CHAPTER TWELVE

 

 

 

Payne and Jones grabbed their garbage bags from the trunk of the sedan while thanking Galea for the ride to Birgu. They weren’t sure what they were going to do next, but whatever it was, they were confident it could be done on foot.

Before he left, Galea gave them a few more tips about the waterfront. “Just south of the museum is Saint Lawrence’s Church. It’s a beautiful baroque church that was founded way back in 1681. If that isn’t your cup of tea, the Inquisitor’s Palace is just to the east. It was the seat of the Maltese Inquisition from 1574 to 1798 and is often referred to as the Sacred Palace.”

“You sure know your history,” Payne said.

Galea shrugged. “I’ve lived here all my life. It kind of sinks in.”

“Here in Birgu?”

“No, in Malta. But I come here all the time. It is very popular with tourists.”

Payne glanced around. “Speaking of tourists, are there any shops around here where we can buy some backpacks? I’d rather look like a tourist than a hobo.”

“There are several shops on the side streets that sell T-shirts, and postcards, and typical tourist wares. You might able to find bags in one of those. If not, the Birgu Farmers’ Market is a few blocks southeast of the Inquisitor’s Palace. You never know what they may be selling.”

“That sounds like fun. What street is it on?”

“Triq San Dwardu,” Galea answered.

Jones scrunched his face. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What language was that?”

Galea laughed. “That was Maltese.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Dwarf? I could’ve sworn I heard the same thing in The Lord of the Rings. Or was it The Hobbit? It was one of those movies with the midgets.”

“DJ!” Payne blurted. “You can’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“Midgets.”

“Why not? You just did.”

“I know I did, but—”

“What? You can say it because you’re white. How’s that fair?”

“Not because I’m white, because—”

“I’m black?”

“No,” Payne assured him. “Color has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course it does. I’m sure black midgets get teased even more than white ones.”

“They might, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Beats the hell out of me, but I thought it was important to say.”

“Great! Now that it’s been said, why don’t you take a walk? The adults are talking.”

“The adults are talking,” Jones mimicked in a childish voice—a split second before the irony dawned on him. “Ah, crap. I think I just proved your point.”

“You think?”

“Fine,” Jones grunted as he trudged away. “I’ll be right over here.”

Payne took a deep, cleansing breath. “Sorry about that. What were you saying?”

Galea laughed. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

“I know. Trust me, I know. And he’s not even senile yet. Do you know what he’s gonna be like when he gets older? I’ll need to buy him a muzzle.”

Jones heard the comment from halfway down the street and shouted his reply over his shoulder. “Good luck putting it on me! I ain’t wearing a muzzle, you kinky bastard!”

Unfortunately for Jones, he was so focused on his retort that he didn’t notice the family of four that was walking toward him. The young parents took one look at the seemingly homeless black man who was shouting vulgarities to no one in particular that they pushed their strollers into traffic to avoid him. Cars slammed on their brakes and beeped their horns as the family darted from the scenic waterfront to the relative safety of the buildings across the street.

Jones was so mortified by the consequences of his actions and so worried about the family’s wellbeing that he ran after them to apologize until he correctly realized that a foot chase would only make things worse He abruptly skidded to a halt in the middle of the road while angry drivers yelled at him in multiple languages, some of which sounded like Dwarf.

At that very moment—standing in traffic, carrying a green garbage bag filled with fancy rubbish, and watching as a family of four fled in terror—Jones assumed he couldn’t possibly feel any lower, but all of that changed when a loud, distinct voice rose above the commotion of the gathering crowd.

“David?” the voice roared. “Is that you?”

His heart dropped to new depths at the sound of his name.

“David!” the voice repeated. “It is you!”

Jones turned his head toward the entrance of the museum and saw a barrel-chested bear of a man charging toward him. He had long, greasy hair, a face full of stubble, and a big round belly that stretched the limits of a cotton shirt that had gone out of style more than a century ago. The puffy white blouse looked like something from a black-and-white pirate movie, which made perfect sense because so did the man wearing it.

His name was Jarkko, and he lived at sea.

Payne and Jones had first met Jarkko several years earlier when they had needed secret passage into Russia. A black-market contact of theirs had directed them to the Kauppatori Market in Helsinki, Finland, where they were told to locate a specific stall at a specific time. They had expected to find a slick-dressed Cold War operative who would smuggle them into Saint Petersburg in the comfort of a bulletproof limo. Instead they had found Jarkko, a hard-drinking Finn who was wearing a rubber apron and covered in fish guts.

On the surface, he seemed like a stereotypical fisherman, someone who had spent his entire life on the water and had nothing to show for it but gnarled hands, weathered skin, and a severely pickled liver. But they had quickly learned that Jarkko was a cagey operator who had amassed a small fortune from his covert activities. In fact, his side business was so successful that he spent half of the year sailing the Mediterranean in luxury on his massive yacht.

And that was before his adventure with Payne and Jones.

One that had led to an even bigger windfall.

During their journey to Russia and their return trip to Finland, the duo had warmed to the colorful fisherman and his unique zest for life. After he had provided them with a key piece of information in their search for a lost treasure, they had hired him to sneak them onto the sacred grounds of Mount Athos, where they eventually had found one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Although they weren’t allowed to keep the treasure for a number of reasons, Payne and Jones were given an exorbitant finder’s fee, which they happily had shared with Jarkko even though it had never been discussed or agreed to.

For a man like Jarkko, who had made most of his cash dealing with the seedy underbelly of the Russian black market, it was the ultimate sign of respect.

And it had earned them a friend for life.

“David Joseph Jones!” Jarkko bellowed as he waded into traffic. “It is excellent to see you, but not like this. Why are you carrying garbage bag in middle of street?”

“It’s a long story,” Jones said, embarrassed.

“Jarkko has time. Cars can wait.”

Unfortunately, the closest drivers didn’t agree, so they beeped their horns and yelled obscenities to voice their displeasure. But all this did was make Jarkko mad.

In the blink of an eye, he transformed from a happy fisherman to an angry pirate. He lifted both of his hands above his head and then brought his fists down with so much fury upon the front hood of a Fiat 500 that it left Hulk-sized dents in the metal.

“You will stop mocking my homeless friend, or I will break car!” Jarkko screamed.

The beeping stopped instantly, and so did the yelling.

A moment later, Jarkko was completely calm.

“Tell me, David. How long have you been homeless?”

“I’m not homeless,” Jones insisted as he grabbed Jarkko by his puffy sleeve and pulled him toward the sidewalk. “I’m on vacation.”

“On vacation? Does this mean you have job?”

“Well, technically no, but—”

Jarkko pulled out a large wad of cash. “Here, take money. You need it more than Jarkko.”

Jones pushed it away. “Jarkko, I swear to you, I’m not homeless.”

“Are you sure? I could buy you some soup.”

“Look!” Jones said, relieved. “Here comes Jon. He’ll explain everything.”

Payne heard the commotion and jogged down the street, hauling a garbage bag of his own.

All it took was one look at him, and Jarkko felt like crying.

“Noooo!” Jarkko wailed. “How can this be? Jon is homeless, too!”

Meanwhile, Payne’s reaction was the exact opposite. The instant he saw Jarkko, his mood brightened. He tossed his garbage bag aside and then wrapped his arms around his old friend, lifting him high into the air. Jarkko was a burly man, but he seemed small in Payne’s grasp.

“Jarkko, my friend. It’s great to see you!”

“You, too,” Jarkko grunted as he patted Payne on the back while still in midair. “But please, tell Jarkko truth. Why are you and David homeless?”

Payne laughed and put him down. “We’re not homeless. We’re on vacation.”

Jarkko breathed a sigh of relief. “This is such good news. It brings a smile to Jarkko’s heart.”

“Wait,” Jones said, somehow offended. “That’s it? That’s all he had to say for you to believe him? I said the same damn thing, and you offered to buy me soup!”

Payne licked his lips. “Hmmm. Soup sounds good.”

“Doesn’t it?” Jarkko said. “Maybe some fish chowder with warm loaf of bread.”

“Jarkko!” Jones snapped. “Why did you believe Jon and not me?”

Jarkko shrugged. “He was more believable.”

“Why? Because he’s white?”

“No,” Jarkko said, offended, “because you were chasing scared family across street and screaming something about kinky muzzle.”

“Oh,” Jones groaned.

“But what does it matter?” Jarkko said with a smile on his face. “The important thing is you still have home, and I have forgiven you for calling me racist.”

Jones shook his head in embarrassment. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to—”

Jarkko cut him off. “It is forgotten like old bout of syphilis, but if you are sad and would like to make friends with Jarkko, there is something you can do.”

Jones smiled. “Buy you a drink?”

Jarkko nodded. “And some soup. Jarkko hungry after punching car.”