Infinite Loop - Chapters 2 - 5
Chapter 2The sound of footsteps grabbed his attention as he heard a steady thud of leather soles on wood. Gradually the sound got louder, causing him to put his hand over his face as he tried to forget a pounding headache enveloping him. Then, the rhythmic plodding passed outside, and Warren caught the faint aroma of bacon waft by. His eyes still closed; the man shifted his thoughts back to his new film performance. He could smell perfume, but it differed from the fragrance that was worn by the woman who killed him the night before. The scent, overpoweringly strong and cloying, struck him, and he shifted his face away. Observing the world around him with his eyes closed, it was like the game he used to play as a kid. He took the time to take in observations about what was going on around him, his new reality. The ploy allowed him to accept his new reality. No, I don’t accept; I adapt! Warren heard two quick raps on a door, followed by a mumbled conversation. Faint but distinct, he heard enough to know that someone delivered breakfast to a nearby room. Apartment? An image of a luxury apartment came to mind before the thought of food, along with the lingering smell, made his stomach rumble. While contemplating his surroundings, he slowly smelled the scent of ocean spray. Then, he felt a slow, subtle roll shifting his position in the bed. At sea and on a ship? Warren felt a quick panic fill him as he recalled becoming seasick on his first fishing trip with his dad. He hoped his stomach could manage this boat. He finally opened his eyes. A tangled mess of blonde hair greeted him. He pulled away slightly and saw a certain feminine body lying next to him. A woman was on her side, her back to him. Both were facing the paneled wall, the small bed which barely held the two of them. He looked at the white pillow that cradled the woman’s head, and he wondered who lay just a few inches away. A morbid memory struck him, and he slowly lifted his head. Instantly, relief swept over him as he saw the woman’s bare shoulders rise slightly when she took a breath. That’s good! He did not need another corpse in his bed. That happened once before in his purgatory world. Framed for a murder, Warren ended up with a painful death by an electric chair. The agonizing memory quickly swept across his mind. He vowed that would never happen again, even if he had to slit his own throat. A good hanging was better! His mind agreed after comparing the two executions his characters went through in the past. It looked ugly but was surprisingly painless and basically instantaneous after you got past that abrupt drop. He could easily recommend such a death if one had to be executed. The woman’s slight snore brought him back to the present, and he grinned slightly. He noticed she was naked under the sheet; her dress and undergarment lay at the foot of the bed. Inspecting her from his vantage point, he could not see her face, but he noticed the blood red fingernails on her left hand on the pillow. She wore no ring, and he quickly inspected his own hand, letting out a sigh of relief. That’ll take care of the jealous husband or wife killing me scenario! Carefully, Warren turned his body, realizing his waking libido pushing on his underwear. Awkwardly swinging his feet off the bed, he sat on the edge. Slowly, he stood up while watching the woman to avoid waking her. She grunted, then rolled over on her back, exposing her well-endowed breasts. The stale smell of whiskey wafted from the sheets and assaulted him as he ran a thick tongue through an unpleasant tasting mouth. However, his bare feet noticed the soft fibers of the carpeted floor. He glimpsed the ocean outside the open porthole, confirming his suspicions. His head felt the pounding of tom-toms while his stomach carried the nausea of a hangover which he had no part in creating. The hangover apparently overrode the seasickness that initially concerned him. Thoughts swirled around him, threatening to overload his brain, but he came back to the basics. There were major items he needed to sort through before he could talk to the stranger in the bed, let alone anyone else he might bump into. Staggering a little with the roll of the ship, he wondered what terrible part awaited him within the script he had entered. It did not help his mood while Warren gathered in every detail of the unimpressive stateroom. Aside from the two narrow beds, brown painted walls, worn carpet, it was a first-class cabin. It said so on the yellowed plaque on the wall. Still, the room had grown tired, and the carpet gave off a musty smell. Overall, the place was spartan, with no radio or television. Other than the narrow bed, the only other furniture in the cabin comprised a mahogany secretary with a single chair, along with a mahogany wardrobe. He silently found his pants, instantly searching through the pockets for identification. Finding nothing but loose change, he remembered men often kept their wallets in their inner chest pocket of the suit jacket back in the day. He picked up the jacket and found a wallet. As he opened the leather case, Warren glanced at the woman, a strange feeling he was robbing the former tenant of the room. Get a grip! In the pocket, he found a passport. Dated June 1933, he learned his character’s name, Warren Baker. It wasn’t a surprise. Most of the scripts inside his insane world appeared set in the era, so he was getting used to it. That’s a bunch of bull, he thought. Pulling out a pigskin leather wallet from the same pocket; he noticed the initials ‘WB’ on it. Inside, he found several hundred dollars and four unsigned traveler’s checks worth a thousand a piece. The money surprised him, given the surrounding décor. The amount made him wealthy. “What was it? Maybe a grand or so,” Warren tried to remember a college lecture that brought up the average yearly wage in the era. For some reason, the information intrigued him at the time. Funny that I can’t remember the name of that hot blond in the class! He shrugged to himself as he recounted the money and went through the wallet finding identification papers. “Well, at least I have the same first name,” he said. The woman in the bed mumbled, rolling over in bed. Warren silently cursed himself for nearly waking the woman with his words. Get yourself together. Maybe there’s hope, he thought. His brain rebelled at the thought amid the increasing pressure from the throbbing pounding. Well, let’s get this over with! Rubbing his face, he went to the mirror. Identifying his latest look and body was always a shock. A glimpse earlier showed him he wasn’t overweight or skinny. That was pretty average, which seemed normal in his crazy world. He leaned in close to get a good look at the new appearance. A white oval face with a slight stubble stared back at him. According to his identification, Warren was five foot eleven, weighing 185 pounds. His green eyes and brown hair showed in the mirror. The man considered his average looks, determining he could live with the face. Not that he had a choice, he thought. Shirtless and wearing boxer underwear. Warren turned, inspecting his stomach, arms, and legs and pleased with his general shape. Not a bad carcass for him, considering some of the other bodies he had lived in. Warren could swear he saw a hint of his former self in the mirror. Out of habit, he rubbed on his elbow and found the same small scar just under the elbow. Strangely, the scar and his eye color remained the only identifiable marks he carried from what he called his first life. The traits came through the various characters he inhabited throughout his time in his purgatory. Warren turned on the faucet, splashing the tepid water on his face. He stuck his tongue out before filling the glass next to the sink. After he downed the water in two gulps, filled another glass. Phillips sat the glass back on the sink edge, preparing himself for the day. Investigating his new character and look for ways to avoid his promised death. It was the way of his existence, if you could call jumping into a place with a target on your back. Over time, Warren gradually convinced himself that he must reach the conclusion of the movie alive. He convinced himself that he must change the script in order to get out of this cycle. Of course, it was only a hunch. He had no way to prove it. Obviously, he never made it far enough to determine the truth. His many attempts bore only bitter fruit, to use a biblical term. Warren Baker is the persona for him now. He sighed, trying to guess the reason for his role in this new place. It’s damn tiresome. Hearing movement coming from the next room, he went to the toilet and relieved himself. After washing his hands, the new character walked over to the chair and sat down. With his identity established, Warren flipped through his wallet and passport again to embed the little information in his head. His background consisted of a few pieces of paper so far. But that was normal for him. The woman grunted as she rolled over, allowing him to get a good look at her face for the first time. It was nice-looking, round with a little too small nose and pouty lips. While she had a nice body and he enjoyed the bare breasts in his view, the woman was a little older than he would go for. Warren noted she was slightly overweight, and she wore too much makeup. Some of it remained smeared across the pillow cover. How did they say it in the 30s? That’s right, she’s curvaceous. Chapter 3Grinning at the old-fashioned term, he suddenly considered the possibility she was a prostitute. It would probably explain why a woman was lying in bed with him. Movies of the era were strict about sex outside of marriage, something to do with a commission, if he recalled correctly. Given the money he carried, Warren decided his alter ego, this Baker guy, must be a playboy with little ambition beyond a life of leisure. So, cliché and typical thinking of the old black and white movies. “Well, if I’m dying again, might as well have some fun this time,” Warren whispered. He didn’t recognize his voice. But it didn’t come as a surprise. He hadn’t heard his voice from the first life for what seemed to be eons. But there was no concept of time to him now. In the end, it did not matter, he guessed. He unconsciously ran his fingers across his chest where the bullets had entered the night before. As normal, no trace of the damage revealed itself. “New body and a new future,” he grumbled, “just the terrible memories to ward off some sleep.” Warren went over to the dark wooden cabinet, quietly pulling the front hinged desktop open. He carefully read through the few letters, while glancing over occasionally at his sleeping guest. Again, he felt strange, like he was reading stolen mail. The envelopes contained a letter from Mrs. Florence Baker of Boston. After torturing himself by trying to read the fine cursive letters, he decided the mother of Warren Baker was not pleased with her son. In short, the letter told him she was tired of his antics, and he could stay in Cuba if he decided to. To paraphrase, he could maintain his association with the lower classes of society. “A homecoming with his mother would be a delicate affair,” he quietly smirked. Another letter he carried was a formal introduction from a museum director named Morris, head of the Russian collection. Addressed to Count Casa Bayona, director of the Palacio del Centro Asturiano, the formal letterhead told him he dealt with influential people. Well, that’s a potential problem. If his character needed any actual knowledge of art or history, Warren’s charade about such subjects wouldn’t last long. He spent his college days drinking with the frat boys and attempting to avoid any classes that demanded significant effort. While Warren mulled over the information in the letters, he also found his passenger ticket with the SS Andes stamped on it. It told him the ship was going to Boston from Havana. Also, in the small pile of paper, there was a telegram confirming his prior reservation at the Hotel Nacional de Cuba. He sat on the chair next to the wooden secretary, trying to align the pieces of the puzzle. Not much to go on. He would have to venture outside his stateroom to get some information about the ship, its passengers, and, hopefully, why he was onboard. Information was his lifeblood now. Warren knew from bitter experience he needed details quickly to stay alive longer. But first, he needed to know about the blonde in his bed. “I guess I get dressed and start the day,” he said to himself lightly. The passing thought of waking the girl for some morning fun crossed his mind, but he decided against the urge. He needed to keep his concentration on sorting his world. For that matter, he was not sure what the woman might be expecting. Assuming his first thought about the woman was correct; Warren pulled two twenties from his wallet, laying them on the desk edge. He could never be sure what things were worth in this make-believe world, so he always overpaid. Warren assumed she would take the money and leave, or, at least, he hoped so. He had enough on his plate before he could get caught up with a woman needing his attention. Besides, she might get killed with him. Warren carried the burden of knowing he had to keep one step ahead of his killer, whoever it was. And he knew death would come for him again, as sure as the stubble he felt as he rubbed his face. He went into the small bathroom again and searched around the sink. He found no shaving kit. The man knew this meant his character used a barber to shave. It was still strange to his 21st-century mind to pay a barber for a shave. Crossing the small stateroom, he opened the closet where he found several freshly pressed suits. After running around in the era, Warren quickly discovered you wore suits during the day and tuxedos at night if you were trying playing a rich man. He decided on wearing the brown suit. After dressing quietly, Warren Baker slid the letters and wallet into his coat pocket. As he stepped to the door, he heard a voice with a thick Southern accent from the bed. “Aren’t ya coming back to bed, sweetie?” The woman smiled, and she lifted herself from the bed. “No, I—well—I have something to do,” he stammered while considering the tempting offer. Then he glanced at the desk. It was his first mistake. When she saw the money lying on the bureau, her swift reaction showed her temper. “You son of a bitch,” her voice rose. “Do you think you can treat Mary Bristol like your whore?” As the woman tried to stand to get out of bed with the sheets wrapped around her body, she stumbled to the carpet. Instinctively, he kneeled next to her to help. She slapped him across his head, still yelling at him. Trying to protect himself, Warren grabbed the woman by her arms. “Listen, you’re wrong. That money was there on the desk last night. I just forgot to pick it up this morning,” he lied. “You bastard! After all the promises you made last night. I snuck away with a damn grease ball,” she yelled. Her bloodshot eyes glared at him. When he tried to speak, she jerked away, standing naked by the bed. “Y’all try to get along without me now, you nibcocked son of a bitch,” she viciously countered. Grabbing her blue dress from the end of the bed, Mary stomped into the bathroom. Warren stood there for a moment, then followed her to the closed door. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he kept apologizing to calm her down. She just cursed him again. Quickly opening the door, while adjusting her clothes, she reached down to grab her shoes, then stormed out of the room. Warren waited while staring out of the open door for a moment, half expecting her to return. He went to the desk, slipping the greenbacks into his pocket while debating his next move. With a shrug, the man slipped out of his cabin. Warren concluded he may have created an enemy from a stupid mistake. The bright sunlight made him squint as he walked over to the railing. While he looked down at the water, it appeared blue-green and there was a pod of dolphins sliding through the waves. They were real, as in his first life. Even if the world was a script in a movie, it was reality. If he threw himself over the side, he would no doubt drown, or a boat would come to his rescue. Even if not part of the script, the purgatory continued unabated. It wasn’t a game or grand computer simulation; at least he didn’t believe so. If Warren carried a soul, he wondered if he experienced reincarnation. However, the concept went against his upbringing. His memories swept over him like a wave as he considered his soul or his faith. Nothing in his past explained his world. Warren’s recollection of his elbow scar came to him again. Playing football with his brothers as a kid, he landed in a pile of garbage where a broken bottle gashed him. Smiling momentarily when the memory of how his mother freaked out at the sight of the blood came back to him. Rushing him to the Callaway Memorial Hospital, he received nine stitches, along with a slap to the side of his head, when they returned home. Warren learned his lesson. Two days later, he busted the stitches open again. This time, he made sure not to tell his mother. The scar turned out to be a catalyst for remembering his first life. It was a link to his past and continued to show up wherever his spirit landed. As he slowly regained his memories with each death he suffered in his purgatory, the recollection made him question his sanity at first. During the first few runs he took through his netherworld of movies, Warren’s previous life invaded his dreams. Soon after, much of that reality forced him to accept the truth of his existence, both past and present. Before his death in the future, Warren H. Phillips was a husband and father who lived to the ripe old age of 48. Most of his years, from childhood to manhood, he endured inside a small two-bedroom bungalow. When he came back from college, he lived in his hometown of Fulton Missouri. Many people considered him a success, but it was nothing more than a charade. Warren remained an outer shell of civic virtue and visibly committed to his family. The reality was he ran two businesses into the ground while shuttling back and forth between several mistresses outside of the area. He only kept the marriage going to keep him with easy access to the capital controlled by his wife’s dad, who had a fortune. The one truth that came out of his continuous cycle of death and rebirth came from Warren’s introspection. He was a bastard who agreed with the basic tenet that moral certainty and clarity was a relic of the past. He stared out at the waves, remembering how the peacefulness of sleep turned into torment, especially when he thought about how he treated those who trusted and admired him. Strangely, only vague images of the last moments when the chest pains started, then as the vehicle went tumbling. Still, he held no special attachment to his previous life. It’s probably why I’m not a ghost! Well, he couldn’t be sure of the idea, but it didn’t matter. After the many failed character roles he played in his purgatory, his concerns focused on trying to survive. He couldn’t think of anything else. Chapter 4“Yes, another place as tangible as before,” Warren mused. “Pardon me, sir?” A uniformed man walking by suddenly stopped. “Nothing, I was just thinking aloud. A bad habit of mine,” he replied before he walked away. Warren avoided looking back at the confused crewman while focusing on the ship itself. He took in everything, getting a feel for his surroundings. The ship was not as he first imagined. In his mind, he thought of a large steam liner filled with people. His reality came back to an old freighter with the name SS Andes stenciled on the fading boat life rings hanging on the bulkhead. From his walk, he found only a few outside cabins wrapped around the aft area below the bridge. When he reached the rear of the ship, he noticed steps leading up to the next level and a sign stating the area above was off limits to passengers. Looking at the structure above him, he viewed two stacks billowing dark smoke from the engines below decks. Warren stepped back while looking up. He ran his leg into a lounge chair near the rail. A discarded newspaper blew around on the deck and he immediately fell to his knees to retrieve it. Normally, such a reaction would embarrass him. But Warren needed information. Still, he looked around, happy no one seemed to notice. The man smiled to himself when he saw the English words and the banner. The Havana Post, dated May 25, 1935, was a potential gold mine with information at his fingertips. However, his howling stomach reminded him it was time to eat. Refolding the paper and tucking it under his arm, Warren began his search for breakfast. He walked past a young couple staring at each other, smiling and laughing, oblivious to the world around them. Warren considered interrupting the newlywed couple for directions. However, he noticed a sign with the words ‘Lounge’ on the steel wall a few paces away. He quickly went to an open door by the sign. Inside, he encountered a paneled room which looked as worn and tired as his room. The room gave the impression of being larger than it was. At one end stood the nearly empty bar, supported by a few early morning drinkers. The rest of the room contained small tables scattered haphazardly around. Worn linen cloth covered the tabletops, while each table had rusty chrome art déco condiment holders. A bartender was busy mixing drinks for a man who appeared drinking early out of boredom. The two other men looked as if they were soothing their hangovers with a hair of the dog. Warren frowned at the idea, but it was their life, or afterlife. A man dressed in an ill-fitting white jacket came out of a side door while balancing a tray with several large glasses. Warren guessed the server was helping bring another day of drinking to those inside their cabins. He smiled to himself, still trying to grasp how much drinking and smoking came with the era he now occupied. Pulling a chair, Warren signaled to the bartender, who frowned as he extracted his massive girth from behind the bar. Warren bit his lip and busied himself with opening his paper to keep from smiling in amusement as the fat man limped over. He quickly learned that the bartender’s name was Hans, and he was the cook as well. “Breakfast is eggs and bacon, with coffee,” he stated with a German accent. His tone showed it was the extent of the breakfast menu. Warren nodded, turning his attention to the newspaper. Hans hobbled back to the bar, shooing a small cabin boy out of the room. Scanning the newspaper, Warren’s initial hope concerning the information he would find in the paper faded. Much of the news related to the local happenings within Cuba. A mention of Roosevelt’s Works Relief Program made the first page, along with Mussolini’s acceptance from the League of Nations. The new told Warren he was following a normal timeline. No screwy alternate worlds here. Well, beyond the fact that everything existed as a movie plot. He skimmed through the paper, which revealed details about the Weyerhaeuser boy kidnapping. Also, some actress making a cross-country flight across the USA was in another article. Warren paused when he noticed a Havana story concerning a jewelry heist and shootout with local police. The event occurred outside of the Hotel Nacional de Cuba a few weeks before. The same hotel where his character stayed. But the article only told him there was still no progress in the identity of the thieves. They made off with an undetermined number of rare jewels, which had recently arrived from Spain. According to the article, the police held suspects in custody. They identified them as Americans with gangster connections. As he noisily refolded the paper to read the back pages, looking for the cruise departures, a boy came to the table where he placed a plate in front of Warren. His face fell as he ate the skimpy breakfast. He could barely describe it as edible. He drank a cup of boiling strong coffee, which helped mask the taste of nearly burned toast, heavily salted eggs, and greasy bacon. Baker hoped the food and the coffee would help ease his hangover. He guessed his meal wasn’t much different from what the crew dealt with daily. But it was hardly the meal Warren expected for a person with his folding money to be eating. Wouldn’t his Baker character sail on a luxury liner? The insight made him pause while wondering about his characters’ past. He needed more info about Warren Baker as well. Returning his attention to the paper, he eventually found a small tidbit of news about his ship. The Andes left on May 25th, the same morning as the paper came out. Interestingly, the ship’s destination was Boston. Consumed by his reading and thoughts, he briefly noticed a long, thin woman dressed in a yellow polka dot summer dress. She motioned to the small cabin boy by the entrance. The woman pointed to the table just across from Warren’s. He momentarily felt her stare through her oval tortoise framed glasses before he returned to his paper. The woman passed him, taking up a position at a table a few paces away. Her escort quickly moved to the bar, then carried back a chrome coffee pot along with a filled coffee cup for the lady. The boy refilled Warren’s empty cup. “Nothing,” Warren said ruefully as he folded the paper and tossed it on the table. A swirl of random thoughts suddenly tried to poke through his headache. Maybe his character of one of those rich socialites. If so, it might help him. Warren remembered those old movies from his childhood where rich people teamed up to solve mysteries because they were bored. Then, he came back to reality. So far, his purgatory role was always the victim, never the hero. That’s my normal luck! His mood soured again. Drawing in a deep breath, Warren mulled over his present situation. His character had enough money to afford some luxury. It also gave him a spark of hope. The situation might be a benefit to him. Perhaps, this time, at least, he could piece together the direction of the story and its ending before it happened. Warren’s expression turned thoughtful as he watched the coffee steam rise from his cup. He recalled his mistakes over the last few days in his guise as a private eye. Spending days and nights chasing the mystery woman, he made a note that it was his longest time surviving before his death. He used the movies he recalled, which showed Marlowe or Sam Spade’s methods of piecing together the clues. While he lost, dying at the hands of the very woman he trailed, Warren took a bit of comfort in his ability to get to her. While he was the victim of a double cross, the man knew without a doubt, whoever ran these crazy film worlds did not play fair. What’s next? Warren recognized he needed to act like a fat cat of the times. He hoped he would do better trying to mimic one of the upper-class characters from an old movie he watched. As he thought about it, it would be difficult enough to keep ahead of death while maintaining such fiction. Still, the questions about his character tugged at him again. Why would someone with loads of money leave the gambling Mecca like Havana on such an old tramp steamer? He looked down at the advertisement in the paper showing Pan Am flying their Clipper airplanes back to the US. That type of travel better fit a wealthy bachelor. Just in appearance, taking cheap tug carrying freight along the East coast showed Baker had something else going on. Why not take a plane to get back sooner? He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to get his brain to remember all the history he was happy to forget about. The only recollection he had about Cuba was gambling. It was a top destination place for those with money, but that was all he knew. Besides, genuine history had little to do with the make-believe world of old scripts. Warren suspected his new world was just another low budget lost film which nobody would remember. He just hoped his story would take him all the way back to his home in Boston. So far, Warren learned that more time gave him a greater opportunity to survive. For the moment, he could only hope all his fighting meant something. Hopefully, his path was not just another one-way street to death, but Warren could only dream. He was not even sure if it was God or the Devil who was laying out the twisted path of his afterlife. To paraphrase an 80s alternative song, Whoever directed things must have a sick sense of humor.
Chapter 5The tune played in his head like an earworm until Warren forced himself back to the reality he currently inhabited. Leaving too much for a tip, Warren rose, glancing at the woman at the next table. The vivid colors of green and yellow of her dress caught his eye, along with her long legs. He had a thing for long and lean. However, the woman’s horn-rimmed glasses and her sandy hair tied back in a bun set him back. Another glance made him frown with disappointment at the woman’s austere glare. She carried the cold impression of a librarian. Leaving the table, he headed to the entrance while the woman studied her menu, failing to notice her gaze following him out the door. Exiting briskly through the wooden doors, Warren took a sharp turn, nearly running over a steward. He almost apologized, before remembering his character was a man with money. No doubt, that meant he carried an arrogant attitude. Warren scowled at the steward, demanding the crewman open his eyes next time. “Do you have a barber?” he asked with his most intimating glare. “Why, of course! The shop is down this passageway,” the steward stammered out in an accent that was hard to understand at first. “I’ll be happy to show you the way like I did yesterday.” “Never mind,” Warren barked a little too loud quickly taking the path pointed out by the crewman. He cursed under his breath, realizing he should have assumed this already since he could not find a shaving kit. Such a mistake could be costly. An hour later, Warren Baker emerged from the barbershop with a clean-shaven face and additional information. He wandered around the rest of the deck, taking in the warming sun while he reflected on his newfound knowledge about an odd lot of passengers. “Hello, Mr. Baker,” the short man said as he tipped his bowler hat. Warren looked at him with a blank expression. “Max Minchin,” he reminded Warren. “I’m in the cabin next to yours.” “Of course, Mr. Minchin,” Warren Baker lied. “How are you doing?” “It’s doctor or professor if you like,” Max reminded him politely. “I’m well, thank you. Are you enjoying your trip?” Head still throbbing, Warren nodded slightly. “My apologies. The morning has me out of sorts. I am enjoying the journey a little too much,” he said, lightly tapping his temple. He hated being trapped in a conversation with someone he didn’t know. “Yes, I must say your party went well into the night,” the professor told him. “It got quite loud, of course.” “Again, you have my apologies for my disturbing your rest,” he replied with a smile. He observed the professor seemed unperturbed despite Warren’s nightly adventures. He also wondered if the girl got loud in the throughs of passion. “I’ll try not to interrupt you for the rest of the trip,” he told him. Max smiled agreeably, removing his hat. He pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket to the leather headband. “No need to apologize, as I’m a night owl,” he said. “My studies keep me quite occupied.” “Studies?” Warren tried to act interested. “Yes, as we discussed the other day, my upcoming book about Spanish art requires much time and concentration,” Max told him. “Understanding the delicate nuances within the works of Velázquez and de Madrazo requires diligent study.” “Oh, but of course.” Warren looked around the area in vain hope that a porter might come walking by with a glass of water in hand. The idea of something stronger to drink crossed his mind. However, the deck remained empty but for him and his new friend. He hesitated when he thought he glimpsed the woman in the green and yellow dress near the passage leading to the dining lounge. Max continued his observations concerning several Spanish painters and sculptors. As the professor continued to wax elegant concerning sculpture and jewelry, Warren feigned interest. During a lull in the conversation, Warren casually mentioned a macabre painting by Francisco Goya. It was one of the few works by any Spanish artist he could recall. However, it quickly became clear the little man did not approve of his companion’s taste in artists. After a while, Warren seriously contemplated whether the deep ocean water below them would make better company. Max eventually brought up the name of Faberge, which was at least something Warren could recognize. The professor explained his next body of study would focus on the Jewels of the Romanovs. The small man paused, and Warren glanced over to give the dull companion his support with an appreciative nod, trying to think of an intelligent response. Instead, the man excused himself from the professor’s clutches, hastening along the deck back to his room. Entering the cabin, the foul stench of a cheap cigar struck Warren. The smell immediately led to the sight of an incredibly large man sitting in the chair next to the secretary. It would have been a comical sight, except Warren Baker did not like the idea of someone breaking into his room. “What the hell are you doing here?” He demanded after the initial shock dispersed. The intruder stood up; his round face obscured by the cloud of smoke. “Calm yourself down, Baker. I don’t want you to chip a fingernail.” The man stepped through the haze of burned tobacco, forcing Warren to look up. As he towered over him, the unwanted visitor blew smoke in Warren’s face. Warren took a step back, barely suppressing the smoke. The intruder’s massive chest and biceps were nearly bursting out of the cheesy three-piece suit he wore. With a face sporting a crooked, flattened nose along with several scars near his left eye, the visitor had the cold eyes of a hunter. The face gave Warren the solid impression of a gorilla goon with a menacing attitude to match. “Hang around my cabin without being asked, and I’ll have the captain take care of you,” he warned his visitor. The man scowled. “You ain’t doing nothing queeny,” he declared. “You’re in too deep to go to the captain for anything. We all know it.” “What do you mean?” Warren asked as he felt the tension mount. He hated bullies. “Don’t play dumb. You got only partial payment,” the intruder told him. “You need to deliver tomorrow to get the rest of your money. And we’re watching you.” The man’s expression changed. “But I ain’t here to gab about your deal with the boss. You and me need to work out a deal. You screwed up. I recognized little Mary when she left a while ago.” The gorilla in a suit paused, like he was showing he held the cards. Warren noticed several missing teeth with his thin smile. “I didn’t figure a dandy like you took to women, but you never know about folks,” he observed. “Seeing how the boss’s woman is spending the night here, well, I believe you’se owe Harry some money to keep my trap closed.” “Like hell I do! What’s this got to do with you?” Warren’s mind frantically trying to piece together the relationship between the goon and Mary. He also felt a creeping knot developing in his stomach. “Man, you’re dumb. The Boss won’t like you bedding his girl like a prosty. He might decide to make you swim with the fish,” Harry warned him ominously. “Mary was really pissed, which means she might tell the boss stories about how you raped her and all. Then I’d have to dump you over the side. So you’ll pay me to keep things calmed down. Otherwise, you won’t need money when the Boss tells me to kill you.” “And if I…” Warren could not get the last word out because his wind was suddenly gone. He fell to the floor on his knees, nearly curled up in a fetal position, trying to breathe. The punch from the big man hit Warren quick and brutal. The thug stood over his victim. As Warren caught his breath, his true nature returned. He was beyond intimidation and getting angrier by the second. “That is the start of what you get,” he explained. “Now, I’ll take a hundred to make sure you don’t get hit again and keep Mary from talking bad about you. I would hate to see you get croaked before we can get the merchandise. The boss can’t afford no slip-ups like we left Europe. But he’s got quite a temper. Besides, I like the little canary. She’s got the stuff.” Harry went to one knee to get into Warren’s coat pocket. He grimly smiled to himself. “He might have me kill you just for kicks,” he said. Just as the goon stuffed his hand into his quarry’s jacket, Warren slammed his fist into Harry’s crotch. Before the gorilla could react, Warren was squeezing the spot as hard as he could. A surprised growl turned into a screech from Harry. Warren felt satisfaction as he watched his enemy’s face turn pale from the pain. Warren struggled to get off the floor with a half-roll. Then, a mighty blow landed near the back of his head. Harry’s cement-like fist struck Warren again. But he lifted himself enough to spring headlong into the thug. Warren’s shoulder struck the intruder’s chest with enough force to send him back on his heels. As the goon fell back into the wall with a thud, Warren scrambled to his feet. He quickly grabbed the chair, holding it high above the dazed man, who was still holding his crouch. “Never touch me again, asshole,” Warren shouted out the words, his rage at a full boil and his mind racing at full speed. “You want me to go through this deal of yours, and then you leave me the fuck alone,” he roared at Harry. “Got it?” Going silent for a moment, the goon leaned back against the wall, surprised filled his face at the change in his prey. His expression hardened, telling Warren their fight was not over. Harry held his crotch while he gingerly rose to his knees, his face filled with hate. “Alright, you have it your way for now. I guess we need you until our stuff unloads,” he admitted. “But when the boss gets done with you, I’ll be waiting to finish this. I’m looking to mess you up bad.” He picked up his cigar that had fallen to the floor. Puffing it back to life, he stood and blew smoke at his intended victim. Clenching the stogie between his teeth, he slowly stood. “Queenie, I’ll be killing you real slow when I get my chance,” Harry threatened. Then the big man turned and left without another word, taking out his anger on the cabin door as he threw it open. The wood slammed against the steel plate of the outside bulkhead. “Yeah, just like everyone else,” Warren told the empty room bitterly. |