“I’m too old to date.”
“Me too,” Dawn said.
“Isn’t it amazing how we Americans can turn a bubble bath into a foam party?” Noel-Christmas said.
“Yeah, it’s right up there with landing a man on the moon.”
Warren Zevon’s tune was followed by what Dawn called a headbanger anthem—“Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses. She danced like she did it for a living, adding that she had actually given a blow job to the guitar tech for Slash in the bathroom at the Santa Monica Pier.
Suddenly the hoses opened up, raining foam down on our heads. The place went nuts. In an instant, we were literally up to our asses in soapsuds, and that’s when the clothes started to fly. Bikini tops and baggy shorts filled the air.
Dawn now pressed her whole body against mine, took my hands out of the air, and directed them down and around her thin waist. As the foam rose to chest-high level, she said, “I need to keep you close. There are some real bottom-feeders cruising through this stuff who might try to take advantage of a naive young college girl.”
I laughed out loud. “I haven’t seen any,” I said.
“Perverts?” she asked.
“No. Young innocent college girls.”
Suddenly I felt a leg between mine, and the next thing I knew, I was airborne and headed for the bottom. Dawn was covering me like a Secret Service agent thwarting an assassination attempt. “Better check the drain while we’re down there,” she said.
We surfaced again amid the frolicking, slipping, sliding, and ass-grabbing mass of humanity that had filled the bouncy castle.
Over at the giant foam machine, the main line had burst, and all the foam was shooting out of the machine, not the hoses. They obviously had a problem.
Dawn was now unbuttoning my shirt and nibbling on my stomach, but I couldn’t really enjoy the titillating sensation because I could see that we all might be drowning in piña colada–scented foam in a few minutes.
Four more men were wrestling the machine and somehow pointed it away from the bouncy castle. I went back to enjoying being bitten on the belly by a beautiful girl, and I could have stayed in that trance forever, but I felt a sharp fingernail on my back.
“Like, check out your crib, Tully! Isn’t that just bitchin’?” Noel-Christmas yelled.
The foam level was just below my chin, and I turned to see her topless and in the clutches of Renaldo, who wore that “died and gone to heaven” look. Behind them, the diverted foam machine was firing a steady stream of cascading bubbles into Archie’s bungalow.
“I’m a navigator. Trust me,” I said as I held Dawn’s hand firmly and got my bearings.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To inspect the damage,” I answered.
I took a deep breath, and we descended into the foam and wiggled our way through the maze of legs and bodies. We fended off probing, groping hands and fought our way against the sea of humanity moving in the opposite direction toward the stage. We came up a few yards from the porch, where I could see foam flowing out the windows.
“Well, there goes the damage deposit,” I said.
We floated on the river of foam to the porch. Dawn emerged, and it was very apparent that the long journey through soapy water had taken its toll on her painted-on bikini. Small rivers of colored water now rolled down her legs. I stared at her naked body, which sported the smallest tan line I had ever seen.
“Well, if you are the navigator, then I am the cruise director. What kind of entertainment are you in the mood for, Mr. Mars? We’ve already had dinner.”
“Let me think,” I answered. “One thousand one . . . one thousand —”
She put two fingers to my lips and said, “You can stop counting now.”
31
Belly to Belly
I knew the odds of having another evening like this would probably be slim to none for the rest of my life. So despite the large volume of champagne and THC that I had loaded into my bloodstream, I made a serious effort to try and remember the details of what would follow. I wanted to be able to tell the story in a bar when I turned eighty while an audience of young fishing guides and complete strangers looked at me with total disbelief. In the end, I knew my eyes would reveal it to be a true story from my misspent youth.
We started on the porch, worked our way to the bed, and ended an hour later in the shower—the scene of the original crime. At one point I wondered if I would just expire like a male salmon after spawning. But I survived the mating ritual with Dawn.
Afterward, a swim in the ocean was an absolute necessity. We had to cleanse our bodies and our souls. Amazingly, we were alone in the water.
The bouncy castle was still going full blast on the beach, and it seemed that they had finally gotten the machine working normally and aimed back in the original direction. The party carried on. We dog-paddled side by side to the shore until our stomachs touched the turtle grass on the bottom. I was just blowing bubbles in the water and watching the moon and stars overhead when Dawn said, “God, I have been wanting to do this since the first day we met.”
I laughed. “Yes, it is truly amazing the progress we have made in our relationship in a little more than twenty-four hours.”
We floated next to each other as Bob Seger’s gravelly voice rode the breeze from the party. Several small shrimp sprang from the turtle grass in front of me and skipped across the surface of the water as a small barracuda gave chase. I reached, and to my amazement, one of the shrimp landed in the palm of my hand. I looked down at his wriggling legs and phosphorescent eyes. “I know how you feel, buddy,” I said and tossed him in the opposite direction from the predatory fish.
Then Dawn rolled over in the sea grass and clawed her way toward me seductively and settled on top of me like a stingray. “We’ve met before, Tully.”
“Probably in another life,” I answered with a laugh.
“Yeah, something like that.”
Maybe it was a combination of the full moon, the champagne, the spliff, and the fact that I hadn’t actually gotten laid in nearly a year; I had held a gun on this woman, stood in front of her naked with a hard-on, let her buy me dinner, licked vanilla ice cream from her breasts, went to a foam party with her, had sex with her four times, and only knew her as Dawn. I had forgotten my manners. I looked into her eyes and said, “What’s your last name?”
“I think that names don’t really matter in the tropics,” she said as she inched her way up my body until we were belly to belly, as the old calypso song says.
“I think you’ve hit a reef,” I said.
“I certainly hope so.” She smiled. “I guess I’m stranded here until the tide can float me free.”
Somewhere in the middle of the night, as the tide receded, the foam party began to wind down as well, and the crowds slowly drifted away in small groups. It was time to get out of the water.
“I need to check on Noel-Christmas,” Dawn said as she walked toward the bungalow with no concern for her nakedness. I, in my puritan manner, made a mad dash behind her.
To my amazement, the bungalow had survived, though there were still patches of foam on the ceiling, and a putrid piña colada scent hung in the air.
“That is probably the best cleaning job this place has ever seen,” Dawn said as she finished buttoning the top button of my other Hawaiian shirt, which she had taken out of the closet. “Can I borrow a pair of shorts too?”
I tossed her a pair from my backpack and grabbed a dry bathing suit for myself. “Where do we go from here?” I asked.
“I’m going back to my room to get a few hours of sleep. Why don’t we see what the morning brings?” she said with a smile. She looked at her watch, kissed me, and hurried out the door.
“What’s your room number?” I asked, realizing I didn’t even know where to find her.
“Top floor, last door on the left,” she called back and disappeared into the night.
I was tired, but sleep was out of the question. I was sittin
g on the bed trying to re-create the amazing evening when I suddenly realized that my wallet and money were in the shorts that I had lent to Dawn.
I jumped up and dashed out the door, heading for the main building.
My heart nearly stopped, and I sobered up in an instant at the sight of the large man standing under the floodlight near the office to Renaldo’s. I ducked behind a coconut palm in the dark. The man looked around and then walked down the path toward me. Suddenly, without warning, a turd named Waldo Stilton had dropped into my punch bowl.
The pounding in my chest subsided a bit as Waldo veered over to the candy machine near the bar. Hiding in the shadows of the palm trees, I watched Waldo drop in some change and pull out a Butterfinger, which he munched with one hand while he spoke into the radio he held in the other.
People stumbled out of the party at a steady pace. As I stood there, helpless, I cursed myself for having let my guard down. Was Waldo alone, or was Wilton here too? Had they notified the police? When was Ix-Nay getting back? What should I do about my wallet? How the fuck was I supposed to get off the island with no money or fake ID?
Somehow I calmed myself down and began to force myself to think more clearly. I remembered that I had Archie’s satellite phone number in my wallet. I did not want to involve Dawn in my problems, but I needed that wallet. Once I got the number, I could call Archie. I had no doubt that he would understand and help me out. Once I got in touch with him, I could lay low until help arrived.
My salvation appeared in the bushes in the form of the face of the fortieth president of the United States. It was a discarded disguise from the party. I put the Reagan latex mask on and tried my best to look like a drunken reveler leaving the party. Other people stumbling out of the hotel passed me and waved. “Great party, Mr. President,” someone shouted, and I waved back.
Once clear of the courtyard and in the corridor of the building, I dashed for Dawn’s door.
“Tully,” she said in a surprised voice, as she cracked open the door. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but my wallet is in those shorts, and I kind of need it.” I tried to control the anxiety in my voice.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked.
“No, but I need to call Ix-Nay, and his number is in my wallet.”
“Tully, it’s four-thirty in the morning.”
“He’s an early riser.” Panic was returning, and if Dawn invited me in or started to ask more questions, I was afraid I would begin babbling like an idiot.
“Just a sec,” she said and left me at the latched door. She returned seconds later and slipped my wallet through the crack. “Get some rest,” she said as she leaned through and kissed me on the forehead. The door closed, and I stood there for a minute thinking how odd the whole thing was. I’d spent four hours performing porn-movie-style sex in the foam, on the floor, in the shower, and underwater—and now it seemed that my romance with Dawn had ended with a first-date peck on the cheek. Cinderella was gone, and my coach was quickly turning into a pumpkin again.
I made a mad run down the hall, snuck across the courtyard, and made my way into the bungalow. I dialed the number and waited.
“Hello,” the voice from space said.
I sighed with relief. I had made contact. “Archie?” I called out.
“You have reached my sat phone,” the voice continued.
“Shit!” I yelled and hung up the phone. I frantically stuffed my belongings into my backpack while I mentally went over my escape plan. I tried Archie again and got the same message. “Goddamn it!” I yelled and threw the phone against the wall. “Fucking sat phone!” I zipped up my backpack. I was about to heave it on my shoulder when I realized that my gun was missing. I felt the hidden pocket on the side panel, but the gun wasn’t there.
“Looking for this?” a voice behind me whispered.
I spun around to see the unwelcome and familiar face of Wilton, the other Stilton brother, standing six feet from me. He was spinning my pistol on the index finger of his left hand while aiming some kind of weird-looking gun at me with his right.
“Hello, asshole,” Wilton snarled.
Before I could get a word out, I saw a bolt of blue light coming at me. I followed its path to my bare chest—and the lights went out.
32
Somebody Call a Witch Doctor
In my cowboy days I had used cattle prods and had been hunting with folks who used shock collars on pointers and retrievers who roamed too far from the man with the gun. The point of these devices was to remind a living, breathing creature that electricity is an instant attention-getter. The stun gun is a human version of the shock collar, and that is what Wilton had fired at my chest. It got more than my attention. It knocked me unconscious for half a day.
When I finally came to, I was greeted by a twangy, high-pitched voice that yelled out, “Waldo, he ain’t dead!” I was lying on my stomach, and my hands were fastened tightly behind my back. The inside of my mouth felt as if someone had poured a bag of chalk down my throat. My brain was a wreck. It had taken a direct hit from an electrical torpedo. I took a deep breath and gasped, “Water.”
“Still or flat?” I heard Waldo Stilton ask, and then he burst out laughing at his own joke.
Red dots and little bubbles floated across my vision as I was rolled over and shoved up against a cool rock. Somebody poured water on my head.
“Well, haven’t we been living the lifestyle of the rich and famous, Mr. Mars? You caused me and my brother a fat lot of trouble back in Alabama, but your ass is ours now. You ain’t goin’ nowhere ’cept back to a jail cell in Wyoming.”
I could have cared less. All I wanted was water.
“Well, we sure as hell don’t want him to die before Barston gets here. We best feed him. Check the system,” Wilton said to Waldo.
I could finally see both of them. They were dressed in some kind of khaki uniforms with green baseball caps.
“Where am I?” I croaked like a frog.
“You’re in a Star Trek episode, butt head. You’re in the transporter room, and we are the Klingons, and we captured your ship. We’re transporting your sorry ass somewhere far away. Cut him loose so’s he can eat, but check the system first.”
Waldo came up behind me and wrapped something around my neck. Then I heard a snap at the back of my head, and I felt the weight of some kind of collar.
“You even move an inch and I will put the juice to you, hear?” Waldo said and untied my hands.
“I’m not going anywhere.” My wrists came free, and I rubbed my hands together and stretched my arms. My feet were chained to a large stone in what appeared to be a cave. That told me that I wasn’t in San Pedro—or on any of the offshore islands; they were all flat and made of sand.
Waldo laid a couple of packages of cheese crackers and a bottle of water within reaching distance and stepped back. He kept his eyes on me and his thumb on the control button of the shock collar.
As I gobbled the crackers, I began to remember bits and pieces of recent events, but I couldn’t put them in order. I remembered boat noises, confusing voices, and pain—lots of pain.
My only hope was that Ix-Nay had come back and found me missing—and that either he or Sandra had been able to contact Archie. It was obvious that the Stiltons weren’t going to the authorities. They had hidden me and were doing the extradition job themselves. I only hoped that Ix-Nay had his mojo working as I put out an urgent cosmic call for any shamans who might be tuned in to the psychic disturbance I was trying to cause.
“Get him up,” Wilton said as he came back into the cave. “That was the plane. Barston will be landing in two minutes.”
They jerked me to my feet and tied my hands behind my back. Then they pushed me forward.
“If it was up to me, ass breath, I would ship your butt across the border in a two-hundred-degree cargo container or cut you up for crab bait. But Thelma Barston has chartered a prison plane to take you home,
complete with a cell and two guards. It’s time to meet your traveling partners.”
They shoved me through the cave entrance, and the full sunlight blinded me. Waldo shouted a string of commands. I had to fight back the urge to turn around and kick him in the balls and just take the zap from the shock collar. He pushed me over to a hardwood tree and fastened me to the trunk. My eyes finally adjusted to the light. We were next to a deserted dirt strip surrounded by miles of nothing but scrub brush and weed patches. I figured I was back on the mainland in some remote corner of Belize, and I knew I wouldn’t be there long when I saw the twin-engine plane and two uniformed guards.
Overhead, the eggbeater thump of helicopter blades announced the arrival of more visitors. The chopper circled the field, then set down in a cloud of red dust behind the prison plane.
The pilot cut the engines and walked around to open the passenger-side door.
“We got the slimeball, Ms. Barston!” Waldo yelled out.
Well, this was it. Crazy-as-a-loon Thelma had finally tracked me down. I hadn’t seen her since that day I shattered her living room window.
Sitting in the tropical heat, shackled to a tree, I wondered if I should have quit in a calmer fashion, but if a frog had wings, his ass wouldn’t hit the ground, and no “shoulda woulda” mattered. I had done what I had done. Now Thelma the Terrible had come for her revenge.
Her arm reached out from inside the plane, and the pilot took her hand.
A dust devil swirled across the runway, kicking up debris that made me turn my head from the wind. When it passed, I looked back at the helicopter.
“Here’s your boy, Ms. Barston,” Waldo said proudly as he walked over to the chopper.
But it was not Thelma Barston who had stepped out. It was Dawn.
If Waldo Stilton had pressed the button of the shock-collar controller, I don’t know that I could have been any more stunned than I was by the sight of Dawn. First of all, the tight jeans and halter top tied just above her naval was more clothing than I had ever seen on her body.