Chapter Five
Javier woke up suddenly, like he usually did, his eyes springing open and his lungs filling with air. It took him a few seconds longer than usual to place himself – in Perez's cabin on the Mariposa. He had laid back down again after the Captain left, and apparently fallen asleep. Judging from the electronic clock on the wall, he'd slept for several hours.
Pushing himself up, he realized he wasn't as weak or woozy as before; the long nap had done him good. (He would have thought that being unconscious for four days would have been the same as sleeping; apparently not.) He glanced over at the table to see if the rest of his so-called breakfast was still edible – and gasped, eyes flying wide. The breakfast was gone, replaced by a dry-looking sandwich on another plate – and stacked beside it were his phone, wallet, and ring. He grabbed the ring and put it back on his hand where it belonged, clenching his fist for a moment as though it were in danger of being snatched off again right then and there. Then he inspected his wallet; it seemed intact. He had a couple hundred dollars cash, one remaining valid credit card, various other cards, now mostly useless, and a South Carolina driver's license, all in his real name. He didn't habitually carry things on himself with other names, against just such a situation as this. The phone was dead; he'd have to find a charger.
And a key for that door. The idea of people wandering in and out while he slept was unsettling, to say the least. He hadn't thought of shooting the bolt after the Captain left, but he'd certainly start keeping it locked now – right now. Pulling himself carefully upright, he stepped over to the door and turned the lock, hearing it hit home with a satisfying click. Better late than never, he thought.
Javier had realized almost without thinking about it that there was literally nothing he could do about the brute fact of his being on the ship, at least for now. All he could do was try to make the best of it, until they reached port. Looks like I'm a cook again. Well. First order of business is to get cleaned up.
He took a step to the toilet and used it, then opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and found a full bottle of mouthwash. Using it several times, he made a mental note to add toothbrush and hairbrush to the key – those were two things he was NOT going to borrow from Perez. Then he stepped the other way and opened what he thought was a tall square closet in the far corner, finding instead a tiny shower stall, towel hanging on a rack on the front of the door. Well, that's better. He'd thought he was going to have to use a communal shower room, something he'd never been comfortable doing, even alone. He reached in and checked out the toiletries; they wouldn't have been his first choice, but they'd do. The clothes must be in the other locker at the end of the bed. They were. He found a dozen casual shirts, all of which would fit him well enough, and in styles he was not uncomfortable wearing. The four pairs of pants hanging beside, all in dark colors, would also fit, more or less – at least they'd do until he could find others. And on close inspection, he found they were all clean, even to a sniff test. Perez was apparently a nonsmoker, too. Had been.
And then, wonder of wonders, on the raised floor of the closet he spied a plastic bin, filled with all sorts of bandages and first aid stuff – everything he'd need to change his stinking, dirty, used dressings. "Thank you," he said aloud at whoever had left them. "I was afraid I'd have go looking."
Socks and underwear were in drawers below the closet, and a couple of pairs of shoes – but these last were too small, just. At least his own sneakers on the floor were still wearable. He still felt squeamish about wearing all these things, borrowed from the owner without permission – he didn't even want to think about that owner possibly being dead. I'll make it up somehow, if I ever run into him again.
He made a small stack of clean clothes to change into on the bed (making a mental note to change the bedding first chance, too), then turned again to the mirror hanging over the sink, peering closely at the bandage around his head. It definitely needed removal and replacement. So did the one around his middle. Carefully unwinding the wraps, and then using the bandage scissors in the bin, he got them both down to what had become stuck to the large forming scabs. "Let's just see what soaks off in the shower," he told his reflection, who agreed to the plan.
He left the remains of his own clothes – all ruined now from blood, dirt, oil, and rips – in a pile on the floor to deal with later, and stepped into the tiny shower. Even though he turned the water off whenever he could, he still probably used four times as much as allowed; but the water apparently wasn't metered and did not get shut off. Neither wound was completely healed – the side even less so than the scalp – so he didn't try to remove the last bits of bandage or scabs, but carefully – and very painfully – washed around them. Bending over was tough, not just because of the limited space; he was certain at least one rib had been damaged. Nor was there an exit wound: unlike the scrape along his scalp, he must still be packing that bullet.
Whatever. He did seem to be healing, even if more slowly than he might have liked. It had only been four days, after all. And as the Captain hadn't mentioned a doctor on board – not that Javier liked going to them, anyway, they asked too many questions – he'd just continue taking care of himself and being careful.
New clean bandages around head and torso did wonders for his outlook, as did simply being clean. He found a very wide, very long ace bandage and wrapped his middle up as tightly as he could stand, in mind of the bruised or broken rib, and felt almost human again afterwards, especially when he pulled on clean clothes from his unwitting benefactor. The shirt fit well, and the pants were only a couple of inches too short for his taste. They'd do.
Time to get to work. Kicking the pile of ruined, filthy clothes to a corner for now, Javier glanced around to make sure he was leaving the room decently tidy, and cautiously opened the door.
He found himself at one end of a hallway with doors on both sides. To his right, at this end of the hall, was another door with a window inset, revealing a stairway. No noise came from anywhere along the hall. He turned left, glancing at his own door as he closed it (reminding himself again to get a key) and taking in the empty name plate underneath one marked "Chief Cook". The next few doors on the same side held similar name plates for various officers, while the doors opposite – more widely spaced – showed two or four names of crew members.
Javier realized nothing was on this deck but crew quarters, returned, and went through the door to the stairway. Up or down? No clues either way, so he simply decided to go up. On the next floor, he found he had guessed right. This one held various communal rooms and offices on the left, and on the right, the first door led straight into the kitchen.
Entering and closing the door behind him, Javier found himself under the surprised gaze of an average-sized Asian man in his thirties, who was standing on the far side of a center work island, peeling potatoes. Without warning, Javier was swamped by a wave of irritation at his impossible, ludicrous situation. "I'm a professional chef," he informed the man, adding with tired fury: "Get the fuck out of my way."
He stalked over to the sink, grabbing a clean chef's apron off the hook on the wall and proceeding to wash his hands without another word. Drying them on the apron, he turned and found the man still gaping after him in astonishment. Before he could snap again, the man asked in somewhat broken English, "You cook? Like Perez?"
"Yeah. I am."
The man barked a laugh, then pointed at himself with the potato peeler. "I'm steward. My job help you." He made a face at the potato in his hand. "But I can't cook," he admitted with a rueful shake of his head.
Javier snorted, remembering the awful meals that had turned up in his room already. "No shit," he replied sourly. Instantly contrite when the man's expression turned slightly hurt, he apologized. "Sorry. I'm cranky," he explained, pointing to the bandage on his head.
This netted him another happy laugh, evidently forgiven. Glancing at the potatoes on the counter already peeled and turning brown, he looked quickly for a large pot and began filling it with cold water in the sink. While the water was rising, he turned back. "I'm Javier," he introduced himself.
"Jiho. Kim Jiho."
"Kim Jiho..." Javier murmured. "That's Korean, right?"
"Ye. South Korea." Which meant that Kim was his family name, Javier knew.
"I don't know any Korean, sorry. Habla Español?"
Jiho shook his head. "A little English."
"Good enough." By that time there was enough water in the pot to cover the potatoes, and Javier swung it around to the counter, grunting at the unexpected strain on his side. He explained to Jiho that the cold water would keep them from turning brown, and helped him put the peeled ones inside.
"Okay." Javier nodded at the clock on the wall. "What time is the next meal?"
"Five thirty, six thirty. Two shifts."
It was now just past four. Javier nodded. "An hour and half till the first shift. How many people on board?"
Jiho had to think for a second for the numbers. "Twenty-eight. Half each shift."
"Including us?"
"Ye." Korean for 'yes'.
"When do we eat?"
"After second shift served."
"Okay." He thought a second, then pointed at the potatoes. "Twenty-eight," he directed Jiho. "One each."
Jiho nodded, grinning hugely, and went back to peeling. Javier turned away and grabbed the rolling cart nearby, headed towards cooler and dry storage doors. "Let's see what we can do," he commented to himself. Before he reached the first door, Jiho was whistling a jaunty tune. Javier glanced back. "Cheerful little fucker," he said wryly. But he was smiling in spite of himself.
He didn't bother with the freezer – no time to thaw anything big enough to feed twenty-eight – and a glance in the cooler didn't reveal anything promising, so he went into the dry storage, spotting a five-pound canned ham in no time. "That'll do!" Half a dozen large onions joined the ham on the cart. Then Javier spotted a familiar plastic bottle with a large red screw top and grinned broadly as he picked it off the top shelf. He was right: Goya Adobo seasoning. "Come here, you beautiful thing!" he crooned, unscrewing the top and sniffing to make sure it was still reasonably fresh. On his way out, he grabbed two loaves of sliced bread.
Back in the cooler, a large brick of butter, two industrial-size flats of eggs (six by six), and a bag of eighteen red tomatoes, which although miraculously still fresh looked like they were ready to mutiny come morning, rounded out his selections and he wheeled the cart back to the island.
Jiho saw the contents and gave Javier a puzzled look. "Eggs for dinner?"
"They cook fast," he explained, "and the canned ham is fully cooked too. Dinner will be on time."
Jiho was almost finished peeling. Javier grabbed another large pot and filled it with hot tap water this time, putting it on the stove to heat and liberally salting the water. A stack of large metal bowls were moved to the island, and he laid two out for the potatoes, filling each halfway with cold water first, then catching Jiho's eye and pointing to each in turn: "Five-thirty meal. Six-thirty meal." Then he grabbed a knife off the rack, quickly honed it, and showed Jiho how he wanted the potatoes prepped: two cuts lengthwise into quarters, then sliced medium thick. Jiho nodded and got to slicing, putting each cut-up spud into alternate bowls. Javier turned his attention to the onions, dicing them quickly and dividing them likewise. Then he opened the canned ham, washed off the jelly, cut it in halves, and diced each half into separate bowls as well.
By the time the cutting was done, the water was boiling. He took one bowl of sliced potatoes, poured the cold water off into the sink, and added them carefully to the pot to parboil, then had Jiho put the three bowls for the second shift in the cooler. He fired up the big flat-top grill to start heating, and put a very large scoop of butter in a saucepan on top to melt. The two men, sharpening their knives again, sliced all the tomatoes carefully and put them in another bowl.
"What about drinks?" Javier suddenly remembered.
Jiho grinned again, pointing out the serving window to large dispensers at the side of the dining room. "Coffee, soda, milk, water." He glanced at the clock. "I start coffee now," and went to do just that.
The potatoes were half-cooked, just as Javier wanted, and he carefully poured the pot over a huge strainer on the sink to drain the water off. A squeeze bottle by the grill held cooking oil, and Javier made a large puddle in the grill's center, then added a large scoop of butter. "Oil keeps the butter from burning; butter makes the oil taste good," he explained to a curious Jiho, who had returned, and the steward grinned. Two chef's tips already. Butter melted, potatoes drained; Javier dumped the spuds onto the grill, added the onions and the ham, and started stir-frying them all together, adding a generous sprinkle of the Adobo over it all. He started Jiho toasting the bread, two slices each, and brushing each slice with the melted butter.
Glancing at the clock, Javier saw it was just a few minutes to show time and grinned to himself. Perfect. The hash was brown and crispy; he lowered the heat on one side of the grill to just warm and piled the hash on that side. He had Jiho arrange plates, toast, and tomatoes on the prep counter just to the right of the grill, and showed him with the first plate how he wanted those items arranged, then the plate handed to him to finish.
Two minutes to go. Javier started breaking eggs in pairs down the hot side of the grill, ticking off fifteen seconds in between each pair. Just as the outer door opened, admitting the first of the crew to the dining area on the other side of the serving window above the grill, he flipped the first pair of eggs, grabbed the first prepared plate, scooped a large mound of hash with his spatula and put it on the plate, added the pair of eggs on top, and handed it out the window with a smile to a very surprised Captain Frontera. Without a word, he flipped the next pair of eggs, broke two new ones in the now empty spot, and grabbed the next plate from Jiho.
He was in such a rhythm that Jiho surprised him when he stopped Javier from breaking two more eggs. "That's all for this shift," he said, and indeed, the last three men were in line. Javier had miscalculated the hash only slightly; two spatulafuls went into a bowl for later use.
A short time later, Jiho, coming out of the cooler with the next batch of sliced potatoes, spotted the Captain standing outside the serving window, arms crossed, watching Javier rinse plates. Jiho whistled to get Javier's attention and pointed with his chin, making Javier swivel around to see. Frontera looked at Javier silently a moment, then nodded.
"Okay," he said simply. "You've got the job." Then he turned and walked out.
One of Javier's cheeks crinkled into his trademark half-smile, which he turned on Jiho, who grinned back broadly. That made Javier laugh aloud, and he went back to dishes feeling almost satisfied.