Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

  ***

  "It's called a klatterbell injunction," I said, beating the rubber mallet against the side of the large air intake tube located forward on the bow. "They're prone to clogging with sea air, which in turn forces the wiring below decks to suffer salt oxidization. That, my friend, is fouling the Gangrene."

  My overseer remained expressionless looking in every direction but mine, seemingly bored by my analysis. "I'll feed the business end of this Irish pennant down the opening, then go below to the commo deck -- the communication center to you, friend -- and see if we can crosswire the radium nodules. If so, the job will be finished faster than a spring jaunt through Saint James's Park."

  "Whatever, cowboy. Do your job and shut up."

  "Alright, then, you can help. Hold this end," I said, handing him what remained of the coiled piece of rope, its balance now dangling down the open air intake. "If I run into trouble, I'll tug on it three times. If after ten minutes you've felt nothing, that means the problem is fixed and I'm on my way home. Understood?"

  "Whatever, cowboy. Do your job and shut up."

  "Very well, sir. I'll be below deck then," I replied, touching the brow of my hat and skirting the swimming pool and hot tubs. Above on the balcony, a group of revelers enjoyed cigars and champagne in the crisp night air. Spying me, one of them let out a roaring "Yee haw!" I coolly acknowledged his greeting with a wave before disappearing through the portside main door.

  To label the private ocean liner luxurious would be woefully selling short its ample comforts. The interior was bright and cheery, its walls glowing in a soft yellow shade beneath miniature chandeliers. Oil paintings hanging at strategic intervals invited passersby to stop for an artistic respite while enjoying the plush thick carpet beneath one's feet. Open doors on the right led to a large lounge and bar area, presently occupied by half-dozen guests focused on their drinks and a soccer match playing out on a large plasma screen. To my left a hallway arced in concordance with the ship's bow, heading to an indoor spa. The hired help -- young men and women wrapped in tight-fitting white tuxedos -- moved swiftly in all directions, carrying silver trays of drinks and food, polishing the ship's oak features with soft dusters, adjusting their white service gloves, and smartly snapping the heels of their black shoes when dutifully answering any and all new requests.

  Clearly this was no place for me to linger.

  I stepped through the nearest bulkhead and descended a narrow stairwell leading to the lower deck. Given its opulent and carefully kept appearance, I was obviously on the guest quarter level and, by quick calculation, surmised Bridgework's stateroom would be in this vicinity, farthest from the engine room. Precisely as the thought flashed to mind, a door latch clicked open and the sound of Bridgework's voice emanated from beyond the corner. Ducking underneath the stairwell, I drew out the pry bar and worked the edge of an access panel which, once opened, contained enough looping wire to qualify as a token smorgasbord of spaghetti.

  "I want those people contained, understood?" Bridgework rounded the bend. Crouched down and with my back to him I was unable to see who he was addressing. "It isn't enough I've changed my plans countless times. No more!"

  "I understand, sir," came the reply. I peered through the opening under my right armpit and spotted a second pair of legs. "Their final destination is Los Angeles. I'll make sure that's where they remain. Permanently."

  "Who's this? Who are you?"

  "El repairo communicado systematico," I responded gruffly. "Must make steam now! Go away!" Bridgework stooped to inspect my handiwork, prompting me to let loose a string of garbled Latin as I fiddled with the wires.

  "That's the first intelligent thing I've heard all goddammed day."

  "If I might suggest, Wayland, we should not keep Captain Harbuckle waiting."

  "Of course. One stop in Acapulco, then onto L.A. And I don't want to see sight or sound of them." Bridgework's voice pinched off in the distant hallway and I loosed a sigh of relief as the close encounter. Thinking the better of my position given the potential amount of traffic, I replaced the metal panel and opted to drop down to the next level to make my way aft, aiming to locate the communication center. It was vital I remain on the ship by whatever means necessary.

  The third deck proved not as glamorous as the one above but elegant, nevertheless. Stepping from the stairwell, I was relieved the passageway was void of guests. The bulkhead at the far end of the hall bore a bright red sign stating GANGRENE STAFF ONLY, lifting my spirits. Surely this held the servants' quarters, galley, sick bay and engine room. And perhaps the commo center. Advancing as though I was engrossed in tracing out a series of unseen electrical connections, I slowly paced one finger along the corridor wall while my eyes locked on the goal ahead. Such concentration, in retrospect, proved the critical error as I never heard the cabin door open behind me.

  Being keelhauled when least expected leaves little chance to ward off one's aggressor and this instance proved no different. Off-balance and pulled backward into the darkness of a portside room, I struggled mightily against the cloth placed over my mouth before succumbing to a rapid unconsciousness which, given my predicament, proved not the least uncomfortable. A well-deserved and much needed deep, long sleep had found me at last.