Big Numbers (19 page)

FIFTY-FIVE

Seagulls circle the boat like Apaches. I can feel Gerry and Luis’s surprise in their grip, a sudden tension. Me, I can’t believe the famous, full-boat Carr luck. First Luis slips me his knife. Now Jezebel switches sides. Again.

Hope springs infernal.

After he gets a good look at that flare gun, Gerry lets go of my arm, takes a step in the redhead’s direction. “Hey, hon. You’re feeling better. That’s great. I thought you’d be out of it until
—”

“Shut the fuck up,
” she says.

Her gaze flits back and forth between Luis and Gerry, her lips pressed tight. Pissed as hell, this redhead. “I know you tried to kill me. I put those pills under my tongue last night, spit them into my hand. This morning I could see what they were. You didn’t give me two
hundred milligrams of Oxycontin to help me sleep, you bastard.”

My thoughts exactly.

“Oxycontins? No way, hon. Just a couple more Percocets to make you—”

“One more word,
I’m going to burn a hole in your fat stomach the size of a dinner plate. Now cut Austin’s hands loose, push him over here with me.”

Gerry and Luis glance at each other, some kind of signal apparently because the very next second I’m left wobbling on my own, Gerry moving one way, Luis the other. Coming at Kelly around the fighting chair from opposite directions.

Kelly’s eyes get bigger. Her jaw drops. She hesitates another second, then fires the flare gun at Gerry. Not the wisest choice in my estimation, although I can easily understand her impulse.
Senor
Burns is the world’s biggest creep.

There’s a whooshing sound, like the Fourth of July, and a red streak of sparkling mini-rocket exhaust zooms past my monster’s head, sails out across the calm morning sea. The seagulls squawk and disperse.

The redhead screams as Luis tackles her. The flare gun clatters onto the deck.

“Oh, God, Gerry. Please don’t kill me. Please.”

“I can’t stand the racket anymore,” Gerry says to Luis. “Put some tape across that big mouth.”

Kelly
has cried and begged for her life steadily since Luis began to bind her wrists and ankles. Now he rips off a four-inch piece of duct tape and covers her lips. Her green eyes bloom to the size of teacups. The cords in her neck stretch taut as she flails her head back and forth.

“Grab her shoulders,” Gerry says.

Sweet Jesus. This is tough to watch. I feel my stomach turning sour, my knees getting weak again. Such a waste of redheaded talent.

Luis stands motionless. Is he refusing Gerry’s order? “Surely,
patron
, there has been enough killing.”

“Get her fucking shoulders,” Gerry says
. “You told me yourself we can’t take her through customs.”

“I will not do this,” Luis says.

Gerry stares at him. Seconds tick by. Finally Gerry shrugs. “Okay, fuck it. Go on back up to the flying bridge. I’ll handle this myself.”

Kelly’s body bucks wildly as Luis turns his back. Her throat makes awful sounds as Gerry drags her toward the railing.

I must say this is going exactly as I anticipated. Gerry wants no blood, no evidence on the boat. Gruesome as they are, staff reductions are to be carried out with a minimum of physical violence.

I think I’m going to throw up.

Gerry grab’s her waist and struggles to lift her onto the rail. Kelly’s emerald eyes bulge like a frog’s. I am once again reminded of that blue-bellied lizard of my nightmares. At least that little guy didn’t know what was going to happen to him. Kelly’s horror—mine, too—is the anticipation.

“Goodbye,
hon,” Gerry says.

My monster lets go of her waist and begins to push on her shoulders. It’s a lot of weight for Gerry, and the redhead doesn’t slide easily.
Her head shakes wildly, eyes aglow with fear, and then thrashing, she drops quietly out of sight.

I
almost feel the splash more than hear her hitting the water, my gut imagining her panic, and my knees buckle beneath me. A glop of bile climbs my throat and splatters onto the deck.

The stench of my own vomit fills my nose. Breath comes in short, shallow gasps. Why doesn’t Gerry just shut the hell up and get this over with? Blabbermouth.

“Those shoulder straps okay?” Gerry says. “Not too tight, I hope.”

Bastard. Sitting in the fighting chair, though unbuckled to it, I am bridled by what Gerry called a stand-up fishing belt and harness. Straps circle my waist and chest as well my shoulders. Locking brass clips fix me to the harness, the pole, and the rod-mounted Penn 130 International reel.

“I think I see a school,” he says. “What luck.”

Gerry leans close to push the chrome drag lever on the Penn 130. “This will be the second time I’ve seen this happen,” he says.

Something heavy bumps the half-pound metal lure to which I am fatally attached. The line draws taut, digging deeper into the green rolling swells. Eternity tugs on my shoulder straps.

“I think you’ve got a hook-up,” he says.

Should I reach now for Luis’s knife?

FIFTY-SIX

Funny how many things
you can think of in a split second of terror, facing almost certain death. Sure, I have what I imagine to be Luis’s infamous switchblade knife in my pocket. But Gerry’s standing right beside me. If I start wiggling Luis’s Excalibur out of my pants, Gerry’s going to take away my ace. No, my best shot at survival is to wait until I’m in the water with Big Tuna, try to cut myself free then.

The smell of saltwater and
deck wood warming in the morning sunlight brings back memories of my father, the two of us fishing off the municipal pier in Oceanside, California. Pop would get me up before dawn and we’d be there with our lines in the water as the first rays of daylight warmed the damp wooden planking. We rarely caught a fish, but I loved those mornings, those few summer weeks when Pop didn’t have to work. He enjoyed that time with me and Mom so much.

The IGFA Unlimited Bent-Butt pole bows deeply, tugging my harnessed torso closer to the boat’s open transom and a probable ocean grave. I’ve never been big on praying, but right now my mind can’t help but talk to God. “Why me, Lord? What did I do to deserve this?”

Funny, too, that God’s answer comes in clear, an FM radio station broadcasting from heaven: “Why not you, Carr? It wasn’t me who told you to fall for the redhead, forge Gerry’s name on those transfer documents. Free will is a bitch.”

Good point, God. But are you sure this has nothing to do with that blue-bellied lizard? Payback? Is my body going to wash ashore someplace where other lizards roam, where that long-dead reptile’s distant cousins will feast on my miserable, rotting corpse?

The giant bluefin on the other end of my line has pretty much decided to quit messing around. I’m sliding off the chair, headed for that open transom. I once more go over my quickly formulated plan. When I hit the water, I’ll go for the knife, being very careful not to drop it. Yuk. What a thought. I’ll slice the line first, stop that giant bluefin from towing me, then maybe try to unfasten these brass reel clips. Or not. Maybe I should just try to reach the surface as quickly as possible, breathe again, the pole and reel still attached.

Why was I so worried? I’ve got this all figured out. No problem. I’ll free myself from this monster fish, avoid Gerry and Luis for twelve hours, until its gets dark again, then swim thirty or forty miles
—there’s no land in sight—to the coast of New Jersey.

Hey, and I thought I was in serious trouble.

Big Tuna lifts my butt completely off the fighting chair and my split second of contemplation is over. This is it. I’m going out the open transom, my doorway to heaven.

My gaze picks up little images to take with me, probably to eternity. Snap
shots of a disappearing world; a seagull riding the air behind Gerry’s head, the bird motionless in flight, observing me in wonder; the horseshoe belt buckle on Gerry’s abdomen, its silver flashing sunlight; and finally Gerry’s gaze getting closer, checking the drag switch again. Maybe he’s worried he didn’t get the drag on full his first attempt, thinks I’m not going overboard fast enough.

You know what, Ger
ry. I think you just made the biggest, stupidest mistake of your fat fucking life. Yes, I’m zooming off that fighting chair now, unable to resist Big Tuna, but I’m pissed enough to throw every muscle hard to the right, reach out my taped hands for your Mexican silver belt buckle.

Yes! I’ve got
ten a hold of it, too, a death grip, and there’s enough time for me to look up, see Gerry’s eyes pop open like full moons before we both fly through the open transom.

FIFTY-SEVEN

I’m in the water, upside down and tumbling. But I’m using the buddy system, holding onto Gerry’s belt buckle. His weight strains my elbows and shoulders, stretching my biceps like gum. Together, the two of us are a twisting, rolling mass of arms, legs, fishing pole, and thick invisible line.

I congratulate myself until reason kicks in. Nice little piece of revenge, Austin,
grabbing Gerry like that, but you might want to consider letting go now and reaching for Luis’s sharp, last minute gift. That bulge in your pocket has the potential of saving your life. Gerry’s belt buckle, not so much.

Big Tuna is towing us deep.

I let go of Gerry and point my fingers toward that switchblade in my pocket. I assume Gerry will stay behind, but he doesn’t. His roly-poly shape struggles with an invisible opponent right beside me, both of us going deeper every second.

My brai
n sends an emergency message, a short telegram: You need to breathe. Let’s suck a little oxygen, okay?

My fingers find the bulge in my pocket. It is in fact Luis’s switchblade. I remember the shape from that night in the restaurant’s parking lot. I work the big knife out of my pants pocket and push the chrome button that makes the blade spring open.

This is a very lucky knife, Austin. Make sure you don’t drop it.

A second, more urgent message arrives from my brain: Dude! W
e are running out of time. And getting farther from the surface every second.

I work the blade around the thick fishing pole and
, as best I can, slash at the invisible line near the reel. Nothing. Where is that freaking see-through fiber? I slash the blade at a spot closer to the pole itself, and instantly my descent stops.

I’m
free of Big Tuna, though not the pole and reel.

Gerry
is free of me and the pole, but not the giant bluefin. My monster is a dark, struggling shape in the water, shrinking in size below my feet, the Jersey cowboy tangle-tied to his own giant bluefin by thick monofilament line around his leg. He must have gotten snared while we were tumbling.

Gerry, my monster, Mr. Blabbermouth, the Cigar Meister, fades into the blue-black realm of the deep Atlantic. That place Luis called The Hole.

The saltwater begins to sting my eyes as I search for the surface. I kick my feet and twist. There’s a small spot of brightness, like a night light down a dark hall. Okay, Austin, that’s where you have to go, up, toward the morning sun.

My brain sends another message, words that pump another blast of adrenaline throu
gh my blood: This is your final warning, Austin. We are now officially out of air. Breathe right now, this instant, or I—Mr. Brain—am going to shut down.

Wait, brain. Hang on. I’m almost there, rising toward the surface.

The water gets darker as I draw closer and closer to the surface. Almost black now. Shouldn’t the water be getting lighter? Am I headed the wrong way?

No, wait brain, don’t leave me.

I’m almost there, but it’s too late. My muscles stop working. One giant cramp. I didn’t make it. My strength, my will, are used up. My brain is in fact shutting off. My lungs are going to breathe, like it or not. Unfortunately the only substance available is water.

Nice try, Austin. You almost made it.

I gasp. Filling my lungs with water doesn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would. Peaceful blackness engulfs me.

Goodbye world. I love you kids.

Beth and Ryan.

FIFTY-EIGHT

What I assume to be final, semi-conscious mental images are of Beth and Ryan, the three of us playing whiffle ball in the old backyard. I’m tossing soft underhand lay-ups to Ryan while his sister roams the grass behind me, eager to snare a fly ball so it’ll be her turn to bat. That’s the rule. The hitter stays up until the defense grabs one in the air.

Ryan swings and misses.

I repeat a baseball mantra taught to me as a child: “Keep your eyes on the ball, son. Watch the ball hit the bat.”

Ryan’s face pinches with concentration as I lob another softie over our make-shift home plate, in this case my well worn outfielder’s mitt. I last used that glove to catch actual baseballs in high school.

My son makes good contact this time. The whiffle ball zips on a hard line toward my chest. For some reason, I am unsuccessful in my attempt to make the catch, and the white hollow ball slams me in the chest. Wow. Feels like a truck load of bricks. I’m knocked right on my ass.

On the grass, looking up at a blue New Jersey sky, I try to laugh. Strange. I can’t make a sound. I don’t have any air with which to issue sound. Gee, Ryan. You knocked the wind out of me.

Mild panic invades my dream. How could a whiffle ball knock me over? And, more importantly, why the hell can’t I breathe?

Ryan and
Beth start jumping up and down on my chest. Pounding me over and over again with their sneaker-shod feet. Doesn’t hurt too much, maybe because of their rubber soles. Or maybe it’s because my chest and belly feel like they’re full of…full of what? Cement?

I roll onto my side and puke. Sweet Jesus. Feels like I just barfed a five-course dinner for eight. No, make that a case of very salty California merlot. This vomit is all liquid.

But now I can breathe. Or gasp at any rate. Boy, that air tastes good. Sweet as sugar.

“Open your eyes,
afortunado
.”

Who was that? I don’t see anybody but Ryan and
Beth. When did they start speaking Spanish? And why do they think I’m the lucky one? Didn’t I just drown?

I open my eyes. Oh my, what a strange dream. Ryan’s face has turned into my ex-favorite bartender’s. Milk chocolate skin. Those black penetrating eyes. I can even hear Luis talking to me, too, clear as a fall blast of Canadian air.

“Did you lose my
cuchillo
?”

Huh? What’s a koochi-koocho
? And what the heck is going on with these changing faces and voices? Ryan to Luis to Charro? Man, this is one weird vision.

I puke again, another case of merlot…no…wait. It’s saltwater. The stuff’s coming out of mouth, my ears, my nose, even my…oh, you know. The other end.

How exactly does that happen?

“Can you speak?” Luis says.

Oh. My. God. It is Luis. Looks like I’m on the main deck of Gerry’s Hatteras, lying on my side a few feet from that stupid fighting chair. Am I dead or alive? Or dreaming in between?

Luis saying, “Are you finished with the vomits?”

Actually, no. Another spasm racks my belly and I deposit several more cups of saltwater very near Luis’s black Reeboks.

This last disgorging triggers a new level of clarity. I sure the hell am alive. Back on Gerry’s boat. The puffy white clouds above me no longer look like tombstones.

“Luis?”

“Here,” Luis says. “Drink this.”

I put the shot glass to my lips. Can this be what I think it is? Luis tips the contents down my throat. The taste is unmistakable. Herradura Gold.

The tequila bounces off the inside of my stomach and spews back out my mouth. Yuk. A little bit flies back into the shot glass. Most lands directly on Luis’s Reeboks. Along with one final quart of saltwater.

“You lost my knife,” Luis says, “and now your vomit soils my shoes. Many would consider these actions ungrateful, my friend.”

“Sorry.”

He slaps my shoulder. “I was joking. It feels good to be alive, eh? Perhaps your humor will also return.”

I shake my head, wipe the spittle from my nose and mouth. “What the hell happened? I was drowning. How did you get me back on board?”

He smiles, and I’m glad Luis is happy about my return. I don’t think I could take another swimming lesson. “You were very lucky,” he says. “I circled back when you took
el patron
with you over the railing. At first I saw nothing, no sign of either you or Senor Burns. But then the tip of your fishing pole returned to the surface right before my eyes.”

“You pulled me out by the pole?”

“I lashed the wheel so that the boat turned in a circle, then jumped in after you.”

Luis’s dripping wet clothes attest to his bravery. I can’t believe he did that for me. If the wheel had slipped, even a little, the boat could have moved hundreds of yards off course and Luis would have drowned out here with me and Gerry. Speaking of
el patron
…

“Did you pull Gerry out, too?”

“There is no sign of
Senor
Burns.”

Can’t say I’m
surprised, or sorry. In fact, I hope that giant bluefin drags him all the way to Japan. A sushi surprise for the Tokyo markets. Although Gerry’s death does raise another question.

“Are you mad at me for killing Gerry?”
I say.

Luis shakes his head, no. “You only fought for your life. There is no blame. Remember it was I who gave you the knife.”

I sigh. Well son of a bitch, Austin. You cheated the grim reaper and avenged Gerry’s rude behavior with that cigar. Not bad for a New Jersey stockbroker who lives in a rusted out camper.

I push up onto my hands and knees. My head spins. My muscles feel like rubber. Perhaps some kind of fortification is needed for permanent reassembly. “Hey, Luis, can I try another shot of that Herradura?”

“
Si.
But only if you allow me time to step farther away.”