had filled his bag and wanted out.
Unfortunately, I distanced myself from the expedition by staying on the boat. A bad bilge pump was my excuse.
• • •
THAT’S WHAT I WAS DOING, lying on my belly, arm deep in the aft access port, when I heard the distant whap-whap of what was probably a screen door but could have been Mick, our stoned leader, hammering off a lock.
I raised my head, but the view was blocked by two black engine cowlings, so I returned to work. My boat carries four high-speedpumps, a redundancy system for running wide open in heavy seas. Using the braille system, I was testing the float switches on each pump when, a minute later, I heard a faraway siren . . . then another siren much closer.
No need for concern. Venice is a low-crime area, but heart attacks and head-on collisions are indifferent to geography and the sunniest of days. The combination nagged at me, though. I couldn’t convince myself. What if the house was equipped with a silent alarm and police were on their way? Fallsdown, even Tomlinson, might be cuffed and taken to jail.
Damn it.
I got to my knees to seal the access port, which is when I heard a man yell, “Hey . . . you! I’m a cop—I need your boat.”
Was he talking to me? Yes—a nervous man in blue sweats, mid-twenties, head shaved, with a goatee. He had crossed the beach unheard because of the sirens and stood at the water’s edge, yards away. Undercover cops sometimes wear jogging suits, but their heads do not swivel frantically when commandeering a vehicle. Nor do they carry a duffel bag in one hand while aiming what looked like a .22 pistol at the face of a surprised citizen.
That would be me.
I said, “If you’re in trouble, this is the worst possible way to handle it. What happened back there?”
The man splashed toward the boat, pistol elevated. “Shut up and do what I tell you.”
“Do you want me out?” I was hoping he did.
He swung the bag aboard, needed both hands because it was heavy. “Start the engines,” he said.
That told me he wanted a hostage or was unfamiliar with boats. I scanned foliage beneath the orange roof, sirens louder now. Thewhap-whap I’d heard could have been his .22 pistol. Tomlinson, Dunk, or the tour guide might be lying in pools of blood. The possibility converted my surprise into anger. Even so, there was not a damn thing I could do for my friends that police and EMTs couldn’t do better when they arrived.
My heart, which had been thudding, began to slow—symptomatic of a change in my attitude. Decision time: Throw myself over the side, swim beneath the boat and take the guy under before he climbed aboard? The move risked a bullet before our watery wrestling match.
No . . . the image of Tomlinson or Fallsdown wounded or dead demanded a cleaner, sharper response.
I made my decision.
Rather than pull the stern anchor, I tossed the line free, eager to put a few miles of water between my boat and any beach-walker witnesses.
“Hop in,” I told the man.
SIX
I’ve known good athletes who had the physiques of McDonald’s clerks. A couple of all-American wrestlers so mild-mannered, so shy, they would have looked right at home stocking shelves at Kmart. Gauging ability based on size is typical of our culture, but unwise, naïve—dangerous, too, in a violent situation.
Like now. My boat had been commandeered by a man who was unimposing, even clumsy when he’d tumbled aboard. But so what? A heavy duffel bag and a gun proved nothing. He could be a skilled burglar . . . or a psycho killer with a new trophy to add to his collection.
Something he could also add were my billfold, my phone, and a fine Gerber multi-tool he’d pocketed after ordering me to empty my pockets on the deck. Clumsy or not, the man was careful. Which is why I was thinking,
Pick your move. Make it clean, something you can explain without ending up behind bars—or dead.
Standing at the controls, I considered options while we
Unfortunately, I distanced myself from the expedition by staying on the boat. A bad bilge pump was my excuse.
• • •
THAT’S WHAT I WAS DOING, lying on my belly, arm deep in the aft access port, when I heard the distant whap-whap of what was probably a screen door but could have been Mick, our stoned leader, hammering off a lock.
I raised my head, but the view was blocked by two black engine cowlings, so I returned to work. My boat carries four high-speedpumps, a redundancy system for running wide open in heavy seas. Using the braille system, I was testing the float switches on each pump when, a minute later, I heard a faraway siren . . . then another siren much closer.
No need for concern. Venice is a low-crime area, but heart attacks and head-on collisions are indifferent to geography and the sunniest of days. The combination nagged at me, though. I couldn’t convince myself. What if the house was equipped with a silent alarm and police were on their way? Fallsdown, even Tomlinson, might be cuffed and taken to jail.
Damn it.
I got to my knees to seal the access port, which is when I heard a man yell, “Hey . . . you! I’m a cop—I need your boat.”
Was he talking to me? Yes—a nervous man in blue sweats, mid-twenties, head shaved, with a goatee. He had crossed the beach unheard because of the sirens and stood at the water’s edge, yards away. Undercover cops sometimes wear jogging suits, but their heads do not swivel frantically when commandeering a vehicle. Nor do they carry a duffel bag in one hand while aiming what looked like a .22 pistol at the face of a surprised citizen.
That would be me.
I said, “If you’re in trouble, this is the worst possible way to handle it. What happened back there?”
The man splashed toward the boat, pistol elevated. “Shut up and do what I tell you.”
“Do you want me out?” I was hoping he did.
He swung the bag aboard, needed both hands because it was heavy. “Start the engines,” he said.
That told me he wanted a hostage or was unfamiliar with boats. I scanned foliage beneath the orange roof, sirens louder now. Thewhap-whap I’d heard could have been his .22 pistol. Tomlinson, Dunk, or the tour guide might be lying in pools of blood. The possibility converted my surprise into anger. Even so, there was not a damn thing I could do for my friends that police and EMTs couldn’t do better when they arrived.
My heart, which had been thudding, began to slow—symptomatic of a change in my attitude. Decision time: Throw myself over the side, swim beneath the boat and take the guy under before he climbed aboard? The move risked a bullet before our watery wrestling match.
No . . . the image of Tomlinson or Fallsdown wounded or dead demanded a cleaner, sharper response.
I made my decision.
Rather than pull the stern anchor, I tossed the line free, eager to put a few miles of water between my boat and any beach-walker witnesses.
“Hop in,” I told the man.
SIX
I’ve known good athletes who had the physiques of McDonald’s clerks. A couple of all-American wrestlers so mild-mannered, so shy, they would have looked right at home stocking shelves at Kmart. Gauging ability based on size is typical of our culture, but unwise, naïve—dangerous, too, in a violent situation.
Like now. My boat had been commandeered by a man who was unimposing, even clumsy when he’d tumbled aboard. But so what? A heavy duffel bag and a gun proved nothing. He could be a skilled burglar . . . or a psycho killer with a new trophy to add to his collection.
Something he could also add were my billfold, my phone, and a fine Gerber multi-tool he’d pocketed after ordering me to empty my pockets on the deck. Clumsy or not, the man was careful. Which is why I was thinking,
Pick your move. Make it clean, something you can explain without ending up behind bars—or dead.
Standing at the controls, I considered options while we
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