Greasing the Piñata by Tim Maleeny Page B

How long did it take for a ship to be ship-shape, he wondered. It was the middle of the night. And where was his fucking host?
    He had already attempted to board, but a big Mexican with a billy club and radio strapped to his belt politely explained that no one boarded the yacht without the owner’s permission. When Joe asked where the owner might be, the guard pretended not to understand English and began stroking his nightstick like it was a hard-on. Joe retreated a safe distance, lit up a smoke and began waiting.
    That was one thing Joe liked about his job in San Francisco, working for Frank Alessi. You could say a lot of nasty things about Frank, and Joe had said one or two himself, but Frank was punctual. He might be a casually abusive sociopath, but he paid well and was always on time, so that made him OK in Joe’s book.
    He’d smoked half a pack, killed eight mosquitoes and maimed twelve by the time a gray limousine pulled into the lot adjacent to
Marina Vallarta
. The driver practically jumped out of the car before it settled on its shocks and made a beeline for Joe, a thin smile on his face.
    “Señor Drabyak, there has been a mistake.” The guy said it like Joe was the one at fault.
    “No shit,” said Joe. “I’ve been waiting over an hour. Where’s your boss?”
    The smile went from pleasant to condescending. “On his boat, señor, as promised.”
    Joe jerked a thumb toward the yacht. “That’s his boat—I heard all about it. The wood floors, the plush furniture. Sammy Dunlop told me.” He watched the driver’s expression change at the mention of the name, so he added, “Yeah, Sammy and I talk. Just ‘cause we work different sides of the street doesn’t mean we can’t share information.”
    In truth Sammy hadn’t shared anything besides the hot air trapped in his lungs. He’d been bragging to Joe, showing off.
Yeah, flew me to Mexico, all expenses paid, took me on his yacht. What, you haven’t been? That’s too bad, buddy…
    Asshole.
    But now it was Joe’s turn, and this driver—the hired help—was telling him he got the wrong boat. He pointed at the stern. “What’s it say right there, monkey boy? The name of the boat,
The Flying Fish
. Tell me I’m wrong.”
    The driver nodded, a study in forced politeness. “This is his boat, you are correct of course, but—”
    “What?”
    “He has another boat.”
    Joe scanned the marina. “Where?”
    “Please come with me, señor.” The driver extended his right arm in the direction of the limo. “He is waiting.”
    Joe stomped to the car and lit another cigarette as he took a seat in the back, secretly hoping the driver would ask him to put it out. He was disappointed by the time they arrived at their destination.
    They’d followed the curve of the marina away from the tourist hotels where the piers were crowded with sailboats and yachts to the commercial piers where fishing trawlers crowded the narrow slips, their hulls painted in garish colors. The limo stopped directly behind a forty-footer, the yellow and blue paint scarred with orange streaks of rust that shifted in the harsh lights set on poles along the wharf as the boat bobbed against the current.
    “He is already on board, señor.”
    Joe ground his cigarette out in the door handle before stepping out of the car. He squinted at the stern of the aging vessel and thought for a minute it bore the same name as the pristine yacht berthed less than a mile away. Then he shielded his eyes from the overhead lights and squinted through the night to read the faded letters.
    The Frying Fish
.
    From flying to frying. A minute’s drive along the coast but a world away from the eighty-foot yacht and its crew of twenty. The boxy fishing boat with its cranes and nets looked pathetic. Joe was pretty sure he was being insulted.
    But he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Chapter Twenty
    Cape was glad he wasn’t wearing 3-D glasses.
    The foyer was a cross between a Spanish