Josh: Poisoned By The Magician, Somehow Josh Valiantly Struggles On For The Sake Of The Team. Margaritas? No, No, I'm Sure It Must Have Been Poison

First, a quick update on how I'm feeling this morning: ow. Owowow.

Moving on, reading Mary's posts regarding yesterday's happenings were eye-opening, considering that I was there pretty much the whole time and don't remember most of it. Last night was even more of a blur which, again, Mary clarified for me:


ME: I remember singing really loudly and off-key in the hotel lobby and puking in my shower.

MARY: That's exactly right, except the locations were reversed.

ME: Um. Whoops.

MARY: We'll be exiting through the rear of the hotel when we checkout today, by the way.

ME: Carry me?


Later that morning I heard many loud, loud noises that threatened to shatter my skull, and then somehow I was on a jet, streaking out over the sparkling, bejeweled Pacific Ocean on my way to Australia. On the plane I had full access to DVD's, books, magazines, the Internet and probably stewardess/strippers, and I took no advantage of any of them, instead promptly falling asleep for another six hours.

When I awoke once again Mary was eating lunch and food actually smelled good to me for the first time that day. We ate our beef stroganoff in silence sitting facing one another. After we'd finished eating I polished off the last of my bottled water, looked at Mary and said, "I think I'm falling in love with you."

"I take it you enjoyed the stroganoff."

"I'm serious."

"You're feeling pretty spry for a man who spent last night throwing up into a hotel fern."

"Still serious."

Mary took a deep breath and turned to stare for a long moment out of the window at the bright blue sky, a few high clouds dotting the horizon in the distance. "I can't, Josh. The responsibility I feel to your mother... I have a responsibility."

"It's more than a job, you said so yourself, Mary. I'd say going on the run from the law and becoming an accessory after the fact means-"

She put up a hand, stopping me. Turning back to me she said, "It wouldn't be right. Wouldn't feel right. And our ages-"

"What, five, six years? It's not like you're in cougar territory here." I saw her eyes widen and knew I'd stepped in it, but pressed on. "I don't care about that, or the work thing or anything else. Look, I'm not good at this, I know that. Some other guy, flying in a private jet over the water, they'd make some cool move. I'm not that guy, unless you think ranking Godzilla movies in order of rubber-costume believability is a cool move."

She smiled in spite of herself. "Josh-"

"I know you have a responsibility. I know you don't want to let my Mom down. You think I don't know about that kind of pressure? When I was four, the woman wouldn't let me have a cookie unless I could name the majority of its ingredients in Latin. You want her respect but you already have it."

Her mouth tightened. "I also want to keep it."

I leaned over the table toward her, wishing now that we'd flown commercial so we'd be side-by-side. "All this other stuff... just tell me you don't feel anything for me. Nothing else matters. Look me in the eye and tell me I'm just a job. Tell me."

Mary shook her head slowly, clenching her jaw and taking a few deep breaths. Just then the stewardess walked up and asked how we liked our lunch, cleared the dirty plates and offered dessert. Mary declined, excusing herself to the bathroom. I leaned back in my seat and stared out of the window, fighting the urge to strangle the oblivious stewardess and wondering all of a sudden if I was going to write all this stuff down. Having promised my mother that I would be as forthcoming as possible in this journal (hey, thanks again, Mom!), I decided that I would continue to be as humiliatingly candid as possible.

Mary and I spent most of the rest of the flight writing, reading up on Australia and avoiding eye contact. I'll try and write out another post on the drive to Port Victoria from Adelaide.

Mary: Ocean Master

November 7th, 2008: After sitting through an hour-long meeting with Captain Harold Pullman of the San Diego Coast Guard, I had lost all interest in boats, the sea, water itself and life as I knew it. Captain Pullman was perhaps the most boring and uninformative human I'd ever met, and I raced back to the hotel to pick up Josh purely out of survival. I knew it was going to be difficult to grab Josh and still make it on time to my second appointment, but the thought of going through the rest of the afternoon without a single laugh made my stomach ache.

Once I saw Josh, however, I immediately regretted my decision. He had evidently stayed at the bar the entire time I had been gone and had run up quite a tab. I poured him into the car and asked him how many margaritas he'd downed. I immediately regretted the question as well. "When the sun is shining down on you and you're drinking not for pleasure but for survival, then the number is of no consequence." He gestured heavenward, warming to his subject. "Had we been back at some bar in Milwaukee then without question I should have been cut off two or three ago, but here in sunny California there's a different standard- hrm, you're not wearing your swimsuit now."

I pulled onto the expressway, following the GPS's directions to the meeting. "Just don't attempt to say 'consequence' again during the meeting. We'll have to squeegee the dashboard off as it is."

He brushed aside my comments with a carefree wave. "Pfft! Consequence schmonsequence!"

"And now the windshield. Thanks at least for not facing me when you did that." I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate my using the word "giggle" to describe what he did for the final ten minutes of the drive, but I can't think of a more applicable one.

We pulled up at the Ocean Master Shipping Company and even Josh in his impressionable state was underwhelmed. It was a simple rectangular building on the edge of the docks, it's brick facade badly in need of repair and the awning over the door smeared with seagull droppings. A small, dilapidated sailboat bobbed in the water in the rear of the building, and after a few seconds of watching it I wasn't so sure it wasn't actually sinking.

Inside, the Ocean Master Shipping Company was split into three rooms, two offices in back and an open reception area in front, the receptionist's desk vacant. The sound of rock music could be faintly heard drifting from the rear of the building. The walls had faded pictures of boats hung on them, and the carpet was at least twenty years old and had probably never been cleaned. Three, foot-long model boats stood on display by the front window. Josh sighed and began fiddling with the models while I rang the bell on the receptionists desk. Thirty or so seconds later I rang it again, and a man trudged out from the rear-left office.

He was in his early forties, tall with thinning hair and unshaven. The dark circles under his eyes looked like tattoos. His voice came out in a defeated monotone. "Ya?"

I introduced myself as Mary Smith (my new, fake identity. Uncreative, but difficult to track down) and told him we were looking for any information he might have on his boat the Liberator. With a grunt he waved us back into his office, which was decorated exactly like the reception area but with file folders and papers strewn all over it. The man introduced himself as Glen and without preamble launched into his tale of woe.

The Ocean Master Shipping Company had three boats: one was being held in the Philippines because he was unable to pay the harbor fees, the second was so decrepit he'd had to scrap it for parts and the third was the Liberator, lost at sea. Creditors were closing in on him and the odds were he was going to have to shut his doors within the month. "No one wants to find that boat more than me, Miss Smith. I want to make sure those guys are okay, and financially it would mean the world. Otherwise, it doesn't look too good."

Josh, having carried the model boat back to the office with him from the lobby began making motorboat noises with his lips. I gave him a quick kick under the desk and asked Glen to tell me everything he knew about the package he'd been hired to ship to Nagasaki.

Glen shrugged. "No harm saying now, I guess. I got a call from a guy said he wanted to ship a package and he'd pay cash; said he'd deliver it to me that night. How he knew the Liberator was leaving port that day I don't know. He said he'd take care of pickup on the other end, easy as can be. That night there was a knock on the front door." He rethought it, adding, "Not a knock... more just like scratching. Who knows how long they'd been out there. I open the door and there's this black guy holding an old-looking steamer trunk. As soon as I open up he walks right by me and puts it down in the lobby, then hands me an envelope filled with cash, triple the going rate. I told him I needed him to sign the forms and take care of paperwork, but he just brushed right by me like I wasn't even there, walking off down the street. He hadn't even come in a car, just walked holding that big trunk."

"This might seem like an odd question, but was he smiling?"

His thin eyebrows shot up in surprise. "How do you know that? He had the freakiest smile and he never said a damn word."

I bulled ahead. "So you didn't have the paperwork but you shipped the package anyway?"

He shrugged again, the gesture clearly one he used often. "He paid triple."

"Did you look inside the trunk?"

Grimacing, he said sheepishly, "I was worried it was drugs. I needed the cash, but I didn't want to be a mule. I don't make it a habit of looking in other people's things."

Trying to stifle my excitement, I asked as calmly as I could, "What was in the trunk?" Josh had finally torn his attention away from the model boat and leaned forward to hear.

"Just three things: an old knife, a top hat and a cape. The hat and cape looked like antiques, but well maintained. That's it, really."

"Were there any initials on the knife hilt?"

Glen cocked his head, growing suspicious. "How do you know so much about it? I didn't look that close, I just wanted to make sure it wasn't drugs."

I fought the urge to curse. "The voice on the phone, what did it sound like?"

Again, the shrug. "Just a guy."

Josh peered through the back window at the derelict sailboat tethered to the dock in back, his curiosity finally getting the best of him. "What's up with that sh*t-heap back there? That's not one of your shipping boats is it? Christ, not even the gulls will crap on that thing."

Glen stared at him flatly. "That's where I live."

To say the pause that followed was agonizing would not begin to do the moment justice. Finally, Josh swallowed and offered lamely, "Hey, like Miami Vice! Where Crockett lived. On a boat." He coughed, the silence lengthening until he continued, "So, what say we continue this conversation where we can get drinks?"

"This is a business. These are business hours."

"I'm buying."

Glen ran a hand through his thinning hair and resignedly offered up his signature shrug. "I'll get my coat."