Death Sets Sail Read online

  “Go help.” Helga elbowed Brent.

  “Let’s go!” Brent echoed to Frederick.

  Mavis got up instantaneously. She came over and tapped my shoulder from behind. “Come on. Let’s help Esther.”

  I followed Mavis, who trailed behind Frederick and Brent. If she wanted to ingratiate herself with Esther with my help, I didn’t mind. It looked exciting.

  Curtis got up from his table and intercepted me. “Need help?”

  “Yes. That’s Mendel Weitzman, the author. He’s in our group and he’s had a little too much.”

  “No kidding! Let me help you out.”

  Curtis took my arm and wove through the unseated, unsettled gawkers behind Mavis.

  * * *

  When we three reached the scene, we had to elbow our way through the encircled passengers. At the core of the muddle of humanity, two male servers stood over Mendel doing nothing.

  “Oh, my God.” I looked at Curtis. “He’s out cold.”

  “He sure is. Small guys can’t hold their liquor.”

  Apparently, the male ego was ceaseless, endless, and ever ready to rear up. I excused Curtis and every male that particular unfettered, transparent, and usually ill-timed privilege. I had concluded years ago that men had no idea how silly they sounded; how “elementary-school-playground-rewind” their behavior patterns were.

  “Of course,” I agreed, but then I would agree with anything Curtis said—or almost anything.

  Curtis was pleased with my validation. I was pleased that he was pleased.

  I turned my attention back to Mendel lying on his back on the herringbone carpet. He was spattered with wine and a touch of salad. Esther leaned over him. Amy announced to everyone within earshot the number of Martinis Mendel had downed.

  “Make sure his airway is clear,” Mary yelled in her shrill voice as she pushed the man in front of her aside. “Once the airway is gone, it’s over. I’ve slashed enough of them to know.”

  There were gasps through the gathering crowd.

  “In my books. Slashed in my books.” Mary shook her head, causing her double chin to undulate. “I’m an author.”

  Just then from behind, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and was eye to eye with a steely gray-eyed, gray-haired man in an officer’s white dress uniform. He was pasty white with a receding chin.

  “Stand aside. I’m the chief doctor,” he commanded with a well-heeled British accent and strong whiskey breath. “Let me have a look. I’ll sort this out.”

  With some balancing difficulties of his own, the doctor knelt over Mendel and examined him.

  “He’s drunk,” Amy volunteered to the doctor. “I saw him downing Martinis at my table.”

  “Yes, me too,” Esther echoed critically.

  “Ah, Martinis,” the doctor repeated barely moving his lips to form his posh British accent. “They get the job done.”

  “Mendel never could hold his liquor,” Frederick broadcasted over the doctor.

  “Mendel?” The doctor quizzed Frederick.

  “Yes . . . Mendel Weitzman. The author. Or should I say washed up author and asshole.”

  “Ah! I thought I recognized him. The globetrotter extraordinaire. But, evidently, not as extraordinary as his reputation would dictate.”

  The doctor studied Mendel as if he were a priceless work of art. Then, he observed the crowd leaning over him. He blatantly took time to relish the cleavage bursting from the evening dresses of the female observers. By upper crust public school British standards his present shipboard work-a-day job would dictate that he was a failure amongst his class.

  “How is he, doctor?” One ample bosomed, middle-aged, striking woman batted her eyes at him.

  The doctor stood, balance-challenged again, straightened his uniform and gave his undivided attention to the inquiring woman.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll attend to him. Miss?”

  “Mrs. Gwendolyn Chertoff. Gwendolyn.”

  “Of course.” The doctor was visibly unenthused once the word “Mrs.” popped off the woman’s tongue. “You should go back to your table, Madame.”

  The doctor turned to the crowd and definitively announced his diagnosis.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, this man has simply had one too many. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him. Go back to your dinners . . . please.” The doctor turned to the servers close by. “Get these people seated. You two, come here. Get his stateroom number and get him back there to sleep it off. He’s sloshed.”

  I whispered to Mavis, “It takes one to know one.”

  “What a mess,” Mavis replied. “I hope Mendel can do his panel discussion tomorrow morning.”

  As the crowd ignored the dispersal orders, the mâitre d’ ran up. “Sorry, doctor. I just heard.”

  “Nothing wrong. Just the usual. Trollied. We are getting him to his stateroom.”

  “Ah. Well, good. And I’ll sort this out.” The mâitre d’ turned to supervise the cleanup.

  “Are you sure he’s just drunk?” Brent asked the doctor.

  “Yes, I’m sure he’s sloshed. I’m a ship’s doctor. I’m experienced.”

  “Yes, obviously.” Brent waved the doctor’s whiskey breath away. “But he’s white as a sheet. I’m concerned. Shouldn’t he be flushed?”

  “I think you’re right,” Mary agreed.

  The doctor ignored both Brent and Mary.

  I looked down at Mendel. “Now that you mention it . . . look at his jaw. It’s twitching, isn’t it?”

  Brent leaned over and studied Mendel’s face. “It is.”

  “Curious,” Mary leaned in too. “I’ve read about that before. But I can’t quite place it . . .”

  “Back to your seats, people. The man can’t hold his liquor. That’s all,” the doctor barked, enjoying his authority and especially the wide-eyed, well-endowed women watching him exercise it.

  Several people standing around chuckled. Few left. One man took out his phone and started to videotape Mendel on the floor.

  “That man’s taking a video on his phone.” Esther alerted the doctor and stepped forward to block the recording.

  “What?” The doctor whirled around, unstable, but still in charge. “Sir, get back to your seat.”

  “Who’s with Mr. Weitzman?” The doctor called out.

  “I guess we are,” Frederick replied.

  “You’d better get him to his room now to sleep this off.”

  “Shouldn’t he go to the infirmary?” I asked the doctor. “He looks awful.”

  “I’m not going to wet-nurse a man all night who simply doesn’t know his limits. My nurse and I would spend all our nights with sloshed passengers in sickbay. This is a cruise ship, not a nursery.”

  Amy looked at me. “Don’t worry. He’s been this way since I’ve known him. He’ll sleep it off.”

  “So you do know him?”

  Amy ignored my question.

  * * *

  The white-coated server who went to get Mendel’s room number made his way back through the crowd. He whispered Mendel’s stateroom number to the doctor.

  “Let’s get him to his room,” the doctor commanded.

  “But . . .” I still thought Mendel looked ill.

  “He has a steward,” Amy cut me off. “He’ll just have to leave a bigger tip.”

  “He can afford it.” Frederick smirked. “Besides AA is the only thing that can help him.”

  Amy looked at Frederick. “Get him to his room, Frederick. You owe him that much. He handed you your career.”

  “What!” Frederick scowled at Amy.

  “This is a circus. Do something.” Esther finally lost her equanimity. “MWW can’t have this. Frederick, help us here, please.”

  “Sure.”

  Frederick forgot Amy’s comment. I didn’t.

  Frederick started to get Mendel up with a steward’s aid. Then, unexpectedly Mendel opened his dark piercing eyes.

  “What happened?”

  Mendel looked around, his e
yes locked on Amy, and he reached up. “Amy, my little love.”

  Mary looked at Amy. “My little love?”

  I understood Amy’s behavior at boarding. If they had been close acquaintances, perhaps too close, I would have behaved the same.

  “He’s out of it.” Amy stepped back away from Mendel’s sight line.

  “Doctor, he’s coming to,” Frederick said. “Take another look and make sure we can move him.”

  The doctor kneeled back down reluctantly. “Sir, have you been drinking?”

  “Sure! Who are you, the Martini police?” Mendel shouted. “Read me my rights.”

  Everyone within earshot chuckled.

  “How many did you have?”

  “Who’s counting? I’m not driving the boat, am I?”

  There was more laughter.

  “Are you hurt? Are you in any pain?” The doctor was getting more annoyed, but well aware of the questions he had been trained to ask to protect the cruise line from liability. “Do you want to go to the infirmary to get checked out?”

  “Give me a break.” Mendel flipped his hand dismissively at the doctor. “I want my dinner.”

  “Sir, we’ll take you to your room and get you some dinner.” The doctor stood.

  “Yes, just get him to his room. This spectacle isn’t good for him, doctor,” Amy smiled with her delightful dimples. “He’ll sleep it off.”

  “This is not good for the MWW, either.” Esther stepped forward with calm authority. “Can you get him up, Frederick? Please.”

  “Yes, this is too public,” Amy urged.

  “Fine.” Frederick agreed.

  “Yes,” Mavis parroted Esther. “Can some of you men get him up?”

  “Get him out of here,” the doctor ordered, pleased his course of action had been validated by Mendel’s colleagues.

  “Let’s get him to his room.” Brent stepped into a leadership role and reached down to get Mendel up. “He’s three sheets to the wind.”

  “More like nine. The steward can get him dinner there,” the doctor added.

  A ship’s server stepped forward to help and Curtis stopped him.

  “I’ll help.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” Frederick glanced over at Amy and then started to help Mendel up again. “You lead the way.”

  “Sure.” Curtis cleared a path through the observers to the stairs.

  As Frederick and Brent lifted Mendel, Frederick asked Brent, “You said three sheets to the wind? You sail?”

  Brent looked pleased. “All the time. I race.”

  “I race too, whenever I can get on a crew.”

  I marveled that male bonding was always catalyzed by booze or sports.

  Mendel mumbled as the two giants rousted him to his feet.

  I caught a glimpse of Mendel’s face as his head flopped forward. He was pale and drool crept down the side of this mouth. I had never seen a drunk like him, not even in the epic college binges I had observed. Only observed, of course.

  ⌘

  Chapter 11

  A Lush in Luxury

  Curtis led the way through the still-gathered gawkers dressed to the nines. Brent and Frederick followed with Mendel rag-dolled between them and continued to compare sailing experiences. They had bonded.

  Further ingratiating herself to Esther, Mavis took charge.

  “You go back to your table and I’ll take care of this.”

  “Report back?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’ll go with her.” I intentionally took advantage of the moment to introduce myself to Esther. “Veronica Kennicott. Mavis’s stateroom mate.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize.” Esther acknowledged me for the first time. “Esther Nussbaum.”

  “Yes, my stateroom mate.” Mavis’s tone was too neutral for my comfort level. “Let’s go.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Esther auto-piloted as she turned to go back to her table. “Come people. Everything’s taken care of.”

  Esther was poised and controlled. She spoke with a slow cadence signaling the importance of every mundane word she uttered. She was a leader who people followed. I wasn’t certain why.

  Mary and Esther went back to their table, Mary chewing Esther’s ear off.

  Our other MWW people followed suit, and soon the rest of the diners dispersed.

  * * *

  As we left, five servers directed by the maître d’ descended on the table Mendel had decimated.

  Mavis, intent on reporting back to Esther, followed Mendel’s entourage quickly up the dining room staircase. Wanting to be with Curtis, I followed Mavis.

  I looked back from the stairway landing and saw the annihilated table was up, new clean linens in place, and being set, as if Mendel had never fallen on it.

  Our unlikely little band proceeded quietly down the hallway to the elevator. Only Brent and Frederick chattered, still about sailing, as they propelled the smaller unsteady Mendel by his shoulders.

  Curtis led the way into the elevator. The uniformed doctor strutted dutifully along, periodically glancing at Amy. Mavis and I brought up the rear.

  In the elevator Curtis introduced himself to Brent and Frederick and joined in the sailing exchange, but from a Southern California, Marina del Rey perspective. Curtis’s cocoa eyes sparkled as he talked about sailing. I couldn’t help but notice again how striking he was in his black tuxedo with his contrasting rich gray hair, showing only whispers of his former dark brown. The men were in a world of their own far apart from the confines of the elevator or Mendel’s mishap, a sailing world.

  “I like it best when the sail is skimming the ocean and you’re leaning over the rail balancing it,” Frederick said. “I have to admit I’ve been deep-sixed over that rail a few times. On occasion, being a little heavier would help! Of course, I also love calm days when we hoist the spinnaker to take in as much wind as possible. Seeing that sail balloon out, especially if there are other nearby boats doing the same thing, is truly wonderful.”

  “I know what you mean.” Curtis flashed a smile at me as I listened. “At this height my center of gravity has put me over those rails, too. But I admit our usual group manages to dump the spinnaker in the water as often as not when we try to raise it. Height makes little difference there.”

  “Yeah, the smaller boats like Solings are built for midgets. I’ve gone into the drink too,” Brent admitted. “It annoys all the shorties. But they always invite me back. We can really leverage the lean with our size.

  “And aside from the spinnaker, we can still grab anything with our wingspans,” Curtis laughed.

  Brent laughed with him. “I will admit that my favorite way to sail is solo, and indeed in a Soling because of its deep keel for stability. The boat’s that is, not mine. Best of all are the days when the sea is rough, maybe even during a storm. I love taking the boat out in the open ocean then. Just me against the elements. No other people involved. A great way to release the tensions and frustrations of my daily life.”

  Curtis and Frederick exchanged knowing looks.

  “We don’t get much rough weather in Marina del Rey,” Curtis remarked. “But when we do, I find it is often a stress reliever to take a small boat out past the breakwater, fight the swells and the wind, just me versus Mother Nature. Even better if it’s stormy enough that I have to reef the sails. It takes all my ability and all of my senses to keep afloat and on course. Really an exhilarating experience. In addition, stormy weather hides the ‘aroma’ of all the bird guano that covers the marina breakwater, always a good thing.”

  Frederick nodded approvingly.

  As the men “sailored” and “jolly-giant’ed” at each other, I noticed that the doctor had zeroed in on Amy to engage, even though she had no cleavage popping. He broke the ice, but not hers, by talking about the problems of drinking too much at sea. It was Mavis who responded sympathetically.

  I chuckled to myself that this was one subject he appeared to know both personally and well.

  Mavis
impatiently punched the already lit elevator floor button. She thrived on attention and was getting none.

  All the players in this troupe had their functions, and I was pleased Curtis had decided to help out.

  * * *

  When we got off the elevator, Mendel began belting out “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” He stopped at ninety-seven.

  “Waiter, another Martini with an olive.” Mendel slurred at the doctor who wore the only white coat in proximity.

  “Sure.” The doctor was annoyed at being taken for a waiter and being interrupted in the midst of his attempted tête-a-tête with Amy. “When we get you to your room.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mavis called, from the rear of the group where we followed.

  “He was joking,” I whispered to Mavis.

  “Oh.”

  By the time we got to the room, the two tall men were literally dragging Mendel. The doctor turned his attention from Amy and opened the door with his passkey.

  Mendel’s stateroom was huge. His appetites and money obviously extended to ostentation here as well. There was a dining area with faux-eighteenth century table and chairs; a large living room with a sofa bed and elegant coffee table; a refrigerator, obviously fully stocked; and flower arrangements, tastefully displayed. The stateroom had floor-to-ceiling windows with glass doors opening to a private balcony. The bathroom door was wide open, with clothes strewn around, and we could see it was all done in marble, with a whirlpool tub as well as a shower. A half-empty bottle of gin stood on the counter next to the marble sink.

  Frederick and Brent continued to drag Mendel over to the king-sized bed with a thick blue and red bedspread inscribed with the insignia of the Queen Anne. Curtis pulled the bedspread and sheets back. Then, Frederick and Brent flopped Mendel onto the bed.

  Mendel was limp and quiet.

  “He’s passed out.” Brent took off Mendel’s jacket.

  Curtis followed the lead and took off his shoes. Frederick unceremoniously removed Mendel’s tie and opened his shirt collar. I marveled at the unspoken coordination. It was a male ritual—to take care of their drunken, fallen comrades—that they had all practiced infinite times before. This male rite of passage started early in life.