A Pagan's Nightmare (22 page)

And Lanny was largely correct.

After an exhaustive search of the vessel, he found MC seated at the stern, hidden by a large ice cooler. MC’s legs dangled
over the side, dark shades over his eyes. Blood seaped from his upper right arm, clotting fast but still in a slow stream
toward his elbow. In his hands he held a thick fishing pole.

Lanny rushed over to him. “Man, I thought you’d fallen overboard. How’d you cut your arm?”

“Nope, didn’t fall. I read in a book once that certain fish can smell blood from a mile away, and so I cut myself and dripped
it on our frozen mullet. Then I stuck a chunk of the mullet on my hook. Somebody gotta catch some food, ya know.”

“Good thinking, MC,” Lanny said, impressed with his resourcefulness but queasy over the bloody arm. He sat down beside his
new friend. “Any bites?”

“Naw, but I just started five minutes ago. There’s another pole in the locker.” MC pointed to the closet beside the captain’s
quarters, where he had spent the night among red satin sheets below a framed painting of Castro himself.

Lanny retrieved the second pole and tied on a hook. He sat back down at the stern and baited his hook with a chunk of MC’s
mullet.

MC wiped some blood from his arm and spread it all over Lanny’s bait. “Now you’re ready. Throw it on out there.”

Ten minutes later Lanny had not had a bite. Ten minutes and twenty seconds later, MC’s pole began quivering. Then bending.
Then quivering and bending some more.

Lanny’s whoop was followed closely by MC’s holler.

It was only 7:10 a.m., and they had forgotten their comrades were asleep. But as long as there was a fish on someone’s line,
there was going to be some whooping and hollering.

The Former Donald came running out of his bedroom and onto the back deck, his hair sticking up at odd angles. “What are you
guys yelling about? Y’all see some zealots? Are they chasing us?” He turned and looked in all directions, saw nothing but
blue sea. “And just where are we?”

“Catching a meal, man,” MC said, grimacing as he pulled hard on his pole.

This was not a thorough enough answer for the Former Donald. He noted the lack of a captain. He noted the drift of the yacht.
Then he licked his hand and pressed his hair flat, as if appearances mattered. “Are we outta fuel?”

Lanny shook his head and helped MC to his feet. “Nope, just pausing to get some breakfast.”

“How ‘bout we split the Reese’s in the fridge?”

Though sweaty and preoccupied with his pole, MC used his head to point below deck. “I think our DJ buddy ate the Reese’s last
night. I heard someone sneaking around in the kitchen ‘bout 4:00 a.m.”

There was no more talking after that. MC had never fished in the ocean before, and he was stunned at the brute strength of
whatever had bitten his chunk of O-positive mullet. He reared back and tugged on the pole. He tried to reel in the line but
found its resistance staggering.

Lanny reeled his own line out of the way, set his pole aside, and grabbed a gaff from beside the ice cooler. “You making any
progress?”

MC gritted his teeth and pulled. “Ain’t no fish getting the best of MC.”

The Former Donald looked on amazed, not at the fishing but the fact that anyone would be up before 7:00 a.m., especially after
stealing Castro’s yacht the previous night. The Former Donald was not much of a morning person. He worked the afternoon shift
at the theme park, and never woke before 9:00 or 10:00.

In a tangle of line and arms, MC and Lanny shouted instructions to each other. Then they reached over the stern with pole
and gaff and hauled up something that very much resembled a shark. It flopped violently on the deck—until MC grabbed a block
of ice from the freezer and smashed it on the fish’s head.

With pride glistening on his young face, MC glanced up at the Former Donald. “How big you think this fish is?”

The Former Donald estimated twenty pounds.

Lanny nudged it with his foot and guessed sixteen.

The fish flopped twice more. MC whopped it again with his ice brick.

All three stood staring at the stunned fish until DJ Ned came up yawning from below deck. He walked back to the stern, eyed
the catch, and muttered, “Twenty-one pounds, tops.”

With an exaggerated frown, MC dismissed all guesses. He put his
foot on the fish, posed like for a picture, and gave his personal estimate of ninety-seven pounds.

Lanny found some scales in the tool locker and weighed the catch. “Eighteen and a half,” he said, turning the scales toward
MC. “Enough for a few steaks, I’d say.”

MC Deluxe, being from the inner city of Harlem, had little experience with Caribbean fish. “Urn, what exactly is that thing
I just caught?”

Ned yawned again before stooping to get a better look at the catch. “It’s a dogfish,” he said. “A type of shark… and it’s
edible.”

“I ain’t eatin’ no dogfish,” said MC. “My momma would never allow it.”

Lanny put his arm around MC and spoke into his ear. “If it’s all we catch, then you’ll probably ask for seconds.”

Three hours later, it was all they had caught.

MC pulled his cold and stiffened dogfish from the cooler and held it up for all to see. “Don’t nobody tell me how to cook
this fish. I can cook my own fish. And yes, I will share with everybody, even those of us who slept late. Even whoever it
was who ate the Reese’s in the fridge. This is ‘cause I’m generous. And when I get my recording contract, I’ll still remember
you little people. But right now, I gotta go play chef.” He gripped the tail of the dogfish and motioned for the others to
clear the way. “Don’t nobody crowd me in the kitchen either. I get to cook my own fish my own way, not fried up and covered
with onion rings like you southern guys do.”

A hungry DJ Ned pointed toward the kitchen.“We don’t have any onion rings, MC. I looked.”

“Still, I cook my own fish my own way.” With a firm grip on the tail, MC dragged the dogfish across the deck and hauled it
to the yacht’s kitchen, which he was pleased to see contained a Jenn-Air range, a spice rack, and a set of expensive German
cutlery.

For two days they paralleled the Florida Coast, out of sight of land but not far from Boca Raton. Meals retrenched into sameness.
At a
rationed pace in the South Atlantic, they ate small portions of dogfish steak for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“I’m sick of dogfish,” said the Former Donald at the dinner table. “Can’t one of you guys catch a mangrove snapper? Perhaps
a pompano?”

He was strongly urged to hush—MC even pointed a fillet knife at him—and the men finished their meal in silence.

After the meal, Lanny finally got his turn in the captain’s chair. He sat at the wheel alone, his mind solely on Miranda.
He wanted her to be on this boat with him. Just the two of them, cruising the Caribbean and planning for happily-ever-after.
For five hours he sat at the wheel and thought such thoughts.
I’d be happy if we could just share a rowboat.

It was only the cooler air of evening that awakened Lanny from his daydream. He summoned MC Deluxe to take over at the helm,
and MC was more than happy to oblige.

The gregarious rapper settled in to the chair, and the others gathered around him to discuss strategy. Land was still not
visible, and soon a heated argument broke out over where to go ashore. They were now due east of Fort Pierce, Florida, some
thirty miles off the coast.

DJ Ned had insisted that Miami was the wrong choice—the first place authorities would be waiting. Ditto for the Keys. The
Former Donald suggested they turn around and dock in Fort Lauderdale, reasoning that most of the rich folk were gone and so
the city would be largely vacant. Plus, a yacht docking in Fort Lauderdale was quite common.

“That’s still too close to Cuba,” Ned explained.

Lanny said anywhere on Florida’s East Coast was fine with him. He just wanted to resume his search, to go look for clues among
the retirement home and Bluewater Marina, maybe even return to Atlanta and look there.

MC Deluxe turned from his captain’s chair. “But I wanna go all the way up the East Coast to Long Island. I can get to Harlem
from there.”

The disagreement continued into the red marble hot tub. Situated some twenty feet behind the captain’s chair, it was a nightly
luxury for all aboard. To be able to peer out the back of the yacht while under the cover of an extended roof, to enjoy the
smooth ride at sea along with soft ballads by a boy band, made for quite the memorable escape. Not a man on board had ever
owned a hot tub. Not even DJ Ned, who could afford his own airplane.

The calm seas put MC Deluxe in a better mood than his cohorts. While they sprawled in heated waters and defended their choices
of where to go ashore, he turned from his captain duties and addressed them as one. “Do you guys realize that I’ve done almost
everything for you since we escaped? Think about it. MC found the spare keys;MC bled on your mullet;MC caught you a dogfish;MC
kilt the dogfish with a chunk of ice;MC cooked your dogfish steaks;MC even salt and peppered your dogfish. And now MC skippers
you up the East Coast in his yacht. All this while you three Gilligans chill out in MC’s hot tub.”

DJ Ned and the Former Donald kept their eyes shut and gave no reply.

Lanny raised a hand from the tub and offered a thumbs-up. “You da man, MC.”

Off and on for the next half hour the men argued about where to go ashore and what to do when they got there. One thing they
all agreed upon—zealot-infested America was preferable to zealot-infested Cuba.

More room to roam.

So the foursome continued north, maintaining their distance at thirty miles offshore. They were soon due east of Daytona.

Sometime after midnight, DJ Ned suggested Fernandina Beach, reminding all that the town was surrounded with rivers and estuaries
and lots of marsh. “Plenty of waterways from which to sneak in and dock. Anybody got a problem with Fernandina Beach?” he
asked the crew.

Hungry again and tired of eating the same thing, everyone shook his head.
Fernandina Beach it was.

Around 2:00 a.m., Lanny went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and noticed they were down to just one small chunk of steak.
He returned to the hot tub and told the others of their situation. No one would admit to having eaten. Each man accused the
other of eating more than his fair share, and so yet another argument broke out.

The Former Donald was the worst. “Why can’t you guys catch anything?”

Since the first morning at sea, no one had been able to nab another fish.

Beyond them in the captain’s chair, MC Deluxe kept both hands on the chrome wheel, steering the vessel north through the warm
Atlantic. After another hour at the helm he felt so comfortable in his role that he invented a new rap. He called it “I’m
Da Skippuh,” and he rapped it to the stars, to the western Caribbean, anyone who cared to listen.

“Back in the hood my homies stay proud.

Their brother rock Cuba and he rock ‘em real loud.

Nobody juke Harlem with the story I got—

The night Young Deluxe stole Castro’s yacht.”

For the chorus he turned and pointed at each man, his left hand still on the wheel, his knees bobbing to the beat. “I’m da
Skippuh, yeah, yeah. I’m da Skippuh with my three Gilligans.”

Lanny and the Former Donald clapped in mock approval. Then MC, back in his element, began the chorus again.

And again.

Oh, the repetition.

At the fourth recital, Lanny and the Former Donald joined in.

After the sixth, DJ Ned muttered he couldn’t take anymore and submerged himself in the hot tub.

That’s when Lanny heard a siren echoing across the water.

He scrambled out of the hot tub and stood at the railing and stared into the night.

They were being chased.

Dripping and scared and struggling to think, Lanny found a scope in the captain’s station. He peered behind the yacht and
across dark seas.

In the faint light from the quarter moon he saw them: Guards in black fatigues, ten of them perched on the bow of a Coast
Guard cutter.

And this time they had guns.

I
N THEIR EXCITEMENT
to steal the yacht, none of the four had remembered to change the name on the stern to the
Cuban Conversion.
Perhaps this would have changed the outcome. Perhaps not. After all, hiding a one-hundred ten-foot yacht that’s decorated
primarily in Castro’s favorite color—red—is not as easy as one thinks.

Although the Former Donald had conceived of the plan while white-washing Havana graffiti for the guards, he had failed to
account for armed pursuers at sea. And behind them now, shouting through a bullhorn and brandishing rifles, were armed pursuers
at sea.

The Former Donald crouched with Lanny and DJ Ned behind the hot tub, afraid that shots would be fired any moment. Still at
the helm, MC Deluxe pressed the throttle to full—which was no easy task, considering his body position. He too had dropped
to his knees. He was now unable to see where he was steering but was nevertheless able to hold the wheel with his left hand
and reach up for the throttle with his right. His shoulders began to cramp. It was like being on your knees on your kitchen
floor and trying to wash dishes in the sink.

“What now?” he shouted to the others.

“Just go as fast as you can,” Lanny shouted back.

“I’m at full throttle.”

“Is there a fuller than full?”

MC was about to reply when the bullhorn sounded.

“BRINGETH THY VESSEL TO A STOP!” The words echoed across the ocean. “NOW!”

MC glanced at Lanny, who turned to DJ Ned, who glared at the
Former Donald and said, “What do we do now, O great planner of escapes?”

The Former Donald appeared shocked that Ned could manage sarcasm at such a time, what with guards in black fatigues chasing
them in a Coast Guard cutter, and Marvin the Apostle shouting through a bullhorn in the King James English.

One thing was for sure—Fernandina Beach was out. While on a normal day it made for a fine place to sneak back into the continental
U.S., it was not so good a port while being hotly pursued.