“Just a touch of Earl Grey, old girl. That should do the trick.”
~Marauder
Bonn met the Germans for coffee, though none of them drank it. He’d known the men for years. They always looked the same. His father had usually met with them behind closed doors. Troy’s whispers had been audible, their hissed replies less so. It had never occurred to Bonn to question their loyalty. It was as though he had inherited their ill-defined services as a part of the estate. They were reliable men; the types, it seemed, you could pay with meat, though not by hand. Polite distances were observed in the relationship. They had access to a large account, and claimed their fees fairly—without the need to ask. It occurred to Bonn that he had heard Troy raise his voice with Rupert, had yelled loudly, in public no less, at his mother, and even berated judges in aggressively ambiguous tones in their own courtrooms … but his father had always presented these men an unnaturally respectful version of himself.
If you are to place your head in a lion’s mouth, it is best to know you are on good terms.
Ryker handed him a portfolio. Bonn flipped through the pages. The men did great work. Though their methods were unusual, he trusted them. Each page in the binder had a picture and summary of a property he owned in the city. The Germans did the research and made the purchases, but Bonn liked to know what he owned. They bought real estate throughout the city: industrial spaces, office buildings, warehouses—the Germans didn’t buy anything smaller than 15,000 square feet. Rickard slid a folder across the table. Five new listings they hadn’t acted on yet. These were residential buildings. Bonn wanted one he could rebuild.
One stood out. A recent fire led the city to condemn the 168-unit apartment building on 79th. The insurance company had the owners wrapped up in court. Without the insurance money, the owners couldn’t afford to demolish the building. Quotes on demolition costs exceeded the worth of the building pre-fire. The owners were desperate. The city insisted the building be razed within a month. They’d be lucky if they recouped their court costs.
“Let’s go for it. The location is right. This is the one. If the owners aren’t dirt bags, let’s intervene for them with the insurance company. No reason for them to lose their shirts while we profit.”
Bonn wrote some notes. The Germans nodded approval. Ryker pulled his headset on and followed Rickard out.
He would own the building before the Germans got on the subway.
Bonn’s phone rang. It was Manny. There was an edge to his voice.
“Listen, son, these cars have sold like hotcakes. I sold both fastbacks to the same guy. A history buff. He came back with an old Indian Scout he wanted me to restore. It felt rude not to agree to the job. The guy hangs around the shop a lot. He’s obsessed with your Bill of Rights replica. Came back in just yesterday, said he wanted pinstripes or some nonsense. While I talked him out of it, he whipped out a magnifying glass. He stood there and said ‘uh huh’ and ignored me while he inspected the edges of the thing. I told him I’d paint the car pink with a metallic flake and he got real excited, but not about the car. He wasn’t listening to me at all—just muttered something about the correct era.”
The distress in Manny’s voice was palpable.
“I tried to redirect him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He even tried to photograph the thing. I stopped him. ‘No photos in the shop,’ I said. I kicked him out. I told him I was late for something. You know what though? Mr. Persistent came back today. Didn’t give a reason. Didn’t talk much at all, in fact, just loitered about. Paced back and forth. Eyeballed that replica. I didn’t know what to do. He talked to himself a lot and got sweaty. He finally left on his own. I thought I was done with him for the day, at least, but not so—after lunch he called me. ‘I think you have the missing New York copy of the Bill of Rights.’ He told me it supposedly burned up, but he’s sure I’ve got it. What should I do? He really believes it. I’m getting jumpy. I’m afraid he’ll call the feds—say I’ve been eating bald eagle or some such nonsense—get me arrested, so he can break in here and snatch it.”
Bonn thought for a moment. “He’s probably right.” Manny uttered a small groan.
“My father’s ego wouldn’t have allowed him to hang a mere replica in his house. It probably is the New York copy.”
Manny was speechless. Bonn felt a tinge of guilt.
His friend’s troubles were his fault. The original New York copy of the Bill of Rights hung in his greasy little auto body shop.
“Do you still have the Vargas girl?”
Manny replied shakily. “I think so, yeah. If Linda didn’t throw her out. I’ve missed her dearly.”
“I have too. Let’s do this—put her back up where she belongs and stick the Bill of Rights in the trunk of the Marauder.”
Manny had relief in his voice already. A change of subject was just what he needed. “It’ll certainly fit in the trunk of that ugly thing.” Bonn recalled the consternation in Manny’s voice when he had told him the Marauder was the car he liked.
A barn with a Shelby? Half a dozen Plymouths? And you picked out a beat up Mercury Marauder …
It had been hard to convince Manny about the Mercury.
Son, I don’t even want to restore this car. The best thing we can do is sell it ‘as is’ to some kid who doesn’t know better.
His reply had been simple.
I like it.
Manny begrudgingly agreed to the project, but the body and fender artist was obviously disgusted each time they opened the hood.
Bonn, if we are going to overhaul a rusty engine block, cracked hoses, missing belts, and chrome the thing up, we should be working on a car with the stock 429. We could even drop a crate engine in it and be done with it—a seven liter. A 427.
No. It’ll look good black-on-black. We’ll tune it up, but leave the rust. Just hang some white fuzzy dice on the rear view. That’s what I want.
Manny had crossed his arms and fumed. It was the closest thing to an argument they had ever had.
Finally, Bonn said something Manny understood.
I don’t want to drive something fancy. I grew up with the best of everything and nothing worked out. I want a car that’s been around long enough to rust. It’ll comfort me.
Manny began to soften. He’d understood then. It wasn’t about the car.
Marauder—
He had added as he leaned down to wiggle the loose tail pipe.
I like the name.
Manny had nodded and tucked a fresh toothpick into the corner of his mouth. He chomped on the little sticks of wood each time he ruminated on a new problem. Manny had always wanted much more for him than Bonn wanted for himself.
Manny pulled the Bill of Rights off the wall and set it on the couch.
OK. Time to hide this thing.
He looked around in the rear of the shop for the Vargas girl. He hoped Linda hadn’t thrown her out. It didn’t matter how priceless Bonn’s document was—the girl was nicer to look at. He found something rolled up in a drawer, held by an aging rubber band. “There you are.” Manny unrolled the poster and pushed thumbtacks in each corner. He stood back and smiled. He’d never found the silly thing erotic. He just liked the era it came from and enjoyed razzing Linda too. She was good at playing along. He was a lucky man. He was an odd, wooly little perfectionist, but Linda loved him anyway. In the love department, Manny won the lottery. He knew it. He’d wait until Linda came down for lunch tomorrow. When she noticed the bombshell was back, he’d act surprised—
Lady, you’ve definitely got the right to bear arms.
Manny carried Bonn’s document to the rear of the shop.
It looked different these days.
Bonn surprised Manny and Linda one summer. He bought the property behind Manny’s garage and sold it to them for a dollar. A massive rolling door was now where the oven used to sit. It led to the new shop. The addition was built with several dozen shipping containers. Two banks of twenty footers, four high and five across, served as bot
h walls and storage. Bonn bought a hydraulic lift to allow easy access to cars and motorcycles inside the containers that weren’t on ground level. Eighty-foot-long I-beams were welded on top of the containers. They supported a warehouse-sized attic. The shop had everything he could dream of. Chain hoists, lifts, floor drains—even a dedicated painting room. If they chose to, they could build a car from scratch here. Bonn had things delivered almost every week. The latest addition was still in a heavy crate by the back door: a CNC machine.
Computer numerical control. What a mouthful.
The machinist sucked his breath in nervously through his teeth. Manny promised he’d wait to unpack the expensive toy until the boy came to visit. Bonn wanted to play with it together. Manny’s growing collection of hard-to-find car parts was housed in the top of the building. Parts were organized by make, model, and year. It was like a muscle car parts museum. He and Linda traveled quite a bit now that they could afford to. When Linda went shopping for clothes on a trip, Manny hit the junkyards. He’d shipped parts back home from at least a dozen states now. In truth, Manny hated to mess up the new addition. He still used the old shop for dirty projects. He liked the smallness of it; he could reach all his tools without going too far. He remembered where each oil stain came from. Manny stepped onto a lift and worked the controls. The Marauder was on the third level of containers, second to last box on the left. Linda enjoyed riding the lift. One afternoon she took Polaroid pictures of each car to place on the door of its respective container. The Marauder’s Polaroid was of the Mercury’s grill, nestled between the four simple round headlights.
He had to admit. That thin slash of chrome was dazzling against the black.
Manny still held out hope that Bonn would let him fix up the engine someday. Manny steered the lift into place. He unlocked the container and swung open the door. The containers were only eight feet wide inside, so he had to turn sideways and step past the car’s wide body to get to the trunk. He wrapped the document up in an old wool blanket and put it gently on top of the spare. He shut the trunk carefully, just leaning on it until the latch engaged. It was hard to see anything but the silly dice in the dark container. Everything on the car except the chrome was black. Manny turned a light on and wiped a thin layer of dust off of the sinister machine. He locked up the container and rode the lift down.
A proper restoration job made something old even better than new.
It was the first car they’d dipped a frame on. Bonn was more than a good mechanic—he was an artist. Manny wouldn’t have chosen the black interior though. A cream interior would look nice—however, with the dice inside it’d look like a big dumb domino.
All the black with the chrome was ominous. If the pale horse gave out on Death while in the Finger Lakes region, he might come for the Marauder.
Manny imagined the Grim Reaper riding the lift and opening the door.
That’s one bad machine. I like the dice.
Manny had an idea: he’d tell the history buff he gave the document to someone to check it for authenticity—that sort of thing might take a while.
Maybe the guy would stop asking about it.
~Conus
The trawler’s top speed was eight knots. It took several days to reach the fishing grounds. The tongueless boy was tasked with watching Henna. Each morning he brought her bleach coffee with a starch-thick breakfast of rice with breadfruit. She washed it all down with rationed sips from the bottled water she’d bought in Malé. Chlorine was in everything, but by the end of the fourth day it didn’t bother her as much. When she explored the boat, the boy followed. The crew shot her odd glances, but left her alone. Many of them were African. She tried some polite greetings in Swahili, but they refused to speak with her. It was as if they’d been told not to.
Time passed despite her discomfort. She read a bit. She watched for birdlife to indicate nearby islands or atolls. Her lips became chapped from the sun and the bleach. Early one morning the boy knocked lightly on the door of the storage room. The engine had slowed. She felt the big boat turn. Henna pulled the loose end of the hitch holding the door shut and peeked outside. “Are we there?” The boy nodded. He gestured excitedly with his hands. She’d started to understand his rudimentary sign language. He was a good kid. Henna correctly guessed his meaning and he nodded happily.
They’d pull the first net in two hours.
Henna was surprised how many men were actually on the boat. The deck seemed cluttered with bodies. Everyone but her knew what to do. She kept getting in the way.
The ship was a freezer trawler. The primary goal was to get fish in the freezer quickly. When the first haul was pulled aboard, everyone who didn’t run a machine was on deck. They scrambled to throw different fish down different hatches. When a giant turtle became entangled in the net and disrupted the mechanism for gathering the net together at the top, Henna dashed forward to inspect the mass of writhing creatures. It was mostly mullet, so the odd turtle or tuna really stuck out. It was difficult to look past the suffering of the animals brought aboard. Henna understood why the woman on the telephone advocated abolishing the practice of trawling.
But she had to admit—it was effective.
Henna forced herself to search the periphery of the net while the crew worked. The boy with no tongue was there at every turn. Henna stumbled over him more than once. Henna cursed herself.
She should have brought more cash.
She only had a couple hundred pounds left. Using the captain’s math that would buy her ten specimens. She wondered for a moment if the boy was also tasked with her specimen count. Life at sea was nothing like life on land. An uneducated, barbaric loser on land became a god when he was named the top person on a boat. Henna watched how the captain ruled the crew. He used fear and violence. He carried a sjambok with him to point and direct people.
He was not a kindly man. The meaning was clear: This is my sea scepter. Do my bidding, or I’ll remove your skin one lash at a time.
He didn’t just carry it either—he used it. Two meals were served to the crew each day. One day during the second meal a cook stumbled in the galley. A large bowl of rice was spilled. The captain was immediately on his feet. He strode forward angrily and lashed the man three times with the weapon. Henna shivered.
No one dared say a word.
They fished around the clock. Henna saw a few cone snails, but they were known species. The trawler’s nets opened, the pickers rushed the pile of creatures, the catch was sorted. They fed the nets back out. Each time a live turtle came aboard the fishermen performed a show for Henna by gently returning the creature to the water. Forced smiles and nods indicated they always treated the gentle giants with such reverence, but Henna knew the truth. The captain likely choreographed the act. When a dead turtle was brought aboard, the real excitement started.
“One to eat? One to eat!” A man yelled in Swahili. Henna kept a mental tally—though turtle was one of the main sources of protein on the boat, Henna was sure most of the drowned turtles were in the freezer, awaiting lucrative black-market sales in Zanzibar. She doubted the crew usually ate them; they were worth too much money to be crew-food. Henna forced herself to look past the dead turtles. She even feigned joy when she was served turtle in the galley for the second meal. Everyone watched her closely. She was determined not to bring more attention to herself than necessary.
On the third afternoon a porpoise slid from the net. It was exhausted but alive. A man took a short knife and cut the animal.
“One to eat.”
He flashed a smile at Henna. Guiltily, he added, “Already dead.”
It wasn’t already dead. He likes the taste of porpoise.
Henna jumped when she realized the captain was behind her. He clapped and then put a hand on her lower back. He leaned in to be heard over the machinery, but it was much too intimate a gesture.
“Truly a shame. We won’t waste the body of the fish, though. We will give thanks to the fish when we eat him.”
Henna swallowed the bile in her throat and managed a nod.
She despised hypocrites.
The captain slithered off to congratulate the man with the short knife.
What a loathsome boat. What malevolent practices. They had no right to kill the porpoise.
The boy was at her side. He shook a plastic bag in her face to get her attention. She took the bag and looked inside.
Cone snails—the ones she needed!
Five of them. They were darker than any she’d seen before—nearly black. Each was near ten inches long and had beautiful light blue patterns, like loosely interconnecting delicate sine waves. The shells had obconic apexes and sharp bases. One snail probed its surroundings with a phosphorescent blue proboscis.
They were alive.
The boy pointed to the porpoise and mimicked sadness. He raked at his cheeks to indicate tears. Henna nodded her head. The captain stepped forward to direct the bleeding of the porpoise. The boy appeared nervous. He’d waited for just the right moment to show her the snails. He held a finger to his lips and pointed to a small cooler next to the door of the galley. Henna understood.
Take these, but don’t tell.
The snails were a peace offering.
INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1) Page 16
