his visitors made their way back to their respective boats. A sixty-two-inch plasma TV was on CNN.
“… In other news, fifty thousand barrels of oil a day continue to spew into the Gulf of Mexico, while cleanup crews prepare for a spectacular nighttime burn of a corralled section of the petroleum, which should be visible from Pensacola to Fort Myers…”
Another laugh from Malcolm. He emptied the rest of the magnum. Three people appeared in front of him. The live-aboard captain, mechanic, and cook.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Glide?”
“No, that’s it. Good night.” He tilted his head, indicating that they were blocking his TV view.
They disappeared to their berths below.
“… Breaking news at this hour: Authorities are reporting the discovery of a body believed to be that of the foiled assassin from the Summit of the Americas in Miami. Speaking off the record, officials have identified the deceased as Felicia Carmen, a member of Costa Gordan intelligence who is suspected of being a double agent with recently uncovered ties to the country’s Marxist rebels. With shades of the Versace slaying, Ms. Carmen herself was gunned down in a brazen daylight attack on Ocean Drive. Police are seeking this man…”
Serge’s face filled the screen.
A sedate smile from Glide as he drained the last of the champagne-“never saw it coming”-then rested his head back over the couch and closed his eyes.
A new green dot blipped on the edge of the radar screen.
Gulf of Mexico
Another yacht.
No running lights. Drifting in blackness fifty miles off the coast of Tampa Bay.
“How long you going to need it?” asked Stan the High-End Repo Man.
“We’ll be heading back before you know it.” Serge glanced at a seaplane moored to the bow. “Thanks for flying us over. We never could have made it in time from Biscayne to the Gulf in that speedboat.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Stan. “But next time give me a little advance warning when we’re transporting some guy who’s tied up.”
“I didn’t think it was unusual.”
“In your case, you’re right.”
Serge looked over the rear of the vessel at a small, shore-excursion boat lashed to the stern. “How much does one of these dinghies cost?”
“Why?”
“It won’t be coming back.”
“Don’t you ever change?” The repo man wiped his hands on a rag. “Forget about it. I’ll just file insurance, lost at sea.”
“I owe you.”
“Yes.”
“You might want to get back to the plane,” said Serge. “Some people don’t want to see-”
“Already on my way.” The repo man climbed down onto a pontoon, then into the cockpit.
Lines cast off. A propeller began to whirl, and the plane scooted across the water until it lifted off into the unseen night over the Everglades.
Serge turned the other way. “Now, as you were saying?”
“I swear I didn’t betray you!” pleaded Malcolm Glide. “I thought we discussed the risks-that you might be the fall guy if things turned sour.”
Serge had been disappointed. It was almost too easy kidnapping Glide off his boat near Stiltsville in Biscayne Bay. But irony always brought his spirits back. He grabbed the handle of a large crank, making one slow clockwise turn.
Iron gears clicked. The dinghy lowered a foot.
Serge leaned toward Malcolm. “Except you planned for everything to go sour all along.”
“Stop cranking!” yelled Glide. “On my mother’s grave! Espionage has many layers, very complex. It’s not what it seems!”
“It seems Felicia’s dead. She was my almost-fiancee.” Another crank.
The small boat lowered another foot and stopped with a shudder.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen!” said Glide. “I told them to leave her out of it, but those generals are crazy. You try dealing with Latins.”
“What am I? An Eskimo?” Crank.
“I didn’t mean it that way!” Malcolm looked down at his trussed-up body, fastened securely in the dinghy’s middle seat with boat straps and chains, no hope of movement. “I’ll give you money!”
Serge looked behind him. “Coleman, you want money?”
“Sure!”
Serge turned back and grinned at Glide. “Too bad you didn’t double-cross Coleman.” Crank, crank, crank…
“Please stop cranking!..”
Serge stopped cranking and placed a hand on his heart. “Okay, you’ve touched me.” He grabbed something from the bilge and vaulted over the stern into the dinghy. “I’m going to show you mercy.”
“You are?”
“I know, I should have my head examined.”
“Thank God!” said Malcolm. “You won’t regret this!”
“Lift your feet.”
“What?”
“Just lift them.”
He did, and Serge unrolled something. “You can put ’em down now.”
Malcolm rested his feet on a new surface. “What’s that?”
“The red Star-Elite Club carpet.” Serge climbed up from the dinghy and back over the stern. “Now you’re traveling in style.”
Glide began blubbering again.
“Jesus, be a man!” Serge resumed cranking. “It’s not that bad.”
“It isn’t?”
“Not for me. You’re pretty fucked.” Crank, crank, crank…
Tears flowed with abandon. “What are you going to do?”
“Teach you about nature. Like this holy body of water and all the majestic shorelines surrounding her… Isn’t it peaceful?”
“I had nothing to do with the oil spill! I just lobbied candidates with scientific facts!” Glide wriggled in vain against his bindings. “It’s never happened before! It was the scientists!”
“Scientists told you that all the other countries were wrong when they demanded PB install a remote- controlled shutoff valve?” Crank, crank, crank. “And your candidates voted to let them go without valves to increase profits? And cap liabilities in case of a spill?”
“I’m begging you. Don’t kill me!”
“Oh, I won’t kill you… I’m not that upset about the Gulf.”
“You aren’t?”
Serge set the lock on the winch and leaned against the lever, staring up at constellations. “That would be egotistical. Humans tend to view everything in terms of their own insignificant life spans. But in the long run, Mother Earth takes care of herself. The big wheel keeps on turning.”
Malcolm sniffed back sobs. “That’s what I always say.”
“Right-o. Nature spawned you to pee in the pool. And nature created me to cross your path. See? Mother’s always right… Or at least: When she’s not happy, nobody’s happy.” Cranking resumed without stopping. So did the crying.
The hull hit the water. Serge hopped down into the dinghy again and pull-started the engine. “I know what you’re thinking? How in heaven’s name can I steer?” He stepped back onto the yacht. “Fret not. Serge is your pilot. I drilled bolts, freezing the rudder, so you’ll sail straight as an arrow.”
