by John Straley
Just as I finished pushing a dryer in front of the door, I turned to Jane Marie, who kissed me with an urgency that knocked me back against a washing machine. Her hair was a tangle around her face. We took sharp quick kisses as if we were both eating the same apple between us. We fumbled with my belt and the buttons of her pants. Her mouth and tongue felt slick on mine.
Someone had been drying a load of their vacation clothes. There were slacks and Hawaiian shirts. Panties and boxer shorts, blue towels and matching washcloths. All the fabric was hot and dry and I quickly piled everything on top of the two washers that were rumbling through their cycles. Jane Marie pulled off her sweater and her pants, then she pulled off my clothes.
Of course it was strange. The warm laundry scattered and fell on the floor. But I placed a towel under it all and we didn’t feel the coolness of metal. She sat on the washer and I kissed her breasts and her lips. I worked down the linty sweetness of her whole body. I licked her and stroked her thighs as she arched her back into my face. Then she grabbed my hair, pulling me up to her.
One of the Hawaiian shirts had metal snaps which burned into my back, but not enough to distract from the warmth of her hands and her belly. She kissed me and said my name over and over. The spin cycle kicked in and she eased on top of me. I closed my eyes to keep from laughing. She piled clothes across my chest and I felt the grip of her body all around mine until we both shuddered with a warmth that drove away the chill.
Later, we folded some of the clothes and put some others back through the wash. We ate together that night and even made banana splits at the midnight dessert buffet. We danced and talked about all the passengers we had met and I told her about Cyril, Mr. Worthington, and Martha the angel girl.
I was grateful for it all, every second of happiness we had enjoyed, particularly the next morning when I learned that Paul was dead and the ship’s doctor had turned up missing.
10
Coming Through Icy Strait
I was first aware that the whole silly adventure was starting to unravel when the alarm bells on the Westward starting clanging at six-ten in the morning the following day. The ship’s engines were blaring through the floor and I could feel the ship lean into a steep turn. I heard the sound of urgent voices over hand-held radios as people padded quickly up and down the halls: Keys rattling on belts, buckles being clipped.
I poked my head out of my door and saw a crowd of men in ship uniforms standing around the door of the clinic. I dressed quickly and joined them.
The Panamanian first mate was standing in a crisp uniform with a clipboard in his hand. Three men, their credentials pinned to the pockets of their uniforms, blocked the way to the door. I tried to muscle through them but was grabbed and forced back against the door.
“I’m part of the Moonlight Bay team,” I bluffed, but their grips relaxed just long enough for me to ease past them to the first mate.
The Mate looked irritated with me. He was listening to the two people talking by the examining table. The Mate held his hand distractedly out by my chest, more in an effort to make me be still rather than to throw me out. I was still, for the two men talking caught my attention immediately.
The saxophone player was talking to a sobbing Mr. Standard. The sax player wore a maroon jogging suit. He had a microcassette tape recorder in his right hand and was kneeling near Mr. Standard.
“Tell me where I can find the doctor, then,” he said softly and with some comfort. Mr. Standard stared straight ahead. Tears ran down his face.
“He wasn’t ready. It wasn’t time,” he said over and over.
“I know that, Harold.” The sax player’s voice was soothing. “I know that, and believe me we’ll be looking into that, but right now we need to find the doctor. Tell me about what happened to the doctor, Harold. It will be much easier if you do.”
“Where’s Paul?” I asked the Mate and all eyes turned to me and the hands came from behind to throw me out. “Let’s go,” I heard from behind my right shoulder.
“Wait!” The sax player stood up and walked toward me.
“Come with me.” The sax player spoke with some strong authority that everyone seemed to recognize, for as soon as he said those words the hands released me and the first mate stepped aside.
The two of us walked into a tiny office that had been a typing room for the clinic. The sax player went in first and after I walked inside he motioned for me to close the door. The sax player sat on the desk in front of me, his right hand on the typewriter and his feet resting on the only chair. I was not offered a seat and that made sense for there was nowhere else to sit down.
“My name is David Werdheimer from San Francisco,” the sax player said and he nodded. Then he stood up to check the lock on the door.
In the world of professional private investigators there are only a handful of stars and there was only one who had kept hold of the lasting respect of the trade. The others had fallen away to become celebrity whores or high-profile “security analysts.” A couple had become well-known thugs for their millionaire movie star clients. But the one who was legend among the working defense bar and professional investigators was David Werdheimer, from San Francisco, California, who was professionally known as “Word.”
Word was famous mostly through gossip and misinformation. Stories about him circulated like the latest bad-taste joke. He had worked for mafia dons and cabinet members. There were investigative journalists who would have offered a year’s pay just to know the list of his clients who hadn’t been indicted. I stood there looking at this sax player and I scanned my memory. I could not come up with a mental picture of the famous “Word.” There was none. He took pride in never being photographed under his own identity.
“You and I are in the same profession, Mr. Younger,” Mr. Werdheimer said generously. “I was hired by the ship’s company . . . by Empire Shipping . . . out of Singapore. Apparently they felt that the Great Circle Cruise Lines was not particularly forthcoming about the ‘Moonlight Bay’ situation.”
He paused and stared at me as if expecting me to speak. Then he added, “When they got word of Circle’s own investigation, Empire decided they had better do one of their own.”
“I’m honored,” I said, trying to give my voice a special tone of tough-guy irony. “Where’s Paul?”
“Paul’s no longer any of your concern,” Word said.
“I’ll just be leaving then,” I said, pulling against the door where Word had blocked it with his foot.
“Now don’t get excited, Cecil.” Word watched me closely. I noticed he was still wearing a saxophone strap around his neck. His voice was smooth and calm. “I was just going to ask you if you knew where the doctor was.”
“I don’t know, but I suppose I had better find out.” I fought against my anger, afraid, I suppose, that it would come out whiny rather than fierce. I worked the knob on the door that Word kept me from opening.
Then he smirked and fiddled with his neck strap. “Whoa there, cowboy. Don’t go running off half-cocked.”
I turned and grabbed him by the thumb and bent it back until it straightened his arm. Then I put my forearm down hard against his elbow, forcing him down until his face was on the desk. I spoke slowly and clearly.
“Two things . . .” I said through clenched teeth. “I am not a cowboy.” Word did not struggle, but his free hand moved to reach something in his jacket pocket as I slowly let the pressure relax on his arm. “And number two,” I continued, “you are a very bad saxophone player.”
For some reason I thought these were important points to make. I released him. Word gave a long sigh. He seemed unconcerned about the physical violence that had just passed between us. He straightened up. He adjusted his coat and held his pocket stun gun to my face. Then he worked the mechanism, sending a nasty spark arcing across the contact points. Word shook his head and put his hand li
ghtly on my shoulder. “I never seem to have this thing when I need it,” Word muttered as I backed out of the room.
In the hallway outside of the clinic Jane Marie was looking at a chart with the first mate. She was pointing with a pencil in one hand and had a tide book in the other. The Mate was listening intently. I tried to walk quickly past them, but she reached out and took my arm.
“Cecil, you’ve been ashore in this area before. Remember that time we were photographing that group of killer whales and you hit that rock?”
Word stood behind her, his hands in his pockets. “Yes. I remember,” I said, trying to pull away.
“The captain may want to put a boat over and they’ve asked for our help. What do you think?”
I stood staring at Word and the door of the room I had just come out of. I was still thinking about the skull-numbing voltage that he wanted to put through my skin.
“Listen. I’ll be right back. I’ve got to talk to someone.”
She looked at me quizzically but did not ask her next question.
“Really. I’ll be right back,” I said as I walked away from them.
“We will load the boat from the Capri Deck. Port side,” the first mate called after me, and when I turned I saw him block Word from following me.
“We’ll wait for you,” Jane Marie called as I turned the corner into Freetown.
There were clanging pipes and the engine throb swelled as I walked down the iron catwalk to the next lower landing where I half-remembered Mr. Worthington’s quarters were. I wanted to see Paul and I suspected there was at least one person who had access to the place where he was most likely being stored.
“I don’t know, sir,” Mr. Worthington said as he unbent himself from the crawl space he was occupying between a boiler and the thin shelf above a fetid and oily bilge. “Cyril? No. I haven’t seen Cyril since I came on shift. I’ll find out, though.” It amazed me how purely black Mr. Worthington was. He was almost completely covered in soot and the white jumpsuit showed white only in the creases. He wiped his hands on a towel-sized rag that hung from his back pocket, then he walked over to a pillar where there was a greasy phone. He punched a few numbers and then spoke in French, yelling to be understood over the din of the engine. I pulled my collar away from my neck, allowing only the heat to pour down against my skin.
Mr. Worthington hung up and yelled to me. “Cyril is on his break now. You wait here.”
I nodded. “Where are we?” I yelled.
Mr. Worthington looked quizzical and shook his head. “We’re at a stop. Holding a position some four and a half hours out of Skagway. I don’t know more than that. They’re just chiming in engine orders to hold us against the tide.”
A vibration shuddered through the ship as the shaft for the propellers turned and the engine throbbed in the heart of the steel ship.
“Something strange is happening. This is for sure,” Mr. Worthington said and he studied my face with the expression of a man who knew somehow that I was part of the trouble but wasn’t going to ask. “Here, then.” He nodded over my shoulder as we heard footsteps clattering on the catwalk.
Cyril was wearing his white boat coveralls and an orange float coat. He had a thin stocking cap pulled over his ears. “They got me on deck, sir. I cannot stay long.”
I asked to see the body of the boy who had died the night before and Cyril made a pained expression. “Why I do this for you?” he yelped out at me. “Big trouble. Plenty of big trouble. Why I do this thing for you now?” Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead. I didn’t want to argue with him. I held up my injured hand and pointed to it.
“I keep my secrets, Cyril. I need to see the boy’s body. It is important. Nothing bad will happen to you. If anything happens I’ll take all the blame. You know I will.”
He shook his head and looked over to Mr. Worthington, who wiped his hands and nodded up to Cyril as if giving him permission.
“Okay then.” Cyril turned and walked away. “Just hurry now. They’ll be asking about me and I don’t want them looking.”
We made our way through the crew’s dining hall. It was early morning but men were lounging around a TV having just come off their shift. The kitchen sizzled with the smell of pork cooking. The air was crowded with the cigarette smoke and the smell of men’s sweat and the food they were about to eat. Cyril led me to a narrow hall behind the crew mess and there was a small room and a thick metal door with massive hinges.
“This the cooler then.” He nodded and unclipped the ring of keys from one of his belt loops. “I stay here. Two minutes. If someone come I’m going to lock the door and tell them the key is lost. I chase them away but you be on your own. I will unlock you if I can but if you take too long I leave you there. Are we clear on this? Longer than two minutes I lock you in there with him.”
I nodded my head and Cyril undid the padlock on the cooler.
There was only one bare bulb inside the cooler. There were waxed cartons of produce on stainless steel racks around the three walls. The space had the chilled smell of garden greens. Cramped in the middle of the space was a stretcher with a green rubber bag on it. I undid the bag and saw the dark hair of Mr. Standard’s son.
I unzipped the bag its full length. The boy looked lost and out of place there. He looked collapsed and forgotten like an abandoned tent, caved in by the snow. He wore no clothes. The flesh of the dead is like river clay. Hard but still forgiving. You can press in a soft arm and see the impression your own warm and lurid finger can leave. Not that there was much flesh here. Paul’s arms were reed thin. On the inside of each arm were multiple bruises and old needle sticks. But there was nothing obviously fresh or out of place. None of the needle marks seemed any more recent or different than the rest. I ran my fingers through his hair, looking for scars or cuts. I rolled him over and looked at what seemed to be the massive bruising but was only the blood pooling in the flaccid flesh of the dead boy’s remains.
I was running out of time and I knew it. I tried to open his mouth but was unable to. I pulled back one of his eyelids and as I did the eye caught mine in the light of that one bare bulb and I shivered. The one eye stayed open and I heard Cyril’s keys jangling and then the scratching on the door. I pushed my shoulder hard and forced my way out.
“He’s all zipped up then?” Cyril whispered to me urgently.
“I’m not quite done. I haven’t found it yet.”
Cyril looked at me with an exasperated expression as if to be saying, “Stupid white people! How did I get involved in this?” But he didn’t; he shoved me back toward the naked boy in the cooler.
“Ten seconds then. You go look at his feet.” Cyril made the imaginary hypodermic gesture he had used before: Thumb pushing up between his two fingers. “Carefully, man. The feet, but you don’t know it from me now.”
I was back inside and Paul’s one eye was still open as if expecting me. I unfolded one of the stiff legs and looked carefully at the foot, scaly white and clean. I pulled the toes apart and there between the largest toe and the next was a needle stick. There was a very thin crust of blood around it.
I straightened Paul as best I could and zipped the bag up quickly. When I stepped out of the cooler Cyril was gone.
I was given a jacket when I arrived at the boat station. Jane Marie stood with the captain and the first mate. She had my red rubber boots under her arms and set them down on the floor for me to take. Both the Mate and Jane Marie were in full boat gear. Jane Marie had her rain gear over the float coat and she had her binoculars slung around her neck. The captain was in uniform and he nodded to me as I zipped up my jacket. Cyril stood in front of the open door. He did not acknowledge me as I walked past.
“Good,” the captain said and looked between Jane Marie and myself. “We have our native guides.” He cleared his throat and spoke in a more official tone. “I am not sure what we are dealing
with here just now. I have contacted the local Coast Guard. The pilot is on the bridge and is in charge of the ship. Mr. Calbran, the ship’s first officer, will be in charge of this boat crew. We are at stop currently.” He paused and looked out past Cyril through the open hatchway that led to the tender landing. He was thinking about what more to say. “One of our ship’s personnel is missing,” he finally said brusquely and with no outward sign of sentiment. “There is some reason to believe that he may have gone overboard in this area just as we were leaving Cross Sound and beginning to make our transit through Icy Strait. The ship was close to the southern shore and it is possible a person may have survived. If my information is accurate, our crewman went into the water an hour and a half ago. There is only a slight chance of survival if he remained in the water but because of the closeness of the shore I feel it necessary to check the near shore area.” The captain was remarkably abrupt for a man of so practiced an authority. He turned to his first officer and looked up at him as he gave his final instructions.
“We of course, will be searching this ship and developing other information and, as that comes in, we will keep you informed by radio. We have not yet requested the Coast Guard to begin their search until we have developed the rest of the reliable information that can narrow our search.”
Here the captain turned to Jane Marie and me and said in a slightly more personal tone, “There is no sense in sending out helicopters from Sitka if there never really was a man in the water, if you know what I mean.”
We both nodded our heads that we knew what he meant. Cyril and the Mate turned and walked down the gangway to the tender. The captain shook Jane Marie’s hand and then mine.
“Be careful.” He smiled down at me with his glittering eyes. “One accident is more than enough.” Then he walked away toward the elevator which stood open and waiting for him.
