PROLOGUE

apoleon bonaparte hid in the darkest corner of the balcony. Hand characteristically tucked into waistcoat, he peered into the night. Suddenly one of the doors swung open, loosing sounds of a party inside. Napoleon froze, until seeing it was Moses. Coast clear? Moses asked. Yeah, Napoleon said. Cool, said Moses. He stepped out, the familiar pair of stone tablets tucked under an arm, and he carefully shut the door. Napoleon then withdrew his hand from his coat. In it was a joint. Moses set down the Commandments and shed a Zippo from his robe. Of note, the day was Saturday; the date August 13, 1976, and the occasion the twenty-ninth annual Costume Ball at the Shore Havens Yacht Club in Cape Bantam, Florida, about fteen miles down the coast from Pensacola.

Keith Thomson

Construction of Shore Havens was completed in 1924. Still, the palatial limestone clubhouse, with its vast pavilion, colonnaded portico, and topiary-sprinkled grounds, could have been dropped into the Palais de Versailles neighborhood and, as the architect had promised, not stood out a bitexcluding, of course, any attention drawn by an eleven million pound building being dropped. While sharing the joint, Moses and Napoleon surveyed the broad cul-de-sac two stories below. At the foot of the marble staircase that spilled down from the entrance, a diamondbedecked Queen Elizabeth I was hoisted from a Bentley by her chauffeur. Nice touch, Moses said. I dunno, Napoleon said. She died four hundred years before they had cars. Atop the steps the guard, clad as a British beefeater, tended to a plump rendition of Harpo Marx. Name please, sir? he asked. By way of response, Harpo pantomimed, holding forth one hand, then pointing skyward with the other. The beefeater, a Shore Havens security man forced to work overtime and sweltering beneath a two-foot-high black fur hat, regarded him blankly. Additional pantomime served only to anger Harpos wife, a Salem witch. Hanson, she explained to the beefeater. Dr. and Mrs. Arthur Hanson. The beefeater crossed out their names on the scrolled guest list and waved them in. Decent concept, Moses said. Eh, Napoleon said with a ribbon of smoke. The duos attention was drawn to the bay behind the clubhouse by a little motorboat buzzing toward the dock. In it sat a man in pirate garb. Now that, Napoleon said, is clever.

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Inside the clubhouse, in the lofty Grand Ballroom, a sixteen-piece orchestra dressed as eighteenth-century Quakers belted out a boisterous brand of swing. Dancing, drinking, and gossiping to the beat was an historically costumed crowd of some four hundred of Cape Bantams social and economic elite. Among them an ordinarily jovial Henry VIII glowered at his wife, whod come as Joan of Arc. A few cocktails earlier shed admired from afar the sturdy left pectoral muscle exposed by Zeuss toga. Now she was squeezing it. Henry snatched her by an elbow and dragged her toward the exit. Darling, he hissed, you shouldve come as Jack Daniels. He steered her clear of the bayside terrace door, enabling the pirate to enter. Joan, meanwhile, batted her eyelashes at Harpo. In response Harpo enthusiastically honked his bicycle horn. But by then Joan was transxed by the pirate. He was a man in his late thirties, of average height and weight, but, like a ships rigging, his muscles and tendons were xed, trim, and taut. One strong forearm bore a tattoo of a dagger, the other, a three-masted barque. Yellow-blond hair peeked from beneath a black bandanna onto which was sewn a white silhouetted hourglass. His gold hoop earring, blouse, breeches, brass telescope, and sword all had a worn authenticity, but his sea blue eyes comprised the most convincing element of the ensemble. They shone from beneath his black mask and sang of the sort of spirit that relished swinging aboard an enemy barque and crossing blades with all comers. A sailor! Joan gushed. I think hes supposed to be a pirate, dear, Henry said, attempting to tug her onward. She stayed rmly in place. The pirate stepped aside to let Queen Elizabeth I pass, then acknowledged Joan. Good evening, madame, he said, and, with a tilt of the head Henrys way, he added, Your Highness. A pirate! Joan gushed. Aye, the pirate said.

Keith Thomson

Joan giggled. Then, to the pirates surprise, she began to tickle the rounded brass pommel of his sword hilt. With a pained sigh, Henry attempted, once more, to haul her off, but she clung to the pommel, unwittingly drawing the entire sword from its scabbard. The steel blade ashed like a recracker as she teetered beneath its unexpected heft. Christ, Henry yelped, leaping out of the way, that things real! The pirate leapt to Joans aid, stabilizing her and reclaiming the sword. Then he said to Henry, Of course its real. Im here to plunder gold and jewels. If I run into any opposition, Im better off with a real sword than a plastic one, right? Joan laughed. Henry, pointedly, did not. Well, Captain, Joan slurred, you certainly picked a good night for gold and jewels. Ive seen three queens here. And its still early. The pirate grinned, displaying teeth that often drew comparisons to sugar cubes. His reaction was due mostly to the fact that the diamond necklace seen seconds earlier around the neck of Queen Liz now resided in his breeches.

Shortly thereafter, in Shore Havens oak-paneled Tap Room, Henry was attempting to lodge a complaint to the head beefeater about this reckless pirate jerk and his lethal weapon, which surely violated a dozen house rules. Henry was stymied because the clubs complaint-lodging procedure involved rst writing a letter to the Rules Committee, but he continued to whine long enough that the commodorettingly costumed, he felt, as Admiral Nelsontook up the case. He suggested that, for starters, they establish the pirates identity. Its denitely not Dickie Cregan, he said. Dickie Cregan was the reigning club champ in debauchery. It wasnt until three years after the renovation that they discovered the two-way mirror hed bribed the contractor to install in the ladies changing room. Dickie, continued the commodore, came as Pope Pius. The head beefeater, who was the clubs chief of security, weighed

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in. None of the boys or me think we seen any pirate coming in, he said, but its hard to say for sure. His lack of certitude, he felt, vindicated his protest to the Event Planning Committee that he and his men would be encumbered by the beefeater costumes, particularly the two-foot-tall hunks of fur for hats. Taking his side, one of the committee members noted that, historically, such caps were worn not by beefeaters but, rather, by palace guardsmen. The conict was settled when the majority of the members expressed the opinion that the hats looked neat. More importantly, theyd already been paid for. Sure enough, throughout the party the security men had battled to keep the brims from sliding over their eyes. The inquiry in the taproom took a decided turn when a ushed Queen Elizabeth I ran in, leaving a trail of tears.

A moment later the music in the ballroom ceased, and a hush seized the crowd. Spears in hand, two beefeaters charged toward the pirate, who was meandering back to the bayside terrace. As if unaware of them, the pirate stopped at the buffet table, ladled himself a cup of fruit punch from the large pewter bowl, and took a sip. He found it pleasantly tart. He was considering complementing it with an clair when the beefeaters caught up to him. Sir, the head man said, we need to ask you to step outside with us. The pirate turned toward the beefeaters, and, nding no one standing between them and himself, he gave the appearance of surprise. You mean me? he said. The head beefeater nodded. What on earth for? If you dont know, then you got nothing to worry about. The beefeaters then started out, until realizing the pirate wasnt following. He was still at the buffet, nishing his punch. At the same time, he was sneaking a look at the service exit. It was blocked by a third beefeater. The windows? All shut. He mulled his

Keith Thomson

options. Then, in one blazing motion, he drew his sword, leapt at the beefeaters, and slashed their spearswhich were plasticin two. Okay now, he said, with unusual calm, everybody, back off. Startled guests scurried aside. The pirate then had a clear path to the terracebut only for a moment. The beefeaters stepped into the way. The pirate claried, When I said everybody Abruptly, he ceased clarifying, because theyd drawn guns. Beefeaters, he protested, arent supposed to have those. Okay, now, lower your sword down onto the oor, pal, the head man said. Nice and easy now. To his relief the pirate complied. The other beefeater then jammed his gun into the small of the pirates back and tried to prod him out. However, the pirate remained planted by the buffet table and laughed. Come on now, boys, the sword thingit was just part of the act. What do you say we have us a drink and forget all about this? I dont think so, said the head beefeater. Well, the pirate said, with seemingly misplaced nality, I insist. At once he jerked free of his captors, snared the big pewter punch bowl, and slung it at them. Its tart contents stung their eyes, momentarily blinding them. He used that moment to lunge for the silverware on the buffet table. There are martial artists who can throw everyday playing cards with such velocity that they serve as lethal weapons. Demonstrating a variation on that theme, the pirate, with a unique sidearm throwing motion, sent a pair of stainless steel spoons ying, one after the other, much, much faster than anyone else present would have imagined possible. The rst spoon drilled the head beefeater in the wrist, costing him his grip on his rearm. It clattered to the oor and skipped underneath the buffet table. The second spoon nailed a waiter in the elbow, causing him to spill a tray loaded with full champagne utes onto the other beefeater, blinding him anew. The third beefeater, who to this point had been merely standing

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by the service exit, drew his gun. For him the pirate chose a large serving fork. It whistled over the heads of dozens of guests before its thick prongs came to rest in the frilly cuff of its targets right sleeve, pinning the fabricand, effectively, the mans gunto the wall. The guests watched in amazement, every one of them at a loss for wordsexcept for Harpo Marx, who shouted, Holy fucking shit! The pirate reclaimed his sword and leapt onto the buffet table. He got a running start, hurdled the clairs, and sprung off the far end, launching himself toward a drape that had been pulled aside to reveal a two-story-tall window overlooking the bay. In midair he grabbed onto its thick draw cord, swung on it for a dozen feet or so, then crashed through the windowpane. With a comet tail of broken glass, he plummeted three stories, disappearing into the darkness. The guests collectively gasped. The beefeaters shook off their own amazement, then rushed out in pursuit. Via the door.

A mile or so down the coast stood, albeit barely, a ninety-ve-yardlong wooden pier. In the nineteenth century, it had been a grand concourse through a forest of spars and rigging. In 1976, it was home to hundreds of thousands of mollusks and, above them, the Oceanside Penny Arcade, where games cost a dime. The same night as the Shore Havens Costume Ball, the arcade was the location for the ninth birthday party of one sprightly, fair-haired Morgan Baker. Amidst the din of pinball machines and an elderly popcorn machine gasping to keep up with demand, Morgan and a dozen other boys indulged in Skee-Ball. As the game was played at the Oceanside, a dime bought nine wooden ballseach about the size of a baseball that were rolled up a six-foot rubber ramp toward a target consisting of pockets with point values relative to the difculty of attaining them. The higher the nine-ball point total, the more tickets won. Ten good games worth of tickets could be redeemed at the prize counter for a comically oversized plastic comb, a rubber snake, or very popular with the birthday partyersstale gum. A great night of skeeing netted enough tickets for a pair of fake-fur-coated oversized

Keith Thomson

dice, an Instamatic camera that would never actually function, or a fart cushion. It was the last prize about which the boys dreamt. Suddenly, save the corn popper, the arcade went quiet, everyones interest snared by the sound of reworks outside. This was cause for particular excitement among the boys, until one of the old guys at the air hockey table informed them, Those aint reworks. Thosere gunshots. A couple of the boys swallowed their stale gum. All studied their leader, Morgan, to determine whether it was okay to show fear. His steely blue eyes, as usual, showed none. Still, one of his friends squealed, Morgan, whered your dad go? Morgan shrugged. I dont know. He said he was going to take a call from nature.

At the end of the Shore Havens Club dock, the pirate stood in his wobbly motorboat, yanking the starter cord without result. Cripes, he muttered. He tried once more. This time, it sounded as if the motor had red. In fact, the sound was more gunre. Its source, he realized, was the trio of beefeaters clambering down the cedar-slatted gangway to the dock. He decided to abandon motorboat. The beefeaters heard his body crack the water. Then they heard nothing, and saw no sign of him. They swept the surface of the bay with ashlights awhile longer, until it occurred to them that, unless the pirate either had drowned or possessed Guinness Bookcaliber lung capacity, hed somehow made it out of the water. They swung their ashlight beams back toward the gangway. Sure enough, watery footprints led up toward the clubhouse. The beefeaters raced that way. The footprints disappeared into a row of topiary bushes. Seeing movement in one (a skillfully carved hippopotamus), the beefeaters took aim, but before they could order the pirate to come out with hands up, they heard from within the bush, Dont shoot! We surrender!

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The voice belonged not to the pirate, but to Joan of Arc. The puzzled beefeaters brushed aside a bough and found her lying on the grass beneath the hippos hindquarters. She was now in the costume more often associated with Lady Godiva. Also, she was in the embrace of Pope Pius, naked himself but for his miter (or, as its more commonly known, pope hat). Other guests, having lost the battle against curiosity, assembled on the terrace just above. Joan turned red with embarrassment. Pius (that mischievous Dickie Cregan) simply smoothed his hair. This was one of his career highlights, and he wanted to look his best. Not far from the hippo was a hedge shaved into a whale, including a cleverly rendered leafy spout. Wedged beneath the whales belly, the pirate thanked his stars for this turn of events. He then extricated himself from the hedge, scurried through shadows around the clubhouse and portico, and happened upon the parking lot, which was packed with cars. The pirate had never stolen a car and had no idea how to do it, but as the stars would have it, Queen Elizabeths Bentley was sitting right there, motor idling and windows down. The pirate reached through the front window on the left side, unlocked the door, and climbed in, disbelieving his lucky stars all the while. For good reason. Upon sitting, he recalled that the drivers seat in a British car was on the other side. His principal reminder: the Bentleys chauffeur, slumped there, snoring lightly. The pirate reached across the chauffeurs lap, opened his door, and attempted to shove him out of the car, but the stout fellow was seat-belted in, tight. Then things, as far as the pirate was concerned, got worse. He heard men running into the parking lot. Evidently hearing them, too, the chauffeur woke up. Drive, the pirate barked. The chauffeur rubbed sleep from his eyes. The pirate added, Now! Still drowsy, the chauffeur said, Sorry, chief, youre in the wrong car.

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This is my car now, the pirate declared, and for emphasis he wound his sword back through the open window and swung it, hacking the headrest clean off the chauffeurs seat. The chauffeur was now quite awake. Also eager to please. Where to, sir? Anywhere. The chauffeur grabbed at the clutch to shift into rst gear. In his fright he placed it in reverse. The Bentley ew back a carlength, crunching into an Oldsmobile and activating its shrill horn. Anywhere forward, the pirate claried. Before the chauffeur could comply, an odd tapping diverted his attention. Both he and the pirate looked up to nd the head beefeater knocking on the windshield with the surviving half of his plastic spear. He was accompanied by the other beefeaters, as well as four Cape Bantam policemen. The pirate slid down his seat. This, he sighed, is why I dont do land jobs.

Two hours later, the Oceanside Penny Arcade was dark and shuttered. The last of Morgans birthday party guests was stationwagoned away by the last of the moms. Shed offered to drive Morgan home to Pensacola. Hed declined. His dad, hed said, would return any second. His condence had reassured her. Morgan spent the next twenty minutes tightrope-walking the parking space lines in the empty lot, perking up with each pair of approaching headlights, only to be disappointed as they buzzed past. He began to wonder what on earth prompted his father to leave the arcade in the rst place. Another half hour and another dozen pairs of wrong headlights later, the boy wrapped his arms around himself to counter the damp gusts off the gulf, and, weighted by sadness, he took a seat on the curb. Unwittingly he activated the fart cushion hed won. It provided him no solace.

AN ACCOUNTANT

wenty-seven summers later found Morgan hurrying to work. Hed grown into a man considered handsome by those who could overlook the pallidness, the circles beneath his eyes, and the slight hunchthe results of far too much time spent beneath a uorescent desk lamp, and far too little having fun. Moreover, the sadness from his vigil on the Oceanside Penny Arcade curb appeared to have been permanently etched into his features. He was driving a Buick Skylark, a boxy model generally favored by men twice his age. Another relative anachronism, pomade, ensured that not a single one of his close-cropped hairs would deviate from its station on either side of his ruler-straight part. Although no one would have disputed that he was still a young man, it wasnt hard to imagine Morgan waking up one morning suddenly transformed into a senior citizen. He wore a conservative tie and a proper dark gray business suit of moderate quality. Still burdened by huge tuition loan payments and other debts incurred from four years at Forbischer College of

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Accounting, Morgan was forced to shop at the sort of mens stores called Buddys or Chicks or the possessive of some other name betting a bookie. At those establishments much of the merchandise was, inexplicably, water stained, and were a casting agent assigned to a Three Stooges re-make to have happened in, the salesmen would have been the answer to his prayers. Nonetheless, garmentally speaking, Morgan did the best he could. He spared no expense on dry cleaning, and it showed. His white oxford cloth collars were starched to a shine. As he drove, he was craning his neck through one such collar, which scratched him, in order to peer over the Skylarks boxcarsized hood. He was searching for a clearing in the thick Route 85 trafc. Damnably, he found none. On the radio the morning show guy wrapped up an interview with a local man known, according to himself, as the Carpet Cleaner to the Stars. Then he delivered the weather report. A sunny, sunny, sunny seventy-three degrees in downtown Miami . . . Having long ago ceased regretting spending storybook summer days inside an ofce, Morgan listened without emotion. Then the morning show guy added the following more pertinent piece of news: . . . at 8:46. The most important meeting Morgan had ever had was at nine sharp, eleven-and-a-half trafc-clotted miles away, including a drawbridge that he took for granted, given his luck, would be raised. His fury at not having left home earlier manifested itself in a display that those who knew him would have considered the outermost limit of his emotional range. Cripes, he muttered.

Vail & Company employed over two thousand worldwide, most of them at the import-export concerns Miami headquarters. A boldly wrought shaft of tempered steel and mirrored glass, the building evoked a sleek ocean liner. At 9:17, the Skylark took the entrance to the parking lot as if it

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were the nal turn at Indy. As Morgan had feared, all of the parking spaces within a quarter mile of the buildingother than the handicapped spotswere lled. At 9:20, he nally found a free spot at the far end of the lot. He parked his car and shot toward the nearest building entrance. At 9:23, out of breath from both the run and repeated cripeses, Morgan produced his wallet from his suit coat and shed out his magnetic-stripped ID card. He swiped it through the wall-mounted reader beside the door. The lock disengaged with a hiss. Meetings started ten to fteen minutes late. Coffee and small talk took, Morgan calculated, another eight or nine. He might still be in the safety zone. If he ran. He yanked open the door and tensed his knees to spring inside. Then he saw, reected in the chrome frame, seventy-eight-year-old Isabel Vail tottering up from the parking lot. Morgan contemplated pretending not to have noticed her. Yes, he would enter nonchalantly, then, once clear of the doorway, sprint down the corridorhe desperately needed to stop in the mens room, but would forego itand make it to the meeting. He found himself holding the door open. Aside from a few trappings of wealth (a designer poplin dress, a strand of pearls, and, in spite of the temperature, a cashmere sweater), Isabel Vail was the very portrait of wholesome American grandmotherliness, from her wee orthopedic shoes upfour feet and nine inchesto her soft, round head and ne, snowy hair tied back in a bun. She even wore the half-moon glasses listed in the opticians catalogue as Grannies. It was said that in her younger days Isabel was an exceptional beauty and actively involved in steering the family business. Now her seat on the board of directors was viewed as an activity intended to keep her life from consisting solely of her weekly bridge game. Seventy-four excruciating ticks of Morgans watch later, Isabel reached the entrance. How are you today, Mrs. Vail? he asked pleasantly. Why, just ne. Just ne, thank you. She stopped a foot shy of

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the threshold and squinted up at him. Youre Joseph from Frozen Seafood, right? No, maam. Im Morgan. Morgan Baker, from Accounting. To his chagrin she remained outside and gazed skyward. Morgan, dear, she said, do you think its going to rain today? Morgan looked at the sky. It was not just cloudless, but no-waytheres-even-a-wisp-of-one-in-the-entire-hemisphere cloudless. The weatherman said its supposed to be sunny, he said. Isabel reected upon this for a moment, which seemed to Morgan to last a hundred moments. Then she said, I never trust them. So I brought an umbrella. I thought Id bring my violet one, to match my dress, you know, but I looked everywhere and couldnt nd it. So I brought the one with daffodils on it. With herculean effort Morgan smiled. Sounds pretty. It is. Very pretty. But I left it in the car. In the backseat. And my driver just left. With the car. Well, then, why dont you come inside before it starts raining? Good thinking. Morgan waited, impatience stabbing at his intestines, as she inched her way in. At that moment, a sporty new Porsche hummed off Route 85 and into one of the handicapped spots. A t, linensuit-and-power-tie-clad young exec popped out. He kicked the car door shut with a loafer worth more than the entire calf from which it was crafted, then red his remote, engaging the locks and security system as he breezed toward the buildings entrance. There he slalomed around Isabel and, as if oblivious to Morgan, nudged past him and inside. Morgan stood and watched, dismayed to once again nd himself the victim of this sort of a situation, but he eased his mind, as he had many times in the past, with a reminder that life came with no guarantee of being fair.

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he smattering of Floridian pastel notwithstanding, Vail & Company projected an old-world corporate might. The wide, teak-paneled corridors were adorned with paintings visitors recognized from art history classes. Morgans wing tips beat a hasty path down a long stretch of Oriental carpet. He pulled up outside the boardroom, allowing himself to the count of ve to regain some of his breath and mop both his brow and the pool of perspiration welling at the base of his neck. Through the glass wall he saw the power-tie-clad Porsche driver now ensconced at the long mahogany table alongside a dozen similarly dressed executives. Though they were mostly strangers to Morgan, he could tell that these men and women were cut from a different cloth than heand not just in terms of business suit quality and posture, or because they belonged to pricey tness clubs and were getting their moneys worth. Unlike him, they exuded self-condence. And most of them actually had it. They were poised, brassysmug even. There was no circumstance short of life or death in which one of them would want to be seen in a Buick Skylark, let alone with Morgan. He tried to shake his insecurities by reciting to himself an aphorism taught him by his mentor, Vails director of accounting, Herb Flick. Something about all people being equal. He was too nervous to remember so much as the rst word. The Porsche driver had the oor. . . . If McMenamin doesnt accept our offer, he was saying, then, hell yeah, a raids the way to go. He was pleased by the gleams in the eyes around the table. And if that doesnt work, I say we hire a private dick to nd out who McMenamins been fucking, get us some steamy snapshots, then invite Mrs. McMenamin to the bargaining table.

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The others cackled, until interrupted by the groan of the door. Morgan entered, and, sheepishly, pushed the door shut behind him. Full of apprehension, he looked to the head of the table. There Skip Vail, a sturdy, athletic young man wearing a custom suit and hand-stitched bow tie, considered him with coal black eyes that were anything but warm. The others in the room appeared less friendly. Morgan, feeling beads of sweat wrestling with one another to get through his pores, toweled his face with his sleeve. Baker? Skip asked, as if hoping otherwise. Although theyd been in meetings together twice before, Morgan had guessed Skip wouldnt remember him. Sorry Im late, he said. Skip pretended, though not too well, to be glad to see him. No problem, old man, so long as youve brought your homework. Morgan knew the old man was meaningless prep-school-speak. Still, it made him painfully aware that Skip, the director of acquisitions, was six years his junior. Certain people attributed Skips rapid rise to nepotism. Those people hadnt worked with him. Those who had worked with him often compared him to a pit viperhigh praise in corporate raider circles. The sole reason Skip hadnt climbed higher on the company ladder was that his cousins already occupied the next rungs. By homework Skip meant the numbers Morgan had been crunching day, night, and in his dreams for the past week in order to analyze the viability of a hostile takeover of a canned cat food company. So intimidated was he by Skip, Morgan failed to nd words to reply to the question of whether hed brought it Yes would have sufced. Instead, he displayed his briefcase and noddedovereagerly, he feared, and the looks around the table conrmed it. Nevertheless, Skip waved, as a prince might, granting Morgan the lone available chair. Ladies and gents, Skip announced to his team, Morgan Baker, from down in Accounting. Their welcome consisted of a lukewarm nod or two. To them

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the Accounting Department had all the appeal a library carrel had to mountain climbers.

Morgan had wanted to be an accountant since he was nine years old. Before that, hed juggled baseball player, astronaut, and sea captain. The shift followed an informal survey he conducted of his classmates fathers. No matter that the job sounded, at its most exciting, tedious, Andy Flicks dad, a CPA, swayed Morgan with the information that, There is and always will be a steady demand for accounting. The profession offered unrivaled safety and security. Even if theres another Great Depression, Herb Flick boasted, folksll still need accountants because somebodyll have to tabulate all the losses. Herb Flick not only believed in the American Work Ethic, he zealously avoided deviating from it. Monday through Friday, he never failed to wear a crisply creased, proper gray suit, a tightly knotted conservative tie, and shiny black wing tips laced in symmetrical loops. His close-cropped hair was kept that way by a standing weekly appointment at the barbershop at the top of Main Street. He never entered a meeting without rst freshening his breath with a wintergreen Lifesaver. His temperance, carefully maintained congeniality, and eager smile told bosses and clients, I will never, ever, even under circumstances that would halt postal delivery, let you down. He was a loving family man and a good provider. He owned an all-American four-bedroom-and-a-replace white colonial house with a tidy lawn and a pristine white picket fence. He belonged to a good country club. He bought a brand-new Buick every other year. Herb Flicks life became young Morgan Bakers wish list. Herbs alma mater, Forbischer College of Accounting, in tiny, sedate Forbischer, Georgia, was one of a small handful of institutions of higher learning in the United States in the mid-1980s that still required students to wear coat and tie to class. There were no sports there, and no social life to speak of. One never heard students or alumni mention Forbischer in the same sentence as fun.

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(The exception would be: We had fun at Forbischer the weekend we drove up to the U. of Georgia to go to a fraternity party.) The closest thing to a fraternity party at Forbischer was the Order of Mathematicians Coffee Night. Nevertheless, because Herb Flick proudly wore a Forbischer sweater, Morgan spent his high school years dreaming of going there. Morgan lived, during those years, with a foster couple, the Banes. They were paid by the state of Florida to house him, a fact that they kept secret from Morgan, though he guessed as much. His place in the pecking order was well south of that held by the dog, an incontinent schnauzer forced upon the Banes when their twenty-seven-year-old daughter went to live at a commune that only allowed cats. Only way Id write any checks for your college is if you gimme the money in cash rst, Morgans foster father, Ralph Bane, told him. It was one of their more tender moments. Forbischers tuition perennially ranked in the nations top twenty-ve. Despite the impracticality of actually attending, Morgan mailed off his application the rst day Forbischer accepted them, and, ve months later, he was ecstatic upon receiving a letter inviting him to be part of the Class of 1989. Amazingly, he managed to piece togethervia nancial aid, three separate higher-education loans, and a Pensacola Adding Machine Club grantfunds sufcient for tuition and scant board. The effort required more scal resourcefulness than he would ever use as an actual accountant. At Forbischer the Tax Club was Morgans only joyjoy being a relative term. Morgan once jokingly suggested they recruit a cheerleading squad to exhort the club members as they raced to ll out federal income tax forms. The clubs faculty advisor replied that this was not a good idea as cheers would most likely distract the students. Morgans time there was made palatable by the brass ring represented by the diploma, and by Forbischers fantastic job placement record. As it turned out, the latter proved superuous. At the end of Morgans freshman year, Herb Flick was lured from his

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small accounting rm in Pensacola by a serendipitous offer to run the entire Accounting Department at Vail & Company in Miami. During the subsequent summer vacation, as well as his sophomore and junior summers, Morgan interned there. Upon graduation from Forbischer, he stood an excellent chance of landing a training slot at a Big Four rm. His rsum was exactly what they were looking for, from the high grade point average to the personal interestsmath, stamp collecting, and astronomy. Still, Morgan accepted an offer to work full-time at Vail & Company, in part out of loyalty to Herb, but mostly because the rm offered him the one-of-a-kind security of a three-year contract. Morgan contentedly crunched numbers for those three years, and several more after that. Although cognizant that his greatest high at the ofce came from getting a new calculator, he never once contemplated that there might be something better. Then one day he learned that in Vail & Companys Acquisitions Department he could earn end-of-the-year bonuses two to three times his annual salary as an accountant. Just one such bonus would be a down payment on one of the white colonial houses he not only dreamed of, but spent weekends scouting up and down Florida. In his dream it was in a neighborhood of similarbut not too similarhomes a comfortable distance apart from one another, each surrounded by a well-manicured lawn and a sparkling white picket fence. It was a place with wide walnut oorboards handhewn a century before dirt was broken on the rst Home Depot. It had a worn sofa and rocking chairs and a pleasant scent of pine. It had walls brimming with books, which would be read each night by Morgan and his bride, entangled on the braided woolen rug by the wood-burning hearth, wearing only Forbischer sweatshirts. Not long thereafter, it would have a playpen. The only element of the dream Morgan had managed to attain was the worn sofa. It, however, needed to be thrown out. Morgan spent the ensuing year trying to maneuver his way onto a takeover as an analyst, a customary rst step toward a full-time job in the Acquisitions Department. As his strategy evidenced, he

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wasnt the aggressive sort. Not once did he articulate his desire to anyone with the power to effect it. Instead, he mentioned it to Herb. Despite the utter lack of entertainment value, and despite the fact that his childhood friend Andy Flick had long ago moved to Colorado, Morgan ate dinner with Herb and Mary Alice Flick at least once a week, usually Saturday. One such night, when a pair of scotches had supplied him with the requisite gumption, Morgan told Herb, Id think itd be a good challenge to be part of a takeover team. Probably, Herb said, then reverted to one of his two preferred topics of conversation: golf and accounting. More than a year later, a nancial analyst at Vail & Company was stricken with hepatitis, creating an immediate need for someone to crunch numbers. Morgan leapt at the opportunity. Vail & Companys then director of acquisitions (and, not long thereafter, chairman), Avery Vail, wanted the company to have its own cardboard box manufacturer so as to avoid having to pay others to package its burgeoning line of frozen sh products. Having read prot-and-loss statements for two weeks and, in the process, having all but worn the characters off his adding machines keys, Morgan recommended the venerable Sturdevant Paper Products Company, which, he believed, could be acquired at a share price that would be a good deal for both parties. Avery had no interest in that sort of deal. Days later, he successfully raided box maker Mintz & Sons at half the cost Morgan had estimated. Once at the helm, Avery sacked old man Mintz and his four sons. Morgan had advised against such a move because the Mintzes were beloved by their employees. Within a month, however, the company showed prots exceeding the space atop Morgans most optimistic forecast chart. Upon Morgans dispirited descent back to Accounting, Herb said, by way of consolation, There comes a point in life where a fellow has to accept who he is, and if hes an accountant, then hes a lucky fellow. As he often did, Herb added a pertinent aphorism:

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The longer you wait on line, the greater the likelihood is that youre on the wrong line. Although he thanked his mentor for the advice and returned in earnest to his tabulations, Morganhis scal appetite whetted continued to wait on the proverbial line. Two years later an analyst at Vail & Company gave notice unexpectedly, creating an immediate need for someone to number-crunch on the potential McMenamin deal.

At 9:27, Morgan sat down at the conference table and tried to keep his hands from shaking as he removed the spreadsheets from his briefcase. Um, okay, he stammered, despite having rehearsed his presentation so well that he could have sung it. Assuming that our sh stick factory will continue to produce excess sh parts at the same rate it has for the past ve years, thirty-ve dollars a share for McMenamin would be not just a good deal, but a steal. The problem is, its not a question of if, but, rather, when a recession will hit. Canned pet foods exhibit a tendency to swoon in recessionary times, because pet owners looking to economize will shift to less-expensive dry food. He saw that everyone at the table was sobered by this very real and theretofore unconsidered concern. Not only had he captured their interest, he had won their gratitude. He continued with greater assurance. In that case the numbers become really alarming. . . . He ried through his pile of carefully crafted spreadsheets for the one forecasting prots and losses. A moment later he found it. When he looked up, however, he realized everyones focus had shifted to Skips older and higher-runged cousin, Avery. Unlike Morgan, Avery had somehow managed to open the heavy door without so much as rufing a carpet ber. As he entered the boardroom, Morgan, like everyone else, watched with a reverence bordering on awe. At forty-seven, Avery Vail weighed just four pounds more (and all of it muscle) than he did in his strapping days of lacrosse stardom at

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Princeton. He shared Skips dark features, but if the Vail gene pool recipe was for tall, dignied, artfully chiseled, square-jawed progeny frequently mistaken on the street for soap opera leading men, Skip had come out of the oven too soon, whereas Avery was baked to perfection. Society columns had for so long preceded his name with the debonair that it had practically become his title. Even more incredible, he had the mental acuity to match his physical attributes. In sum, his very existence instructed even the most elitely schooled, healthiest, and most happily married of the wildly successful men and women at the table that life was a lottery and that they simply did not hold the winning ticket. As Avery strode toward the conference table, wearing his habitual expression of guilty whimsy, which seemed to say, Sorry, this is all just too easy for me, it crossed Morgans mind that the soles of his loafers came into contact with the oor only out of modesty. Skip popped up, offering his cousin his chair. Avery waved him off, instead taking a lean against a column in a manner that conjured ads in mens fashion magazines. We talking McMenamin? he asked. His baritone had a rasp that, Morgan mused, had resulted from constantly having to spurn womens advances. Yes, Skip said. Mr. Baker here is telling us a raid is too risky. Avery scoffed. Thats why Mr. Baker is an accountant. Morgan suddenly became the target of a couple of forestalled snickers and a roomful of haughty looks. Feeling as though his heart had tumbled into his stomach, he quietly gathered his spreadsheets and dropped them back into his briefcase.

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ad it not been for the neon Bud signs in the windows, passersby would have taken Ibs Pub for a storm-battered boathouse. The interior called to mind that of a tugboat. This was neither intentional nor in any way charming. Needless to say, the glam factor at Ibs was not high. The regular clientele consisted of older dockworkersmost of whom smelled like shand Morgan. Eight hours removed from his boardroom misadventure, collar unbuttoned, knot of his tie loosed halfway down his shirtfront, Morgan was hunched at Ibs eroding bar over a half-empty pint of light beer. Making a concerted effort to avoid thinking about all aspects of his life, he was unaware that Phyllis, the bartender, had her eye on him. Phyllis was in her early forties. She was pretty. Once. The milepost where the job perks (read: free tequila) took a tollshed passed it a couple miles ago. Shed been watching Morgangazing at him, reallyfor the better part of an hour, envisioning them on her couch later in the evening. Meanwhile, in the dart pit, an old salt, a visitor from another port, executed a schooled rendition of the traditional overhand toss. His Union Jackwinged graphite dart reached the peak of its arc midway to the target, then dipped gracefully, enabling the steel tip to ease into the outer ring of the eighteen-point pie slice. Two others sat in the fteen. The salt smiled, displaying two incomplete rows of teeth. Morgan, mentally replaying Averys pronouncement for something like the seventy-third time, didnt react. It was by rote that he gulped back the remainder of his pint, lumbered over to the pit, and took the salts place at the throwing line. He scooped one of the grimy, wooden-shafted house darts from

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the dented Sanka can nailed to the wall. Not in the mood to aim, he simply threwwith an unorthodox sidearm motion. The dart left his ngertips like a laser beam and bored into the innermost circle of the bulls-eye with such force that bits of cork popped out. The old salts eyes bulged. Morgan, craving a return to the bar and another beer, hastily ung the second dart. It gouged into the bulls-eye, right beside the rst. A moment later a third dart joined them. The salt retreated to the bar as if in a trance. Three double bulls, he said numbly. Id sooner believe Id seen the Virgin Mother walk in and buy me a Bloody Mary. Hes got quite a gift, Morgan does, Phyllis purred. Not really, Morgan said. Ive just spent too much time in this place. Having thus called to mind the depressing fact that escapism at Ibs lled the better part of his social calendar, Morgan realized that, ironically, he could no longer expect to achieve any signicant measure of escapism there that night. He had just one more pint and left.

Around ten, Morgan drove into Pelican Acres. As usual he waved to Ivan in the tiny gatehouse. Either distracted by a ballgame on his portable TV or, more likely, asleep, the guard didnt wave back. As the Pelican Acres housing complex was thirty-six miles inland, it was doubtful a real pelican had ever set webbed foot there. Morgan had concluded that it had been named for the three painted plaster pelicans who stood in the central fountain, which, regrettably, appeared not to have been cleaned since the compound was built in 1962. Morgan moved there in 1992 with his then girlfriend Bonnie, who convinced him to split the rent with her on a lizard green onebedroom condo. Though the rent exceeded their budget, Morgan

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was swayed by the fact that Pelican Acres had uniformed gate guards. (He later learned, then chose to overlook, that they were supplied by a security guard company that, apparently, only employed boozers.) Ironically, just a week after they moved in, Bonnie took up with one of the gate guards and split. She didnt leave Morgan entirely in the lurch. She used a bunch of his Band-Aids to stick a brief note of explanation and ve ten-dollar bills to the bathroom mirror. At the time, the rent was six hundred a month. Morgan wanted to punch the mirror. Being the more reserved sort, he crumpled the note. He suffered a severe paper cut, for which he didnt have a Band-Aid. He decided to incur more debt to remain at Pelican Acreshis gaunt credit card could, barely, compensate for Bonnie. The uniform reptilian hue notwithstanding, he was taken by the wholesome American ranch-style units and the bright-eyed young professionals therein, many with toddlers. Although he seldom used them, he enjoyed the swimming pool and two tennis courts and the Game Room, which consisted of a warped Ping-Pong table. Morgan liked to think it had gotten that way from constant use by happy kids. Had a young Herb Flick begun his career in the Miami area, Morgan ventured, he surely would have lived at Pelican Acres. After Bonnie left, Morgan lived alone. Eleven years passed, and the surrounding neighborhood went to pot. Literally. Among other drugs. Now, at just $665 monthly, the rent was so good that Morgan couldnt afford to leaveparticularly if he wanted to continue paying the dues at the Grapefruit Cove Golf Club. Despite several clinics and dozens of lessons with each of the three pros, Morgan had never gotten the hang of the game, nor did he ever enjoy it. But Herb Flick belonged to Grapefruit Cove. Morgan parked the Skylark outside his unit and carried in a grease-speckled bag from Taco World, where, for the past few months, hed effectively been on the meal plan. His New Years resolution had been to eat healthily. And he hadwell into January.

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Inside the unit, the furnishing was about as lavish as that of a fraternity house, a function of economics more than bachelorhooda classic six-piece living room set topped Morgans immediate wish list. The decorating consisted only of an antique model ship on the mantel and a few framed sayings like: PEOPLE WHO DONT HAVE NIGHTMARES DONT HAVE DREAMS, which the Flicks had given him. Herb was a fan of such maxims and kept plenty in view both at home and in the ofce. They keep a fellow balanced, Herb said. Morgan tossed his suit coat onto the hook by the door. It being that sort of day, he missed. It being that sort of day, he put off retrieving it from the oor in order to get a drink. His plan was to enter his immaculate kitchenette and reach into the refrigerator. Without having to look, he would grab the lone remaining bottle of light beer from the six-pack. He would pop it open, revel for a moment in the rush of cold beery effervescence, then ick the bottle cap into the recycling bin and retreat to the living room, where, after brushing off and hanging his suit coat, he would sink into the sofa for his customary several hours of whatever escapist fare happened to be on the free movie channels. As he happily recalled, there was something special on one of them tonight. Suddenly he froze. Someone was on the back porch, lurking in the shadows. The intensity of the pounding of Morgans heart made it a challenge to stay afoot. The gure stepped into the light. It was the man last seen (outside prison walls) at the Shore Havens Yacht Club Costume Ball, in a pirate costume. His face was still angular, but softer, his frame still wiry, but witheredlike that of a wild tiger long ago stuck in a minor-league zoo. His smart, sunny hair had been transformed into a turbulent sea of white; his face was a road map of wrinkles and creasesmostly from scowling. His eyes, formerly sparkling blue advertisements of audacity, were now set deeper, shaded by a thicker, chalkier brow, and offering as much warmth and allure as a back alley. Morgan struggled to nd his voice. Dad? he croaked.

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I almost didnt recognize you, the man said. I was looking for a boy. Indeed, theyd last seen one another through a three-inch-thick slab of Plexiglas at the Northern Florida State Correctional Facility, in 1977. Their nal contact, a year or so later, was a letter from Morgan that contained a newspaper account of a Little League baseball game, complete with a grainy team photo. Morgan never received a response. Morgans shock was supplanted by wariness. What happened? he asked. Did you bust out of jail? They nally sprung me. Can you believe it? Morgan stood at the door without opening it. If someone else were to verify it . . . If Isaac Baker had hoped for a more effusive greeting, he didnt show it. Then again, Isaac had never worn his heart on his sleeve. In fact, Morgan recalled, the sonofabitch wore a daggerthe tattoo on his forearm. For that reason, when Isaac turned, visibly apprehensive, to scan the street, Morgan scrutinized it, too. Anything that worried Isaac to the extent it actually showed, Morgan thought, would likely stop his own heart. The street, though, was empty. Uneasy nonetheless, Isaac said, Could I come inside? Morgan could think of no scenario whereby that would help matters or in any way be good. What do you want? he asked. Bit of a story there. Just tell me the part about why youre here. When I was released this morning, outside the prison gate, there were two men waiting for me. They were waiting in ambush. Other sons of yours? Pirates, probably. Morgan didnt believe this, to put it mildly. In prison, he asked, did you participate in one of those programs where they give you experimental drugs? Isaac squinted, which Morgan recognized as indignation. One of them, Isaac said, had a hook for a hand.

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A lot of people do. We have a guy at work with one. Theyre after my treasure, Isaac said. Reading Morgans skepticism, he conceded, I know its hard to believe. I believe that the prison had a gate. If you let me in, just for a bit, Ill explain. . . . Finding Morgans face as soft as granite, he scanned the street again. Not a vehicle or creature was stirring. Still, his anxiety remained. There aint much time. Please, lad. Morgan reviewed an extensive mental list of reasons not to, yet, for reasons unknown to him, he opened the door. Isaac bounded into the kitchen. He wore a stiff white shirt and blue suit pants that looked to Morgan to have been sewn from industrial carpet bers. Parting gifts, no doubt, from the state of Florida. To Morgans annoyance, Isaac ung open the refrigerator. Just help yourself, Morgan said. Isaac eyed the lone remaining bottle of light beer. Dont you got any real beer? Terribly sorry, no. Isaac grabbed it anyway, an instant before Morgan snapped the refrigerator shut. Aint had a beer for twenty-seven years, Isaac said. Yet, with one nally in his grasp, he exhibited no trace of what Morgan, recalling Isaacs afnity for the beverage, imagined would be unadulterated bliss. Prison, Morgan suspected, had made him even harder than he was before. Although Morgan had seen rsthand just how far the Northern Florida State Correctional Facility was from cushy, hed always thought that his indomitable father would soften it. Hed imagined choruses of sea chanties warming cold cell blocks. By the looks of him, though, Isaac had had few such moments there, if any. Which was good. He deserved it. Isaac tried to open the bottle by whacking the cap against the edge of Morgans lovingly pine-scent-polished Formica countertop. Its a twist-off, Morgan shrieked. He found, fortunately, no damage to the counter. His anger

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subsided as he witnessed the fascination with which Isaac experienced what, for him, was a technological advance: the twist-off bottle cap. When Isaac icked the cap off a wall, Morgan reheated. It ricocheted, nicking a cabinet, before lodging into the bar of Ivory in the soap caddy by the sink. Morgan plucked it out, and, making no effort to veil his irritation, red it into the recycling bin. Ambling out, Isaac exhibited no sign of having noticed. Morgan found Isaac in the living room. He was inspecting the dcoror lack thereof. Morgan read his pursed lips as disappointment. At the same time Morgan recalled that, unless it was part of a bamboozle, the range of emotions Isaac made plain to others was only slightly greater than that of a sh. Where another man might cry or holler for an hour, all the while smashing dishes and television sets, Isaac would show a trace of red in his cheeks, and thatd be it. Accordingly, Morgan wondered what the bamboozle was tonight. You still counting beans for the sh stick company? Isaac asked. The contempt in his voice struck Morgan like a blow, and led him to rule it foolish to continue harboring a potentially dangerous criminal, not to mention an insolent one. Then it struck him as curious that Isaac knew about his job. Fish sticks, Morgan said defensively, in spite of himself, is just one of twenty-two divisions. Vail & Company is a major international conglomerate. Isaac took a slug of beer as if to treat his disappointment. Lad, he said, howd you wind up working as a bean counter at a conglomerate? With a little luck, I could make VP in a couple of years. VP, Isaac said, unimpressed. Impressive. He then plopped onto the sofa with a satised sigh, and, to Morgans irritation, he hoisted his dusty shoes onto the freshly pine-scent-waxed coffee table. Know what your problem is, lad? Isaac asked. Then, without

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giving Morgan a chance to respond, he told him. You got the sea you got piratein your blood. Its just been misdirected, thats all. So, Morgan thought, he really believes the pirate crap! My problem, Morgan said, is that Ive got a wackjob, with his lthy feet on my coffee table, telling me what my problem is. To remedy this he marched across the room and tore a phone book from a shelf. Okay, okay, Isaac said, extra nice, how about we start over? Im calling you a cab. Unless youve acquired a car. Isaac shook his head from side to side. Morgan copied AAAA Taxis phone number from the yellow pages onto a notepad. Wheres it taking you? Actually, I could use a place. Just for the night. No problem. Ill recommend a hotel. He ipped the yellow pages to H. Just listen to this rst, Isaac begged. Howd you be interested in a third-share of $42.7 million worth of gold ingots? The thought of $14,233,333.33 struck Morgans fancy. Then again, at least once a week he received an envelope notifying him, in big gold letters, that he was the lucky winner of more than ve times that amount. He estimated the junk mail exponentially more likely than Isaac to yield a penny. Furthermore, even in the wildly unlikely scenario that Isaacs millions in gold did exist, Morgan gured he could trust him as far as he could throw him. Prone to such estimates, Morgan calculated that distance, accounting for his own poor physical condition, at about three-and-a-half feet. Sum total: He scribbled the number and address of a hotel onto the notepad. Isaac watched, seemingly stunned at Morgans lack of interest. Thats at yesterdays rate, he said. Could be up to forty-ve million today. Let me guess. You made it selling Amway products from jail? No. I pirated it. Thirty-six years ago. From smugglers in the Caribbean. Back when you were a pirate?

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Aye, Isaac said, for effect. It had the wrong effect. Morgan glanced at the yellow pages and said, I should be looking under M. Motels? Mental institutions. Isaac appeared stung. Morgan regretted having been too harsh on an old man who was very likely a victim of mental illness. Listen, Isaac, he said, this is what happened. Twenty-seven years ago, you went to a costume partylets set aside the reason why for the moment. You were dressed as a pirate. Where do you think I got the outt? A store? Nope. I already owned it. Oh. Well then, that clinches it. Youre a pirate. Isaac acknowledged, with a chuckle, that that wasnt the best substantiation he could have provided. Know how I always told you how, when you were a baby, we moved to Pensacola from Cleveland? he asked. Yes. Well, I lied. Theres a change of pace. Isaac ignored the barb. We came from the Sugar Islands, he said. He saw that the name meant nothing to Morgan. Its a small range in the Caribbean that doesnt make it onto even the big maps. Much as I wanted to, I couldnt tell you about it. Had to keep it a secret to protect our true identity. Our last names not really Baker. Its Cooke. As in the great Pirates Cooke. This, too, held no signicance for Morgan, which seemed to dismay Isaac. It did, however, remind Morgan of something he considered relevant. This woman I work with, he said, she went to visit her father in his nursing home last week. He told her that from 1961 to 1978 he had secretly been Santa. Difference is Santa doesnt really exist. I knew that way before the other kids, Morgan snapped.

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Spurred by a rush of Christmas memories he wished he didnt have, he snatched up the phone to call the cab. Isaac, though, clung to the point, asking, You never thought it strange that we had no relatives come around? Not at all. I gured theyd gotten to know you. What about all the stories of sailors your mother used to tell? The difference between you and meone of the differences is that I knew they were just stories. You know ships still get raided in some parts of the world, yes? As he dialed, Morgan replied, By crooks in fast boats, sure. Ive read about it. Whys it so hard to believe Idve done it? Morgan stopped dialing. Isaac had a point there. Plus, the guy did have a tattoo of a ship on his arm, an afnity for sailing, and an extensive knowledge of maritime lore likely acquired outside of Cleveland. Also, he was a crook. Piracys especially big down in the Sugar Islands, Isaac explained. Or at least it was forty years back. A lot of the small commonwealths there couldnt afford to build or maintain navies, so they turned a blind eye to their own native pirates in the hope theyd keep the local waters free of smugglers and such. Intrigued, Morgan placed the phone back on the cradle. For the moment. Isaac happily continued. I did some crewing on pirate boats, had a few decent scores as captain of my own. And one big one. It came the year you were born, 1967. Off the coast of Bermuda a brig called the Lady Gertrude, bound for Brazil, sailed by the Hoods. Which hoods? Hood is a family name. And couldnt be a more tting one. Historically, they were two-bit pirates and slave traders. In the sixties, they were running dope for the whats-their-names . . . the Gaxzoncas. With the last name Isaac mentioned, Morgans skepticism

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returned full-bore. I think you read about them in a mens magazine, he said. Out of necessity Isaac spelled out the name, then explained, Theyre Brazilian drug dealers. Carved their niche in the high school market. Lord knows to what new depths of mire the Hoodsve sunk since. But it was their men that tried to get me this morning. Why? Im telling you. I took their gold. So youre saying youve had forty-some million worth of gold all these years? Right after plundering the Lady Gertrudethe Hood brigI stowed the gold in a cave on a tiny, completely uncharted isle down in the Lower Sugars. Next day, when I got home to Plantayne, the island where we lived, I got wind that a cutter from the Brazilian navy was looking for me. To arrest me. Obviously, the cutters captain was on the Hoods payroll. But you dont want to be scrapping with the Brazilian navy under any circumstance. So I decided you, me, and your momLord rest herhad best lam it north at once, and wait til the heat died before going back for the gold. But once we were here . . . You ran into an unexpected delay, Morgan said. He meant the unexpected twenty-seven-year delay. Pretty much so, yes. But now, that major international conglomerate you work fortheir yachtd be perfect. So that, Morgan realized, was what this was about. Isaac somehow had learned about the company yacht, and he had shown up because, for some reason, he wanted it. Although hed expected no less, Morgan felt as though hed eaten something rotten. Itd get us down into the Sugars without drawing notice, Isaac continued, then let us access the treasure island, which is in the middle of nowhere planes go. . . . First, its not mine, Morgan said. He thought it pitiful how poorly Isaac had thought this through. The Accounting

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Department doesnt exactly have yacht privileges. And, even if we did, you think Id let you take her to the Caribbean? Evidently, this was not the response Isaac had anticipated. He proceeded to get up and pace the room, as if trying to formulate a new tactic. Reading the framed SMILE AND THE WORLD WILL SMILE WITH YOU! didnt help. He looked like he might gag. He continued pacing until coming to the model ship on the mantelpiece. She was a complete sloopas opposed to a half-model replete with sails, rigging, and gear. The fastenings, the planking, the lineseven the blocks and sheaveswere all meticulously handcrafted. The wheel actually spun, the rudder turned, and the portholes snapped open, enabling Isaac to peer inside, where, per tradition of the nest model makers, the hold was stowed with drums, ballast, and spare gear and the galley tted with tiny utensils and mess implements. Isaac whistled. She musta cost you. Not the most intelligent purchase, Morgan said. It seemed to provide Isaac inspiration. Another reason for us sailing down together, he told Morgan, is itd be nice if me and you spent some, what do they call it, quality time. Morgan responded with a roll of his eyes, which was an understatement. Isaac proceeded undaunted. Before I went upriver, you know what was my greatest joy? Morgan took a halfhearted guess. Beer? Isaac laughed. No. The times out in the boat. Just us two lopers. You were a natural for the sea. I liked it, Morgan admitted. The boat indeed provided him some warm recollections. He had looked forward to going out all week long. The rst thing he did upon arriving home from school on Friday afternoons was prepare the biscuit and hardtack (a Pensacola variation more commonly known as salami sandwiches) to take along the next day. Finally Saturday morning would arrive. They would sh, sing sea chanties, have sword ghts with boughs of seaweed. In his own

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crusty way, Isaac was quite lovingor so Morgan thought. But then . . . But then, Morgan snarled, the boat became States Exhibit B. And so now whats become of you? Isaac asked. You want to be a VP? He dragged out V and P so as to ll them with disdain. Yes, Morgan replied. That, and the things it makes possible. A nice house, nancial stability, familythings Ive never had. Isaac scoffed. Youd be bored with that malarkey by the end of the rst day. Look, maybe it isnt as fullling as jail. . . . I know those VPs. Knew em back in Pensacola. Drones! Every morning, year in, year out, they lace up their uncomfortable shoes, stuff emselves into their starched shirts and suits and choking ties, then lug their briefcases, catch the same bus or sit in the same trafc jamall to go to a job that wastes away the sunshine, never really pays enough, and gives em little or no joy. Then, at night, poor swabs do the same cruise in reverse, only to come home to the predictable problems of family lifethe house needing repairs, the lawn needing mowing, the neighbor needing killing. . . . Some of this rang true to Morgan. Upon further reection, he attributed it merely to his frustrations of that day. Reason managed to prevail, and he declared, After you went upriver, when I was stuck in the state homes, I wouldve given anything for those problems, let alone one of those drones.

A few minutes later, having asked Isaac never to return and to lose the address, Morgan watched him slide into the backseat of a yellow cab bound for the Acme Motor Lodge. Inexplicably, Isaac was whistling a happy tune.

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hat night Morgan slept tfully when he slept at all. In the morning, a long shower failed to revive him. Then he noticed, on his dresser, the Dale Carnegie quote Herb had xeroxed for him. Morgan had been meaning to tape it to the mirror. Enthusiasm, it asserted, is the quality that most frequently makes for success. With that in mind, Morgan stood straighter, chose an especially crisp white shirt, donned a pair of gray suit pants fresh from the dry cleaners, and hoisted them aloft with smart suspenders. Then he laced on his favorite tiethe one the Flicks had given him the previous Christmas, with golf clubs crossed like swordsand knotted it with a bold dimple. Strangely, no matter how much he ddled with it, the tie felt tight. In his kitchenette Morgan unenthusiastically munched his way through his usual bowl of cereal. He decided it would be healthiest to write off last nights encounter as no more than a bad movie hed seen on TV. He then recalled that, ironically, it had been Captain Blood, the old Errol Flynn pirate ick, that hed been meaning to watch. Next he drove to work, though drove would not have been his choice of words as it implies motion. As usual, trafc on 85 was bumper to fender. As the perky morning show guy forecast a sunny, sunny, sunny day, Morgan, despite having repeatedly reminded himself that doing so would be counterproductive, wondered what would become of Isaac. He supposed another botched crime would land him back upriver. Lost in such thoughts, he failed to see that an entire carlengths worth of asphalt had opened ahead of him. The observant trucker behind him, however, did notice, and set things right by

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pounding his hornwhich was loud enough to wake the clients in the nearby mortuaryeight times.

At the entrance to Vail & Company nearest the parking lot, Morgan produced his wallet from his suit coat, shed for his ID card, and, oddly, came up empty. He ried through the rest of his pockets to similar exasperating result. Though he couldnt imagine how the card could have wound up there, he looked in his briefcase, too. It hadnt wound up there. As Morgan girded himself for the perspiration-inducing quartermile walk around the building to the main entrance, where the receptionists would wave him in, Herb Flick bounded up, holding forth his own ID card as if it were the key to the gates of heaven. Lucky thing I came, no? Herb chirped. Morgan, comforted by the familiar gust of wintergreen and the cream with which Herb regimented his hair, offered a chipper, Sure is. His underlying melancholy, however, wasnt lost on his mentor. I heard about the Acquisitions meeting yesterday, champ, Herb said, clapping a supportive hand on Morgans shoulder and propelling him inside. Just remember, a frown takes forty-three muscles, but a smile takes only seventeen. An appreciative Morgan deployed his muscles accordingly as he and Herb walked into the Accounting Department and its fanfare of chatter, snapping keyboards, and quacking phones. Morgan thought the sounds soothing. Still, once he sat down to work, for some reason he couldnt concentrate. Not enough sleep, he guessed. At the simulated wood desk in the small, plastic-walled cubicle he considered a second home, he found himself, for the however-many-eth time that morning, staring at his computer screen without having read more than a word or two. He leaned back and kicked up his feet to take a break. Just then Herb popped his head through the doorway. Herb

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may have been a friend, but he was also the boss, and one who liked to recite eight different maxims on the evils of sloth. Morgan shot bolt upright in his chair, as if that might, in Herbs mind, relegate his previous posture to a momentary trick of the eye. It didnt. Regardless, per a note taken in a management seminar, Herb affected a warm smile and said, Sorry to interrupt your toil, junior. No problem, Herb. Hows it going? Great, great, great. Except for this call I just got from Mackey Readeyou know, head of Marketing. I told him it must just be some sort of misunderstanding, as, certainly, youre well aware you dont have the authorization. Hed just called Dolphin Cove to reserve for this evening and was told that you had already signed for the keys to the Big Fish! Morgan recalled that that was the name of the company yacht. Then, all of a sudden, he realized what had happened to his ID card.

The Big Fish was a sleek white berglass fty-four-foot Heinziger low-prole cruising yacht powered by twin-inboard ten-cylinder diesel engines. Her sprawling stern deck featured plush lounge seating, a freestanding dining table with six chairs, and a wet bar. For many years she saw repeated action as the site of Avery Vails sundown daiquiri soires. The captain and mate stood a few steps up, on the bridge, where the controls were nestled behind a highframed glass windshield replete with wipers. Below, Haiki, Averys personal French-Vietnamese chef, prepared sumptuous meals in a galley with amenities more deluxe than those in 95 percent of American homes. If not under the stars, dinner was served at the mahogany dining room table, which comfortably accommodated eight. The Big Fish also boasted three heads, two cabins appointed with rich teak cabinetry, and a master stateroom with a fully equipped entertainment center and a king-sized bed. The last saw repeated action during Averys postsundown soires. The invitees were, invariably, models. This came to an end in 1998. Thats when Avery

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upgraded to a custom-built Heinziger 196-footer, which, relatively speaking, enabled one to avoid roughing it so much. The Big Fish was left to other Vail executives. Now, as she bobbed alongside the Dolphin Cove Marinas oating dock, Isaac heaved a battered, battleship gray sea chest over the stern railing. It landed on the deck with a thunk Morgan felt a hundred yards away as he sprang out of the Skylark. Catching sight of him, Isaac hurried aboard and released the lines. Boiling to begin with, Morgan was further riled by the saltwater that splashed between the bouncing duckboards onto his freshly dry-cleaned pants. Before he was even halfway to the Big Fish, Isaac ascended the bridge. Morgan feared he was too late. Once at the helm, though, Isaac appeared to experience the shocking realization that there had been a radical change in piloting technology since he had last been aboard a motorized yacht. The digital fathometer and radar unit plainly mystied him, and he seemed to have even less idea what the hell the Loran and satellite navigational aids were. Finding the ignition was more than enough trouble. By the time he nally managed to do so and had brought the engines bubbling to life, Morgan had leapt onto the stern. Isaac looked down from the bridge as if pleasantly surprised to see him. Oh, good, he said, I was just about to call you. Morgan screamed, You stole my ID card and I didnt steal it, Isaac interrupted with indignation. Why would anyone steal an ID card? You cant fence an ID card. I borrowed it. and now youre stealing my companys yacht! Its not as if I didnt invite you along. Im going to invite the police along, too. Hope you dont mind. Isaac stood for a moment and stroked his chin. Then, appearing remorseful, he cut the engines, removed the key from the ignition, and tossed it down to Morgan. Listen, lad, he said, full of contrition, tell you the truth, Ive been so caught up in getting down to the Sugar Islands, I didnt consider, til now, how this might affect you. I dont expect any forgiveness, but, for what its worth, know that Im sorry.

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If Isaac had expected this would soften Morgan, he was disappointed. Dismissing the penitence as part of a new bamboozle, Morgans response was a steely, Good. Ill nd me some other way down there. Good. And Ill get out of your life. Morgan began to say, Good once more, but ruled it too harsh. Tell you what, Isaac said, just sos we dont part like this, what say you, we nd us a pub and I buy you a nice, cold light beer? Its ten in the morning, Morgan said.

Half an hour later Morgan and Isaac were sitting across from one another in the ample corner booth at the Compass Rose, the small coffee shop overlooking the marina. The waitress cleared the remains of Isaacs scrambled eggs, onto which hed dumped more hot sauce than any ve customers shed ever seen. Morgan had ordered only a mug of decaffeinated coffee. Still lingering over it, he was charmed, despite himself, by Isaacs narrationMorgan was sure most of it was delusionalof days spent sailing beneath the warm sun, and nights spent on coral islands fringed with coconut palms, the sounds and smell of the jungle, the taste of salt in the air, and us pirates sprawled out on soft, silvery sand lapped by golden surf, a jug of rum in one hand, beautiful girl in the other. Sounds slightly nicer than my cubicle, Morgan said. I tell you, lad, youd love it down there. Morgan didnt consider it. His own mention of work had prompted him to eye the clock on the wall above the fryer hood. It told him that he needed to hurry back to reality and give Mackey Reades secretary the boat keys. Well, maybe some other time, he said, gulping down the remainder of his coffee.

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faint cry of seabirds woke Morgan. He was sprawled, he realized, on the stern of the Big Fish, his face stuck to the deck by his own sweat. Once hed managed to pry it free, he saw, through cobwebs, that there were no other boats in sight, nor anything else for that matter, except for blue water and sky. Gradually, Isaac came into focus on the bridge. Hed changed from his state-of-Florida-issued suit into a pair of sailors knickers, rid himself of his state-issued shirtlikely, overboardand reinserted the gold hoop earring last worn at the party in 1976. As the yacht ew at her top speed of twenty-ve knots, his hair apped like a white cape, and his face and body glistened in the sea spray. An even greater change in his appearance was attributable to the bliss, the thrill, the whirl, of once again sitting in a captains chair, bounding over whitecaps and breathing deeply of hot, salty air as he provided distance between himself and gray terra rma. Morgan, in contrast, felt as if someone had inserted a cinder block into his skullthrough an ear. He combated a seemingly saltcaked windpipe to croak, Where are we? Passed Havana about two bells ago. Morgan struggled to his feet, then leaned over the starboard rail and threw up. Weak stomach, ey? Isaac chuckled. No. What was in that coffee? Nothing that wont do you good. Seeking to turn off the shower of perspiration he was giving himself, Morgan tried to remove his suit coat, but couldnt because his wrists had been bound together, in front of him, by thick, braided nylon cord. His resulting groan drew no notice from Isaac.

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The warmth Isaac had displayed at the marina and, subsequently, at the coffee shop had vanished altogether. It had merely been tactical, Morgan realized. He was enraged with himself for having failed to realize it sooner. At the same time, additional rage, directed toward Isaac, swelled within him at a rate and volume hed never before experienced. Ultimately it drowned out the rest of his thoughts, and, next thing he knew, he was rushing the bridge. Or trying to. After just a few strides he was snapped back toward the railing. His right ankle had been bound to it by a strong, waxed cotton life-preserver strap, which had been padlocked into place. Morgan slumped against the bulwark and said, Poisoning, theft, kidnappingthese things are not good. Isaac nodded his agreement. But I couldnt have you ringing the cops. You have to at least let me call in to the ofce. Cant do that. Do you want me to lose my job? Its not that. The ships radio had a tracking system. I had to toss it. Morgan crumpled the rest of the way to the deck. Well, he said, I guess the good news is I wouldve had no idea what to say to my boss if I did call. Im really sorry, Herb, but I was abducted by my father, who thinks hes a pirate. And what would he say? Oh, no problem, thats been happening a lot. Ill give you your liberty soon as we land in Plantayne. At least untie me, Morgan said. He wasnt sure how he might gain control of the yacht, but gured being free of the padlock would be a good start. Maybe I can take a turn at the helm or somethinganything to help us get there quicker. Isaac clearly smelled the rathis response consisted of a laugh. He then rummaged through his sea chest and produced a ukulele. Morgan jettisoned the cooperative act and shouted, You have got to turn this boat around! Now!

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As if not having heard him, Isaac strummed a few chords. Then he began to sing, something he did so far off tune that Morgan questioned whether Isaac was trying to torture him on top of everything else. To the mast, raise our ag. It is dark as the grave. On the dread which it bears, sweeping oer the wave . . . Morgan recognized The Pirate Song and added it to the list of once-fanciful memories of their Saturday morning shing trips now relegated to disturbing. In addition, he suspected that if Isaac were to have delivered this rendition aboard an actual pirate ship, the crew would have deboned him. Do you have any aspirin? Morgan asked. Isaac lowered a bottle of rum to the deck and rolled it toward him. Then he returned to singing: I strike f or the memory of long-vanished years. I only shed blood where another sheds tears. I come, as the lightning comes, red from above, oer the seamen I loathe, to the battle I love. Morgan was resigned to the fact that he was this lunatics prisoner, at least for the time being. Trying to avert his thoughts from his situation, he noted the rhythmic patting of the waves against the bow and the touch of violet materializing in the western sky. There was an old poem that had stuck with Morgan since he

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read it in an anthology in tenth grade. Its author, somewhat more contemplative than that of The Pirate Song, had asked: What man has not desired to lie upon a barque and admire the clouds ying across the heavens? What man has not f elt a longing to stretch out on a deck and contemplate the f eatures of the Universal Mother? What man has not wanted to relax atop the waves and f eel the slow beat of her eternal heart? What man has not wanted to thus f orget his woes, and let his identity be swallowed in the vast imperceptibly moving energy of her of whom we are, from whom we came, and with whom we shall again be mingled? Morgan realized that he, Morgan Arthur Baker, was that man. Whereas another might have been enthralled by the spectacle of the waning sun setting the western horizon aglow, Morgan watched the shadows appearing over the face of the waves, and they led his thoughts to the boundlessness and unknown depths of the sea, which were, he felt, singular in the feelings of loneliness, of foreboding, and of dread that they inspired. All he wanted was to be in his cubicle.

hat night, as cooling trade winds sighed across Morgans detention area, Isaac swung the Big Fish west along the Twenty-fourth Parallel, rounding Cuba. The circuitous route added considerably to what would have been a six-hundred-mile journey, and risked

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depleting their sixteen-hundred-gallon fuel supply. Although puzzled, Morgan didnt bother asking about it. His previous queries regarding their plans had all been met with a terse, Get the gold. Isaac, Morgan had concluded, was intent on the gold with a singlemindedness that made Midas seem well-roundedand, along those lines, Ahab carefree, and Quixote sane. Gradually, Morgan discerned that Isaac had chosen this route for the simple reason that there was no civilized land in the immediate western vicinity of Cuba, hence less trafc, hence less chance of being spotted. Over the ensuing thirty-two hours, the Big Fish raced through the Lesser Antilles region without once sighting land. Only twice did they see another vessela cruise ship off Jamaica and an oil tanker west of Haiti (which Isaac annoyingly referred to as Hispaniola, as it had been called during pirate days). Neither craft came close enough for Morgan to even consider shouting or otherwise signaling for help. His communication with Isaac during that time consisted of only one exchange of any signicance, on the subject of the mess. On the rst day of their journey, dinner had consisted of nacho cheese-avored taco chips. When the second day brought a salt-and-vinegar-avored taco chips supper and a dinner of chililime-salsa-avored taco chips, Morgan entreated Isaac to take inventory of the galley, which was likely stocked with more ne food and wine than many restaurants. To no avail. Isaacs twin necessities of nonstop piloting and keeping a close eye on Morgan precluded either of them from going below. Furthermore, prior to his imprisonment, Isaac had never tasted even taco-avored taco chips. Now infatuated with them, he was more than ne with the mess as it was.

Morgan awoke the third morning as the stars were fading from an amber sky. Based on the passage of time and his scant knowledge of geography, he gured the Big Fish was about seventy-ve miles

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south of the Antilles. He felt haggard, wrinkled, and hollow eyed, and, as the starboard rail reected, he looked worse. Isaac, in contrast, appeared as if hed had a good nights sleep in a feather bed. The heavy sprinkling of salt constituting his beard growth was the only evidence that hed spent nearly forty-eight straight hours at the helmand at the helm he remained, like a pillar. He was staring ahead, at what appeared to Morgan to be a bluish cloud hovering above the sea. As they drew closer, its color became sharper and greener, and Morgan could see gaps and protrusions upon its surface. Soon he could distinguish trees and rocks. Then, as the sun rose, he could fully make out a small island enshrouded by mista function of skyscraping waterfalls pounding a coral bay. A light westerly breeze brought the pleasing scent of fertile soil and tropical verdure. Then the falls source, the majestic Mount Plantayne, emerged from the vapor, its leeward face shimmering in every imaginable shade of green and dotted with ery oranges, lemons, limes, mangoes, and myriad owers. About a thousand feet up, its peak disappeared into the clouds. This was why, entirely independent of the hit record of several hundred years later, the English settlers who rst occupied the island called the mountain Staircase to Heaven. So Isaac explained, with a sudden chattiness. He was as happy, Morgan guessed, as hed been in decades. Plantayne, Isaac all but sang. Isnt she beautiful? At the moment, Morgan wasnt interested in waterfalls and fruit. Wheres the airport? he asked.

Isaac smoothly maneuvered the Big Fish into the tiny harbor at the mountains base, then parked against the landing piles at a rickety pier that was equal parts mollusks and dried bamboo. Shoots of live bamboo lined the shore in clusters thirty feet high, red at the base before morphing into brilliant green. A few yards inland, they yielded to a rain forest comprised, principally, of palms and banana trees with leaves large enough to serve as sails. Once the yacht was docked, Morgan was slow to follow Isaac

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onto the pier. Though Isaac had untied him, his body seemed unwilling to believe that after more than three steps it wouldnt be snapped back into the starboard rail. Also, he was arrested by the display overhead. Dozens of orange monkeyslemurs, maybe? were swinging from branch to branch. Hundreds of brightly colored little birds ducked out of the monkeys way while improbably circumnavigating the maze of shoots and boughs. All warbled, chirped, or bleated with such frequency that it seemed as if the island itself were one big super-amped ute. Carved into the base of the forest was the entrance to the islands largest thoroughfare, a narrow, packed-sand path called Plantayne Avenueaccording to the hand-painted sign tacked eye-high to the trunk of a seventy-foot-tall coconut palm. Morgan noticed an older Plantayne Avenue sign halfway up the tree. The path led, Isaac claimed, to town. Weary and slow to recover his land legs, Morgan struggled to keep pace. Fortunately, the shade provided a welcome respite from the heat, already considerable despite the early hour. A rush of jasmine lled his nostrils. Under other circumstances, he might have appreciated it. A quarter mile later, they came to town. Winded from the walk, Morgan surveyed the two-dozen small structures. The sturdiest were built of whitewashed mud. Most, in Robinson Crusoe fashion, were constructed of bamboo, with roofs of thatched palm fronds. The Supermarket, still shuttered at this early hour, was no larger than a typical American two-car garage. It was the largest building in Plantayne, edging out the neighboring School/Nightclub by a dozen cubic feet. Just up the block was the Plantayne Power & Electricity Authority, a gloried shed that channeled the stream trickling down from Mount Plantayne through a slow-spinning wooden waterwheel. Morgan doubted it manufactured enough electricity to power an average central-air-conditioned house in Miami. Trafc that morning consisted of a circa 1875 four-wheeled cart hauled by an elderly donkey. And nothing else. Isaac was stunned. Its really been built up, he said.

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Morgan was unnerved by a different observation. There are no phone lines here. Isaac nodded. Theres no phones on Plantayne. All they got heres b-mail. Fine, Morgan said, relieved. Ill book a ight online. Book a ight on what? Online. Whats that? Ill e-mail the travel service. E-mail? Yeah. The hells that? You just said they had it. Not e-mail. B -mail. The hell is that? Mail delivered by birds. Birds?! Well send one cross-island when the post ofce opens up, Isaac said matter-of-factly. Book you on the ferry to the Sugar City Aeroport. Get you on your way fast. Sounds great, Morgan said. By great he meant better than nothing. They passed a tiny barbershop. That this decaying bamboo structure still managed to stand must have rankled Gravity. Due to the hour it, too, was still closedbut not empty. Hidden from Isaacs view were two sets of beady eyes studying him through the shops spiderweb-draped window. All Morgan saw in the glass was his chaotic reection. Once he booked a ight, he would try to secure some pomade. A dry cleaners, he lamented, would likely not nd its way to this island for centuries. At the sight of Burnies Diner at the top of the avenue, Isaacs step added a bounce. What do you say we get us some breakfast rst? he said. Burnies the last surviving member of my crewbesides myself of course. Whale of a gunner. Doubled as ships cook. We call him Burnie cause a what he does to chow. Still, I been

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looking forward to one of his conch-salad sandwiches for thirty-ve years. Hows one sound to you? Are we out of taco chips? replied Morgan. Isaacs brow knitted, as if in appraisal of Morgans ingratitude. Nevertheless, he dug into his knickers, shed around his expansive pocket, and, along with his telescope, produced a rolled-up bag with a few remaining chips. He turned to toss the bag to Morgan. Inexplicably, Morgan was no longer there. The surrounding stores had yet to open and so were ruled out as places he might have gone. Adding to the mystery, Isaac was the only person on the avenue. He looked at the donkey, as if hoping for an account of what had happened. The donkey proved no help. In fact, Morgan was just a few feet away, in a narrow alleyway, unconscious. The pair of beady-eyed men from the barbershop were stufng him into a large canvas sack. Then they dragged him away.

organ came to inside the barbershop, in a rusty, crackedleather-cushioned barbers chair that, now pumped to its highest, stood about four feet off the sandy plank oor. He tried to grasp his throbbing head for fear it might split apart, but his hands, along with much of the rest of him, had been bound to the seat by thick rawhide strapsthe sort used to scrape clean straight-edged razors. As it happened, the shop could have served as a museum of objects used to cut oneself free. Hundreds of rusty scissors, razors, knives, swords, daggers, and other blades dangled by hooks and nails from the warped walls and grimy bamboo rafters. All, unfortunately, were beyond Morgans reach.

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As he took in more of his surroundings, he could discern no apparent organization or order whatsoever, leading him to the conclusion that the items were not a display but, rather, the effect of multiple generations of barbers who were simply bad at throwing stuff out. Lending credence to that theory, the cabinets and shelves were in chaos, overowing with barbering products, including wig powder, mustache wax, and a corroded can of hair tonic endorsed by Rudolph Valentino. There was even a bottle of a baldness remedy bearing the boast 100% PURE SNAKE OIL! Morgan then became aware of the men whod kidnapped him. One of them yanked storm curtains across the windows. The other rammed home the door bolt. Despite the hot, limpid air, icy fear ooded Morgans veins. Yeh know who we are, aye? the rst man asked him. He spoke with a wheeze, as well as an unusual patois that sounded as if it were a blend of Brighton, England, and Brighton Beach. Morgan looked the men over. Each was in his forties, of average sizethough on the lean side, in a hungry sort of wayand, unusual for the Caribbean, quite pale. They sported nattily coifed, jetblack hair, which would have fallen to their shoulders had it not curlicued at the neck. Their long, nely waxed mustaches stuck out like shhooks. Even from across the shop their dark, closely set eyes managed to communicate hard times and resulting resentment. Not unrelated, perhaps, their white uniforms, the likes of which Morgan had seen only in old lm clips of barbershop quartets, were stained and patched many times over. Morgan gured he was being asked some sort of trick question, but for lack of a better answer, he replied, Barbers? Well, aye, tha, ocourse, the man said. Then he added, proudly, Our names Latte. Im Emildeau Latte, an this eres Faldeau Latte. The name Latte was familiar. A French wine, no? Morgan chewed it over, the necessity of which seemed to irk Emildeau. Name means naught ter yeh? I know it should, Morgan said respectfully.

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Our ancestor, Jean Latte, Emildeau proclaimed, was the nest pirate eer ter set keel in the Caribbean. Oh, Morgan said. Then, sensing his captors were underwhelmed by his response, he added, Wow! Til e was crippled, Emildeau continued, cheated, was e, in a duel wi yer great-great-granfather, Enry Morgan Cooke. Yer namesake, innit? Morgan recalled Isaac saying something about the family name originally having been Cooke. These Latte boys must have attended the same pirate fantasy camp. I always gured, he replied, truthfully, that I was named after the guy on the rum bottle. No, no, no, tho tha rotters in yer line as well, Emildeau claried kindly. Then his outrage resurfaced. After the duel, the only work Jean could git was cuttin air. An fer two centries, while yeh Cookes, was acapturin prize pon prize, we Lattes abin barbers. Not the best line o work in these waters . . . To illustrate his point he waved at the far wall. Morgan turned and saw dozens of framed portraitsmost with the oil paint crackingof the barbershops customers, just about all of whom were pirates with long, scraggly hair and beards. Several shared the same featuresparticularly the sugar-cube toothy grinas the yellow-maned young man in one of the more recently painted portraits. According to the tin placard nailed to its base, this was CAPTAIN ISAAC COOKEand, unmistakably, it was Isaac, in his early twenties or thereabouts. A chill from the sort of astonishment that comes once in every hundred lifetimes shot from Morgans toes to his head. Everything Isaac had been saying, he realized at onceevery syllable of itwas not crazy at all, but true as the seven oclock news, if not truer. It occurred to Morgan that he was merely dreaming, but, reminded of the presence of the Lattes by their hot, angry breath, he determined he was, in fact, awake. He also determined that the Lattes had eaten anchovies for breakfast. But today, roared Emildeau, having become increasingly heated by the recounting of his familys misfortunes, all tha

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changes! Generations o wrong shall be righted. Startin wi the treasure taken by yer father from the Hoods. Morgan muttered his new realization: So there is one. If he hadnt been numbed so, he would have shouted it. No bleedin shite, Emildeau said. Now, gettin down ter biness, where is it? Morgan wished he knew. I have no clue. Emildeau turned to his brother. Faldeau, e cant possibly be this cracked. Faldeau, theretofore silent, agreed, scofng at the notion that, is auld man neer mentioned im the biggest pirate prize o the past alf a centry! Honestly, Morgan said, I dont have the slightest idea where it is. Emildeau wheezed in such a way as to say that he didnt believe a word. Then, upper lip twitching in the angry fashion of the Very Psychotic, he said, Well, best get yeh one, quick, swab, or me brotherll shave yeh so close, yehll never sprout a whisker again. Taking this as a cue, Faldeau plucked a straight-edged razor from the wall. Too frightened to contemplate a way to negotiate with these men or otherwise extricate himself from his predicament, Morgan simply spouted the truth. Sirs, youre not going to like this, but until a few moments ago I truly thought this whole treasure story was the result of my fathers going on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride one too many times. Emildeau shifted his focus to the razor in his brothers hand. Faldeau, thas the rustiest blade in the shop, innit? Aye. The corners of Emildeaus lips curled upward. Good, he said. With a similar countenance Faldeau opened the blade and laid it across the base of Morgans throat. He applied pressure, then more pressure. Morgan calculated that, at the rate the razor was going, his

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throat would be slit in approximately three seconds. Stop, he whispered, careful not to startle Faldeau in any way. Please? Faldeau eased up. Suddenly rememberin sumpin? he chuckled. Listen, Morgan begged, the fact of the matter is that if I were walking past this shop, and it was on re, and my father were stuck inside with the treasure, Id go in and rescue the treasure. And my only other concern would be that your nice barber towels might get smoke damage. Faldeau turned to Emildeau. They shared a knowing look, and softened. Morgan suspected it was because their experience with Isaac wasnt dissimilar to his. If I knew where the treasure was, Morgan continued, Id gladly go in on it with you. I could nally pay off my student loans, nally get rid of my old car, nally get a classic six-piece living room set and a house to put it in. I could do everything Ive ever wanted with even a small fraction of 42.7 million He stopped abruptly, realizing his misstep. Too late. Faldeau trumpeted, So e do know sumpin bout it, dont e? Thats the only part I know, Morgan said, squirming. You have to believe me. They didnt. Per a nod from Emildeau, Faldeau reared back with the rusty razor. Then, abruptly, he pocketed it. The manicurist had unexpectedly appeared from the back of the shop. A few years earlier, the slender, young, starsh blond Polly Teach was crowned Miss Canoe, but, on Plantayne that day, someone not up on the results of neighboring island beauty pageants would never have guessed it. In the Latte Barbershops manicurist uniforma shapeless white tunic, a matching pillbox cap, and chalky stockings of the sort seldom seen on a woman without great-grandchildren she looked like an oversized saltshaker. Would the customer be wantin a manicure? she asked. Yes! Morgan exclaimed. In fact, Ive never wanted a manicure as badly as I do right now.

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No sooner did he say this than he felt Faldeaus razor blade press into the inner part of his thigh. Emphatically. On second thought, Morgan told Polly, no thanks. Yeh can shove off early today, Polly, Emildeau said. How early? she asked. Now, Emildeau said. Right now, Faldeau added, as if providing additional information. Given Pollys look of bewilderment, and the evidence Morgan already had of the Lattes frugality, he guessed that they didnt let her off early during monsoons. In fact, they probably sent her out on house calls. As if expecting to be called back all the while, she proceeded to the door. Having reached it, she slid open the bolttentative still and looked to her employers once more. Impatient, Emildeau waved her out. At the same time, Morgan contorted his face, hoping to somehow telegraph his plight to her. It resulted only in her eyeing him all the more strangely. Then she left. When the door fell shut behind her, Morgans heart sank. Worse, Faldeau again produced the razor as he and Emildeau reassumed their interrogation positions. Suddenly the door reopened, and there stood Isaac, boldly silhouetted in the morning sun. For the rst time in twenty-seven years, Morgan was glad to see him. Lad, if Id known you wanted a haircut, Idve recommended better, Isaac said. Faldeau, having missed the point, protested, Were the only barbers on the island. Oh, no, Isaac said, feigning grief. Dont tell me something happened to those headhunters who used to paddle over from Maraca. Emildeau reddened. Following his example, so did Faldeau. Isaac, please dont piss these guys off, Morgan pleaded. Noting Isaac grabbing a rusty broadsword from the wall and advancing

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on the Lattes, he added, Like, for example, by grabbing one of their swords off the wall and advancing on them. Isaac sped toward the Lattes, who quickly perused the wall and made selections of their own. Better selections. Morgan watched, again willing to believe this was all part of some strange reverie, as Faldeau charged Isaac with an antique threering-handled rapier. Isaacs blade met it with a thunderous peal. Then, with a slithering of steel, he ung Faldeau back. Faldeau retreated, shaken. Only for a moment, though. Encouraged by Emildeaus assertion that Isaac had simply bin lucky, he recovered his deportment and positioned himself for a swifter go. However, before he could take a single step, Isaac, with sword resembling a cyclone, drove him backward, until he could go no fartherhis path was blocked by the barber chair in which Morgan sat, stupeed. So Faldeau simply swung. Again Isaac parried effortlessly. It seemed he could have done so blindfolded. This sequence repeated itself several times. Morgan crouched, a compacted block of fright, directly beneath the crossing blades, his head ringing with each clash. Isaac swatted aside Faldeaus best shots as if he were seeing them in slow motion. Rapidly, Faldeau tired. Then Emildeau joined in, charging at Isaac with a freshly sharpenedlooking long-sword of the sort wielded by the Knights of the Round Table. His participation shifted the tide. Suddenly it was Isaac who was backed against the barber chair. This turn of events frightened Morgan all the more. Then, from each side of his periphery, the Lattes lunged at Isaac. Isaac might have attempted to parry one of their swords, or to retreat. Instead, he dropped to his knees, leaving Morgan the likely landing point for both Latte sword points, as well as apoplectic. Before the points landed, Isaac pounced onto the barber chairs oor pedal. Morgan felt himself plummet, along with the seat. The tip of Emildeaus sword ew just an inch above Morgans head, trimming a few of the hairs standing on end, and landed in

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Faldeaus gut. Faldeaus tip, in turn, disappeared into Emildeaus sword arm. Both of you get a tip today, Isaac chuckled. Then, turning to Morgan, who was utterly agog, he added, I guarantee you thats a rst. The barbers, both writhing, collapsed to the oor, raising a cloud of hair clippings. Faldeau lost consciousness. Emildeau clung to his in order to declare, albeit with a weak wheeze, Cookes, twill not be the last yeh shall ear o the Lattes. Pon me word an honor, we shall ave our vengeance! Isaac paid no attention to him. He was intent instead on Morgan. You tell them anything? he asked. No, Morgan said. He was a bit miffedthough far from shockedthat this was Isaacs primary concern, as opposed to, say, whether hed been stabbed with a sword. Good, Isaac said. With a ick of his blade, he sliced away the straps binding Morgan. Now step lively. Youll miss your ferry. Just a few minutes earlier nothing could have kept Morgan from sprinting to that ferry. A few minutes earlier, though, he didnt know that the treasure was real. The notion of joining in Isaacs pursuit of it didnt come to Morgan as any sort of clarion call or epiphany. It wasnt as if any latent pirate blood suddenly surged into his veins, nor did he suddenly feel a wild stirring in his heart for adventure and romanceat least not as far as he knew. Instead, he thought it was simply too much cash not to take a crack at. Actually, Ive decided you were right, he told Isaac. I think it would be good for us to spend some quality time together.

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Excerpted from Pirates of Pensacola by Keith Thomson. Copyright 2005, 2011 by Keith Thomson.First published by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martins Press. Excerpted by permission of Keith Thomson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted in any format without permission in writing from the author. For information, contact the author at KeithThomsonBooks.com.