Gone

TWELVE

GABRIELLE WAS RUMMAGING AROUND IN HER PURSE FOR something as she asked me, “Anyone following us? Take a look over your shoulder.” It came out Teek eeh luke, the only hint she was part Cuban.

I replied, ‘They’d have to own a jet airplane to keep up,” but twisted around in my seat anyway. “Nope. Just that man with the limp, but he’s headed the other way-not that I blame him.” I was referring to the guy she’d almost clipped with her fender.

Not bothering to glance back at the old fisherman, who was wobbling toward the shrimp yards, a paper sack clutched to his chest, Gabrielle said, “Old drunks should own Seeing Eye dogs,” then, without looking up, informed me, “I go by Gabby now. Clients think it’s cute, and it stops people from confusing me with the horn guy in the Bible. If they read Gabrielle on paper, it happens every time.”

Darren had mentioned Gabby when speaking of Sybarite, but I hadn’t made the connection. Gabrielle, though, sounded better, the way the girl rolled her Spanish r’s.

We were in a parking lot between a boat storage barn and a large wooden complex that was perched on stilts overlooking the bay, DOC’S RUM BAR on a green sign atop the building, the area still empty because it was early. No one around but cawing seagulls and a wandering cat. Gabby had parked near a cabbage palm that threw about as much shade as a fence post, so she left the engine running, the volume of “Mr. Saxobeat”’s thumping disco too soft to hear above the blast of air-conditioning but with enough bass to feel through my seat.

“Where the hell did I put it?” the girl muttered, still pawing at her purse, then told me, “Robert’s a paranoid little dictator, never trust him. He has spies everywhere. Take another quick look, I’m serious.”

The only other person I knew who would fret about spies on a clear June morning was Loretta. The remark caused me to lose some confidence in Gabby and wonder about my own judgment, having allowed a woman I hadn’t seen in years drive me a mile from the docks, tires screeching at every start and stop. In fifteen minutes, I was supposed to meet Nathan. Because he is not a punctual man, however, it was not a troubling concern. Plus, I had my cell with me. Nathan would text if he found my skiff empty.

“Finally,” Gabby said, bringing out a pink pillbox that contained three tightly wrapped joints, each thin as a dart. She lit one with a Bic, holding the joint between her lips until she’d replaced the case, then inhaled deeply before saying, “I can’t believe you’d do something that stupid. Jesus Christ!”

Spoken without exhaling, her words sounded squeaky, which only added to my confusion.

“What’s wrong with applying for a job?” I asked. “Captain Simpson says the first mate job pays pretty good money.” I let her watch me survey the Corvette’s gauges and leather upholstery while adding, “Looks to me like you’re not doing too bad yourself.”

“Captain Simpson,” Gabby said, exhaling her contempt. “That’s a laugh. He’s a backstabbing asshole who hates women-never forget that.” She extended her hand, offering the joint, and waited until I shook my head before repeating, “What you did was so goddamn stupid! The straightest girl I’ve ever met, so quiet and polite in school. Hannah Smith-unbelievable.”

I figured she was referring to me being aboard Sybarite, a boat with a bad reputation, until she added, “Knock off the act, damn it! I saw you! Robert would’ve called the cops if I’d told him.” The girl considered me for a moment, then looked at the joint between her fingers as if reconsidering. “Or… maybe you are a cop. Is that what this is about?”

“Last two years,” I said, “I’m a fishing guide, mostly fly-fishing, that’s my specialty. I heard about the mate’s job from Cordial Pallet. You can ask him.”

Gabby was still staring, thinking about it. A grown woman who worried about spies and smoked weed in public parking lots would need more reassuring if I expected her to open up and explain what she was talking about. I hate cigarettes but remembered liking the taste of marijuana, which Delbert Fowler had finally gotten me to try the afternoon he’d asked me to be his wife. It was one of those rare days when the word no didn’t seem to be in my vocabulary, which has been the ruin of more than a few good women, I suspect. But all it had cost me was a one-night marriage and a few unpleasant hours feeling like someone had poured syrup on my brain.

“People change,” I told Gabby, using my fingers to pinch the joint from her hand. “If you’re accusing me of something, there’s not much I can say until I know what it is.” I put the joint to my lips, took a shallow puff, then another, before handing it back.

The woman murmured a phrase I hadn’t learned in college Spanish, then said, “You didn’t inhale. Think I’m stupid?”

“I like the taste but not the feeling,” I explained.

“You kidding. The guy I buy from calls this stuff ‘Sunshine Skyway.’” She took a dreamy drag to illustrate. “Says it’s like floating over water on a sunny day.”

I shook my head. “I’ve got my own boat, thanks. The taste, though, it’s nice. Sort of an herbal flavor, and it smells good. Like smoking tea, you think?”

“Tequila-” Gabby said, making no sense. Then she took a deep hit and held the smoke in for several seconds before exhaling, “-Tequila’s the same for me. I’ll order a shooter just to smell and sip it, but I only drink Grey Goose ’n’ cranberry. You really don’t like getting high?”

“I would if it didn’t make me feel so slow and stupid,” I answered. “A couple of mojitos with fresh mint, that’s a different story.”

Gabby took another hit, offered the joint to me again, and this time smiled when I took only the shallowest of puffs before handing it back.

“Sort of sweet and tomboyish,” she said. “That’s what I remember about you. Can’t believe how much you’ve changed. I stay in touch with a few girls from our class”-Gabby named several names-“and most of them already look like hell. They have kids, got fat, got skinny after their first divorce, and already getting fat again. But you’re looking good, Hannah. Not so plain, like in school, so I almost didn’t”-the girl stopped, aware she’d said something mean, then finished with a wider smile-“almost missed the chance to make a new girlfriend. We’re gonna have some fun, you and me.”

My old schoolmate was beginning to relax, I decided, but the smile left her face when I replied, “If that’s a compliment, I appreciated it. Now, tell me what I did that was so damn stupid.”

The woman sat up straight and got serious again. “Sybarite has a video monitoring system, you idiot! A whole closetful of electronics off the main salon. Your interview with Robert, I was watching. You still gonna sit there and play innocent?”

“Oh,” I whispered, too surprised not to sound guilty. My brain was already sifting through a series of lies that might explain my behavior. I was irked at myself for not having an excuse ready and also because I’d looked for cameras and had failed to spot a single one.

“What were you after, Hannah? You were looking for something. Might as well tell me the truth. I’ve got the recording”-she reached for her purse again-“the whole thing right here. It’s on a memory stick. Downloaded on my iPhone, too. You want to watch yourself opening drawers, going through private papers, when Robert wasn’t looking?”

It was all true. Every chance I’d gotten, I’d searched for a passenger list. My best opportunity had come when Simpson had stepped outside the helm area to take what he said was an important call. For the next four, maybe five minutes, I had moved like a thief, going through drawers, files, leafing through clipboards, and had almost gotten caught when Simpson surprised me by returning through a different door. In truth, the man would have caught me if he hadn’t dropped his cell phone as he entered. All I’d come away with was a shaky set of nerves and proof I’d been right about the man keeping sloppy records. Even the boat’s logbook was a mess, hadn’t been updated in more than three weeks.

“You want evidence?” Gabby was laughing as she scrolled through her iPhone. “Wait… I’m trying to find my favorite part… shit… I had it cued up. Here… here it is. I found it!”

Simpson squatting to pick up his phone, oblivious to me, mule-eyed, fumbling to jam a folder into a drawer before closing it, that was the woman’s favorite footage.

“The expression on your face!” she croaked after taking a final hit, fighting to hold the smoke in. “Like you’re about to pee your pants!”

I wasn’t laughing. “Why are you showing me this, not Simpson?”

“He’s a prick, I already told you. I erased it from the computer, so no need to worry-as long as I have the only copy.”

My classmate was threatening me.

I turned the radio down until my seat stopped vibrating, then finally found the window button, needing fresh air. After a couple of deep breaths, I said, “What’s the real reason?”

There was a thing Gabby did with her face I remembered from high school, fluttering her eyelashes, cheeks sucked in, something she thought looked innocent and cute. She made the face now before replying, “Thing is, sweetie, I don’t care what you were looking for. The name of your screw-around husband or boyfriend, that’s my guess. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or cash… or you’ve got some sort of mental compulsion-my last roommate couldn’t pass a mirror without touching it no matter how hard she tried. You’re not a cop, so who the hell cares? Robert’s gonna offer you the job. That’s why we’re sitting here. It’ll be a week or two, but he’ll do it. I just want to make sure we’ve got some kind of arrangement in place when you start working as first mate.” Gabby had fiddled with the radio as she talked so my seat was vibrating again, a punk group doing “Missing You.”

Her threat was beginning to take shape.

“What do you want?” I asked.

What Gabby wanted in return for not showing Robert Simpson the video was fifty percent of my tips for the first six months, after that twenty percent, which was five percent more than the standard cut between Sybarite’s first mate and what she called “the hostesses.”

“I don’t even know how much money we’re talking,” I responded. “What makes you so sure I’ll get the job? Did he say something?”

Cupping her hands beneath her breasts, Gabby said, “Because of these, sweetie. You’re the first qualified woman to apply and you’ve got a nice set of tits-something I don’t remember you having in high school, by the way. On Sybarite, a good body means a hell of a lot more than experience.” She paused, her eyes moving from my breasts to my face. “So what about it?”

I thought she meant the deal she’d just offered until she continued, “I got my implants six years ago, and they’ve totally changed my life. Who did yours?”

I told her, “An inheritance from a dead aunt, I guess, but it was a long time before they showed up. Back to the subject of money-”

Gabby interrupted, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! With your body and those legs, my God, Hannah, you’ll look so goddamn hot in nautical whites. Or our navy blues, which we wear in winter, except for formal dinners…”

The girl went on about uniforms for a while, everything custom-tailored-shorts, blouses, slacks, and blazers-before telling me, “Our clients will eat you up-literally… if you’re willing. That’s where the real money is, sweetie. Keep in mind that, you and me, we only share tips you make on cruises. Any sideline stuff you arrange with clients, it’s yours to keep. Cut the right deal with Robert, he’ll even give you permission to wear a Sybarite uniform if it’s one of our regulars. More than a few have a fetish for the whole uniform thing.”

The new expression on my face caused Gabby to laugh again. “It’s not like I’m talking about being a hooker, for Christ sake! It’s not like that at all.” She paused. “What did Robert tell you about Sybarite? About the type of charters we do, I mean.” She was having fun being the expert, me the novice.

“Enough,” I replied, which was true. The man had hinted around, stressing the importance of confidentiality over and over, before finally telling me that clients paid for a “unique sensual experience” and the crew was expected to make sure it happened, then keep their damn mouths shut.

“Maybe so,” Gabby said, “but get the whole prostitution thing out of your head. No one’s gonna force you. Or even expect it. See… the way it goes is, we’re out at sea, everyone’s relaxed, and things just sort of happen. You meet a nice gentleman aboard, sometimes a man with his good-looking wife or girlfriend, it’s only natural they want to party. You’d have as much fun as them, probably more, if you just loosen up. Next day, if they want to thank you for the good time, it’s only natural they give you something extra special.”

“The tips,” I said. “It’s always cash?”

The woman flashed a catty smile, and replied, “Take a guess at the biggest tip I ever got for our cruise to Key West. Go ahead, guess. One night, two days, and I personally had a damn blast!” Without waiting, she tapped the convertible’s dashboard. “You’re sitting in it, sweetie. Last year-from a very, very special couple.”

I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “A Corvette-holy shit!” For the first time, I gave fleeting thought to accepting the mate’s job if offered.

“Look…” Gabby thought for a moment, then tried a different approach, lowering her voice. “Our clients, they aren’t just regular people. We’re not talking rednecks and salesmen at a convention. These are some of the most successful people in the country. I’m not naming names. Even when you’re part of the crew, no one names names. Not last names, anyway. But I can tell you this”-the joint had gone out and she now took a few seconds to relight it-“some of the names you see in People magazine, on TV, the movies. Mostly not, though, because they’ve got enough money to keep their lives private. If they wanted hookers, trust me, they could hire a bunch for what they pay for two days aboard Sybarite.” Gabby tapped the car’s dashboard again to prove her point. “But when guests are with us, just them and the crew, it’s not work. It’s more of a We’re enjoying this experience together sort of thing. A private party at sea, that’s the way I look at it. With the best of everything.”

Sensing a chance to maneuver the conversation toward Olivia Seasons, I offered, “I’ve got fishing clients with money, but you wouldn’t know their names if I told you. And they live right here in the area. The same’s probably true of the clients you’re talking about.”

Gabby startled me by replying, “Do you know the difference between people with money and people who’re actually wealthy? Think about it because that’s the difference I’m talking about.”

I’d gone thirty years without hearing that question, now I’d been asked it twice in less than twenty-four hours. It might have been coincidence, but more likely she’d run into Mrs. Whitney and Ricky Meeks on their trips to Key West. “Classiness?” I offered, thinking it was the answer she wanted and would move us in the right direction.

“Nope,” Gabby replied, her expression mellow. “It’s right here,” then clasped a hand to her breast. “They’re classier, sure. But the real difference is, they have huge hearts. You would not believe how polite and generous they are. Once you get to know them-most wealthy people, I’m saying. They’re fun and totally real.”

My schoolmate was stoned, if the hand squeezing her left implant meant anything. Too stoned now to keep on track-I’d been through it enough with Delbert Fowler to recognize the signs. I looked at my watch and said, “Whoops, I’m late. You mind taking me back to my boat? I want your number so I can call later. Tonight okay?”

Agreeing as she fumbled to start the car, Gabby repeated herself about wealthy people being real and having big hearts, which I expected to hear a few dozen more times if she was anything like Delbert. Instead, she varied it by saying, “A couple of clients, they’ve become two of my closest friends. That’s the truth, sweetie. You’d love ’em. The wife, she’s more like an older sister now. Doesn’t make any difference I work as a hostess and she’s worth a few hundred million.”

Because I was watching traffic as Gabby accelerated toward the exit, instead of asking She bought you the Corvette? I reminded her that a truck was coming so don’t forget to stop.

“I see it, I see it,” Gabby grumbled, then snapped her fingers as if she’d just remembered something. “In fact, they’re having a party tomorrow night. Tomorrow’s Sunday, right? Not big, just a few people. Want to be my date?”

When traffic was clear, I told her, “You can turn now,” then waited for her to do it before saying, “Your client friends, you mean?”

“They own a mansion in Naples-but they’ve got houses all over the world. It’s a pool party-barbecue sort of deal. Bring a suit if you want-or not. It’ll be very laid-back.” Gabby grinned, eyes a tad droopy, both hands on the wheel while she turned right again toward the shrimp yards, now driving way too slow. “Where you living these days? We can meet somewhere around seven and take my car.”

I already had an excuse waiting and was shaking my head until she pleaded, “Please, Hannah! It’s only forty minutes, a gated community with some of the most beautiful homes you’ve ever seen. Port Royal-you’ve heard of it?”

Suddenly, I was interested. Rather than answering, I reminded her it was best to pull over before we got to the docks or Robert Simpson might see us and get suspicious. Gabby liked that. “You know, sweetie, I had a feeling we were gonna hit it off. ¡Mejores amigas! ¡Amigas para siempre! Know what that means?”

In formal college Spanish, I replied, “It is nice to have friends who have trust and share secrets,” which came out stilted but not too bad.

Gabby liked that even better, clapping her hands a couple of times in applause. “¡Mejores amigassiempre, sí! My last girlfriend, we had a big blowup six months ago, and I’ve been bored as hell ever since. A regular bitch, too-so forget what I said about splitting tips for six months. Make it three months, then the regular split… and all the dinners and drinks are on me. How ’bout it?”

Gabby was a tough one when it came to money, something I admire in a woman, but she was also lonely like most single people our age. She struck me as tricky, a tad neurotic and sad but not a bad person. The same, I suspected, could be said of me at times. Mostly, though, I was thinking about tomorrow’s party. It wouldn’t interfere with my plans to stop at marinas between Vanderbilt Beach and Naples as Mr. Seasons had suggested. The party might be a waste of time, but there was also a chance I would meet someone who knew Olivia. Port Royal couldn’t be that big… maybe one of her neighbors had spoken with her recently. On the other hand, Lawrence Seasons had told me that Olivia had no close friends. Undecided, I decided to take a chance.

“Bored?” I said, being sympathetic. “Try being a fishing guide. I don’t meet any girls our age. The few I know, all they talk about is their kids, their husbands, and how nice their house is. Makes me feel like a loser. Or like I’m from outer space.”

Excited by my confession, Gabby replied, “Tell me about it. Honey, we’ve got so much in common!” then asked if I was married, if I was dating someone special, all the regular questions I have learned to dodge with as few words and lies as possible. She had pulled into a vacant lot a hundred yards from the boat docks, where I could see a muscled giant in a tank top pacing and checking his watch. Nathan Pace.

“I’ve gotta run,” I said, unzipping my equipment bag and taking out the envelope that contained Ricky Meeks’s picture. “You sure you really want me along tomorrow night? I’d love to go, but I’ve never hung out with the sort of people you’re talking about. I might be nervous.”

Sounding happy and very stoned, Gabby told me to relax, wear a nice blouse and shorts-not fishing shorts, for God’s sake-or a summer skirt that showed my legs, and I would do just fine. Then she asked, “What’s that?” meaning the envelope.

“If we’re going to be friends,” I said, “I don’t want to start out with a lie. When you asked if I was looking for someone’s name? You were sort of right.” I then proceeded to tell several lies after showing her the photo, saying that Ricky Meeks owed a friend of mine money, that someone had mentioned seeing him aboard Sybarite, which is why I’d been asked to check the crew roster while I was interviewing for the mate’s job.

“If Simpson hadn’t left me alone, I wouldn’t have bothered,” I added. “I like doing favors for people when I can, but I wouldn’t have risked a good job.”

Sneaky and guilty, that’s how I felt when Gabby, in her eagerness to be friends, pretended to believe me, even though I sensed she had her doubts. After listening to what she had to say about Meeks, I felt better in some ways, worse in others. But it didn’t compare to the electric spark I experienced when she concluded, “For all I know, the guy might even be at the party tomorrow. He shows up sometimes, but only if he’s the guest of a guest.”

“Your friends would invite a man like that?” I replied, the electric sensation still moving through my spine.

“Not them, sweetie. I doubt if they know he exists. But there’s always a few losers around. Some women-wealthy, older women usually-can’t get enough of what a guy like him’s got to offer. Go figure. But you’ve got to promise you won’t make a scene if he shows. You can’t say a damn word about money, it just wouldn’t be classy.”

“Promise,” I told my new girlfriend, a little dizzy because of my good luck… or possibly the marijuana smoke I’d inhaled just from being in Gabby’s car.