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"Y'know what, Jessica, you were right. For a talking head, he's a pretty good cook," Monty remarked, throwing in one of his signature bashful smiles.
"It's true." Gator raised a toast to Nigel with the wine bottle. Make nice with the cash cow. Seemed a little rude to accept the man's hospitality, while planning to kill him, but it wasn't the first time.
Ideally, they'd be able to collect on the contract without taking out their fellow vet, or even the Mexican. On the other hand, from what Gator had just watched, Nigel might pay for their trip in more ways than one. Just before the end of the recording, the Mexican told Nigel he knew where to find the wreck, the one maybe loaded down with treasure. In a place like Baja, no way Nigel could just disappear, even if he seemed inclined to. Executive summary said, rebuild trust any way that they could, ingratiate themselves, and keep the guy on their side 'til Gator knew the location of the wreck, or decided to go with the easy cash.
"How long was the storm supposed to last, Monty?"
"Last I saw the radar, something like fifteen, sixteen hours."
"I'm afraid we'll need these again later." Nigel started collecting the empty bowls. "Arryo, does that match what you've heard?"
The Mexican tipped his hand one way then the other. "This is like what I think, si."
With a sigh, Nigel looked over their scanty kitchen supplies. "Might have to be beans for breakfast as well."
"My guys've had worse, for sure." Gator handed off his bowl. "Thanks for cooking. Smitty, Flick, you're on KP."
Flick groaned, then swiped the bottle from Gator's hand and drained it off. "Hand 'em over." He made a "gimme" gesture at Nigel.
Rising from her spot, Jessica said, "Nope. Not saying the woman should do the dishes, but I do feel like I haven't been pulling my weight today." She lifted the armload of bowls and spoons from Nigel's hand. "Plenty of wash water anyhow."
"There's a downspout collecting over a barrel by the shed, so you don't even have to get wet." Without prompting, Monty retrieved a plastic washtub from under the counter. "Here, let me help."
"Sure." She dumped the washing into his bucket, then hunted up some soap and a rag. "No point in drying." With a quick nod to her boss, she toted the cleaning supplies with her pet Marine trailing after.
Don't have to get wet, Monty said, but Gator was pretty sure they'd both like it better if they did. Go to, buddy. "Guess you're on the hook for dinner, Flick." Gator made the "watching you" movement, pointing to his eyes, then to his crewman.
When the outside door opened, the pounding of rain grew briefly louder, accompanied by a gust of wind, and a protest from Monty, who apparently closed it up fast.
"Now it really feels like camping," Joe said. He still looked pale, but not damp, and not blue. Good. Owed that to Nigel, too.
"So what's next, the "Kumbaya" sing-along?" Flick settled onto his back.
With a long breath in, Smitty glanced at Gator, his eyes flaring with the question.
"God, I was kidding!" Flick covered his head with both arms.
"Fine, get out of the kitchen," said Gator. "Me, I could use some warm fuzzies."
Tyrone stifled a laugh, and Joe cocked his head, shaking it a little as if he had water in his ears. Probably did. "Geez, I haven't sung anything since I was an altar boy."
"Well, then," said Nigel, "jump right in."
Then, with that deep, sweet voice of his, Smitty broke into song. "Someone's crying, Lord," he sang, opening his arms to try to get them all joining in.
"No!" howled Tyrone, and he actually did head out to the other room, but Nigel came in on the chorus, much to Smitty's delight. The Brit had a decent tenor—not the Irish Tenors, but sure the kind of voice Gator's mom would've swooned for. With that encouragement, Smitty let the song take over, leaning into his bass, swapping verses, then suddenly breaking into a Gospel version, complete with clapping and swaying, and Nigel went right along, adding some wild variations in harmony.
Then, as Smitty improvised at the low end, Nigel beckoned Joe into the mix, aiming his thumb high, and higher, coaching the kid into a falsetto that gave the performance a whole new level. With his mane of dark hair and those silver wings at his temples, Nigel sure looked the part of a mad conductor.
Gator leaned back against the table, startled by what he'd let loose. All he needed was to shift his crew's persona from muscle-bound clods who trashed a rental boat—he hadn't intended to start a choir. But then, choirboys could be a good look.
Under the arm he'd dramatically flung across his head, Flick's dark eyes focused on Gator like, you hearing this? Yeah, he was. His plan was working perfectly. Gator clapped when the song had finished, Smitty and Nigel sharing a grin, while the kid drew back, surprised at himself.
Nigel dipped cups of water from a pot he must've filled outside during the meal prep, and offered them to the other members of the trio before taking one for himself. "What's next?"
Time for a little nudge in the right direction. "I'm a big fan of sea shanties," Gator said.
"Didn't know that," Smitty remarked.
With a shrug, Gator said, "Can't tell you guys everything, can I?"
Nigel began this time, with one of those things about men being at sea, eager to get home. Smitty caught his part when he could. Sounded pretty good, actually. Better than the first one as the two more experienced singers learned each other's strengths. Gator played guitar back in the day, but he'd never been the lead.
Monty and Jessica returned in the middle of the song, but they waited to approach until it wound down, then they set the bowls upside down along one of the counters to dry. "So, Nigel," she said, taking up one of the cameras. "Is there anything you don't do?"
He chuckled, dropping his gaze. "There's almost nothing I won't try. Try things often enough and you find a few that stick." Another laugh, this one with a bitter edge. "None of which my family approves, alas."
"Know what you mean." Filling the empty wine bottle with water, Gator clinked it with Nigel's mug, then lifted the bottle. "Anybody here with a happy family, raise your hand."
Flick stuck his in the sky. "Mine! 'Cause they're dead."
Gator kicked him gently. "Way to drop the mood, buddy."
"Buddy, nothing, it's true."
"Are the dead truly happy, though?" Nigel inquired, swirling his mug as if it contained brandy. Probably didn't. They should try to get him drinking, but Gator started to think that unnecessary as Nigel carried on, "Consider the belief of the Buddhists that individual happiness is rather beside the point of spiritual attainment. Or the Hindu attachment to reincarnation, where those without virtue in this life might be reborn as insects—"
"Or politicians!" Flick called out.
"There's a lot of animist religions where they want to return to the earth, though, right?" Monty helped himself to a vase—the closest thing remaining to a glass, apparently—and filled it up.
Nigel's face lit with approval, and—Gator suspected—the onset of a lecture. In an instant, Nigel fulfilled that suspicion. "Indeed! Animism, for those less familiar, is the belief that spirits inhabit every aspect of nature from the animals and trees to the very ground itself. But even there, the spirits may be restless—"
"Howling like the wind." Arryo's voice, low and rough, echoed into a sudden silence broken only by the storm that broke over their heads.