Deep Sea Dead

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“What? A boat? I mean a ship? I could fall overboard and drown! It could sink! Look at what happened to the Titanic!”

My skuzzy boss, Fabio Scarpello, glared at me with-well, one could never really know what Fabio thought, so I decided not to even guess.

It was more than likely X-rated anyway.

He puffed on a relit cigar. “The ship sails from New York to Miami to Bermuda and back. Who the hell ever heard of an iceberg in those waters?”

I wanted to argue that there might be pockets of cold water out in the Atlantic that could form into an iceberg, but I knew my imagination was just trying to come up with some wild excuse not to go. I wasn’t going to mention my being prone to seasickness though. Fabio would turn that into something embarrassing.

After a few more puffs, he said, “Look, doll-”

“Don’t call me doll. Ever.” I sat straighter in my seat across from his mold-covered desk. Okay, maybe mold-covered was a bit strong, but I was guessing there had to be something growing beneath the used paper plates, coffee cups, piles of ashes and files. He had my folder in his hand.

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