enlist in the Marines. Shipped out to ’Nam before I had a clue what kind of a fool-ass thing I had done, but back then … it was either enlist or get drafted, so I thought I would ‘be a man’ and volunteer to serve my country. With the best.” He laughed, sardonically. “I served under Mat Anderson—running patrol boats out there. He saved my life once or twice, too.” He tapped the ashes of the cigar into the ashtray. “Followed Mat into the company and been here ever since, running their ships, lookin’ for shit.” Jimbo paused, looking down, and then he changed the subject, intentionally. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the leather cord with the shark’s tooth, to show Jamie. “Got me a lot of trophies, too. Remember that big mutha white shark, Doc?”
Doc nodded. He didn’t want to hear that same old story told again. Jamie looked over at Philippe, who was half-watching TV with the others. They exchanged glances.
Jimbo drank another full shot of scotch, smacking his lips, laughing. “Ol’ Doc, he’s out there swimming ar
ound one sunny day—right out there in the middle of the open ocean. You have to be crazy to do that. Now me, see, I never go into the water. Too much respect for what’s out there. I mean … the ocean just is not human habitat. So, there I am, sitting out on deck, looking out at that crazy man out there and I see me this big ol’ giant fin, moving fast … moving in close to Doc. And I start screaming at him, but he can’t hear shit, ’cuz he’s upwind of the ship.” Jimbo gesticulated wildly, heatedly telling the story. “So I get up and I grab me the spear gun, and I shoot that white belly jaw’s ass dead.” He laughed again, smacking his knee with his hand, the cigar between his teeth. By now, Jimbo was so drunk he was slurring his words. “Ol’ Doc, he almost died of a heart attack when he seen all that shark blood oozing all through the water—he thought it might have been his own leg or something at first, ain’t that the case, Doc?”
Doc nodded again. He was not amused.
Jimbo laughed heartily, as he relived the story. “You should have seen him tear ass back up to the ship—I have never seen anybody swim like that in my life. And me, I’m looking off on the horizon and I see the ocean filling up with more of them big ol’ whites, swimming around behind him.” He stopped laughing, abruptly, and his mood shifted. “We pulled him out just in time, man … just in time. Doc, he was pretty shook up, all right—never did see him go back out in the deep blue after that.”
Fin, who had been curled at Jimbo’s feet, was becoming restless and agitated.
“And I pulled in that cord with that big spear in his belly, and dragged that big white over to the railing … I bet he must have weighed ten tons at least, and I cut myself out this trophy—right out of his jaws. Made sure he was good and dead first, you understand.”
Doc interrupted. “He might have weighed a ton at the max.”
“Hell, I’m the one who pulled him up to the ship. I’m saying he was a ten-ton mutha.”
“Sure, Jimbo, whatever you say.”
The dog now walked across the room to the door, out, and then back in again, barking. He went right up to Jamie and nudged her, and then went back to the door—looking back, to see if she was following.
The Emissary Page 11
