“But you know,” he says, segueing from a story about the first time they jumped off the boat, holding hands. “It’s really hard to talk about Love and Forty without talking about Milo. I mean, he was always there too, and you should have seen his hair back then.” He laughs. “Huge.”
“I gotta see pictures,” I say, and kissing ass is hard work, but I need Captain Dave to be on my side. I’m gonna need his help this weekend. And lucky for me, he’s likable enough.
“We got pictures on all the boats,” he says. “I just don’t know where exactly on this one. There are more on the yacht.” He twists the cap off another O’Doul’s. He sips. “But yep, that’s why I called Milo the third twin.”
I look at him. “Did you say you called Milo the third twin?”
He answers through a burp. “Yawp. You need another drink?”
I shake my head, and he continues to yammer on about Love and Forty and Milo always together and I stare at the water. I thought Forty came up with that phrase and Captain Dave finishes his fake beer. He stands, stretches. “All right,” he says. “I think it’s about time we chum up.”
“Aye aye, Cap,” I say, as if I know what that means. I offer to help Captain Dave with the barrel he’s messing with, but as always, he says he’s all set. He peels off the top of the barrel and now I smell death and decay and I cover my mouth and he laughs. “Boy’s first chum,” he says. “Don’t worry. Ya don’t get used to it.”
Then he whistles and his assistant First Mate Kelly, a fat guy from Georgia, rings a bell and blasts Jimmy Buffett. Apparently it’s time to go fishing and Captain Dave scoops chum into the water. All I can think about is Fincher and how I can drive this boat out here and drop him into the water, just like I did with Delilah, the girl he’s supposed to be looking for. Done and done.
Forty is plastered and he barely makes it to his chair and Captain Dave stuffs his fingers in his mouth and whistles. “Nope,” he says. “Give it a sober ten and then come back.”
Forty whines but Captain Dave isn’t having it. “My boat, my rules,” he says.
Forty goes back down while First Mate Kelly helps Milo and me set up our rods. We dangle them in the water and Milo hums along to Buffett and tells me about Johanna, the makeup artist from Boots and Puppies. They slept together last night and she’s young and hot and I guess he deserves to rub it in my face a little. Forty returns and asks for a rod and Dave says no and Forty lunges for the chum bucket and nearly falls in.
Captain Dave screams. “Wheelhouse,” he commands. “Now.”
Forty obeys and Milo laughs and I shake my head. “That captain is something,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Milo asks. And it’s funny to me that I was going to kill him a few days ago.
“I mean, he’s on a mad power trip.”
“Well,” Milo says. “He’s Cap. He can be.”
“Yeah, but it’s Forty’s boat.”
Milo turns his reel. “No,” he says. “The Captain controls everything. It doesn’t even matter if Ray is here. Boat owners say it’s better because when you’re messing with Mother Nature, you want someone who respects that above all else.”
“Huh,” I say. Boat people. I pretend to care if a marlin nips at my line while I think about Fincher. He arrives later today. My plan is simple: get the keys from Captain Dave when we dock. Meet Fincher at Axl Rose’s house. Knock him out. Get Fincher onto this motor vessel and drive out here and dump him. Then, go to the Office with Love and eat fish tacos and drink margaritas and dance.
Milo gets a bite. He has to hand the rod over to Kelly to reel it in because he’s too weak to do it on his own. But then, when Kelly reels in the fish, he hurriedly hands off the rod to Milo so that Milo can pose, as if he alone caught the fish.
Captain Dave comes back and says we should probably head back to shore because they’ve been having issues with pirates.
And that’s when the girls’ boat comes up on us and all the girls are dressed up like pirates, firing with squirt guns, drunk, squealing. Captain Dave drops anchor and laughs. Love cannonballs into the water.
“Come on!” she says. “It’s beautiful!”
It is, but none of these people understand that I’m not on vacation. I’ve got to get on the burner phone I bought before we left and call all the realtors who have attempted to sell Axl Rose’s house in the past two weeks. There are twelve of them and one of them has to know where the house key is.
I beg off, and while everyone else swims, I go down into the cabin and go over my spiel. I’ll introduce myself as Nick Ledger, a legendary bicoastal realtor to the stars. I’ve seen him on shitty reality shows and I do his voice pretty well, thick Bronx, like he smoked a thousand cigarettes. I’ll tell them that I’m down in this sand pit for two goddamn days and I get to Axl’s house and there’s no fucking key because you people are so sun-stroked you fugghet how this works.
I’ve watched a lot of shows about real estate. I know the way they name-drop and talk to each other and swear at each other. I know they all have different phones for different purposes. I practice the key phrases: very famous fuck you money times ten client and I know who you know who I’m talking about is here. She’s more private than your wife’s dildo collection and she is pissier than your wife when you cum in her ass and I am standing here without the key to the one fucking pagoda that might be good enough for her, given her unique requirements.
I call the first realtor, a woman who looks slutty and stupid, like she would bang Nick Ledger, but she tells me to fuck off. I call a guy with big ears who looks like he was bullied most of his life. He can’t remember who has the listing and he wants to know if I’m shooting. I call another woman, older, probably went into this business after she saw American Beauty on cable. She has a New York accent too, Long Island. She says honey, the key is up my puss. Good luck getting there.
She hangs up on me. I growl. Nick Ledger is an asshole and a bridge burner and I should have impersonated someone dopey and happy, but they don’t have people like that in high-end real estate, at least not on TV.
This isn’t working, so I go into the real estate directory and look for brokers without pictures. The real fuck-ups who can’t even get it together and show their faces. There is a guy named William Papova and this is harder, calling someone when you haven’t prejudged them based on their proclivity for neckties or earrings.
He drops the phone before he answers, stupid phone, and his voice is abrupt: “Who is this?”
“It’s Nick Fucking Ledger,” I say.
“From the TV show?” he asks. YES. “Rock Star Realtor?”
“Excuse me, are you giving me shit about a project that benefits my fucking business?”
“No, no, no,” he says. “I know you is all.”
“Well, listen, I got your number from that piece Sonja.”
I don’t know a Sonja but I imagine realtors in Cabo know Sonjas. “Sonja,” he says. “Okay.”
“I’m here twenty-four fucking hours and my team drove the car off the cliff and they don’t have a key to Axl’s and I need a key to Axl’s.”
“For the show?”
“Fuck you and answer the question.”
He puts me on hold a minute then returns to the call, out of breath. “I can get you a key and leave it in the outdoor shower but you can’t fuck me here and tell anyone at Caldwell. I’m trying to make things right with them.”
“Deal,” I say. “Just make sure you leave the fucking gate open, too.”