Randy White - Gone

“I’ve gotta run,” I said, unzipping my equipment bag and taking out the envelope that contained Ricky Meeks’s picture. “You sure you really want me along tomorrow night? I’d love to go, but I’ve never hung out with the sort of people you’re talking about. I might be nervous.”

Sounding happy and very stoned, Gabby told me to relax, wear a nice blouse and shorts-not fishing s horts, for God’s sake-or a summer skirt that showed my legs, and I would do just fine. Then she asked, “What’s that?” meaning the envelope.

“If we’re going to be friends,” I said, “I don’t want to start out with a lie. When you asked if I was looking for someone’s name? You were sort of right.” I then proceeded to tell several lies after showing her the photo, saying that Ricky Meeks owed a friend of mine money, that someone had mentioned seeing him aboard Sybarite , which is why I’d been asked to check the crew roster while I was interviewing for the mate’s job.

“If Simpson hadn’t left me alone, I wouldn’t have bothered,” I added. “I like doing favors for people when I can, but I wouldn’t have risked a good job.”

Sneaky and guilty, that’s how I felt when Gabby, in her eagerness to be friends, pretended to believe me, even though I sensed she had her doubts. After listening to what she had to say about Meeks, I felt better in some ways, worse in others. But it didn’t compare to the electric spark I experienced when she concluded, “For all I know, the guy might even be at the party tomorrow. He shows up sometimes, but only if he’s the guest of a guest.”

“Your friends would invite a man like that?” I replied, the electric sensation still moving through my spine.

“Not them, sweetie. I doubt if they know he exists. But there’s always a few losers around. Some women-wealthy, older women usually-can’t get enough of what a guy like him’s got to offer. Go figure. But you’ve got to promise you won’t make a scene if he shows. You can’t say a damn word about money, it just wouldn’t be classy.”

“Promise,” I told my new girlfriend, a little dizzy because of my good luck… or possibly the marijuana smoke I’d inhaled just from being in Gabby’s car.

THAT AFTERNOON, I WAS STANDING WITH NATHAN INSIDE Olivia’s “room” and had just seen for myself that Gabby Corrales was right about Port Royal. Every mansion was a gated island, crowns of brick or stone poking through the trees, with winding driveways shaded by oaks or, in Olivia’s case, a quarter mile of royal palms, solid as cement, the trees spaced like shaggy utility poles.

Voice low, Nathan said to me, “Even he can tell. Did you see the way he stared? We need to get you home and put you to bed before he says something. Or calls the DEA.”

My friend was referring to the uniformed guard who had signed us in at the security pavilion after stubbing out his cigar. Then he’d let us into the Seasonses’ mansion, using keys he had taken from a lockbox, and was now stationed at the door.

“I am not stoned,” I whispered for the umpteenth time, which was untrue, possibly because I now at least imagined feeling spooked and sort of fuzzy. When I saw that Nathan was grinning, though, I slapped his shoulder and told him, “Stop doing that… please . You’re making me paranoid. Look around the rest of the house… or wait outside. I need time to concentrate.”

Nathan was doing a slow three-sixty, still marveling at the spaciousness of Olivia’s suite and also the monkish way she had stripped the walls of decorations and painted everything white.

“Chastity and virtue,” he said. “That’s the message I’m getting. And a ton of guilt-you two ladies have a lot in common.”

“Olivia goes through phases,” I explained, ignoring the gibe. “Mr. Seasons said a Goth stage back in high school. In her mid-twenties, she got into yoga and meditation, then drugs and nightclubs for a while-but only a few months, it didn’t take her long to snap out of it. Because she was dating some guy, he says. Lately, it’s religion. Religion, growing orchids, and painting. He says Olivia lives like a monk. Or did before Ricky Meeks came along.”

“A monastery,” Nathan agreed, “that’s what this place reminds me of. But where’s all her personal stuff? Things she doesn’t want anyone else to see?” He motioned toward a rostrum in the corner that held a lone orchid. “A single flower-the only color in the whole damn room, which would drive Darren nuts. And her paintings? Where’re her paintings?”

Looking at the orchid, I shrugged, no answer to offer. The orchid’s petals were white ivory fringed with pink, not much color left. Wilting from lack of sunlight and attached to a vertical base, the plant leaned like a shepherd’s crook… or a weary question mark. It felt strange to be in Olivia’s room, talking about her, poking into her privacy with only her uncle’s permission. I wouldn’t have tolerated it. Even reminding myself it was for Olivia’s own good didn’t make me any less eager to get this over with. But it would take a while. Her part of the house consisted of most of the mansion’s east wing, which included an office, a bathroom with a bidet and sauna, a living room that opened out onto a waterfront porch and orchid house, a full kitchen, and a vaulted-ceiling bedroom with a walk-in closet that was larger than any two bedrooms I’d ever had.

“Why would anyone run away from this?” Nathan asked, then opened venetian blinds to look out a window. “Christ, she’s even got her own lap pool and Jacuzzi. How do you think you’d handle it? Being this rich.”

Rather than answering, or explaining the difference between rich and wealthy , I put my hands on his back and steered the man toward the door. “Out! Get serious and try to find something useful. This girl’s in real trouble. Hasn’t that sunk in yet?”

On the drive to Naples, I had shared what Gabby had told me about Ricky Meeks. She had not only seen Meeks on several cruises, she’d asked Robert Simpson to ban him from the boat after clients had complained about his behavior.

“Robert wouldn’t do it, of course,” Gabby had said, then explained the reason.

“Ricky is what we call a ‘teaser pony.’ He finds a woman who’s super-wealthy, talks her into a cruise, and Robert pays him a percentage or maybe a flat fee. The woman never knows, of course. Even I wouldn’t know for sure if I didn’t tally the bar receipts after a cruise. All the guy’s drinks are comped-what’s that tell you?

“I’m guessing we have maybe a dozen teaser ponies,” she’d continued, “mostly women and gays who do five or six cruises a year. Regulars who’re good at what they do, never cause any trouble. Ricky is more of a freelancer. He did some bottom work on Sybarite a few years back. You know, went down with tanks and scraped barnacles or something and has been around ever since. Robert says he’s good at that sort of work. Lifting, painting, boatyard stuff, so he’s useful. But why he puts up with the guy’s bullshit on cruises, I’ve got no idea.”

The problem with Ricky Meeks, Gabby told me, was that he was pure West Texas trash, nothing classy about him, although he could act the part up to a point. The more he drank, though, the meaner and louder he got. That wasn’t all bad, depending on the clients, because “rough trade” was Ricky’s specialty, a term the girl had to explain to me, which was embarrassing. The look of disgust on my face had obviously amused her.

“Live and let live,” Gabby had warned. “If I judged people by their secret fantasies-knowing some of the crazy things I’ve seen on our trips?-I’d be afraid to leave the house. That’s one thing I’ve learned working aboard Sybarite . Even the nicest, best sort of people-men and women both-have a dark little place in their brain just aching to be itched.” The girl had looked at me for a long second before asking, “Are you saying you’re any different?”