Beauty Queens (30 page)

“I saw something like this on Predators of the Deep Week,” Chu said. “Bloke got stung by a jellyfish and his whole leg swelled up like a dirigible. They had to cut his leg clean off to save him.”

Charlie moaned in pain.

“Not helpful,” Nicole said.

“Please,” Charlie said, teeth still chattering. “Please help me.”

“What can we do? We have to do something!” Miss Ohio said.

“There is one thing that works,” Nicole said.

“What’s that?” Ahmed asked.

“Urine.”

“Gross,” Miss Ohio said.

George shook his head. “I’m not peeing on Charlie.”

An argument broke out about who would be willing to step forward and do the deed.

“M’ bleedin’ leg’s on fire! I don’t care what you do — just do it!” Charlie screamed, but it was as if everyone had been paralyzed.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Petra groused, marching forward. Quickly, she lifted her skirt, dropped her undies, and peed on Charlie’s leg.

“Thank you,” Charlie whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Petra said.

The pirates stood dumbfounded as Petra collected herself and smoothed her skirt back into place. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” she said as she walked away.

Captain Sinjin watched her go, openmouthed. Finally, he broke into a huge, face-breaking grin.

“Bodacious!” he said.

CLASSIFIED
ISLAND
20:15 HOURS

Agent Jones dipped the darts in the liquid Mind’s Flower. Since the unfortunate incident with Miss Texas he’d had to replace his stock. It made him feel safe to have them. And considering how screw-the-pooch things were going on the island, he needed something to make him feel safe.

Harris breezed past in a Knicks jersey, a ridiculous sweatband across his head. “Looking a little rough today, Jonesy,” Harris said.

Agent Jones did not look up. “Did you fix the manual override system?”

Harris put up his hands in a back-off gesture. “Going to. Got a pickup game with some of the black shirts in a few.” Harris faked a jump shot. “Nothing but net.”

“Don’t do that, Harris. It’s cliché.”

“What crawled up your ass today?”

“Pirates,” Agent Jones answered.

Harris nodded. “Whatever floats your boat. Ha! I made a pun. Get it? Boat? Pirates?”

Agent Jones closed his eyes for a second and tried to cast his mind back to a more pleasant time, when he had helped stage a brutal coup in a small South American republic. Bullets flying. Grenades exploding. Pandemonium and blood and screaming in the streets. And no Harris.

“Don’t you have something to do?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I might. You don’t think I can handle this, do you?”

Agent Jones did not answer.

“Well, you are going to be surprised. I can handle myself just fine. I already did handle myself. Wait, that came out wrong.”

Agent Jones packed away the fourth dart. One more to go.

“Don’t you want to know what I did?”

“No.”

“Just a little.”

“No.”

“I’ll bet you can’t guess —”

“No.”

Harris was quiet for a full fifteen seconds.

“Fine, I’ll tell you. Remember Benny from product development? The one who came up with our Lady ’Stache Off bomb? I killed him.”

“Did you find out his contact first?”

Harris’s shoulders sagged like a flotation device losing air. “I killed him. Me. I did it.”

“Without finding out his contact first.”

“See, the way you say it, all negative like that, makes it sound like I messed up.”

“You did mess up.”

“No. I was
proactive.
The suits love it when you are proactive.”

“The agency loves it when you are effective.”

Harris’s mouth tightened, sphincterlike. “You’re a bummer, Jonesy. I’m gonna shoot some hoops.”

“You do that,” Agent Jones muttered. By the time he finished his darts, he’d made a decision: He wasn’t telling the Boss about the pirates.

The elevator carried him down to the fifth floor. The fifth floor housed the weapons and detention cells.

It was time to get some information out of Tane Ngata.

Rum is made from sugarcane and aged in barrels. There are various forms of rum — dark, golden, white, spiced, aged, flavored — but they all share one distinctive quality: They will get you drunk. And if you’ve spent quite a bit of time on a deserted island eating coconut and grubs, rum will get you drunk rather quickly and thoroughly.
⁴²

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest. Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of freaking awesome!” Adina said in a loud voice. She slurred a bit so that
awesome
came out more like
aweshumme.
“I changed my mind. I don’t want to be an inveshtigative journalist anymore. I want to be a professional rum drinker.”

“There are people who do that,” Duff said. He’d barely sipped his rum.

“Really? What do you call them?”

“Alcoholics.”

“Good to know.
Three little maids from school are we
…” sang Adina. “My dads took me to see
The Pirates of Penzance
last year in New York. That song goes very fast. It’s a pit … a potter … pas …”

“Patter song?”

“That.” Adina took another swig.

“Speaking of fast, you might want to slow down on that grog a bit, matey.”

Duff went for the bottle, but Adina yanked it away, spilling some in the process. “That is an example of a man being paternalishtic with a woman.”

Duff shrugged. “Or it could be an example of a friend who really doesn’t want to clean puke from your hair later.”

“You would clean puke from my hair?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be my preferred activity, but I would.”

“Awww. That … is so romantic. Still. My body, my bottle.”

“Whatever you say, captain.”

The bottle was passed to Shanti, who shook her head. “I’m total straightedge.”

She passed it on to Nicole, who took a whiff and made a face. “Yikes. I’m pretty sure I could clean a wound with that.” She shoved the bottle at Captain Sinjin, who dabbed some behind his ears like aftershave and then threaded a stale block of marshmallow onto a stick for Petra.

The captain had been watching Petra all night, Nicole noticed. “I need to get something from my hut. Shanti, will you come with me?” She flicked a glance in Petra and Sinjin’s direction.

“Sure,” Shanti said, picking up on the inference. “Party’s moving to our hut, everybody.”

“Captain?” Duff asked.

Sinjin glanced furtively at Petra. “Nah. Catch you blokes later.”

Sinjin and Petra were alone.

“So.”

“So.”

“Nice night.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Just so we’re clear, you’ve got a, um, a … a …”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Just, y’know, making sure.”

Petra looked up to the moon as if appealing to its grace. She liked this one and wanted more, but she was afraid there was no hope of that.

“Sorry, I just … So you used to be a guy. J. T. Woodland. Of Boyz Will B Boyz.”

“Yes.” “Right.”

“It’s okay. I can tell you’re freaked out.”

Petra started to get up. Sinjin took her wrist gently. “Well, yeah. But mostly because you used to be in Boyz Will B Boyz. That’s unbelievable! I mean, you played Top of the Pops!”

Petra allowed a small smile. He had surprised her. That didn’t happen often. She sat down again. “Should I tell you the story?”

“Yeah.”

“How much should I tell you?”

“Everything.”

She did, and when she finished Sinjin nodded, taking it all in. “Blimey. Your manager sounds like a right bastard.”

“Now it’s your turn,” Petra said. “What about you?”

“Me?” Sinjin thought for a moment. He wasn’t good with disclosure. And he had nothing to compare to Petra’s tale. What if she thought he was shallow or boring? Unworthy? He wasn’t used to being taken off guard, but Petra made him feel both comfortable and nervous at the same time, as if he knew he was safe from the elimination round but he wanted to do his best and impress anyway. More than anyone he had ever met, he wanted her to like him. Because he really, really liked her.

“I grew up in an orphanage in London. Horrible place.”

“Really?”

Sinjin nodded. “Mmm. Saffron Hill.”

Petra raised an eyebrow. “Saffron … Hill?”

“Yes, Saffron Hill. And a terrible place it was. Made us work all the day, never got enough food. Mr. Bumble — the headmaster — used to beat us.”

“Sounds like you had a dickens of a time.”

Sinjin glanced at Petra’s impassive expression. “Indeed, indeed. Finally, at fifteen, I couldn’t take it any longer. I ran away. Lived on the streets with m’ pal, Jack D —”

“Dawkins?”

“D’you know him?”

“Our mutual friend? Purely coincidental. Go on.”

Sinjin’s grin spread. “I had great expectations about how my life would go and then …”

“… Nicholas Nickleby! — you fell on hard times and were living in a real bleak house.”

“Absolutely. I was totally scrooged.”

“What a pip.” Petra’s smile wobbled into a laugh. “If you figure out how to work
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
into it, I’m yours for life.”

Sinjin laughed. It was a good laugh, Petra thought.

“So what’s the real story?”

Sinjin shrugged and leaned back. “The real story is dead boring. I grew up in London with me mum and dad, sister, brother, and a parakeet named Benny Hill.”

“Come on!” Petra laughed.

“Swear!” Sinjin raised three fingers on his right hand like a scout’s pledge. “M’ parents are still very much in love. We have this old piano, and on Friday nights we’d sing and eat beans on toast and watch telly all together and have a laugh. It’s a nice, comfortable life. That’s the tragedy of it. I’ve got no dark secrets. I love my family and mates. I’m just as content playing darts as I am waiting for the bus. I see beauty in everything. I’m a
happy person,”
Sinjin said with utter sincerity. “God. That’s awful, isn’t it?”

“I think that’s lovely.”

“Thanks,” Sinjin said, almost shyly. Carefully, he tucked a strand of hair behind Petra’s ear and let his hand rest for a moment against the soft, wide plain of her cheekbone. “I think you’re beautiful. And brave. And really fucking cool.
And
you can make Charles Dickens puns.”

Petra leaned the weight of her face into Sinjin’s palm. “You know who and what I am. So, if this is just the old curiosity shop, you can stop right now.”

Sinjin looked her in the eyes. There was not a trace of smirk in his expression. “‘I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.’”

“David Copperfield
,” Petra whispered, positioning her lips close to his.

“Why are you bringing magicians into it?” Sinjin said and kissed her tenderly. It was a kiss small in its ministrations but epic in its feeling.

Petra broke the kiss. “Your mates may give you a hard time about this.”

“I don’t care. If I like somebody, I like her, and that’s that.” He thumped his chest and made a scowly face. “Let ’em come for me. I will stare down the mob with their pitchforks! I will make a speech about tolerance and love! I will show them the folly of their ways! And then I will grab your hand and run like hell because, Jesus, a mob with pitchforks?”