The Emissary (15 page)

She liked him. Of everyone in the group, he seemed to be the easiest and most friendly of them all. And, of course, the most charming, which she noted for a second time.

Conversation ranged from predictions of the weather to technical things Jamie knew nothing about, and a sense of excitement prevailed. No one broached the subject of her work, and what they were expected to do, because there was no way of planning for what would happen. Orders from the top were simply to give her the space and tools she needed to do what she had to do—and it was left to everyone to figure that out. Their job was to manage the ship as usual, giving Jamie all the room and support she needed.

Having stuffed himself unmercifully, Jimbo was first to leave the table. He excused himself to go wash his hands and then, on returning, fell into his armchair. “Oh god, I think I ate too fast,” he said, patting his swollen stomach. With the exception of Liz, who barely ate, everyone else was filled to the brim as well, and one by one they pushed away from the table, stuffed. Alberto cleared some of the plates and then returned with steaming towels. When they were done, everyone moved into the TV room, leaving Jimbo the privacy of his space, into which he invited Jamie for a little private conversation.

He pulled a cigar and a cutter from a case on the table next to his chair, and sliced off the tip, to prepare for a smoke. Almost defiantly, he held the cigar between his fingers, about to light it, and said, “Needless to say, you don’t smoke.”

Jamie smiled. Her premonition had been right—the fun was about to begin. “When the occasion calls for it, I have been known to smoke a cigar or two.” She walked back over to the dining table, where her purse was hanging over the back of her chair. From it, she extracted a box of exclusive Cuban cigars. She carried it back over to Jimbo, placing it on the coffee table in front of him. “But I only smoke Cohibas.”

Jimbo looked down at the table, amazed. He could barely believe his eyes: a full box of Cohibas—a rare, exquisite cigar by any standards, and expensive. Damned expensive.

“This would qualify as one of those occasions,” she added, triumphantly.

He couldn’t contain his delight. “A cigar-smoking, vegetarian, San Francisco psychic! Haha! That’s rich, man. Wow. This is one unexpected surprise, Miss Jamie.” He ran his fingers over the name on the box. “Cohibas. Now how in the hell could you know?” He immediately put his cigar back in its case, and then picked up the box before him, dramatically passing it under his nose from corner to corner, breathing it in—savoring it. “I am without words.”

“Well, hey, Captain, they don’t call me ‘psychic’ for nothing, you know?”

Jimbo held the box in his hands, a precious gift that he wasn’t about to let go of, and he leaned back into the cushion of his armchair. He had a big Cheshire cat grin all over his face, like a kid at Christmas. “Call me Jimbo,” he said. He peeled back the protective wax-paper wrapper ceremoniously. “Wowza. Cohibas Esplendidos,” he said, and then carefully opened the hinge, broke the seals and meticulously extracted two cigars from the box. As generous as he always was, he never even considered offering one to anyone else. This was Jamie’s and his bonding moment, and no one else was invited.

Taking time to enjoy the ritual, he performed the tip-cutting
ceremony, preparing for the smoke of a lifetime. “Cohibas,” he said. “This is really something, I tell you.”

“Shouldn’t we take these outside?” Jamie asked, knowing how invasive the smell of cigar smoke could be in closed spaces.

Jimbo’s eyes were shining, reflecting the flame of the lighter, as he leaned forward to light Jamie’s cigar. “Not with a box of Cohibas
inside
.” He delighted in Jamie’s style as she drew on her cigar, like a seasoned smoker, and then he lit his, breathing it in with gusto. “Oh yeah …” He got up and walked over to the bar, to a cabinet marked CAPTAIN’S STASH, from where he extracted a bottle of vintage scotch. He took two glasses and then set both bottle and glasses down on the table, and poured them both a drink.

Jamie raised her glass. “To special occasions!”

“Yes, ma’am. To many more.”

She sipped her scotch and puffed on the cigar, while Jimbo watched her, fascinated.

“I do apologize, Miss Jamie. I admit it—I had you figured as some kind of off-the-wall, woo woo mama. Guess you could say I had a bias. I am sorry about that. I should have known better. I should have trusted Mat—he knows what he’s doin’.”

“Off the wall, maybe … but ‘woo woo mama’? Now that’s a new one!” she replied.

“You’re one interesting woman, let me tell you.” He downed the entire glass of scotch and immediately poured himself another. He’d been drinking all afternoon at the bar, had umpteen beers at dinner, and now he was belting back the scotch. Doc, who observed quietly from across the room, kept close watch on him.

Jamie sipped her drink slowly. She didn’t really like the taste of hard liquor, but this was part of her rite of initiation with Jimbo. The scotch had to be drunk and the cigar had to be smoked. “So, tell me, how did you end up sailing ships?” she asked.

“Me? I’ve been on ships almost all my life—ever since I was a half-cocked stupid punk, old enough to enlist in the Marines. Shipped out to ’Nam before I had a clue what kind of a fool-ass thing I had done, but back then … it was either enlist or get drafted, so I thought I would ‘be a man’ and volunteer to serve my country. With the best.” He laughed, sardonically. “I served under Mat Anderson—running patrol boats out there. He saved my life once or twice, too.” He tapped the ashes of the cigar into the ashtray. “Followed Mat into the company and been here ever since, running their ships, lookin’ for shit.” Jimbo paused, looking down, and then he changed the subject, intentionally. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the leather cord with the shark’s tooth, to show Jamie. “Got me a lot of trophies, too. Remember that big mutha white shark, Doc?”

Doc nodded. He didn’t want to hear that same old story told again. Jamie looked over at Philippe, who was half-watching TV with the others. They exchanged glances.

Jimbo drank another full shot of scotch, smacking his lips, laughing. “Ol’ Doc, he’s out there swimming around one sunny day—right out there in the middle of the open ocean. You have to be crazy to do that. Now me, see, I never go into the water. Too much respect for what’s out there. I mean … the ocean just is not human habitat. So, there I am, sitting out on deck, looking out at that crazy man out there and I see me this big ol’ giant fin, moving fast … moving in close to Doc. And I start screaming at him, but he can’t hear shit, ’cuz he’s upwind of the ship.” Jimbo gesticulated wildly, heatedly telling the story. “So I get up and I grab me the spear gun, and I shoot that white belly jaw’s ass dead.” He laughed again, smacking his knee with his hand, the cigar between his teeth. By now, Jimbo was so drunk he was slurring his words. “Ol’ Doc, he almost died of a heart attack when he seen all that shark blood oozing all through the water—he
thought it might have been his own leg or something at first, ain’t that the case, Doc?”

Doc nodded again. He was not amused.

Jimbo laughed heartily, as he relived the story. “You should have seen him tear ass back up to the ship—I have never seen anybody swim like that in my life. And me, I’m looking off on the horizon and I see the ocean filling up with more of them big ol’ whites, swimming around behind him.” He stopped laughing, abruptly, and his mood shifted. “We pulled him out just in time, man … just in time. Doc, he was pretty shook up, all right—never did see him go back out in the deep blue after that.”

Fin, who had been curled at Jimbo’s feet, was becoming restless and agitated.

“And I pulled in that cord with that big spear in his belly, and dragged that big white over to the railing … I bet he must have weighed ten tons at least, and I cut myself out this trophy—right out of his jaws. Made sure he was good and dead first, you understand.”

Doc interrupted. “He might have weighed a ton at the max.”

“Hell, I’m the one who pulled him up to the ship. I’m saying he was a ten-ton mutha.”

“Sure, Jimbo, whatever you say.”

The dog now walked across the room to the door, out, and then back in again, barking. He went right up to Jamie and nudged her, and then went back to the door—looking back, to see if she was following.

“Looks like somebody’s made a friend,” Jimbo said.

Fin whined. Waited. Something strange was going on outside.

She put out her half-smoked cigar. “Excuse me a moment,” she told Jimbo, and then she walked up to Fin, who waited anxiously at the door, where several jackets were hanging on a rack. She helped herself into one, and followed him out on deck—over to the railing, where he got up on his hind legs, with his front paws on the edge,
and stood there, whimpering and crying, as he stared out into the darkness of the midnight sea.

At first she couldn’t make out what it was that was agitating him, but then Jamie saw what he saw. There was a small pod of dolphins, leaping in and out of the water—not too far from the ship—and they were chattering and communicating with Fin. He barked, they chirped and whistled—it was a dialogue. He barked at Jamie, telling her he wanted to go into the water. She could hear him pleading with her.

Jimbo heard the barking from inside and called out, commanding Fin to come back in. He looked longingly at the water, wanting to go play with the dolphins.

Jamie watched in amazement. “Sorry, fella—the boss has spoken.”

“Fin! Get your ass back in here!” Jimbo’s booming command resounded through the doorway. Fin tucked his tail between his legs and he and Jamie returned to the lounge. He slinked straight over to Jimbo, obedient—but fearful, because he wasn’t used to being reprimanded, especially by Jimbo, who usually cut him so much slack. Jimbo roughed him up, playfully. “You’re okay, boy—I just want you to leave those damned dolphins alone, you hear me?”

Jamie was so intrigued. Apparently this wasn’t out of the ordinary—Fin had direct contact with dolphins. She was eager to talk more about it, but it would have to wait until the light of day, after the captain had slept off his drunk.

“I worry about you, boy,” Jimbo said, putting his head down close to Fin’s and throwing his arms around the dog’s neck.

Aware of how drunk Jimbo was becoming, Doc stood up and announced to everyone that it was time to turn in. “We’ve got an early-morning wake-up call and a full-day sail ahead, people. Let’s call it a night.” He started turning off lights, and Alberto picked up glasses, to run the dishwasher before closing up shop. Sam and Liz said their goodnights and walked out together. Philippe
volunteered to take Fin out for a quick walk in the parking lot, so that he could do his thing before going to bed.

“You make sure and keep him on the leash,” Jimbo said, “or he’ll be jumpin’ off the dock again.”

Jamie ignored Doc and stayed, observing Jimbo. What an interesting man he was. Behind that tough exterior, she felt his vulnerability and loneliness, no matter how well he managed to keep it hidden. She could see him. Jimbo the sailorman had gotten lost somewhere out at sea, and never really ever made it home again. He was searching for something—a lighthouse to guide him back from some dark place in his soul. Filled with a sense of compassion and tenderness, she walked over to Jimbo’s chair, leaned over, and hugged him. “Thank you for letting me in,” she said, and then she kissed him on the head and left.

“Okay, Jimmy, that’s it for tonight,” said Doc. “C’mon, I’ll walk you home.”

Jimbo was still feeling that gentle moment—innocence—something that happened so rarely in his life anymore. “She’s all right, this Miss Jamie, eh, Doc? A real class act.” He reached for the bottle to pour another glass, but Doc took it from him.

“That’s it for tonight, Jimmy. Doctor’s orders.”

“Where’s the Fin man?”

“He knows where to find you—now come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Doc held out an arm, as Jimbo steadied himself.

“Just like old times, eh, Doc?”

“Yeah, Jimmy boy, just like old times,” Doc grumbled, under his breath. He held Jimbo up, helping him walk down to his quarters, just barely managing to get him to the bed before he blacked out. As Doc was reaching up into the storage cabinet to get blankets to throw over Jimbo, Fin came quietly into the room and brushed up close to his master, licking his hand and whimpering.

Doc patted him on the head as he was leaving. “He’s okay, boy. It’s just another Saturday night.”

And then Fin curled up in his bed, right next to his master: the captain who truly feared the sea, and his dog, who loved it for him.

Jamie woke up feeling like the inside of an ashtray, stinking of smoke and still scorched from the burn of the scotch and cigar in her throat and mouth. She wasn’t a smoker and she rarely drank hard liquor, and now she was paying for doing both: the price of wearing cool shoes for Jimbo.

The gentle sway of the ship in the water had rocked her through the night like an infant in the womb, and now, with the soft hum of the engines, she felt cocooned and so dreamy-like she just couldn’t bring herself to get out of bed. She split the curtains over the headboard enough to allow a sliver of light to crack the shell of darkness in which she lay nested, waking from such deep sleep and slowly adjusting to daylight. Jamie lay there, meditating, wondering what gifts would be given to her on Day One of her passing, hopefully without incident, through the Ides of March.

And yes, she was superstitious.

The sound of male voices and some scurrying around outside on deck invaded, creating a sense of obligation to get up and get going. Begrudgingly, she leaned over to check the time: 10:30. She could not believe her eyes. How in the world had she slept that late? Surely one glass of scotch couldn’t have knocked her out to the point that she would sleep more than ten hours! She threw on her robe and went into the living room, where she pulled back the
curtains on a beautiful sunny day, with only ocean as her landscape. She slid open the doors and stepped out onto her private terrace—breathing the pure, ionized air and the vitality of the open seas deeply into her lungs, and reminding the cells of her body what oxygen was really like.