Just Add Salt (2) (17 page)

Chapter 23

Golden Odyssey’s
owner Prince Faoud gave us quite a start.

Invited to a beachfest, a celebration of survival, we arrived early, bringing what we had to the party. His crew was busily setting up what appeared to be a city of tents and tending open pit fires. We’d raided our supplies, come up with a brisket and a dozen frozen ears of corn. Jan baked three loaves of sourdough bread. A feast was in the offing.

We handed the thawed brisket off to a guy in a chef’s hat, and iced the last of our beer in a tub already brimming with designer water and cokes. No one threatened us with scimitars, so we figured possession of alcohol wasn’t a capitol offense with our Middle Eastern host.

“You know what I’d really, really like?” Jan asked as we supervised the brisket basting, and sipping a cool one.

“What?”

“A big old B-L-T.”

“Gee, that sounds great, but we ain’t got no B, L or T, and you can bet your sweet bippy that the prince ain’t got no bacon. You’d better eat hearty today, cuz we’ve just about cleaned out our larder.”

The channel into port was still too dangerous for us to enter, but it didn’t matter, for no bacon, lettuce or tomatoes were to be had there anyway. If something didn’t give, we’d be forced to make a run to Cabo just to buy groceries.

The port captain estimated it would be at least another week before the road to Ciudad Constitución was repaired and supplies could begin flowing to the towns on Mag Bay. And now, dengue fever had broken out, along with a few cases of typhoid.

I worried about Lonesome, but Chino reassured me he headed out to sea and in to deep water when the hurricane threatened.

We were extremely fortunate. Our watermaker was working perfectly and both we and
Golden Odyssey
were supplying water to the fishing villages when pangas showed up with plastic jugs. Now, if we just didn’t run out of wine.

We shared most of our canned meats with those who asked, because the silty water had killed off millions of sea creatures, and fishing was bad. Most of the beaches stank of grounded clams and other lower sea life forms, but, of course, ours was raked squeaky clean by crew from
Golden Odyssey
.  As Jan and I waited on the beach for our prince to arrive, we sipped beer and speculated on the mysterious man. I couldn't resist singing "Someday My Prince Will Come" from
Snow White and the Seven Dwarves
.

“So, do you think he’ll be insulted if we drink beer?” Jan asked, chugging hers.

“Dunno. I almost went to work in Saudi once, but was told I’d basically live under house arrest. Couldn’t drive a car, go outside the compound without wearing a head scarf, all that crap. I imagine things have changed some now, but it wasn’t something I was ready to deal with back then.”

“I believe his Highness do arriveth,” Jan said, pointing her empty beer at an approaching dinghy, if you can call a twenty-five-foot, fringe-topped, inflatable lined with what looked to be velvet cushions a dinghy.

If we expected a bunch of guys in long white robes and red checked headdresses, we were sorely disappointed. Everyone in the launch was dressed identically in pressed khaki bush shirts and shorts, boat shoes, no socks. Each sported wrap-around sunglasses and baseball caps with the ship’s logo. They looked for all the world like a Tommy Bahama ad.

One man was taller than the others. Thin. And while the rest were clean-shaven, he sported a smartly trimmed beard and mustache. When he walked up to us and removed his sunglasses, I almost fainted. Jan gasped. We both stood there, stupidly gawking.

“No, it is not he. It is I, Prince Faoud. You are obviously familiar with my infamous cousin?”

Who isn’t? For years he was one of the most wanted men on earth.

I recovered enough to mumble, “Uh, Prince Faoud, I’m Hetta Coffey and this is Jan Sims.” We both thrust our hands our awkwardly at the same time.

The prince grabbed our hands and smiled. “My crew told me you were both quite attractive, but I must say, they did not do you justice. When you get over my appearance, perhaps we can sit and have a chat?”

“So, just to get things straight,” I said. “You are not Bin Laden reincarnate?”

He laughed softly. “No, a cousin. Unfortunately. We had only one thing in common. We are both outcasts. He for his ridiculous revolutionary fervor, and I for my frowned-upon Western decadence. Amazing we came from the same family, no?”

He spoke with the clipped, upper crust British public school accent of his royal peers, but his voice was softly ironical, as if he didn’t take much in life seriously. How could he if he spent it on a huge luxury yacht, just bopping around the world?

“Uh, would you like a beer, Your Highness?” I asked, and then felt really stupid. Your Highness? And the guy’s a Muslim. What a bimbo I can be.

“Yes, a beer will do. And you do not have to address me by any title, as you are not a Saudi subject. Call me Mo.”

“Okay. Tecate? Or Tecate? We’re a little low.”

“I believe I shall have a Tecate. Then, please, I am most curious to know how you two lovely ladies ended up in this place. My crew informs me that you are not, uh, attached to the men on your yacht. They are servants?”

I didn’t think Fabio and Chino would like that much. “Employees.” I handed him a beer and added, with what I hoped was a Shahrazadian flare, “Drink, and we shall tell you our long and fascinating tale.”

So we did, sort of. We left out the Tanuki thing, instead telling him that we decided to leave San Francisco without Jenks and Lars, planned to meet them in Cabo. We thought we’d be safe enough with a professional captain, so we hired Fabio to bring us down. I stuck with our cover story that Chino was around just to give us a primer on whales. Our story, should it be examined too closely, would come up bilge water, but Mo seemed to buy it. He seemed mo’ interested in what Jenks and Lars were doing in Kuwait City.

“Truth is, I haven’t the slightest idea. Something to do with fire protection, I guess.” And if  I did, would I be telling it  to the cousin of Osama Bin Laden? Not on your magic carpet, Sinbad.

Sitting under a hot Baja sun, with just enough breeze to keep us cool, Princeypoo, Jan and I got more than a little toasted. Chino and Fabio didn’t join us in our descent into drunkenness, wisely opting to play soccer with the other “employees.” They did, on occasion, cast worried looks in our direction. Probably figuring whether they’d be able to heft us from the dinghy into the boat.

“How long will you stay here?” I asked Mo-Baby.

“We must depart soon. We are only staying in case someone, any hurricane victims, need medical assistance. And you?”

“Oh, pish. Other than a little headache now and then, I’m just fine.”

Prince Faoud smiled. “I meant, how long will you stay here?”

I checked my scrambled brain for which version of our story we’d told him. It had been, after all, an hour and three beers ago since I gave him the tale. “Oh, uh, we’ll probably be here for two more weeks. Depends.”

“On what?”

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, and then try to untangle when the old brain’s going comatose. “Uh, on whether Jenks shows up,” I slurred.

“Ah. And his brother?”

Jan, who was starting to lose her word endings, tried to look indignant, but actually just came off as comically cross-eyed. “Who caresh about Larsh. Not me.”

The prince’s wolfish grin sobered me a tad. Oh, great, Jan’s headed for a harem if she doesn’t watch it. “What Miss Jan means, Mosey, is that she’s a li-tle miffed with Lars right now, that’s all.”

“Nope. Thash not ‘tall what I meant,” she said, jutting her chin out. “I’m gonna dump him.”

Get out the veils and belly jewelry, Little Egypt.

The prince visibly brightened. I tried to change the subject. “Prince, your captain says you have a pigeon hurler on the back of that boat.”

They both looked at me in confusion, then he zeroed in. “Ah, you mean my skeet launcher. Yes, we do have our aft deck set up for skeet, but sadly we promised the Mexican government we would keep our guns under lock and key in their waters. I do miss my daily shoot.”

“Don’t we all?” Jan said thickly, scooting closer to the prince. He gave her long legs an appreciative sidelong look.

I jumped to action. Actually, I just thought I jumped. What really happened is that I rocked forward and almost launched myself headfirst into a dune. At least the prince quit ogling Jan and stood to catch me.

“Tanks. Hey, I got an idea, guys. Jan and I’ll go back to
Raymond  Johnson
and get that potato thingy Jenks made. Remember, Jan? It’s made of PVC pipe and can actually launch a potato for a long way. We can have some fun with it.”

Jan looked for a moment as though she’d argue, but grinned crookedly. “Hoo-kay. I’ll drive.”

We stumbled to the dink, I told the prince that we’d be right back, and we left. I drove. About thirty feet from the boat, I intentionally cut back suddenly on the outboard’s throttle and launched Jan, head first, into the bay. The water had cleared and hovered around seventy degrees, Jan is an excellent swimmer, and she’d had all her shots, but she was nowhere near sober. She easily swam to
Raymond Johnson
with me trailing closely behind.

Back on the boat, I convinced her to take a nice hot shower, told her I’d come back and pick her up if she called, then pulled a wire from the radio. Anything to keep her from ending up in the prince’s floating harem. She’d thank me one day. Or take out my front teeth. No telling what she’d do when she found out what happened to our last two cans of hairspray. And our last sack of russets.

I grabbed the potato gun before heading back to the beach.

Should you ever find yourself in need of one, here’s what you’ll require:

1 ea. 5 ft. Length of 2.5-inch PVC pipe w/ one end sharpened

1 ea. 4 inch to 2.5 inch PVC reducer

1 ea. 2 ft. length of 4-inch PVC

1 ea. 4-inch PVC threaded sewer plug

1 ea Piezo electric igniter

1 ea. Ramrod to push potato into chamber. Can be almost anything smaller than .5-inch diameter, and 3 inches shorter than the finished “barrel.” A broomstick will do.

PVC glue

Combustible fuel: hair spray, ether, diesel starter fluid or the like will do the job.

When assembled, you’ve got a potato launcher. Oh, you wanted to know how to assemble it? Not on your life, Tonto. You might be a smarty pants lawyer who’ll sue my pants off when you blow your silly self up.

While the prince was disappointed Jan wasn’t feeling so hot, and was down for a little nappy-poo, he consoled himself by pulverizing pigeons with potatoes. While I was gone, he’d sent for his state of the art, voice-activated skeet launcher, and a huge cache of butts. That’s what he called them. I call them clay pigeons.

“Okay, what you do, der princer, is push the potato against the sharp edge here, then, with great care, lest you lose the end of your fingers, screw the spud down…see how it gets peeled to fit into the pipe? Now, once the whole potato is inside, you gotta use this,” I brandished a ramrod that had a former life as a broomstick, “to shove it as far as it’ll go.”

The soccer boys abandoned their game and came over to watch.

“Now comes the fun part. Unscrew the end cap, add the fuel,” I sprayed in hairspray, “close it fast, take aim, push in the piezo button, et voila.”

The whoosh of the launched potato, followed by a splash about four hundred feet offshore, drew cheers. In no time, we were zeroing in on clay pigeons, along with a stray sea gull or two.

The gulls, however, refused to cooperate by holding course, and escaped our taters of doom.

By the time we ran low on ammo, and thereby any hope of another batch of fries in the near future, Big Mo was on target with most of his shots.

“Hey, you’re pretty good at this,” I told him. “If you were sober you’d probably hit ‘em all.

“I’m a little pissed, I’ll admit.” I knew, from hanging out with Brits of my past, that he wasn’t angry, he meant he was drunk. And I was right on his heels. I don’t know exactly what we were celebrating, but we were doing a bang up job of it.

“More potatoes,” he grandly commanded, sweeping this hand skyward and setting off a flurry of radio and dinghy traffic by his crew.

Impressed, I threw my arm to the skies and roared, “And beer.” Lo and behold, from nowhere, a cold one appeared in my hand. I could get used to this lifestyle.

“I could get used to this lifestyle of yours, oh princerly one.”

“I like it,” he said with a boyish grin.

“So, is there a Mrs. Prince?”

He shook his head. “Sadly, no. I’m what they call a remittance man.”

“You’re gay?” I squawked.

“Certainly not. But I can see you know what a remittance man is.”

“Met a few in my travels. Several English Lords, usually gay, usually quite mad. The saying, drunk as a Lord, comes to mind. They’re paid by the family to stay away, preferably far, far, away from jolly old England.”