***
At the time of Bridgework's aquatic pronouncement I was blissfully unaware I had only eight hours left aboard the Gangrene, and much of what happened during that time set the stage for my closest brush ever with mortality.
Bridgework stormed off to the largest hot tub, obviously reserved for him by the fact that two of his grand Easter Island look-a-likes stood a vigil over it, cracking their chiseled physiques to shoo away anyone foolish enough to venture near. I discreetly watched as before entering the bubbling cauldron of chlorine, he removed his flash drive necklace and draped it securely around the neck of April Après.
This may be the only chance!
A round of drinks was ordered and April, excluded from entering the water, pouted her way over to a nearby padded chaise longue, sprawling out like a weary Gold Rush miner just finishing her strenuous twenty-five hour day. I nonchalantly brought my gaze upon Angel who, sharing my recognition of the shining opportunity, placed her hands together to form at "T" before stretching her arms to her sides.
"And so we shall take our time," I announced in a loud voice to no one in particular. "Time being both of the essence and least of all critical."
"You're a hoot and a half, mister magic!" The large jolly woman from the previous night's entertainment appeared to my left, dressed in a two-piece bathing suit, its design and pattern leaving her upper half resembling a village bodega's unfurled overhang. She was, indeed, a large woman with laughter to match. "You're just a hoot and half!"
"All part of giving one hundred and ten percent to everything which I apply --"
"Lemme see that peashooter!" She lunged for the shotgun I was cradling, moving more quickly than one would expect from a woman bearing her displacement.
"This, my dear," I said, stepping away with the grace of Valentino during his Mineralava Tour, "is more a hog leg than a peashooter. That is to say, don't view it as a toy."
"Don't you get sassy with me, mister green face," she replied, waving a chubby forefinger under the tip of my nose. "I'm a huntress from way back, I tell ya, way back. In fact, the motto in my home is 'kill it 'n' grill it' and I don't give a damn what 'it' is!"
"I trust this doesn't affect my standing on the hoot and a half list."
"All I want to do," she said, slurping at some grayish food substance from her flabby fingers on her non-waving hand, "is to shoot skeet right now."
"Join the club." I checked the status of Bridgework who, along with Ethelene, sipped a glass of champagne while receiving a foot shiatsu from a small cadre of barely-clad masseuses. Keeping the Mossberg twenty gauge in my possession, I offered the portly gunner a well-used Remington over/under. "Cheers."
"We're going to make this a competition, mister charm, and I'm going first." She loaded the weapon as would a pro and waddled her way onto the shooting platform. "American or international pigeons?"
"Not sure," I replied, "I neglected to check their genitalia."
"What do you know about it?" she growled as though her patience had been extracted like a tooth gone bad. "I got half a mind to speak to someone about your peculiar behavior, magician."
"Please, madam, I've already been hooted at for that very reason," I said as my body began to affect Mossberg wood grain before her very eyes.
"Which house is the bird coming out of first, high or low?"
"How about if we just wing it," I replied. Up to now, my shooting instruction had simply consisted of stepping on a foot pedal and blasting the first Frisbee-like object that appeared to be fleeing the ship. "Two experienced shooters such as ourselves. Indeed, I propose we set a bit of a wager. Otherwise, what's the point?" I signaled to a waiter passing by with a tray of champagne cocktails.
"And no trickery on your part?" She slugged down the contents of the glass and quickly grabbed another. "No witchcraft?"
"My solemn vow, ma'am. All will be on the up and up."
"It better be or else."
"Or else I'll be grilled?"
She looked at me with a blank stare, then burst into her chug-a-lug song of laughter. "He's a hoot and a half, I tell ya, a hoot and a half!"
"I'm willing to put up this. If I lose, I'll show you the secret to my levitation trick, how's that?"
She quaffed the second glass quickly and emitted a lively belch. "And I'll put up this here golf visor," she said, tugging at her headwear. "It's personally signed by Colin Montgomerie."
"Agreed." We shook hands. "Would you care for a warm up round?"
"I don't need no stinkin' warm up! Get me another round and we'll get it on!"
As the Gangrene pushed north and the sun drooped toward the port horizon, I engaged in a practice which typically abhors me: Performing less than my best. Alternating shots with my oversized opponent, I stayed close enough with her to nip at her flabby heels, forcing pressure upon her saggy arms to produce during crunch time. At the very least, I calculated, winning the contest would positively enhance her self-esteem. Approximately forty minutes and several glasses of champagne punch later, the big gal found herself nine clay pigeons ahead of me.
"Well, mister hocus pocus, it looks like youse owe me the secrets to the ang-chant Egyptian art of raising some bodies up in the air. Time to pay up, magic boy!"
"A bet is a bet, my dear woman, and you won this shootout fair and square. I must say it was gracious of you allowing me to count the errant seagull as a hit."
"The sch-tupid little buzzard guts rights in your way!" She was feeling the wash of the bubbly, snickering and swaying while gesturing with the barrel. "Ka-blam! Bye, bye birdie."
Her words harkened forth footlights of the stage and Agnes de Maelstrom's production King to Rook's Three: The True Story of Chessmen John Barrymore and Basil Rathbone awaiting me at Tumultuous Manor upon my return. As time grew short on the glowing deck, soon Bridgework, his entourage and the flash drives would disappear indoors, removing any opportunity of acquiring one of the portable storage devices. The thought of a similar curtain closing on the two fine actors -- one uniquely American, the other devotedly British -- brought forth a spiritual energy for my flagging mettle to harness itself upon.
Remember, old man, the only single recognition these two gentlemen of the stage received was a star on the Walk of Fame. No Oscars, no Emmys, no Tonys, no Peabodys, no Hasty Puddings or Kennedy Center Honors for them!
It was then I contrived a plan I believed both Barrymore and Rathbone would have heartily approved. "The name of this trick is 'King to Rook's Three' and we'll need an anonymous, unsuspecting volunteer." I tapped my lips while scanning the deck, then snapped my fingers upon spying April. "There. That girl, right there."
"Perfect!" my jolly partner agreed.
"Perhaps you'd care for a refill before we begin," I said, rocking my empty glass back and forth. "I'll take a moment to stow my gear and heighten my concentration for the event."
Without waiting for her reply, I grabbed the Mossberg and a bag of extra ammunition, making my way aft on the promenade deck. The last of the six lifeboats lining the hull hung from a modest pair of metal davits, suspending the tarp-covered vessel to the Gangrene by two half-inch ropes, all conveniently within arms' reach. Without fanfare I turned to scan the deck and, confident those within view were occupied in their own worlds, I lifted the seam of the heavy cloth cover and slid the shotgun and shells down into the safety of the lifeboat's beam. Dusting off my hands as though I just emptied the kitchen rubbish, I ambled my way along the rail to the forecastle.
"U'n zone?" my student of levitation asked upon my return, her voice tipsy as she rode the waves of fizzy grapes circulating throughout her corpulent system.
"Am I in a zone? If that is your question, then my answer is yes. I am in that zone."
The large gal hiccupped and swayed. "Then, let's lever rate her, mister ma jazz schtick."
We crossed the deck, pinballing our way through scattered chairs and tables partially filled with guests enjoying late afternoon drinks and snacks, and pi
cked up a small group of followers -- including my youthful apprentice -- along the way. Reaching April, who lay on her back with arms outstretched as though floating on water, I ordered the gathering to form a semicircle around her, their backs to the hot tub a mere few yards away. Even with my stout target-shooting friend between us, I could see Bridgework lean forward, his expression betraying alarm.
"Say, what's going on there?" He waved his two baboons forward so that they, too, joined the arc of onlookers. "What're you doing to her?"
"Were doin' nuthin', Wayward. Just gonner lever rate her up."
I cut short her rambling commentary, aiming to divert any suspicion away from my true goal. "This, my friends, is called 'King to Rook's Three', a daring do defiance of gravity I learned from the masters in India, who in turn were taught by the splendidly elevated gurus of Tibet, prior to the Chinese embargo placed on the exportation of such knowledge."
"Whatcha goin' to do, Mr. Burnisher?" the boy asked inquisitively while contemplating a pair of pineapples set out on an adjoining drink stand.
"He's gonna show me a schtrick, shunny."
"I'm no trick," April protested, coming out of her sleep.
"Indeed, you're not," I said reassuringly. "You are, however, the perfect specimen for participating in this ancient ritual of floatation. My apologies for not seeking your permission beforehand --"
"You can do whatever you want to me, mister. You're a TV star."
"Why, I thank you, miss. Now, I'll require you to lie very still, as I need to release a series of sonic vibrations over and into your being."
"Wherish you keep 'um?"
I brushed my hand over the right pocket of my shorts, ensuring the decoy CerebStix flash drive was at the ready. "I have to generate them internally and then emit them."
"Like a fart?" the boy asked, his gaze fixed on the perfectly matched twosome before him.
"Watch yer mouf, shun!"
"I don't want her touched, you hear me?" Bridgework paddled over to the edge of the tub, craning his neck in every direction attempting to peer around the behemoth posterior of my unsteady student. "April! You know what I'm concerned about. Watch him, boys!"
"Hummm," I intoned, lowering my eyes behind the Ray-Bans and spotting the two authentic CerebStix resting soundly in April's cleavage like whitewater rafts anchored motionless within a canyon. "Hummm." Both of my hands trembled as would those of an alcoholic's staring through the barred windows of a closed liquor store. "Hummm."
"'Ummmmm ... ummm ... ummm," the large one joined in, shoving her empty glass at one of the bodyguards before thrusting her hands in front of herself as though she were sleepwalking. "'Ummmmmm."
"Hummm."
"'Ummmmmm ... mmmmmm."
"Hummm."
"Ummmmmm ... mmm ... mmm." She swayed as one would expect the Tower of Pisa to sway should a vigorous earthquake ever strike the Tuscany district. Mimicking my tone and posture, she stooped forward seconds after I did and thereby -- via the simple laws of physics and a particularly energetic wave -- opened the vault of propitiousness.
A large dark cloud momentarily covered April before the crushing weight of feminine humanity slammed her into the towel-enshrouded plastic lounger. In the instant following there was an audible exhalation from April that provided perfect sound quality to the frothy discharge foaming from the mouth of her oppressor.
"Rico! Get her off April!" Bridgework shrieked, slapping his open palms on the surface of the water. "Get her off now!"
The two beefy lifeguards pushed their way forward and, each applying a grip onto the flabby arms of my erstwhile apprentice, hoisted her up as though she were a frat house refrigerator accidentally tipped over during an exceptionally busy rush party. Two curious things happened in the righting of the off-kilter colossus that played in my favor.
The first, during the process of being lifted upright, was her inexplicable grasp on April's bikini top, which now no longer belonged to April. Tightly enmeshed within her flattener's hammy fingers, April lay immobile and entirely exposed north of the navel.
"Aunt Flabby!" the boy called out, standing at April's feet, his eyes transfixed not upon his backpedaling relative but instead zeroed on the windless sunbather. He possessed, I thought, the shining glint in his eye Hillary must have exhibited upon his first view of Everest and K2. "Aunt Flabby! Look out!"
The second stroke of fortune arrived when Aunt Flabby could do nothing but fall backward into the hot tub, submerging a terrified Bridgework and both bodyguards who held on for all their worth. The resulting splash of water was of geyser quality, a resounding wall of rising liquid obscuring the forecastle.
Seizing what few seconds had been gifted me, I immediately dropped to my knees and pulled a towel over April's symbolic mountain range.
"You asshole!" the boy protested, his taunt of desperation falling deaf upon my ears.
With the objective obscured, the act of trading the flash drives proved relatively uncomplicated and -- though I am not one to endorse artificial fabrications altering that which is rightfully nature's creation -- rather agreeable. I slid the braided cord around April's neck until the clasp rested directly above her divide, unfastened it and swapped out one genuine for the faux. Tucking the real one under the sole of my bare foot in my left Docksider, I hitched the lanyard together again and adjusted my position so I appeared to be examining April's ribs. So intent was I in playing the role of first responder, I neglected to see the blow coming.
Thwap!
It was Bridgework's fist connecting squarely against my right eye, shattering the stylish sunglasses against my face. I tumbled back onto the carpeted deck, instantly beset by shock and attempting to absorb the pain when a series of barefoot kicks resounded against my ribcage.
"Dad! Stop it!" Angel shrieked, her Gauze-covered pink bikini bottom suddenly appearing in my myopic line of sight, standing astride above me. "There's no need for this!"
"Get out of my way!" Bridgework pulled Angel aside. "Now, search him."
I was rudely sprung onto my feet by one of the resident orangutans while the other, proficiently skilled in the art of pick-pocketing, thoroughly rummaged my shirt and shorts. I brushed my fingers in the warm rivulet of blood splashing from my eyebrow, wincing at the tenderness of the gash, humiliated as my shorts fell to my ankles and my underwear pulled about to allow inspection from every angle.
"He's clean, sir."
Bridgework stepped forward and slapped my face harshly with an open palm. "Don't you ever touch her again!"
"I have no intention to --"
Slap! He undoubtedly also possessed a smashing backhand on the tennis court.
"Dad! Enough!"
Actually, it was not. As a final send off, Bridgework sucker-punched me in the midsection, driving the air from my lungs and dropping me speechless to my knees. "There! Now you qualify for the binnacle list! Take him downstairs, Rico!"