Pirate Alley: A Novel Read Online Free Page A

the horizon. Soon.
    *   *   *
    Suzanne’s husband was dead and Irene wished hers were, so they escaped Denver four times a year by going on ocean cruises. This late-autumn cruise from Istanbul to Doha was their thirteenth. Everyone they met on the Sultan tried to think up something witty to say when that number came up in conversation. Actually, comparing numbers of cruises was a popular topic of conversation among the passengers, most of whom, if they were to be believed, spent a significant portion of their lives leisurely sailing from port to port, seeing the planet on a floating luxury hotel.
    “I’ve gained four pounds already,” Irene remarked to her sister as they surveyed the choices on the breakfast buffet.
    “The ship’s paper says Denver is getting an early winter storm,” Suzanne remarked, because she didn’t want to discuss her weight, which was ten pounds more than Irene’s. After all, the price of the cruise was all-inclusive, so the gourmet food was already paid for; why not eat it? Indeed, so were the drinks. After loading her plate with eggs Benedict, extra ham, a few potatoes, a slice of tomato and just a taste of smoked salmon, Suzanne helped herself to a Mimosa—after all, a little champagne with the orange juice wouldn’t hurt much, would it?—and followed Irene across the dining room to a door that led to the porch overlooking the wake. The table they normally sat at for breakfast was empty, so they seated themselves. The waiter came over immediately, and Irene ordered coffee.
    “Oooh,” whispered Irene, staring back through the window at the buffet line, “there’s Warren Bass and his new trophy wife.”
    Suzanne eyed the skinny fifty-something babe with obviously fake tits who came in with Bass. He was, Suzanne knew, a Texas oil mogul. Rumor had it the woman with him was his fourth or fifth wife. Her name was Theodolinda, and she said everyone called her “Dol.” Bass was in his mid-seventies, with a full mane of gray hair, which he brushed straight back. He sported a matching mustache in a tanned, lined face. His hair stood up in the back, giving him a comb that reminded Suzanne of a woodpecker.
    “She’s had some plastic surgery,” Irene said, scrutinizing Dol Bass, who was helping herself to one little spoonful of scrambled eggs.
    “Liposuction, too, probably.”
    “I watched her at dinner last night. She didn’t eat four bites.”
    “One of those, eh?”
    “A gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do.”
    “You need a set of tits like that,” Suzanne remarked.
    “Right.”
    “I’m thinking of getting a set when I get home,” Suzanne continued. “My Christmas present to myself. D’s, I think.”
    “Look, there’s Atomic Man.” Sure enough, Mohammed Atom, accent on the first vowel, came strolling into the lounge. He was wearing a blue blazer, a shirt and tie, gray trousers with a knife-edge crease and polished loafers. “He’s from somewhere in Africa, I think. Stole a pile of money from the starving masses and now rides around enjoying it.”
    After Atom had seated himself several chairs away on the porch and ordered coffee, the sisters saw Mike Rosen working his way through the breakfast line. He was about five feet nine inches tall, reasonably thin and relatively good-looking. An economist by trade, he held forth on a Denver talk radio station for three hours every morning. He sat down at the table between Irene and Suzanne and the Basses. Irene heard him order coffee from the waiter.
    Suzanne looked at her watch. “Thirty seconds … a minute … ninety seconds…”
    Just before the second hand showed two minutes, Nora Neidlinger and her daughter, Juliet, came out of the dining room, looked around and zeroed in on the talk-show host. They brought their plates over, and he stood and graciously invited them to join him.
    The daughter was addicted to hats with wide brims, which she liked to shape so that the brim hid half her face. Her long brown hair