from the name handwritten on the card up to Stoke’s face and then back at the invitation.
“Hell, no, I ain’t!” Stoke laughed, pounding the guy so hard on the shoulder he almost drove him straight down through the teak deck. “But that’s a good one! Am I Alex Hawke? I gotta remember to tell him that one!”
“Well, then—”
“I work for the man. He couldn’t make it tonight so he gave me his invitation. That’s his boat over there. See it? The big black one all lit up and shit. Kinda blocking out the horizon. Called Blackhawke. Hell, we’re practically neighbors.”
“You are Lord Hawke’s guest.” His mood brightened considerably at this idea.
“Technically,” Stoke said. “But, since it’s your boat, not. In reality, I’m your guest. See what I’m saying?”
“Well—”
“Listen. No harm done, Admiral. I’m not insulted. Hell, don’t even think about it. Skin thicker than a New York City phone book. Yellow Pages. Hey, question, all right? Where’s the host at? You ain’t him, are you?”
“Certainly not, monsieur, I am the second chief steward aboard Valkyrie. My name is Bruno. The owner, Baron von Draxis, he is up on the bow. Giving a warm and welcoming toast to our guests at this moment. And unveiling an oil portrait of his newest project. An ocean liner. The world’s largest. She will be launched at Le Havre in a few short weeks.”
“Really? I’d like to catch that welcome toast. I love German warmth. But, listen, Bruno, do me a favor. I’m kind of a boat guy myself. Navy SEALs, shit like that. Do you think I could get a stem-to-stern tour of this thing? Just you and me?”
Stoke discreetly slipped a single Euro note into the guy’s breast pocket, sticking out right behind his little puffed-out polka-dot hanky. Bruno looked down at it, saw it was five hundred smackers. He looked around, then shoved the note down in his pocket.
“I should be delighted, monsieur. Shall we start here at the stern?”
“Certainly. Who are your two friends here?” Stoke said, smiling at the huge evil twins and sticking his hand out to the one on the left.
“Guten abend,” the guy said. He sounded like a German Barry White.
“Where are my manners? Damn! I didn’t even say hello. How you doing? Stokely Jones, Jr., is my name. What’s yours?”
“Arnold,” the guy said, trying vainly to pulverize Stoke’s hand. Stoke managed to extract it without permanent nerve damage and offer it to the other guy.
“Stokely Jones, nice to meet you.”
“Arnold,” the second guy said.
“You’re Arnold, too? That must get confusing.”
Bruno said, “They are in charge of the baron’s security. Arnold and—”
“Listen, Admiral. Tell the two Arnolds you’ll catch up with them later. Got it? We’ll start at this end of the boat and work our way to the beginning. Lead on, Bruno,” Stoke said, “I’ll follow you.”
“Very good, Mr. Jones.”
“Auf wiedersehen,” Stoke said, waving good-bye to the two Arnolds. And he really did get the feeling he’d be seeing them again.
Bruno led the way, grinning with pleasure, and gave Stokely a running description of everything they saw. The big stern section that swung open hydraulically, where they kept a whole lot of silver-painted wave-riders and two Riva launches. The walnut-paneled smoking room, the card room, the screening room, the antique-filled interiors designed, naturally, by the famous Luigi di Luigi of Milano and shit like that. The Bagni Volpi sheets, the Descamps towels, all those good-life things you saw in magazines.
Stoke wasn’t too impressed by much of what he saw below. All boats, no matter how much money you throw at them, are pretty much the same below decks. Long passageways with closed cabin doors on either side. The galley, full of smiling Italian cooks and waiters, always happy to have visitors. A monstrous sparkling engine room where the chief engineer and his mates gave detailed information regarding the two massive diesels. It was, in Stoke’s view, the most beautiful room on the boat. But Stoke had no time for that now.
“Where’s this baron bunk his ass?” Stoke asked the admiral, gently squeezing his shoulder in a conspiratorial way.
“Ah, he has a full beam owner’s stateroom just up at the end of this passageway. Afraid it’s off limits just at this moment.”
“Really? Why’s that?” Stoke kept moving, leading them down the corridor leading forward until they reached the wide double doors.
“Surely you can understand that—”
“Man got to have his privacy, yeah, I can understand that. Question. What’s below our feet? You got enough space down there for four or five New York City buses.”
“It’s just the bilges, very boring. Storage, fuel tanks. We motor a lot, so we have to carry many tons of fuel. Nothing very interesting, I assure you.”
“I’m already interested. So, how you get down there? I’ve been looking for a stairway or elevator.”
“I assure you it wouldn’t be of interest.”
“Maybe some other time, then. Hey, listen, this has been great. Fabulous. I’ve got to run along now, but I’d love you to do me a favor.” Stoke fished inside his wallet. The guy rose like a trout.
“Of course, sir, how may I be of further assistance?”
“I really am dying to see the man’s bedroom, see,” Stoke said, putting a thousand-Euro note in the leaping hand. “I’m redoing one of my client’s staterooms. Looking for decorating ideas, you understand. You don’t need to stick around, just open it up for me and get back to your guests, okay?”
“Well—”
“Our little secret, Bruno old pal. Don’t worry. Somebody sees me, I just got lost looking for the head.”
“You’re an interior decorator?”
“More of an interior designer. You may have heard of my firm. Jones and Jones of New York? I like these chairs, covered in white leather. Good look.”
“It’s not exactly leather,” Bruno said. “It’s the skin of whale scrotums.”
“Whale scrotums?” Stoke said. “See, that’s exactly the kind of decorating input I’m looking for!”
“The owner’s thinking of doing these companionway walls in aqua. What do you think?”
“Bad idea.”
“Really? How do you possibly know that without seeing it?”
“Tricks of the trade, Bruno. I don’t have to throw up on the shag to know it’s going to look bad.”
“Monsieur Jones, I can see you are a man of exquisite taste. Just don’t be too long in there. Five minutes, maximum.”
“Max,” Stoke said. “I’m not good, but I’m fast.”
The little guy inserted a card into the reader and the thick, varnished mahogany door hissed open an inch. Soundproof, Stoke thought.
“Merci beaucoup, partner,” Stoke whispered over his shoulder, pushing the door open and then closing it behind him.
The light was very dim but he was aware of beautiful paneling and what seemed like leather tiles beneath his feet. Leather floors! Now, that was serious decorating. The port lights were all shut and what light there was came from very low ambient fixtures hidden in the ceiling and bookcases. There was the dark shape of a large square bed against the far wall. Some kind of sheer curtains glimmering around it. A figure in black lay across the rumpled sheets. She was crying, sobbing softly into the pillow.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Stoke said, approaching the bed.
“Who are you?” she whispered in a fierce hiss. “Get out! I’ll call someone!”
“Take it easy,” Stoke said, holding up his hand and backing away. He had no interest in explaining his presence here. “I’m just a guy who got lost during the grand tour and—what the—”
