'All the trains and banks they robbed, they never shot anyone? Bullshit. Nobody gives up a fuckin' payroll without someone gettin' shot. Remember that. Someone gets in your way and you gotta grease the fucker, then you'd better fuckin' do it or it could be your ass that's down. You wanna be very popular with everyone but the railroads and the banks? Then you'd better try stand-up comedy instead of robbery. You wanna take down a score like this one, then you'd better be ready to drop some fuckin' brass. And lots of it. You understand? It's survival of the fittest. Capisce?
Dave grinned back at him. He said, 'All that testosterone, Al. You wanna hear yourself. Like a goddamn pit- bull terrier. Survival of the fittest? That was Charles Darwin's theory. It was an explanation of natural selection and evolution and shit like that. When he said survival of the fittest he didn't mean those who were prepared to be the baddest motherfuckers would survive. Fittest doesn't mean bad, Al. It doesn't mean anything except what it says: most likely to survive. Fact is that old Darwin thought that being predisposed toward co-operation might well be adaptive and would thus be selected for.
'The way I look at it, Al, that's what we're after. A little co-operation. We wave our guns and make some noise, sure. But let's do this cleverly. In a social way. A certain amount of aggression may well be called for, sure. It may confer some benefits. But it also has its costs. Most animals have got built-in codes for conflict that set limits to the violence they do to each other. A lot of it is just bluff. Threat displays n'shit like that. To hear you Al, you sound like you actually want to kill somebody. And what you've got to understand is that if we use our brains we probably won't have to use our guns. Your Alias Smith and Jones example is all wrong, man. The point was not that they were too yellow or too dumb to shoot anyone, but that they planned their robberies with sufficient thought and style, and then kept their cool so as they didn't need to shoot people.'
Al laughed scornfully. 'And you believe that?'
'Al, it's your example, not mine. The question's kind of academic, on account of how it wasn't meant to be true in the first place.'
'Sure it was true,' insisted Al. 'It was history. Said so right at the beginning of the show. 'Hannibal Hayes and Kid Curry, the two most wanted outlaws in the history of the west.' Sure it was true. The only part that wasn't true was the part how they never shot anyone. They just did that to make sure they picked up the family audience.'
'Al, it was a fictional scenario, based only very loosely on two historical characters.' Dave checked himself from saying more. What did he know? What did he care? What the fuck did it matter? He was debating a point with someone whose idea of an effective argument was a bigger handgun than the next guy.
Al said, 'You know your trouble? You read way too much. Every time you open your mouth some other guy's thoughts come out. Like you were a vent's dummy or something.' He lifted the empty .45 automatic, pointed it at Dave's reflection in the large mirror behind his bed, and pulled the trigger harmlessly. He said, 'I've said it before and I'll say it again, it beats me how you did all that time.'
Dave said, 'Whatever I did, Al, I did for you and for your boss. Try and remember that sometime.'
Al winked unpleasantly.
'Hey, it's always on my mind.'
Dave carried his gear back to his own stateroom, put it in the drawer underneath his bed and then stretched out.
The five years he'd done in Homestead were of little consequence to Al, but Dave knew the experience would be on his own mind for the rest of his natural. He thought about the time and then he thought about the man Tony Nudelli had shot, and the ramifications that had ensued. For Dave and Dave's fucked-up family. There was no way Naked Tony was going to get away with what had happened. He had some payback coming.
But mostly he thought about Kate and what had happened the night before. Already she was on his mind in a way he'd hardly have thought possible on the strength of one day's acquaintance. First thing that morning his thoughts had been about her. It's the girls who resist that you most want to kiss. He could not recall feeling this way about a girl in years and it seemed unthinkable that in four or five days' time he might sail off into the sunrise and simply never see her again. What made it even more awkward was the certainty that she felt the same way about him. With the only difference being that she wasn't expecting him to turn thief and take off with millions of dollars of drug money. There could be no question of not going through with the caper. Even if he'd had second thoughts there was still Al to consider. But maybe there was a third possibility. How much did the captain of a small yacht make anyway? Thirty, forty thousand dollars a year? What was that next to some real money? She talked like she'd be willing at least to entertain the proposition. If there was one thing Dave liked it was a good-looking girl with lip. Of course, the timing would be critical. He could hardly tell her what he was going to do before he had done it. Suppose she objected and then gave the game away? No, he wasn't quite sure how, but he would have to check her out and make sure of her in some other way, up front. He would have to devise a fictional scenario or pose, in order to test her.
After a while Dave went up on deck, and looked toward the Carrera. There were signs that someone had been sunbathing on the roof but Kate was nowhere in sight. Al was up on the side of the Duke, talking to the Jade's captain and grinning wolfishly. Seeing Dave, he shouted down.
'Hey boss, we just got ourselves invited to a cocktail party.'
'That's nice,' said Dave, climbing up onto the wall alongside them. 'Thanks a lot, Captain Dana.'
She said, 'Eight o'clock. Everyone's invited. And please, it's Rachel. With so many captains around this ship is starting to look a little top heavy.'
Dave saw Al glance surreptitiously at Rachel's tits. Al's thoughts were an open book to Dave; certainly where they concerned the top-heavy Rachel Dana.
Dave said, 'Dana. That's a good name for the captain of an American boat. Any relation?'
'As a matter of fact he was a distant ancestor of mine,' confirmed Rachel.
Al bit his lip and said, 'Who?'
'A famous writer,' Dave said, teasing him. 'R.H. Dana.'
Al rolled his eyes and was about to make another disparaging comment about books when it suddenly dawned on him that Dave was supposed to be his boss, and this Dana guy was a writer who was related to Rachel.
'He wrote one of the best books ever about the sea,' said Dave. 'Two Years before the Mast. But you wouldn't be interested, Al. Not being much of a reader n'all.'
'Says who?'
'I have a copy in my cabin, if you'd like to borrow it,' said Rachel.
'I'd love to read it,' insisted Al.
'Maybe when you've finished reading it, you can tell Rachel what you think,' said Dave. 'Give her your literary critique.'
'Yeah, sure. Why not?'
Rachel smiled pleasantly and ushering Al onto the Jade, said, 'Well then let's go and get it, shall we?'
Later that same day, Dave walked round to the port side of the ship to check on his three target vessels.
Up on the roof of Baby Doc, one of the crewmen, with more tattoos than a Maori Hell's Angel, had the bell cover off the Tracvision antenna and was attaching a wire to the satellite dish.
'Afternoon,' said Dave.
'So I was led to believe,' said the guy, not even looking round.
'You got a problem there? Maybe I can help.'
The guy looked around slowly with a who-the-fuck-are-you-to-be-offering-meadvice expression on his smug, tough face. After a moment or two, he finished chewing the inside of his lip and said, 'We're not getting a TV signal.'
Dave smiled to himself, marking the guy down as someone with little experience of boats. He said, 'Too far away.'
'From the satellite?' The guy sounded incredulous.
'Hell no,' said Dave. 'From the coast. That thing only works up to the 200-mile limit. After that it's just white noise and space, the final frontier.'
'No kidding?'
'No kidding. Leastways until you get to Europe. But their TV's shit so don't hold your breath.'
'Shit,' said the guy. 'What are we gonna do?'
