Читать книгу Hooked - Jane May - Страница 9

From the moment of impact, twenty-eight-year-old Clarence “Woody” Woods was hooked.

Both line and sinker.

He hardly flinched when that tray of mojitos cascaded onto the front of his khaki shorts and soaked clear through to his skin.

Nor did he squirm when the concoction of rum, lime and sugar leaked down his legs and pooled inside his Top-Siders, causing his toes to stick together and every synapse in his body to short-circuit.

Nope, Woody just stood there in the middle of the Spinnaker Café. Frozen stiff.

As the temperature in Miami hit ninety-two degrees.

“I am so sorry,” whispered the beauteous vision before him. “Shame for me! I am shit waitress for sure.”

“No, you’re not at all,” he said. “This was all my fault. I was spaced. Totally not looking where I was going.”

But the truth was that Woody, who had worked at the Trade Winds Yacht Club on and off since his preteens, could easily navigate every square inch of this exclusive facility. Blindfolded. But of course that was before a girl with huge Caribbean Sea–glass eyes and long auburn hair so disoriented the poor sailor, he slammed into her with the force of a tsunami.

“But look what big mess I have made of you now,” she said, pointing to his crotch.

And just like that, Woody’s six-foot frame shrunk to the size of a pea. His soggy clothes left behind in a pile amongst plastic glasses, ice cubes, salted nuts and what little remained of his dignity.

No sooner had Woody made a very speedy exit from the Spinnaker Café, than the competition arrived.

Armed and ready.

Judging from their battle fatigues, these twenty-three year-old boys clearly worshiped the preppy gods of entitlement. Pastel-colored Lacoste shirts worn loose. Collars popped upward. Abercrombie and Fitch cargo shorts, slightly frayed. Prada flip-flops. Rolexes. Vuarnet sunglasses.

In other words, all the best their parents’ money could buy.

Todd Hollings, the taller of the two by several inches, zeroed in on the new addition to the club’s wait staff. With those tits, long legs and cinched waist, her body reminded him of his younger sister’s Barbie doll—the one he used to secretly borrow for jerk-off sessions in the bathroom.

Todd turned to Barry Felds, his best friend since grade school. “Dude, get a look at that premium piece of ass.”

“Daa-aaam,” came the equally profane observation. “That girl is so fine!”

The boys sauntered up to the hostess. Before she doubled her weight in saddlebags, Todd used to think Babette was pretty hot for an older woman.

“Will you handsome devils be dining with us today?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” said Todd, mentally disrobing a certain waitress scurrying past him. “But no need for a menu. I already know what I want.”

The Trade Winds Yacht Club sat on a jut of meticulously landscaped grounds on Biscayne Bay within walking distance of the town of Coconut Grove. Its facilities, fine-tuned year after year, were top-notch. Some seven hundred strong members had access to a Mediterranean-style clubhouse with a formal dining room suitable for large parties, as well as the Spinnaker Café, an indoor/outdoor bar and grill, a large pool, a ten-person Jacuzzi and two tennis courts.

The Trade Winds marina offered one hundred and thirty slips with enough draft to accommodate sail as well as power boats up to sixty-five feet. Not to mention every amenity a picky boater could desire from 50-200 ampere electric service to individual pump-out stations.

Despite the usual drama associated with running a high-class establishment like the Trade Winds Yacht Club, Woody enjoyed his job. On this particular day, however, he wished he’d stayed home.

It was bad enough that he’d smashed into that new waitress with every diner in the café as his witness, but to have bolted from the premises with his tail between his legs? That was just unacceptable. Especially for a guy whose reputation around the club had been built on his strength of character, professionalism and an ability to stay cool in dicey situations—on and off the water.

He should have just laughed off the incident and then offered to help clean up the mess for which he was responsible. Period. That would have been the proper move to make.

Still chastising himself, Woody was just about to slip on a clean polo when his boss, Skip Edwards, lumbered into the staff locker room. Farting loudly with each step taken.

“Knew I shouldn’t have had that fucking chili,” he barked under his breath.

With his retirement only a year away, Skip’s moods were often less than sanguine.

“Hey, boss,” said Woody.

“Glad to see you’re still alive,” said Skip, his beef jerky face softening. “I was worried about you, son.”

He placed a gnarly, baseball-mitt-sized hand on Woody’s left shoulder.

“Old man Dixon told me he saw you running from the café like your balls were caught on fire.”

Woody felt the skin on his cheeks sizzle. The way dirt flew around the club, his boss must have heard what had happened.

“It was nothing…”

Bullshit, it was huge. He had no idea who that waitress was or where she came from, but he’d never reacted to any girl in that manner before.

“…Just a minor accident, that’s all.”

Skip pointed to the soggy clothes on the bench and laughed. “You mean to say, you pissed yourself?”

But before Woody had a chance to concoct an explanation, his boss took off for the bathroom.

“Just remember, son,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll leave you with one piece of valuable advice. Beware of pretty girls bearing drinks.”

Woody returned to the marina in time to witness Frank Elliot backing his forty-two foot diesel-powered pride and joy, the Nautical but Nice, into his slip.

Elliot’s wife stood at the bow. Boat hook in hand. Picture perfectly still, save for her blunt-cut highlighted tresses blowing in the breeze.

“What the hell are you waiting for!” shrieked her husband, so loudly his second mate nearly lost her footing. “Get the damn starboard line already, Louise!”

Mrs. Elliot looked left, right and then up toward the heavens for support.

“Help!” she whined.

With the Nautical but Nice inches away from the freshly waxed hull of a neighboring sloop, Woody knew he had to act fast.

“The right side, Mrs. Elliot,” he whispered loud enough for her to hear but soft enough so her husband wouldn’t.

The woman mouthed a thank-you to Woody and proceeded to pluck the correct line off the correct piling. In her excitement over a job well done, however, she managed to drop the rope into the water. Lucky for her, Mr. Elliot was busy tying off the stern and didn’t see this egregious mistake.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” Mrs. Elliot moaned. “Frank is going to kill me. This is exactly why I hate coming on the boat. Man turns into a regular Captain Bligh.”

Silently and effortlessly, Woody reached for a stanchion and boosted himself onto the bow. He borrowed the boat hook from the flummoxed female and fished the line out of Biscayne Bay on the first try.

“Can you take it from here, Mrs. Elliot?”

“I, I think so,” came the unconvincing response.

With the boat still shifting in its slip, Woody decided it best to stick around to make sure Mrs. Elliot tied off the cleat without incident. He recalled the time Mr. White’s “secretary” had not been so careful and ended up being rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital.

The severed tip of one of her perfectly manicured digits packed in ice.

It was a messy situation.

And an even messier divorce.

Woody pocketed the ten-dollar tip Mrs. Elliot insisted he accept and then ran off to help Mrs. Burke transport her groceries to the vintage trawler she shared with her husband. She being Irish and he Jewish, their boat was aptly named: Mixed Nuts. But after fifty years of marriage, the “Bicker-steins”—as the couple was secretly known amongst staff members—had managed to switch ethnicities.

“Thank you so much, dear,” said Mrs. Burke. “My arthritis is really slowing me down today.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Woody.

“I must look like a hundred and ten. An alter kaker.”

Woody assumed this was a less than complimentary description and insisted she looked like a teenager.

“What a sweetheart this boy is! Still nobody special yet, huh?”

“Nope, afraid not, Mrs. Burke.”

“I can’t believe you don’t have a special gal. Such a face this boy has. You look just like John F. Kennedy, Jr. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Woody smiled. “Just you, Mrs. Burke.”

“You know, my mahjong partner, Ida, she’s got a gorgeous grandchild and—”

“Anne,” interrupted her spouse, who suddenly appeared in the cockpit, glass of whiskey in his hand. “Will you leave the poor kid alone? Every week you ask him the same question, and every week he gives you the same answer.”

“Such an expert on the opposite sex, that one is. Mr. Lance Romance. Besides, who wanted your opinion, Harry?”

“And who gave you permission to play Yente the matchmaker?”

Woody cleared his throat and began to pass Mrs. Burke’s shopping bags to her husband.

“What the hell did you do, Anne? Buy out Publix?”

“All to support that fat gut of yours, Harry!”

“Guess you haven’t noticed your fat ass in the mirror lately, huh, honey?”

“Excuse me,” said Woody as he handed off the last parcel. “But is there anything else I can do for you folks?”

With a skirmish brewing, a speedy departure from the battlefield was mandated.

“No, thanks, son,” said Mr. Burke. “But if you see Ariel, could you tell him my damn head is on the fritz again.”

“You can say that again,” snickered Mrs. Burke, pointing to her bald husband.

On that sour note, Woody bade the lovebirds adieu and had just turned to leave when the Hammond twins—Christopher and Jasper—charged up the dock toward him. Accompanied by their recently separated mother, a very attractive forty-some-thing blonde with legs as long as the Amazon and a reputation equally as treacherous.

“Hey, dude,” said Christopher, giving Woody a high five.

“Hey, dude,” echoed Jasper, his mirror image, save for brown rather than green eyes.

The twins, Jasper and Christopher, were in Woody’s youth sailing group and yearned to become Olympic racers. After they captured gold for their country, they planned to attend Yale like their father, play major league baseball, become firemen, open up a chain of video game stores and then travel to Mars.

“So, don’t keep me in suspense,” said Woody. “How’d you guys rank today?”

“We totally kicked butt!” said Jasper.

“Exceeded all expectations,” added his brother, the more cerebral of the two.

“Awesome,” said Woody. “This was your most challenging regatta yet.”

“But their success is all thanks to you,” said the twins’ mother, smiling. “The best and, I might also mention, the most adorable sailing coach anyone could hope for.”

Woody chose to ignore the latter comment and addressed the former.

“Your boys made it easy for me, Mrs. Hammond. They’re terrific students. Eager and super enthusiastic.”

“Too bad they don’t have the same attitude toward their homework.”

“Aw, Ma,” sighed Jasper. “Can you chill?”

“Yeah,” piped in his brother.

“By the way,” said Mrs. Hammond. “The boys want you to come to their birthday party next Saturday night at our house. I promise it will be fun for kids as well as us grown-ups.”

Given Mrs. Hammond’s bad rap sheet, Woody thought it wise to decline this invitation. Especially since the club had unspoken rules (often broken, of course) about staff canoodling with club members. Not to mention those members whose husbands—ex or otherwise—happened to sit on the governing board of directors.

“We’d really love to have you, Woody,” said Mrs. Hammond, licking her chops.

“Thanks, ma’am, but I’ve already got plans.”

“A hot date or something?” asked Jasper.

“See you two monkeys next week,” said Woody, choosing to ignore the question.

He took leave of the twins and their mama, and headed for the dock house, a small, gray shingled shack at the very end of the main pier. It was there that Woody found his boss hunched over his cluttered desk, slurping coffee and chewing on an unlit cigar which his doctor had forbidden him to smoke.

“Fucking paperwork,” grumbled Skip.

“You know. It’d be much easier if you’d let me teach you how to use the computer.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late to teach this old salty dog new tricks. Which reminds me, that new member, Ted Page…”

“You mean Fred Sage,” said Woody. “His Bertram 450 gets delivered this afternoon.”

“Yeah. And from what I’ve been told, damn fool don’t know his ass from his bowline when it comes to boats. Never even owned a canoe before.”

“Terrific, I can hardly wait to meet him.”

“Well, here’s your chance, son. Seems the boat is already in the channel and Mr. Terrific has just pulled into the parking lot. As for me, my hemorrhoids and I got an appointment with the proctologist.”

Fred Sage may have flunked out of community college, but he was far from dumb. A New Jersey transplant, he immediately honed in on a by-product of South Florida’s booming real estate market and started a company that delivered home insurance for the average buyer. Hassle-free. Cheap. With fast, reliable payouts. Or so his ads claimed.

Now, in the good old days, a guy like Fred Sage would never have been able to secure membership at the Trade Winds, a club established in the fifties by a group of stodgy old yachtsmen and favored by many wanna-be social climbers in the greater Miami boating community. But times they were a changing. Old money was dying off and, as former club commodore Gregory Cox so delicately put it, “The current economic climate sadly dictates a softening of standards.”

And so it came to pass on this particular Sunday afternoon in late January, this same Mr. Cox, along with his withered cronies, Mr. Collier and Mr. Duke, had gathered on the dock to watch Fred Sage’s forty-five foot Sport Fisherman, the Midas Touch, back into its newly assigned slip.

“I heard the guy struck it rich practically overnight,” explained Mr. Cox, pulling at his septuagenarian jowls.

Mr. Duke pursed his lips and shook his head. “Probably some illegal scam.”

“Yeah,” agreed Mr. Collier. “Like dealing pharmaceuticals.”

Mr. Cox widened his eyes. “Word is the boat was bought for a pittance off some Columbian who needed to unload it real fast. Nearly factory fresh. Less than a hundred hours. Fully loaded. Lucky bastard.”

As if on cue, Fred Sage, the “man of the hour,” was hustling up the dock in his bright plaid Bermudas, a red Polo and fresh-out-of-the-box Top-Siders. A few steps behind him was his fiancée, Trish, a former “swimsuit model” who under normal circumstances would never have given this middle-aged munchkin as much as a sniff. She was dressed for the occasion in her fresh-out-of-the-box four-inch stilettos, neon blue short-shorts and a pink tank top across which ran the rhinestone letters “r-i-c-h-b-i-t-c-h.”

“Fred, can you please slow down? I’m going to—SHIT!” shrieked Trish as the heel of one of her strappy metallic Manolos plunged in between the wooden planks and snapped off.

“Didn’t I tell you not to wear those shoes?”

“What the hell do you know about fashion?”

“Enough to pay for the bills you run up at Neiman’s, honey bunny.”

“But now what am I supposed to do?”

“Walk barefoot, perhaps?”

Trish, clearly miffed, had no choice but to heed Fred’s advice.

“Why did you make me come here anyway?”

“Please don’t whine. It’s not your most attractive quality,” said Fred. “I wanted you to come see the boat I bought for us.”

“But I decided I’m—I’m seasick.”

“Seasick? You’re joking, right? We haven’t even left the dock!”

Several yards away, Mr. Cox, Mr. Collier and Mr. Duke observed the couple with great interest. Like a modern-day Greek chorus, the men sang their disapproval in varying pitches of disgust.

“Sweet Jesus,” exclaimed Mr. Duke. “If those clowns get any louder…”

“They’ll break the sound barrier!” said Mr. Collier, taking the liberty of finishing his friend’s sentence.

“Only goes to prove,” piped in Mr. Cox. “You can take some people out of New Jersey, but you sure as hell can’t take New Jersey out of some people!”

Because Misters Cox, Collier and Duke—all plagued with hearing problems they refused to acknowledge—voiced their opinions in less than dulcet tones, Woody, who’d just finished securing the lines of the Midas Touch, was privy to their conversation. It came as no surprise to him that the “Geezer Patrol” would slice, dice and convict Fred Sage before actually meeting him.

If Sage’s reputation preceded him, the same could be said for his and his fiancée’s colognes—a fusion of scents like coconut, musk, bubble gum and a forest of lilacs. Woody also wondered whose diamond reflected the sun with more intensity—the rock on the girl’s finger or the equally big stone adorning Sage’s ear. But as he was about to switch into his ambassador mode, he needed to keep objectively focused.

“Mr. Sage?” he said.

“Live and in person, I’m afraid,” said Fred.

“I’m Woody, the assistant dockmaster. I’d like to welcome you to the Trade Winds Yacht Club.”

“Thanks, bro,” said Fred, shaking Woody’s hand. “The pleasure, I hope, will be all mine. Certainly cost me enough to join this friggin’ joint. Jesus, will you get a load of this friggin’ tub of mine!”

“It is quite a boat, sir,” said Woody.

“No shit! Gonna cost a small fortune to fill up the tanks!”

Personally, Woody had no sympathy for anybody dumb enough to buy a gas-guzzling, noise-polluting stinkpot like that.

“Had no idea this boat was gonna be so friggin’ big.”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Collier. “I’m not sure if I understand. How could you make a costly purchase like this sight unseen?”

“Well, I did see it. On-line. Bought it on Craig’s List.”

“What the devil is that?”

“It’s a Web site on the Internet, Mr. Collier,” said Woody. “Kind of like an on-line bulletin board for all sorts of things.”

The concept was too obtuse for him to grasp and only served to make the grumpy old man more grumpy.

“How could you possibly buy a boat from a photograph?” asked Mr. Duke, ruffling his unibrow.

“People do it all the time,” said Fred. “Bought my Porsche and Trish’s Beemer on-line, too.”

Woody watched Mr. Duke roll his eyes at Mr. Collier, who in turn rolled his eyes at Mr. Cox.

“But you gentlemen can’t deny Mr. Sage has found quite a beauty,” he said, doing a quick course correction to avert a collision.

“Gee, thanks,” piped in Trish, who up until now had been deeply involved with text messaging on her phone.

“No offense, honey bunny,” said Fred. “But I think Woody was referring to the Midas Touch.”

The girl sneered at the vessel and then back at her fiancé. “Oh, excuuussse me. So what exactly are you trying to tell me, Fred?”

“Hey, come on, who thinks you’re the most gorgeous gal around?”

“I don’t know. Who?”

“Allow me to demonstrate.”

And with that, Fred pressed his mouth to Trish’s and held steady. Woody pretended to check out a hangnail while the Geezer Patrol snickered amongst themselves.

“Oooh,” said Trish when she came back up for air. “Now I gotta pee. That iced coffee ran right through me.”

Woody suggested she use the head on the boat.

“Like what’s that supposed to mean?”

“The shitter,” said Fred, whose red-stained mouth failed to make him more attractive. “Excuse my French. The head is nautical lingo for toilet.”

“Well, if it’s all right with you,” said Trish, “I’m gonna use a real bathroom. One that’s on terra fema.”

“Firma,” corrected Fred. “As in your sweet ass, honey bunny.”

“Whatever.”

And with that, the girl scurried off with all six eyes of the Geezer Patrol fixated on her perfectly rounded posterior.

Fred motioned to Woody. “Come on, bro, what say we check out this baby?”

“Ah, sure,” said Woody, caught unawares.

The Geezer Patrol awaited an invitation as well, but when none came, they all retreated to the club bar for their gin and tonics.

Fred, meanwhile, nearly lost his footing while boarding the Midas Touch.

“You know a lot about boats and shit, right?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose,” said Woody. “Spent most of my life on the water.”

“Me, I grew up in East Newark. Near the scenic Hackensack River. Nothing but trash, industrial waste and floaters in there. Speaking of which, I’d like to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“I’m not sure if I like the sound of that proposition.”

Woody wasn’t much of a movie buff, but he did recognize that legendary quote from The Godfather. He’d watched the film on TV one night when he couldn’t sleep.

“Hey, relax. Just love using that line. Always gets the customer’s attention. Here’s the deal, bro. I’m sure there’s not much to driving a boat like this, but,” he said, lowering his voice, “the problem is Trish thinks I’m some kind of fucking expert yachtsman. And before she catches on that I really don’t know shit and chews me out for blowing all this money she could be spending on herself, I gotta get me educated. Fast. Your boss says you’re a top-notch instructor, so I’m thinking you might just be my main man.”

“Ah, I teach sailing to kids, Mr. Sage.”

“Fred, call me Fred.”

“Don’t mean to disrespect or anything, Mr. Sage, I mean, Fred, but why not ask the guy who delivered your boat to help you out?”

“Not available. With his brother away on an extended vacation, if you get my gist, this joker, well, he’s el splitso tomorrow. Hopping on the mule train back to Central America.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Listen, I hear you got Mondays off.”

“Most of the time.”

“I also heard you could use extra cash.”

“Well, yeah, can’t argue that point.”

Woody didn’t feel like getting into a long discussion as to why. Especially because he’d promised Mr. Vargas he’d help rig his new sail and he was already fifteen minutes late.

“How about this? I’d be willing to pay you three hundred big ones to spend tomorrow cruising around with me. We can position it as a, well, you know, a fishing trip. So whaddya say, bro?”

Three hundred dollars, thought Woody. That amount of money would pay for more than half of that Garmin GPS system he needed to buy.

Fred Sage was right. He had made him an offer he just couldn’t refuse.

Woody tried to scurry past the back door of the Spinnaker Café unnoticed, but Elizabeth Vega, daytime chef and wife to Ariel Vega, the club’s mechanic, caught him in the act. Hell, that woman could see an ant doing a backstroke in the middle of the Atlantic.

“Don’t you be sneaking off like you didn’t see me, child!” she shouted, wiping her hands on her stained apron.

“Sorry,” called Woody. “Spaced. Been a long day.”

“So dis be an excuse not to come give me some lovin’?”

Woody hustled over to Elizabeth for a hug. She smelled of her famous Jamaican conch chowder and jerk chicken.

“You be hungry?”

Had she heard his stomach growl?

“Nah. I’m fine.”

“Don’t you be lying to me, child. I happen to know you didn’t eat lunch today.”

Before Woody had a chance to explain, let alone escape, Elizabeth ferried him inside. The kitchen was empty save for Luis, the Costa Rican dishwasher, dancing at the sink. But he was clearly too into his music on his iPod to either care or notice he had an audience.

Elizabeth whipped up a fresh Cubano within a flash. One bite of the pressed sandwich—slow-roasted, citrus-flavored pork combined with ham, dill pickles and Swiss cheese—sent Woody’s taste buds into gastronomic ecstasy.

“Now, don’t you go anywhere, ’cause I got a surprise for you.”

And with that Elizabeth disappeared through the swinging doors into the café. Woody was so busy stuffing himself he never considered the notion that she might be up to no good. But when she returned moments later he nearly choked on his food.

“Woody, dis here is Madalina,” said Elizabeth, impishly grinning. “I thought you just might like to meet her all proper-like.”

The girl had changed out of her navy miniskirt, Trade Winds logo white collared shirt and sneakers into a pair of jeans with a frayed hole on one knee, a pink tank top and flip-flops. Her hair hung loose, halfway to her waist. Freshly showered, it was still damp.

“Hello, Voody. Is pleasure to see you again.”

There was a sliver of a gap between her two top teeth which Woody found sexy. As well as every inch of her.

“Ah, likewise.”

He instinctively extended a hand to shake hers. Too late to check if his palm was sticky from pork or pickle juice or for that matter, nerves.

“I must say to you again how so sorry I am for making mess of you,” she said, returning the gesture.

Her fingers were small and childlike, but her grip was as strong as a grown man’s.

“Hey, seriously, it was all my fault.”

“You know,” said Elizabeth, butting into the conversation. “Dis boy, he is such a gentleman. De nicest boy you ever wanna to know. Everybody love dis boy. He is some catch, dis one be. And, you know, dis boy, he gonna sail his boat ’round the world by hisself some day.”

“Elizabeth, I realize you’ve got my best interests in mind here but, no offense, could you cut the sales pitch?”

“Not saying anything that ain’t true, but don’t you worry none; it’s time for Elizabeth to get home to her other children.”

“I think she love you very much,” said Madalina after Elizabeth had left.

“She’s had this mother thing going on with me since I was twelve, but sometimes she embarrasses the hell out of me.”

“Is because she is proud for you.”

Woody shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

“So tell me, you will really do such a big sail?”

“If all goes according to plan, yep.”

But at this particular moment, the trip Woody had spent so many years preparing for wasn’t exactly on his mind.

“You are very brave.”

“Dunno about that. Some people call solo sailors crazy, but the fact is, a crazy man wouldn’t be able to navigate his way out of a harbor. Let alone sail across oceans. Anyway, my dad, well, he was quite an adventurer. Guess it’s in my blood.”

“Adventurer?” she asked, mangling the pronunciation. “I do not know this word.”

“Someone who, well, takes risks. How can I put this? An adventurer is someone like Christopher Columbus. He took a risk when he sailed across the ocean in search of new worlds. Or when Sir Edmund Hillary climbed Everest. Nobody had ever climbed to the summit of that mountain before, so it was considered, well, you know, a huge risk. And so guys like that are considered adventurers. Explorers.”

Despite his explanation, Madalina still looked quite confused.

“Forgive me, but my English is not very good looking.”

“Sure, it is. It’s—it’s beautiful.”

Had Woody actually allowed those words to drop out of his mouth?

“I try hard to study my English fast. I watch television and I make collection of many American magazines. I like very much Vogue, Peoples, InStyle, Town and Countries, Ocean Drives. Many, many stories of rich and fame.”

“Plenty of that in South Florida.”

“I know. I just love America. Is great land of opportunity, yes?”

“For a select few perhaps, but for far too many others, well, they’re not so lucky. The gap between the rich and poor is still real wide. I’m afraid that old American dream of rising from rags to riches overnight is pretty much a fairy tale and—”

The corners of Madalina’s mouth had visibly dropped.

“I’m sorry,” Woody said, jumping off his soapbox. “I didn’t mean to lay anything heavy on you.”

Growing up in a very liberal household, his reaction to politically sensitive subjects was always knee-jerk. But who was he to burst Madalina’s bubble? It was normal for her to be pumped up about her newly adopted country. He felt like such an asshole. He needed to lighten up the conversation. Fast.

“So, ah, judging from your accent,” said Woody, nervously chuckling, “I suspect you’re not from ah, well, you know, Brooklyn.”

Madalina cocked her head and furled her brow. “Excuse of me?”

“What I mean to say is, what country are you from?”

“Ah, from Romania.”

He had this sudden urge to play connect the dots with every one of those freckles on her chest.

“I live on Black Sea. Is called Constanta. Very big city. Almost as big as Bucharest. Many touristic attractions. You must go sometime, I think.”

“Who knows, perhaps I will. Maybe you can, you know, tell me more about your country sometime.”

Woody bit his tongue. How could he have used such an unoriginal come-on line? He thought of himself as reasonably intelligent, but why was he acting like such a moron with this girl?

“It would be my pleasures to do this for you.”

“You would?” he said, his voice cracking. Had she actually taken the bait and not regurgitated it? “I mean, of course, there’s no rush and—”

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “Look at time! I must go now or I will miss bus.”

“I—I can give you a lift.”

Had he been more confident, he would have offered to deliver Madalina right to her doorstep. Or clear across the continent if she asked.

“Thank you, Voody, is very kind for you.”

“No big deal, really.”

But it was, however, major to him. And as they walked along the path toward the parking lot, each strand of his overgrown mop of brown hair stood on end. Lucky he had on his trusty baseball cap.

“So what will you do tonight, Voody? You will go out to make party in South Beach, yes?”

“Oh, no,” he said, tripping over a pebble on the pavement. “Not my thing. I’ll go home. Grab some dinner. And then spend the rest of the evening working on the Sponge. The Sea Sponge. That’s my sailboat. Or what will become my sailboat.”

“How big is Sea Sponge?”

“Thirty-seven feet. Not small, but not a yacht.”

“My papa, he makes ships.”

Sheeps.

It took him a second, but then he realized what she’d meant.

“Many people do this in Constanta. My papa, he is, how you say? He work with fire.”

“You mean a welder? Your dad uses a blow torch to melt the steel together?”

In order to help her understand, Woody tried pantomime. This spasticlike charade tickled Madalina.

“That was pretty lame, huh?”

“Elizabeth, she is right. You are so cute and sweet. I like you, Voody.”

He angled the brim of his hat down another notch and kept walking straight ahead.

“Well, this is me,” he said, patting the hood of a 1984 red pickup truck with numerous burnt-orange rust spots. “Not much to look at. A bit bent up, but the old gal gets me where I’m supposed to go. At least most of the time.”

Woody opened the passenger door for her.

“You keep unlocked?” she asked.

“Of course. I mean, who’d want to steal this truck anyway,” he said, laughing nervously.

Meanwhile, Woody discovered there was no room for Madalina to sit. He gathered a mound of papers, a cereal box, several empty coffee cups, a can of WD–40, a book on celestial navigation and a half-eaten piece of rawhide and in one fell swoop, dumped them all behind the seat.

“This is as good as it’s going to get, I’m afraid,” he said, giving the stained, torn upholstery a quick brush with the side of his hand, before heading to the driver’s side.

“You have dog, yes?” asked Madalina.

“Guess the hair was a dead give-away,” he said, sliding in next to her. “I’ve got this big old mutt who wandered into our yard one day when she was a pup. Name’s Sweetie. Hands down, she’s the love of my life. I mean, well, you know, in a manner of speaking she is,” he said, laughing nervously. “So, ah, do you like dogs?”

“We had back in my country when I was girl. But dog is very dead now.”

Woody offered his condolences, and then turned the key in the ignition only to discover his truck had suffered the same fate.

“What is wrong?”

“It’s the battery.”

“Is bad?”

“Well, it’s not too good.”

“Maybe I should start to make walk now, yes?”

But before Woody had a chance to convince Madalina to do otherwise, the artillery arrived.

A fully loaded H1 Alpha Hummer to be exact.

Bright “cock-blocking” yellow.

The left window of the Hummer opened. A burst of cold air along with the musical offerings of U2 blew out, followed by the appearance of a face with which Woody had been familiar for over ten years.

“Transportation problems, I presume?”

There was only one reason why an obnoxious prick like Hollings would skulk around someplace as “undesirable” as the employee’s parking lot, and Woody knew it had nothing to do with roadside assistance.

“Hey, Madalina! Remember me from this afternoon?”

“You are Todd, yes?”

Madalina pronounced his name so it sounded more like “toad.” A most appropriate choice, thought Woody.

“I came by the café to see if you needed a ride home,” said Todd. “But they said you’d just left. Or at least tried to, that is. Seeing as the Woodmeister here isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, looks like things have changed. Can I give you a lift?”

The girl’s eyes scanned the Hummer and then back across the truck. It was obvious which vehicle she preferred.

“You’re in a rush,” said Woody. “It’s all right. Go ahead with Todd.”

Madalina smiled plaintively and hugged her shoulders. “But I feel so bad…”

“Don’t worry. I’m cool.”

But this was far from the case.

Woody, now plumb out of ammunition, had simply surrendered without a fight.