Tricky Business (20 page)

“Mmmmwmf,” said Dee Dee, her tone a little hurt.

Tarant clicked through some more channels, stopping on one with a big whirling red blob on the screen, which turned into NEWSPLEX NINE BREAKING STORM NEWS BULLETIN, which whirled again and went to the upper-right corner of the screen, which was now showing a man and a woman, the man older, gray around the temples, the woman younger, blond, lots of lipstick. Tarant wondered if he was banging her. They were both looking sad, the man saying something, the woman shaking her head. Tarant had the mute on, but he could read the headline crawling across the bottom of the screen: NEWSPLEX NINE TRAGEDY: REPORTER, CAMERAMAN ELECTROCUTED.

“Morons,” said Tarant.

“Mmmmwmf?” said Dee Dee.

“Nothing, baby,” said Tarant, patting her neck. “Keep doing that.”

The phone rang, the business line, which meant it was a call he should take, as opposed to a call from his wife, off shopping in Spain or Sweden, some fucking place in Europe.

“Shit,” said Tarant. It was getting so a man couldn't get a simple blow job in his own home from his secretary anymore. He picked up the phone.

“What,” he said.

“Lou, I hate to bother you,” said a voice, which Tarant recognized as belonging to Gene Shroder, the guy he had handling the books for Bobby Kemp's businesses. Shroder would not call without a reason.

“What,” said Tarant.

“Our boy, he's been making some moves I think you should know about. I should have found out about this earlier, but I was home from work the last two days, my wife is having that chemo.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Tarant. “What kind of moves?”

“OK, one thing, today he went around to most of the restaurants and collected the cash receipts.”

“He ever do that before?”

“No, and that's not the way it's supposed to work, but if the owner of the restaurant chain walks in and says he wants his money, the managers aren't gonna say no.”

“What else?”

“When I heard about that, I called our bank guy, and turns out our boy also cleaned out his personal bank accounts, plus his money market. He didn't touch the Bobby Kemp Enterprises checking account, but there's not much in there, and he'd know I'd hear about that right away.”

“Anything else?”

“I called his broker, who didn't want to talk about it, said it was confidential, so I had the Wookie go see him.”

Tarant had an image flash into his mind here, of an incident a few years ago involving the Wookie. This was the name they called a very large individual they sometimes sent out to talk to people who needed to grasp the urgency of a situation. In this one incident, the Wookie had gone to see a member of the Miami-Dade County School Board, who had been paid, fair and square, to vote in favor of the district buying a certain tract of land to build a school on, but who now was making noises about opposing the deal because some fuckknuckle newspaper reporter had found out that the land was, half the year, more what you would classify as a lake.

So the Wookie goes out to see this guy and finds him on his patio, grilling some steaks on his Weber gas grill. The guy, figuring out right away what the situation is, says he's not going to keep the money, he's going to give the money back, all of it, every dime. And the Wookie nods, not saying anything, meaning either the refund concept is OK with him, or just that he hears what the guy is saying, the guy doesn't know which. So the guy keeps talking talking talking, waving his long-handled barbecue spatula around, telling the Wookie that he's not about to charge for a service he can't deliver, but he can definitely be counted on in the future, and in fact he will probably be even more valuable in the future, because this vote will establish that he has integrity, so it's really
better
this way, for all parties concerned, blah blah blah. All this time the Wookie is nodding, nodding, and finally the guy figures, OK, this is gonna work out, and he thanks the Wookie for his understanding and steps forward to shake the Wookie's hand. Which is when the Wookie picks him up by his arms and puts his ass down on the grill, holds him there for maybe five seconds, which is a long time under these particular circumstances.

Two weeks later, the guy voted in favor of the land deal. He stood up throughout the school board meeting, because of what he said was a medical problem. People assumed it was hemorrhoids.

“And?” said Tarant.

“And,” said Shroder, “the broker said he cashed out, everything, stocks, bonds, mutual funds.”

“Where is he right now?” said Tarant.

“That's the thing. I been calling his numbers, leaving messages, nothing. I had people check his house, other places he could be, but nobody's seen him.”

“Fuck,”
said Tarant.

“Mmmmwmf,”
said Dee Dee, shoving his hand away from her neck.

“Sorry,” said Tarant.

“What?” said Shroder.

“Nothing,” said Tarant. “Listen, I want you to find him, OK? Get some guys on this. And stay by the phone, OK?”

“OK,” said Shroder. “Listen, I feel bad about this. I should've found out sooner, but I was home when it started and I didn't check in until this afternoon because, I don't mean this as an excuse, but my wife is having a pretty rough time of it right now.”

“OK,” said Tarant. “You tell Laurie I'm thinking about her.”

“OK,” said Shroder, whose wife's name was Linda.

“And find that little prick,” said Tarant.

ON THE THIRD DECK, JOHNNY AND THE CONTUSIONS were on cruise control, drifting through a mellow set, EZ-listening music. Strom Thurmond was still on the floor, dancing whether the band was playing or not, his eyes focused intently on his feet, as though they were performing brain surgery down there. The only other customers were two elderly women, ship regulars, who were waiting for the song to stop so they could request, as was their usual practice, an old standard song that the band either did not know or hated. Lately, they had been pushing for “My Funny Valentine.”

At the moment, the band was doing “Desperado,” the sad and soulful Eagles song. Ted was singing lead, doing a nice job, sounding as though it was coming straight from his heart . . .

. . . although in fact Ted was thinking about his 1989 Mazda, whether he should try to get the a/c fixed again or just accept that it would never work right and he was doomed to drive around hot, his pants soaked with sweat and permanently wedged into his butt crack. Maybe he should sell the car, but what would he get for it? Nothing. Maybe he should just push the goddamn thing into a canal. That's what he wanted to do, push it into the canal and collect the insurance. Except that he had not had insurance on the car since 1994.

Johnny, on bass, was thinking about a show he'd heard about on TV where people ate sheep eyeballs to make money.
Eyeballs.
Man. He was wondering how much money it would have to be before he would eat a sheep eyeball. It would have to be a LOT of money, like $5,000. No, make that $7,500, because there would be taxes. Although Johnny was not 100 percent sure about that, because he had never filed a tax return. He was wondering which he would want to eat less: a sheep eyeball, or the
Extravaganza of the Sea
's Sumptuous All You Can Eat Gourmet Buffet. Tough call.

Jock was thinking about sex, which was what Jock usually thought about, but at the moment he had an unusually compelling reason. A few minutes earlier, while the band had been playing “Tupelo Honey,” Connie, the grieving divorcée, had walked into the room, strode up to Jock, and dropped a condom on his tom-tom. The other three guys exchanged looks, their faces saying, “Man, she put a condom on his
tom-tom.
” It sat there a few seconds, the little pale-blue foil packet vibrating on the drumhead, Jock and Connie staring at each other. Then Jock flipped the packet up with a stick, caught it in midair, stuck it into his shirt pocket—it almost looked like he practiced this—and said, “We'll be taking a break pretty soon.” Connie turned and left, her hips traveling about a yard in each direction. So now Jock was thinking about logistics, where they could go on the ship that word wouldn't get back to Tina.

Wally was thinking about Fay. His plan, when they took their break, was to go down to the second deck and spontaneously bump into her, maybe say, “Oh, hey, how're you doing?” But he would need a good spontaneous thing to say next, something he could memorize and not screw up, something that could lead to a meaningful conversation. All he'd come up with so far was, “This weather sucks, huh?” He knew he had to do better than that. Maybe go the other way, something like, “Nice weather, huh?” Sarcasm. She was smart and would get sarcasm. That seemed like a better approach, a little more intellectual. Maybe, “Lovely evening, isn't it?” She'd probably say, yeah, maybe crack a smile. But then what? Talk a little more about the weather? No, she wasn't going to stand around talking about the weather. Maybe he could make a ship joke, like . . . OK, how about a
Titanic
joke? Something like: “Hey, I don't want to make you nervous, but I think I saw Leonardo DiCaprio over at the craps table.” But would she get the reference? Had it been too long since that movie was out? No, everybody knew that movie. OK, so that was the plan: “Lovely evening,” would be his spontaneous opener, and then Leonardo DiCaprio, and then maybe she would see he wasn't just some moron hitting on her; he was a witty conversationalist, probably with some depth.

As Wally was thinking this, he and Johnny, who was still thinking about sheep eyeballs, were singing the high harmony on the last verse of “Desperado”:

And then Ted, who was at that moment deciding he was going to try one more time to get the goddamn a/c fixed, but this time using a different mechanic, sang the last line a capella:

When the song ended, the two elderly ladies started walking toward Wally. They were both widows and both lived in Surf Breeze Villas, a widow-infested retirement condominium located in Hallandale a good two miles from the Atlantic Ocean. They had become friends when they discovered that they were both from New York and both named (what are the odds?) Rose. They went out on the
Extravaganza
twice a week to play the quarter slots, although they made a point of listening to the band—even though they did not like the music the band played, they figured they had paid for it. (They also had paid for the buffet, but they drew the line at that.) They were approaching Wally now, Rose I and Rose II, taking a circular route around Strom Thurmond, who was still on the floor cutting an imaginary rug.

“I'd like to request a song,” said Rose I.

“‘My Funny Valentine,' ” said Wally.

“That's right,” said Rose I, a little surprised.

“We'll get to that in the next set,” said Wally.

“You said that last time,” said Rose II. “But you never played it.”

“Is that right?” said Wally.

“So maybe you could play it now,” said Rose I. “‘My Funny Valentine.' ”

“Absolutely,” said Wally. “Johnny here does a great version of that song. Right, Johnny?”

“What?” said Johnny, who had been thinking about sheep eyeballs and had just mentally raised his minimum price to $8,000.

“‘My Funny Valentine,' ” said Wally, playing the mournful opening chords.

“What about it?” said Johnny.

“I was just telling this lovely lady how you do a great version of it.”

“I don't know the words,” said Johnny.

“Sure you do,” said Wally. “It's your signature tune. Take it!”

Johnny shook his head, then leaned into the mike and crooned:

“My funny valentine.
(pause)
You sure are lookin' fine. (
longer pause)
You make me toe the line. . . .”

“Those aren't the words,” said Rose I.

“It's a special arrangement,” said Wally.

“Don't shave your hair for me,” Johnny crooned. “Wear underwear for me . . .”

“What is he singing?” said Rose II.

“These are the original lyrics,” said Wally. “A lot of the other artists who did this song took liberties with it.”

“Don't shoot a bear for me,” crooned Johnny, getting into it now, “Blow Fred Astaire for me . . .”

“C'mon, Rose,” said Rose I, pulling Rose II toward the doorway. “I don't think they know this song.”

“Fall down the stair for me,” crooned Johnny. Wally stepped up to his mike and said, to the departing Roses and Strom Thurmond, “Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be taking just a short break right now, but don't go away, because we'll be coming back with much more music for your enjoyment here on the beautiful
Extravaganza of the Seas.
”