Jason Frost - The cutthroat

Eric tapped the barrel of his.38 against his palm. What indeed?

The three of them were sitting back in Blackjack's cubicle, the ratty beach towel with the faded surfer on it flapped down to provide a little privacy. Outside the cubicle, a dozen armed guards stood milling around, waiting to hear Eric use the gun on their leader or to see him just keep waltzing up and down the stairs with a gun to Blackjack's head.

"How'd you go about construction? That's the biggest damn greenhouse I've ever seen."

Blackjack held up his hands and shook his head. "Let's get that straight right now, man. I had nothing to do with its conception or construction. Had I been around here then I'd have told them they were all nuts. But the guy who brainstormed it was a skinny guy named Daniel Loeb. Used to be an engineer for Fluor Corporation, then ditched the whole thing to join the Peace Corps back in the 'sixties. Remember back then when everybody thought they could actually make a difference? Well, ol' Daniel Loeb was the kind of guy who didn't know the 'sixties ended more than fifteen years ago. He completely missed the Me Decade." Blackjack pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk.

Eric's fist immediately pushed the gun toward Blackjack's head. "Careful."

"Hey, easy, man. No weapons." He dipped his hand into the bottom drawer that once held Shirley Pinto's note pad, extra staples, a box of floppy disks for her IBM word processor, the latest James Michener novel which she read over lunch, a container of diet pills to help her drop fifteen pounds so she could fit into her swimsuit by summer, and an extra pair of Leggs pantyhose because she lived in mortal fear of running hers and having the other girls laugh at her. On the way home from the first quake, she stopped to help an elderly couple who shot her in the face and stole her Datsun.

When Blackjack's hands reappeared, they were clutching three small oranges the size of tangerines. He grinned, juggled them for a

minute, then reeled each in, tossing one each to Tracy and Eric, keeping the third for himself. "Home grown," he said as Tracy tore the peels from her orange like someone frantically unwrapping a present. "Remember when 'home grown' used to refer to marijuana? If nothing else, these quakes sure put things in perspective, eh?"

"What about Daniel Loeb?" Eric reminded him.

"Yeah, right. Well, Loeb returned from the Peace Corps and became a rabbi. No shit. Had a reformed congregation and a temple over in Fountain Valley. After the California blitz, Loeb turned a group of survivors into a farming community."

"Like a religious cult?" Tracy asked.

"No. They could worship whoever or whatever they wanted. Loeb didn't care. They had goats and cows for milk, but the rest of their food they grew themselves. Even had avocado and nut trees. Amazing."

Tracy had eaten her orange and was gnawing on the insides of the peels. "Come on, Doctor, get to the point."

"You can't keep word of something like that secret for long. Marauders came down and slaughtered most of the settlers, drove the others off. But that doesn't stop Loeb. He remembers hearing about these half-submerged buildings from some of his people at camp, and leads the survivors out here. What could be a better defense than the whole damned Pacific Ocean? Like a giant moat around their castle. So he moves the settlement out to this building and starts his farming community again. This time, nobody even knows about the food."

Eric stood up, reached into the bottom drawer of the desk and picked out two more oranges. He dropped one in Tracy's lap and sat back down, his legs crossed. Blackjack gave him an annoyed look, but Eric just smiled and began peeling the orange in one spiraling unbroken peel.

"Anyway," Blackjack continued, slamming the desk drawer closed, "the only drawback was they had to haul the fresh water all the way out here for the settlers and the crops. That made them vulnerable to pirates. And in these waters that meant Rhino." He pointed at the gun Eric was aiming at him while he peeled his orange. "Is that necessary? You might slip and shoot me accidentally."

Eric smiled.

Blackjack continued, "So Loeb was making a water run with one of his ships and they were stopped by Rhino and Angel. Loeb had purposely made sure there were no women on these runs so pirates wouldn't have anything to sell. But he didn't understand Rhino. He'll attack just to be doing something. The man's a perpetual motion machine, can't rest, can't sit still. It's like he's on speed twenty-four hours a day. Well, he caught up with Loeb's water barge and sank it."

"And Loeb?" Eric asked.

"Sank him too. He personally cut off Loeb's arms and threw him into the water. It was all over in a few minutes."

Tracy stopped eating her orange. "Christ."

"And his death left you in charge here?" Eric asked.

Blackjack laughed. "Hardly. I told you, I'm a pirate, not a martyr. I have my own Wellington 63 yacht I bought back when I was a doctor and a medical corporation. Some of the crew are former hospital staff, others I picked up along the way. Not Rhino's type of crew, but they're loyal and know how to fight." He gestured over at his saber which was leaning against the wall. "A gift from the crew. Nifty, huh?"

"So who's in charge around here?"

"Daniel Loeb was survived by a wife, as they say in the papers. Rachel Loeb. She was in charge of the suicide mission on board the Home Run. She figured she could get close enough to destroy Rhino once and for all."

Eric pried a segment of orange and reached it to Tracy, who'd already gobbled hers down. She popped the segment in her mouth, chewing and saying thank you at the same time. Eric swept the room with his gun. "And just where do you fit in to all this?"

"Bodyguard," Blackjack smiled happily. "I was hired by Rachel Loeb to protect them on their water runs. She'd heard about me, for Chrissakes. Can you dig it, we have a goddamned reputation. Like Yul Brynner in The Magnificent Seven, remember? We even have the same hairstyle. I love it." He ran his hand over his balding pate, chuckling like a kid describing his first Little League home run. "In return we get all the food we want and a safe harbor. In a straight head-on fight with Rhino and his crew, my people don't have a chance. His ship's faster and his crew's a lot more ruthless, but we make it unprofitable for him to risk a battle. For what? Some water, a few women?"

"Then he doesn't know about the farming?"

"Nope. He just thinks we scavenge the land and bring our booty over the water, using the building as a hideout. But he's not dumb, neither is that Angel lady with him. Eventually they'll figure it out. Then we'll be in serious trouble."

Eric dragged the barrel of the gun along his scar, the metal cool as it skidded over the bumps in his skin. "So who the hell is Alabaster and what's his map for?"

Blackjack frowned, his dark face suddenly darker in the wavering light of the lamp. He lifted the bell jar from the lantern, licked his fingertips, and pinched the wick. The flame sissed against his wet skin, then vanished in a stream of smoke like a circus magician. The orange sheen of daylight squeezed through the cracks and seams of the cubicle. Outside they could hear the sounds of people starting their day. Blackjack stood up and waved a hand for Tracv and Eric to follow. "I guess you're ready to know about Alabaster too."

"This is Nurse Hatchet," Blackjack said.

"Havczech," the woman corrected, obviously used to his teasing. She adjusted the too-tight running suit that stretched over her plump figure like the skin of an overripe plum.

"Joyce was a school nurse for twenty-three years at Claremont Junior High School. She's seen it all."

"I thought I had," she grumbled, "till I saw the likes of you. Imagine, a doctor of medicine running around with a silly sword hanging on his hip." She shook her head and clucked her tongue. "Probably hit your head goin' through the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. That's the only explanation."