Page 95 of Theta

"Duzzat make twenty…four?"

"Ish, yeah."

"Big numbers. Lotta dead dudes. Big, big numbers." She nuzzles me with her nose. "You've got a big number."

Dante cackles at this. "Oh man, she is a funny one."

"She's delirious."

“Sì. We are nearly there. Not so much further." He grunts as he helps Story regain her balance when she trips. "You are gonna owe me more money, American."

"Get us medical help and to the mainland, and I'll set you up for life."

"Oh, so easy, hey?"

I snort. "You've got no fuckin' idea, Dante."

"What does this mean?"

"Don't worry about it. Just know that my word is good. You will be recompensed beyond your wildest dreams.”

"But…what is it, to be set up for life?"

"Enough money that you can stop slinging dope, how about that?"

"And then what do I do?"

"Up to you. Keep slinging dope, if you want. Or buy a boat and sail off into the sunset. Your call."

“You are a very rich man?"

"Sort of."

He guides us down a length of dock to a fairly large private fishing boat—thirty feet, maybe. Old, with a high, curved prow and a low, squat, open-backed cockpit. The engine is idling with a low snarling burble—despite the scuffed, scratched hull and peeling paint and mess of nets on the deck, that engine sounds nasty. Powerful, souped-up. Something tells me this uncle-nephew pair does more than sell dime bags of pot to tourists.

"Tio!" Dante calls. "Aiutami!"

A tall, broad-shouldered man with hunched posture hurries out of the cockpit, jabbering at Dante in Italian far too fast for me to follow even a word. He's on the far side of middle-aged, Dante's uncle, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and wavy salt-and-pepper hair swept to one side and dangling in front of one eye. His hands are huge and weathered as he reaches to help us with Story. He swats at Dante's hands and simply scoops Story up in his arms and carries her down below deck.

The ceiling is low enough that we have to stoop. Wood-paneled walls, a diner-style booth with the Formica-topped table bolted to the floor, and cracked red vinyl cushions. A kitchenette with a dorm-sized fridge, a few cabinets, a long bench that doubles as a bed, and a narrow doorway to a bedroom just big enough for the bed itself.

Dante’s uncle kneels on the bed and gently sets Story down, and then does a quick, knowledgeable scan of her injuries, probing with gentle fingers, carefully peeling her shirt up to take a look at my quick done-in-the-dark triage.

He spits rapid-fire Italian at me, and Dante translates. "He say she is in bad shape. Need un medico, presto. No make it to Roma." More rapid, angry-sounding Italian. "This was to be a ride to Roma. Now all is change. There is the shooting. Un elicottero come. It fly low, fast. Now you come here with a girl who is shooted.” A pause to listen and mentally translate. “Is big trouble. He say he make it to this old age from caution and think good about…ehhh…i rischi." He trades Italian with his uncle, with a few English words sprinkled in. “The risk, sì. The risk. The danger. Sì? You bring danger."

I'm swaying on my feet, my head is throbbing, my wound throbs. I'm exhausted. Scared for Story. "I'll pay whatever you want. Just please, help us."

The uncle listens to Dante, tsking in irritation, and then gently pushes me toward Story. "Lay, lay. Is okay. I help."

"We do bring danger," I murmur, grunting as I let myself collapse to the bed, sitting for a moment. "I wish I didn't have to involve you."

"Who is danger?" Dante asks.

I shake my head. "The less you know, the better for you."

Dante translates this for his uncle, who just nods a few times and then rattles off something to Dante. An exchange ensues, and then Dante addresses me. "We make for Golfo Aranci. Not so far, and my uncle, he knows un medico."

"How long?"