The Mountains Bow Down by Sibella Giorello Page B

up, speaking to me like an interrogator. “What is the name of this person?”
    Satan .
    â€œJack Stephanson,” I said.
    He thanked Candice, then hung up.
    â€œNice cabin. Ocean view with a patio. Living room, the whole thing.”
    Sure. Jack gets the suite. Meanwhile I was practically in steerage.
    â€œYou know what would be nice,” I said, feeling a sinister hope. “If you could find some poor deserving people and give them the deluxe cabin. The agent could take their cabin.”
    â€œYah, what I’m doing. The agent will be next door to you.”
    I suppressed a sob.
    â€œWhat is wrong?” he asked.
    â€œNothing. Do you still have that bracelet?”
    â€œStupid question. It is in the safe.”
    â€œMay I borrow it?”
    The white eyebrows avalanched into a frown.
    â€œI noticed that you didn’t show it to the husband.”
    â€œI am waiting,” he said.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor when he is not drunk.”
    â€œThat might take awhile,” I said. “May I show it to him, to see his reaction? I can bring it right back.”
    He thought about it before swiveling toward the safe and once again opening it. He handed me a clear plastic bag. An evidence bag. Which told me he did have suspicions.
    Even in the mundane bag, the blue gems glittered, luscious with wealth. Sapphires or tanzanite? I wondered again.
    â€œYou know where he is?” Geert asked.
    â€œCarpenter? No.”
    â€œHe is in the Sky Bar,” Geert said. “And he is drunk.”

    The Sky Bar perched over the ship’s aft with a space-age design full of sleek picture windows and skylights. Even parts of the floor were Plexiglas, and as I walked over to the movie star hunched over his drink at the bar, the view of the ocean below inflicted mild vertigo. Since we left Seattle, Milo Carpenter had worn sunglasses, even indoors. Here, it made sense. So much white light flooded the place everything looked like an overexposed photograph.
    I took a stool beside him. The famous firm jaw was whiskered gray and brown, his skin slack. Shock did that. Lack of sleep. Too much alcohol.
    Or the strain from covering up your wife’s murder .
    The bartender kept silent watch over his lone patron, washing and wiping glasses. The brass name tag on his uniform said “Corey, The Philippines.”
    â€œYou’re open, right?” I said.
    â€œYes, we are closed,” Corey said.
    I looked at Milo. No reaction. “I’m with him,” I said.
    The actor looked up. His dark Wayfarers were like black panels over his eyes. His forehead suddenly wrinkled with curiosity. During my two days consulting on the movie, I’d noticed curiosity never lasted long.
    He went back to his drink.
    â€œWhat you like?” Corey asked me.
    â€œCoca-Cola, please. With ice cubes, no crushed ice.”
    â€œYes, crushed ice.”
    â€œYes. Cubes.”
    Milo bent his elbows on the bar, guarding three fingers of bourbon. The bartender walked away and I no longer cared what was in my Coke.
    â€œYou doing all right,” I asked Milo, “considering what happened?”
    He smiled. A perfect smile. Teeth like a Steinway.
    â€œHere, you can have this.” He grabbed a pen beside his tab, then picked up the white coaster Corey set down for my Coke. Scrawling his name on the cardboard, he offered it to me. “Auction my autograph on eBay, you’ll make good money.”
    The M looked like a ragged mountain range. The C was an O with the middle bitten out.
    â€œI wanted to talk to you about this morning.” I placed the coaster back on the bar. “Can we go somewhere private?”
    â€œTalk, like, an FBI agent?” The perfect smile disappeared.
    â€œRight.” I nodded. “Not for the movie.”
    The bartender turned discreetly and puttered toward a back sink. Milo stared at the man’s back, then unsaddled himself from the bar stool, slowly