Read Online Little Girls Lost by J. A. Kerley - Free Book Online
Authors: J. A. Kerley
Tags: Fiction
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expect you to remain confined there for two weeks. Your meals will be supplied and you will be expected to shower daily. Stand him up, Tenzel.”
With an upward swoop of a rippling arm, thebald man seemed to levitate the steward to his feet by little more than will. The steward trembled on wobbly knees.
“M-May I return to my cabin by myself, Mr Mattoon?”
Mattoon considered the request, then shook his head as if saddened by his upcoming words.
“No, Mr Valvane. I want Tenzel to accompany you.”
The steward’s eyes widened in fear. Mattoon saw the front of the steward’s pants darken with urine.
“P-Please. I can—”
“Shhhh. Go with Tenzel, Mr Valvane.”
“Please, Mr Mattoon, sir. I beg you—”
Mattoon turned his back. The steward began weeping. The bald man, his grin incandescent, led the bawling man away.
“To your stations, gentlemen,” Mattoon said to the captain and circling crew. Tenzel Atwan’s visit to Valvane’s room would result in a blinding dose of pain, but no structural damage. Mattoon glanced at their faces. He saw no anger, only acceptance of the rules. They filed away.
It had to de done. The rules of the ship were spare and easy to remember: Hard work, no thievery, no telling tales when off the ship, and absolute obedience to Mattoon. In return, the pay was quadruple the going rate, the crew quarters furnished with the comforts and amenities of a four-star hotel. The meals were preparedby a Cordon Bleu-trained chef. Prostitutes were procured in every port at ship’s expense.
Turnover was almost non-existent, lessened further in that all crewmen were fugitives from somewhere. Mattoon had bought his master steamfitter and oiler, both smugglers, out of life sentences in Rwanda for five thousand dollars each. The chef had ducked his gros bonnet out of Paris just ahead of an Interpol drug investigation. Scotland Yard wanted his communications officer for black-mail, his electrician for forgery. The only man not wanted by name was Tenzel Atwan, and only because his crimes left no accusatory fingers pointing.
Mattoon took the stairs back to the weather-deck, the main deck. It was bare of cargo, the two up-thrusting crane posts resembling vestigial masts. The decks of most container ships held hundreds of metal boxes stacked high, hundreds more in the holds. The Petite Angel , diminutive at a length of 91 meters, currently carried only sixty-seven containers, all below, all loaded in Montevideo.
Making a profit didn’t matter with the Petite Angel ; Mattoon owned a fleet of huge container ships, the rail lines of the shipping lanes, and they ran full, hard, and ceaselessly. The Petite Angel, a bulk carrier converted to containers , was Mattoon’s sole residence, a home that traversed oceans. Still, a businessman makes money, and Angel always carried freight to pay the bills. Within days hercargo would be offloaded at the Mobile docks, with the ship taking on containers for the return trip.
In addition, Mattoon would pick up one more item in Mobile—much smaller, though infinitely more valuable.
He checked his watch and a horizontal smile touched his lips. Dear would be waking up and getting ready for her day. His steps gained speed as he returned to his quarters.
Mattoon occupied the entire level beneath the bridge, the space as much museum as lodging, the gray of the ship transformed into teak walls and blood-red carpet. The main room was three-fourths of the living area, heavy maroon drapes covering the windows, four overlooking the weather-deck, two on each side of the door. Full-length mirrors with gilded baroque frames stood between the windows. Furniture held one corner, an L of couch sections facing twin chairs across a low table, leather and mahogany the dominant materials. In the opposite corner was a waist-high map cabinet with a roseate marble top.
The visual center of the room was a burled walnut desk spanning three meters in length, two in width. Though it seemed a
With an upward swoop of a rippling arm, thebald man seemed to levitate the steward to his feet by little more than will. The steward trembled on wobbly knees.
“M-May I return to my cabin by myself, Mr Mattoon?”
Mattoon considered the request, then shook his head as if saddened by his upcoming words.
“No, Mr Valvane. I want Tenzel to accompany you.”
The steward’s eyes widened in fear. Mattoon saw the front of the steward’s pants darken with urine.
“P-Please. I can—”
“Shhhh. Go with Tenzel, Mr Valvane.”
“Please, Mr Mattoon, sir. I beg you—”
Mattoon turned his back. The steward began weeping. The bald man, his grin incandescent, led the bawling man away.
“To your stations, gentlemen,” Mattoon said to the captain and circling crew. Tenzel Atwan’s visit to Valvane’s room would result in a blinding dose of pain, but no structural damage. Mattoon glanced at their faces. He saw no anger, only acceptance of the rules. They filed away.
It had to de done. The rules of the ship were spare and easy to remember: Hard work, no thievery, no telling tales when off the ship, and absolute obedience to Mattoon. In return, the pay was quadruple the going rate, the crew quarters furnished with the comforts and amenities of a four-star hotel. The meals were preparedby a Cordon Bleu-trained chef. Prostitutes were procured in every port at ship’s expense.
Turnover was almost non-existent, lessened further in that all crewmen were fugitives from somewhere. Mattoon had bought his master steamfitter and oiler, both smugglers, out of life sentences in Rwanda for five thousand dollars each. The chef had ducked his gros bonnet out of Paris just ahead of an Interpol drug investigation. Scotland Yard wanted his communications officer for black-mail, his electrician for forgery. The only man not wanted by name was Tenzel Atwan, and only because his crimes left no accusatory fingers pointing.
Mattoon took the stairs back to the weather-deck, the main deck. It was bare of cargo, the two up-thrusting crane posts resembling vestigial masts. The decks of most container ships held hundreds of metal boxes stacked high, hundreds more in the holds. The Petite Angel , diminutive at a length of 91 meters, currently carried only sixty-seven containers, all below, all loaded in Montevideo.
Making a profit didn’t matter with the Petite Angel ; Mattoon owned a fleet of huge container ships, the rail lines of the shipping lanes, and they ran full, hard, and ceaselessly. The Petite Angel, a bulk carrier converted to containers , was Mattoon’s sole residence, a home that traversed oceans. Still, a businessman makes money, and Angel always carried freight to pay the bills. Within days hercargo would be offloaded at the Mobile docks, with the ship taking on containers for the return trip.
In addition, Mattoon would pick up one more item in Mobile—much smaller, though infinitely more valuable.
He checked his watch and a horizontal smile touched his lips. Dear would be waking up and getting ready for her day. His steps gained speed as he returned to his quarters.
Mattoon occupied the entire level beneath the bridge, the space as much museum as lodging, the gray of the ship transformed into teak walls and blood-red carpet. The main room was three-fourths of the living area, heavy maroon drapes covering the windows, four overlooking the weather-deck, two on each side of the door. Full-length mirrors with gilded baroque frames stood between the windows. Furniture held one corner, an L of couch sections facing twin chairs across a low table, leather and mahogany the dominant materials. In the opposite corner was a waist-high map cabinet with a roseate marble top.
The visual center of the room was a burled walnut desk spanning three meters in length, two in width. Though it seemed a
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