Jacks are Better

Jacks Are Better

By

Sam A. Mackie

Copyright Page

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

The End

Wednesday, August 16

Chapter One

The room was black-dark as Jonathon Lesley Marker came slowly awake.  He glanced at the night stand, but the clock with the large red digital numbers had been bumped sideways and its face now glowed scarlet against the side wall of the stateroom.  He bent his left wrist toward his face and peered at the luminous dial of his watch.  He could see a bright green 6 and 12, the sweep second hand at the 10 and ticking toward the 11, the small hand on the 2 and big hand on the 9.  Damn; 2:45 a.m.

He had awakened to the plunge of the cruise ship falling out from under him, and the bow rising and slamming into the continuing wall of 15-foot seas that they had been fighting since noon yesterday.  There it was again; the stern dropping into the troughs of the huge swells, the propellers cavitating like hell, and the shudder along the length of the ship until the transom was caught by the following seas and the disturbing pattern began again.

He reached for the lamp switch and flooded the stateroom with light.  His eyes blinked, closed shut, and stayed open as he shielded his face from the glaring brightness.  He lay motionless as the ship fell off another huge wave and crashed into the following trough, propellers churning, and another tremendous shudder passed along the ship.

He swung his feet around and threw back the sheet, and the light blue blanket with the large entwined French blue double D, for Darling-Diamond Line, emblazoned across the center of the brushed-cotton material.  He stumbled into the bathroom, found his mouthwash bottle by the feel of its top, and threw several ounces of the sharp liquid into the back of his throat.  As he gargled and spit the residue into the bowl he looked at himself in the mirror, and was surprised by the man who stared back at him. 

He filled his hands with chill water and splashed his face and neck, and scrunched his eyes against the coldness.  He searched to his left, found one of the thick hand towels that hung on the silver ring at the end of the wide, marble-topped vanity, and wiped his skin dry.  He dropped the towel onto the vanity, and considered how much a stateroom like this would cost for a paying customer.  Seven days and nights with layovers: Miami to Freeport, Nassau, Key West, and back to Miami aboard the Atlantica: Darling of the Seas.  A Diamante Suite with a full balcony, shower, and hot tub, champagne iced on the wet bar the first night out of port, and two thick squares of Godiva chocolates on the pillow every night.  Meals at the Marquis Grill.  A wine steward and two waiters at the table.  Dinner with the captain the first night, and formal wear for three of the six dinner meals afterward.  The whole package?  A cool four grand per person, easy, double occupancy.

He took a quick, hot shower and changed into a cotton dress shirt, grey worsted slacks, and black over-the-calf socks and tassel loafers.  He filled his pockets with his wallet, loose change, and pass card, and slipped a black alligator belt through the loops at his waist and settled everything as he hitched his slacks above his hips.  He studied himself in the full-length mirror near the stateroom door. His stomach was flat, and his 175 pounds well-proportioned from shoulders to feet. His brown hair showed prominent grey at the temples, but his skin was bronzed and tight from the daily exposure to the sun, wind, and salt air, and his regular exercise routines at the gym, both on shore and at sea.  Yeah, he had fallen off his schedule while they were in Freeport.  But he would start again today, and keep with it until he lost that extra two pounds he had seen on the scale when he weighed himself yesterday morning.

As he reached for his cell phone it began to vibrate and jangle in his hand.  He looked at the bright-lit LCD screen and saw an emergency code.  What; at three a.m.?  He punched five numbers  and put the receiver to his ear.  In moment the connection was made, and he recognized Andy Ferguson’s deep nasal baritone.

JL.  That you?

Yeah, it’s me.  Jesus, Andy.  What the hell are we doing up?

Working, the both of us.  You better get down here quick.

Why?  What happened?

Someone just got himself dead in the casino.  In the men’s room.

Don’t tell me.  Some old buzzard with a bad heart and too much to drink.

I wish.  We got blood down here, JL.  Lots of it.  And a head wound, Doc says, and -- wait a minute.  You sound good.  What the hell are you doing up?

I couldn’t sleep. 

Yeah, well; don’t worry about it.  Ain’t none of us going to be sleeping until tonight.

JR squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, and tried to erase the dull, throbbing pain between his eyes.

A body; huh? he repeated.

Deader’n shit.

Jesus.  I’m on my way.

JL folded the two parts of the cell phone together and shoved it into his back pocket.  I’m dying, too, JL thought.  Out on my feet.  All this heavy weather and only four hours’ sleep; and I now I got this to deal with?  Jesus.

He let himself out of the stateroom and heard the door hiss and snap shut at his heels.  He walked gingerly down the starboard passageway, using the bulkhead handles to hold himself steady as he made his way forward to the bank of elevators across from Stairway B, midships.  He pressed the Down button that lit white with his touch.  In a moment the center elevator door hissed opened, and he stepped inside and stabbed the button for Deck Two.  The instant the bell jingled and the doors opened he was out of the elevator, walking quickly along the starboard corridor and across the Grand Atrium. 

As he passed the long row of elevators near the Jewel Lobby, he could see the backs of several crew members who had formed a broken circle around the entrance to the Solitaire Casino.  Beyond them stood the night steward and, clustered near the men’s room entrance, the safety officer, first officer, medical officer, and the staff nurse.  

JL pushed his way gently among the first row of people and nodded to a junior officer and the casino manager.  The night steward broke away from the inner group, and followed JL past the adjoining rows of slot machines and the roulette table.

How you making it, Rus? JL asked.

Russell Waggoner stopped, and held JL’s shoulder in one hand.

"We got problems, JL; A lot of problems."

Russell Wagoner’s eyes were flecked in red, and his mop of greying, straw-colored hair fell toward his eyes as he spoke. 

Talk to me, said JL, quietly.

Russell Wagoner swept his hair back and onto the top of his head to cover the bald spot. 

There’s a dead guy inside, JL.  And nothing like they told us to expect.

Come on, Rus, said JL, trying to be helpful.  We get dead guys and women on board two, three times a year.  What’s the big deal?

"This ain’t no 80-year-old geezer with a bad pump room; or some old gal with five kinds of pills and too many drinks in her.  This guy is dead dead." 

What happened?

You tell me.

As they passed the Caribbean Stud table, the security officer, Burt Hill, broke away from the nurse.

Hey, JL, he said.

What do you have for me, Burt?  Jesus; you look terrible.

Burt Hill was pale, and he handed JL a blue-trimmed passenger identity card. 

This is all we got, so far.

JL held the plastic card slant-wise under the overhead light to cut the glare, and read: Diamond-Darling, Caribbean Cruise Lines, 3028.  Passenger.  Emb: Miami, 4/18.  Dis: Miami, 4/24.  Name: Krawley, David F.  Nationality: USA.  #2105904001. 

Above the passenger number was a bar code, and a washed-out photo of Krawley, David F., with a thin silvery beard who looked to be in his mid-50's.

Who is this guy, Burt?

It’s screwy, said Burt Hill.  SOC.  Took all his meals in his room.  We’re checking now; but it looks like we got no shows, no movies, no port tours, no nothing on board.

No extra charges?

Couple of drinks, is all.  Spent every hour in the casino since we put to sea.  We’re checking for a travel agent; but shit.  It’s three o’clock in the morning.

What’s a guy like this paying for a single occupancy cabin? asked JL, his brows furrowing.  Is he gay, a widower; what?

He’s dead. 

Burt Hill wiped the strands of grey hair off his forehead, where they were plastered against his skin by the sweat that beaded around them.

Thanks, Burt.  Big help.

"What are you bitching at me for?  I didn’t kill him."

JL smiled. 

How do we know that?

Cute, JL.  Cute.

At the alcove leading to the men’s room there was a line of stanchions and a ring of thick blue velvet rope being used as a cordon.  Burt stopped, looking around nervously, and let JL walk the last steps by himself.

Burt; where’s the yellow tape, for Christ sake?  We got a crime scene here.

We never did anything like this before, JL.  When someone dies it’s usually an old-timer, and we just --

It’s in the manual, Burt.

Yeah, well; screw the manual.

Get the yellow tape, Burt.  Now.

Yeah; sure, he said, turning quickly to go.

And Burt.

Yeah.

Not the ‘Caution: Police Line’ tape; the ‘Renovations; Excuse Our Dust’ tape.  Got it?  Let’s not scare the passengers.

Huh?  Sure.  Got it.

As he passed the cordon, JL’s footfalls echoed against the marble floor and walls.  He turned right at the end of the short hallway and entered the men’s room.  The air was cool, inviting, and lightly fragrant from several potpourri set at intervals among the four wash basins along the marble countertop to his left.  Around him the mirrors reflected the offset lights, and his steps were muffled by a blue-diamond-patterned runner that spanned the length of the room and matched the elegant blue swirl wallpaper.  To his right, in front of the last stall with its polished metal door, lay a white shroud and profile of a body underneath.   JL heard footsteps behind him.  He looked at the mirror to his left and saw the medical officer’s reflection.

Hey, Doc.

Alvin C. Comstock, MD, wore his dress uniform, the slacks sharp at the creases below a French blue cutaway jacket.  His bow tie was etched against his spotless white cotton shirt, and his epaulets -- three silver stripes, diamond symbol, and silver circle at the tip on an indigo background -- lay official and commanding against his shoulders.

Marker, said Dr. Comstock.

The name was both greeting and acknowledgment of their status, the doctor’s of which, his tone announced, was superior.

What happened? asked JL.

Dr. Comstock stooped and lifted the white cloth with both hands, and raised it for JL to see the body’s face and upper torso.  There were contusions around the left eye and jaw, and blood caked at the back of the corpse’s head.  A broken circle of thick carmine goo had spread around the dead man’s neck and left shoulder. 

Blunt instrument trauma, said Dr. Comstock, lowering the cloth. 

What happened to his face?

He was beaten.

With what?

Dr. Comstock lowered the shroud, and stood up.

The Captain has my preliminary report.

I’m supposed to get all the reports first.

You weren’t here.

Neither was the Captain.  JL looked around.  Any ‘blunt instruments’ in the area?

Not that anybody’s seen.

Is anybody looking?

Dr. Comstock straightened his jacket around his waist. 

You’re the security expert.  That’s your job.  I’m a doctor.

Okay, doctor.  How long has he been dead?

That’s difficult to say.

Guess.

Dr. Comstock raised one eyebrow. 

An hour.  Maybe longer.

JL checked his watch. 

So.  Between one and two o’clock.  How come it took this long for someone to find him?

Silence.

Yeah, okay.  You’re only a doctor; right?

Dr. Comstock smiled, with no humor in it.

Could he have fallen backward and hit his head?

Of course; he could have.  Dr. Comstock brushed invisible dust from his left thigh, where the crease was razor-sharp.  But he didn’t.  

You’re sure?

I’m not a pathologist or a forensics expert, if that’s what you’re asking.

I’m asking for your best opinion.  Doctor.

I already told you.

Then I guess we got a blunt instrument trauma.  Thanks.

You’re welcome.

Dr. Comstock walked quickly past JL, turned left at the alcove, and was gone.

Chapter Two

Ten minutes later JL was seated at a table in the captain’s conference room with three men in chairs beside him.  At the center of the table was a metal coffee thermos with interlocking blue D’s on its side, a French blue creamer, sugar tray, and four silver mugs with interlocking blue D’s at the rim across from their handles, and spoons and napkins.  Feeling the other men’s eyes on him, JL poured a steaming mugful of coffee, added two packets of sugar, stirred everything, and blew across the coffee’s surface.  He drank an ounce, swallowed, enjoyed the taste, and asked;

So.  Tell me about Mr. Krawley, David F.

Ronald Fox, the first officer, had a wide mustache flecked with grey, thinning hair that he wore parted sharply to the right, and a harried look that had etched his mouth into a permanent, moderate scowl. 

I got the passenger manifest right here, he said, handing several papers to JL.

That’s it?

That’s all I have.

JL looked at the other men.

Would somebody please talk to me?  People don’t get dead like this for no reason.  And where’s Burt?

Throwing up, said Bobby Lee Culpepper, the safety officer, in his creamy, Arkansas twang.  A wry smile deepened the lines that covered his face, and gave him a pronounced aged look that belied his 39 years.  He’s in the head.

That’s nice, said JL, sipping his coffee.  Is he seasick?

Maybe, said Bobby Lee.  But he looked just plain sick to me.

Yeah, well; he’s the security officer.  Somebody better go get him or the Captain’s going to be pissed.

He’s already pissed.

Don’t I know it, said JL.

How many times has he written you up? asked Bobby Lee.

JL shrugged, and sipped his coffee. 

What is it with you and the Captain? asked Ronald Fox, the first officer.  Hemorrhoids?  The both of you?

JL chuckled. 

I don’t know.  There’s some people, you meet them for five minutes and you hate them for years.  That’s me and Roddenberry; all over. 

If you wore the blues, JL, he might get off your back, Bobby Lee offered.

"I don’t like the blues."

It’s the staff uniform.

That’s fine, for the staff.  I’m the security consultant.  I’m supposed to blend with the tourists.

Not the way the Captain sees it.  We all work for him.

My contract is directly with Corporate, JL retorted.  He didn’t hire me and he can’t fire me.  Besides; how the hell can I do my job if I walk around looking like a blue penguin?  People would see me coming a mile away.

Is that what we look like?  Blue penguins?

Bobby Lee; you look like a movie star. 

Burt’ll be along directly, said Frank Segano, the night steward, trying to be helpful.

He better, said JL.  "So, help me out here.  We have to have something on this guy.  Let’s start with the basics.  Who found him?"

Fred Morgan.  I think, said Frank.

Good.  Casino manager, said JL, with feigned enthusiasm.  We’re onto something important.  Man died in the casino and the casino manager finds him.  Where is he?

The dead guy?  Still in the head.

No, no, no, said JL.  Morgan.  Where is he?

Asleep.

What do you mean, asleep?

It’s no big deal, Bobby Lee explained.  Fred did a report, and said he was going to bed.  He’s on tomorrow morning, early; and he wanted to get some sleep.

What about the rest of us? asked JL.

What about us?

Shouldn’t we be getting some sleep, too?

Sure.  If it wasn’t for --

"But we’re not asleep.  We’re wide awake, at three in the goddamn morning, said JL, his anger rising.  The whole security team is supposed to be here for something like this.  Especially the guy who found the dead guy.  And where’s Morgan’s report?"

Bobby Lee held up his hands in surrender.

JL, don’t yell at me.

I’m not yelling at anybody.  The moment we leave here, you go tell Freddie I want his report on my desk by 10:00, or it’s his ass.

I’ll tell him.  But not like that.  He’s senior staff.

So?

He outranks you.

Bullshit.  During a murder investigation I outrank everybody.  Even the Captain.

That’s still no way to talk to him.

That’s exactly the way I want you to talk to him, or --

Or it’s my ass, too, if you don’t have the report by 10:00.

Thank you.

Bobby Lee gave JL a small salute. 

Yes sir.

Oh, bullshit. JL smiled, and slapped him on the shoulder.  You’re a good man, Bobby.  You just tell him; okay?  Now; what do we know about this dead guy?

I got a little bit, said Frank Segano.

Shoot, said JL.

Fred says this Krawley guy spent all his time in the casino.  Blackjack, and video poker.  That’s it.  No slots.  No Pai Gow Poker.  No Caribbean Stud.  No roulette.  No craps.

Is that important?

Fred says that anything but video poker and blackjack is what they call a ‘carney game.’

Meaning?

Meaning, carnival game; and big money for the house.  The smart players never go near them.

So this guy knows his gambling.  How does that help us?

I have no idea.  Ask Fred.  Maybe he can tell you something.

I will.  What else? 

This Krawley guy had no friends, male of female.  Never saw a movie, never went to the restaurants, never went ashore.

That’s what Burt told me, JL murmured.

Yup; nothing but the casino, Frank Segano continued.  Ate breakfast and dinner in his room, and did his own laundry.  Never even went to the buffet.  Man was a robot.  Very private.

And that’s it? asked JL, hoping for more information.

Frank Segano shrugged, and his epaulets, showing two thin silver stripes with a light blue circle, raised and lowered themselves in tandem.

Somebody tell me we got this guy on tape, said JL.

Oh, we got him on tape, all right, answered Ronald Fox.  Next to his clipboard was a small cardboard box.  He opened it, and set three plastic VHS magazines side-by-side-by-side on the table.  We got him all over the ship.

Bingo, said JL. 

Not that he went anywhere special, added Ronald Fox.  Just in the hallways, and waiting for elevators, and in the casino.

Which is exactly where they found him: in the casino, said JL.  So, what happened.  How did he die?

I have no idea, said Ronald Fox.  Burt could tell you better. 

I don’t want to hear this, JL sputtered, his irritation barely contained.  Gentlemen: where - the - hell - is - Burt?

Will you just chill-out? said Ronald Fox.  We all know  what Roddenberry’s going to be like the moment he steps into the room.  Okay; fine.  But don’t take it out on us.

JL’s voice softened. 

You’re right.  I’m sorry.

Ronald Fox was perplexed at the quick retreat.  But it sounded sincere. 

Do you mean it?

JL raised both hands, palms out. 

Yeah, I mean it.  I’ll behave myself.  Okay?

Fine by me, said Ronald Fox, as he looked around the table, and the tension in the room dissipated.  

The other men nodded, in agreement.

So, continued JL, What am I missing here?

I was trying to tell you, said Ronald Fox, mollified, but still wanting to emphasize his point.  The only place we don’t have an eye-in-the-sky on this-here ship is the heads.  Privacy; remember?  Against company policy and the Geneva Convention, or some goddamn thing?  We can’t tape no bathroom activities.  And the cameras aren’t that good around the casino bathroom entrance, either.

How do you mean? asked JL.

The angles are bad, Ronald Fox continued.  "And the way they have the ceiling design and that big entrance set