Ted Bell - Tsar

“You are in luck today, Mr. Levy. I just happen to have three brand-new Sixties in stock. Factory fresh. Pick your color. Diamond Black, Cobalt Blue, or Speed Yellow.”

“Is there a question? You got to go with the Speed Yellow, you got any style at all, right, Yurin?”

“Speed Yellow it is! Let’s go back to my office and work up a sales order, Mr. Levy. Or can I call you Sheldon?”

“Call me Sheldon.”

“Call me Yuri, then,” he said, big smile, fish already in the boat, easiest damn yacht sale in the entire history of South Florida yacht brokerage.

“I kinda like Yurin. Let’s stick with that, okay? You know who you look like, Yurin? Just came to me. Dolph Lundgren. The movie star? Agent Red? Red Scorpion? No? Doesn’t matter.”

A momentary look of confusion crossed Yurin’s face, but he grabbed Stoke’s biceps, or tried to, and steered him back toward where all the sales guys had their little offices. This guy Yurin was obviously used to being the biggest kid on the block. You could see he didn’t care for second place at all.

“Yurin, hold up a sec,” Stole said, stopping dead in his tracks just outside the guy’s office.

“Whassup?” In a Russian accent, the tired old hip-hop expression sounded funny instead of cool.

“Here’s the thing, Yurin. I truly want this boat. And I’ve got the money to pay for it right here. Cash.”

“We take cash,” he said, like a joke. Being funny didn’t come naturally to most Russians.

“But, of course, I’ll want to take her for a quick spin first.”

“Hey, no problem, Sheldon. We can arrange for a sea trial whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, what day should I schedule you for?”

“Today. Now.”

He laughed. “Good joke. Funny.”

“No joke, Yurin. I want to take her out there in a blow. See how she performs when it’s kicking up like this.”

“Kicking up? You’re looking at gale-force winds out there. It’s got to be blowing thirty, thirty-five knots. Gusting to fifty. Small-craft advisory warnings have been up since ten o’clock this morning.”

“Sixty feet’s not all that small a craft, Yurin.”

“Yes, I know, Sheldon, but this is an extremely high-performance racing boat with a planing hull. She likes flat water.”

“Yurin. Ask yourself one simple question. Do you sincerely want to sell a boat today? Say yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not afraid of a little wind and rain, are you, Yurin? Like my grandmother used to say, rain won’t bother you unless you’re made of sugar.”

“Afraid?” The look said it all. He was going.

Stoke clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his molars. “All right, man, cowboy up, and get your goddamn foul-weather gear on, little buddy, we’re going sailing!”

The big yellow Cigarette was bobbing pretty good, even still moored in her marina slip. Like a bronco in the chute, Stoke thought, boat saying, “Cut me loose, cowboy, I dare your ass.” Although the Miami Yacht Group’s marina was pretty well protected from the ocean, it was still choppy with whitecaps inside the breakwater. Sailboat masts swung wildly, a forest of aluminum sticks, whirling and twirling in the storm. The skies were now very dark purple with a funny greenish cast to them.

Perfect.

Like some pretty ladies of Stoke’s former acquaintance, the Magnum 60 was all bow and no stern. She had a small open cockpit aft, inside which were four deeply contoured bucket seats, bright yellow like the hull, with harness equipment like you might expect on the space shuttle. Along her sleek flanks, she had five oval portholes forward, meaning there was built-out space below.

What you do down there, Stoke thought, is not take little nappies or read spy novels and do crossword puzzles. You go down there to take care of business with Mama once you get offshore and shut two engines down and crank up a third, the Johnson. Boat like this was all about testosterone, a little too much or a little too little, depending on the owner.

“Looks like a Chiquita banana on steroids,” Stoke said, uncleating a spring line and heaving it aboard. The Russian guy fake-laughed, going for the stern line.

He said, “This is the sister ship to the boat that won the greatest sea race in the world, Sheldon. The Miami-Nassau-Miami at an average top speed of over eighty-five miles per hour. You know what sister ship means?”

“Lemme think a sec. Identical twins?”

“You are a very intelligent individual. You’ve heard of Bounty Hunter ? Don Aronow’s Maltese Magnum ? These magnificent boats are names out of racing history.”

“Don’t I know it,” Stoke said, as if he had a clue.

Yurin started to climb down into the helm seat, and Stoke stopped him, grabbing his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “I’ll drive,” he said. “You ride shotgun. You know what shotgun means?”

“Shotgun?” the Russian asked.

They already had their helmets on and two-way radio communication. It was the only way you could talk aboard these monsters, even when there was no hurricane blowing.

“You want to drive?” Yurin said. “Are you serious, man?”

“I just want to putt around. You know, here inside the marina. Get a little feel. Don’t worry about it.”

“You think you can handle this thing? You have some experience with this kind of boat? Any kind of boat?”

“Navy SEAL operations, Team Two. Riverine patrol boats in the Mekong Delta. Three tours.”

The Russian looked at him with different eyes.

“Good enough,” he said, and went around to the dock on the vessel’s port side, loosening the stern, spring, and bow lines. “Climb aboard,” he told Stoke. “I’ll cast you off and jump down.”

Stoke saw that the helm seat had no seat to speak of, only a curved backrest with a narrow bench you parked your butt on. The sides wrapped around you nice and snug, especially snug for him, but okay. He turned on all three of the battery switches, checked the fuel level and oil pressure. All good to go.

She had twin 1800-horsepower Detroit racing engines, and when he turned the key on number one, the response was one sharp blat and then a deep vibrating rumble. Followed by the second engine, the feeling of power coming up through the soles of his shoes was something else entirely.

Yurin freed the last line and leaped aboard as Stoke started reversing out of the slip. There was so much power on tap you had to handle the throttles like surgical instruments. Tiny adjustments.

Yurin was strapping himself into the portside seat as Stoke got the big Magnum turned around and headed toward the mouth of the harbor.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Yurin said. “Gale-force winds coming right up the Cut! We’ll get knocked on our asses out there.”

“Relax, Sunshine,” Stoke said, looking over at him. “I think we’ll poke our nose out in the Atlantic. Just get a touch of it, see how she handles the rough stuff.”

Yurin started to say something, thought better of it, and just shook his head. He planted his feet and held on to to the stainless grab handle mounted on the dash in front of him.

“That’s it. Just hold on, Yurin. We’ll be back in your office signing papers before you know it.”

Stoke lined up in dead center of the narrow channel, aiming for a spot midway between the two massive cement breakwaters that enclosed the marina. The entrance was funnel-shaped, with the narrowest part on the seaward side. Beyond the entrance, the Atlantic looked like really convincing special effects, pretty much the way it did in that movie The Perfect Storm . Mountainous crests, cavernous troughs, the wind rising to a wailing gale, ripping the crests off waves, well-defined streaks of foam marching off to the southeast. A boiling black sky overhead.