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on one side facing a built-in television. The couch was covered in zebra-skin fabric, the lampshades in leopard. The ersatz Serengeti decor puzzled him. At the opposite end of the salon was the pilot station, with a set of controls to steer the boat, compass, Loran. Brank led him down a couple of steps to the galley, the room done in teak with Formica countertops. He could see the neck of a champagne bottle sticking out of a silver ice bucket.
    “Champagne?” Tony Brank said. “It’s Taittinger’s.”
    “How can I refuse?” Hess said, smiling.
    Brank opened a cupboard door, reached in and brought out a flute, filled it halfway with champagne, bubbles rising to the rim of the glass, and handed it to him. He poured more in his own flute, held it up and said, “To salty dogs.”
    Hess toasted him and sipped the champagne, tasting the fruity chardonnay grapes.
    “What do you do, Emile?”
    “I’m a builder,” Hess said. “Homes. Office buildings. Whatever you need built. What about you?”
    “Erotic films,” Brank said, tracing the comb lines in his hair with his fingertips. “See Twat’s Up, Doc?
    “No, but it sounds familiar,” Hess said, no idea what he was talking about.
    “Christ, I hope so. Longest-running adult film of all time. Twelve million in domestic grosses, twenty worldwide. Orientals ate it up. No pun intended. Bought this boat with the proceeds.”
    A blonde in a nightgown walked into the galley behind Brank, yawning and rubbing her eyes. “Tony, will you keep it down? I’m trying to get some fucking sleep.” She paused, fixing puffy eyes on the Taittinger bottle. “You’re not drinking champagne, are you? What the hell time is it?”
    “Babe, say hello to Emile Landau.”
    She glanced at Hess and looked away. “I’m not saying hi to anyone the way I look.” She turned and walked out of the room, hips swaying, the looks and natural glamour of an actress or model.
    “Anything with tits or batteries,” Brank said, “eventually’s going to give you trouble. My wife, Denise. Recognize her?”
    Hess shrugged.
    Brank grinned. “Star of Deep Six.” He drank some champagne. “Helluva picture.” He scratched the hair on his chest like a caveman. “She was an auto-parts model posing in a two-piece, holding a suspended crankshaft like a big steel dick when I met her. Discovered her, really. High-school dropout from Bay City, Michigan with a body that wouldn’t quit. I’m looking at her bazooms and I go, ‘Kiddo, I’m going to make you a star.’ She looks at me, giggles and goes, ‘Okay.’ Rest is history.” Brank grinned thinking about it, finished his champagne, belched and went up the steps to the salon. Stopped, looked back and said, “I want to show you something.”
    Hess followed him outside and up a wide, slightly curved aluminum ladder with white plastic steps to the flying bridge, trying to hold the champagne glass without dropping it. There was a white plastic chair bolted to the deck behind a sleek control panel, steering wheel and throttles, windscreen that wrapped around the front, canvas Bimini top pulled taut above them. Behind them there was a dinghy on the overhang of the aft deck.
    “Got twin Detroit diesels pooling seven hundred fifty horses. Had them tweaked to do twenty-six knots.”
    “A boat this big? I’d have to see it to believe it,” Hess said, challenging him.
    Brank smiled now. “Oh, I get it. You’re from Missouri, huh? Okay,” he said, starting the engines. “Want to see for yourself, huh?”
    Hess could hear the rumble of the exhaust pipes stirring up the water.
    “Think you can release the dock lines?”
    From the captain’s chair on the flying bridge Brank steered the Hatteras, zigzagging through the marina, Hess sitting next to him on a built-in bench made of fiberglass, sipping champagne. Just past the seawall Brank gunned the throttle and they took off into open sea, picking up speed, hull rising, slicing through whitecaps, cruising