“Hey!” A frowsy woman wearing a supervisor’s uniform came bustling up. “No carts allowed down here, get that up to housekeeping right away.”
Juanita had her back to the woman and did not respond. The supervisor grabbed her by the shoulder and wheeled her around. “I said, get that—” Recognizing Juanita, she stopped.
“Santamaria?” she said. “What the
are you doing down here? Your shift doesn’t end for another five hours. Get your ass back up to Deck 12.”
Juanita said nothing, made no eye contact.
“You hear me? Get back abovedecks before I have you written up and docked a day’s pay. You—”
The supervisor stopped. Something in Juanita’s vacant expression, the dark hollows of her eyes, made her fall silent.
Abandoning the maid’s trolley in the middle of the corridor, Juanita walked past the woman and made her way unsteadily through the crowds. The supervisor, spooked, simply watched her go.
Juanita’s quarters were in a cramped, oppressive warren of cabins near the ship’s stern. Although the turbine/diesel power plant was three decks beneath, the thrumming vibration and smell of fuel haunted the air like a drifting infection. As she approached the cabin, her step grew slower still. As crew members passed by, they frequently turned back to look at her, shocked by her unfocused eyes and the drawn, spectral look on her face.
She stopped outside her door, hesitant. A minute passed, then two. Suddenly, the door opened from within and a dark, black-haired woman began to step out. She wore the uniform of the waitstaff for Hyde Park, the informal restaurant on Deck 7. Seeing Juanita, she stopped abruptly.
“Juanita, girl!” she said in a Haitian accent. “You surprised me.”
Again, Juanita said nothing. She stared past the woman as if she weren’t there.
“Juanita, what’s wrong? You’re all staring, like you saw a ghost.” There was a splatter as Juanita’s bladder gave way. Yellow coils of urine trickled down her legs and puddled on the linoleum of the corridor.
The woman in the waitress uniform jumped back. “Hey!”
The loud voice seemed to rouse Juanita. Her glassy eyes focused. They swiveled toward the woman in the doorway. Then, very slowly, they moved down her face, to her throat, where a gold medallion hung from a simple chain. It depicted a many-headed snake, crouched below the rays of a stylized sun.
Suddenly, Juanita’s eyes widened. Thrusting out her hands as if to ward something off, she half staggered, half fell back into the hallway. Her mouth yawned open, showing an alarming cavern of pink.
That was when the screams began.
13
ROGER MAYLES WALKED ACROSS THE PLUSHLY CARPETED FLOOR OF the Mayfair Casino, nodding and smiling as he went. The
A cocktail waitress carrying a salver laden with champagne stopped him. “Hello, Mr. Mayles,” she said over the noise. “Care for a glass?”
“No thank you, darling.”
A Dixieland band was wailing almost at their elbows, adding to the sensation of frantic merriment. The Mayfair was the most boisterous of the
Reaching the casino’s bar, Mayles took a right and stopped before an unmarked door. Pulling a passcard from his pocket, he swiped it through an adjoining reader and the lock popped open. He glanced from left to right, then slipped quickly inside, away from the noise and bustle.
The room beyond had no overhead lights. Instead, it was illuminated by a hundred small CCTV monitors set into all four walls, each displaying a different perspective of the casino: bird’s-eye views of tables, banks of slot machines, cashiers. This was the “pit” of the Mayfair Casino, where the casino staff vigilantly monitored gamblers, croupiers, dealers, and money handlers alike.
Two technicians in chairs with rollers studied the displays, their faces spectral in the wash of blue light. Victor Hentoff, the casino manager, stood behind them, also frowning at the monitors. He would spend most of the next six days shuttling between the ship’s casinos, and he had spent so many years staring at screens that his face had acquired a kind of perpetual squint. At the sound of Mayles’s entrance, he turned.
“Roger,” he said in a gruff voice, holding out his hand.
Mayles reached into his pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope.
“Thanks,” Hentoff said. He slit open the envelope with a fat finger and pulled out several sheets. “My God,” he said, flipping through them.
“Lots of low-hanging fruit,” Mayles said. “Ripe for the picking.”
“Care to give me an executive summary?”
“Sure.” Along with everything else Mayles had to do, the casino staff expected him to provide them, discreetly, with a list of potential high rollers—or easy marks—for special cultivation and buttering up. “The Countess of Westleigh is back for another fleecing. Remember what happened on the maiden voyage of the
Hentoff rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe she’d return after that.”
“She has a weakness for maiden voyages. And baccarat dealers. Then there’s—”
Suddenly, Hentoff wasn’t looking at Mayles anymore. He was looking over the cruise director’s shoulder. At the same moment, Mayles noticed that the noise level in the room had gone up tremendously. He turned to follow Hentoff’s gaze and with a thrill of dismay saw that his dinner guest, Pendergast, had somehow let himself into the pit and was now closing the door behind him.
“Ah, Mr. Mayles,” Pendergast said. “Here you are.”
The feeling of dismay deepened. The cruise director rarely made poor choices for his dining companions, but selecting Pendergast and his “ward” had been a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat.
Pendergast swept his gaze around the walls of monitors. “Charming view you have in here.”
“How did you get in?” Hentoff demanded.
“Just a little parlor trick.” Pendergast gave a dismissive wave.
“Well, you can’t stay here, sir. This area is off-limits to passengers.”
“I just have a request or two to make of Mr. Mayles, then I’ll be on my way.”
The casino manager turned
