Buzz Cut

Copyright © 1996 by James W. Hall

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the expressed written consent of the author, except for short passages used in critical reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, events, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For Joe Wisdom, who showed me how to get out there and what to do when I arrived.

And thanks to John and Lisa Timinski and to Mark Goossens for invaluable technical assistance. And to John Boisonault for indescribable help, and as always to Evelyn, without whom none of this would be possible or nearly as much fun.

The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.

—Ecclesiastes 9:11

In his official Fiesta Cruise Lines shirt, Emilio Sanchez stood before the bathroom mirror squinting at his new tummy bulge. The blue rugby shirt was hugging him tight at the belly, showing off the extra couple of inches of flab.

What it was, was too much cruise line food for the last six months. First time in his life he'd had a chance to eat three meals a day. Here he was, only twenty-four years old, way too young to get a gut. He didn't watch out, soon he'd be looking like all those American passengers. Worse than that, with a big gringo belly he wasn't as likely to score with the ladies.

Emilio was sucking in his stomach, staring at his profile when the door to his cabin opened. Tindu, his Filipino roommate, probably ducking in from the first dinner seating for a quick smoke.

Emilio smoothed his hand over his stomach, flattened it briefly, and decided tomorrow he would begin a diet. Eliminate breakfast. That would be easiest. Eat two meals a day instead of three. Drop ten pounds by the time of the anniversary cruise. No problem. An easy decision. Sex was a hell of a lot more important to Emilio Sanchez than breakfast.

He ran a quick comb through his thick black hair and turned from the mirror and the first thing he saw was the glitter of the blade. It was not a large knife. He'd seen bigger. Four times in his life he'd faced knives. Taking cuts on both arms and one deep wound to his left shoulder. But in those Juarez street fights, he had always possessed his own knife.

The man in his doorway held the knife in a comfortable underhand grip, left hand. Nothing fancy. Clearly familiar with its use.

"The shirt," the man said.

"What?"

The man stepped closer. "I want that shirt."

"You want my shirt?" Emilio plucked some fabric at his breast. "This shirt?"

"I want it. Give it to me."

He did something with the knife, a little Zorro waggle of his hand. Then he held up his right hand and Emilio blinked. Couldn't believe what he was seeing here in his own room. A guy with electricity coming out his fingers. Knife in one hand, sparks coming out the fingertips of the other.

"Hey, man, it's okay. You want the shirt, you got the shirt. You can put the goddamn knife away. I give you the shirt, it's yours, man. I never liked the fucking shirt in the first place."

Emilio stepped back, pulled the shirttail out of his pants, crossed his hands over his stomach ready to drag it off over his head, watching the man. "You want it, what, like for a souvenir or something?"

"I need the shirt." Saying it very calm. "Like right now."

The man wore a black Fiesta Cruise Lines T-shirt and a pair of new blue jeans. The T-shirt said he'd been a Jackpot winner. The man looked like a movie star, not the super handsome type, but one of those you've seen all your life, in this and in that, the star's brother or best friend. You've seen him a hundred times, but you never know his name. One of those.

Blond hair hanging loose down to his shoulders. A face that looked like the guy might've been playing with his girlfriend's makeup. Lips a little too red, skin a pasty, powdery white. Like you could take a fingernail and scrape some of it off, get down to the real flesh. But still handsome, and despite the knife, still somebody it looked like you could reason with.

"I got more shirts if you want them. In my drawer over there. I got three or four, man. Brand new practically. You go and take them all. Start your own collection. I don't give a shit. I never liked these fucking shirts."

Still gripping his shirttails, arms crossed, ready to strip off the shirt, but trying to talk his way past this, find some way to keep from ducking his head into that blue material, lose sight of the guy in his doorway for even a half second. That knife not moving, just hanging there in front of the guy's belly. The blond man very still, not blinking, nothing.

"Go on, take off the shirt." Voice getting quiet now.

Emilio shifted his feet, brought his right one back a half step, gonna kick the man in the groin if he came forward at all. Punt him up to the Promenade Deck if he tried anything.

Emilio tugged on the shirt, made a little feint to see if the guy moved. He didn't. So Emilio went ahead, stripped out of it. Losing sight of the guy for a half second was all it was, a half second, couldn't have been any longer than that.

The shirt came over his head and Emilio felt a cold jiggle in his belly, and something hot spilling out, running wet down his pants, and he heard the noise coming from his throat, like he was gargling, or puking, like he was out in the alley behind the Kentucky Club back in Juarez, too much cheap tequila, drinking in that bar he remembered now, a place where men stood and guzzled beer and opened their flies right there, a beer in their hand, and pissed into the ceramic trough that ran under the lip of the bar and through a pipe out into the street, a river of urine running down the gutters of Juarez. Thinking of that bar, of that border town, how much he'd wanted to escape that river of piss, go away, see the world, wear nice clothes, meet the blond women, only so he could wind up like this, in a tiny, pathetic fucking room on a ship, a man killing him for his shirt, for his stupid goddamn shirt.

And Emilio felt himself falling backward against the sink. Seeing the man in his doorway, holding the blue cruise lines shirt in one hand and the bloody knife in the other. No smile on his face, nothing at all. Same look Emilio felt on his own face at that exact moment. Nothing there at all. Never would be again either. Never. Just like the blond guy, a dead face.

***

Butler Jack strolled through the cruise ship casino listening to the clang of coins, the bells and gongs, the incantations of luck at the craps table, shrieks of joy and groans of defeat.

Butler was tall and rawboned and carried himself fluidly. He wore gray slacks and the blue long-sleeved rugby shirt with a Fiesta Cruise Lines insignia above the breast pocket, the uniform for the casino staff. Emilio Sanchez's contribution to the cause. Butler's hair was tucked under a wig. Thick black waves slicked back into ducktails.

In a corner of the room Butler halted for a moment, leaned against a slot machine, and stared up at the TV mounted overhead. Lovely Lola Sampson in a slinky black dress was standing on the Sun Deck of the M.S.
Eclipse
belting out the catchy theme song for Fiesta Cruise Lines, while her husband Morton stood below on the Promenade Deck beaming up at her. The most beautiful sixty-year-old in America. Didn't look a day over forty-five. Body firm, voice lush, face as smooth as a ten-year-old's.

No wonder Morton Sampson snapped her up, made her his wife and a TV star. Two years ago she was an ordinary working woman worrying how she'd survive on her social security. Now look at her, on a first-name basis with America. People in every corner of the televisioned world knew her name. Had her own morning talk show,
Lola Live.
Got buddy-buddy with her new husband's Hollywood friends. Lovely Lola. Singing and dancing, while her low-cut dress displayed her considerable assets. Voice deep and swollen with happiness as she shamelessly pitched her husband's cut-rate Caribbean cruises.

The TV was turned down low, so Lola's song was lost in the hubbub of the casino. But it didn't matter. Ask anyone on the ship to hum the tune, they'd be able.

Butler watched slender Lola as she swayed and sang, her blond hair swishing. Her new shoulder-length cut. Two years ago, the only singing she'd done was to solo in the church choir. Now look. Like she'd been at this all her life.

When she finished her song, she flashed her best smile at the camera and spoke. Though her words were inaudible, Butler knew her speech by heart. Lola Sampson was inviting one and all to join her and Morton on the twenty-fifth anniversary cruise. A week in the Caribbean, rub shoulders with Lola and Morton and a couple of network news anchors, rock stars, a host of Hollywood types. A week of
Lola Live
broadcast from on board the
Eclipse.
Only three weeks away, rooms going fast, so make your reservations now.

Oh yes, Butler Jack had made his already. Wouldn't miss this voyage for the world.

Butler ambled across the smoky room, passing behind a row of blackjack dealers, over to the far corner of the casino where he stood for a moment before the stage where the visiting band was playing their last set of the evening.

Shaggy hair to their shoulders, wearing tight yellow suits with bell bottom trousers, the four members of the Baby Boomers looked like they'd been beamed down from a sixties' hootenanny. Skinny guitars, emaciated bodies. They juked and jived across the stage, trying very hard to make their music fill the big room. But the passengers showed no sign they noticed as they pulled the slot machine levers, slid their stacks of chips across the felt tables, and glanced around with the glazed expressions of men too long on the assembly line.

Butler turned away from the band and, for the second time that evening, he visited a blackjack table, this one nearest the cocktail lounge. He waited until the dealer had finished a round and some of the players abandoned their places, then he moved to the dealer's shoulder and the man looked up at him. Butler nodded at his rack of chips.

"Getting a little low?"

The young man stared at Butler.

"Name's Jack." Butler pinched a corner of his counterfeit ID and leaned closer. "I'm subbing for Emilio. His father died and he had to fly off to Pittsburgh for the funeral."

"Too bad," the man said as he opened a new deck of cards.

"You need another rack or not?" Butler asked him.

"Well, since you're here," the dealer said.

He tore a sheet off his pad, signed the chit, handed it to Butler who turned and worked his way through the din, down several rows of dollar slots, passing the roulette tables, four poker games and over to the pitboss station where he filled out his own request form, countersigned the dealer's signature, and stapled the two together. Then he headed to the banker's cage.

Butler passed his chits through, waited while the young black woman with round glasses tore off the receipt and passed the rack through the window to him. The tray of chips was sealed tight inside a stiff plastic wrap. Butler reached for the tray, but this time the young woman held on to it.

"Wait just a minute," she said. "Do I know you?"

He gave her the Emilio story, dead father, Pittsburgh. She leaned forward, squinted at his ID.

"Hey, this is my second trip tonight."

"I don't remember seeing you before."

"I'm Jack. You've seen me. From engineering."

"Jack, from engineering?"

"I'm usually covered with grease. That's why you don't recognize me. They got me filling in tonight."