“Do twenty-four knots I’ll bet. Still own her?”
“Sold it when I moved to Atlanta,” Hess said, total fabrication.
“Why the hell’d you do that?”
“It’s a long boring story,” Hess said.
“Come aboard. I’ll show you around.”
Hess went over the transom and climbed down the steps to the aft deck.
The man came toward him, arm outstretched. “How you doing? Tony Brank at your service.”
Brank was short and muscular, shirt unbuttoned to his navel, gold chain around his neck, longhair pulled back in a ponytail. Forty-five. “Emile Landau,” Hess said, shaking his hand. “Brank. That’s an unusual name. What nationality are you?” Wondering if he was a Jew.
“Eye-talian. Brancaleone originally,” he said, pronouncing it with Italian flair. “I needed something shorter, snappier.”
Hess could hear police sirens. “What’s going on?”
“Some crazy bastard killed a nurse in the hospital last night. Police are looking for him. Searching every boat. You’re not the guy, are you?” Brank frowned, and then broke into a grin. “Just fucking with you, partner. Come on in.”
Hess followed him into the cabin and through a salon that had a sectional couch on one side facing a built-in television. The couch was covered in zebra-skin fabric, the lampshades in leopard. The ersatz Serengeti decor puzzled him. At the opposite end of the salon was the pilot station, with a set of controls to steer the boat, compass, Loran. Brank led him down a couple of steps to the galley, the room done in teak with Formica countertops. He could see the neck of a champagne bottle sticking out of a silver ice bucket.
“Champagne?” Tony Brank said. “It’s Taittinger’s.”
“How can I refuse?” Hess said, smiling.
Brank opened a cupboard door, reached in and brought out a flute, filled it halfway with champagne, bubbles rising to the rim of the glass, and handed it to him. He poured more in his own flute, held it up and said, “To salty dogs.”
Hess toasted him and sipped the champagne, tasting the fruity chardonnay grapes.
“What do you do, Emile?”
“I’m a builder,” Hess said. “Homes. Office buildings. Whatever you need built. What about you?”
“Erotic films,” Brank said, tracing the comb lines in his hair with his fingertips. “See Twat’s Up, Doc?
“No, but it sounds familiar,” Hess said, no idea what he was talking about.
“Christ, I hope so. Longest-running adult film of all time. Twelve million in domestic grosses, twenty worldwide. Orientals ate it up. No pun intended. Bought this boat with the proceeds.”
A blonde in a nightgown walked into the galley behind Brank, yawning and rubbing her eyes. “Tony, will you keep it down? I’m trying to get some fucking sleep.” She paused, fixing puffy eyes on the Taittinger bottle. “You’re not drinking champagne, are you? What the hell time is it?”
“Babe, say hello to Emile Landau.”
She glanced at Hess and looked away. “I’m not saying hi to anyone the way I look.” She turned and walked out of the room, hips swaying, the looks and natural glamour of an actress or model.
“Anything with tits or batteries,” Brank said, “eventually’s going to give you trouble. My wife, Denise. Recognize her?”
Hess shrugged.
Brank grinned. “Star of Deep Six.” He drank some champagne. “Helluva picture.” He scratched the hair on his chest like a caveman. “She was an auto-parts model posing in a two-piece, holding a suspended crankshaft like a big steel dick when I met her. Discovered her, really. High-school dropout from Bay City, Michigan with a body that wouldn’t quit. I’m looking at her bazooms and I go, ‘Kiddo, I’m going to make you a star.’ She looks at me, giggles and goes, ‘Okay.’ Rest is history.” Brank grinned thinking about it, finished his champagne, belched and went up the steps to the salon. Stopped, looked back and said, “I want to show you something.”
Hess followed him outside and up a wide, slightly curved aluminum ladder with white plastic steps to the flying bridge, trying to hold the champagne glass without dropping it. There was a white plastic chair bolted to the deck behind a sleek control panel, steering wheel and throttles, windscreen that wrapped around the front, canvas Bimini top pulled taut above them. Behind them there was a dinghy on the overhang of the aft deck.
“Got twin Detroit diesels pooling seven hundred fifty horses. Had them tweaked to do twenty-six knots.”
“A boat this big? I’d have to see it to believe it,” Hess said, challenging him.
Brank smiled now. “Oh, I get it. You’re from Missouri, huh? Okay,” he said, starting the engines. “Want to see for yourself, huh?”
Hess could hear the rumble of the exhaust pipes stirring up the water.
“Think you can release the dock lines?”
From the captain’s chair on the flying bridge Brank steered the Hatteras, zigzagging through the marina, Hess sitting next to him on a built-in bench made of fiberglass, sipping champagne. Just past the seawall Brank gunned the throttle and they took off into open sea, picking up speed, hull rising, slicing through whitecaps, cruising in deep water within a few minutes, flat blue ocean stretching to the horizon.
Brank, hands on the steering wheel, said, “Check this out.” Hess got to his feet and stood behind Brank, glancing at the speedometer. They were flying through the water at twenty-six knots.
“What I tell you?” Brank said, grinning.
They cruised until the land behind them had disappeared, Brank glancing at him, a bemused look on his face. “What do you think?” Yelling over the sound of the wind.
“What’s that?” Hess said, pointing at the horizon.
“An island.”
“Which one is it?”
“No idea. There are like seven hundred of them. I was going to pull over for a while, maybe take a swim. I’ve got suits, you want to join me.”
Hess said, “I have to go below for a minute.”
“Head’s on the other side of the galley, down the steps on the left,” Brank said. “You’re not getting seasick on me, are you?” Hess shook his head, although he did feel queasy, still not himself.
“See Denise, tell her to make us some lunch.”
Hess saw the ship-to-shore radio on the counter next to the cabin controls. He went down the steps into the galley, opening drawers and cabinets, found a flare gun, a Buck knife, a Smith & Wesson revolver. Broke the gun open, saw it was loaded, and put it back.
“What you looking for?” Denise said, walking in the room behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder at her in a bright orange bikini, blonde shoulder-length hair combed straight and tucked behind her ears, face looking flawless under a fresh layer of makeup. He stared at her heavy breasts bursting out of the small bikini top.
“A Band-Aid,” Hess said, thinking of an excuse. He closed the drawer.
“Over here.” She came up next to him, opened a cabinet door and took out a box. “You have a boo-boo? Let’s see.” Earlier, Hess had nicked his index finger on the stairs, climbing to the flying bridge. There was a small mark where the skin had been cut. He showed it to her.
“That’s it? You big baby.” She opened the box, took out a Band-Aid, removed the wrapper and rolled it around his finger. “How’s that? Big baby feel better?” she said. “Sorry about earlier. I was tired and crabby as if you couldn’t tell. I’m Denise.”
She offered an elegant red-nail-painted, long-fingered hand. Hess took it and brought it to his mouth, kissed it delicately, and said, “Emile, and the pleasure is all mine.”
“Well you’re just a gentleman’s gentleman, aren’t you?”
“Tony said if I see you, ask you to make lunch.”