Antonio's frown deepened. My hand slowly started to drift behind me toward my gun. I didn't like the idea of a gunfight on a dock full of Fourth of July party-goers, but I liked the idea of being unprepared for one even less.
“Business?” Antonio asked. “What kinda...” He stopped, then his face brightened and he burst out laughing. “Holy shit, really? Is that what you guys came for? Hey, wait here. He’s gonna get such a kick out of this!” He walked into the yacht's cabin, and we heard his voice calling out. “Angie! Angie, come on out here! You ain't gonna believe who's here to conduct a little freakin' transaction with you!”
Bard turned to shoot us a bemused look.
A few moments later, a boy in a White Sox t-shirt with a matching baseball cap emerged from the cabin. He looked about ten years old. “Hi, I'm Angelo,” he said. “Most of my friends call me Angie, though. Are you guys really here to buy my Frank Thomas?” he asked.
“Your what?” Bard replied.
The boy reached into his pocket and carefully removed a baseball card encased in thick clear plastic. The picture showed a young black man in a White Sox uniform, kneeling on the diamond next to a plate as another player stepped on it.
“Frank Thomas,” Angie said incredulously, as though Bard had asked him whether water was really wet. “The Big Hurt? I've got his No Name Rookie Error Card from 1990, the first season he started playing for the Sox. My friend Nathan tried to tell me it was only worth $500, but I looked online and there was a website that said they only printed 100 of these so they're worth over $1,000. So do you want to buy it, or what?”
Sperm and I looked at the kid, then at each other.
“Call me crazy, boss,” Sperm said to Bard, “but I think maybe we've got the wrong boat.”
Chapter 35
Jewel
Growler held up one finger.
“Just the one?” I asked. “Really?”
Growler nodded. His tangled locks of hair billowed around his scarred face.
“Are you absolutely positive?” I teased, smiling. “Because I find it a little hard to believe you're holding that many good cards.”
Growler nodded again vigorously, holding up his index finger again.
“Okay,” I said, “but just so you know, if you're bluffing, I'm not falling for it.”
Growler nodded once more, switching to his middle finger.
I laughed. “All right, but when you lose, don't give me that puppy-dog eye of yours.”
Growler chuckled from deep in his throat, lowering his finger. I dealt him a single card. He carefully laid his four cards face-down on the cot in front of him, then added the fifth card to them and picked them up again. I couldn't imagine that patience was a common trait among bikers, and I was amazed by how much of it he showed in working around his disabilities. And once I got past his frightening appearance, it was easy to see that he was a very charming person in his way, with a wonderful sense of humor.
“Okay, dealer takes three,” I said, discarding three and replacing them from the deck.
Growler studied his cards for a moment, rearranged them, then put them face-down again and tossed three cocktail toothpicks with red plastic frills into the pile in the center.
“And we have a bet of three hundred from the handsome young man with the metal toes,” I said. “Well, sir, the house sees your three hundred, and raises you seven.” I took a toothpick with green frills from my pile and threw it into the center with the half-dozen others of various colors.
Growler thought for a moment, then shrugged and added seven red-frilled toothpicks to the pot. He pointed to the cards in my hand, then pointed to the cot, indicating that I should show my cards.
I put my cards on the cot face-up. “Three Queens.”
Growler flipped his cards over, revealing four deuces. He chortled to himself, sweeping the pile of toothpicks over to his side of the cot.
“You've got to be kidding!” I exclaimed. “How does one guy get so lucky, huh?”
Growler wrote on the blackboard, holding it up. “That's what I ask every day when I look in the mirror.”
I burst out laughing. Growler grinned.
“You want me to keep dealing?” I asked. He nodded and I scooped up the cards, shuffling them. I used to play Five-Card Draw with my grandmother when I visited her as a child, and it was one of the only card games I knew how to play. It was a good way to pass the time, and I knew Growler was trying to ease my mind while I waited for Rafe.
But I was still so nervous I could barely sit still. I was no longer fretting about how I would feel if I got shot. Instead, all I could think about was how I would feel if Rafe got shot.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
Growler scrawled on the board. “8 inches.”
I laughed again. “Jeez, you bikers and your dick jokes, I swear. No, what I wanted to ask...and I mean, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, obviously, or if it makes you uncomfortable...”
Growler pointed to his missing eye, tongue, arm, crotch, and feet, then drew a question mark in the air and cocked his head. Clearly, he knew I was going to ask how he'd lost them.
“Yeah, that,” I said, a lump in my throat. I hadn't known about his crotch until he pointed to it. Good lord, how awful, I thought.
Growler blinked at me with his one eye for a moment, then wrote on the board again. “Leprosy's a bitch.”
I stifled a laugh. I'd only known him for an hour, and already I found myself strangely inspired by him. I couldn't imagine the kind of inner strength it would take for someone to be able to make jokes after everything he'd been through.
It was funny, in a way. My entire life, I'd seen gangs of tough bikers in movies and TV shows, but I'd never actually met one until a few days ago. The fictional bikers were always portrayed as shallow, violent thugs and psychos. So far, the ones I had met in real life had surprised me tremendously.
“No, come on, seriously,” I replied. “Was it some kind of gang-related...thing? Was it anything like what Rafe's involved with now?”
Growler looked at me for almost a full minute, his expression a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. Finally, he wrote on the board. “Thinking about a future with him?”
“Was I that obvious?” I chuckled.
Growler nodded.
“It's just...this whole life is very new to me,” I explained hesitantly, trying to find the right words. “Before a few days ago, the most exciting thing that ever happened to me was almost getting hit by a car while crossing the street, and now I've been chased and shot at. I even killed someone yesterday. Can you believe that? Because I still can't.”
Growler raised an eyebrow in surprise, then made a “go on” gesture.
“And somehow, I've survived it all, and I want to believe that means I can survive whatever else I'd have to if Rafe and I were...you know.”
Growler put up two fingers and crossed them.
“Right,” I said. “But then I see you, and no offense, but whatever happened to you isn't something I had even considered as one of the risks before. For him, or for me. Which probably means there are about a hundred other risks I hadn't thought of either, right?”
Growler nodded.
“So I guess I'm sitting here, and I'm worried that he won't come back, or that only part of him will, or something else will happen that's horrible and too big for me to even imagine. And I'm wondering if anyone could possibly make a relationship work under those conditions.”
Growler thought for a moment, then wrote, carefully trying to squeeze all of his words into the board's limited space. “Many do under these conditions & worse. Only works if it's important enuff 4 them 2 make it work. Up 2 u.”
I nodded. He was right, of course. The world was full of cops, soldiers, rescue workers, and yes, even criminals, many of whom had to live with these same fears every day. Why couldn't I? Besides, despite my own previously-sheltered life, I still knew that unimaginable, unpredictable violence and tragedy could easily hit anyone anyway, forcing them to live with—or grieve—the consequences. At least I'd be more prepared for it than most.
“Thank you,” I said. “You're pretty wise for a biker.”
Growler wrote again. “Wasn't always. Lose 34% of ur body & u start 2 think about what u still have & how 2 make the most of it.”
Before I could respond, I heard a loud crash in the bar, followed by men's voices yelling and a sound I'd come to know much too well—shots from handguns and machine pistols.
Growler jumped up from the cot, surprisingly agile on his prosthetic feet. He motioned for me to get back against the rear wall, then tipped the cot over and slid it up against the door before locking it. He drew a gun from the back of his waistband and darted over to the back door, opening it just a crack.
I heard a voice outside yell “Back here!” a split-second before a machine gun opened fire, peppering Growler's torso with bullets.
“Growler!” I yelled, starting forward reflexively to catch him before he fell.
Growler roared from the back of his throat, gesturing for me to stay back. He staggered back, then regained his balance, slamming the door and locking it. He shoved the stack of tables and chairs, spilling them in front of the back door to barricade it.