Halfway down the long dock, a familiar yacht floated peacefully in its slip.
He stopped and gazed up at the polished, cobalt-colored hull with an air of envy that was bordering on the genuine. Mentally noting its slip number, he continued on, nonchalantly examining the other multimillion dollar ships that fidgeted in their slips like sleeping giants as he sipped his morning cocktail. A few minutes later, the teak and chrome-finished stern of another familiar ship came into view. He drained the last of the champagne from the delicate crystal flute and placed it on a nearby bench before stepping on board.
The deck of the fifty-six-foot sailing yacht Lorelei stood pristine and empty. After a quick check of his surroundings, he silently unlatched the door at the front of the cockpit and made his way below. Inside, the yacht’s interior was no less impressive. Polished maple walls and white oak floors glimmered in the well-lit and surprisingly large salon, with matching leather-trimmed furniture neatly fitted around a large table and desk. It was apparent that every inch of material that completed the cabin was both practical and perfectly finished; designed to meet the demanding expectations of both the sea and the ship’s owner.
He stood quietly for a moment, taking stock in his surroundings, before moving to the desk across from him and opening an overhead cabinet. A row of worn, well-used travel books filled the small compartment, their titles advertising exotic worldly destinations. He grabbed a thick volume on Russia and began absently thumbing through it when a dull knock suddenly echoed from the stateroom behind him. He quickly returned the book to the cabinet and moved cautiously towards the closed door, listening intently. A low grumbling noise came next, followed by another, all-too-human sound that forced a smile onto his face.
He turned the latch and walked in.
The dim light of the master stateroom revealed another lavishly functional arrangement of cabinets and fixtures, all following the gentle sweeping lines of the ship’s hull. Centered in the room, a king-sized bed that appeared sculpted from a single piece of wood was covered in a mess of sheets and pillows. Sticking out from beneath the sheets were a pair of pale, stout legs that appeared lifeless.
He walked over to the bed and cleared his throat loudly. The legs didn’t move.
“Dublin! Wake up!” he shouted.
Dublin’s portly torso immediately snapped upright as his arms frantically pulled at the sheets that covered him. He blinked wildly as his unshaven face popped out from under the bedding; his thick, hair-blotted chest heaving rapidly.
“Fookin’ hell, Chilly!” Dublin snapped as he scratched at his disheveled head of hair. “What the feck are you tryin’ to pull?”
He stepped back from the Irishman and waved at the air.
“Christ Dublin, do you always fart in your sleep?”
Dublin sat silently, his hands fumbling around for several seconds before pulling a wrinkled t-shirt from beneath the sheets. He put it on slowly, eyeing his colleague angrily from behind half-closed eyelids. “How the hell should I know what I do in my feckin’ sleep?” he replied. “Of course, I wasn’t asleep for that long,” he continued, his lips peeling back to reveal a waxy grin of yellow, smoke-stained teeth. “Thirty minutes earlier and you’d a walked into a veritable Brazilian orgy.”
“Right, of course.”
Dublin reached for a pack of cigarettes on the night stand. Next to them, his ever-present cell phones were neatly lined in a row. “I’m not shitting you, Chilly,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “I’ve never had a better time. The girls here are fookin’ amazing.” He stabbed a cigarette into his mouth.
“I believe you, I really do,” he replied. He reached out and grabbed the cigarette from Dublin’s mouth and flung it onto the bed. “Now put your cigarettes away and stop farting. It’s time to go to work.”
Dublin stared down the bed for a moment, his mind weighing the request, before irritably collecting the cigarette and stuffing it back in the pack. “Right, fine,” he said as he stood up from the bed. “But first I need some coffee.”
He followed Dublin into the galley and sat down at the table while the Irishman clumsily made coffee. A few minutes later he placed two steaming mugs on the table and sat down across from him.
“Jesus tis’ is a nice feckin’ boat,” Dublin whispered, looking around with envy. “I could def’nitely get used to staying here for a while.” He looked over and prodded his colleague with his coffee cup as his thin, whiskered lips stretched into another broad grin. “I can only imagine what kind of rat-infested terd-hut you’re staying in.”