Gone (11 page)

The old man nodded, his expression showing nothing, but began rebuckling his belt. “What you wanna know?”

The boat captain made a few joking remarks to convince me this sort of exchange happened all the time between him and Mr. Pallet, who he called “this salty old coot,” but Mr. Pallet, stone-faced, finally interrupted, “You got a question or don’t you?”

Sybarite
’s captain swallowed again, a nervous man for having a body so tall and lean, muscular-looking in his nautical slacks, canvas belt, and a white short-sleeved shirt,
Capt. Robert Simpson
embroidered above the pocket. “Is she qualified?” he asked, forcing a tough tone. “Does she have papers and is she qualified? Or does that piss you off for some reason, too?”

Pallet took a slow look at
Sybarite
, an exotic-looking passenger yacht, three decks high, with sleek black windows that gave the steering room and cabins a secretive look. There was also a tower of electronics spaced between radar cones high above the flybridge where there was what looked like a service bar and a Jacuzzi.

“She’s a hell of a lot more qualified than you, I imagine,” Mr. Pallet said finally. “What you’re really asking is, will I vouch for her? Answer is yes, she’d be first-rate—if I wanted her working for the likes of you and your owners. Which I don’t. But she’s a stubborn one, I wasn’t lying. Whether she takes the job or not, that’s up to her.”

For an instant, just an instant, the old fisherman flashed me a private glance that told me he was manipulating Robert Simpson, giving him a stronger reason to consider me for a job I had no intention of taking. Cause him to hire me just because Mr. Pallet didn’t want it to happen. Which was smart. In reply, I touched an index finger to the side of my nose as a private
Thank you
, then waved as he walked away, calling, “’Preciate it, Captain! If you have any more trouble with that engine, you’ve got my cell. I’ll be in touch.”

Which was true. In the time we’d spent working on the diesel, I’d grown fond of the man. He was smart, he actually listened to what I had to say and didn’t mince words, yet there was a gentlemanly quality about him that I appreciated—maybe because it’s so rare in men my own age. Whatever the reason, I trusted Mr. Pallet enough to tell him details regarding Olivia Seasons—minus Mrs. Whitney’s name, of course. He’d probably figured out right away why I wanted to get aboard
Sybarite
, but didn’t let on until I’d showed him the photo of Ricky Meeks. After wiping his hands clean on a rag, the old fisherman had held the photo close, squinting to get a sharper look, then said, “You did good to come to me first, young lady. Wouldn’t be smart to show a thing like this around the boatyards.”

I asked, “Do you remember what he calls himself? The man’s using a couple of names.”

Pallet had replied with a quick shake of the head, then used the towel again, wiping his hands until I’d slipped the photo into an envelope and zipped my canvas bag closed. “You sure he’s the one this rich girl ran off with?”

“No, sir. But my suspicions are getting stronger. You must’ve seen him around.”

The man nodded as I added, “He lives on a boat, maybe he’s got some friends. I wouldn’t ask about him right out, of course—”

Mr. Pallet interrupted, “It’s enemies you’ve got to worry about—man like him doesn’t have friends. People he owes money. Some mad husband who wants to chunk him on the head. Folks think you know a man like that, they’ll assume you’re trash, too. Or you’re an easy way to get some questions answered.”

“You met him,” I said.

Another shake of the head. “Didn’t bother. He owns a beat-up Skipjack cruiser, thirty-footer with a low flybridge, anchored here three or four times in the last year. Paddled ashore in a bluish sort of cheap dinghy. I know the kind’a man he is by the way he handles himself and handles that boat.”

A cabin cruiser with a dinghy stowed on the bow—it matched Lawrence Seasons’s description, I noted, listening to Cordial Pallet continue. “That sorta man, he’s all show and big mouth with women around. Otherwise, he stayed to himself, avoided men. That’s always a bad sign—
remember
that, young lady. A man without men friends, there’s usually something bad wrong about them. That one”—he had nodded toward my bag, which contained the photo of Meeks—“he reminds me of a thing with teeth that hides in a hole and waits for bait to swim by.”

After that, it was comfortable for me to tell Mr. Pallet what I had in mind. I wanted to board
Sybarite
in hopes of finding out if Olivia had gone on the Key West cruise, as I suspected, or had booked a future trip. It would confirm that I was right about why she had used her special credit card and that Mr. Seasons was wrong in thinking it meant she’d gotten rid of Ricky Meeks.

I didn’t expect anyone I met to name names, of course. And I couldn’t come right out and ask whether Olivia had been on the boat, but the guest list would be somewhere aboard if the boat’s captain kept proper records. And when Mr. Pallet manipulated the good-looking captain, Robert Simpson, into wanting to hire me, my hopes brightened. Like it or not, men tend to be sloppier about paperwork than women—a boat is no different than an office when it comes to that—so maybe a few months of names were hanging on a clipboard somewhere right out in the open.

That’s what was on my mind as Captain Simpson watched Pallet stride away, the scowl still on his face when he turned to me and said, “You helped
him
fix an engine? According to locals, there’s nothing that obnoxious old bastard can’t do when it comes to boats. What kind?”

Ignoring the insult, I told him the brand of diesel, saying it in a way that suggested I was being modest.

“You have your Coast Guard papers with you?” Simpson asked the question, trying not to sound impressed, but he was.

I had a copy of my Merchant Mariners 100 Ton Ocean Operator’s license aboard my skiff, which I explained as the good-looking captain waved me up the boarding ramp onto the boat’s deck.

“What’re your operating restrictions? We sail from here to Key West a couple of times a month, but sometimes we do a week trip to the Bahamas. And, about twice a year, the owners fly over to Campeche and meet the boat in Mexico. I make the decisions, but I expect my mate to spend a lot of time at the wheel. If your ticket doesn’t cover the area, we could maybe apply for an extension, but I’d rather have someone already qualified.”

I hoped to impress the man again by telling him my license was designated
unlimited
, meaning I had no operating restrictions—thanks to my Uncle Jake, who’d always pushed me—before risking a question of my own. “Who’s the owner?”

Simpson had been warming to me, I could sense it, but that changed instantly. He had opened the door to the main salon but now used his body to block my way before replying, “This is a private commercial yacht. Everything about it is private. That includes the name of the owners, the names of our clients. It includes what goes on before charters, during charters, and after charters. Especially
during
charters. Understand that? What’s your name again?”

I told him, trying not to be obvious about looking past him into the salon, where I was surprised to see a girl about my age whose face seemed familiar. A blond girl, thin as a fashion model, Havana-cream complexion, and what I suspected were grapefruit-sized breast implants straining against a white
Sybarite
blouse. She was standing at a bar that glistened with varnish, folding cloth napkins, the reflection in the mirror behind her showing the most ornate cabin I’d ever seen on a vessel, exotic inlaid wood, brass fixtures, spotless maritime glass.

“Hannah Smith,” Simpson repeated before saying, “The first rule aboard
Sybarite
is, my crew keeps their mouths shut. They don’t ask questions—not about the owner, our clients,
nothing—
unless the question has something to do with their job. If you don’t think you can do that, we might as well stop the tour right here.”

I looked into the man’s green eyes long enough to say, “A client’s privacy and safety, those are the two most important things, I agree,” then let my gaze drift past the girl to my shoes, which is something I did a couple of more times while Simpson continued to lecture me.

“
Sybarite
isn’t some head boat that hauls tourists a mile offshore to catch trash fish. We cater to an exclusive clientele who demand the best, Hannah, so I only hire the best. It’s way too early to start talking money, but I guarantee you won’t believe what my first mate makes in tips alone. In return, I demand total dedication to your job. That means
total
dedication to our clients as well. Understood?”

Maybe. The man said it in a way to suggest a double meaning that, knowing what I knew about
Sybarite
, had a whorish ring. I was more interested in the girl who had paused, an unfolded napkin in her hand. She recognized me, too, I realized. She was staring in my direction, her memory probably trying to do the same as mine, attach a name to a face I hadn’t seen since . . . college? No . . . high school, more likely. My time at community college was more like a day job than an educational experience. I hadn’t socialized at all.

Simpson had finally allowed me into the salon and was leading me toward the steering room, now saying
Sybarite
’s crew was more like a “close-knit little fraternity,” which caused the blond girl to roll her eyes as we passed by, her smile not bitter, exactly, but not cheerful either. That’s when the name came to me: Gabrielle Corrales, a popular, flat-chested girl (at the time) who had inherited a slight Cuban accent but not much of the language and who’d run for an office of some type, posting cardboard signs in the halls. When I stopped, though, wondering if I should say hello, Gabrielle used a panicked look and a quick shake of her head to urge me to keep moving. So I did. We hadn’t been friends in school, so I was neither worried nor hurt. Even so, I was curious about the girl’s behavior and determined to find a way to speak with her in private. A girl who folded napkins as part of her job had less to lose by talking about clients than a starched yacht captain who probably made a good living and who clearly was protective of the boat’s privacy.

It happened. Half an hour later, when I’d finished my interview and was crossing the parking lot toward the docks, Gabrielle pulled beside me in a red Corvette convertible, top up, engine running to stay cool in the June heat.

“Get in,
chula
,” she said, the window cracked only a few inches.

“What?”

“You heard me!”

Caught by surprise, I hesitated and checked my watch. Nathan would be arriving in twenty minutes to drive me to Olivia’s house, but the girl didn’t give me a chance to explain. She pushed the passenger door open and hissed, “Hurry up! Trust me, you don’t want him to see us together.”

Sybarite
’s captain, Robert Simpson, I assumed.

I got in the car, which felt cramped with legs as long as mine until I found the power-seat adjustment. After that, riding in Gabrielle’s Corvette was more like riding in a spaceship.

“Where we going?” I asked, then was slammed back in my seat when she accelerated.

Upset enough that it fired her Cuban vocabulary, Gabrielle replied, “Someplace safe! We need to talk,
chinga
, or you’re screwed!”

TWELVE

G
ABRIELLE WAS RUMMAGING AROUND IN HER PURSE FOR
something as she asked me, “Anyone following us? Take a look over your shoulder.” It came out
Teek eeh luke
, the only hint she was part Cuban.

I replied, ‘They’d have to own a jet airplane to keep up,” but twisted around in my seat anyway. “Nope. Just that man with the limp, but he’s headed the other way—not that I blame him.” I was referring to the guy she’d almost clipped with her fender.

Not bothering to glance back at the old fisherman, who was wobbling toward the shrimp yards, a paper sack clutched to his chest, Gabrielle said, “Old drunks should own Seeing Eye dogs,” then, without looking up, informed me, “I go by Gabby now. Clients think it’s cute, and it stops people from confusing me with the horn guy in the Bible. If they read
Gabrielle
on paper, it happens every time.”

Darren had mentioned Gabby when speaking of
Sybarite
, but I hadn’t made the connection.
Gabrielle
, though, sounded better, the way the girl rolled her Spanish
r
’s.

We were in a parking lot between a boat storage barn and a large wooden complex that was perched on stilts overlooking the bay,
DOC’S RUM BAR
on a green sign atop the building, the area still empty because it was early. No one around but cawing seagulls and a wandering cat. Gabby had parked near a cabbage palm that threw about as much shade as a fence post, so she left the engine running, the volume of “Mr. Saxobeat”’s thumping disco too soft to hear above the blast of air-conditioning but with enough bass to feel through my seat.

“Where the hell did I put it?” the girl muttered, still pawing at her purse, then told me, “Robert’s a paranoid little dictator, never trust him. He has spies everywhere. Take another quick look, I’m
serious
.”

The only other person I knew who would fret about spies on a clear June morning was Loretta. The remark caused me to lose some confidence in Gabby and wonder about my own judgment, having allowed a woman I hadn’t seen in years drive me a mile from the docks, tires screeching at every start and stop. In fifteen minutes, I was supposed to meet Nathan. Because he is not a punctual man, however, it was not a troubling concern. Plus, I had my cell with me. Nathan would text if he found my skiff empty.

“Finally,”
Gabby said, bringing out a pink pillbox that contained three tightly wrapped joints, each thin as a dart. She lit one with a Bic, holding the joint between her lips until she’d replaced the case, then inhaled deeply before saying, “I can’t believe you’d do something that stupid. Jesus Christ!”

Spoken without exhaling, her words sounded squeaky, which only added to my confusion.

“What’s wrong with applying for a job?” I asked. “Captain Simpson says the first mate job pays pretty good money.” I let her watch me survey the Corvette’s gauges and leather upholstery while adding, “Looks to me like you’re not doing too bad yourself.”

“Captain Simpson,” Gabby said, exhaling her contempt. “That’s a laugh. He’s a backstabbing asshole who hates women—never forget that.” She extended her hand, offering the joint, and waited until I shook my head before repeating, “What you did was so goddamn stupid! The straightest girl I’ve ever met, so quiet and polite in school. Hannah Smith—
unbelievable
.”

I figured she was referring to me being aboard
Sybarite
, a boat with a bad reputation, until she added, “Knock off the act, damn it! I saw you! Robert would’ve called the cops if I’d told him.” The girl considered me for a moment, then looked at the joint between her fingers as if reconsidering. “Or . . . maybe you are a cop. Is that what this is about?”

“Last two years,” I said, “I’m a fishing guide, mostly fly-fishing, that’s my specialty. I heard about the mate’s job from Cordial Pallet. You can ask him.”

Gabby was still staring, thinking about it. A grown woman who worried about spies and smoked weed in public parking lots would need more reassuring if I expected her to open up and explain what she was talking about. I hate cigarettes but remembered liking the taste of marijuana, which Delbert Fowler had finally gotten me to try the afternoon he’d asked me to be his wife. It was one of those rare days when the word
no
didn’t seem to be in my vocabulary, which has been the ruin of more than a few good women, I suspect. But all it had cost me was a one-night marriage and a few unpleasant hours feeling like someone had poured syrup on my brain.

“People change,” I told Gabby, using my fingers to pinch the joint from her hand. “If you’re accusing me of something, there’s not much I can say until I know what it is.” I put the joint to my lips, took a shallow puff, then another, before handing it back.

The woman murmured a phrase I hadn’t learned in college Spanish, then said, “You didn’t inhale. Think I’m stupid?”

“I like the taste but not the feeling,” I explained.

“You kidding. The guy I buy from calls this stuff ‘Sunshine Skyway.’” She took a dreamy drag to illustrate. “Says it’s like floating over water on a sunny day.”

I shook my head. “I’ve got my own boat, thanks. The taste, though, it’s nice. Sort of an herbal flavor, and it smells good. Like smoking tea, you think?”

“Tequila—” Gabby said, making no sense. Then she took a deep hit and held the smoke in for several seconds before exhaling, “—Tequila’s the same for me. I’ll order a shooter just to smell and sip it, but I only drink Grey Goose ’n’ cranberry. You really don’t like getting high?”

“I would if it didn’t make me feel so slow and stupid,” I answered. “A couple of mojitos with fresh mint, that’s a different story.”

Gabby took another hit, offered the joint to me again, and this time smiled when I took only the shallowest of puffs before handing it back.

“Sort of sweet and tomboyish,” she said. “That’s what I remember about you. Can’t believe how much you’ve changed. I stay in touch with a few girls from our class”—Gabby named several names—“and most of them already look like hell. They have kids, got fat, got skinny after their first divorce, and already getting fat again. But you’re looking good, Hannah. Not so plain, like in school, so I almost didn’t”—the girl stopped, aware she’d said something mean, then finished with a wider smile—“almost missed the chance to make a new girlfriend. We’re gonna have some fun, you and me.”

My old schoolmate was beginning to relax, I decided, but the smile left her face when I replied, “If that’s a compliment, I appreciated it. Now, tell me what I did that was so damn stupid.”

The woman sat up straight and got serious again. “
Sybarite
has a video monitoring system, you idiot! A whole closetful of electronics off the main salon. Your interview with Robert, I was
watching
. You still gonna sit there and play innocent?”

“Oh,”
I whispered, too surprised not to sound guilty. My brain was already sifting through a series of lies that might explain my behavior. I was irked at myself for not having an excuse ready and also because I’d looked for cameras and had failed to spot a single one.

“What were you after, Hannah? You were looking for something. Might as well tell me the truth. I’ve got the recording”—she reached for her purse again—“the whole thing right here. It’s on a memory stick. Downloaded on my iPhone, too. You want to watch yourself opening drawers, going through private papers, when Robert wasn’t looking?”

It was all true. Every chance I’d gotten, I’d searched for a passenger list. My best opportunity had come when Simpson had stepped outside the helm area to take what he said was an important call. For the next four, maybe five minutes, I had moved like a thief, going through drawers, files, leafing through clipboards, and had almost gotten caught when Simpson surprised me by returning through a different door. In truth, the man
would
have caught me if he hadn’t dropped his cell phone as he entered. All I’d come away with was a shaky set of nerves and proof I’d been right about the man keeping sloppy records. Even the boat’s logbook was a mess, hadn’t been updated in more than three weeks.

“You want evidence?” Gabby was laughing as she scrolled through her iPhone. “Wait . . . I’m trying to find my favorite part . . .
shit . . .
I had it cued up. Here . . . here it is. I found it!”

Simpson squatting to pick up his phone, oblivious to me, mule-eyed, fumbling to jam a folder into a drawer before closing it, that was the woman’s favorite footage.

“The expression on your face!” she croaked after taking a final hit, fighting to hold the smoke in. “Like you’re about to pee your pants!”

I wasn’t laughing. “Why are you showing me this, not Simpson?”

“He’s a prick, I already told you. I erased it from the computer, so no need to worry—as long as I have the only copy.”

My classmate was threatening me.

I turned the radio down until my seat stopped vibrating, then finally found the window button, needing fresh air. After a couple of deep breaths, I said, “What’s the real reason?”

There was a thing Gabby did with her face I remembered from high school, fluttering her eyelashes, cheeks sucked in, something she thought looked innocent and cute. She made the face now before replying, “Thing is, sweetie, I don’t
care
what you were looking for. The name of your screw-around husband or boyfriend, that’s my guess. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or cash . . . or you’ve got some sort of mental compulsion—my last roommate couldn’t pass a mirror without touching it no matter how hard she tried. You’re not a cop, so who the hell cares? Robert’s gonna offer you the job. That’s why we’re sitting here. It’ll be a week or two, but he’ll do it. I just want to make sure we’ve got some kind of arrangement in place when you start working as first mate.” Gabby had fiddled with the radio as she talked so my seat was vibrating again, a punk group doing “Missing You.”

Her threat was beginning to take shape.

“What do you want?” I asked.

What Gabby wanted in return for not showing Robert Simpson the video was fifty percent of my tips for the first six months, after that twenty percent, which was five percent more than the standard cut between
Sybarite
’s first mate and what she called “the hostesses.”

“I don’t even know how much money we’re talking,” I responded. “What makes you so sure I’ll get the job? Did he say something?”

Cupping her hands beneath her breasts, Gabby said, “Because of these, sweetie. You’re the first qualified woman to apply and you’ve got a nice set of tits—something I don’t remember you having in high school, by the way. On
Sybarite
, a good body means a hell of a lot more than experience.” She paused, her eyes moving from my breasts to my face. “So what about it?”

I thought she meant the deal she’d just offered until she continued, “I got my implants six years ago, and they’ve totally changed my life. Who did yours?”

I told her, “An inheritance from a dead aunt, I guess, but it was a long time before they showed up. Back to the subject of money—”

Gabby interrupted, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! With your body and those legs, my God, Hannah, you’ll look so goddamn hot in nautical whites. Or our navy blues, which we wear in winter, except for formal dinners . . .”

The girl went on about uniforms for a while, everything custom-tailored—shorts, blouses, slacks, and blazers—before telling me, “Our clients will eat you up—literally . . .
if
you’re willing. That’s where the real money is, sweetie. Keep in mind that, you and me, we only share tips you make on cruises. Any sideline stuff you arrange with clients, it’s yours to keep. Cut the right deal with Robert, he’ll even give you permission to wear a
Sybarite
uniform if it’s one of our regulars. More than a few have a fetish for the whole uniform thing.”

The new expression on my face caused Gabby to laugh again. “It’s not like I’m talking about being a hooker, for Christ sake! It’s not like that at all.” She paused. “What did Robert tell you about
Sybarite
? About the type of charters we do, I mean.” She was having fun being the expert, me the novice.

“Enough,” I replied, which was true. The man had hinted around, stressing the importance of confidentiality over and over, before finally telling me that clients paid for a “unique sensual experience” and the crew was expected to make sure it happened, then keep their damn mouths shut.

“Maybe so,” Gabby said, “but get the whole prostitution thing out of your head. No one’s gonna
force
you. Or even expect it. See . . . the way it goes is, we’re out at sea, everyone’s relaxed, and things just sort of happen. You meet a nice gentleman aboard, sometimes a man with his good-looking wife or girlfriend, it’s only natural they want to party. You’d have as much fun as them, probably more, if you just loosen up. Next day, if they want to thank you for the good time, it’s only natural they give you something extra special.”

“The tips,” I said. “It’s always cash?”

The woman flashed a catty smile, and replied, “Take a guess at the biggest tip I ever got for our cruise to Key West. Go ahead, guess. One night, two days, and I personally had a damn blast!” Without waiting, she tapped the convertible’s dashboard. “You’re sitting in it, sweetie. Last year—from a very, very special couple.”