The sun beat down on the East River like a sledgehammer. Captain Ken Conner, known as ‘Party Ken’ in some circles, steered his ramshackle boat into the shady lee of Wards Island, separating Manhattan, the Bronx, and Queens. Old Man Watkins was at his side, dressed as the Statue of Liberty—as he did every day. Half a dozen other boats busied themselves in the distance, casting lines, hoping for a day’s catch.
“Watkins, start the music and collect the fares. Let’s get going,” Ken said.
“We have Japanese businessmen on board today. They don’t speak a word of English, so let’s try to squeeze a few extra dollars out of them. Hey!”
“Aye aye, Captain,” said Watkins.
He punched play on the battered CD player, and the cackling speakers kicked into gear with the opening bars of Frank Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York.’ Ken grabbed his microphone and addressed the passengers while the boat chugged along the East River.
“Smart money’s on a good haul today. Get your rods and your wallets out ready.”
The Japanese businessmen looked confused, listening to Ken’s garbled English. They were too busy working off hangovers from an excessive night of sake. So they started dipping into the beer cooler instead. Most were dressed in overpriced tourist knockoffs with American flags and Mickey Mouse hats. That kinda thing. Old Man Watkins walked across the deck, tipping his overflowing bucket of chum over the side, hat in hand, wanting to take his payments. It was just another day on Ken’s party boat, where Ken’s permit could only afford him the less glamorous sights of New York.
“To the left of us, you can see the Wards Island Sewage Treatment Plant. It treats sewage for over 1 million people in Manhattan and the Bronx. The plant uses a variety of treatment methods to remove pollutants from the wastewater. So don’t eat the fish if you catch any. Heck, you can’t understand a word I say—anyway!”
A prominent, big dollar Japanese businessman with the full garb of ‘I love New York’ tipped a wedge of notes in Old Man Watkins’s hat. “Statue of Liberty come?”
Old Man Watkins had a twinkle in his eye. “Statue of Liberty come later.”
The Japanese man nodded, adding more notes, as the song ‘New York, New York’ got stuck on an infinite loop. Ken noticed the undulating water growing in tension.
“Current’s running strong by the plant outflow. Should have the fish pooling in this baby!”
He rapped the microphone on the wall of his wheelhouse, trying to get the old piece of junk to work. Feedback squealed through the speakers every time he spoke.
“Rods in the water, try not to scare ‘em off before we can reel ‘em in. Damn this damn piece of crap!”
A sudden shout from Ken’s boat shattered the Japanese banter. Japanese eyes snapped to the sewage plant, where an unusual disturbance churned the once-tranquil river into a chaotic vortex. A dark shape swelled beneath the surface. The Japanese tourists fell silent, their fishing rods forgotten as they stared in bewilderment. The river, moments ago peaceful, was now alive with violent ripples and unnatural turbulence. Then a machine broke the surface. Its conning tower followed, piercing skyward like a black spear, dripping water. All thoughts of leisurely fishing evaporated in an instant. The river wasn’t theirs anymore. It belonged to this dark intruder. Unnoticed, unseen eyes watched them. Ken grabbed his binoculars from the cluttered drawer in the wheelhouse, fumbling slightly in his haste. He raised them to his eyes, but the sight only deepened his unease. Whatever this thing was, it didn’t belong here.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
Handing the binoculars to Old Man Watkins, who had joined him in the wheelhouse. Watkins adjusted his focus, perplexed by the rising machine.
“What the fuck, a submarine? Submarines don’t come through the East River? She’s flying no flag I recognise. And she’s heading this way—fast. Best we give her a wide berth, Ken.”
“Watkins…there’s no time. Hold on!”
The boat rocked violently in the submarine’s sphere of bouncy influence. The tourists clung to the railings for dear life. Before Ken could swing his boat around, the scuttle hatch at the top of the submarine screeched open, as dark men filed onto the transfer ramp. Moving like gazelles dressed in black maritime operational combat dress uniforms, they leaped the gunwales of Ken’s boat.
“This American entertainment, like Hollywood action movie,” one tourist said in Japanese.
The big-dollar tourist said. “Yes, we are on movie set.”
He started clapping and snapping pictures with his phone. The other tourists did the same, getting a great parting shot of the submarine’s hatch closing and submerging, leaving no trace of its presence. The Bloodies posed for a snap-shot, with Asp stepping towards them with a Maxim 9 pistol.
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“Sayonara, baby.”
Ken and Old Man Watkins knew this was no movie set. These were real adversaries—on their fucking boat. There would be no safe passage or a good catch for these tourists onboard. Aiming fire, the Bloodies decimated the party, square in the foreheads with silenced pistols. Old Man Watkins had no chance. He was hit plumb in the chops when a bullet smashed through the glass of the wheelhouse. Party Ken ducked just in time, shaking on the wooden floor. Asp and Dante surveyed the dead eyes over the creaking planks.
“Sayonara baby?”
Dante remarked while grabbing a beer from the beer cooler.
“I wanted to say Hasta la vista, baby. Throw me a beer. Search the boat for any loose ends.”
The Bloodies stepped over the bodies, checking the galley with their silenced pistols drawn. Dante checked the toilet; seeing it was empty, he ascended the steps to the wheelhouse where Ken was waiting with a flare gun. Ken fired, only for it to whizz past Dante’s head, splattering the portable speaker, putting Frank Sinatra’s infinite time loop to bed.
“I’m afraid old Frankie boy’s time has come. Same for you if you fuck with me!”
Ken flared his gun again; only Dante was too quick for him; twisting his wrist with such force, Ken felt like his arm was going to snap. A quick one, two and Ken was crumpled on the floor beside Old Man Watkins. With the shadow of Dante’s gun slaying over him.
“Spare me,” Ken begged. “I will do anything you want?”
“This could be your lucky day sailor, we could use a boat captain.”
Dante grabbed Ken by the arm and dragged him out of the wheelhouse.
“Let’s go. You’ve got work to do!”
When Dante shoved Ken in front of Asp, Asp read his white t-shirt that said 'Captain Ken’s Party Boat' on it in a nice glamorous font.
“I have found a loose straggler,” Dante said. “What do you think?”
“Captain Ken, get on your knees. If you follow my instructions, you will live.”
Asp pressed the steel barrel of the pistol against Ken’s forehead. “You know Chelsea Piers?”
“I’m Captain Ken. The head honcho when it comes to New York tours—of course!”
“You will take us there. We will be your boat party. If you are unsuccessful, I will slaughter everyone and everything you’ve ever loved.”
Ken swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Hey, this is my party boat. You’re my guests. This is what I do.”
Asp removed the gun from Ken’s forehead. “Then go and do it.”
Asp’s tall, muscular frame confronted the Bloodies with predatory undertones. “Strip the tourists and throw them over the side. Today we will be Japanese tourists.”
“What about old Statue of Liberty up there in the wheelhouse?”
“Well, you know Dante, if the hat fits, you look about the right fit.”
“Why do I always get the rough end of the deal, Asp?”
“Just go and get him,” Asp ordered.
When Dante returned to the wheelhouse, Ken found the pistol being waved at him again as he was turning the boat around. In the same breath. Old Man Watkins, bobbing head, was being hauled down the steps like a sack of potatoes. Disconcertingly, Ken watched the forgotten souls of his former tourists being malignantly discarded over the side of his boat into the East River. With Old Man Watkins—going in last. Captain Ken kept his eyes on the horizon, sweating profusely. With Dante, dressed outlandishly as the Statue of Liberty, for company, tucking into a tin of sardines.
“Don’t even think of touching the radio to call the Coast Guard!”
On the whole, the journey passed uneventfully. The skyscrapers of Manhattan loomed in the distance. The Bloodies pretended to fish; waving at other fishing boats, playing the part of jovial na?ve tourists, until Chelsea Piers’s colossal steel and concrete structure dominated the landscape. Ships and boats of all sizes, from small pleasure crafts to massive cruise liners docked. Ken guided them in securing the boat to Pier 62 with the help of a burly dockworker with a thick New York accent. Checking his watch, Asp gave the go-ahead for the Bloodies to go. “Thank you, Captain. We’ve had an amazing time. The heat has been murderous out there. Here’s a little token from all of us.”
Asp placed a present in Ken’s hand. A bullet with ‘Party Ken’ written in smudged blood. Waving goodbye, the Bloodies dispersed; melting into the crowd of tourists. Ken motioned to the hefty dockworker he was pals with.
“Brucie, untie me right now. I can’t take anymore today!”
“You got another boat party waiting for you on the pier, Ken?”
“I don’t care. Moor me outta here!”
“In the grand scheme of things. Your timing is pretty lousy!”
“I quit!”
“But, Ken your ‘Party Ken’. You can't quit!”
“Give the job to some other sucker!”
“Bye, Ken!”
When he was untied, Ken’s thrusters motored back to Manhattan, heading out of the East River at steady knots. Images of Old Man Watkins’s discombobulated floating body clouded his mind on his journey. Once he was clear out at sea, the red murals of Japanese blood on the decking got a thorough and vigorous hose down. When he was finished, he swigged down a full bottle of Lamb’s Navy rum, glad to be alive.
“Who were those strange men? And why did they choose my boat?” Ken said aloud, throwing the empty rum bottle into the polluted tide.
