Thomas Prescott Superpack (75 page)

“I have heard of this illness. It is very bad.”

“It is also very treatable.”

“Where were you born?”

“My dad was in the Marines and we moved around a lot when I was little. I spent a lot of time in Europe, then when I was six my mother died. My dad decided it would be best if he settled down and he took a job in Washington D.C. I basically grew up on the marine base there.”

She took another couple bites of food, then asked, “How about you? Were you born in South Africa?”

“I was born in Mozambique. A small town called Kepo. My mother died when I was very young. My father died later in mining accident. I lived with my Auntie until I was ten then moved with another Auntie in Johannesburg. I have been here ever since.”

They ate in silence for a moment. Timon was in deep contemplation. He peered at her over his food then asked, “Do you go to Ptutsi to help these people?”

She thought about the question. “Yes.”

“Many people are sick. Many people die. Very sad place.”

She remembered something he said and asked, “You mentioned trouble at the airport, what did you mean?”

“We have no trouble. I pray. We have no trouble.”

Gina didn’t know what to say to this so she asked, “So you are a guide?”

“Among many other things. I am also fisherman. And artist.”

“Artist?”

“I make things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Clocks.”

“I would like to see one of these clocks someday.”

He smiled.

They finished eating and Timon took out his wallet. Gina waved him off. She took out a stack of rands and handed it to him. She asked, “Is this enough?”

He laughed. “That is enough to buy the restaurant.”

“Give her half.”

He counted out half. She told him to keep the rest for himself. He tried not to take the money, but Gina wouldn’t budge. He finally put the money in his pocket, thanking her repeatedly. She said, “Think of it as an early wedding present.”

They walked back to the car and Timon said, “We will go buy some food for the rest of the trip.”

They drove back to the market and bought fresh fruit, more biltong, bread, cheese, and other snacks. While Timon haggled with shopkeepers, Gina perused the goods, buying three small wooden toys and some candy she thought the three children might like.

Back at the car, Timon pulled out a large duffel bag. He began ridding the bag of its many items. He removed something gingerly and handed it to Gina.

Gina looked down at the clock in her hand. It was made of brass and stone. The detail and markings were some of the most precise she’d ever seen. The second hand swept silently past each small stone. It was a sight to behold. The clock would go for upwards of two hundred dollars at any high-end shop in the states. She asked, “You made this.”

He nodded.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I give to you.”

Gina tried to resist. But he was more stubborn than she’d been about the money. She thanked him with a hug, then wrapped the small clock in a shirt and stuffed it in her backpack. Timon packed the duffel bag with the food and they both hopped into the Jeep.

They drove out of Ladysmith and came to a fork in the road. Droves of people walked along the side of the road. They passed the group they’d seen earlier, the women holding the wicker baskets on their heads. The road was filled with cars. They took a left onto the beaten road, falling in behind a truck filled with men and women. The passengers all looked war-torn and frail, as if they’d traveled millions of miles to find themselves on this chalky, windswept, dirt road.

Gina looked at Timon and asked, “Where are all these people going?”

He looked at her and said solemnly, “The same place we are.”

SHOW LOUNGE

4:56
p.m.

I was skeptical. It didn’t sound like it would work. And I hated to bring J.J. into the loop, but there was no other way. I said, “An hour?”

J.J. nodded. “I have two or three hours’ worth of material.”

“No SPAM jokes.”

“What’s wrong with my SPAM bit?”

“Other than it not being funny.”

He shook his head. “I got all sorts of great stuff. Don’t you
worry.”

But I was.
I was worried one of the pirates would kill him the second he grabbed the microphone. And although it appeared the pirates had a passing understanding of English, I was worried they wouldn’t grasp enough English to understand his jokes. But mostly, I was worried they
would
understand him completely, find him quite unfunny, and put a bullet in his forehead.

I was banking on the fact the pirates were as bored as the rest of us. They might be up for a little entertainment. Plus, it wasn’t like anyone would, or could, go anywhere. Although, if my little friend was telling the truth, there
was
an exit other than the one the pirates were guarding. I would soon find out.

I’d wanted to wait until the pirate’s dinner came. But I couldn’t wait any longer. Susie was nearly comatose. She no longer would open her mouth to let Frank pour water in.

I nodded at J.J. He took a couple deep breaths. Then he stood and headed towards the stage. Lacy’s hand found mine and she gave it a timid squeeze. She hadn’t been fully on board with my going, and insisted that if I did go, then I had better bring back her dog. I told her I’d do my best. For all I knew he was asleep at the bottom of the Indian Ocean. Anyhow, the entire plan hedged on the lights. According to J.J., there were several different buttons under the microphone that controlled the lights. He could dim the lights in the show lounge, then turn on the spotlight. But, if the pirates had messed with the main lighting grid at the back of the room, then all bets were off.

J.J. clamored up the small stairs. All conversation stopped. I peeked over my shoulder at the pirates. Little Wayne tapped Common on the shoulder and pointed at J.J. They seemed curious. Not angry.

J.J. took a couple steps on stage, then fell in behind the microphone. He started messing with the buttons. I looked upwards. The lights were still blazing.

Shit.

J.J. looked panicked. Then, the lights began to dim.

Whew.

Soon Transvaal was pitch dark, save for the bright white ellipse that shone down on J.J. Watkins like a beam from a UFO. I looked at the pirates. I could make out their outlines near the door. One pirate took a step forward. Another grabbed him by the shoulder and drew him back. So far so good.

J.J. gazed at the crowd. He didn’t say a word. He kept blinking his eyes. Don’t tell me this asshole was freezing up. Lacy glanced at me. My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark, but I knew
she was looking at me with eyes wide, eyebrows high up on her forehead. I’d wanted to be on the move already. I’d wanted to take advantage of the sixty seconds before the pirates’ eyes adjusted. But, if this idiot didn’t start talking soon, they were going to walk up to the stage and drag him off.

J.J. continued to blink. He looked straight ahead. His Adam’s apple danced in the white light.

Come on.

I looked over my shoulder. One of the pirates had started marching down the walkway. Two long strides. Three. He was nearing the back row of chairs. It was Tupac.

“You want to know the top ten reasons why a gun is better than a woman?”

Tupac stopped.

“Number ten. You can trade an old .44 for two new .22s.”

Tupac smiled, then laughed. I had a feeling J.J. Watkins had decided to go with an old but reliable safety net. David Letterman.

“Number nine. You can keep one gun at home and have another for when you’re on the road.”

I watched the pirate. Tupac laughed again, then plopped down in one of the large chairs in the back row. I looked at the two pirates by the door. Both of them were also laughing. I shook my head at J.J. He rattled off two more. All three of the pirates were laughing. One of the pirates was doubled over. J.J was hitting on the two things our pirate friends could relate to, guns and women.

Genius.

“Number six. If you admire a friend’s gun and tell him so, he will probably let you try it out a few times.”

There were a couple low chuckles from some of hostages. I could even hear Lacy give a stifled laugh. One of the pirates near the door hit the other one on the shoulder. Maybe he was asking if he could borrow his wife sometime. Anyhow, this was my cue to start moving. I gave Lacy’s hand a soft squeeze.

J.J. was starting to feel the energy from the audience and it showed in his delivery. “Number five. A handgun doesn’t take up a lot of closet space.”

There was quite a bit of laughter and I slid down in my chair. All eyes were on J.J. Even Gilroy, who I had worried would call attention when I made my move, seemed to be enjoying the show. I slowly slid to the floor. Then I crawled past the seven empty seats leading to the small walkway opposite the men’s bathroom.

“Number four. Handguns function normally every day of the month.”

Loud laughter.

I slithered up near the last chair. There were six feet of space from the chair to the wall. Then
another ten feet to the edge of the curtain. There would be a moment when I would be fully exposed. There was a small amount of residual light cascading off the stage, but if the pirates kept their attention on J.J., I would go unnoticed. As if sensing this, or perhaps he’d seen my approach out of the corner of his eye, J.J. took the microphone from the stand and walked to the edge of the spotlight, as far away from me as possible.

Maybe he was smarter than I gave him credit for.

“Number three. A handgun doesn’t ask, ‘Do these bullets make me look fat?’”

Uproarious laughter.

I darted to the edge of the stage, flattening my body against the two feet of raised wood. The laughter faded and J.J. said, “Number two. A gun doesn’t care if you fall asleep after you use it.”

I scurried to the back edge of the stage, the heavy curtain brushing against my buzzed head. I made my way under the curtain, climbing up the wall with my hands. The curtain was thick and the space behind the curtain was as black as the widest reaches of space. I put my hands out in front of me and took a step forward.

Through the thick curtain, I heard, “And the number one reason that a gun is better than a woman…”

I felt pressure on my shirt. Someone was tugging on it. I lowered my hand. Felt the soft spongy hair of a child.

“…you can buy a silencer for a gun.”

I could hear the laughter. Even a little stomping. I hoped J.J. had enough Letterman Top Ten’s to fill an hour.

A hand intertwined with mine. The little boy led me through the blackness. We turned. Where there should have been a wall, there wasn’t. I’d only been to the show lounge once, to see J.J. and they’d kept the curtains closed, but it made sense that there would be more stage behind the curtain and I recalled a picture in the hallway leading to the show lounge of a full twenty-piece orchestra. The full stage must stretch back thirty or forty feet beyond the curtain.

“Three steps,” whispered the child.

We ghosted down three steps. A tiny red light glowed ten feet ahead. I heard as the boy swiped his card. The light turned green. The door was pulled open.

“I shut the lights off,” he said. “There are sixteen steps.”

I let him guide me down the steps, then a door at the bottom was opened, and we emerged into soft light.

He couldn’t have been more than six. He was caramel brown with six inches of spongy afro.

I said, “That was very brave what you just did.”

“I know.” He spoke perfect English.

“I’m Thomas.”

“I’m Bheka.” He pronounced it,
be-HEEK-ah.

“Are you here with your parents?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“My mom works on the ship,” he said, flashing the card. “She’s a maid.”

“And you live on the ship?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your mom now?”

“She got off in Mozambique to see some people. We’re picking her up in Cape Town.”

I told him that he spoke excellent English.

“Most people speak English on this boat.”

I nodded.

“I understand them, too.”

“Who?”

He cocked his head upwards. “The bad guys.”

“You speak African?”

“Zulu. Two of those men are speaking Zulu.”

Little Wayne and Tupac.

“My mom is Zulu. And my dad he is like you.”

“Like me?”

“White, like you.”

That would explain his caramel coloring. I was putting two and two together. “And your dad, who is he?”

“My mom won’t tell me. Some guy on the ship.” He didn’t specify whether this was a passenger or crew. Better left unknown.