I'd been working on my Chris Craft on the dock down in the keys for several hours, often looking over to admire the size and lines of a sleek, humongous yacht on the other side of the dock, before I realized that two men were sitting in the covered fantail of that craft and watching me too. I almost regretted that I'd stripped down to the Speedo to do my washdown.
Suddenly embarrassed by their close attention, I went over to the other side of my boat to work. But I took occasional peeks at the other craft, which had the name Topsy-Turvy painted on the stern, and couldn't help but notice that both men had binoculars pointed in my direction. From here they looked like Mutt and Jeff. The large guy was a little hard to miss—a bruising muscle-bound hulk in white shorts and a fluorescent-colored Hawaiian sports shirt. The little guy seemed no more than a boy, as spied from down here. He was in gray gym shorts and a T.
The day was hot and I'd been slaving for some time and, having raised my eyes to the boat to see if I was still under surveillance—which I was—I tuned into the fact that I had developed a deep thirst. I came around to the dock side of the boat to fish a beer out of the cooler I had sitting on the dock.
"Care to come aboard for a beer?"
I looked around and up at the main deck of the Topsy-Turvy. The big guy was standing at the rail, a beefy hand shading his eyes. He repeated, "I say, you look thirsty; care to come aboard for a beer?"
I was already opening the lid to the cooler, but someone else's beer was always a better idea to me than one I'd bought. "Maybe," I called over to him. "Does the offer come with a tour of the boat? That's some yacht you have there."
"Certainly can, yes," the big guy answered jovially. "We can even take it out for spin, if you like. We were going to cruise for an hour of two this afternoon anyway."
"Sounds good to me," I called back. "Just give me a minute or two to batten down the hatches over here." I'd done all I wanted to do on my Chris Craft that afternoon anyway. And I'd been arguing with myself over whether to take the boat out. It was a gorgeous day, but if I took it out, I'd have all of the scrubbing to do again when I got back to the dock. Now I could have it both ways—a short cruise in a real ship and my own scrubbed down nicely.
A couple of burly crewmen in spiffy whites appeared and started casting off on the Topsy-Turvy almost as soon as I got aboard and was moving to the fantail.
"Hello, there," the big guy said as I walked up to him. He was still standing by the rail. The grip of his handshake had power and authority in it. "I'm Tom, and this is Jerry. You tired us out just watching you clean your boat down over there. Come sit and select your poison."
Tom and Jerry. I almost laughed. But then that was better than Mutt and Jeff, I supposed.
I went past Tom as he turned to introduce me to the little guy. The little guy—Jerry—didn't stand up. He looked like he'd fallen down a flight of stairs, rather bruised and battered, and I thought immediately that maybe he couldn't stand. I leaned down, extended my hand, and introduced myself. His hand was trembling and was slightly moist. As I leaned down, I couldn't help but notice red welts on his inner thighs, and I wondered how the hell they'd gotten there. That would be hard to do in a fall down the stairs.
"Hello, Jerry," I said. "I'm Raymond. Call me Ray."
Jerry looked at me wanly. His eyes were glittering and much more expressive than any other part of his face. He responded his pleasure in meeting me in a rather weak voice. His eyes were boring into me, though, and I got the impression that he wanted to convey something to me, almost plead for something. But then Tom spoke again, naming beer brands they had on hand so I could take my pick, And Jerry's gaze snapped away from me and looked beyond me to where Tom was standing. I saw the little guy's eyes blaze up and then dim. Then Jerry looked down in his lap at his hands and said no more for the time we sat in the fantail, Tom and I drank beer and talked about boat maintenance and the Miami Dolphins as the yacht steamed out into the Atlantic.
I had worked hard, and there was a lull in the conversation, and both the sun I'd already taken and the beer I was drinking too much of got to me. My head went back into the cushions as the yacht steamed along and I dozed off.
My dreams were disturbed. I heard noises, disturbing noises, groans and moanings and sharp little cries. I jerked awake at the sound of a louder, muffled scream, my mouth sour from the beer, my head throbbing a bit from having had too much sun while scrubbing down the Chris Craft, and the sensation of not knowing whether the cry had been in my dream or was part of my sudden wakefulness.
Tom and Jerry were gone, but one of the white-clad crew members was standing at the door into whatever lay inside the ship's main cabin beyond the fantail porch. He was looking at me, and when I was fully awake, he pushed the door into the salon open with a hand and pronounced in a low, gravely voice, "They are in here."
I stood and walked over and through the door and then stood there, immobilized for the moment in shock. Then I turned, wanting to get out of there—and off the ship, not giving a thought to the fact that we were a good two miles off the strand of Florida keys now.
