A Five Year Plan

Chapter Nine

In Dave’s suite, the telephone rang. It was Jimmy Figaro.

‘Got a passport?’

‘You’ve got it,’ said Dave.

‘I have?’

‘I had to surrender it before the trial. Remember?’

‘If you say so. Still valid you think?’

‘Should be, yes.’

‘OK, let me get Carol to find it and then I’ll come back to you.’

‘You know, I’m glad you reminded me. I was going to have to call you about it anyway. Does this mean the job is on?’

‘I don’t know anything about a job.’

‘Oh yeah, I remember. You’re on a need to know basis.’

‘All I know is what Al Cornaro told me.’

‘And that is?’

‘That you and he are flying down to Costa Rica.’

‘Costa Rica? What’s in Costa Rica?’

‘Some pretty good coffee, last time they looked. Maybe you could bring me back some beans.’

‘What am I, Jimmy? Starbucks or something?’

‘That and a boat. Al said to say that he’s found you a boat.’

‘Great. He say what kind of boat?’

‘The love boat. How the hell should I know? I’m a lawyer not Herman Melville.’

‘Yeah, well, call me back, Ishmael. About that passport, OK?’

San José, the capital of Costa Rica, was a thousand miles south of Miami and a two and a half hour flight aboard an American Airlines jet that was full of tourists in search of difficult surf and easy sex.

Dave returned to his first-class seat from the toilet and said, ‘This flight. It’s like Big Wednesday back there.’

‘Big what?’

‘Surfing movie. John Milius. All about the perfect wave.’

Al grunted and settled back with his third vodka martini. He said, ‘You know what that means to me? The perfect wave? It’s Madonna saying goodbye as she takes the kids on a six-week vacation with her mother.’

‘Madonna’s your wife, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Do you mind me asking you a personal question?’

‘Not if you don’t mind a slap in the mouth if I think you’re out of line.’

‘Why do you stay married to her? I mean, you make jokes about her all the time.’

Al said, ‘It’s a husband thing. You wouldn’t understand. We get along pretty good, she and I. She asks no questions, which means I tell her no lies. Like going down to Costa Rica. What I do when I’m down there? Maybe find a couple of nice little ticas and get myself laid? She won’t ever ask. Won’t even sniff my fingers when I get home. There’s an understanding there. A modus vivendi, know what I’m sayin’? Sides, even if I wanted to get rid of her, I wouldn’t. I’m a Catholic. Marriage is for keeps. Like herpes.’ Al laughed obscenely and finished his drink.

Dave said, ‘Nice to know that true romance is not dead.’

‘True Romance. Now that’s what I call a fucking movie.’ Al waved his empty glass at the stewardess and laughed some more. ‘That’s what a lot of the beach bums back there are really after. True romance. Surprising as it might seem. Local classifieds in CR are full of ads from soft-headed Americans looking for a cute little tica to settle down with.’

‘Then you’ve been before?’

‘CR? Yeah. Lots of times.’

‘And what are you looking for, Al?’

‘Me, I’ll settle for getting my cock sucked.’

Dave looked out of the window.

‘Sa matter?’ Al demanded. ‘Somethin’ wrong with that?’

‘No, nothing at all.’

‘Y’know prostitution’s legal in CR. Country’s a regular pussy K-Mart.’

Dave took the New Yorker he had bought at the airport out of the seat pocket and started to turn the pages.

Al frowned and said, ‘Y’know, most guys out of Homestead be quite interested in gettin’ theirselves laid. You turn fag or somethin’ while your ass was in there?’

Dave said, ‘No. I did not turn fag while I was in there. But people who’ve got something against fags are generally trying to cover up their own fears that they might be gay themselves. Well how about it, Al?’

Al shrugged and said, ‘You’re right. I am gay.’ Another obscene laugh. ‘I’m a lesbian trapped inside a man’s body. Means I’m interested in seeing two girls partying with each other before they party with me. I think that about covers my sexuality.’

Dave laughed and said, ‘Me, I’m more like one of those soft-headed guys you were talking about. In the local classifieds. The ones looking for true romance? I guess that covers it for me.’

‘Your fuckin’ loss.’

Al opened the copy of Penthouse he had bought at the airport and began to pick his nose. Absently he inspected his forefinger and frowned as he caught sight of the blood on it. The next second there was more blood dripping in large bullet-hole-sized gouts onto the magazine and his cream polo shirt and pants.

‘Fuckin’ nosebleed,’ groaned Al.

He made a futile attempt to stanch the flow using first his own paper napkin coaster and then Dave’s, stuffing one up each nostril, but it was not until the stewardess, arriving with another drink and a napkin, had tipped Al’s seat back in the reclining position that the bleeding finally stopped.

Dave looked at the man stretched out beside him and sighed wistfully.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘My first time out of the States and I’ve got to travel with Jake La Motta.’

It was in the taxi, on the way into town from Juan Santamaria Airport, that Dave began to experience his first misgivings about the trip.

‘Shit,’ he complained. ‘Something bit me on the leg.’

‘Probably just a mosquito,’ said Al.

‘A mosquito?’

The idea of taking any medication for the trip hadn’t occurred to him until now, and Al certainly hadn’t suggested anything. But Dave turned to the Fodor’s Guide to Costa Rica he had bought at Miami Airport, just to make sure. The health precautions there did nothing to reassure him.

‘You dumb bastard,’ he said, snapping the book shut.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Malaria,’ he complained angrily to Al. ‘This fucking place is full of it. Not to mention a whole load of other diseases.’

‘So?’ Al slapped a mosquito flat against his own bloodstained cheek.

‘So I haven’t had any shots, Al. And I don’t want to get anemia, kidney failure, coma, and death.’

‘Listen, who needs shots? Most of those drugs don’t work anyway. I read about it in the paper. They just have what they call a placebo effect. That means that for all the good they do you might as well swallow green M&Ms. They just make you feel better in your mind about bein’ around diseased spies and bugs and tropical shit. Whereas, on the other hand, the drugs that do work, do it at the expense of your system. Just look at what happened to those army motherfuckers after Desert Storm. They took all kinds of drugs and now a lot of them have got some serious fucking medical problems. So try and be cool. ‘Sides, we ain’t gonna be down here long enough to make any of that south of the border medication worthwhile.’

‘Fuck that. As soon as I get to the hotel I’m going to find a drugstore. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you’re so blase about this shit. I mean just one bite from an anopheles’ll do it man.’

‘There ain’t no fleas in the hotel we’re checking into. You can take it from me. Place is class.’

‘Not fleas. Anopheles. It’s a mosquito, Al. According to the book the whole country’s lousy with them.’

‘You read too many books.’ Al delved into his flight bag. ‘Relax, will ya? Naturally I brought something to keep the bugs off, just to be on the safe side.’ He handed Dave a sweet-smelling tube of cream. ‘There you go. Slap some of that on your chicken-shit ass.’

Dave read the label with incredulity.

‘Avon Skin-so-Soft Moisturiser? This is it?’

‘That’ll do the job. I bring some every time I come down here, and I’ve never been bitten yet.’

‘Al, I want to repel insects, not give them a nice smooth landing on my so fucking soft skin.’

‘And you better believe that stuff’ll do it. Bugs can’t stand the stuff.’

‘What is it they don’t like? The advertising? The brand image?’

‘Don’t ask me why, but it works, right? Marines comin’ down to these parts for jungle warfare training have been using the stuff for years. Better than DEET or any of those other insect repellents, they reckon. And I didn’t read that in any fuckin’ book.’

L’Ambiance was American-owned and comfortable. Formerly a colonial mansion, it was located in the Barrio Otaya district of San José. Dave’s room, furnished with antiques, was much bigger and better than he had anticipated. His only criticism was that when he opened the french windows onto his balcony, he could hear and smell the animals in the Simon Bolivar Zoo a block to the north. To that extent it was like a home away from Homestead.

As soon as he was unpacked Dave went out and bought some mefloquine in a local pharmacy. It made him feel a little more relaxed. And later on, after a good dinner and an excellent bottle of wine, he felt sufficiently well disposed toward both the country and his travelling companion to accompany him to what Al insisted was the best bar in San José.

Key Largo, with its Western-style saloon, big oval bar and live music, was housed in yet another handsome colonial mansion. The place was full of gregarious gringos and a seemingly endless supply of dollar-hungry ticas, many of whom were in their teens. Al found a table, ordered a couple of bottles of guaro and left Dave to soak up the atmosphere while he went in search of some female company. He returned a couple of minutes later with not one but four of the best-looking hookers Dave had ever seen. One of them, a blonde with a tight pink cotton sweater and very large breasts, sat down next to Dave and, smiling sweetly, told him her name was Victoria. He felt his eyes climbing up to the half-timbered ceiling as a languorous-looking brunette took hold of his other arm and asked him for a cigarette. When Dave’s eyes came down from the ceiling again they were met by Al’s, already filled with delight.

‘Whad I tell ya? Isn’t this place somethin’? Every time I come here it’s like I died and went to pussy heaven.’

Finding the brunette a Marlboro, Dave glanced sideways at the pink sweater and then back at Al. Grinning he said, ‘Pink. I always did like pink.’

He lit the girl, whose name was Maria, and then smoked one himself. The other three girls were already helping themselves to glasses of guaro. Despite Dave’s best intentions, he was beginning to enjoy himself.

Al toasted Dave with the local firewater and said, ‘They all speak pretty good American, so I hope you can decipher what I’m sayin’ to you now. They’re fit for human consumption, if you know what I mean. Forget about the Andromeda Strain, OK? What they do is legal down here so they have to get themselves periodically checked out by the local Surgeon-General. Anyway, s’all fixed. Stock is bought and paid for, whether you take up your share option or not, my friend. That’s for their benefit as much as yours. After all, they have to make a living. So it’s your choice, sport. They don’t mind one way or the other.’ Al downed the glass of guaro in one as he saw Dave’s grin persist. He added, ‘You can read ’em a poem or you can show ’em your cock, it’s up to you. Just be friendly, that’s all.’

Dave toasted Al and then the two girls sandwiching him.

‘Me? I’m Jay Leno, man. I’ll sit and be friendly to any of the guests who come on tonight’s show.’

Al chuckled obscenely and said, ‘If I don’t come on tonight’s show, it won’t be for want of the right encouragement.’

It was well after one when Al announced that he was taking his two tican friends back to the hotel before he was too drunk to party. Dave had enjoyed the company of Victoria and Maria. The evening had been relaxed and light-hearted and he had no desire to offend Al by an obvious display of priggishness. But in life you were either a john or you were not and a long time ago Dave had decided he was not. So he decided to go with the flow and cut the two girls loose as soon as Al had retired to the hotel’s presidential suite with his two friends.

Which is what he did.

There were no recriminations, no petulant displays of rejection. The girls accepted it with as much pleasant good grace as they had accepted Al’s original invitations. After they’d left in a cab, Dave took a long cold shower and tried to persuade himself that he had done the right thing. Five years of Homestead seemed like degradation enough for one lifetime. Now he wanted to feel good about himself, like he was in control of where he was going and what he was doing. And to do that you had to be strong. To command power over yourself and your desires. Being a john was way short of that.

He threw on a bathrobe and went out onto the balcony. Above the buzz of distant traffic he could hear the roar of a large cat, a lion or a tiger caged in the nearby zoo. He imagined the poor beast as it paced up and down its small cage, and for a moment he was reminded of being back in his cell in Homestead. Hearing the dreadful sound of that immobilized spirit as it gave itself up to its despairing ritual dance, to and fro, to and fro, forever pacing the cell, he realized that for the first time since being released he understood what it meant to be free.

‘Have a good time last night?’

It was a cruel question because Al looked like yesterday’s shit. His normally dark, swarthy face was pale and sweaty and his eyes were as mean and puffy as a couple of hot snakes. If his head had been left on a pole somewhere in the jungle, he could not have looked any worse.

‘Jesus, Al, you look like a fuckin’ movie star,’ mocked Dave, echoing Tony Nudelli. ‘You look like Ernest Borgnine on his free day.’

Al whispered hoarsely, ‘Where the fuck’s Chico with the four-wheel- drive?’

Ahead of them was a three-hour drive to Quepos on the Central Pacific coast. Parked out front, next to the hotel’s Spanish-style courtyard, their driver was waiting in a Range Rover. Al climbed slowly into the back seat, let out a profound sigh that was half a groan, and closed his bloodshot eyes.

Half an hour into the journey and Dave, sitting up front alongside Chico, wished that he had sat in the back with Al. Almost gleefully Chico informed him that Costa Rica had the world’s highest auto fatality rate.

‘But hey, don’t worry,’ he added. ‘Range Rover is very good car for Costa Rican roads. Is English car, but very tough. I think maybe roads in England are as bad as here. English drivers too. But is no problem in Range Rover. This is car that say get the fuck out of my way, hombre.’

Highway Three from the central highlands of San José down to the coast, was a two-lane blacktop with steep drops and sharp bends. It was in reasonable condition only as far as Carara. From there on Chico halved his speed to take account of the many potholes, some of which would have broken the axle of a lesser vehicle. One volcano-sized crater bounced everyone off the roof, awakening Al from his crapulous sleep-off.

After a moment or two, he said weakly, ‘Gotta get out.’

Chico glanced back across his shoulder, saw the color of his passenger’s face, and steered hard to the right off the road, pulling up close to a steaming stew of swampland.

Al opened the door and forgetting the height of the car, half stepped, half fell onto the ground.

Chico watched as he staggered toward the edge of the swamp and then, laughing, lowered the window to call out after him, ‘Watch out for crocodiles and boas.’ He looked at Dave and let his eyes roll for a moment. ‘Aiee. The boas, they are worse than the crocs. Very aggressive.’

‘But they’re not poisonous.’

‘Maybe so, Senor Dave, but they still have teeth. Such teeth they have. You give me a choice between being bitten by a boa and a viper, every time I will choose the viper.’

Lurching to a halt, Al leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and began to throw up. Dave got out of the car to take a leak, and then meandered over to Al’s one-man huddle.

‘You all right?’

Al was still retching and Dave felt his nostrils prickle with disgust as a strong smell of nail polish wafted his way. It was the stink of guaro. The stuff was coming back up from Al’s gut as neat as if he was pouring it straight from the bottle.

‘All right?’ Al groaned a bitter laugh. ‘I’m about thirty fucking clicks west of there,’ he said breathlessly and then retched some more.

Dave said, ‘Someone ought to record that sound. A sound effects guy for a movie. Last night, on the hotel room cable channel, there was this movie with Mel Gibson? At the end they tear his guts out and burn them in front of his face. They could sure have used you in the recording studio, Al. That is one medieval sound. Could be the start of a whole new career for you.’

‘Thing about throwing up... is not to give up on it... before you’re done... otherwise it don’t achieve what it’s supposed to...’ Even more retching. ‘Matter of fuckin’ stamina.’ He belched, retched again and then spat several times. ‘Don’t quit on it... before you’re through... less you have to...’ A last heaving, coronary of a gag. ‘... Or you just have to repeat the process...’

Panting, as if he’d sprinted the hundred, Al straightened up, took a deep unsteady breath, and grinned horribly.

Dave swallowed uncertainly and said, ‘Jesus Christ, Al, you should puke for America.’

Dave knew very little about the boat they had come down to fetch back to Miami. And every time he asked, Al told him to wait and see. But nearing Quepos, on a road so thick with dust Chico had the headlamps on, Dave said, ‘This is a long way to come for a fucking boat.’

‘Ain’t you heard? Broke don’t get to pick.’

‘Yeah, but look at this place.’

They were driving past a warren of houses built on stilts and connected with a virtual freeway system of planks and corrugated iron sheets.

‘Kind of a boat are we going to find down here anyway? Fucking banana boat. Sampan maybe. Jesus.’

The dirt road led past the fishing village and through extensive mangrove swamp.

‘Fucking airboat is what you need down here,’ complained Dave and irritably slapped something crawling on his neck.

‘Told you to use that Avon shit. Me, I ain’t been bitten once.’

‘The bug that bit you would probably die of alcohol poisoning.’

Al shrugged and said, ‘Feelin’ better, as a matter of fact. A nice cold beer would slip down a treat.’

Dave caught a glimpse of a crocodile as, disturbed by the Range Rover, it slipped into some brackish water.

‘The horror,’ he muttered darkly. ‘The horror.’

‘The fuck you talkin’ about? Relax will ya? We’re nearly there.’

The road led south along a beach-front drag.

‘Is Quepos,’ grinned Chico. ‘The town. It is nothing to write home about, no?’ He turned into a large harbor north of a bridge. ‘But here is better. Here has been a lot of development. Lots of gringo tourist fishermen. December through August. Snapper, amberjack.’

Suddenly Dave saw why they had come, for the bay was bristling with the marlin towers and flybridges of dozens of long-range luxury sport-fishing boats, some of them worth a million dollars or more.

He said, ‘All right. That’s more like it.’

‘Wahoo, tuna. But mainly they come for the marlin and the sailfish.’

‘Whad I tell ya?’ said Al.

‘Is more protected from winds down here than Guanacaste Coast, I think. But don’t even think of swimming. Is contaminated. Not to mention currents and the fucking sharks.’

Al laughed and said, ‘Swimming? Fuck that.’

‘So why you come to Quepos?’

Dave said, ‘To pick up a boat.’

‘For the fishing,’ Al added quickly.

Dave looked at Al and frowned. Al shook his head as if he didn’t want Dave to contradict him.

‘Most gringos, they come here, and bring plenty of rods and equipment. But you guys—’

‘Ours got stolen at the airport,’ explained Al.

‘Is no problem. I can recommend somewhere. They will supply all equipment if you want. Good price too.’

‘Thanks, but no. We made a booking with an outfit back in San José. Charter company called Vera Cruz. Somewhere north of the bridge is all I know.’

Chico asked the way at a gift shop and they were directed to a small ranchita on stilts over the water in front of the bridge leading into Quepos town. While Al paid off Chico, Dave strolled up the marina, relieved to be out of the car and getting some fresh air. Backed up against a thickly forested hill, with a muddy beach in front, Quepos looked a strange place to find a bay full of luxury yachts. A couple of kids were doing wheelies on ancient mountain bikes up and down the harbor in front of a row of shops and restaurants. When Al glanced in the door of the Vera Cruz office one of the bicycling kids came and told Dave that the Vera Cruz gringo had gone somewhere for lunch. Dave gave the kid a five-colon note and then went to tell Al.

Al nodded at the restaurant and said, ‘OK, let’s eat. My stomach feels like a basketball net. ’Sides, there are one or two facts of fuckin’ life that I want to get straight between us. Like some do’s and fuckin’ don’ts till I say when, motherfucker. Savvy?’

‘Since you put the invitation so graciously, I don’t see how I can very well refuse you, Al.’

‘You just stick with that attitude and you and I are going to get along just fine.’

They went inside the restaurant and straightaway ordered a couple of cervezas apiece, while they looked at the menu. After a few minutes Dave decided on the rice and the beans, while Al elected to have turtle, laughing unpleasantly as he made his selection.

He said, ‘Jesus, I wish my kid Petey was here to see me eat this. Those fuckin’ Ninja turtles he’s always playing with, they drive me nuts. I hate the little green bastards. I hate the song, I hate the show, and I hate the characters. Leonardo. Donatello. What kind of a world are we buildin’ for ’em, I ask ya? When a kid grows up and thinks that Michelangelo is a fuckin’ turtle instead of a famous historical painter.’

‘I had no idea you were so interested in art,’ said Dave.

‘All Italians are interested in great painters. It’s part of our heritage. Soon as I get home I’m gonna tell him, I ate a fuckin’ turtle.’

‘But won’t that upset him?’

‘Damn right it’ll upset him. Listen, you ain’t a parent, you wouldn’t understand. Thanks to Hollywood, there’s hardly an animal that hasn’t been turned into some cute little cartoon character. Whales, deer, rabbits, baby elephants, crabs, n’ turtles.’

‘A turtle isn’t an animal. It’s a reptile.’

‘Whatever. Daddy, you can’t eat Bambi. Hey son, just watch me.’

‘But what’s the point of that?’

‘It’s a tool for learning, that’s what’s the point. When you eat the animal you teach the kid about the real world. Half the problems kids have today are to do with their fuckin’ fantasy worlds. Bite on reality, that’s what I say. Food for thought. Helps ’em grow up. When I was a kid I saw my father kill chickens and turkeys all the time. My kids have never seen any kind of food killed. Not even a fish. Somethin’ wrong there. I may not be able to kill the animal like my old man. But I can sure make a point of eating it when the opportunity arises.’

‘You’re a regular Doctor Spock, y’know that?’

‘All these animal welfare wackos. Most of them have been reared on bullshit about little animals with cute personalities. Two things I want for my sons. I want them to know who the real Michelangelo was. And I don’t want them growing up vegetarian. Vegetarian is for faggots.’

Dave said, ‘Michelangelo was a faggot.’

‘Says who?’

‘Everyone. Look at the David.’

‘Bullshit. OK, if Michelangelo was a fag, would the Pope have had him redecorate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? I don’t think so.’

Dave could see that Al wasn’t about to be persuaded, so he just grinned and said, ‘Lesbian trapped inside a woman’s body, huh? Now that I can understand.’

Pleased to change the subject himself, Al laughed and said, ‘Yeah. You should have seen the two of them party. They licked each other from end to end. I love to see that. That is such a beautiful sight. Man I bet Michelangelo would have painted that if he could have gotten away with it. What about you? Kind of a time did you have yourself?’

‘Good,’ said Dave. ‘They were good.’

Al waited for details, but when none came he frowned and said, ‘OK, here’s the deal, wiseguy. We’re down here on a repo. Fucker who owns the boat I’ve chartered? Guy by the name of Lou Malta. Malta owes Tony a shitload of money. What with the vig n’all it totals over a million bucks. Six months ago Malta was in Fort Lauderdale, paying his bills and everything was cool is the rule. Then next thing? He floats his ass down here without so much as a fuckin’ postcard to Tony. Like he disappeared without a trace. But how’s this for a co-fucking-incidence? Day after you pitch your outline to Naked Tony? The private dick he hired to find Malta’s dumb ass e-mails Tony with the full longitude and latitude of his exact whereabouts. Like it was ordained that you should have this boat for your caper. Now Malta doesn’t know me from John Doe but it would be best if we didn’t tell him we just flew in from Miami and other eyebrow-raising shit like that. You keep your mouth shut and help me out here and the boat’s yours for the long hot summer ahead.’

‘Malta. You going to kill him, Al?’

‘Not unless he makes it necessary.’

‘Only I won’t help you kill him.’

‘Believe me, blood is not on today’s menu.’

‘Not even as a tool for learning?’

Al shrugged. ‘Like I say, not unless he obliges me to do it.’

‘What if I don’t help you out?’

‘Then I got a boat with no one to sail it back home. And you got no boat to pull your caper. Not to mention no ticket home.’

Dave nursed the cold cerveza in his hand for a moment wondering if he really had a choice.

‘What kind of boat is it?’

Al took out his wallet, unfolded a black and white photocopy, and handed it over. ‘A real beauty. Eighty feet, twenty beam, six draft. Powered by two 1,500-horsepower engines, she’s got a top speed of about thirty-five knots.’

Dave noted the name painted on the stern in the picture. ‘The Juarista,’ he said. ‘Vera Cruz. It figures.’

‘That’s all I know. That and the color. She’s white.’

Dave said, ‘White is good.’ He chugged some beer down his throat. ‘Shows the dirt, but still, it’s good camouflage. It’ll help us to blend in with all the other boats.’ He smiled and folded up the picture. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘So how d’you wanna play this, Al? You know, Malta might not be willing to give up his boat without a struggle. Then there’s the paperwork. We’ll need proper paperwork to get this boat onto SYT’s next transatlantic voyage.’

‘Paperwork was all taken care of when the boat was still parked in Lauderdale. Collateral for Malta’s loan from Tony. Tony lent Malta the money when none of the banks would touch him. However I take your point. We’re a long way from home and Malta might figure that gives him some liberties. I tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get out to sea, just like we was a couple of tourists. We’ll get away from shore, somewhere secluded I hope, put down some bait, like we really are going fishing. And then I’m gonna give him the Forbes Fact and Comment on how much his ass will be worth if he thinks he can fuck with Tony’s portfolio.’

‘Kind of like an investment analyst. I get it.’ Dave finished the first beer and started the second. ‘OK, I’ll help you out with this on one condition.’

‘I thought we already had that. No killing.’

‘This is as well. I want you to let me do the talking.’

‘What the fuck for? You don’t think I can handle the dialogue on a simple repo?’

‘I think you can handle it just fine. I just worry about all that fact and comment bullshit.’ Dave shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘You’re much too confrontational.’

‘This is a repo we’re talking about, not an AA group. Give me one of those cigarettes.’ Al lit up angrily.

‘Yeah, but you gotta understand human psychology, Al. You lip the guy and he’ll react badly, just the same as if you were to put a gun to his head.’

‘He’s lucky I’m not gonna blow his fucking brains all over the deck.’

‘But don’t you see? You talk hard to him maybe you provoke him to do something dumb. He does something dumb, it almost guarantees a violent outcome to the situation.’

‘What are you, a shrink all of a sudden?’

‘I saw it a lot in prison. The way the guys got mad and the way some of the guards could talk them down. We want to do this thing peacefully, which is the way I want it. Then we’ve got to be subtle.’

‘Oh yeah, yeah.’ Al was laughing. ‘This is the guy who blinded Willy Barizon in one eye with a fucking fountain pen. That was very subtle.’

‘Haven’t you heard the expression the pen is mightier than the sword? Well Willy wasn’t armed with a sword, but with two guns. I’d say I was just about as subtle as I could be.’

‘Tell that to Willy, next time he almost sees you.’

‘Those are my conditions.’

‘OK, OK, you do the talking. What do I know? Maybe you’re Warren fucking Christopher or somethin’.’

They ate lunch and then went outside. On the short walk along to the Vera Cruz offices, Al spotted something he wanted to buy for his son, Petey, in the gift shop. It was a baby hammerhead shark specimen, about a foot long, preserved in a jar of formaldehyde.

Dave watched Al hand over twenty colons for the curio and asked, ‘What’s that? A tool for learning?’

‘He’ll love it. Petey loves sharks.’

‘Does that mean you’re planning to give it to him, or eat it on his birthday?’

Al smiled thinly. ‘That smart mouth of yours. It’s a wonder you lasted out the five.’