by Dave Barry
“That way,” said Joe, looking at his phone. NO SERVICE.
“Do you have a gun or anything I can use?”
Joe looked up. “A gun?” he said.
“Any kind of weapon,” said Wally.
“I got . . . lemme see . . I got this.” He held up a corkscrew.
“Can I borrow it?” said Wally. “It’s an emergency.”
“OK,” said Joe, handing it to him. He was thinking maybe, after this trip, he would go back into the pool-service business.
“Thanks,” said Wally. Corkscrew in hand, he took off running toward the stern stairwell, thinking, A guy with no clothes?
...ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM . . .
“DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?” SAID PHIL. “I thought I maybe heard something.”
“I hear this guy moaning, is what I hear,” said Arnie.
“I thought maybe I heard something,” said Phil.
“So go look,” said Arnie.
“Are you kidding?” said Phil. “There’s maniacs with guns out there.”
“He’s waking up,” said Arnie.
Eddie’s eyes were open now.
“It hurts,” he said.
“I know,” said Arnie. “Hang on, we got help coming.”
“Where the hell are they?” said Phil.
“Shut up,” said Arnie.
Eddie moved his head a little, looked around the bridge. “Who’s running the ship?” he said.
“What?” said Arnie.
“It’s moving,” said Eddie. “Who’s running it?”
“Nobody,” said Phil, thinking about it. “Nobody’s running the ship.”
“Shut up,” said Arnie, to Phil. To Eddie, he said, “It’s under control, Captain. Nothing to worry about.”
“A nice, quiet evening, you said,” said Phil.
“Shut up,” said Arnie.
“I need to see,” said Eddie. He turned on his side. He groaned in agony, but kept turning. He was on his hands and knees now.
“Hey,” said Arnie, “hey, you’re not supposed to move, OK?”
“I need to see,” said Eddie. He was struggling to his feet. Phil’s handkerchief fell off Eddie’s wound and dropped to the floor. It was drenched with blood.
“You’re supposed to lie down,” said Arnie, struggling to get up, his old knees creaking. “You got shot, in case nobody told you.”
“What’s he doing?” said Phil.
“I don’t know what the hell he’s doing,” said Arnie.
“I’m still trying to stand up, here.”
Eddie, groaning with each step, lurched over to the helm. He looked at the instruments for a moment.
“Northeast,” he said. “Out to sea.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Phil.
Eddie was leaning over now, left hand on the console, right hand waving unsteadily in front of the autopilot control pad. He punched some keys. Then he groaned again, much louder, and clutched his belly for a moment with both hands. He brought up his right hand, now covered with blood, and aimed it toward the autopilot. Then he yelped in agony and crumpled to the floor.
Arnie, who had just finished straightening up, sighed and started to get back down.
“They never listen,” he said.
On the floor, Eddie said, “It’s off.”
“He said it’s off,” said Phil.
“I heard him,” said Arnie. “I’ m right here, remember?”
“What’s off?” said Phil.
“How should I know what’s off?” said Arnie. “He’s the one said it was off.”
“The autopilot,” said Eddie, fighting to get the words out. “It’s off. I was gonna reset it. It’s off.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Phil.
“Shut up,” said Arnie. To Eddie, he said: “What do we do?”
Eddie was barely conscious now. “Steer,” he whispered.
“Steer?” said Arnie.
“He wants us to steer?” said Phil.
“Steer west,” said Eddie, and closed his eyes.
Twenty
TARK DOVE HEADFIRST OFF THE PLATFORM AND landed on a bed of cash-filled duffel bags in the Zodiac. He turned and squeezed off three quick shots in the general direction of the ship, with no idea who or what he was firing at. He didn’t see Kaz anywhere. Where the hell was Kaz? He saw somebody getting up off the platform and swiveled the TEC-9 that way and . . . Jesus, was that a naked man?
ON THE BRIDGE OF THE EXTRAVAGANZA, PHIL PUT his hands on the steering wheel gingerly, as if it might be hot.
“Which way is west?” he said.
“Whaddya mean, which way is west?” said Arnie, who had finally got back down to the floor with Eddie, who was now unconscious. “West is west, for Chrissakes. You got north, south, east, west. He said go west.”
“I know he said go west,” said Phil. “I’m asking, which way is west?”
Arnie sighed. “You got to look at the compass,” he said. “You look at the compass, and there’s your west.”
Phil studied the instruments. “OK,” he said. “You know so much, which one is the compass?”
“Christ, do I have to do everything around here?” said Arnie, and he began the slow and painful process of getting back on his feet.
JOCK SPRANG TO HIS FEET. SHOOTING. SOMEBODY was shooting at him. His first thought was: Tina. Tina got hold of a gun. He swiveled his head around frantically and saw the Zodiac bouncing in the big ship’s wake, saw a skinny guy in it, AIMING A GUN AT HIM. Pop. Pop. THE GUY WAS SHOOTING AT HIM. Jock dropped to his hands and knees and started to crawl back toward the doorway to the ship. Then he remembered that that was where Tina was. Pop. Pop. He could hear bullets zinging over his head. He had to get out of there. For a second or two, Jock, naked on all fours, lunged one way, then another, looking like a giant hairless squirrel caught in traffic on the interstate. Then, seeing what looked like his only hope for refuge, he got into a crouch, sprinted fifteen feet and launched himself headfirst over the transom, into Tark’s fishing boat.
. . . ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM . . .
KAZ HAD BEEN VERY LUCKY, IN TWO WAYS. First, he’d fallen off the platform close to where Tark’s boat was tied. Second, it had been tied sloppily, and one of the lines was trailing in the water. Kaz had had the presence of mind to grab the line and hang on, which is why he was now trailing in the Extravaganza’s wake, as opposed to treading water in the dark rough sea as the ship steamed off without him. Kaz had no idea what had happened, who had hit him. For some reason, he had this feeling that it was a naked man, but that made no sense.
And right now he had more important things to worry about. Holding the line in both hands, he flipped his body so he could see the Zodiac. Tark, gun slung over his shoulder, was at the stern, messing with the outboard. It roared to life. He’d have to go to the bow now, and cast off. That would keep him busy for a second.
Kaz hauled himself forward on the line to the Extravaganza, got one hand on the platform, then the other, and pulled himself up. Lying flat, he looked to the right. Tark was working his way forward, over the duffel bags, still not looking Kaz’s way. Kaz looked left and saw that he was in luck; a few feet away was one of Manny Arquero’s crewmen, his dead hands gripping the TEC-9 Tark had planted on him. Kaz slid over, yanked it loose, and rose to his feet.
Shit. Tark had seen him. The bastard was quick: He was already squeezing off shots. But Tark was at a serious marksmanship disadvantage, perched on a pile of duffel bags in a bouncing rubber boat. His first shots missed, and Kaz knew he had him as he squeezed the trigger and . . .
. . . and heard a scream of fury to his left. He turned to see a very tall, very pissed-off blonde wom
an coming right at him, holding aloft a knife strikingly similar to the one that perforated the Janet Leigh character in Psycho. He whirled toward her, and she, getting a good look at him, and his gun, screamed and tried to stop. But she skidded on the wet platform, and her momentum was unbroken as she, a woman with a fair amount of mass, slammed hard into Kaz, who fought to hold his balance but could not, and found himself falling, in what felt like slow motion—This can’t be happening—back into the Atlantic Ocean.
FAY, HEARING THE SHOTS, STOPPED JUST BEFORE the doorway. Directly in front of her, lying on the stern platform, was an AK-47. Fay lay on her stomach, reached out carefully, grabbed the rifle and drew it toward her. She rose and checked to see if it had ammunition, made sure the safety was off. She leveled the gun and, half crouching, moved toward the doorway.
ON THE PLATFORM, TINA STAGGERED TO HER feet, disoriented. She’d thought the dark shape on the deck was that bastard Jock, but as she’d charged him, she’d seen that it was another man, a man wearing clothes. A man with a gun. She was also pretty sure she’d heard shooting. Shooting.
She looked to her left and saw where the shooting had come from: a skinny guy, in a little boat, with a gun slung around his shoulder. He was untying the boat, but when he saw her, now standing, he grabbed his gun. Tina whirled to run back into the ship, but then she saw it: a gun barrel, poking out of the doorway. She whirled back: The skinny man was raising his gun. Pop. Pop. Tina screamed, turned, sprinted across the platform and dove over the transom, into Tark’s boat.
WALLY WAS IN THE STAIRWELL, HEADED DOWN, when he heard it. Shooting. Somebody was shooting down there. He turned and started back up the stairs. Then he stopped and said, “NO, dammit.” Then he turned back around and started back down the stairs again, now holding his corkscrew in front of him, dagger-style.
Twenty-one
TARK WATCHED THE BLONDE WOMAN IN THE casino uniform dive into his boat, exactly the way the naked guy had. He was furious that, with the bouncing Zodiac messing up his aim, he’d been unable to hit either of them. He wondered who these people were, and why they kept knocking Kaz into the ocean. He also wondered who else was going to come through the door.
Glancing up every few seconds, he finished untying the Zodiac, which began to fall behind the ship. Tark clambered back to the stern, where the outboard was idling. His plan now—Tark always had a plan—was to bring the Zodiac back up to the stern of the Extravaganza, cut the lines to his fishing boat, then shoot many holes in the hull. With any luck, his boat would take on water fast enough that the naked guy and the woman would think it was sinking, and they’d come out where Tark could kill them.
The waves were getting bigger the farther he drifted from the lee of the big ship. Spray splashed Tark’s face as, slinging the TEC-9 over his shoulder, he gripped the seat with his right hand and cranked the throttle with his left, coming back up to the big ship, twenty yards away, now ten, now five. He eased off the throttle and turned the Zodiac sideways, sliding it toward the first of the two lines holding his boat to the Extravaganza. He pulled out his knife and . . .
“HOLD IT,” a voice shouted. A woman’s voice.
Tark looked up on the platform and saw a cocktail waitress pointing Manny Arquero’s AK-47 at him. What kind of cocktail waitresses did they hire on this ship?
“I AM A COAST GUARD OFFICER,” she shouted. “PUT DOWN THE KNIFE, AND THEN SLOWLY REMOVE THE GUN.”
A Coast Guard officer?
“I SAID PUT DOWN THE KNIFE, AND SLOWLY REMOVE THE GUN,” the woman repeated.
Tark put the knife down. He still had his left hand on the throttle. The engine was idling, so the Zodiac was falling behind the Extravaganza. It was three yards away from the platform. Now five.
“REMOVE THE GUN AND BRING THE BOAT BACK,” said the woman. “OR I WILL SHOOT.”
Seven yards, now. Ten. Tark reached down with his right hand, slowly started to unsling the TEC-9. Twelve yards.
“TAKE IT OFF AND BRING THE BOAT BACK NOW,” the woman said, and as she did, Tark ducked down and cranked the throttle to full as he yanked it sideways, sending the inflatable into a surging turn away from the ship. Tark couldn’t hear, over the engine noise, whether the woman was shooting or not, but he assumed she was. As he raced back into the darkness, the swell of the waves obscuring him from the ship, he felt a surge of elation. She wasn’t going to hit him.
But in a few seconds his elation turned to alarm as he realized that, although she hadn’t hit him, she had definitely hit the Zodiac. More than once, in fact, to judge by how quickly it was losing air and settling into the dark water.
“FUCK ME,” Tark screamed to whatever dark sea spirits were out there, as he yanked the engine sideways again and turned the sinking Zodiac back toward the receding ship. Having got that out of his system, he began, yet again, to make a plan.
“OK, SEE HERE?” ARNIE WAS SAYING. “THE ‘N’? That stands for north.”
Arnie and Phil had, after some argument, agreed on which one was the compass. They were now arguing about how it worked.
“I know the ‘N’ stands for north. I’m just saying, does that mean the ‘N’ is facing the north? Or does that mean when the ‘N’ is facing us, then we’re going north?”
Arnie thought about that. He couldn’t bring himself to admit he didn’t know the answer, so he said, “They should put directions on this thing.”
“Those ARE directions,” said Phil. “What do you think north is? It’s a direction.”
“I don’t mean that,” said Arnie. “I mean, how it works, they should put on there.”
On the floor, Eddie groaned.
“Take a look at him,” said Arnie. “See how he’s doing. I’ll drive this thing.”
“Why should you drive?” said Phil. “Why shouldn’t I drive?”
“Because I’m a better driver,” said Arnie. “Fifty-one years I drove, I never had an accident.” This was not, technically, true. Arnie had been forced to quit driving when, at age 81, he had driven his car, a 1986 Oldsmobile, into a convenience store, which he claimed had not been there earlier.
“I never had an accident, either,” said Phil. This was, technically, true, in the sense that he had never hit anything, but only because for the last few years of his driving career he never went more than fifteen miles an hour, which is the speed he was clocked at on Interstate 95 when he got the ticket that finally persuaded his children to take away his car keys.
Eddie groaned again.
“Will you for Pete’s sakes LOOK at him?” said Arnie. “The man is in pain down there, and I can’t bend over anymore.”
“All right, all right,” said Phil, starting, slowly, to get on his knees. “You can drive. For now. But don’t go too fast.”
“Jesus, what are you, my wife?” said Arnie, and he began to turn the wheel.
ON THE FIRST DECK, JOHNNY AND TED TROTTED up to Joe Sarmino. Before they could even ask, he pointed toward the stern and said, “Everybody go that way.”
“Wally?” said Johnny. “The guy in the band with us?”
“Him too,” said Joe.
“Do you have, like, a gun or something I could borrow?” said Ted.
Joe shook his head. “No gun,” he said. “Your friend already ask. I give him my corkscrew.”
Ted frowned, then turned to Johnny and said, “Let’s go.”
They trotted toward the stairwell, both thinking the same thing.
A corkscrew?
. . . ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM “FUCK!” “FASTER!” ROAR VROOM WHAM . . .
FAY, KEEPING THE AK-47 IN SHOOTING POSITION, stood at the edge of the platform, scanning the dark water. She didn’t know if she’d hit the guy, but she knew she’d hit the boat, she knew it, probably more than once. The inflatable would probably stay afloat, she figured, but it would be swamped, and it couldn’t get far before the engine would get wet an
d die. Maybe the guy would risk turning back.
Fay stared into the darkness, listening for the sound of an outboard over the roar of the sea and the wind. So focused was she that she failed to see Kaz’s hands appear on the top of the platform, failed to see the big man haul himself onto the platform twenty feet to her right, rise to his feet and circle around behind her, hesitating as he debated whether to try to grab her gun, or just shove her off the platform. She failed to see him as, having decided the surest answer was to just give her a shove, he stepped forward, hands out.
And she failed to see Wally jump on Kaz’s broad back from behind and drive the corkscrew into his right shoulder blade.
She did hear it, however; Kaz’s scream was surprisingly high and piercing for a man of his bulk. Fay whirled and saw Kaz going down, Wally clinging to his back. Kaz rolled and threw an elbow backward, knocking Wally sprawling. Kaz started to rise.
“DON’T MOVE,” said Fay. He looked up at her, at the gun pointed at him, and stayed on the platform, his left hand going to his injured shoulder.
Fay studied him. This was not the guy with the inflatable. Where was the guy with the inflatable? She glanced over at Wally, who was getting to his feet, corkscrew still in hand.
“You OK?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Any time,” he said.
“Is that a corkscrew?” she said.
Wally looked at it. “Yeah,” he said.
“Do you think you could handle a bigger weapon?” she said.
“I could try,” he said.
“There’s a dead guy over there holding a gun,” she said. “Why don’t you go pick that up?”
Wally, a man who exactly one hour earlier had been playing “My Funny Valentine,” pried a TEC-9 from the hands of a dead criminal, this being the second of the two TEC-9s Tark had planted on members of Manny Arquero’s crew, back when Tark’s plan had been running like a Swiss watch.
