Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Angry Squid

  I purposefully left the lights off in Angel's quarters, yet even in the muted darkness it was apparent she had not returned to change out of her swimsuit. This alone was disconcerting and combined with the now-soon-to-wakey-wakey Rico, who most probably carried a key to her door, left me pondering the wisdom of returning to my lover's abode. Reaching under the bed, I located my gear-laden rucksack against the headboard wall and extracted my Walter Raleigh getup. Regardless of my future movements aboard the Gangrene, Skeet Burnisher's facade was a liability and in need of retirement. Resurrecting Walter would enable me to purchase time, even if it translated to but a few extra seconds.

  Once outfitted in the comfort of flannel and overalls, I hastily stuffed Skeet's Gangrene uniform, handlebar mustache and silver eye contacts out the porthole opening, casting them afloat in the broad expanse of the Pacific. A systematic search of the room followed, indicating in eerie fashion to me that everything was in place. From the orderly array of perfume bottles on the bathroom shelf to the fashion publication arrangement in the commode magazine rack, housekeeping was to be commended for its thorough janitorial work in cleaning up and reconstructing the room after Bridgework's ham-handed monkeys hardy handiwork. Flipping through Angel's necklaces and neck ware, I selected a thin but resilient leather choker displaying a silver rising moon medallion and slipped the flash drive onto the thong, securing it tightly around my neck. At this point it was game on and, if caught, the discovery of the Cerebstix would prove the least of my worries. To that end, under the right circumstance it might prove the most valuable bargaining chip available to wager.

  I adjusted my collar to better hide the pilfered storage device while spinning the pieces of the Bridgework mosaic through my mind: Aloft with little people. Jamaica. Eternus Spiritus. Chip/Silly's absence of fecundity. Ethelene's treachery. Motocross riding. Machu Picchu. Aloft with nuns. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Sir Walter Raleigh. The wiring of the Gangrene. An obese lady with a jolly laugh. Angelina Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway. R4. Skeet Burnisher. The topless April. The obliged boy. Being publicly waylaid by Wayland. I grimaced at the final thought, readily slamming fist-into-palm to drive the shameful humiliation from my mind.

  My eyes fell upon a sealed envelope, of pink hue, on the corner of the bathroom vanity just as the sound of approaching footsteps clopped along the hallway outside the door. I snatched the letter and tore open the flap.

  Final drive! Carthage links. Tunis.

  I had but a scant moment to consider the meaning of the message before the door handle and latch apparatus initiated its tumbling process. Without a second thought, I crossed the room in one bound and dove into the familiar confines of Angel's closet, curling up ball-like and burying myself deep within the fluffy barriers of full-length evening gowns and assorted high heels.

  "You take there and I'll take here."

  Two intruders.

  I drew my knees tighter to my chest and pulled a saucy red Garavani over my head and torso. In a matter of seconds the pocket door slid open and a menacing presence filled the small cubicle, underscored by the raspy grunt of labored breathing reverberating within the enclosed walls.

  "There ain't nothing in here, Bones."

  "Nothin' in here, either."

  "Boss said to search the place and don't come back."

  "No, he said to come back if we found sumthin'."

  There was a momentary lull in the conversation. "What if we don't find nuthin'?"

  "Then we stay here until we hear sumthin'."

  "And what if we don't find sumthin' or hear nuthin'?"

  Another moment of contemplation filled the air. "If we don't find nuthin' and don't hear sumthin', we stay here. I brought the deck of cards."

  I inwardly groaned at the prospect of being holed up for hours on end.

  "Crazy Eights this time?"

  "How 'bout Acey Ducey?"

  Regrettably, the sound of the desk chair being dragged across the carpet reached my ears.

  "Sure, sure. Pick 'em up if we hear sumthin'."

  "Why don't the boss just throw that magician overboard?"

  "He don't want nobody findin' no body. The way the boss figures it, a body leads to questions that ain't needed to be asked."

  "Smart guy, the boss."

  "And we're anchorin' in Acapulco soon. The boss wants Pablo to do the askin' of important questions before the magician becomes all deceased."

  "The boss is a genius, I'se tell ya."

  "Pablo will have the magician perform a disappearin' act in his pit of scorpions."

  "I bet ya could sell it on pay per view."

  "For sure. Now deal 'em out."

  It was impossible to determine how much time passed as Bones and his partner, who came to be called Smitty, engaged in their marathon Acey-Ducey duel. At various points during the mindless game, I actually nodded off listening to the boys discuss international political infrastructures, various immigration reform scenarios and which caliber of handgun was preferred when capping a target's ass. Indeed, quantifying my stay in the closet soon transformed from the passing of minutes to gauging the intense pressure on my capacious bladder. My thoughts wandered to the magnificent fete performed by those engineers who tamed the Colorado River when constructing the Hoover Dam during the Great Depression.

  How was it possible to remain dry while containing a free flowing force of several hundreds of millions of gallons of water?

  I could not dismiss the question from my mind and, further, had a difficult time concentrating upon it while the hull of the Gangrene slithered and splashed through the wave after wave of ocean water.

  "Did ya hear sumthin?" Bones' inquiry startled me from my hydro-retentive speculation.

  "Na, I heard nuthin'."

  "You didn't hear nuthin'? Because I heard sumthin'." His words barely left his mouth when Bones, reacting with the grace of wounded tree sloth, took the full force of the cabin door against both knees. "Hey! What the hell --"

  "Move, you big oaf!" The voice belonged to Chip/Silly. "What else should I expect from you two when we're in crisis? A card game!"

  "With me winning," Smitty added with pride.

  "By a little. Hardly by nuthin'."

  "I don't care! I told you to toss this place and find Burnisher!" The fluttering sound I heard was the deck of cards scattering throughout the cabin. "You were to report straight back to me!"

  "Well, we didn't find nuthin' --"

  "I know! I can see that!"

  "And we stayed here and set a trap in case he showed up --"

  "But he didn't!"

  "Ain't that sumthin'?"

  "You idiots! He isn't going to come back here. It'd be the first place we'd look. Only a complete and total moron, knowing he's being hunted, would hide in here."

  "More stupider than us?"

  "Yes, Bones. Much more."

  "Then it was smart for us to stay here, protecting the room like."

  "So it seems." Chip/Silly's anger ratcheted downward and, though sounding preoccupied, he possessed more of a functioning attention span than previously displayed. "The princess Angel's restrained and secured in a forward cabin. You two join Rico topside for a new search. We have got to find Burnisher before we reach Acapulco. Now move!"

  I waited several agonizing moments after the cabin door slammed shut until thoroughly convinced the room had been vacated. Rolling out the closet opening and painfully unfurling myself on the cabin floor, I crawled to the bathroom on three limbs while undoing my pants with my free hand. The relief was both indescribable and terrifying, akin to the excitement a surfer feels when rolling up the barrel and A-framing the most bitchin' wave ever recorded -- and just prior to spotting the opaque shape of a giant great white riding the same inches beneath his board. The volume retained within me was such that, in the course of drawing it down, I had occasion to closely examine my plight.

  The CerebStix was pilfered on behalf of Angel an
d, in my eyes, rightfully her property. However, as I held ownership of it now and was presently unhitched from Bridgework's direct attention, it stood a test of reason I should assume stewardship of the flash drive's fate. Yet I had no inherent interest in the CerebStix itself, but of its original owner and creator, Wayland Bridgework. Further complicating my exercise in due diligence, the object was purloined under the guise of Skeet Burnisher -- since disappeared -- and was now in the possession of handyman Walter Raleigh.

  What obligation does Raleigh bear Angel?

  I allowed the thought to resonate in synch with the residual drops from below, concluding it would be best for the CerebStix to leave the ship by any available method, with or without Angel.

  "I knew someone was in here!" Chip/Silly shouted, throwing the door wide open, "I just freakin' knew it!"

  Gathering myself in a swift motion, I immediately stepped into character. "Of course I'm in here, you damned fool, where else did you think I would be?" I moved to the sink and meticulously washed my hands, watching the agitated son-in-law's reflection in the mirror from the corner of my eye.

  "You were in here all along!"

  "For about the past half hour, yes. Your two associates were kind enough to allow me in when I knocked."

  "Associates? You knocked? For what?"

  "Listen, son," I grabbed the hand towel and flattened my voice to the tone of a confident roughneck, "I don't ask questions around here. Neither should you. I take orders, follow instructions and get the job done."

  "And just what job would it be that you're doing, mister --"

  "Raleigh. Walter Raleigh. Presently, I am repairing a leak."

  "More like you were creating one," Chip/Silly replied sharply, kicking the door shut behind him. "Where's your identification card?"

  "Why, it's right here," I feigned looking down at my chest and instantly tossed the towel in Chip/Silly's face, following up with a stunning right cross to his unsuspecting chin. "That one's for Angel. This one's for me." The left hook I threw connected firmly and flawlessly against his right temple, buckling his knees and dropping him faster than a tech stock in a bear market. I grabbed a pair of Angel's hosiery and bound Chip/Silly's hands and feet in hogtied fashion, finishing as the ship gave a sudden lurch to starboard and the engine thrust diminished. Three blasts from ship's horn signaled we were inbound to the port of Acapulco.

  Not wasting a moment, I fetched the makeup kit from beneath Angel's vanity and smeared Chip/Silly's face and arms with the ochre-colored cream. As he began to turn a slight shade of auburn, I spiked his hair with a combination of gel and gray dye, pleased with the reasonable facsimile of Skeet Burnisher taking form before my eyes. For the final touch, I penciled in a thick grandiose mustache swirling up and about his cheeks.

  "One more thing, my friend, before I take leave." The cotton belt from Angel's bathrobe made the perfect gag. With it tied in place, I dragged the big lump off the bed propped him up against the wall opposite the cabin door. "You'll make a rather frightening sight and, I trust, a confusing source of misinformation when discovered."