Page 34 of Player
Finn
“Would ye get a load of him?” one of the mobsters says.
I amble toward the clusterfeck like I don’t have a care in the world, mindless of the drama unfolding on deck. Acting the maggot, as Antonio is keen on doing.
They react as expected; a quick, dismissive glance. A hasty assumption I’m not a threat and therefore unworthy of attention.
“Stomach won’t quit,” I mumble, loudly. “You should avoid going back yonder for a spell.”
“He’s been vomiting the entire voyage,” an ever-so-observant crewmate comments.
No one laughs. The mob paying a visit to yer ship tends to quiet the best of men.
Now I may be a bit thick in the head on occasion. But I can put two and two together without a feckin’ calculator. It doesn’t take a bleedin’ math wizard to figure out why the mob is on the ship.
Beneath a mess of unkempt hair, I study the new arrivals, until I settle on one fella who seems to be the most astute. Yeah, I’ll bet Sunday’s supper he’s going to pilot this ship to port.
Which port? Now, that remains to be seen. I suspect customs in Cork will be waiting to inspect the goods, especially declared goods like what’s inside the containers. Illegal goods like the captain’s stash of coke will likely sail through inside his private luggage without question.
I’ve got to say, O’Brien’s not feckin’ around.
Not so sure good ol’ Cap is aware his ship is about to be pirated. Or that his fate has been sealed.
“Take my watch,” Cap continues, trying his damnedest to ignore me. He hands a fine piece of jewelry to the white-haired mob boss.
The man looks at it then back to Cap then to one of his men, whom he tosses the watch to. With a grin, the man turns into the next World feckin’ Series pitcher, winding up then throwing the watch like it’s a game-winning strike out.
Yeah, with the Cap at home plate.
The watch sails across deck and disappears overboard.
Cap looks ready to the shite himself. But I don’t feel sorry for the drug-dealing, uranium-pushing shyster. He deserves everything coming to him.
“Time’s up, it seems,” I comment, looking straight at him.
A few men snicker.
“We got a comedian onboard, do we?” someone else adds.
“What’s yer name?” the mob boss demands.
Cap answers for me. “Goddamn worthless piece of pigeon shit.”
I shake my head.
“You deny it?” he bellows. Easy to get a rise out of, easy to fall all the same.
“Nah. Just meaning to ask you what you got against pigeons.”
That’s when Cap grows a set and charges forward, fist raised.
I turn my head as it comes sailing my way. And in that split second, in the smallest fraction of a bleedin’ moment, I see her.
Clarissa.
Filming everything.
Feck’s sake.
