Филип Керр - A Five Year Plan

Dave grinned and looked around the shabby interior, wondering how much money might be concealed inside the worn leather furniture. Two big sofas and two matching easy chairs. The rest of the lounge looked suitably clinical. Like a rest room for the guys on E.R. They’d worked the story well enough and certainly picked the right boat. The guy, who told Dave his name was Keach, hadn’t exaggerated. A complete refurbishment was what the Baby Doc needed. And ripping out the interior furnishings would cause no great expense.

Dave took his beer and dropped onto the sofa, hoping he might witness some discomfort under his ass or on Reach’s face. The sofa felt firm enough. Maybe too firm at that. More like an office chair than a comfortable sofa. The stitching on the old leather looked a little too pristine. Like it was new. As if someone had stitched something up inside the leather. Money. Meanwhile Reach’s face, with its puffy eyes — like he’d maybe taken a few punches in his time — and lugubrious mouth stayed cool.

Dave recognized the look. It was the same long-range, armor-piercing, full-metal-jacket stare you developed when you were in the joint. The don’t-mess-with-my-shit-or-I’ll-fucking-kill-you kind of look. So Reach was an ex-con, just like himself. Dave wondered if the guy maybe got the same smell off him.

‘C’mon,’ Keach said coolly. ‘Let’s go outside. You can point out your own boat.’

Dave stayed on the Baby Doc for another fifteen minutes meeting one of the other crewmen, a heavy-set black guy wearing a buzz haircut in a Keith Haring design and the kind of granite face that looked like he’d had it custom-made on Easter Island. Catching sight of his own reflection in the two watchtower gun-barrels of the black’s sunglasses, Dave thought that he himself looked like a fairly regular guy. Hardly the kind of guy who had a gun for all seasons underneath his bed. He looked like just the kind of guy that Kate might take on.

Taking on these guys aboard the Baby Doc looked like a rather more difficult proposition.

On his way back to the Juarista, Dave found his progress along the narrow gangway impeded by a solitary figure staring out to sea. As Dave excused himself, squeezing past the guy, he realized that he knew the face.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you Calgary Stanford? The movie actor?’

‘Yes, I am.’ Stanford’s tone was sad, almost as if being Calgary Stanford was a little too much to bear. Or maybe it was the role he was reported to be planning. Calgary Stanford was the same movie actor who had attended the execution of Benford Halls on the day that Dave had been released from Homestead. Dave was familiar with stories in Premiere about the methodical prep work some movie actors did to get into character. On the whole he thought it was right that they should have to do some work, maybe even endure some hardship in return for the money they got paid. But he drew the line at attending a guy’s execution and wondered if, before the voyage was out, there might not be some way of getting even with the actor on the executed man’s behalf.

Dave said, ‘ The Cruel Sea, huh?’ When Stanford looked blank, Dave explained it was a book.

‘I think I saw the movie. British movie, right?’

Dave nodded, wondering if guys in prison were the only people who read books any more. ‘As a matter of fact, I thought you must be watching out for the hurricane.’

‘What hurricane?’

‘You haven’t heard? There’s one coming up from the west.’

This was true. It had been on the radio just after midday. It was a long way behind them, but Dave wanted to spook the actor some.

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Actually no,’ said Dave. ‘It’s called Louisa. But Jesus’d be a pretty good name for a hurricane when you think about it. Hurricane Jesus, or Hurricane Holy Shit, or Hurricane Holy Mother of God. I’ve known some mean bitches in my time, good for spending your money and giving out grief, but none of them could trash a place up the way a real storm can. The way a rock group can. Hurricane Led Zeppelin. That’s a better name for a hurricane. Or Hurricane Keith Moon. Boy, I’ll bet that’s a hurricane that could do some real damage. Not just the TV or the Rolls-Royce that ends up in the swimming pool, but the whole damn hotel.’

‘They say what category this Louisa is?’ asked Stanford.

‘A three, I think.’ Dave sniffed the air. There was a definite smell of marijuana coming off the actor’s breath. The guy was a little stoned. Probably came up on deck to clear his head.

‘That’s not the top category,’ said the actor in his laid-back LA drawl. ‘But it’s still dangerous. Did you know that in one day a hurricane can release as much energy as 500,000 atomic bombs?’

‘What size of A-bomb do you mean?’ asked Dave. ‘Hiroshima, or something bigger?’

Calgary Stanford thought for a moment, blinked hard and then said, ‘I don’t know. But either way it’s a lot of dead people.’ He started to laugh.

‘You seem to know a lot about them,’ observed Dave. ‘Hurricanes, I mean.’

‘Did a movie about a hurricane once. Piece of shit. You wouldn’t have seen it. But that’s the kind of trivia you tend to collect when you’re getting into a role.’ He paused and looked out to sea again. ‘I’ve never been in a real hurricane. Sounds like a blast.’ He laughed again.

‘I have,’ said Dave. ‘It was pretty scary.’

‘Where was that?’

It had been when he was in Homestead. Even behind several feet of reinforced concrete, Dave had thought that the place would blow down. Unfortunately it hadn’t. But for days afterward the inmates were clearing up the damage. ‘Just Miami,’ he said.

‘Where’s this one, right now?’

‘Over Cuba. And heading north-west. Maybe it’ll blow itself out by the time it reaches us. Or maybe the ship will outrun it.’

Stanford snorted and said, ‘Now if it was my boat, that might be a possibility.’ He pointed to the sharp-looking flybridge motor yacht that occupied the space immediately in front of the Britannia. ‘ That’s her there. The Comanche. British built Predator. Three 846 K engines. That’s forty knots. But she still sleeps eight.’

‘Nice-looking boat,’ Dave admitted.

‘But this ship. This ship couldn’t outrun Orson Welles.’

‘He was kind of quick on his toes in The Third Man,’ Dave argued. ‘Running through all those sewers in Vienna.’

Stanford blinked blearily and snorted again. ‘Not quick enough, as I recall. Besides, from what I’ve read about that movie, Welles didn’t like being down in those sewers and most of those shots were covered by a body double.’ Noting the look of disappointment that momentarily clouded Dave’s face, Stanford added, ‘It’s a very mendacious business, the movies. Nothing is ever what it seems. And nobody is ever who they’re supposed to be.’

Dave dismissed his small shattered illusion and said, ‘Then to that extent, I guess the movie business is just like life.’

Dave met Jock, the Duke’s electrical officer, and Niven, the second officer, on their way out of the bridge wing.

‘I was going to come and check the handset on your radio, wasn’t I?’ admitted Jock.

‘Hey, no problem,’ said Dave. ‘Fixed it myself. But what about this hurricane? Is it going to catch us up, do you think?’

‘We’re on our way down to the radio room to get the latest weather report,’ said Niven. ‘You’re welcome to join us, sir, if you’re interested.’

‘Thanks, I’d like to.’

Dave followed the two men along the corridor to the radio room.