Sweet (17 page)

“Tamara said to meet at one,” I say.

“I'll find you before then,” Cubby says.

*   *   *

There's a bodyguard at the door of Almstead's suite. Irate passengers are demanding entrance.

“It's no use.” Laurel sighs. “Look at this crowd.”

“Let's give it a shot. Maybe I can get through.”

We're holding hands and she keeps close to me as I elbow through the group.

Over the PA, Lorna Krieger announces, “Pardon the interruption, Code Ingrid, suite 633. Also, Code Ingrid, suite 1100.” Whatever that means.

I get to the bodyguard. He's built and he's armed, which seems like overkill to me, frankly. A Semper Fi tattoo stretches around his forearm.

“Hey,” I say. “Tom Fiorelli. Mr. Almstead wants to talk to us about coverage. You know, how to handle all this.” I indicate the crowd with my shoulder.

“Oh. Okay,” he says, chewing gum. “Baby Tom-Tom.”

I nod.

He lets Laurel and me through.

Almstead's suite is luxurious just under the point of being obnoxious. Like the hallway, it's filled with irate passengers, but these are a cut above. These are the celebrities on the cruise. The famous chef Tony LoPrima—who used to be jolly and chunky and now looks wrinkled and haggard. The billionaire tycoon and his bleached-blond, heavily “augmented” Russian wife. Her silicon implants are drooping dangerously low. Jenny Palmer and her husband, what's his face. The Grub Guy.

“This is not what we signed up for!” LoPrima says.

Almstead is standing near a table. Standing just behind him is his bodyguard, Amos, the one from the restaurant.

Amos looks stone-faced. I feel bad for the guy. He probably thought he was going to have a cushy gig on a cruise ship—now he's in the middle of a big mess.

“I know it. I know it.” Almstead sighs. “This has not gone at all the way it should have.”

“When we regain Internet service, the first call I'm making is to my lawyer!” the billionaire announces. “And I invite you all to join in a civil lawsuit with me!”

There are nods and murmurs of agreement.

“I don't blame you,” Almstead says. “Honestly, I'm furious myself. As an investor, I put seventy-eight million dollars into this. And they gave me every assurance it was ready to go. Years of testing.”

“Well, what went wrong?” the Grub Guy asks.

Almstead looks at him sadly.

“We think it's the diluting agent—it's calcium phosphate—supposed to be the safest stuff in the world. Zhang thinks there may be some kind of a reaction. Or that maybe the manufacturer has altered the formulation somehow. There's no way to test it here, on the ship, but we're trying to get to the bottom of it. I don't know, but I'm just … ruined. We're gonna have to delay the launch. We're pulling product from all over the country. It's a massive recall. The publicity is killing us.”

That seems to strike a chord in the crowd—they can all relate to a PR meltdown, I guess.

Laurel snuggles against my hip and her body seems to relax. It is a relief to know that Almstead's on it—and to hear some straight talk.

“There's nothing wrong with Solu in my opinion,” says the Bachelorette Jenny Palmer. “I mean, if you ask me, I finally look how I've wanted to feel my whole life. I love it! I think it's a great product!”

The billionaire's wife nods in agreement.

“I'm upset now to hear you, Mr. Almstead,” she says in a thick Russian accent. “Now you going to change and ruin it. I want more Solu and I want it now.”

“Yeah!” shouts Jenny Palmer.

Almstead holds up his hands.

“You promised us we have very much Solu!” the Russian woman complains.

“Code Ingrid, suite 1010. Code Matthew, Celestial Lounge.”

Laurel gasps. “That means someone died!” she whispers.

“What?” I ask.

“Matthew. Someone died.” She looks pale. “This guy from the crew I'm friends with told me about the codes.”

I pull her close.

Almstead goes on.

“Look,” Almstead says. “When we get the formula worked out, if you want to have it, I'll give you a lifetime supply of Solu. For each of you.”

A wave of greed glimmers over the faces of the assembled passengers.

“Everyone in this room—but you all only. I'm not doing it for the whole ship.”

I roll my eyes at Laurel. One minute they're suing him because the product is faulty, the next they're signing up for a lifetime supply.

“What about the passengers who need help?” Laurel asks, her voice shaky, but strong. “What's the plan for the ship? My friend needs medical attention.”

A couple of people turn and look at her. I can see them wondering who she is.

She pulls back a bit and I squeeze her hand.

“Well, miss, that's the issue. Right now, we're turning around and going to haul butt back to the States. The medical treatment we can get there is just vastly superior to what we could get in Mexico or Belize.”

“There's nothing wrong with Solu!” the Bachelorette screeches.

Laurel holds her ground.

“How long until we get there?”

“We should be back in eighteen hours. The captain has assured me of that. In the meantime, if everyone maintains a dose of three packets a day, they'll be all right.”

I'd like to ask him about what Tamara and I should do in terms of the broadcasts, but Almstead holds up his hands as more questions are launched.

“Guys, you need to give me a break, now. I gotta get on the phone to the mainland. We got a whole lotta mess to figure out.”

“You have a phone?” someone asks.

“It's one of those satellite jobs,” Almstead replies. That creates a new round of complaints and threats. The bodyguards start ushering us toward the door.

Out in the hall, the celebrities go their separate ways.

Laurel's holding my hand.

“Will you help me try to talk some sense into Viv?” she asks me.

“Of course,” I tell her.

“I feel … I feel so relieved,” Laurel says. “Now that we know the plan and we'll be back home soon.”

“I know.”

“Tom!” I hear my voice called.

It's Cubby. He's carrying a stack of yellow legal-notebook pages. Each has a message written in Sharpie.

He tapes one up on the wall with Scotch tape.

“Me and some other AA old-timers are holding a meeting. Can you two come?”

The handmade flyer reads:
GOT ADDICTION? Come to the Starlight Lounge at 11 a.m. We can help!

“Sure, if you think it would help.”

“I think the more people who are clean who come, the better. You two find out anything?” Cubby asks.

“Almstead says they're recalling it all over the country. Something went wrong in the production. Maybe the filler they used, or maybe the formula got tweaked,” I say.

“Well, at least now we know what happened.”

“They're turning the ship around and hauling ass to the States,” I tell him. “I can tell you more later, but right now we need to find Laurel's friend Viv.”

“She's hooked. Really bad,” Laurel says.

“Try to get her to the meeting,” Cubby says. “It could help.”

*   *   *

Laurel leads me back up to the hot-tub area. I can hear some Brazilian pop song blasting out of an iPod and some portable speakers.

It's a mess up there. There's fruit and cheese all over the deck and they've overturned some of the lounge chairs. There are three naked girls in the hot tub splashing around and a guy and a girl are making out on the deck, half on and half off a cushion from the lounge chairs.

Sabbi and that a-hole Luka Harris are laughing and throwing money on them, like it's a strip club.

It's a party scene right out of a nightmare.

Sabbi turns and sees me. A line of blood trickles down from her nose.

“Tomazino!” she yells. “You came!”

She reaches for me and I step back, but she lurches forward and grabs me.

“Stop it, Sabbi!”

She's trying to kiss me on the mouth.

I push her away from me and she slips and falls.

She laughs and the rest of the group howls.

They are way, way high on Solu.

“Viv! Vivika Hallerton!” Laurel's shouting.

I realize that the girl making out is Viv.

The d-bag has got her top off and she's oblivious.

“That's enough,” I say. I step forward and pull the creep off Vivika. His eyes are glassy and the skin around his mouth is red and wet. Disgusting.

“Get off her, you jerk,” I say. “She's high. You can see that!”

He tries to take a swing at me, but he's much littler than me and I heave him up and throw him off toward the rail.

He curses at me.

Laurel sweeps in and gathers Vivika to her feet.

“Leaveme'lone!” Viv is slurring. “I like him! I really like tha'guy!”

“You're wasted, Viv. Really wasted,” Laurel hisses.

I grab a towel from a pyramid by the tub and wrap it around Viv. She throws the towel off.

“You can't tell me what to do! I'm not a baby!”

The guy I threw has a wicked rug-burn down his side from skidding across the deck. He comes back, trying to tackle me.

I get clear of Laurel and Viv and punch the guy in the face. Blood spurts from his nose.

He curses at me some more.

“Dude!” I yell, “I'm much bigger than you. Just leave me alone! We're taking the girl away!”

And we do.

We drag Viv away from them.

Once we're on the pool deck I take off my shirt and put it on Viv.

Her head is hanging down and she looks like she's about to faint.

“Wanna sleep,” she says.

“No,” Laurel tells her. “We're going to a meeting.”

 

LAUREL

DAY FIVE

THE BAR IS FILLED WITH PASSENGERS
—some look skeptical, some look desperate, most look way too thin.

The atmosphere in the room is tense. There's a lot of angry talk. The Solu seems to amp people up. I've never seen anyone on cocaine, but I have to imagine this is what it looks like.

We went by Tom's room and he grabbed a shirt to wear.

We got here a few minutes ago and were able to get seats in the front. I found Viv a Pipop and a bowl of honey-roasted bar-peanuts, but she wouldn't touch any of it.

Now she seems to be half asleep.

Tom's on the other side of her. He has his arm over the back of Viv's chair, with his hand resting on my shoulder. The weight of his hand feels wonderful. It feels like there's warmth and comfort coming right out of his palm into my body.

“I was thinking. After this, maybe we should take Viv back to our room and just hole up there. Order room service,” I say.

“Good idea. She can rest.”

“Would you … you'll stay with us, right?”

He brushes my cheek with the back of his hand.

“All I want to do is stay with you, Laurel.”

And I know he's telling the truth because my heart rings like a bell.

Who falls in love during a creepy drug disaster?

(I do. No, we do—me and Tom.)

Over the PA, Lorna Krieger keeps coming on and announcing codes. Ingrid, Frieda, another Matthew, and an Oscar—man overboard!

“What a nightmare,” I say.

“I know.”

Three men and two women make their way to the raised area near the bar. Cubby's one of them. He gives us a little wave.

The five of them are all regular-size—that is, some are thin and some are fat but none of them look like bone-skinny addicts.

A gray-haired lady rings a spoon on a water glass to try to get everyone to quiet down.

“Attention—attention, everyone! I am Patricia and I'm an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Patricia,” the other four chorus.

“Oh, this is just rich,” a skinny crone in the front row cackles.

“Would all who care to, please join me in the serenity prayer?” Patricia continues.

She and the others close their eyes and hold hands.

I bow my head. I don't know the words, but I try to go along with them: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change—”

“Go to hell!” someone yells.

They continue on with the prayer and someone throws a handful of peanuts at them.

“Excuse me!” the lady says. “We are here to help you! Please give us the respect we deserve!”

A guy in the back makes a raspberry sound.

“We are here to help you. We know what it's like to be at the mercy of addiction and we're doing our best to try to share with you our experience.”

“Our only
problem
is that they've cut us off!” a lady shouts.

There's a chorus of yeahs.

Lorna announces more codes over the PA.

“Viv, wake up,” I tell her. I give her a little shake.

“We paid a lot of money for this cruise,” the lady screeches on.

“Would you shut up? I want to hear what they have to say!” another woman yells. I recognize her! It's the mom from our dinner table. I don't see her husband or kids anywhere. Jeez, I hope they're okay.

“I've been in AA for twenty-seven years,” Patricia continues. “When I was drinking, all I thought about every day was when I could get my next drink. My entire day was consumed by thoughts of when I could get to a bar or to one of the bottles I hid around my house.”

“That's because you're a frickin' drunk!” a guy heckles from the back.

“Hey!” one of the other AA guys interrupts. This one is short and muscular, like a fire plug. “Watch your mouth! We're here to share our experience, strength, and hope! AA meetings are a safe space!”

I trade a look with Tom. No way is this a safe space.

Cubby steps forward.