Devour (16 page)

D
estiny stood with her hip braced against the corner of the bar, listening to the men’s ice cubes tinkling against their glasses as the ship pitched back and forth. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, sighed, and twirled a finger through her hair. It was only midafternoon.

“What they playing for?” Remy asked, his voice a murmur.

“I don’t know,” Destiny said. “Maybe they have a side bet, see if they can bore us to death.”

Latham was down to a small pile of chips, perhaps fifty or a hundred dollars’ worth. Prower, his blotchy face serious rather than triumphant, was playing it safe, letting Latham take the antes when his cards weren’t quite right, betting high when he had a strong hand. Squeezing Latham out, slowly but surely. The whole time he twirled and tapped his cane, which seemed to be driving Latham bugshit.

“Now she’s bored.” Remy pushed a coffee cup across the bar to her. “This’ll perk you up.”

“Thanks.” She took a sip, the brandy warming her throat, radiating in her belly. “Aren’t you the one said it didn’t pay to ask questions?”

“That’s before this whole thing turned weird,” Remy said. He twisted the bar towel in his hands. “I never been on a ship, sits out in the water like one a them little red bobbers, don’t do nothing. They coulda played cards in my backyard, had the whole place to ourselves. No, we gotta go out, middle of the goddamn Atlantic, screw around with whales and sharks.”

“I think we’re going to be out here until someone wins.”

“Wins what?”

“Exactly.” She took another drink. “Look at them, they’re miserable. Sick. But they keep playing.”

“Playing for each other’s business, something like that?”

She shook her head. “Prower’s a lawyer, and Latham owns properties all over the world. Some in Vegas, mostly timeshares. His people used to come around, ask some of us girls to go on the tours. You know the ones, little dog-and-pony shows, they get the tourists to buy a shitty room they can use for two weeks out of the year for thirty grand? They’d find some old goat, point to us, say you want to go on an air-conditioned bus with those girls? Have a drink, maybe look at a room or two?”

Remy smiled. “You ask my first wife about them timeshares. It end up a good deal for her, free and clear after we signed papers.”

“Sorry,” Destiny said. “Hope I wasn’t one of the girls on the bus.”

“You do that?”

“If I needed extra cash. What I’m saying is, could you see Prower doing that? Or even being the kind of guy who owned something like that?”

The ship rolled with a large wave, and water sloshed somewhere below them. Remy stared at the floor, which was not wet but seemed to be growing more and more damp. “This is not good, girl. We gotta go up a level, get out of the bottom of the damn boat.”

“You could talk to Frankie,” she said. “Or the captain. But you do that, the payday goes away.”

“I been happy poor, lotsa times. Don’t think I’d be a happy dead man.”

She took another drink of coffee. She didn’t think they were going to die. If the men in charge weren’t worried about the structural stuff, she wasn’t going to get wound up about it, either. If they were worried, then . . . well, shit. Guys were always worked up about something.

Remy leaned closer. “They’s a room, back down the hallway behind the bodyguards.”

“I’m flattered, Remy, but we don’t have the time.”

“Be serious, now. Look over there, jus’ don’t make it obvious.”

Destiny glanced at the two guards standing on either side of the doorway, their hands crossed in front of them. The men guarding the hallway had changed shifts every hour or two, but it was always one of each. Kharkov was ever-present, as was Prower’s number one man, a fit man with a chiseled face by the name of Hornaday. Nobody had told her not to go down that hallway, and they didn’t have to. When you worked for Frankie the rules were pretty apparent. As were the doors that were closed to you.

She turned back to Remy and cocked an eyebrow.

“Got somebody in there, I bet,” he said.

“Probably a girl,” Destiny said. Thinking of Latham’s offer of cash, the way his hand had slithered down the back of her skirt. The kind of guy who felt a constant urge to press his flesh against another, whether the other person wanted it or not.

“I don’t know,” Remy said. “They made me go back there. Clean up some puke.”

“When was this?”

“You remember the first evening, we had those big waves coming up and over? Everything banging around?”

“Sure.”

“I went back there, cleaned up the mess. The room smelled, not just like puke. It smelled kinda rank, like some dude ain’t showered in a while. And there were these zip ties in the garbage, all of them snipped. You know what they use those big zip ties for?”

“Tying garbage bags?”

“Sure, and people’s hands, too.”

She was listening to Remy, watching the game. She wanted to get off this ship, and the best way to do that was to do her job. Watch their drinks, and when they reached that quarter-full mark, quickly and unobtrusively replace it. That was how both Latham and Prower liked it, for some reason, for her to take the drink away before they were finished with the last one. They didn’t have to tell her—she picked up on it right away. Why? Who knew? Whatever it was, it was. She drank on occasion, usually beer or wine. Sometimes, after a hard day, she would have a whiskey or a rum and Coke. Lots of ice. What she liked the most was the last little bit of the drink, ice cubes against her teeth and lips, liquid trickling through them as her air conditioner hummed and she knew that outside it was still over a hundred degrees, the hot dry wind blowing across the desert, and there she was, cool on the inside and outside.

Latham held his cards low, curling them tight, a habit any Vegas dealer would have broken him of immediately. They would have thought he was trying to mark the card, give them a little bend, a dog-ear to mark them. But Latham wasn’t trying to cheat, Destiny thought, he was afraid others were cheating him. Prower held his cards out as he had from the beginning, country rube style, and he was drinking steadily. He took a long drink now, draining his glass for the first time, and when she turned back, Remy had a fresh one sitting on a napkin on the bar.

She brought it over. Prower appraised her, and she smiled dutifully. His face was an uneven red, but he had that look to him, the kind of guy who knows what he’s doing. Cards or business or women, he might not actually
know
everything, but he had a strategy, a game plan. She found it an attractive virtue. Now, if Prower only looked like Hornaday . . .

She knew girls who had gone that route, hitched onto a rich guy. When they stopped back to see their former co-workers, the girls were often happy, or seemed to be, and usually dressed like they were trying not to show how much money they had. It had never appealed to her, not in any real way, though she’d had a few chances and knew it wasn’t a terrible option. She blamed her imagination. It always put her underneath a guy like Prower, maybe one with even more of a gut. In her imagination she could feel the pressure of his belly, the smell of the liquor-soaked breath puffing against the side of her face, his mouth on her....

An arm wrapped around her waist, and she found herself sitting on Latham’s lap. He felt clammy even through his clothes, the arm around her waist radiating heat.

“Well, hello there,” Latham said, his breath in her ear.

Destiny tried to push herself up and Latham’s arm cinched tighter. “Mr. Latham, really—”

“Easy,” he said. “Just sit for a second, huh? I need something to turn my luck around.”

“I don’t think this is—”

“Oh, quit. You accepted my money, now you can earn some of it. You don’t like that, I can have Kharkov escort you back to your room. You hear that, Kharkov?”

Kharkov moved slightly closer, his eyes half-lidded. “Yes, boss.”

“Would you like to take Destiny back to her room?”

“Yes, boss.”

Destiny glanced around the room. Frankie was upstairs; he would only stay in the room for fifteen or twenty minutes before flitting off somewhere else. Prower was watching her with a neutral expression, though she noticed he was gripping the head of his cane tighter than normal. Behind her, Latham’s breaths came rapidly, each exhale marked with a phlegmy little rasp. She didn’t bother looking at Remy. If it came down to it, he was the one most likely to try to help, and the one least likely to actually be able to do anything.

“One hand,” Latham said, moving his legs so Destiny was squarely centered in his lap. “You can sit here for one hand.”

She remained very still as Prower dealt the cards. Her face was burning, equal parts rage and humiliation. Latham’s body gave off a tremendous amount of heat, and he smelled sick, the low and cloying odor of someone with a chronic disease. At the same time he was obviously still strong, and the arm around her waist was creeping up, so that the top of his forearm brushed against the underside of her breasts.

It’s a sad day when I can’t wait to see Frankie Rollins
, she thought. And on the heels of that was another thought, almost vicious:
Bullshit. You don’t need Frankie to take care of you.

Latham picked up his cards, fanning them in front of her.

“Wow,” she said, letting a girly gush creep into her voice. “Do you have to throw some queens away when you have that many?”

Across the table, Prower smiled and discarded his hand, ceding the hand to Latham. Latham’s hold grew painfully tight for a moment, cutting off her breath, and then he was reaching for the ante and she twisted up and away, grabbing the empty glasses before joining Remy at the bar.

She handed the empty glass to Remy. He dunked the glass in the underbar sink, ran it under the water, then began to dry it. Soap bubbles clung to the hair of his wrists. She was certain he was going to apologize, or tell her it was no big deal.

Remy didn’t look at her. He was watching the game, and after a moment she joined him.

Prower had raised Latham fifty dollars on the opening round. Latham considered his cards, considered Prower. His shoulders hunched in tighter and then he expanded, disgusted, and tossed his cards. He reminded Destiny of an eagle she had seen a few weeks ago, up near Tahoe, perched atop a road-killed deer. The way it burrowed into the meat, beak twisting, then would lean back, ruffle its feathers as it looked around like it was only surveying the countryside. As though it were ashamed at the concentration it gave to the rotting flesh.

Prower took the next hand, too, raising the pot to a hundred after Latham checked, forcing him to fold. Then it was Latham’s turn to deal again. He shuffled poorly, the cards sticking out of the bridge. He pushed them back in with his fingers, tapped the deck against the table. There were only a few chips left in front of him.

Prower let his cards lie facedown until Latham was done dealing, then picked them up. He sighed, tossed in twenty in chips to match the ante. Latham pushed in another twenty, the minimum bet, and Prower matched it.

“How many?” Latham said. His voice was gravelly. It was now three in the afternoon, and they had been playing for about five hours, with minimal breaks.

Prower dropped four cards into the discard pile. Latham raised his eyebrows and Prower showed him the remaining card, the ace of clubs. You could only draw four cards if you had an ace in the hole. Until now neither one of them had asked the other to prove it.

Latham flipped four cards to Prower, took three for himself.

“He’s paired up,” Remy whispered. “Probably low.”

Prower stared at his cards, then checked by rapping the table. Latham pushed his remaining chips into the center of the table and leaned back, looking relieved to be free of them.

Prower set his cards down, took a drink of brandy, picked them back up. Latham had started to reach for the pile, but pulled back, his face twisting into a scowl. He had thought Prower was folding.

“What we got?” Prower said, tapping the head of his cane lightly on the table. “You put in eighty?”

“Yes,” Latham said. “Pot’s at one-forty”

Prower glanced around the room. “Where’d Frankie go? He’s supposed to be down here.”

“Upstairs,” Latham said. “You need him to explain something, Prower? Or can we finish out this hand?”

Prower shrugged, pushed eight ten-dollar chips into the circle. “Let’s see your cards, Richard.”

Destiny leaned forward, heard Remy moving behind her as he tried for a better vantage point. Latham turned over the two cards he had kept, a pair of jacks. A blackjack hand, Destiny thought. Then he flipped over the three draw cards and she saw the third jack, a one-eyed spade nestled between a three and a five. Knaves, that’s what some of the Brits called jacks at the blackjack table.

“Nice draw,” Prower said, and by the tone of his voice Destiny knew the game was over. Prower flipped his cards over quickly, the lone ace and the two others he had drawn, along with a king and a ten.

Prower made no move to collect his winnings. He looked at Latham, who was leaning back in his chair, then surveyed the room, eyeing Kharkov with special attention. Nobody moved. Half the men were his, half Latham’s. And Destiny could see the calculations going on behind his light blue eyes, could almost hear his thoughts.

“We need Frankie,” Prower said.

“Go ahead,” Latham said. “Send one of your men to go get him.”

“No,” Prower said. “You send yours.”

“One of each, perhaps?”

Prower looked around the room, saw that he had three guards to Latham’s four, and jerked his head toward Destiny. “Let’s send her. Our people stay where they are.”

* * *

She found Frankie in the wheelhouse, talking to Wells, the old man that had been rescued from the fishing boat. Wells was speaking softly but very earnestly, leaning forward, jabbing at the palm of his hand with a finger. Frankie and Captain Moore were listening, Moore with a somber expression, Frankie slightly amused. The old man was saying something about the currents, about cold water, and about predatory instincts. Behind him, one officer was monitoring the control panel, another was scanning the foggy seas with a pair of binoculars. She could tell both of them were also listening to Wells, the way they stopped moving when he spoke.