“Matter of fact, he’s on his lunch break. But I’m sure I can help you. I’m Dave McAllister, by the way.”
“I’m sure you could help me, Dave. But, you know what, I came here to see this Yurin guy.”
“Well, in that case, let me go back to his office and see if I can get him. May I tell him who’s asking for him?”
“Sheldon Levy.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Sheldon Levy. No, no, don’t apologize. I get that all the time. I don’t look all that Jewish, do I? But then, look at Sammy Davis, Jr. Know what I’m saying?”
“Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Levy. I’ll be right back with Mr. Yurin.”
Two minutes later, Yurin came out on the floor, wiping the mayo off his lower lip. Big boy, good-looking blond bodybuilder. He still had a little piece of shredded lettuce in the corner of his mouth. Big Mac, Stoke thought, seeing the guy eating one at his desk, wolfing it down, when he heard he had a fish on the line. Russians couldn’t get enough of Big Macs ever since Mickey D had opened that first one on Red Square. Beat the hell out of borscht, you had to figure.
“Mr. Levy!” he said, shaking Stoke’s hand, Yurin trying to figure out where the hell he’d seen the huge black guy before. He knew he’d seen him, you didn’t forget someone Stoke’s size easily. But where?
Like all the black-shirted security guys at the Lukov party, Yurin was muscled up, beefy, anyway, going to fat around the middle courtesy of the good life in sunny south Florida. Too many stone crab dinners at Joe’s.
“Yurin, Yurin, Yurin, good to see you again, man. You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, I do, I do. I’m just trying to remember where we met.”
“The Lukov birthday thing. You gotta remember that.
“Ri-i-i-ght,” Yurin said, drawing the word out, deep Russian accent, still no clue. It was the suit, tie, and sunglasses Stoke was wearing, that’s what was throwing him.
“Fancha’s manager? Suncoast Artist Management?” Stoke said.
“Fancha! The beautiful birthday singer! Of course! So, what can I do for you, Mr. Levy? Dave says you’re in the market for a new Magnum Sixty.”
“I certainly am,” Stoke said, holding up a genuine crocodile satchel with his right hand. “Man, what a machine. I want to get Fancha one to celebrate her new movie contract. We just cashed the first check,” Stoke said, holding up the croc case again just for emphasis.
“You are in luck today, Mr. Levy. I just happen to have three brand-new Sixties in stock. Factory fresh. Pick your color. Diamond Black, Cobalt Blue, or Speed Yellow.”
“Is there a question? You got to go with the Speed Yellow, you got any style at all, right, Yurin?”
“Speed Yellow it is! Let’s go back to my office and work up a sales order, Mr. Levy. Or can I call you Sheldon?”
“Call me Sheldon.”
“Call me Yuri, then,” he said, big smile, fish already in the boat, easiest damn yacht sale in the entire history of South Florida yacht brokerage.
“I kinda like Yurin. Let’s stick with that, okay? You know who you look like, Yurin? Just came to me. Dolph Lundgren. The movie star?
A momentary look of confusion crossed Yurin’s face, but he grabbed Stoke’s biceps, or tried to, and steered him back toward where all the sales guys had their little offices. This guy Yurin was obviously used to being the biggest kid on the block. You could see he didn’t care for second place at all.
“Yurin, hold up a sec,” Stole said, stopping dead in his tracks just outside the guy’s office.
“Whassup?” In a Russian accent, the tired old hip-hop expression sounded funny instead of cool.
“Here’s the thing, Yurin. I truly want this boat. And I’ve got the money to pay for it right here. Cash.”
“We take cash,” he said, like a joke. Being funny didn’t come naturally to most Russians.
“But, of course, I’ll want to take her for a quick spin first.”
“Hey, no problem, Sheldon. We can arrange for a sea trial whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“Okay, what day should I schedule you for?”
“Today. Now.”
He laughed. “Good joke. Funny.”
“No joke, Yurin. I want to take her out there in a blow. See how she performs when it’s kicking up like this.”
“Kicking up? You’re looking at gale-force winds out there. It’s got to be blowing thirty, thirty-five knots. Gusting to fifty. Small-craft advisory warnings have been up since ten o’clock this morning.”
“Sixty feet’s not all that small a craft, Yurin.”
“Yes, I know, Sheldon, but this is an extremely high-performance racing boat with a planing hull. She likes flat water.”
“Yurin. Ask yourself one simple question. Do you sincerely want to sell a boat today? Say yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not afraid of a little wind and rain, are you, Yurin? Like my grandmother used to say, rain won’t bother you unless you’re made of sugar.”
“Afraid?” The look said it all. He was going.
Stoke clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his molars. “All right, man, cowboy up, and get your goddamn foul-weather gear on, little buddy, we’re going sailing!”
33
The big yellow Cigarette was bobbing pretty good, even still moored in her marina slip. Like a bronco in the chute, Stoke thought, boat saying, “Cut me loose, cowboy, I dare your ass.” Although the Miami Yacht Group’s marina was pretty well protected from the ocean, it was still choppy with whitecaps inside the breakwater. Sailboat masts swung wildly, a forest of aluminum sticks, whirling and twirling in the storm. The skies were now very dark purple with a funny greenish cast to them.
Perfect.
Like some pretty ladies of Stoke’s former acquaintance, the Magnum 60 was all bow and no stern. She had a small open cockpit aft, inside which were four deeply contoured bucket seats, bright yellow like the hull, with harness equipment like you might expect on the space shuttle. Along her sleek flanks, she had five oval portholes forward, meaning there was built-out space below.
What you do down there, Stoke thought, is not take little nappies or read spy novels and do crossword puzzles. You go down there to take care of business with Mama once you get offshore and shut two engines down and crank up a third, the Johnson. Boat like this was all about testosterone, a little too much or a little too little, depending on the owner.
“Looks like a Chiquita banana on steroids,” Stoke said, uncleating a spring line and heaving it aboard. The Russian guy fake-laughed, going for the stern line.
He said, “This is the sister ship to the boat that won the greatest sea race in the world, Sheldon. The Miami- Nassau-Miami at an average top speed of over eighty-five miles per hour. You know what sister ship means?”
“Lemme think a sec. Identical twins?”
“You are a very intelligent individual. You’ve heard of
“Don’t I know it,” Stoke said, as if he had a clue.
Yurin started to climb down into the helm seat, and Stoke stopped him, grabbing his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “I’ll drive,” he said. “You ride shotgun. You know what shotgun means?”
“Shotgun?” the Russian asked.
They already had their helmets on and two-way radio communication. It was the only way you could talk
