Tricky Business (4 page)

“OK,” he said. “I'll go.”

“Regular time?” Arnie said to Nestor.

“OK,” said Nestor. “But you people are crazy.”

“We're off our medication,” said Phil.

“I'm Harold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand.

 

AT A SMALL MARINA IN THE BAHAMAS, TWO men, one large and one small, shrugged their way through the gusting rain toward a cabin cruiser tied to the dock.

When they reached the boat, the large man, whose name was Frank, cupped his mouth and shouted, “Hey! Anybody here?”

There was no response.

“Maybe he's not here,” said the smaller man, whose name was Juan.

“Oh, he's here, all right,” said Frank. “He just likes watching us get wet.” He shouted at the boat again: “TARK! OPEN UP!”

Still no response. Frank and Juan stood still in the rain for thirty seconds, a minute. Frank looked around, found a boat hook. He picked it up and clanged the metal end against the boat hull.

Instantly, the aft cabin door burst open, and a lean, weathered man emerged, wearing only cutoff shorts, holding a knife.

“You touch my boat again,” he said, “I'll cut off your goddamn hand.”

“And good morning to
you,
Tark,” said Frank. “You gonna invite us in outta the rain?”

“Nope,” said Tark, then, looking at Juan: “I just got rid of the smell from last time you was on.”

“Fuck you,” said Juan.

Tark ignored him, looked back at Frank. “You're way early.”

“We just want to make sure you know it's still on for tonight,” said Frank. “We don't want you thinking this weather's gonna stop the operation.”

“Weather don't bother me,” said Tark. “I ain't the pussy who pukes every time we hit the Gulf Stream.” He was back to looking at Juan, who did in fact puke the last time they hit the Gulf Stream.

“You want to see who's a pussy?” said Juan. “Put down the blade, get off the boat, we find out who's a pussy.” Juan had boxed some, professional.

“You afraid of a knife, Pancho?” said Tark. “I thought spics liked knives.”

Juan made a move to climb onto the boat. Frank put a large restraining hand on his shoulder. “Boys, boys,” he said. “Can't we all just get along?”

“Not with that prick,” said Juan.

“No,” agreed Tark.

“I didn't think so,” said Frank. “But we have to get along for a little while. Big job tonight. After that, we get back, everything's put away nice,
then
you boys can kill each other, OK?”

“I'm ready,” said Tark, staring at Juan.

“Anytime, asshole,” said Juan, staring back.

“That's the spirit!” said Frank. “Kumbaya. We'll be back at six.”

“I'll be here,” said Tark.

“If you need us,” said Frank, “we're at the inn.”

“I won't need you,” said Tark. “Fact is, I could do this whole thing without you. You and puking Pancho just get in the way out there.”

“Ah, but we'd miss
you,
Tark,” said Frank. “Your smiling face, your sparkling wit.”

“Bite me,” said Tark.

“See?” said Frank. “Sparkling. Bye for now, Tark.”

Frank and Juan turned and headed back toward the village. When they'd gone about twenty yards, Juan said, “I
hate
that prick. Why do we gotta use him? Why can't we use some other boat? Plenty of boats around here.”

“Tell you the truth,” said Frank, “I don't know why we use him. I just do what they tell me, and they tell me, use Tark.”

Juan shook his head. “I don't trust him.”

“Me either,” said Frank. “That's why we watch each other's back tonight, right?”

“OK,” said Juan. Then: “I
hate
that prick.”

Back on the boat, still holding the knife, Tark watched the two men recede in the rain. A voice spoke to him from inside the cabin.

“That's the guys?” it said.

“That's them,” said Tark.

“Big one looks like a handful,” said the voice.

“He won't be no problem,” said Tark. “Rough seas like this, a boat can jerk around a lot, 'specially if you steer it wrong. I'll make it easy.”

“What about the little one?” said the voice.

Tark, looking down at his knife, said, “You leave the spic to me.”

 

FAY BENTON WAS STARTLED FROM SLEEP BY A 27-pound weight thumping down on her abdomen.

“Bear!” said the weight. “Bear! Bear!”

“OK, honey,” said Fay. “But first Mommy has to go potty.”

She sat up, wrapped her arms around her daughter, Estelle, age two, got out of bed, and went into the bathroom. She set Estelle gently on the floor and sat on the toilet.

“Mommy potty,” said Estelle.

“That's right,” said Fay. “Mommy's going potty.”

“Peepee,” said Estelle, hearing the tinkle.

“Peepee,” agreed Fay.

“It smells like smoke in here,” said Fay's mother, appearing in the doorway.

“Mother, do you
mind
?” said Fay, pushing the door closed.

“Bear!” said Estelle. “Bear! Bear! Bear!”

“In a minute, honey,” said Fay. “Mommy's going potty.”

“Peepee,” said Estelle.

“Have you been smoking?” said Fay's mother, through the door. “Because I smell smoke.”

“No, I haven't been smoking,” said Fay. “The people on the boat smoke, and it gets in my clothes.” She wiped, flushed, stood.

“Bye-bye, peepee!” said Estelle, waving to the swirling water.

“That secondhand smoke can kill you,” said Fay's mother.

“Bear!” said Estelle. “Bear! Bear! Bear! Bear! Bear!”

“OK, honey,” said Fay. “We'll go see the bear.” She opened the bathroom door.

“You look terrible,” her mother said.

“Thanks, Mom,” said Fay. “I got to sleep at two-thirty.”

“Bear!” said Estelle. “Bear! Bear! Bear!”

“You need to get out of that job,” said her mother. “You're gonna kill yourself.”

“Bear!” said Estelle.

“OK, honey,” said Fay. She picked up Estelle and carried her into the living room, where she turned on the TV and VCR and shoved in a videotape of
Bear in the Big Blue House,
which Estelle watched a minimum of five times a day. Estelle stood directly in front of the TV set, perhaps six inches away, waiting. When the bear appeared, she said, “Bear!”

“She shouldn't stand so close,” said Fay's mother. “Those cathode radiations, you can get brain cancer.”

Fay went into the kitchen, filled a small Winnie-the-Pooh bowl with Froot Loops, brought it back and set it on the coffee table. She picked up Estelle and set her down next to the table.

“Fwoops!” said Estelle, spying the cereal. She reached into the bowl, carefully selected a purple Froot Loop, and put it into her mouth. When she had swallowed, she began selecting another.

“That cereal is nothing but chemicals,” her mother said. “Those things can kill you.”

“Mom, I'm really, really tired,” said Fay. “Let me just get some coffee, OK?”

She headed back to the kitchen, trailed by her mother, who said, “Your hair smells like cigarettes. You need to get off that boat.”

“Mom,” said Fay, “like I told you, I'll get out of this as soon as I can. I really, really appreciate you staying here with Estelle all these nights. I'm hoping the boat thing is only another few days. I don't like it any more than you.”

“I don't see why Todd can't take the baby at night if you have to work,” said Fay's mother.

“He won't.”

“Why not?”

“Because he's an asshole.”

“There's no need for that language,” said her mother.

“OK,” said Fay, “he's a shithead.”

“Fay!” said her mother.

“OK, then,” said Fay, “he's a dickwad.”

“DIT wad!” said Estelle, toddling into the kitchen. “DIT wad!”

“Now look what you've done,” said Fay's mother.

“Go watch Bear, honey,” said Fay. “Bear is on TV!”

“Bear!” said Estelle, toddling back out.

“Todd is that baby's father,” said Fay's mother. “He has a responsibility.”

“If he had any responsibility,” said Fay, spooning coffee into the Mister Coffee filter, “I'd still be married to him. Truth is, I don't even know where he lives right now. With some bimbo, probably. I'm not gonna leave Estelle with him.”

“Is that caffeinated?” said her mother. “That caffeine can give you a heart attack.”

“Mom,
please,
” said Fay.

“Anyway,” said her mother, “you won't need me tonight, because that boat isn't going out in this weather.”

Fay looked out the window. “I have to call in and check,” she said.

“It won't go out,” said her mother. “It's a tropical storm out there. Tropical Storm Hector. Bob Soper said it could be fifty-five-mile-per-hour winds.

“Well, I still have to call.”

“Well, it shouldn't go out. Winds like that, you could get killed.”

Estelle toddled in, holding out her empty Winnie-the-Pooh bowl with both hands.

“Fwoops!” she said.

“OK, honey,” said Fay, reaching for the Froot Loops box.

“Pure chemicals,” said her mother. “You should give her fruit.” She bent down to Estelle, and, in the hideously unnatural high-pitched voice that many older people use when addressing babies, said: “Gramma give Estelle some nice prunes!”

“DIT wad!” said Estelle.

THE
EXTRAVAGANZA OF THE SEAS
WAS A 198-foot, 5,000-ton cash machine, an ugly, top-heavy tub with 205 slot machines and 29 gaming tables in two big rooms glowing with cheesy neon, reeking of stale smoke and beer-breath curses. The ship's sole function was to carry gamblers three miles from the Florida coast each night, take as much of their money as possible, then return them to land four hours later, so they could go find more money.

Gambling cruises are a big business, especially in South Florida, where more than two dozen ships take roughly 8,000 customers out nightly. Nobody really knows how much money these ships make; it's a cash business, which means it's easy to prevent nosy outfits such as the United States government from finding out where it all comes from, and where it all goes.

There are many mysteries in the gambling-cruise business, besides the profits. The identities of the real owners of the ships are often hidden via dummy corporations and silent partnerships. And since the gambling takes place unregulated, in international waters, nobody has any idea how honest the games are. If you were a gambler, you might
suspect
that the roulette wheel was rigged, or the blackjack deck was stacked, or your chances of hitting a jackpot on the slot machine were about as good as if you'd been throwing your coins directly overboard. But who are you going to complain to? Seagulls? There's no state gambling commission out there in the Gulf Stream.

Of course, none of this keeps the gamblers from coming. Gamblers need action, even when the odds suck. And so they return to the ships, night after night—the slot-machine ladies, clutching their plastic cups of quarters; the shouting, hard-drinking craps-table crowd; the roulette addicts, who truly believe, all evidence to the contrary, that there is something lucky about their birthdates; the blackjack loners, with their foolproof systems that don't work—all of them eager to resume the inexorable process of transferring their cash to whoever owns the ship.

In the case of the
Extravaganza of the Seas,
the owner of record was a man named Bobby Kemp, who was usually described in the newspaper as a millionaire entrepreneur. Kemp liked the look of that,
entrepreneur,
although he personally could not pronounce it.

Pretty much the entire reason that he wound up as the owner of the
Extravaganza of the Seas
was that he'd wanted to impress a date who had big tits. This happened after he'd made his fortune. He was a rags-to-riches story, the son of a white-trash welfare mother and a disappeared alcoholic father, a high-school dropout who'd been scraping by in the field of freelance auto-body repair and insurance fraud when he got his first big entrepreneurial break. This was the federal law requiring all new cars to be equipped, at considerable expense, with air bags, to protect motorists who were too stupid, lazy, or drunk to go to the trouble of buckling their seat belts.