Randy White - Gone

“Enough,” I replied, which was true. The man had hinted around, stressing the importance of confidentiality over and over, before finally telling me that clients paid for a “unique sensual experience” and the crew was expected to make sure it happened, then keep their damn mouths shut.

“Maybe so,” Gabby said, “but get the whole prostitution thing out of your head. No one’s gonna force you. Or even expect it. See… the way it goes is, we’re out at sea, everyone’s relaxed, and things just sort of happen. You meet a nice gentleman aboard, sometimes a man with his good-looking wife or girlfriend, it’s only natural they want to party. You’d have as much fun as them, probably more, if you just loosen up. Next day, if they want to thank you for the good time, it’s only natural they give you something extra special.”

“The tips,” I said. “It’s always cash?”

The woman flashed a catty smile, and replied, “Take a guess at the biggest tip I ever got for our cruise to Key West. Go ahead, guess. One night, two days, and I personally had a damn blast!” Without waiting, she tapped the convertible’s dashboard. “You’re sitting in it, sweetie. Last year-from a very, very special couple.”

I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “A Corvette -holy shit!” For the first time, I gave fleeting thought to accepting the mate’s job if offered.

“Look…” Gabby thought for a moment, then tried a different approach, lowering her voice. “Our clients, they aren’t just regular people. We’re not talking rednecks and salesmen at a convention. These are some of the most successful people in the country. I’m not naming names. Even when you’re part of the crew, no one names names. Not last names, anyway. But I can tell you this”-the joint had gone out and she now took a few seconds to relight it-“some of the names you see in People magazine, on TV, the movies. Mostly not, though, because they’ve got enough money to keep their lives private. If they wanted hookers, trust me, they could hire a bunch for what they pay for two days aboard Sybarite .” Gabby tapped the car’s dashboard again to prove her point. “But when guests are with us, just them and the crew, it’s not work. It’s more of a We’re enjoying this experience together sort of thing. A private party at sea, that’s the way I look at it. With the best of everything.”

Sensing a chance to maneuver the conversation toward Olivia Seasons, I offered, “I’ve got fishing clients with money, but you wouldn’t know their names if I told you. And they live right here in the area. The same’s probably true of the clients you’re talking about.”

Gabby startled me by replying, “Do you know the difference between people with money and people who’re actually wealthy ? Think about it because that’s the difference I’m talking about.”

I’d gone thirty years without hearing that question, now I’d been asked it twice in less than twenty-four hours. It might have been coincidence, but more likely she’d run into Mrs. Whitney and Ricky Meeks on their trips to Key West. “Classiness?” I offered, thinking it was the answer she wanted and would move us in the right direction.

“Nope,” Gabby replied, her expression mellow. “It’s right here,” then clasped a hand to her breast. “They’re classier, sure. But the real difference is, they have huge hearts. You would not believe how polite and generous they are. Once you get to know them-most wealthy people, I’m saying. They’re fun and totally real .”

My schoolmate was stoned, if the hand squeezing her left implant meant anything. Too stoned now to keep on track-I’d been through it enough with Delbert Fowler to recognize the signs. I looked at my watch and said, “Whoops, I’m late. You mind taking me back to my boat? I want your number so I can call later. Tonight okay?”

Agreeing as she fumbled to start the car, Gabby repeated herself about wealthy people being real and having big hearts, which I expected to hear a few dozen more times if she was anything like Delbert. Instead, she varied it by saying, “A couple of clients, they’ve become two of my closest friends. That’s the truth, sweetie. You’d love ’em. The wife, she’s more like an older sister now. Doesn’t make any difference I work as a hostess and she’s worth a few hundred million.”

Because I was watching traffic as Gabby accelerated toward the exit, instead of asking She bought you the Corvette? I reminded her that a truck was coming so don’t forget to stop.

“I see it, I see it,” Gabby grumbled, then snapped her fingers as if she’d just remembered something. “In fact, they’re having a party tomorrow night. Tomorrow’s Sunday, right? Not big, just a few people. Want to be my date?”

When traffic was clear, I told her, “You can turn now,” then waited for her to do it before saying, “Your client friends, you mean?”

“They own a mansion in Naples-but they’ve got houses all over the world. It’s a pool party-barbecue sort of deal. Bring a suit if you want-or not . It’ll be very laid-back.” Gabby grinned, eyes a tad droopy, both hands on the wheel while she turned right again toward the shrimp yards, now driving way too slow. “Where you living these days? We can meet somewhere around seven and take my car.”

I already had an excuse waiting and was shaking my head until she pleaded, “Please, Hannah! It’s only forty minutes, a gated community with some of the most beautiful homes you’ve ever seen. Port Royal-you’ve heard of it?”

Suddenly, I was interested. Rather than answering, I reminded her it was best to pull over before we got to the docks or Robert Simpson might see us and get suspicious. Gabby liked that. “You know, sweetie, I had a feeling we were gonna hit it off. ¡Mejores amigas! ¡Amigas para siempre! Know what that means?”

In formal college Spanish, I replied, “It is nice to have friends who have trust and share secrets,” which came out stilted but not too bad.

Gabby liked that even better, clapping her hands a couple of times in applause. “ ¡Mejores amigassiempre, sí! My last girlfriend, we had a big blowup six months ago, and I’ve been bored as hell ever since. A regular bitch, too-so forget what I said about splitting tips for six months. Make it three months, then the regular split… and all the dinners and drinks are on me. How ’bout it?”

Gabby was a tough one when it came to money, something I admire in a woman, but she was also lonely like most single people our age. She struck me as tricky, a tad neurotic and sad but not a bad person. The same, I suspected, could be said of me at times. Mostly, though, I was thinking about tomorrow’s party. It wouldn’t interfere with my plans to stop at marinas between Vanderbilt Beach and Naples as Mr. Seasons had suggested. The party might be a waste of time, but there was also a chance I would meet someone who knew Olivia. Port Royal couldn’t be that big… maybe one of her neighbors had spoken with her recently. On the other hand, Lawrence Seasons had told me that Olivia had no close friends. Undecided, I decided to take a chance.

“Bored?” I said, being sympathetic. “Try being a fishing guide. I don’t meet any girls our age. The few I know, all they talk about is their kids, their husbands, and how nice their house is. Makes me feel like a loser. Or like I’m from outer space.”

Excited by my confession, Gabby replied, “ Tell me about it. Honey, we’ve got so much in common!” then asked if I was married, if I was dating someone special, all the regular questions I have learned to dodge with as few words and lies as possible. She had pulled into a vacant lot a hundred yards from the boat docks, where I could see a muscled giant in a tank top pacing and checking his watch. Nathan Pace.