Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (14 page)

“I just don’t want to deal with a dead body here at sea.”

“I promise not to die until we get back to Barnegat.”

“That is not funny.”

“I’ll tell you what’s funny. You worrying about me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you care.”

She snorted.

That snort hurt a bit, so he retorted, “You could use a little exercise yourself. I see some dimples on those thighs of yours.”

Ronnie gasped. If there was anything that was universal to women, it was concern about their thighs. Flossie even bought some $200 cellulite cream one time. He’d instinctively gone for the jugular with Ronnie. In truth, she looked fine . . . more than fine. Jake should be here to see her in that gold bathing suit with the black squiggles around the edges. He’d never let her go then.

“You are a nasty old man,” she said.

“Yeah.”

She dropped down to the floor beside him.

“What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously.

“If you can’t beat them, join them.”

“Well, that’s as clear as fog.”

“If you can do push-ups, then so can I. Besides, as you said, I need to work on my cellulite.”

So it was that five minutes later, they were still doing push-ups side by side. He had to admire his granddaughter. She was keeping up with him just fine.

Then Peach came on deck. “Those are sissy push-ups. You’re doing them wrong.”

He and Ronnie flattened themselves on the deck with a groan. They would have to start over.

“Well, big shot,” Ronnie said, “wanna show us how the big boys do push-ups?”

“Sure.” He smiled at Ronnie in a way Frank did not like. Not one bit. And did he have to walk around in only a bathing suit, showing off all those muscles? It was indecent for a man to be that fit.

“You need to prop yourself on the toes of your shoes and don’t go all the way down. Make your body parallel with the deck when you drop.”

They did several of those, and Frank’s heart about gave out. Then they changed to another “rotation,” this time one-arm push-ups. Peach was yelling, “Push ’em up! Push ’em up! Down! One! Down! Two! Down! Three!” like a badass drill sergeant. That was when Frank said to himself, “Forget this!” and resumed his regular push-ups. Ronnie kept up with Peach as best she could; he was probably doing them easier than he normally would.

Brenda walked up to them then, a coffee cup in her hand. Apparently, coffee was okay on her frickin’ fart diet. “Can I lose weight doing those?” she asked Peach. He and Ronnie sat up and took a breather, resting their forearms on their bent knees.

“Sure, but better yet, you’ll tone your muscles, especially if you add sit-ups and butt crunches to your routine. You’ll definitely lose inches.”

Brenda set her cup on the side and said, “I’m in. I need to look like Pamela Anderson without the boobs in six weeks.”

“I wish I had some weights,” Peach said. “They’re the best for toning and muscle definition. Even ankle weights would be good.”

“I wish I had one of those high-velocity fans,” Brenda said, as she huffed and puffed during her push-ups.

“There’s an air conditioner,” Frank pointed out.

“Yeah, but it’s not powerful enough. It’s hotter than Hades down there when the range and oven are both going full blast.”

“Well, if we’re talking about wishes, I wish I had a Starbucks double mocha latte with whipped cream. Yeah, I know, Brenda, there are way too many calories in the whipped cream. But it’s the best pick-me-up in the world.”

Only women could continue to yammer away when they are working up a sweat,
Frank thought.

“Coffee isn’t good for you,” Peach told Ronnie.

Peach, on the other hand, could probably bench press a whale and still keep talking.

“Lots of things aren’t good for a person, but they’re delicious,” Ronnie replied.

Is there some innuendo in what she just said? I hope not.
Frank stood and wiped his brow with a forearm. The three of them were going gangbusters. Jake would shit a brick if he could see Ronnie with her rear up in the air like that. And Peach! He glared at Peach, who paid him no attention; he was too busy ogling Ronnie’s rear in the air. Flossie was right. You could crack walnuts on his ass. Frank didn’t like that one bit. Females tended to be attracted by that kind of crap, and he didn’t want Ronnie attracted to anyone but Jake.

All three of them were sweating like hogs by then. He knew for sure that he was out of his league when Peach gasped out that old SEAL motto, “Pain is your friend, ladies. Welcome the pain.”

Frank snorted his opinion of that. Pain was a sign that your body couldn’t take any more, in his opinion. But what he said, instead, was, “I wish Jake was here.”

No one reacted to his wish. Not even Ronnie.

Jake better get here pretty soon.

If he’s coming at all.

Maybe he better go find that St. Jude statue that Louise Rivard, LeDeux’s great-aunt, had given him and all the other members of the crew. He was starting to panic; things were a little bit hopeless.

What if Ronnie discovered he wasn’t poor as a church mouse before Jake got here? Once she was reunited with Jake, he figured she would be too happy to care. But if Jake didn’t show up first . . . whoo-boy!

St. Jude, are you up there?

Making my way back to you, babe . . .

Jake flew into Newark that evening.

Angel had agreed to ship his bike back for him. Grace had hugged him and promised to pray for him.

Scary, that, someone praying for him. But, truthfully, he didn’t know how Ronnie would react to his coming back. Would she welcome him or tell him to hit the road, for good?

But first things first. He had to go down to Brigantine and break things off for good with Trish. It wasn’t fair to her, leaving her hanging in the wind, using her as a backup in case Ronnie gave him the no-go. Easier said than done when he got there. Trish cried. A lot. He felt lower than shark shit, as Frank would say, because he did care about her. Just not enough for a lifetime commitment.

Ronnie was another story altogether. He had no clue why he was here or what he hoped to accomplish; he just knew that he had to try . . . something. It was a bit like flying into the mist, letting happen what happened. Putting himself in fate’s hands—or God’s.
Grace must be rubbing off on me.

But that was all behind him now. He drove into the parking lot of the Barnegat wharf where Frank had his warehouse. He didn’t know what he was going to do next since
Sweet Jinx
was presumably still out to sea, but it seemed like a good starting place.

Right away, he noticed Anthony Menotti lounging against one of the piers, standing guard, he supposed, though there wasn’t much to guard. His brother was probably out on the boat.

He walked over. “Hey, Tony. You heard anything from the boat today?”

He nodded. “They still haven’t found the site. Maybe later today.”

“Any chance you know where they are?”

He gave him a look that pretty much said he was a dunce if he thought otherwise.

“What say we ride out and see what’s happening?”

Tony didn’t immediately say that it would be impossible, which led Jake to think they could, if he did a good enough job convincing his Mafia friend. “Why?”

Think quick, buddy. Think.
“You could relieve your brother. I could pick up some fresh food supplies; they must be dying for fruit and a good steak, rather than fish. And, dammit, I need to see my wife . . . my ex-wife.”

Grinning at the last, only honest explanation Jake had given, Tony pointed out, “Frank is obsessive about keeping the site secret. He thinks other wreck divers would sniff out his site and steal the treasure.”

Jake reluctantly agreed that was a possibility. But then he thought of something. “I’ll bet you could lose a car chasing you, right?”

“Right.”

“There you go!”

“What does that have to do with . . . oh, I see. You’re challenging me to a boat chase, if necessary, to get us out there?”

“Bingo!”

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he looked at Jake, then out to the watery horizon, then back at Jake. “I’ll do it, but not for any reasons you mentioned.”

“Oh?”

“I’m bored out of my skin here. It’s so bad I’ve been thinking about buying a paint-by-number set.”

Humor from the morbid mob brother? Amazing!
“You go hire a boat. I’ll go to the store,” Jake suggested. “But be careful who you rent from. They might pass the word to one of Frank’s pirates.”

“I’ll just buy a boat. Meet me here in an hour.”

Just buy a boat? And have it ready to go in an hour? Okaaay! I do not want to know how that’s going to happen.

Just then, a taxi drove into the parking lot, and who climbed out but Louise Rivard, that young buck John LeDeux’s great-aunt. The one he’d met at Frank’s luncheon two weeks ago. The one who mistook Ronnie for a hooker and him for a stripper.

He smiled widely. “Hey, Ms. Rivard, what are you doing here?”

“You kin call me Tante Lulu. Everyone does. I decided to be a treasure hunter. Been a landlubber too long. Time fer a change,” she explained while the cabdriver, clearly overwrought—who wouldn’t be after a considerable time in the dingbat’s company?—took her bags out of the car; there were a lot of them.

“Treasure hunter, huh?” He grinned because, yep, over the blonde shaggy haircut, she wore an Indiana Jones-style hat. Plus, she had on a suit that came right out of a Banana Republic catalog and leather boots that probably came from the kids’ department at Wal-Mart. She also had an ammunition belt crisscrossed over her nonexistent bosom. He hoped to God they were blanks.

“Does your nephew know you’re here?” he asked.

“Nope. It’s gonna be a surprise.”

Oh, yeah!
Jake smiled with anticipation.

“Are you nuts?” Tony had the misfortune to ask her.

“Listen heah, young man. I doan know what flew up yer chimney, but I ain’t in the grave yet, and if I wanna be a trapeze artist or hula dancer or treasure hunter, thass my bizness. Now, how do we get out to that boat?”

Her use of the word
we
resonated in the air.

“Is that a gun yer wearin’ under that shirt?” she asked Tony, blinking with surprise.

“What of it?”

She put her hands up in surrender. “Hey, I gots no problem with a man protectin’ hisself, or a woman. In fact, you kin borrow some of my bullets iffen you wants to.”

Tony’s eyes about bugged out at that suggestion.

“I gots jambalaya in the cooler, and I doan want it to spoil. Cripes, what a time I had talkin’ the airline into bringin’ it on the plane! You boys wanna share my sunblock? It’s a special mix I made up with crawfish fat and gator poop. Ha, ha, ha. Jist kiddin’ ’bout the poop. It’s crawfish fat and mashed aloe. I’m a
traiteur,
you know—thass a healer—so I know ’bout potions and such. Holy sacralait! It’s gonna be hot out there on the ocean. Do ya think we’ll see any sharks? I hope so. I ain’t never seen a shark before. Plenty of alligators, but no sharks. Well, what are you standin’ there for? Dawdlin’ doan make the gumbo boil.”

Tony looked at him, and he looked at Tony. Then they both smiled. Trying to talk to this ding-a-ling was like trying to nail mashed potatoes to the wall. But it appeared that he and a member of the mob were about to go out to sea with the world’s oldest, and no doubt only, midget explorer.

Did life get any better than this, or what?

Chapter
15

He was a knight in shining bass boat . . .

They had already completed two dives today and were about to start another with both John and Adam going down in tandem when they heard the sound of a motor in the distance.

“Oh, shit!” Frank said as the boat came into view. It was one of those big sport-fisherman-type motorboats. “That’s all we need. Someone to steal our site.”

Veronica had learned that Frank was suspicious of everyone, even the Coast Guard. “They’re probably just out fishing,” she tried to assure him.

“Maybe it’s the news media,” Adam offered unwisely. “Maybe that
Asbury Park Press
reporter we saw last week has sniffed us out. Pete Porter, that was his name. He was asking lots of questions.”

“Either way, pirates or reporters, it’s a disaster,” her grandfather remarked dolefully. “But, if it’s Porter, I’m personally gonna throw him overboard. He’ll be swimmin’ with the fishes, for sure.” Her grandfather winked at Steve.

Steve did not wink back. Instead, he pulled his gun from its holster and checked the barrel. If the doofus dared to shoot at
anyone,
they would be in big trouble.

They all grew serious as they waited for the boat to get closer. The springtime sun was beating down fiercely. Slathered with sunblock, Veronica wore only a bathing suit. They all did, except for the two divers.

Like everyone else, Brenda had succumbed to the heat, daring anyone to make a remark when she donned a modest two-piece white suit. Frankly, she looked pretty good, despite her concerns about her weight. Veronica could tell that the men thought so, too. Even Steve, who might just toss her over his shoulder and carry her off somewhere to do who-knew-what to her Mafia-style.

Her grandfather, white zinc oxide on his nose, wore red, baggy swimming trunks and had white suspender marks on his deeply tanned skin, accentuated by wild gray chest hairs matching the mop on top of his head. He made a fashion statement all his own. Not a GQ one. More like Wild Old Buccaneer Looney Bird.

Flossie was all spiffied up with full makeup; a blue floral, skirted bathing suit with a sheer cover-up; and blue wedgie sandals. Her big hair was so lacquered that it didn’t even stir in the breeze. Rhinestone-studded cat sunglasses shaded her eyes.

And, of course, there was Steve-o in his Speedo.

But that was neither here nor there. The boat was getting closer.

John put a pair of binoculars to his eyes and said, “
Dieu!
I should have known. I really, really should have known.” He exhaled with disgust, then handed the binoculars to Steve. “Great!” Steve smiled. “I was ready for a break. He must have got my message that Brenda was running out of sauerkraut and that Flossie wished for some Purple Passion nail polish.”

Frank glowered at Steve, who might or might not be kidding, and took the binoculars next. He didn’t say anything. He just did a little Snoopy dance around the deck and went over to put a polka on the CD player. She thought she’d hidden all the polka CDs, but he must have a backup stash.

Caleb looked next and muttered a foul word under his breath.

Finally, it was Veronica’s turn. “He wouldn’t!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, he would,” her grandfather said gleefully behind her.

It was Jake standing at the front of a huge powerboat, the kind usually seen on ESPN Outdoors engaged in big fish tournaments, marlin or bass or something, she told herself with hysterical irrelevance. He wore a black baseball cap, a black T-shirt, black sunglasses, and black jeans.

Just like a cat burglar.
Where that idea came from, she had no clue, except he was in a boat driven by Anthony Menotti, who certainly must have engaged in a burglary or two.

“Why now?” she asked herself.

But her grandfather heard. “Better late than never.”

She turned abruptly and speared him with a glare. “Did you have something to do with Jake being here?”

“Yes. No.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Which is it?”

“I kinda kept asking him to come. But that’s not why he’s here. You’re the reason he’s here.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Flossie said. “It’s like a knight in shining armor comes to save his lady fair.” Everyone turned to gape at Flossie, who raised her chin and said, “It’s true.”

Caleb repeated the same expletive he’d used on first recognizing the riders in the boat.

Is he jealous? Why? All we shared was a kiss. Hah! That was more than a kiss, and we both know it.

“Except that her knight is riding a bass boat, and the only thing he’s saving her from is getting boinked by Peach.” That was Brenda’s witty opinion.

Veronica gasped. “Brenda!”

Caleb flinched at Brenda’s insight.

Adam said to Caleb, “Hey! Have you been hustling my girl behind my back? You scuzzball!”

“She’s not your girl,” Caleb defended himself.

“I am not your girl,” Veronica said at the same time.

Brenda was laughing so hard she bent over at the waist.

Unhappy with all of them, Veronica turned back to the water. Tony was putting some ropes around an air conditioner and big fan, which John and Adam proceeded to pull up to
Sweet Jinx.
After that, a set of dumbbells and weights were sent up. Then, Tony sent up a white cooler and some boxes of groceries. In the cooler she saw a plastic container of food and a cool Starbucks coffee.

Oh, my God! I wished for a Starbucks double mocha latte with whipped cream, and here it is, even if the cream is a bit flat. And Brenda wished for the air conditioner and fan. And Caleb said he wished for some weights to help Brenda with her exercises. And my grandfather, the louse, wished for Jake.
These Mafia guys were either telepathic or wish fairies.

It was then that she noticed the third rider on the boat. A small person. She squinted to see better. Yes, it was a small person . . . wearing an Indiana Jones-type hat.
Good grief!
It was Louise Rivard, John’s great-aunt, the one she’d met in that Atlantic City casino.

She looked at John.

“What can I say? Tante Lulu is her own person.”

“Did you invite her?” Frank asked John, not appearing overly concerned.

“Mercy, no! She probably came to check up on me. To see if I’m doing something naughty.” He said
naughty
as if it were something delicious.

Brenda laughed. “Does she think you’re out here on the boat stripping?”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk! Stripping isn’t the only naughty thing I do,” he told Brenda. “Want me to tell you about my other naughty doings?”

“Get a life!” Brenda told him.

Everyone scrambled then to make sure the boat was secured to
Sweet Jinx
to prevent it from drifting away. But Veronica just stood in place.

My life isn’t screwed up enough; now I have Jake to screw me up even more.

Aren’t you even a little bit glad to see him?
a perverse part of her brain asked.

Veronica didn’t even have to answer herself. Her rapidly beating heart and heated blood did all the talking.

You could say she was a bayou Ann Landers. . . .

Could a man go from sane to insane in one hour?

That was the question Jake soon pondered. And the cause of his insanity? A constantly talking, outrageous, interfering midget of a woman who claimed she was sent by St. Jude to help them all because they were so hopeless.

Tony went off to buy a boat, leaving him with the Cajun dingbat.
Smart guy!
During that one-hour wait till Tony came back, Jake had had the pleasure of Tante Lulu’s sage advice all to himself.

“Whaddaya mean, you ain’t been to confession in five years? I knew there was a reason St. Jude sent me. I jist knew it. And doan you be tryin’ to tell me you ain’t sinned in all that time. I know what men like you are up to. I wasn’t born under a dummy rock, you know. Well, not to worry, we’ll get you back to the church once we come back from treasure huntin’. Meanwhile, you could make yer confession to me, iffen you wants.”

He didn’t
want,
he told her.

Then she’d started in on his poker playing. “Are you an attic?”

“Huh?”

“Are you an attic? Caint ya hear, boy? A gambling attic. You know, like a dope attic or a sex attic. I heard ’bout those sex attics on
Jerry Springer.
Didya know some peoples gotta have sex like twenty times a day? The mens mus’ have sore wee-wees. And the women . . . whew, betcha it hurts when they pee.”

Jake’s jaw dropped for about the tenth time by then. “No, I am not an addict,” he’d said finally.

Tante Lulu wasn’t buying that one bit. “They hold AA meetings at Our Lady of the Bayou church every other Monday, before bingo. I could introduce you to Father Bernard, iffen you wants.”

He didn’t
want,
he told her again.

After that, it was all downhill. “How come you and Ronnie keeps gettin’ divorced? I never did hold with divorce myself, ’ceptin’ where a man beats up on his woman, or she’s doin’ the hanky-panky with every man in sight. Or if he’s a mean drunk, which that rotten Valcour LeDeux is. He was my dead niece’s husband, bless her soul, John’s papa. I know it’s a sin to hate anyone, but I do hate that man. So? Answer my question.”

He hadn’t had a clue what her question was by then. But that didn’t stop her from continuing.

“People today think marriage is disposable, like diapers or tissues. They doan wait around long enough to make it work. What you two needs is to be locked up somewhere for a few weeks. Then you’d work yer problems out, guaranteed. Naked. Yep, you should be locked up naked. Works every time.”

He wasn’t about to ask how she would know that.

“Do you have a hope chest?” she asked out of the blue.

“A what chest?”

“Hope, boy, hope. You deaf or sumpin’?”

He rolled his eyes and bit his bottom lip to restrain himself from saying something foul. Or giving a woman the age of Moses the finger. “What’s a hope chest?” he asked with as much politeness as he could muster, which wasn’t much.

“Usually it’s young girls what gets hope chests. From the time they’s fourteen or so, they starts to collect things they’ll need once they get married. Like towels and bed linens and doilies and such.”

Luckily, I’m not fourteen or a girl. And doilies are not quite my style, lady.

“But I gives them to my nephews, too. Soz they can get started on the way to happy marriages.”

Jake had a sneaky suspicion where this was headed.

“Yep, I’m thinkin’ you need a hope chest to get yer next marriage on the right track. I’ll get you one after I get back home. I have ’em made special by a carpenter in Lafayette.”

“Lucky me!”

“Doan give me any of yer sass, boy. Ain’t my fault you made a mess of yer life. But not to worry, I’m here to help you get it back on track.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

Fortunately, Tony returned then with one of those big-ass sport fishing boats that kazillionaires bought for a couple hundred grand to go out and catch fifty dollars’ worth of fish. He’d probably paid cash for the thing . . . unless it had fallen off a truck.
Ha, ha, ha! Yep, loony bin, here I come.
Another strange thing. Tony brought with him an air conditioner, a high-velocity fan, and a Starbucks coffee with whipped cream that he stashed in the cooler. But strangest of all, he carried a full set of dumbbells and weights onto the boat.

Tante Lulu immediately started in on Tony. Even over the roar of the motor as the boat danced over the waves, he could hear her yammering on and on.

“Are you Eye-tal-yan? I makes a real good chicken cacciatore. And ravioli. ’Course I spice it up with Cajun herbs and use andouille, thass Cajun sausage, instead of ground beef. Didja ever make Eye-tal-yan jambalaya? Yum!”

At first, Tony just ignored her, but the lady had a way of working her way under your skin till you had to respond.

“Are you in the mob?”

“Everyone thinks all Italians are in the Mafia. Those are just rumors,” Tony remarked.

“Hah! I know about rumors, ’specially those on the bayou grapevine. Rumors multiply quicker ’n jackrabbits on Jack Daniels.”

Tony was surely regretting having actually spoken to the woman, but it didn’t matter, really, because she just kept blathering.

“I nabbed some of the Dixie Mafia one time. They was stealin’ gold and hiding’ it in the bayou. Well, I dint catch ’em all by myself, but I helped. Do you know any of the Dixie Mafia? I had a neighbor down the bayou named Georgio Pioli. Everyone thought he was in the Mafia, but turns out he was jist a gay hairdresser who shortened his last name from Pissomme ’cause you kin imagine why.”

Tony looked as if he’d like to bury her in some bayou.

“You ever killed anyone? When? How? How many? Did ya ever put a horse’s head in anyone’s sheets? Ever meet Marlon Brando? How ’bout Frank Sinatra? Now, there was a man to make a woman’s belly button melt. I even shaved my legs when I went to one of his concerts back in 1965 . . . jist in case, ya know what I mean? It’s not polite to ignore an old woman. By the way, did I give you a St. Jude statue yet?”