Chapter 13
Tony
I’ve seen big boats. This yacht isn’t as big as the pre-curse cargo ships that drifted past our office windows, but it’s pretty fucking big.
I cannot wait to get off the SkrillaKilla’, but I help Julia and Tonya get onto the dock first.
“You gonna come back with me? I have a few beers in the fridge.” Dan smirks. “Might take care of that green color around the gills.”
It’s my turn to get tormented. Fine.
“I think the bigger boat should do it.”
“Your call, man. I gotta hose down my hull. Someone got seasick on it last night.”
I’m about to apologize when a guy in his forties, wearing a pale blue linen suit, greets us at the ramp up to the yacht. He checks his watch and nods.
“Nigel, did you meet Tony?” Julia introduces me.
“Didn’t have the pleasure.” I shake the tips of his fingers, then he turns to Julia. “You seem to have any number of men at your disposal.”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“I don’t see your personals?”
“Personals?” Julia asks.
“Personal items. You’ll be staying overnight, correct? The staff’s been temporarily reassigned. We have plenty of room.”
Julia seems indecisive.
“You’ll have fresh water showers, and a dedicated satellite connection,” Nigel adds.
“Sold.”
“Excellent. You can leave the cart on the dock. Just bring your IDs.”
After we stuff our things in overnight bags and present ourselves at the dock again, Nigel brings us up the ramp and into an opening in the side of the hull.
“I don’t have ID,” I whisper to Julia.
She nods, then shrugs.
The small room has all the ambiance of a DMV, with a few people in security uniforms tapping at keyboards. We approach the counter. A woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun comes to the other side.
“Sylvia,” Nigel says, “this is the team I put on the TP130. There are four.”
She doesn’t make eye contact with him or anyone as she hands out clipboards.
“Fill these out. Have your ID ready. We’re going to take your thumbprints on this machine here. Then stand against the wall for your picture.” She points at a white square tacked to the wall with a camera in front of it.
“I’m not on the team,” Dan says.
“If you need to dock, you need to be cleared.”
“Tony doesn’t have ID,” Julia tells Nigel while filling out her form, as if this is totally normal.
“Oh?” Nigel says.
“Yeah, he left his wallet at home. On land. In Los Angeles.”
“Well, that’s a problem.” Nigel sounds bored.
Julia looks at him as if he’s insulted her mother.
“Everyone getting on this boat needs a background check. You understand, I’m sure.
A vessel like this requires heightened security, and there’s the problem of those without the required paperwork trying to evade proper taxation. ”
I hide a burst of laughter behind a cough.
“We need him,” Julia says. She’s going to go to the mat.
Nigel is stone cold. An absolutely emotionless professional.
What would Caspian do?
He’d negotiate his position so fast he’d already be in the door.
“How about this,” I say. “You take my prints. Get a picture. Get a background check. You’ll see I’m fine. If I don’t clear, I’ll escort my ass out.”
“Mister… what is your last name?”
“Tonio Alphonse Girardi. Long Beach. May 29, 1971.” I don’t blame Nigel’s eyebrow for arching like that.
I’ve cracked his professionalism. I haven’t aged a day since I was 23.
“I’ve had work done. Check the prints. They’re on file with California correctional.
” I shrug. “I was sixteen. Misdemeanor assault.”
Julia looks shocked. I’m not trying to turn her off.
“She said, specifically, ‘Let go of me,’ and he tried to pull her into the car anyway. What was I supposed to do?” I turn to Nigel. Maybe I’m making this worse. Caspian would have turned a conviction into an asset by now. “It’s all in the court documents. Six months probation, down to three.”
“Mister Girardi,” Nigel says, “we aren’t concerned with your exploits as a minor.
I may be able to allow you on the boat under these circumstances.
But as a warning, you’re stuck here until our process is complete.
Getting off the boat before that will be nearly impossible, for you and whoever signs on as your responsible party. ”
“That’s me.” Julia puts down her pen. “I’ll vouch.”
It’s a deal.
Nigel reviewed the work the room needed, then disappeared. The computers checked Julia, Dan, and Tonya’s license numbers. They got ID cards on yellow lanyards right away. I got a guest pass on a blue lanyard.
We’re led into the guts of the yacht through the staff corridors. Everything rumbles and smells like salt and gasoline. Painted-over pipes run along one side of the ceiling. Why they wouldn’t be centered is beyond me. It’s enough to drive a person crazy.
Tight Bun leads us to a door with a circle widow. She stops and turns to us. “You’re coming into an area for the principal and his guests. The ship is empty right now, but you need to be mindful of where you are.” She slides the door open.
This is different. Every wall and window is spotless. The wood floors are even. The blue line of ocean lines up perfectly with the line of the boat. The symmetry is fantastic. I could be here all day.
Julia’s annoyed the whole time. Even as the woman with the bun leads us through hallways, my girl is fuming. We get into the elevator.
I creep out from behind the tool cart and whisper to her, “What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
The elevator stops at the top floor. Tight Bun gets out. Dan gets in front of the cart to pull it out.
“You’re mad,” I say.
“I don’t like you being in seafaring prison.”
“If they don’t like the background check, they’ll escort me out. How is that worse? They were going to kick me out anyway.”
Her expression is soft and kind of regretful. “You should be treated like a prince.”
Dan yanks the cart. I’m pulled forward with it.
We’re on an upper deck.
“Wow,” Dan says.
Wow is an appropriate adjective.
The atrium is three sides glass, with potted trees, a full bar, cushy seating, and a huge fountain in the center. Or maybe it’s a pool with a fountain in the middle. Either way, yes, wow.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Tight Bun pauses with us and smiles. It’s genuine. She’s security, not customer service. “Mister Geggy hosted his son’s graduation from Harvard here.”
“Is this where we’re supposed to be?” Julia asks, ready to get on with it.
“Follow me.” Tight Bun takes us around a corner and down a short hall with wheel-slowing carpet.
Julia’s ahead of me, perfect ass accentuated by the thick toolbelt.
“The boat’s not rocking,” I say.
“Sure is,” Dan replies. “It’s got stabilizers, but definitely rocking.”
“Too bad,” Julia mutters. “None of those people are getting tossed off.”
Knotting her brow, Tonya puts her finger to her lips, telling Julia to can it.
We’re led to a set of double doors.
“Here we are,” Tight Bun says.
We enter an interior, windowless room with bare white walls and a wood floor. There are holes in the walls and scuffs on the paint. A grand piano sits in one corner, off to the side, diagonal. Jesus Christ, these people hate symmetry.
A flat wooden box about six feet long and three feet high leans against the wall with foam to protect the white plaster.
Julia puts her hand on the box and asks, “Are the art handlers hanging this before or after?”
“No clue,” Tight Bun says on her way out.
Dan leaves to fix his boat. It’s just three of us, and I have no idea what I’m doing.
“Let’s go.” Julia opens a drawer in the cart, takes out a clipboard, and clicks a pen. “Punchlist time.”