The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(9)

What do you salvage?

Whatever we’re hired to. Whatever is lost.

Treasure?

No. It’s more commercial stuff. Cargoes.

What’s the weirdest thing you were ever asked to do?

You mean of a nonsexual nature?

I knew I liked him.

I dont know. I’d have to think about it. Some guys I know raised a bargeload of batshit one time.

Hear that? said Seals. Batshit.

How did you happen to get into this?

Dont go there, my dear, said John. You dont want to know. How he secretly hopes to die in the deep to atone for his sins. And that’s only the beginning.

Oh this is getting interesting.

Dont get too excited. You may have noticed a certain reticence in our man. It’s true that he does dangerous underwater work for high pay but it’s also true that he’s afraid of the depths. Well, you say. He has overcome his fears. Not a bit of it. He is sinking into a darkness he cannot even comprehend. Darkness and immobilizing cold. I enjoy talking about him if he does not. I’m sure you’d like to hear the sin and atonement part. That at the very least. He’s an attractive man. Women want to save him. But of course he’s beyond all that. What say you, Squire? How far off the mark?

Rave on, Sheddan.

I think I’ll rest my case. I know what you’re thinking. You see in me an ego vast, unstructured, and baseless. But in all candor I’ve not even the remotest aspirations to the heights of self-regard which the Squire commands. And I’m not unaware that it even lends a certain validity to his views. After all, I’m merely an enemy of society, while he is one of God.

Wow, said Bianca. She turned toward Western with a hungry look. What did you do?

Sheddan’s thin cheeks caved as he pulled at the cigar. He blew the scented smoke across the table and smiled. What the Squire has never understood is that forgiveness has a time line. While it’s never too late for revenge.

Western drained the last of his beer and set the mug on the table. I’ve got to go, he said.

Stay, said Sheddan. I take it all back.

I wouldnt dream of it. You know how I enjoy your chatter.

You’re not off on one of your overseas jobs are you?

No. I’m on my way home to bed.

Just getting off the graveyard shift is it?

That’s pretty much right on the money. I’ll see you.

He reached and got his bag and rose and nodded to the assemblage and set off up Bourbon Street with the bag over his shoulder.

I like your friend, said Bianca. Nice ass.

You’re digging a dry hole, my dear.

Why? Is he gay?

No. He’s in love.

Pity.

It’s worse than that.

How so?

He’s in love with his sister.

Wow. Is he part of that upriver crowd that shows up here on Sunday mornings?

No. He’s from Knoxville. Well, again, it’s worse than that. He’s actually from Wartburg. Wartburg Tennessee.

Wartburg Tennessee.

Yes.

There is no such place.

I’m afraid there is. It’s near Oak Ridge. His father’s trade was the design and fabrication of enormous bombs for the purpose of incinerating whole citiesful of innocent people as they slept in their beds. Cleverly conceived and handcrafted things. One-off, each of them. Like vintage Bentleys. Western himself I met at the university. Well, actually the first time I ever saw him was at the Club Fifty-Two out on the Asheville Highway. He was up on the stage playing the mandolin with the band. Bluegrass. I’d never met him but I knew who he was. He was a mathematics major with a four point grade average. Somebody at our table invited him over and we got to talking. I quoted Cioran to him and he quoted Plato back on the same subject. And he had this beautiful sister. I think she was fourteen. And he would take her to these clubs. They were just openly dating. And she was even smarter than he was. And just drop dead gorgeous. A flat out trainwrecker. He got a scholarship to Caltech and he went there and studied physics but he never got his doctorate. He came into some money and went to Europe to race cars.

He drove racecars?

Yes.

What kind?

I dont know. Those little things they race over there. He’d raced dirt-track cars at the Atomic Speedway at Oak Ridge when he was in high school. Apparently he was quite good at it.

He raced Formula Two, said Dave. He was good at it, just not good enough.

Yes. Well. He has a metal plate in his head for his troubles. A metal rod in one leg. That sort of thing. He has a slight limp. Still, it may have been just an ugly piece of luck. I think he was probably a pretty good driver. They’re not going to strap you into one of those things if you cant drive, I dont care how much money you have.

Does he still have the money?

I was waiting for you to ask. No. He pissed it all away.

And all the while he’s banging his sister.

That’s my considered opinion.

I’m surprised you never asked him.

I did ask him.

What did he say?

He didnt take it well. Denied it, of course. He thinks I’m a psychopath and he may well be right. The jury is still out. But he’s a textbook narcissist of the closet variety and, again, that modest smile of his masks an ego the size of downtown Cleveland.

He seemed awfully straight to me. I was wondering how this crowd even knew him.

The long one looked at her. Straight? You must be joking.