In the locker room, he and Consuelo stripped casually, without looking at each other. Aprons and jackets went into the laundry bin, checked pants followed, clogs and neckerchiefs went into their lockers; then, standing back to back, they silently dressed in jeans and black T-shirts. He slipped on the leather jacket Suzanne had given him and turned around to see Consuelo, identically dressed, in the mirror.
“Nice outfit,” he said, laughing.
Consuelo flicked a quick grin at him, already moving on to wherever she was going—a date, judging by the look on her face, shining and expectant, wide awake. She was in her mid-twenties, twenty-seven at the oldest. Mick remembered being that young, only seven or so years ago, but it felt like decades. The endless supply of energy, the boundless anticipation.
“Buenas, Chef,” she said, and was out.
In the staff lounge, he went to the bar and ordered a bottle of ice-cold Belgian beer and closed his eyes and shivered as the first chug went down his parched gullet. He was badly dehydrated from his hangover earlier, the stress of this new setup, forgetting to drink water through his shift. He drank again. The beer was almost gone already.
He knew that smoking was allowed on the Isabella as part of this cruise’s late-’50s retro theme, but Mick wasn’t sure that extended to the crew. He didn’t care at the moment. He fished his pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, tipped one out, stuck it in his mouth, and flicked his lighter.
There were three distinct groups of people in here, the various mafias converging at the end of their work shifts, none of them Hungarian, as usual. He heard Jamaican-accented English from the crowd nearest the door, Spanish against the wall, and Russian in the corner. He looked around for an empty chair, flopped into the one nearest him, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
“Hey.”
It was Consuelo, giving his shoulder a light tap as she moved past. He caught a whiff of her perfume, some spicy combination that smelled like cloves, musk, and a flowery depth, but not sweet, a deeply carnal smell.
“Hey,” he said back, squinting up at her.
She kept moving past him, lithe and focused as a fillet knife. He watched as she went over to the Spanish-speaking contingent and thrust herself into their midst, then he reminded himself that she worked on his station, and he was her boss, and he shut his eyes again.
The staff lounge was traditionally the place on any ship where the crew came to unwind, if they were lucky enough to have one. Crew lounges often got crowded and wild, with half-naked dancing, drugs, fights, heavy-duty make-out sessions. In the lounge, you could do what you wanted, because management usually stayed away. Apart from the crew mess where they ate their meals, drinking here and working out in the crew gym were the only two social release valves the workers had during their time at sea, when there was no shore leave. This bare-bones room with its makeshift bar and motley assortment of chairs and tables, mismatched castoffs and discarded leftovers, was the only place on the entire ship where they were allowed to drink besides their quarters, which were too small for more than a few people to fit into. But at least the lounge had plenty of alcohol. The dank, dark, cramped little gym next door with its two treadmills, one elliptical machine, two weight benches, and a smattering of suspiciously moist yoga mats was much less appealing.
But it was strangely quiet in here, Mick thought. First nights were generally loud, wild, and late, the new crew getting acquainted or greeting friends they hadn’t worked with in a while. Maybe most people hadn’t come off their shifts yet; he didn’t know the schedules of the waiters and housekeeping staffs.
Just then, one of the Russians said something loudly and their entire table ignited in laughter. The guy tending bar, a voluntary position paid only in tips and social prestige, was evidently a Russian too: he yelled something across the lounge and threw a bottle of vodka over to the table. The guy who’d shouted caught it and opened it and drank from it, then wiped off the top and poured straight vodka into everyone’s glass with a flip of the wrist and a flourish.
The mood at the Jamaican table was dreamy and contemplative; maybe they’d found a place to enjoy a post-work spliff. Mellow, heavy-lidded, they peeled the labels off bottles of beer and bobbed their heads to the music on the sound system, some kind of synth-heavy pop with a female singer. Mick had no idea who she was. Her voice was husky, twitchy with alley-cat yowls. It was the aural equivalent of Consuelo’s perfume.
But the stoned, spaced-out Jamaicans were raucous compared to Consuelo’s table. Talking in low voices with their heads close together was not Mick’s usual notion of a group of Spanish speakers. In his experience, Hispanics and Latinos loved to mix it up when they drank, interrupting each other, flaring into opinionated rants and half-flirtatious arguments and hot riffs of arguing banter and hard laughter. These people were talking one by one, quietly, and everyone seemed to be listening instead of jumping in. Mick’s Spanish was passable, just good enough to make out the gist of a conversation. He listened hard, but their voices were too quiet, impossible to eavesdrop on.
Consuelo, who was facing Mick, caught his eye and kept her face impassive as she held his gaze. He had no idea what she was trying to telegraph to him. She thought he was hot and desired him passionately? He should mind his own business? He should fuck off? Probably the latter two.
He shut his eyes again and let the music and beer fill his head.
He felt another quick tap on his shoulder a while later with another whiff of her perfume. He opened his eyes as Consuelo slid into the chair next to him and sat facing the same direction he was facing, toward the bar, where the Russian bartender was smoking and leaning on the bar top and yelling over at his increasingly drunk compatriots. He had a grim face, colorless hair, and a huge nose. He saw Mick looking at him and held up a beer bottle. Mick nodded and caught the bottle as it flew toward him, twisted off the top, drank.
“Hey,” said Consuelo. “You looked like you were having a nice nap.”
“Thanks for waking me up,” he said. “Looks like a serious discussion over there. Are you talking about economics or science or something?”
“We’re plotting to take over the world,” she said.
She looked serious, but Mick was learning her sense of humor, he thought. He laughed; she didn’t. “Where are you all from, anyway?”
“Most of us are from Mexico, a couple from Guatemala. We know each other from past cruises. You know Rodrigo, right? He’s on our station. And Yvete is a croupier in the casino. A couple of others are room stewards. A couple of waiters.”
“They’re your friends?”
Her face went still as she looked over at the table. “In a way. Friends, yeah, sure.”
“What were you really talking about?”
“How pissed off we are about the layoffs. You know they’re canceling all our contracts after this cruise?”
Mick stared at her. “No,” he said. “I haven’t heard anything about it. Are they really?”
“I guess you’re in the clear, man. Also, do you know who’s on the boat? One of the owners of Cabaret. Larry Weiss. Should we poison his steak?”
“You think it would solve anything?”
“It would make me feel better.”
Mick nodded at her empty glass. “You want another glass of wine?”
She shook her head. “I’m going to sleep. My new boss is a bastard. I have to stay on my toes.”