“You, too.”
“And how are we doing today, sir?”
Stoke smiled at him. Tall and angular and blond. Blue-water tan. Faded khakis, no socks with his bleached-out boat shoes, collar of his navy-blue polo shirt turned up on the back of his neck. Two little crossed flags on his shirt with the words “Magnum Marine” underneath. Talked funny, too, through his teeth, like his jaw was permanently wired shut.
“I’m good, I’m good,” Stoke said, looking around the showroom.
“Heckuva storm out there, isn’t it? Golly!”
Golly? When was the last time you heard that word? Seriously.
“Golly is right, darn it,” Stoke said, as he bent over and peered out the big plate-glass showroom windows, as if noticing the weather out there for the very first time today.
“Nothing a Magnum Sixty couldn’t handle, I’ll bet,” Stoke said, clapping Larry Lockjaw on the back. “Right?”
“Well, n-now,” the salesman said, staggering a bit before recovering his balance, “you’d have to be pretty darn plucky to go out on a day like today. But you know what? Your timing is perfect. We’ve got a pre-Christmas special going on, and I-”
“Call me plucky, but I want to rock one of those Magnums right now!”
“Well, gee, you know, I don’t think today is ideal for-”
“Actually, you know what? I’m here to see one of your other salesmen. Piss, I think his name is.”
“Piss?”
“Yeah, Piss. Like-take a piss? I’ve got his card somewhere in my wallet.”
“I’m sorry, sir. My hearing’s terrible. Are you saying Mr. Piss?”
“Yeah, Piss. Pisser, something like that.”
“You’re looking for a Mr. Pisser? I’m afraid-”
“No, wait. Urine. That was it. I knew it was something like that. Like piss, I mean.”
“Oh. Yurin, you mean?” the guy said, sort of chuckling. “Right, sir, that would be Yuri Yurin. He’s our divisional sales manager here at the Miami Yacht Group.”
“He around?”
“Matter of fact, he’s on his lunch break. But I’m sure I can help you. I’m Dave McAllister, by the way.”
“I’m sure you could help me, Dave. But, you know what, I came here to see this Yurin guy.”
“Well, in that case, let me go back to his office and see if I can get him. May I tell him who’s asking for him?”
“Sheldon Levy.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Sheldon Levy. No, no, don’t apologize. I get that all the time. I don’t look all that Jewish, do I? But then, look at Sammy Davis, Jr. Know what I’m saying?”
“Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Levy. I’ll be right back with Mr. Yurin.”
Two minutes later, Yurin came out on the floor, wiping the mayo off his lower lip. Big boy, good-looking blond bodybuilder. He still had a little piece of shredded lettuce in the corner of his mouth. Big Mac, Stoke thought, seeing the guy eating one at his desk, wolfing it down, when he heard he had a fish on the line. Russians couldn’t get enough of Big Macs ever since Mickey D had opened that first one on Red Square. Beat the hell out of borscht, you had to figure.
“Mr. Levy!” he said, shaking Stoke’s hand, Yurin trying to figure out where the hell he’d seen the huge black guy before. He knew he’d seen him, you didn’t forget someone Stoke’s size easily. But where?
Like all the black-shirted security guys at the Lukov party, Yurin was muscled up, beefy, anyway, going to fat around the middle courtesy of the good life in sunny south Florida. Too many stone crab dinners at Joe’s.
“Yurin, Yurin, Yurin, good to see you again, man. You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, I do, I do. I’m just trying to remember where we met.”
“The Lukov birthday thing. You gotta remember that. Kaboom?” Stoke clapped his hands together loudly when he said it, and both of the salesmen flinched, McAllister actually taking a couple of steps back.
“Ri-i-i-ght,” Yurin said, drawing the word out, deep Russian accent, still no clue. It was the suit, tie, and sunglasses Stoke was wearing, that’s what was throwing him.
“Fancha’s manager? Suncoast Artist Management?” Stoke said.
“Fancha! The beautiful birthday singer! Of course! So, what can I do for you, Mr. Levy? Dave says you’re in the market for a new Magnum Sixty.”
“I certainly am,” Stoke said, holding up a genuine crocodile satchel with his right hand. “Man, what a machine. I want to get Fancha one to celebrate her new movie contract. We just cashed the first check,” Stoke said, holding up the croc case again just for emphasis.
“You are in luck today, Mr. Levy. I just happen to have three brand-new Sixties in stock. Factory fresh. Pick your color. Diamond Black, Cobalt Blue, or Speed Yellow.”
“Is there a question? You got to go with the Speed Yellow, you got any style at all, right, Yurin?”
“Speed Yellow it is! Let’s go back to my office and work up a sales order, Mr. Levy. Or can I call you Sheldon?”
“Call me Sheldon.”
“Call me Yuri, then,” he said, big smile, fish already in the boat, easiest damn yacht sale in the entire history of South Florida yacht brokerage.
“I kinda like Yurin. Let’s stick with that, okay? You know who you look like, Yurin? Just came to me. Dolph Lundgren. The movie star? Agent Red? Red Scorpion? No? Doesn’t matter.”
A momentary look of confusion crossed Yurin’s face, but he grabbed Stoke’s biceps, or tried to, and steered him back toward where all the sales guys had their little offices. This guy Yurin was obviously used to being the biggest kid on the block. You could see he didn’t care for second place at all.
“Yurin, hold up a sec,” Stole said, stopping dead in his tracks just outside the guy’s office.
“Whassup?” In a Russian accent, the tired old hip-hop expression sounded funny instead of cool.
“Here’s the thing, Yurin. I truly want this boat. And I’ve got the money to pay for it right here. Cash.”
“We take cash,” he said, like a joke. Being funny didn’t come naturally to most Russians.
“But, of course, I’ll want to take her for a quick spin first.”
“Hey, no problem, Sheldon. We can arrange for a sea trial whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“Okay, what day should I schedule you for?”
“Today. Now.”
He laughed. “Good joke. Funny.”
“No joke, Yurin. I want to take her out there in a blow. See how she performs when it’s kicking up like this.”
“Kicking up? You’re looking at gale-force winds out there. It’s got to be blowing thirty, thirty-five knots. Gusting to fifty. Small-craft advisory warnings have been up since ten o’clock this morning.”
“Sixty feet’s not all that small a craft, Yurin.”
“Yes, I know, Sheldon, but this is an extremely high-performance racing boat with a planing hull. She likes flat water.”
“Yurin. Ask yourself one simple question. Do you sincerely want to sell a boat today? Say yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not afraid of a little wind and rain, are you, Yurin? Like my grandmother used to say, rain won’t bother you unless you’re made of sugar.”
“Afraid?” The look said it all. He was going.
Stoke clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his molars. “All right, man, cowboy up, and get your goddamn foul-weather gear on, little buddy, we’re going sailing!”
33
The big yellow Cigarette was bobbing pretty good, even still moored in her marina slip. Like a bronco in the chute, Stoke thought, boat saying, “Cut me loose, cowboy, I dare your ass.” Although the Miami Yacht Group’s marina was pretty well protected from the ocean, it was still choppy with whitecaps inside the breakwater. Sailboat masts swung wildly, a forest of aluminum sticks, whirling and twirling in the storm. The skies were now very dark purple with a funny greenish cast to them.