Buzz Cut

  BUZZ CUT

  James W. Hall

  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.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  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

  BUZZ CUT

  CHAPTER 1

  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."

  "Your I.D.," she said. "It's not right."

  "What?"

  "I got to call somebody, verify you. Just take a second."

  "What's wrong with it?"

  Butler unclipped the plastic card and studied it for flaws.

  "They're not issuing those anymore. Five months out of date. I'm sorry, but we got orders. Some special deal going on."

  She had her phone pressed to her ear, tapping numbers.

  "I told you," Butler said. "I'm from engineering. I'm just filling in till Emilio gets back. A last-minute thing."

  "Just the same I got to report. Sorry. They're tightening security. Something's been happening, got everybody spooked."

  She gave him an apologetic shrug and he watched her as her face changed, focusing now on the voice in her ear.

  Butler glanced around. No one in line behind him, a small crowd gathered around one of the nearby blackjack tables groaning in unison as the last card was flipped.

  "Mr. Sugarman? It's Annette in the casino."

  Butler stared at her. Annette turned her back to him and cupped a hand around the mouthpiece.

  Butler took one more quick look around, then swung back to Annette and snaked his right hand through the bars of her cage and touched the voltage to the nape of her neck. A puff of dark smoke. Her legs sagged, the phone spilled from her hand, and the young woman sank to the floor.

  Carrying his tray, Butler turned away and walked through the crowd. Moving with special care, slow, strolling toward the stage where the Baby Boomers were belting out another sixties' favorite. "Three cats in the yard. Life used to be so hard."

  For a moment as he passed behind their set, he was invisible to the eyes in the sky, the three hundred video cameras that dotted the ceiling of the casino, each one concealed in a small dark globe. Then, directly behind the bass player, shielded from the casino floor, Butler swung open the back of one of their Panasonic speakers he'd customized earlier in the day. He slid the rack inside. One tray crammed in already. Grand total of eighty thousand dollars' worth of chips. Legal tender in any of Morton Sampson's two dozen cruise ship casinos. He drew out the second rack of counterfeit chips and headed back to the blackjack table.

  After he'd given the dealer his rack of phonies, Butler glided across the casino, heading casually toward the Atrium exit. He was only ten feet from the door when a woman howled from across the room. Annette's replacement standing inside the cashier's cage, one hand at her throat.

  At the same moment, a man about Butler's size, a light-skinned black man, came sprinting down the hall, headed directly toward him. Butler held his ground and the man veered through the doorway and collided headlong with two white-haired ladies, spilling their buckets of quarters. The man stopped short, apologized, helped them scoop up a couple of handfuls of coins. Then Annette's replacement screamed again and the black man apologized once more and hustled off.

  ***

  Next morning, Sunday, when the M.S. Eclipse docked in Key West for a seven-hour shopping tour, Butler was among the first wave of passengers down the gangplank. In gray jeans, long-sleeve blue work shirt, tennis shoes. Black sunglasses. Blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Hands empty.

  Positioned at the bottom of the ramp, the caramel-tinted man was studying th
e crew and passengers as they disembarked. Beside him was another man in tourist clothes and close-cropped hair. David Cruz, head of security. Butler saw a piece of poster board tacked to the bottom of the railing, the two men consulting it as waves of passengers made their way down the long gangplank.

  No doubt a hasty sketch based on Annette's description, a rendering of the man who called himself Jack. Evidently she wasn't up to sitting out in the sun all morning, checking the three thousand faces of crew and passengers. Dizzy and weak, her eyes were probably still blurred. Four hundred thousand volts would do that.

  Butler didn't try to strike up a conversation with anyone, didn't try to blend in. Just came striding down the ramp alone, even took off his sunglasses as he approached Mr. Sugarman. The man staring at him, taking a quick look at the sketch, then back at Butler, staring into his eyes. Cruz shifted his position, seemed to pick up his scent. But he kept coming down.

  Both men stared at Butler. He was a tall, thin man. Annette probably gave them that much for certain. But the rest of it, his nose, eyes, the shape of his cheekbones, those things were always tricky to describe. Even if she was looking directly at him, trying to put precise words to what she saw, most of it would get lost in translation. The words were the weak point. Most people just didn't have the words.

  Butler walked on by. The man called Sugarman giving Butler one last look then turning his attention back up the ramp. Searching for the next tall thin suspect.

  Butler crossed the parking lot, went around to the driver's side of his Winnebago, unlocked the door and climbed inside. Four days ago he'd parked it across from Mallory Square in a place where he could easily observe the cruise ship's ramp.

  Butler went back to the driver's seat and settled down, windows open, sunny Key West morning pouring in, the drowsy coconut breeze, that sweet stench of vomit that always seemed to bloom two blocks either side of Duval Street. He watched the shadows straggle along the sidewalk. His mind clear, only a mild ruffle in his pulse.