High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4)

by Brian David Bruns

  "So how did he get lost if he had a local guide?"

  "The guide gave them a tour for two hours then dropped them off by the gate. His job was done. Everybody was supposed to have half an hour to do their own thing. Stupid Yoyo forgot what time the bus left, so he told everybody to meet back at the gate at three o'clock. The bus was supposed to leave at two! Not that the idiot would know: he didn't even have a watch. Can you believe that? Who the hell goes that far from the ship without a watch? Idiot. Luckily Fabrice did a head count or we would have left without them. He had to hire guides on the spot to go find the passengers, who had wandered all over the damn place. That's why people aren't given a lot of time to themselves: they wander off. The very expensive guides found everybody and Yoyo was all giggly and shit. He had no idea how much trouble he'd have been in if he lost eight passengers in a foreign country, an hour and a half from the ship."

  "At least it all worked out."

  "Not for my budget," Cosmina growled, downing another drink. "Those Italians knew exactly what happened and charged an arm and a leg to go find them all. My budget is screwed for the whole goddamn cruise. I just want to get drunk."

  Cosmina lent actions to her words. She downed drinks so fast I truly began to worry about her. Worse, her chant no longer was just to get drunk, but 'to get drunk and forget'. I didn't know what that last tag meant, but growled repetition made it ominous. She was obviously burdened by something greater than Yoyo's mishap. After Rick's sudden outburst that day, and now Cosmina's ambiguous self-torture, I was beginning to wonder what kind of dysfunctional family I had been adopted into. But nobody goes to sea unless they're running—either to something or, more likely, from something.

  I did the usual tricks to slow Cosmina's drinking: swapping alcohol with water, ordering food, asking the waitress to avoid our table, that sort of thing. None of it worked, and I knew I had a potential mess on my hands. Cosmina got absolutely plowed. She was a big girl and if she wanted to make an ass of herself, fine by me. Yet it was painful to sit next to someone you know and work with and see her going under. How could I in good conscience not involve myself?

  What saved me was the arrival of a group of others: Fabrice, Barney, and Faye. They were intent on a quality night of social drinking. That meant gaiety, it meant laughs. They dispersed the swelling gloom. Everybody was in a fine fettle. Everybody but Cosmina, of course. But now outnumbered, she merely stewed over her drinks. She didn't even attempt to condescend to Faye—a truly rare thing, even if unattainable.

  Eventually the time came to disperse and we rose from the table. Cosmina wavered dangerously, but Barney placed a sturdy hand on her shoulder for support. He offered his large frame for her to ease into.

  "Whoa... how about I escort you back to your cabin?"

  "I'm fine!" Cosmina snapped. "I need Brian."

  The curt dismissal obviously hurt Barney, but he said nothing. I looked at him in a lame attempt at apologizing for her behavior. He shrugged.

  "We need to talk... business," Cosmina continued, eyelids fluttering past bleary eyes. Then she blurted, "Tours!"

  "Whatever," Barney replied. He eased the noodle-like Cosmina my way and asked kindly, "You good?"

  "She'll be all right," I replied quietly. He watched us depart with mild concern, then went on his way.

  Getting Cosmina back to her cabin was a chore. She could barely walk. Her key dropped from useless, alcohol-soaked fingers. When I bent down to pick it up, she all but collapsed onto my back. Very awkwardly we managed to get her into the cabin. She flopped onto the bed with a curious mix of giggle and groan.

  "Just lay back and fall asleep," I soothed. "I'll set your alarm."

  I did so, then began pulling off her shoes. Before I was even through, her eyes flew wide open and she hollered, "No, not the socks! Not the socks!"

  My hands shot back defensively. "I wasn't going to. Just your shoes."

  Already succumbing again to the alcohol she had so heavily plied, Cosmina still managed to paw at me. "I just want to feel good," she mumbled pathetically. "I need a man to make me feel good. My socks are on."

  I didn't know what she was talking about, but she was drunk enough where it didn't matter. I placed her hands at her sides and kindly said, "You don't need a man. The trick is to make yourself happy first, then find someone to share it with."

  Her response was snoring. I tip-toed the hell out of there.

  Chapter 10. Monte Carlo, Monaco

  1

  Monte Carlo was exciting for several reasons, the least of which was its reputation for glamor. I had a chance to sample such wares in a fully and even unexpected manner. Of more import than all the fun was the easing of tensions with Cosmina. Not all of them, of course. Cosmina was far too insidious for full resolution; agenda would yet rear its ugly head.

  Wind Surf had called upon Monaco before. That day had started with a wonderful treat, one of the earliest salvos in Cosmina's shock and awe campaign. Having been granted a free helicopter flight over the French Riviera, Cosmina passed it on to me. When asked why, she had spoken effusively for several minutes before finally concluding that 'she can do things for me.'

  I had never been on a helicopter ride, and it was quite an experience. It's one thing to walk up to the small, bubble-shaped craft and another to actually be allowed to buckle up. The lady beside me, a middle-aged and rather portly passenger from Surf, joked sourly, "Seat belts aren't going to help us when we go down." Rather, I assumed she was joking. The future would prove otherwise. The voice of the pilot cut her off, reverberated snugly within my headphones. If only they had been trained on him alone.

  Before I knew it, we were rising. The ascent from the pad was straight up, if not particularly smooth. The lady beside me grappled my hand the very second we left ground. Up we rose, higher and higher, until we topped every high rise condominium, every cliff, and every high rise condominium on a cliff. The ride became extremely smooth. It was unlike any of my previous flying experiences, whether in a jetliner or an ultralight, for we were not propelled through the air: we just hung there. The impression of hanging was distinct, as if the rotors above weren't moving at all, but actually tethered to the very sky. Below us stretched the city, one of the richest cultural communities on the planet, as well as simply just one of the richest. The splendor of education and wealth shone brilliantly in the soft Mediterranean sun as nothing less than a clean-cut bar of platinum. The sea filled in the rest of the view, splendid and blue.

  We quickly passed above all the towns of Monaco, which merged together into one giant bowl of culture tumbling into the sea. First we flew east for a quick jaunt over the Italian border to play with the mountains of San Remo. Then back westward we flew, over the Cote d'Azur past Nice, Cannes, even as far as St. Tropez. I thought it was all simply mesmerizing.

  My neighbor most definitely did not. As the pilot narrated points of interest, her voice awkwardly cut him off by declaring, "I don't want any heroics."

  The pilot wisely ignored her, then banked the helicopter in a dramatic spin. Below us yawned the stunning aquamarine of the sea. The hooklike, rocky spur upon which rested the Museum of Oceanography was fully visible and most enchanting. Unfortunately I couldn't admire it for, somehow, despite her seatbelt, the lady beside me managed to throw her entire body onto me.

  "We're going down!" she cried, "Oh Lord, Jesus Christ protect me! We're going down!"

  "We're not going down," I said, rather irritably. She was ruining the moment. The helicopter leveled and continued back towards Monte Carlo. Not a moment too soon, it seems, for the lady was about to have a heart attack.

  "When we go down," she said in huff, "I don't want any heroics."

  I watched her, marveling as she verily fanned herself to avoid over-heating with emotion.

  "No heroics?"

  "Save yourself," she panted. "Honestly, you're younger and have a full life in front of you. Don't try to save me."

  No worries there, I thought to m
yself. Why the hell did she take this very expensive tour if she was afraid of heights?

  "Really," she continued. "I've made peace with this life."

  Maybe you should start making peace with everybody else around you, I thought acidly.

  "I'm prepared to meet my maker."

  She wouldn't shut up. Is this how everybody felt when I wouldn't let a bad joke die? I resolved to work on that. Then she hurled her camera at me and cried, "I can't do it! Please, please, take photos! I need pictures. Oh, please take photos of the view. Just don't take a picture of me dying. I don't want anyone to see my last, horrible moments in this world."

  "I'm sure we'll be just fine," I said with more kindness than I felt.

  "Take a picture of that there—that pretty boat—hurry before it's gone! Oh, this is so horrible. No, not from there, young man, there's too much glare on the window. Wait, what are you doing? Don't you dare take my picture! You want my children to see me like this? Don't you care about my children? Oh! Oh!"

  Though the helicopter's rise had been uneven, the landing was smooth and instant—and not a moment too soon. One more minute and I was going to beat the woman with her own camera.

  2

  Crazy helicopter lady's overreaction, though annoying, was harmless. One must expect unreasonable behavior from passengers because they are people. People are dumb. The next passenger to create havoc over Monte Carlo was not unreasonable. Nor was he prone to overreaction, though he caused plenty of it. For crew, too, are people. That Cosmina was involved in an epic overreaction was not surprising. For Francois to get involved was.

  The drama began a full week before Monte Carlo was again a port of call. Francois personally asked both Fabrice and I to work with Cosmina regarding some 'special' passenger. When we arrived to her tiny office, Cosmina was so stressed that she hadn't time for her usual preening. Her plumage was already plucked.

  "They call him Crazy Al," Cosmina explained, nervously tapping a photograph on her desk. Her feet also rapped a tune on her chair. I'd never seen anyone so in need of a cigarette in my life.

  "Sounds like a used car salesman," I replied.

  In Cosmina's tiny office, space was tight. While leaning over her for a better look, I accidentally pushed into Fabrice. He pantomimed being thrown aside, then 'came at me' with exaggerated elbows. I smiled. Cosmina hissed.

  "Looks like a used car salesman," I continued after seeing the photo. Crazy Al wore an over-the-top suit of bold pink, including a matching fedora. It was difficult to ascertain where the photo was taken, other than in a crowd. Trying to lighten her mood, I joked, "For the best deals, call Crazy Al on the duck phone!"

  She was not amused.

  "I 'ave nevair sold automobiles," Fabrice agreed, shrugging.

  "He's not a damn car salesman!" Cosmina snarled. "He's a high roller."

  Seeing us both staring at her expectantly, she ruffled her feathers angrily and squawked, "A high roller! Don't you guys know what a high roller is? What the hell?"

  "Whoa, chill," I soothed, holding up my hands. "I lived in Las Vegas. Of course I know what a high roller is. But I don't understand what that has to do with the Surf."

  "You lived in Las Vegas?" Cosmina blurted, eyes widening. Squealing with delight, she lunged from her seat to plant a big kiss right on my lips. Fabrice clapped his hands in celebration. Now it was my turn to be unamused.

  "What was that all about?" I gently pushed her back into her seat, trying to act like I was used to women throwing themselves at me.

  Though not gone, Cosmina's nerves had been soothed enough to answer with a wriggle of hope louder than the rhythm of stress. She explained, "Crazy Al is a high roller from Las Vegas. He doesn't look like it, but he's rich."

  "Oh, he looks like it all right," I said. "Flamboyance is part of the game. So why are you so stressed? What's up?"

  "As part of some big jackpot, a Las Vegas casino gave him a free cruise to Monte Carlo. If he raves about it, the casino will do it again, maybe a lot. It's on me to make sure his Casino experience is perfect, or I'm in big trouble. Francois specifically ordered me to do whatever it takes to show him a good time."

  "Ooh la la," Fabrice breathed lasciviously.

  Cosmina glared at him. "So I need your help making sure he'll like it."

  "Both of us? Ooh la la!" Fabrice repeated more energetically, this time erupting in laughter. Before Cosmina utterly destroyed him, he pantomimed surrender.

  In fact, Crazy Al caused consternation throughout much of the ship. The ship's casino, in particular, was all up in arms. The manager, Dimitar, was a young Bulgarian who had just moved into his management position. He felt utterly unqualified to entertain a man of Crazy Al's magnitude. The night before the cruise was to even begin, Dimitar kept me up until midnight poring over every little detail. 'Are the stakes high enough? Too high? Should we only have men dealers? Or do they have women dealers in Vegas, dressed sexy?'

  Inevitably the fateful cruise began. During the days, when the casino was closed, Dimitar fretted. During the nights, when the casino remained empty, Dimitar freaked. For the small casino did, indeed, remain empty. Gambling had never been a big draw for the Wind Surf, necessitating only a handful of gambling tables and a roulette wheel. Dimitar kept them all open, all night—much to the consternation of the dealers. But dealers were cruise ship employees, so they had little say about being forced to work an extra forty hours that week, unpaid. The nights were very long and very boring, for Crazy Al did not make an appearance.

  The night before Wind Surf reached Monte Carlo, Cosmina and I were sitting at our usual table at the Compass Rose. I sipped an adult beverage, whereas she chain-smoked cigarettes. To our surprise, Francois approached.

  "May I join you?" he asked, toting a snifter of cognac.

  "Of course!" I said, gesturing to a chair. Cosmina, lost in a cloud of smoke, appeared equally lost in a cloud of thought. She hadn't even noticed the hotel director's arrival. Francois set his drink upon the table, rattled his golden bracelets to set them straight, and leaned back. He watched Cosmina ignoring him for a long moment. Finally he took his glasses off and, with a great deal of poise, lightly asked if she would grant us a moment alone.

  "Cosmina?" he repeated gently.

  "What?" she snapped irritably. Only then did she realize who she was speaking to. Her cigarette dropped from slack lips, flaring as it struck the table. Reflexively trying to hide her faux-pas, she scooped the hot ashes into her palm. She hid her grimace as poorly as her surprise. But Francois, always unflappable, merely raised an eyebrow. Cosmina hastily excused herself, nearly tripping in her rush to escape. Watching her go, Francois finally cracked a smile.

  "She's had a rough week," he said. "As has Dimitar."

  "He has," I agreed. "I heard that last night Crazy Al made an appearance sometime after midnight. He played a few hands and left. Poor Dimitar actually woke me up to take a look at the casino, wondering if he'd overlooked something obvious."

  "So he informed me," Francois agreed. "Thank you for obliging him. It's not your responsibility to help in this, and it's appreciated. I was informed by Cosi that you have lived in Las Vegas. May I, too, ask your opinion? Do you think we're doing something wrong?"

  "Not at all," I replied. After a moment of thought, I suggested, "I suspect it's because he's alone. High rollers in Vegas come in two types. There are the serious gamblers who are quiet and focused. Many of them work private salons and high limit areas secured from the crowds. But Crazy Al wouldn't be called Crazy Al if he was one of those. He wouldn't wear a pink suit and pink fedora. No, he's the other type. He's a showman. He's used to being in the thick of things. He wants the action from a crowd: the admiration, the noise, the excitement. But I don't know what you can do about that. Our casino is pretty quiet."

  Francois nodded thoughtfully.

  "We can make that happen," he finally said. "After Monte Carlo tomorrow there's only one more night. I'll arrange a casino-themed party. I'll get h
im a crowd."

  "Preferably drunk," I suggested. "Babes will no doubt help."

  Francois smiled, "The former will not be a problem. I'm in control of the drink prices, after all. The PR value of this cruise will more than make up for slashing the price of drinks. His word of mouth can be a big boon for us."

  Francois leaned towards me. His eyeglasses flashed. "This Crazy Al was given this cruise specifically because Wind Surf is the only cruise ship that overnights in Monte Carlo. We must impress him. Cosmina is capable, but in this she's out of her depth. She's prone to panic. Further, she has no experience wooing elite clientele. You do. I need your help. I want the two of you to scout out the Casino during the day. A dry run. I don't want any surprises."

  Oh, but there were surprises. Big, nasty surprises.

  3

  Monte Carlo was extremely dense. It had that 'houses stacked on houses' vibe one expected from the Mediterranean, but everything was shockingly modern: all clean lines of steel and glass and chrome. The rocky escarpment upon which the small city clung seemed jarringly out of place. Also appearing out of place was the prince's palace. It sprawled over a huge escarpment overlooking the harbor, looking like it was built in the 13th century—which it was, in part. Of course, not modern does not imply not awesome.

  The monarchy itself, however, was completely modern. His Serene Highness Albert II, Prince of Grimaldi—as well as a laundry list of titles numbering over two dozen—was not merely a figurehead, but actually involved in daily politics. Monaco was one of just three places so. Being American, I was curious about if, and how, they established checks and balances. Turns out the prince proposes the laws and the National Council votes them in. No autocratic dictator, here.