Филип Керр - A Five Year Plan

‘You like going fast, don’t you, Van?’

‘I’m going to the Monaco Grand Prix, remember?’

‘I thought it was the financial guy who was going, not John Robie.’

‘Grand Prix is good for cat burglars. Makes a lot of noise. People don’t hear much during and after a Formula One motor race. And Monte Carlo is always Monte Carlo. There’re always a lot of stones around. It’s like Tiffany’s with a roulette wheel and a nice beach.’ Dave straightened his knife and fork and reached across the table to curl a length of Kate’s hair around in his fingers. She hadn’t had a shower yet and she still smelt great. ‘Shouldn’t be too much of a problem for a girl from the Space Coast. The kind of girl who wears Allure.’

‘How did you know I wore that?’

‘I recognize it. It’s my favorite perfume. At least it is now.’

Kate cupped his hand to her cheek and sighed wistfully. Howard didn’t know one brand of perfume from cigar smoke. It was just her luck to find a guy who had fallen in love with her at first sight when she was pretending to be someone else. A guy who knew poetry. A guy who was not a selfish lover. A guy who knew perfume. A guy who was a thief and an ex-con. It was just another of the curved balls life was wont to pitch at you. She stood up.

‘I still need some more time,’ she said, glancing automatically at her watch. ‘And I’d better be getting back. Kent gets a little funny about this kind of thing.’

Dave was hardly surprised by this information. In his experience the Feds could get funny about all kinds of things.

Dave was reading a book when he heard a footfall on the cockpit deck.

It was the ship’s electrical officer, Jock. No longer wearing white, he was wrapped in a thick woollen navy blue sweater and navy blue pants.

‘Come tae look at your boat. Check your ropes are all holding up.’

‘And are they?’

‘For now. But if the storm catches up to us, we could all have some problems. Right now we’re just ahead of it. Making good time. We’re going like a racing dog’s cock.’

‘But we’re still on course?’

‘Oh aye. On course right enough. But if this keeps up we’ll be arriving well ahead of schedule.’

Dave frowned. Being early for the rendezvous might be every bit as disastrous for the heist as being late.

‘How much ahead?’

‘Can’t say for sure. Soon as the weather improves we’ll get a better idea. By the way, how’s your handset?’

Dave said nothing, distracted by the latest information. It looked like they were going to spend more time aboard the getaway boat than he had figured. From now on he would need to keep a close eye on their position with the aid of the boat’s GPS receiver. About the same size as a cellular telephone, the GPS could accurately tell you where you were, in what direction you were heading, and how fast you were going: every time you turned on the receiver it worked out its location by tracking the signals broadcast by satellites in the GPS constellation until it had enough information to determine its own relative position.

Jock repeated his question.

‘Oh, still working OK, thanks. You want a beer?’

‘Why not? Might as well be wet inside as well as out.’

Dave glanced out of the window. Rain lashed the roof of the Juarista and even behind the walls of the Duke, the boat’s deck felt more like a surfboard. He handed Jock a Corona. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s like Moby Dick out there.’

‘A wee bit tricky walking along the ship’s walls,’ Jock admitted. ‘But not half as bad as we thought. The skipper was right. It should blow itself out soon enough.’

Jock drained half the beer from the bottle. Hearing a loud retching noise from the bowels of Dave’s boat, he glanced at the stairwell. He grinned slightly and said, ‘Someone’s Uncle Dick, are they?’

Dave frowned momentarily as his ears and understanding tried to penetrate the Scotsman’s speech. Finally it dawned on him.

‘Yeah. It’s Al. He’s not a good sailor.’ He seemed unconcerned, although he was growing worried by the thought that he might end up tackling the score on his own. The only possible benefit of the bad weather was that the crews of the Russkie boats might be feeling as sick as Al.

‘But you’re all right?’ said Jock.

‘I’m fine.’ Dave said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have something I could give him, would you? I’ve tried Kwells and other shit like that, but they don’t seem to help.’

Jock finished his beer and pulled a face.

‘That stuffs for kids,’ he said. ‘What other shit have you tried?’

‘Antihistamine. Didn’t work either. Just made him sleep for a bit.’

‘When was his last dose of that?’

‘Hours ago.’

‘Well, if it’s me, I take hyoscine. Blocks the para-sympathetic autonomic nervous system. Stuffs commonly used as a preanesthetic to prevent reflex vagal stimulation of the heart.’

‘There’s nothing sympathetic about Al’s nervous system,’ said Dave. ‘I’m not even sure he’s got a heart.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘What are you, some kind of doctor as well?’

‘On this ship, aye. My father was a veterinary surgeon. I learned a lot from him.’ He shrugged. ‘Bastards on this ship are all animals anyway, so it makes no bloody difference.’ He took one of the cigarettes Dave had offered him, and lit it quickly. ‘Does your pal suffer from glaucoma, at all?’

Dave had no idea, but he shook his head anyway, sensing that Jock was about to prescribe something useful. The hyoscine perhaps.

‘Aye, well I’ve got some Scopoderm. It’s good stuff. Not available over the counter.’ He pinched the cigarette from the corner of his mouth and inhaled through clenched teeth. ‘Expensive, though. If you know what I mean.’

Dave thought he did and grinned back at him. ‘I think so.’

Jock looked apologetic. ‘You’re the one with the flash boat, not me. I’m just trying to make ends meet.’

‘How much?’

‘Fifty bucks. Enough to see you through the bad weather.’

‘Done.’

Jock took a small packet from his pocket.

‘You had it with you?’

‘Quite a few people are feeling like shit today,’ laughed Jock. ‘Business is good.’

‘That’s a nice little racket,’ said Dave, handing over the five Hamiltons.

‘You make it any way you can.’

‘Sure do,’ agreed Dave.

‘These are tablets and plasters,’ Jock explained, giving Dave the packet. ‘Give him one tablet now and stick a plaster to his arm. He’ll have difficulty in passing water. Maybe blur his vision a bit. And it’ll stop him sweating altogether.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Dave. ‘How soon does this shit kick in?’

‘Right away. An hour should see him on his feet again. Then one of the plasters and one of the pills every six hours. Just don’t mix the stuff with any alcohol.’

‘Right.’

‘Thanks for the beer.’

‘Pleasure doing business with you, Doc’

Jock walked precipitously toward the stern.

‘Oh yeah. I meant to tell you. That sub. I reckon it’s gone. No one’s been broadcasting in a while and there’s nothing on the echo-sounder. Must have got bored, and pissed off.’

‘Must have done,’ agreed Dave.

‘It’s that kind of voyage,’ said Jock. ‘I can’t think why I ever imagined going to sea would be more interesting than becoming a vet. Nothing ever bloody well happens on this boat.’

‘No, I guess not.’

Al was lying on the floor, one arm wrapped around the toilet bowl as if it was his best friend. Dave knelt down, wrapped one of Al’s anaconda-sized arms around his own neck, and dragged him into the stateroom.