Don't Kill The Messenger (6 page)

“And thing three: I never said I wasn’t old.
You
said I wasn’t old.”

There is the tiniest hint of a pout on her face as she realizes that I might just be right. “Unspeakably amusing as this is, can we do something else?” she requests.

“Okay. How about twenty questions on a subject you know a little better: you?”

The suggestion makes her visibly uneasy. “Do we have to?”

“No, we don’t have to. But I’d like to know more about you, if you’re willing to tell me.”

Though she doesn’t look thrilled with the concept, she lets her guard down enough to ask, “What do you want to know?”

“Well, how long had you been working at the club in Key West?”

“Eight months. Before that, I was a secretary for over a year. It didn’t pay enough, though. So one night, I’m at a bar with some friends, and one of them tells me she dances at the Breezes. I’m a little surprised, but I figure, hey, whatever makes her happy. Then she tells me how much she brings home in a typical week, and I think, holy shit, it would take me two months to make that much. So I spent about a week and a half arguing with myself over whether I could do it. And then I swallowed my pride and went in and auditioned. Two days later, I’m on the stage, finally utilizing the ballet lessons and gymnastics my parents paid for ten years ago.”

I catch something on her face as the story ends. “You flinched a little at the end there, when you mentioned your parents. Does that mean something?”

“We’re in a convertible. Something brushed my face. You don’t have to read anything into it.” She sounds very defensive.

“Okay. Then you won’t mind if my next question is about them.”

“Them? My parents?”

“Your parents. When I delivered the message, you said you thought one of them had sent you. But you asked about each individually. First your father, then your mother. Does that mean they’re not still together?”

“You playing detective now?” she asks.

“No, I’m just a good listener. And what I hear is you dodging the question.”

“I’m not dodging.”

Outside the car, a pelican flies alongside, just a few feet above our heads. I spend a few seconds watching the bird swoop and soar while Rebecca decides whether she will actually open up to me on this obviously sensitive subject.

“They’re not still together,” she answers quietly. “They haven’t been for six years now. They still live in Ohio, but in different cities.”

“When’s the last time you talked to them?”

“Shortly after I left school. The relationship had been strained for a while already, and when I dropped out, it did nothing to endear me to them.”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that they don’t know about your most recent job opportunity.”

“No.” Then quickly, “But I’m not ashamed of it. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not passing judgment,” I remind her. “Remember, I’m the one who’s been unemployed all this time.”

“I thought when you’re rich, that makes you a ‘gentleman of leisure.’”

I give her a look of mild annoyance. “Look at me. Do I look like I’m leisurely?”

“Not so much.”

She does open up to me about the family history, the circumstances that drove them apart, and the tensions that grew over the years. The conversation, while strained, does effectively pass the time as we make our way north and west across the state of Florida. As we pull into the city of Tarpon Springs, it is a few minutes before noon, and once again, it is time for me to change the life of a complete stranger.

Chapter 5
 

I have never been to Tarpon Springs, Florida before, but courtesy of the forces that have summoned me there, I have a turn-by-turn map in my mind of where to go to find Mr. Stelios Papathanissou, and thank God, too, because I think I’d have a hell of a time spelling his name if I had to look him up in the phone book.

The city isn’t large, only about 20,000 people or so from the looks of it. As I turn off of the main highway onto Dodecanese Avenue, I see that the city is awash in Greek influence. Restaurants, shops, and even the boats themselves all bear Greek names. And the boats are everywhere, hundreds of them at the marina.

Rebecca is looking from side to side, taking it all in. In a moment of practicality, she asks, “Do we have time for lunch before you meet this guy?”

“Don’t you think we should do what we came here to do first?” I reply.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to answer a question with a question?” she retorts.

“Don’t
you?
” I volley back.

“Amusing as this banter is,” she says, “I’m hungry, and I thought you said we’re fine if you talk to him before 3:00.”

“We’re fine if I
convince
him before 3:00,” I answer. “Not everyone is as easily convinced as you. I want to find him, give him the message, and then see if I need to spend time with him to persuade him. Then we can eat.”

“Fine,” she says, “but if it’s another three hours until lunch, I’m gonna be cranky.”

“I seem to recall something about us not being partners. I can drop you off at any restaurant you like, and then come get you when I’m done.”

“No …” she answers quickly, then regains her calm. “I want to watch you work … if that’s all right.”

I think about it for a moment; it’s a new circumstance, one I’ve never had to deal with before. I don’t imagine there are any rules prohibiting it, and from what I know of the details of the assignment, there’s no inherent danger in it. I allow her to join me, and she looks clearly enthusiastic about the prospect of it.

“Let me do the talking,” I caution.

“Hey, that’s fine. I’m just along for the ride. So … where do we find this guy?”

“Slip 218,” I reply, looking at the slip numbers as they climb sequentially.

“You nervous?” she asks.

I am, but I don’t necessarily want her knowing that. “There’s a certain level of anxiety as I approach each new assignment. You never know how people are going to react. Some are abusive, others are openly aggressive. Some even think they can come with me while I work.”

“Ha ha,” she says humorlessly. “I wonder who
that
could be.”

I see the sign on my left for slips 210 to 219 and find a parking spot as close as I can to the marina. After putting the top up, I get out of the car, and Rebecca follows right behind. I scan the harbor, looking for 218. It is the fourth one out on the right-hand side, and parked at it is a thirty-foot fishing boat named
Calliope.
I’m certainly not an authority on fishing boats, so I can’t state with any assurance that it’s a lovely boat or it isn’t. It’s clearly seen many years of service, and its owner has not gone out of his way to keep it pristine. It bears the scars and blemishes of its trade, but by the same token, it’s not about to sink to the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.

Not for three hours, anyway.

As we approach the boat, I notice a lone man standing on its deck. As always, we’ve never met, and as always, I recognize him instantly, courtesy of the message I’ve received. He is Stelios Papa … Papathan … the Greek guy who’s in some serious trouble if he doesn’t listen to what I have to say.

We stop right at the gangplank and I call out to him. “Hello?”

“Hello, yes?” he replies, turning to face us. “What can I do for you?”

He seems pleasant enough. I estimate he’s approaching sixty years old. His hair and face and hands speak of a life of hard work and salt water, but his eyes have a pleasant air about them. He clearly loves his work, which will make what I have to tell him all the more difficult.

“Are you Stelios?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“This is me,” he replies amiably. “And who are you, my friend?”

“My name is Alex,” I tell him, dismissing Rebecca’s next retort with a discreet but insistent glance over my shoulder. “I have a message to give you.”

“And who is your friend?” Stelios asks, clearly impressed by the sight of Rebecca.

Before I can answer, she introduces herself. “Persephone,” she says.

He’s impressed. But with her looks, she could have said “Dog Turd” and gotten the same enthusiastic reaction. “A beautiful name for a beautiful young lady. Please, come aboard my boat and we’ll talk.”

Knowing what I know, I am initially hesitant but decide it will help my case. We board and Stelios invites us to sit on benches on deck. He offers us a drink, but I politely decline on behalf of us both. It’s go time; no more stalling. This is the part I hate, but there’s no way around it and no easy way to launch into it. “Stelios, this will sound strange, and let me assure you that we don’t mean you any harm. I know that you’re planning to take your boat out on the water at 3:00 today, and I need to warn you that there’s a problem with the starboard engine. If you take the boat out, the engine will catch fire, and there’s likely to be a hull breach, which would cause your boat to sink. So please, before you go out again, take care of that engine. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

I pause, looking at his face for any sign of a reaction. He remains curiously unaffected—much more so than anyone in recent memory. I wait a few seconds for a response, expecting disbelief, but still he remains silent. I’ve done all I can; it’s time to go.

“I’m sorry to bring you bad news like that,” I say to him. “We’ll go and let you see to your repairs.”

As Rebecca and I walk toward the gangplank, Stelios breaks his silence. There is a curious tone to his voice—not anger, not confusion, but more … acceptance; confirmation. “That’s all? You’re just going to tell me this and walk away, Alex? Or should I say
Tristan?
”

The sound of my name stops me in my tracks. I shoot Rebecca a swift, accusing glance, and her expression instantly and clearly replies,
Hey, don’t look at me.

I turn around to face the fisherman again, and my eyes ask
How?
without my mouth saying a word. He nods a bit and gives a little chuckle, as he says, “You think you are the only one with
gifts?
” To emphasize, he taps a finger on the side of his head. “You’re hungry,” he says, informing us rather than asking us. “It’s been a long drive for you to come here. I have moussaka ready in the galley, and I insist you stay and join me for lunch. Maybe we can answer some questions for each other.”

The boat isn’t elegant, but it feels like home, because for Stelios it is home. He spends more time here, he tells us, than he does at the small apartment he rents in Tarpon Springs. Over plates of moussaka—a wondrous dish made of ground lamb and eggplant, the best I’ve ever had, the first Rebecca has ever had—he describes a life spent fishing. Forty-three years of it. He started off as a sponge fisherman, then, when the industry fell on hard times, he switched to more traditional fishing. And when sponge fishing resumed in the Gulf, he was one of the first to jump back on the bandwagon. He is friendly and charming, a bit flirty toward Rebecca, and for the moment, he is avoiding the all-important questions.

At the risk of discourtesy, I steer the conversation. “I’m curious about your gifts,” I tell him. “How you knew my name.”

“I have the sight,” he says simply. “God’s third eye, my grandmother called it. I can see the truth in people. Sometimes I know what will happen before it happens.”

“When I told you about the engine, you didn’t seem surprised. Did you know there was a mechanical problem?”

“I suspected,” he answers. “My sight told me to be careful, but I couldn’t see what the exact trouble was. But my sight told me I would be safe. It must have known you were coming to warn me.” He laughs. “Tristan’s psychic boat repair, eh?”

“Let’s say
boat diagnostics,
” I amend. “My gift doesn’t come with repair skills, unfortunately.”

“Oh, I can fix it,” he says confidently. “It’s the intake manifold. I will bet you money. So maybe I stay in dock today and don’t go out. I lose a little income, but at least I don’t go live with the sponges. I think they wouldn’t be too happy with me, no?”

We laugh at the casual, easy way he has. It’s so refreshing to be met with gratitude, rather than doubt, suspicion, and fear. Finally, someone else understands what it feels like to carry around thoughts that don’t belong to you. But how much does he understand?

“Stelios …” I hesitate a moment, unsure of how to ask him. “Do you know why I’ve been chosen to do this? To tell people these things?”

He looks at me and thinks a moment. “For the same reason I am a fisherman. Because you can.”

It’s a logical answer, but it doesn’t help me much. “Can you see how long I’ll be asked to do this? Is there a time when I’ll be able to stop?”

“I think you will do this until you can’t do it anymore. Just like me with my boat. Someday, I won’t be able to fish anymore. And thanks to you, that someday isn’t today.”

“But …” I search for the right words, still trying to understand. “Why send me at all? Things happen. Accidents occur. Sometimes people die. Why set that in motion and then send someone to keep it from happening?”

He nods; now my question is clear to him. A variation on the age-old selfish cry:
Why me?

“You ever send a message you wish you could take back?” he asks simply. “A phone message, maybe an e-mail?”

“I guess so,” I answer.

“Maybe God does too.”

The answer is unexpectedly profound and metaphysical, coming from this ordinary man. Of course, that may be my unintentional classism surfacing, equating lack of an advanced degree with lack of wisdom and sophistication.

My silence leaves Rebecca an opening and she grabs it. “Stelios, I have a question too …”

He laughs at this. “I think you are confusing Greek with gypsy. I should be telling you to cross my palm with silver, maybe!” She looks confused by this.

“It’s something gypsy fortune tellers said in old movies,” I explain.

He invites her to continue. “Don’t worry, little Persephone. You can ask me your question.”

“Tristan told me I had to leave my job, leave Florida, and go back to Ohio. He told me it was for my own safety, but he couldn’t see why I had to leave. Do you know why I have to leave? What the danger is?”