Tricky Business

by Dave Barry

  Johnny, on bass, was thinking about a show he’d heard about on TV where people ate sheep eyeballs to make money. Eyeballs. Man. He was wondering how much money it would have to be before he would eat a sheep eyeball. It would have to be a LOT of money, like $5,000. No, make that $7,500, because there would be taxes. Although Johnny was not 100 percent sure about that, because he had never filed a tax return. He was wondering which he would want to eat less: a sheep eyeball, or the Extravaganza of the Sea’s Sumptuous All You Can Eat Gourmet Buffet. Tough call.

  Jock was thinking about sex, which was what Jock usually thought about, but at the moment he had an unusually compelling reason. A few minutes earlier, while the band had been playing “Tupelo Honey,” Connie, the grieving divorcée, had walked into the room, strode up to Jock, and dropped a condom on his tom-tom. The other three guys exchanged looks, their faces saying, “Man, she put a condom on his tom-tom.” It sat there a few seconds, the little pale-blue foil packet vibrating on the drumhead, Jock and Connie staring at each other. Then Jock flipped the packet up with a stick, caught it in midair, stuck it into his shirt pocket—it almost looked like he practiced this—and said, “We’ll be taking a break pretty soon.” Connie turned and left, her hips traveling about a yard in each direction. So now Jock was thinking about logistics, where they could go on the ship that word wouldn’t get back to Tina.

  Wally was thinking about Fay. His plan, when they took their break, was to go down to the second deck and spontaneously bump into her, maybe say, “Oh, hey, how’re you doing?” But he would need a good spontaneous thing to say next, something he could memorize and not screw up, something that could lead to a meaningful conversation. All he’d come up with so far was, “This weather sucks, huh?” He knew he had to do better than that. Maybe go the other way, something like, “Nice weather, huh?” Sarcasm. She was smart and would get sarcasm. That seemed like a better approach, a little more intellectual. Maybe, “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” She’d probably say, yeah, maybe crack a smile. But then what? Talk a little more about the weather? No, she wasn’t going to stand around talking about the weather. Maybe he could make a ship joke, like . . . OK, how about a Titanic joke? Something like: “Hey, I don’t want to make you nervous, but I think I saw Leonardo DiCaprio over at the craps table.” But would she get the reference? Had it been too long since that movie was out? No, everybody knew that movie. OK, so that was the plan: “Lovely evening,” would be his spontaneous opener, and then Leonardo DiCaprio, and then maybe she would see he wasn’t just some moron hitting on her; he was a witty conversationalist, probably with some depth.

  As Wally was thinking this, he and Johnny, who was still thinking about sheep eyeballs, were singing the high harmony on the last verse of “Desperado”:Let somebody love you

  And then Ted, who was at that moment deciding he was going to try one more time to get the goddamn a/c fixed, but this time using a different mechanic, sang the last line a capella:Before it’s too late.

  When the song ended, the two elderly ladies started walking toward Wally. They were both widows and both lived in Surf Breeze Villas, a widow-infested retirement condominium located in Hallandale a good two miles from the Atlantic Ocean. They had become friends when they discovered that they were both from New York and both named (what are the odds?) Rose. They went out on the Extravaganza twice a week to play the quarter slots, although they made a point of listening to the band—even though they did not like the music the band played, they figured they had paid for it. (They also had paid for the buffet, but they drew the line at that.) They were approaching Wally now, Rose I and Rose II, taking a circular route around Strom Thurmond, who was still on the floor cutting an imaginary rug.

  “I’d like to request a song,” said Rose I.

  “‘My Funny Valentine,’ ” said Wally.

  “That’s right,” said Rose I, a little surprised.

  “We’ll get to that in the next set,” said Wally.

  “You said that last time,” said Rose II. “But you never played it.”

  “Is that right?” said Wally.

  “So maybe you could play it now,” said Rose I. “‘My Funny Valentine.’ ”

  “Absolutely,” said Wally. “Johnny here does a great version of that song. Right, Johnny?”

  “What?” said Johnny, who had been thinking about sheep eyeballs and had just mentally raised his minimum price to $8,000.

  “‘My Funny Valentine,’ ” said Wally, playing the mournful opening chords.

  “What about it?” said Johnny.

  “I was just telling this lovely lady how you do a great version of it.”

  “I don’t know the words,” said Johnny.

  “Sure you do,” said Wally. “It’s your signature tune. Take it!”

  Johnny shook his head, then leaned into the mike and crooned:

  “My funny valentine. (pause) You sure are lookin’ fine. (longer pause) You make me toe the line. . . .”

  “Those aren’t the words,” said Rose I.

  “It’s a special arrangement,” said Wally.

  “Don’t shave your hair for me,” Johnny crooned. “Wear underwear for me . . .”

  “What is he singing?” said Rose II.

  “These are the original lyrics,” said Wally. “A lot of the other artists who did this song took liberties with it.”

  “Don’t shoot a bear for me,” crooned Johnny, getting into it now, “Blow Fred Astaire for me . . .”

  “C’mon, Rose,” said Rose I, pulling Rose II toward the doorway. “I don’t think they know this song.”

  “Fall down the stair for me,” crooned Johnny. Wally stepped up to his mike and said, to the departing Roses and Strom Thurmond, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to be taking just a short break right now, but don’t go away, because we’ll be coming back with much more music for your enjoyment here on the beautiful Extravaganza of the Seas.”

  As the two Roses disappeared through the doorway, the band ended “My Funny Valentine.” Strom Thurmond held his arms out horizontally, did a slow, stately, 360-degree spin, and fell down.

  “Thank you very much,” said Wally. “We’re Johnny and the Contusions.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Ted.

  THE RAIN BROUGHT FRANK BACK TO CONSCIOUSNESS, cold drops hitting his face. He was choking, his throat clogged, his mouth full of warm liquid. He rolled onto his side and spat it out, a big gush of blood. He spat again, then again, but each time he immediately felt more blood seeping from the wound in his tongue. His tongue felt huge.

  Frank tried to feel inside his mouth, but he couldn’t move his arms. His wrists were bound behind his back. It felt like plastic, maybe those disposable handcuffs the cops used in riots. He tried to rise and felt that his feet were also bound tight.

  He was lying against the gunwale at the back of the boat. The sound of the sea was loud out here, the big waves lifting the boat, dropping it, lifting it. He felt a surge of panic, thinking about what it would feel like if they threw him over the side like this, arms and legs bound; how long it would be before he lost consciousness, how many seconds, maybe minutes, before he couldn’t hold his breath anymore, before he started swallowing water, before it was over. He fought to calm himself, to think about what he would say to Tark, what he had to negotiate with that would keep him alive. Nothing came to mind. He didn’t even understand why he was alive now: Tark was smart enough to know that, no matter what Frank promised him out here, if Frank ever got back to land alive, Tark was dead. Tark was almost certainly dead anyway, for daring to freelance on this deal; there would be a very serious effort to track him down and kill him in a very unpleasant manner, as a warning to anybody else who might be thinking about freelancing. Tark had to know that, had to know he had no reason at all to keep Frank alive. But Frank had to come up with one right now.

  He heard shouting, arguing, coming from inside the cabin. Mostly Tark’s voice, but also the big guy, Kaz. And then a scream, Juan’s voice.
So Juan was also still alive. Although to judge from the sound, maybe he didn’t want to be.

  Frank rolled so he could see the cabin door, which was open. Somebody was coming out, backward; it was one of the big guys, Holman, carrying somebody by the feet. Juan. Kaz came out next, holding Juan’s shoulders and arguing with Tark, behind him.

  Juan wasn’t moving. His hands and feet were bound, and his face was covered with blood. Something else was wrong with his face, but there wasn’t much light and Frank couldn’t see exactly what. Kaz and Holman dumped him on the deck.

  “. . . get it over with,” Kaz was saying. “We don’t got time for this shit.”

  “We’ll be there in time,” said Tark, his voice raspy from the hit he’d taken to his throat. “Rebar can run the boat. I want to take care of this.”

  He crouched next to Frank, peered into his face. He had his knife in his hand.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Looks like the big boss is awake. You want to give me some orders now, big boss?” Casually, he tapped his knife blade against Frank’s face. Frank started to talk, but his mouth was full again. He turned his face sideways and spat out more blood.

  “That’s a nasty cut you got in there,” said Tark. “You oughtta have that looked at.”

  Frank tried to say “You’re making a mistake,” but his tongue had swollen, and his words were unintelligible.

  “What’s that, boss?” said Tark, cupping his hand to his ear. “I’m not following you.”

  Frank turned sideways and spat out more blood. He tried to speak again but was stopped by the feel of Tark’s knifepoint against his throat.

  “You know what, boss?” said Tark. “I’m not in the mood to listen to you right now, after the way you and the spic here puked all over my boat. It’s a mess in there, you know that? It stinks bad. Makes me want to hold my nose. But I can’t, you know why?”

  Frank stared at him. Tark prodded his neck with the knife.

  “I said you know why I can’t hold my nose?” Tark said.

  Frank shook his head.

  “I can’t hold my nose ’cause”—Tark smiled a big, happy smile—“I’m holding the spic’s nose.”

  Then he thrust it at Frank, a bloody lump of flesh. Frank jerked his head away, banging it against the gunwale. Tark pushed the grotesque thing into his face. Frank could feel it pressing against his own nose.

  “Get it?” Tark said. “I’m holding his nose!”

  “Come on, man,” said Kaz. “Let’s finish this, OK?”

  “Relax,” said Tark, over his shoulder. “Problem with you is, you’re always in a damn hurry. You got to learn to stop and smell the fucking roses.” To Frank, he said, “I got to hand it to your boy, he put up a pretty good fight, for a sick little spic, one against four. That boy did not want the plastic surgery.”

  Frank tried to talk again but could only spit blood.

  “That’s a bad cut, all right,” said Tark. “I’ll take care of that for you in a minute. But first Dr. Tark needs to go tend to your boy. You hang on to this for me, OK?”

  Tark tucked Juan’s nose into Frank’s breast pocket, then moved over to where Juan was lying. Juan was regaining consciousness, moaning. Tark grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

  “Hey, spic,” he said. “How you doing?” He examined the gaping wound in the middle of Juan’s face. “You’re looking a lot better, tell you that.”

  Juan’s eyes opened, focused, looked at Tark with a mixture of agony and hate. He spat into Tark’s face, a gob of bloody saliva.

  Jesus, he’s brave, thought Frank. But stupid.

  Tark wiped off the spit with the back of his hand, taking his time, showing how calm he was, in control.

  “I gotta hand it to you, spic,” he said. “You got some balls.” He looked at Frank. “Don’t he got some balls, boss?”

  Frank shook his head. He suspected where this was going, though he hoped he was wrong.

  “Let’s take a look,” Tark said. “Let’s see those spic balls a’ yours.”

  He slid his knife blade under Juan’s belt, sliced through it easily. It was a very sharp knife. Now Juan was realizing what was happening. He shook his mutilated head, spraying drops of blood from the place where his nose had been. He jerked his body sideways, pulling his hips away from the blade.

  “Hold him down,” said Tark, to Kaz.

  “Man, can’t we just . . .”

  “I said hold him down,” said Tark. “Holman, hold his legs.”

  “Jeez, Tark, I . . .”

  “Hold his fucking legs.”

  They held him down, Juan struggling but weak from shock and blood loss, no match for the big men. Tark crouched over him, letting him see the knife. Frank tried to yell, but it came out as a gargling sound. Tark glanced over.

  “I’ll take care of you in just a minute, boss,” he rasped, rubbing his neck. “I ain’t forgot about you.” He turned back and began slicing through Juan’s pants, then his underpants, those ridiculous black mesh briefs Juan wore, which Frank made fun of, but which Juan said his wife thought were sexy, and so did both his girlfriends. Juan was writhing desperately now, shouting something in Spanish, the only word Frank understood being madre. Frank turned away and tried not to hear, but there was no way not to hear, as the shouts turned into a scream, and then the scream turned into something much, much worse.

  AT THE MIAMI COAST GUARD STATION, THE commander and the lieutenant commander, who also happened to be fishing buddies, were in the officers’ break room, getting coffee.

  “So far,” the commander was saying, “it’s amazingly quiet, knock on Formica. Biggest excitement was this afternoon, when we had a couple of hardy mariners who thought this would be a good time to try to go over to Bi-mini in a twenty-three-foot Donzi.”

  “You’re kidding,” said the lieutenant commander.

  “It gets better. They had no radio, no navigational equipment, and no life preservers. They did, however, have the foresight to take along two cases of Miller Lite.”

  “You can’t be too careful. So what happened?”

  “Using their seamanship skills, they got approximately five-hundred yards off Government Cut, at which point they experienced serious maritime distress and shot off every flare they had, in the process setting fire to their boat. We rescued them, but the Donzi sank.”

  “I bet we get sued,” said the lieutenant commander.

  “I have no doubt,” said the first. “I mean, they did lose their beer. But other than that, it’s actually been pretty quiet.”

  “What about that casino ship?”

  “The Extravaganza.”

  “Yeah. I’m surprised he went out. Did we think about ordering him in?”

  “We’ve been in contact. He says he’s fine.”

  “Do we believe him? I mean, some of those guys, they’d stay out in a hurricane if they were making money.”

  “Well, I’m not one-hundred-percent sure we believe him, but we do have reason to believe the ship is OK.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that ship happens to have a CGIS agent on it.” CGIS meant Coast Guard Investigative Service.

  “Really.”

  “Yup. Civilian, undercover.”

  “And that’s in connection with?”

  “Officially, I have no idea.”

  “Our little friends at the Chum Bucket?”

  “Like I say, I have no idea. It’s pure coincidence that I’m nodding my head in an affirmative manner.”

  “And this agent is in contact with us?”

  “Only if there’s a problem.”

  “And so far?”

  “Nothing.”

  They sipped their coffee for a moment, watching the TV on the end of the break-room counter. On the screen, an older male anchor and a younger female anchor were looking grim. Above their heads, to the right, were pictures of two men, bordered in black, with red letters below the border spelling out NEWSPLEX NINE TRAGEDY.

  �
�. . . had only been with NewsPlex Nine for six weeks,” the male anchor was saying, “yet Todd Ford had already established himself as a reporter to watch.” He turned toward the female anchor.

  “Bill,” she said, “Todd Ford was the kind of newsman who was not about to let personal risk stand in the way of getting the story for our NewsPlex Nine viewers.” She turned toward the male anchor.

  “Already,” he said, “tributes are starting to pour into the NewsPlex Nine Newscenter as the South Florida community remembers these two courageous journalists.”

  “What are they talking about?” said the commander.

  “You didn’t hear?” said the lieutenant commander. “These two TV guys, they’re doing a story about somebody getting electrocuted by a power line down in flood-water. So they go out and stand in the water, warning everybody not to stand in the water. And guess what?”

  “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Nope.”

  “When’d this happen?”

  “Maybe a half hour ago.”

  “And they already have a graphic for it?”

  The TV screen was now showing a whirling red blob that turned into NEWSPLEX NINE BREAKING STORM NEWS BULLETIN. The male anchor was saying, “. . . just received word that the NewsPlex Nine NewsChopper is now en route to the scene.”

  “They’re sending a helicopter up?” said the commander. “In this?”

  “Got to keep the public informed,” said the lieutenant commander.

  “If I was the public,” said the commander, “I’d be nervous.”

  “HOW LONG NOW?” SAID FIRST OFFICER HANK Wilde.

  “About fifteen minutes,” said Captain Eddie Smith.

  “OK, then,” said Wilde, taking a sip of Jack Daniel’s. “Time to mobilize the crew.”

  “Let’s try and do this as fast as possible, OK?” said Eddie.

  “Relax,” said Wilde. “It’s gonna be fine. It’s always fine.”

  “We never did it in this kind of weather before.”

  “That’s not gonna be a problem.”

  “How in the hell can you say that?”