Boxing the Octopus, page 9
“I did the job,” sobbed Lou. “Just like you asked.”
“I didn’t ask for anything,” said Cragg. “But I’m asking you now—”
“C’mon, Cragg, we had an arrangement,” said Lou hurriedly. “I mean Jesus—“
“—no need to get blasphemous, you fucking barnacle.” Cragg spat onto the tile floor.
“Okay…okayokayokaaay!” Lou was trying not to hyperventilate. “But do you have to talk like a pirate?”
“What did you say to me?” Cragg was taken aback.
“It’s freaking me out.”
“Me?” Cragg’s flinty glare shattered with laughter. “I’m the one freaking you out?” His right hand hovered over the control panel as his left gestured at the pool. As if on cue, a spray of water shot into the air just below the bars of the cage. Lou squawked as a great white shark moved through the water like a junkie on his way to Taco Bell.
It was just a baby, about five years old and eight feet long, but it outweighed Lou by more than five hundred pounds. The dorsal fin broke the water and then vanished as the shark made a languid turn beneath the cage.
Lou’s legs buckled and the cage started spinning again. He felt like a drunk stripper doing a cage dance, only in this scenario the asshole in the front row with all the crumpled singles was a known predator with a killer smile. Lou stared at one enormous black eye tracking him as the shark drifted along.
Cragg eyed the shark with a mixture of affection and anxiety. He knew it wouldn’t last long in captivity. The great white was an obligate ram ventilator, a fish that could only pump water across its gills by swimming relentlessly forward. The tank was too small, like a room without enough oxygen. And even if Cragg set it loose in the communal tank and rang the dinner bell, he couldn’t feed it for long. Its movements were sluggish, the powerful tail barely a tremor in the pool.
Cragg turned his attention to his captive audience. “Why was there less cash than you collected? I know you had an explanation, but since it sounded like bilge water I’ve forgotten what it was. Maybe you’ve thought of a better one?”
It took Lou a second to respond, his eyes on the shark. “I told you, the cash should’ve matched the count—”
“—unless you skimmed.”
“Or wet suits have big pockets.”
“Not likely.” Cragg shook his head.
“How can you be sure?”
“That’s the best part of being me,” said Cragg. “I don’t have to be sure…but you do.” He rested his hand on the panel but didn’t push the button. “So, is that your final answer?”
“We had a deal,” said Lou. “We shook hands.”
“Maybe you made a new deal,” said Cragg. “We both have two hands to shake.” The pirate raised his right hand and spread his fingers in a wave before pointing at the shark.
“I knew I’d get my cut.” The spinning had almost stopped and Lou shifted his gaze to Cragg.
“Your cut,” nodded Cragg, eyes on the shark. “And your partner?”
“Hank?” asked Lou, stunned by the question. “What about him?”
“Did you see him after the truck took a dive?”
“He was at the bottom of the bay with the truck.”
“Was he?”
“Wasn’t he?”
“I think you’re a canvas shy of a full sail, Lou.”
“Godammit!” Lou practically squeaked. “Would you stop with the Captain Blood routine?”
“Errol Flynn’s best movie,” said Cragg reverently.
Lou stared at the gap between his feet. “Why are you asking about Hank?”
“See, that’s the problem.” A look of chagrin passed like a wave across Cragg’s leathered face. “You keep thinking this is a conversation, instead of me asking questions that you’re supposed to answer.”
“But—”
Lou’s answer got swallowed by a gasp as Cragg’s thumb pressed the green button. The ten-foot gap to the water disappeared.
Somewhere in his reptilian brain Lou understood he should move as little as possible, but when the base of the cage touched the water, he started kicking and screaming like a politician denied a bribe.
The shark had been drifting toward the edge of the pool twenty feet away, but when it sensed the vibrations, it did a slow U-turn and headed toward the cage.
Lou grabbed the top bars and tried to swing onto the top of the cage, but his sweaty hands kept slipping. His legs were already submerged up to the knees when Cragg flicked his index finger against one of the metal switches on the panel.
The steel cable detached and the cage began to sink.
Lou gripped the bars until water covered his face and a stream of bubbles traced the path of his scream. The shark flicked its tail lazily and rolled onto its left side as it closed the gap, jaws opening as the black eye rolled back into its head, as if preparing for a lover’s kiss.
The shark moved as if it had all the time in the world.
Lou vaulted out of the cage with unexpected force, but the shark was already too close for a swimming escape, so Lou frantically started kicking. His right foot caught the shark on the nose as it rolled, then his left connected just above the eye.
The shark continued to roll.
Lou continued to kick and kick and kick. He was the Karate Kid on meth.
He managed to shove himself backwards, but the sheer size and momentum of the shark kept it coming, so Lou flailed his arms and tried to swim on his back as the shark continued to roll.
Cragg watched their synchronized swimming with a sense of foreboding.
By the time Lou’s kicks faltered, the shark had performed a 180 and was drifting on its back, its white belly exposed. Lou panted and kicked and sobbed until his legs gave out and he, too, floated on his back.
The shark started to sink.
“Shit,” said Cragg.
He watched in horror as his prize catch drifted like a turd in a punchbowl, its pectoral fins waving goodbye as the shark sank slowly to the bottom of the pool.
Cragg stared and didn’t blink.
The shark sank and didn’t move.
Lou started crying and laughing hysterically.
Cragg spat into the pool. “You slipped out of the halter this time, bucko.”
Lou, still on his back, regarded Cragg upside down. “The fuck does that mean?”
“It means you’ll have to die another day.”
Lou flipped over and held onto the side of the pool. He registered the sword on Cragg’s hip but was so relieved at not being eaten alive, the prospect of being run through didn’t really scare him that much. “You gonna stab me to death?”
“No.” Cragg took a long look at his dead shark. “I think I’ll buy you a drink.”
26
“I could use a drink.”
“You just had two.” Eva looked at her brother’s empty glass skeptically. “And that shit vodka you’re drinking is expensive.”
“Khren vam!” Sergey pushed up on his elbows, realizing that telling his sister to fuck off was like breathing—she wouldn’t even notice till he stopped. “How can you say that? Just look at that bottle.” He pointed defiantly at an oversized blue bottle behind the bar, a flock of geese in flight painstakingly etched into its gray contours.
“It’s French,” said Eva.
“So?”
“The French make wine,” said Eva simply. “Russians make vodka.”
“That’s racist,” said Sergey.
“That doesn’t make it less true.” Eva rolled an ice cube around her mouth before spitting it back into her glass. “But it’s nice to hear you’re so politically correct. Life in America has certainly made you a samoopravdannyy pizda.”
Sergey almost fell off his stool. “I am not self-righteous.”
“But you are a pussy,” replied Eva. “Did I commit a micro-aggression against your bottle?”
“Your mouth is a fountain of bile,” said Sergey. “It’s not a proper way to talk—”
“—for a girl?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s sexist,” replied Eva. “Didn’t we agree this bar was a safe space?” She pouted unconvincingly. “I feel marginalized.”
“Trakhnut’ tebya sestra.”
“Such language,” said Eva, tonguing another ice cube free of its neighbors. “Fuck you, too, Brother.”
“Why are we here?” Sergey tried for the attention of the bartender, an exceptionally fit-looking woman with hair dyed a vivid blue. Sergey was fairly certain she was a lesbian, simply because she kept ignoring him.
The bartender turned away from a young couple about ten feet down the bar and Eva caught her eye, gesturing for another round. The bartender smiled at Eva before turning to grab the bottles for their drinks.
“I knew it,” said Sergey, staring wistfully at the bartender’s backside.
Eva gave him a look. “Knock it off.”
Sergey shrugged and glanced around the bar. It was filling up with tourists faster than a beer mug under a broken tap. The décor seemed to amplify rather than dampen the ambient noise. Surfboards were suspended from overhead beams, tiki lights stood at crazy angles near tall tables, and The Beach Boys blared from speakers concealed by palm fronds and plastic coconuts. Since the nearest beach for catching a decent wave was two hours along the coast, the bar’s presence on Pier 39 made about as much sense as a Western bar in New Jersey.
“This stupid bar—”
“—is next to the guard station.”
Sergey shifted on his stool. “I don’t see any security guards.”
“Sergey, would you wear your uniform when having a drink after work?” When her brother gave her a sullen look, Eva held out her right hand, palm up. “Give me the picture.”
Sergey hesitated only an instant before reaching into his back pocket and producing a driver’s license. The dead security guard stared at them from a photograph only the DMV could have taken. Sergey thought even the guard would agree that he looked better dead.
Sergey had tried to take a photo of the guard’s corpse, using toothpicks to prop his cheeks into a smile, but the dead eyes were creepy, no matter how big the grin. Nastya told him to knock it off in the same tone of voice Eva had used a moment ago. Both his sisters could sound like their mother sometimes.
The bartender finished making their drinks as Eva grabbed the license.
“Excuse me,” she said. “My brother found this on the pier outside the front door.” Eva set the license on the bar. “And we wanted to return it. I suppose we could mail it to the address on the license, but since we were coming in for a drink anyway, we thought we should ask if you’ve see—”
“Marty,” said the bartender, without checking the name on the license. “Marty comes in all the time, after his shift ends.” A flicker of a smile appeared as she added, “And sometimes he comes in before his shift ends.”
“His shift?” asked Sergey.
The bartender laughed at her own joke and said, “He’s a guard, a security guard on the pier. A lot of the guys come in here.”
Eva nodded once but didn’t say anything. A second bartender, a guy with earlobes ravaged by piercings gone awry, was working both sides of the bar while their blue-tinted bartender lingered over the license. The hint of a frown appeared between her eyebrows.
“He didn’t come in today, though,” she said. “Must’ve dropped it during one of his rounds.”
“Does he work the whole pier?” asked Eva.
“You know,” added Sergey, “if we wanted to find him?” Three drinks along, his nonchalance didn’t require any acting.
“Sector two. Each guard works a section of the pier, builds relationships with the merchants. Three guys a sector to handle the shifts.” She tapped the license. “Marty is one of ours.”
“How big is sector two?” asked Eva.
“This bar, the magic store, the coffee shop, the bakery—the one that serves soup in a bread bowl.” The bartender fanned the fingers of her right hand. “Oh, and the 800-pound gorilla across the way.”
“Gorilla?” asked Sergey, genuinely confused.
“It’s an idiom,” said Eva impatiently. “She means the aquarium.”
“I should’ve said octopus instead of gorilla,” said the bartender. “Surprised that place doesn’t have a guard all their own.”
“Maybe they do,” Eva said.
“Sorry?”
Eva pushed the license across the bar. “Do you want to hold onto this?”
“In case he comes in,” said Sergey, “later—”
“—or tomorrow,” added Eva. “You never know.”
“Sure thing.” The bartender took the license and placed it in an empty glass. “Nice of you to take the trouble.” She glanced at Sergey. “Most folks would’ve stepped right over it and kept walking.”
Eva placed a hand on Sergey’s shoulder and squeezed. “My brother is very thoughtful.”
The bartender gave Sergey an appraising look and smiled warmly. Sergey’s mouth started to open as if he wanted to ask a question, but Eva stood abruptly and dropped some cash onto the bar, more than enough to cover their drinks. She hooked an arm through Sergey’s elbow to yank him off his stool.
Things had gone well, and she wanted to leave before Sergey asked the bartender if she was a lesbian or said something equally stupid.
Eva knew from experience it was only a matter of time.
27
Cape knew it was only a matter of time before one of the drivers of the armored car turned up.
His client only cared about one of them, and Cape was having a hard time imagining a scenario in which he would deliver good news to the woman sitting next to him.
They were on the cot in the rear of her store, the desk chair having been borrowed by Natalie, the young woman minding the register when he first arrived. Some toddlers’ outfits on a high shelf had to be checked for sizes, and the chair doubled as the store’s step stool. The removal of the chair left Cape with an awkward choice between standing over his client or sitting so close that their knees brushed against each other.
“Sorry I can’t leave the store right now.” Vera shifted on the mattress. “Natalie’s still getting the hang of things, and Sharon has classes today.”
“Nice to see the shop busy.”
“It’s the weekend,” said Vera. “And the fog burned off early.” She glanced out the window behind them. The curtains were pulled aside and late morning sun made the cot warm to the touch.
“I’m no closer to finding Hank,” said Cape, letting that linger before adding, “but I have some more questions.”
When Vera turned to face him, the sunlight cast her face half in light and the other half in shadow. “You’re not giving up,” she said, not as a question but a simple statement of fact.
“I went to Harkness.”
“And how was he?”
“Talkative.”
The corners of Vera’s mouth moved as if smiling had once come naturally.
“Did Hank know how to scuba dive?” asked Cape abruptly. He watched the lines around her mouth tighten and felt a pang of guilt, but questions asked bluntly got the best answers.
“You don’t think—”
“I don’t think anything,” said Cape. “Because I don’t know anything. Remember when I said that I had to ask a lot of people questions?” He held her gaze until the frown lines faded and she nodded once. “One of those people is you.”
Vera looked out the window as her eyes drifted out of focus. “We went on vacation in Cabo last December, saved up all year. Did everything together—jet skis, took diving lessons, even went deep sea fishing. Have you ever been to Mexico?”
Cape nodded. “I found a dead man and blew up a pig farm.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of vacation.”
“I was working.”
Vera looked at him quizzically.
“That’s a story for another time.”
“Okay,” said Vera. “But if you’re asking if Hank had a bumper sticker with a red flag and diagonal white stripe, not even close. You said the police found diving gear, but it just sounds like…” Her voiced faded for an instant. “…like some underwater escape Houdini might try. Maybe ask over at the magic shop how they pulled it off.”
“That’s on my list,” said Cape. “How about drugs?”
“Hank?” Vera’s legs tensed as if she were going to stand, but Cape reached out and touched her hand. He watched a storm rage behind her eyes until Vera placed a hand on top of his and squeezed. “Sorry, this is—”
“—personal,” said Cape. “You don’t need to apologize, but I still need to ask.”
“I never knew Hank to use drugs,” said Vera. “Ever.”
“I was thinking selling, not using,” said Cape. “He had a regular route, a great cover.”
“Absolutely not,” said Vera. “I would’ve known. Hank had a steady job, good benefits. It’s not like he was trying to start a business.” She looked toward the door as if she had X-ray vision, seeing right through the thin wall that separated the idyllic dream of her store and the grim reality of this claustrophobic room.
“Did he need money?”
“Who doesn’t?” asked Vera.
“Dumb question,” replied Cape. “I meant any big loans or debt, as far as you knew?”
“He would’ve said something—Hank listened to me complain often enough.” Voices carried from the other room. The store was filling up. Vera’s eyes shifted from Cape to the door. “Anything else?”
“No.” Cape knew he needed to wrap things up but didn’t want to leave, if only because he didn’t know where to go next. “I know you’re busy.”
“I know you’re trying,” said Vera. “And that means a lot.” She touched his hand again, hers as warm as the sun on the window. “Is it okay if I ask you a question?”
