82 Desire

sure. Perhaps he just thought so because that had to be what happened.
    “Walk.”
    He did what they said because Dina was on the boat and there was no way to help her unless he could get to her. Or so he believed at the time. He thought later that another attempt at loud noise might have been a better idea.
    They gagged him, tied him up, and threw him in the berth beside Dina. She had already been trussed. They stared at each other, working their eyebrows as if they were mouths, letting each other know they understood the gravity of the pickle they were in, and that each was sorry the other was involved.
    Russell could smell garlic and olive oil and something salty and pungent—capers, maybe. She had been making pasta when they arrived.
    “Fuck, yeah, I know what to do,” said one of the men. “I used to drive a boat for the big guy.”
    “What big guy?” the other one said, but there was no answer Russell could hear.
    He could hear and see movement as the one who knew what to do cast off and started the engine. They must be going to drown us, he thought, cartoon images of talking rabbits walking the plank firing inanely in his brain.
    The boat chugged for a while, and then Manny came into the room. He was pointing his gun and wearing latex gloves, two extremely ominous signs. Russell broke out in a sweat again.
    “We need you to help us.”
    Manny untied him first, and then took the gag out.
    “Come on.”
    Russell didn’t speak. Silently, he helped them drop anchor, and then, amazingly, the driver, the one who wasn’t Manny—and who was also wearing gloves—said, “Hey, let’s get the girlfriend up. I’m hungry.”
    How did those two things fit together? Russell couldn’t make it work.
    They took Russell into the stateroom and had him untie her while they watched, holding the gun. It occurred to him that maybe they planned to rape her, but he didn’t protest. The two of them had a better chance if they were both free.
    While Dina was still rubbing her wrists, Manny said, “Russell, ya hungry?”
    Russell was too stunned to say a word.
    “Hey, uh—what’s your name, baby?”
    “Beulah.”
    Russell winced, remembering that he’d bellowed her name, but they didn’t seem to care. “Hey, Beulah, rustle us up some grub, will you?” Manny elbowed his companion. “Hey, ‘rustle.’ That’s a pun, get it? Under the circumstances.”
    Russell said, “Who are you guys?”
    “I’m Manny, and this is…”
    “Jack,” said the other one.
    “Yeah. Jack.”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    They ignored him. “Beulah, what you makin’?”
    “I was making pasta puttanesca. For two.”
    “Great, great. Go to it. Russell, why don’t you whip us up a little salad?”
    Jack said, “Y’all want a drink? What can I make you?”
    What was this—a party? Puzzled, Russell shook his head.
    “Come on. Let me fix you something.”
    Dina said, “Gin and tonic.”
    Jack nodded like the perfect host. “Good choice.” He had on a white polo shirt with blue slacks. If it hadn’t been for the gold chain, he’d have been almost dapper. “Russell, you, too?”
    Russell didn’t answer. Instead, he found lettuce, cucumbers, things like that in one of the bags Dina had evidently brought over, and began making a salad. Jack tried to thrust a drink into his hand.
    “No, thank you.”
    “Ah, come on.”
    “I said no.” The last thing he needed was alcohol.
    Manny said, “Hey, Russell. You don’t talk to my buddy like that.” He grabbed Russell by the scruff of the neck and held the drink up to his lips. “Now drink.”
    Russell spat.
    “Oh, not nice. Not nice at all.”
    This time he grabbed Dina, throwing one hand across her breasts and squeezing, the other pulling her hair till tears came to her eyes. Over her shoulder, Manny stared at Russell. “Drink.”
    Russell shrugged. “Oh, well. Just to be sociable.” He took a sip and could have sworn Dina smiled at his feeble joke.
    “That’s more like it.”
    By the time he and Dina had finished making the pasta and the salad and heating some French bread, they had consumed their drinks.
    Manny and Jack watched them like nannies at a park. Manny said, “Beautiful, Beulah. My Italian mother couldn’ta done better.”
    Jack said, “Don’t let him kid you—he’s Cuban.”
    “Shut up, goddammit. Set the table, Beulah—that’s short for Beautiful, right? Russell, open us up some wine, why don’t you?”
    Dina had brought a nice Rioja, one