Seagulls in My Soup by Tristan Jones

surprise, but not unexpected. Tony’s mouth opened slightly, but he said nothing.
    â€œA seventy-two-foot powerboat,” continued Shiner. He lit a Sobranie cigarette with a gold lighter in one continuous flow of movement, as we sailors stood silently and as Reynaud studied our faces.
“Aries,”
the Australian said.
    â€œThat’s her name?” I asked, stupidly.
    â€œRight, cobber.”
    â€œAries?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œOh.” An image of a ram flashed through my consciousness. “Algiers?”
    â€œAlgiers,” Reynaud said, flatly.
    I turned to him. “No problems—I mean, permits and all that? There’s been quite a bit of fireworks over there lately . . .”
    Reynaud looked up in slight puzzlement.
    Tony piped up. “Tristan means political trouble.”
    Reynaud smiled and shook his head. “That’s all taken care of.” Then he looked at Tony. “Where are your boats now, Mr. Rankin?”
    Quick as a flash, Shiner broke in. “As I mentioned to you, they’re in Gibraltar . . .”
    Tony’s face reddened very slightly.
    â€œAh, yes, Gibraltar, the famous Rock,” commented Reynaud. “A nice, safe place . . .”
    â€œYes,” I lied, “We’ve been there for a couple of weeks now, but Tony’s sailing up to Lisbon . . . to winter there.”
    Tony nodded as he pursed his lips and reddened even more, peering down at the Turkish carpet.
    Shiner said, “Good, then it’s settled. What would you like, gentlemen—tea, or a stiffener?”
    Tony and Reynaud both said “Tea.” I asked for a stiffener.
    â€œScotch and soda, right?”
    â€œBlack Label, but before we do that I’d like to sort out the details of the delivery.” I looked Reynaud straight in the eye. “First of all, when do we leave for Algiers?”
    â€œTomorrow at ten in the morning. There’s a flight to Oran—only an hour or so. Then we catch a train from there to Algiers. That’s a few hours, but we should be in Algiers by nine in the evening. We can stay at a hotel overnight and go on board
Aries
in the morning, to get ready to sail . . .”
    â€œSo you’re coming with us?”
    â€œNaturally.”
    I looked at Shiner. He grinned at me and lifted his scotch and soda, which had been swiftly served by a silent steward. “Here’s to
Aries
and a safe passage,” he toasted.
    â€œI’ll drink to that as soon as we’ve got the fee worked out,” I said, quietly.
    â€œJoin me for dinner tonight, Pierre?” Shiner asked.
    â€œI must meet with some business colleagues,” said Reynaud.
    â€œTristan?”
    â€œNever turn down a good scoff,” said I.
    â€œGood. Tony?”
    â€œPleasure,” said Tony, staring at the banknotes on the floor.
    Reynaud was still watching me, studying me.
    â€œWhat about payment?” I asked him.
    â€œAh, yes. Let’s see . . .” He gestured with the three-fingered hand. “Fifty pesetas to the dollar, right?”
    â€œAbout that.”
    Reynaud thought for a moment, then said, “Fifty thousand pesetas. Is that all right?”
    I kept a straight face. “Yes, I think that’ll be pretty fair. OK with you, Tony?”
    â€œCertainly,” replied my stooped, bespectacled mate.
    I thought to myself, ‘Fifty thousand pesetas—Jesus Christ, I’d sail bloody Franco himself around the Isle of Wight for half that right now!
A thousand dollars
—that will keep us going right through the winter.’
    â€œGood then, that’s settled,” said Reynaud. His clothes moved on his body as if they were dancing partners. “I’ll see you . . .” (there was a tiny hesitation) “ . . . gentlemen at nine in the morning.” Then he took his leave, trod over the banknotes