Billy’s Boat Dock
O n the way back, about a half-mile from the dock, they pass an auto repair garage. The doors on the three service bays are still up, and the lights are on.
“Good,” Billy says, “Franks still open. I will take you back to the boat, then I am going to come back here. I want to pay off a bill with him for some work on the jeep. I’ll only be gone about twenty minutes.”
Rosie just nods. She is tired and already contemplating a nap. Once on the boat, Rosie goes directly to her cabin to lie down.
Billy follows her. “Before I leave, there’s something I have to show you.” He reaches under the bunk and pulls out an over-sized gray Samsonite suitcase. He trips the latches and opens the top. Embedded in the cut-outs in the Styrofoam insert are two pistols and the assembly parts—stock, magazine, scope, and barrel—for a CheyTac 200 Intervention assault rifle, Billy’s favorite long-range sniper rifle, and two detached muzzle suppressors.
“So, are those the tools of your trade?” Rosie asks in a sarcastic tone.
Again, Billie is unabashed and unapologetic. “Yeah, he curtly replies.
Rosie makes a face. “How many people have you killed?”
Billy just shrugs. “I don’t remember. Does it matter?”
“Are you a dangerous man?” Rosie asks in a sulky, slightly drunk way.
Billy is losing patience. Rosie tries to put her head down on the pillow. But he makes her sit up. There is sleep in her heavy-lidded eyes, and she is ready for bed. Billy knows he has made a mistake. He should not have allowed her to drink so much.
“Before I leave, I have to show you a couple of things,” he says to her. “This is important, Rosie, I want you to listen and pay attention.”
“Are you going to show me how to kill people?” Rosie rudely asks.
Billy is a matter of fact. “I’m going to show you how to protect yourself.”
Billy makes her sit up straight on the edge of the bunk. “Now watch,” he says in a firm voice. He lifts one of the pistols out of its Styrofoam cut-out.
“This is a Glock, semi-automatic 9mm, one of my favorite pistols.” Billy reaches under the bed again and pulls out another small Samsonite case. He opens it. Inside are some gun clips. Billy picks one out and holds it up for Rosie to see.
“There are fifteen rounds in this magazine.” Billy loads the clip into the gun and racks the slide to load a bullet in the chamber. “There,” he says, “now it’s ready to shoot. But it is still on safe. It’s a Glock, it won’t fire until you put your finger in the guard and pull the double trigger.”
“I’ll only be gone about twenty-minutes to a half hour. You keep this on the bed with you, right next to your pillow.” He makes Rosie take up the gun, hold it in her hand, and take a practice aim. “There shouldn’t be anybody coming on the boat before I get back. If anybody tries to get into this room while I am away, you point the gun, aim, and pull the trigger.” Billy gives her a serious look. “Do you understand?”
Rosie nods that she understands.
“And don’t close your eyes,” Billy emphasizes.
Again, Rosie glumly nods.
Billy goes to the door of the small cabin. “I won’t be gone long. Stay alert, Rosie. When I get back, I’ll identify myself before I come through the door—so don’t shoot me.”
Billy has been gone only about ten minutes. At the boat, Rosie has put her head down on the pillow and is trying to nod off. She wants to go to sleep. The food and booze have made her sleepy. She is just on the edge of nodding off when she hears a noise on the deck above. She thinks at first that it must be Billy, but the door to the cabin suddenly bursts open. In the doorway is a big man in a dark, rumpled suit. Almost on reflex, pushing aside the fear that is grabbing at her, Rosie sits up in the bed and points the gun. She aims, like Billy had shown her, closes her eyes, and pulls the trigger. The sound of the gun blast reverberates through the small cabin, and the acrid discharge smell of sulfur gas and nitrites hangs heavy in the air in the confined space of the cabin.
Billy is gone only about twenty minutes. He concludes his business with Frank, the owner of the garage, as quickly as possible. He is on his way back in the jeep—less than a quarter of a mile from the boat—when he hears a shot ring out. He steps down on the accelerator of the jeep and races back to the dock. The jeep slides to a stop in front of the dock. Billy jumps out and races down the dock to his boat. Once on board, he grabs a pipe wrench from an open toolbox and goes below deck directly to Rosie’s cabin. The Glock semi-automatic is on the floor between the bunks. Rosie is pinned down on the bed with a man on top of her. She struggles and screams.
Perhaps the man is thinking he can rape her before he kills her. No matter, before he can even turn around, Billy strikes him so hard on the back of the head with the pipe wrench that it splits his skull open. The man’s body stiffens in a final death spasm. Then his lifeless body collapses down on top of Rosie. She screams again, pushes up with her arms and rolls him off onto the floor. Billy turns back around. There is the body of another man slumped against the wall in the bunk across from Rosie. There is a neat circular entry hole from a Glock 9mm round right in the middle of his forehead. Billy gives the wound a cursory inspection. He turns back to Rosie who is now sitting up in the bed and trying to catch her breath.
Rosie is visibly shaken. “Is he dead?” she asks in a small, halting voice.
Billy nods. “Yeah. Nice shooting,” he says with a grim little smile. “Next time—keep your eyes open.”
Rosie gives Billy a sour look. “How do you know I closed my eyes?”
Again, Billy is matter of fact. “Everyone does the first time. But we are going to get you some training, so you really learn how to use that gun.” Billy bends down and picks the Glock semi-automatic off the floor off. He pulls the slide back to eject the spent cartridge and tosses the unarmed pistol on the bed.
Rosie takes a deep breath and tries to steady herself. Big tears are welling up in her eyes. She is shaking and still almost frightened to death.”
“Are you going to be, okay?” Billy asks, taking her in his embrace.
Rosie nods and says, “Yes, I’ll be okay.” She wipes at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’ve never been so scared in my whole life.” she confesses.
Rosie sighs and takes another deep breath. “You know, Billy, I don’t want to sound critical or unappreciative, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—but this is probably the worst date I’ve ever been on.”
Billy does not reply, just smiles, and looks around the small cabin. There is blood and brain matter splattered on the opposite wall above the bunk.
Rosie looks at the corpses of the two men. “What do we do now?” she asks.
Billy is all business. “First we clean up this mess, then we dispose of the bodies.”
He looks again at the man Rosie has shot. On the bed next to the body is a Ruger .45 caliber rotating cylinder, long-barrel pistol with a muzzle suppressor.
Billy smiles. “These guys always wear the cheapest, tackiest suits but pack the heaviest and most expensive hardware.” He perfunctorily pats the dead man down and removes a wallet and passport from the inside pocket of the man’s jacket. Careful to hold it just by the corners to avoid fingerprints, Billy opens the passport and studies the picture.
He looks back at Rosie. “Just as I suspected, these guys are Russians. They must have picked you up at the airport in Washington.” Billy rolls the dead man on the floor over and onto his back. Again, he does a quick frisk, recovering another gun, wallet, and passport. Billy finds a couple hundred dollars of U.S. currency in the wallet. He takes it out and tosses it on the bed in front of Rosie.
“Here, buy yourself a new dress.”
Rosie rolls her eyes up and makes an unhappy face. “You really have a knack, Billy—a special talent. Every time—just when I think I’m starting to like you—you say or do something to ruin the moment.”
Billy though is not paying attention—concentrating on the problem at hand. He pulls another small Samsonite case from under the bed, opens it, and again—careful not to leave prints—tosses in the wallets, passports, and guns. “I know some people in Washington who would probably like to have a close look at this stuff.”
Rosie makes a face. “You mean your friends at the CIA?”
Billy nods, “Okay,” he says, “now let’s get to work.”
He fills a bucket with warm soapy water, gets out some brushes, two pairs of vinyl gloves, and some cleaning chemicals. Together they drag the two heavy corpses up onto the top deck. Billy covers them with a canvas tarp, and then he and Rosie spend the next hour thoroughly scrubbing and cleaning the lower cabin. By the time they finish, it is almost midnight, and Rosie is thoroughly exhausted.
“We’re not done yet,” Billy says. “I’m going to get some chains and some cement anchors. We’re going to weigh these guys down, then we’re going to take them for a ride out to Shark Alley.” Billy laughs. “This will be their last vacation in Louisiana. And they won’t be going home to Mother Russia.”
Rosie’s is grim, gives Billy an exasperated look, breathes a heavy sigh. “You’re such a fun guy, Billy. Nobody can ever accuse you of being a boring date. I mean, I wouldn’t want you to get a big head,” she says in a droll, sarcastic tone, “but I must be the luckiest girl in the world. How many other girls go out with a guy, and end the evening shooting and killing somebody?”
Two hours later, they are eighteen miles out in the Gulf with blackness all round. The deck lights are all on and the big shrimp trawler rolls on the waves. There are squawking sea gulls perched up on the mast. The night sky overhead is a silver pepper of stars. It is past 2:00 AM the next morning. Rosie has never felt so tired in her whole life. Her back aches and her legs are stiff and sore. The bodies of the two dead Russians are on the edge of the aft deck, wrapped in chains and weighted down with heavy cement anchors.
Rosie asks, “Are there really sharks down there?”
Billy is almost gleeful in his reply. “You can bet your sweet ass there are sharks down there.”
Then, trooper that she is, Rosie helps Billy roll the two dead Russians off the back of the Delta Queen. They splash into the water and then the chains and heavy cement anchors take them out of sight into the dark depths.