How Helen Katasko Lost Her Job

Helen gazed at the featureless expanse around her. Only the vastness of saltwater unbroken by a low-slung key, a far-off peak, a focsle, whale spout, or god damn seagull. Not even a cloud.

“Up the creek sans paddle,” she murmured as she peered overboard at the propeller, deader than Tutankamen when he met Howard Carter. “What to do, what to do?”

The propeller gave no answer, and Helen retreated under the boat’s hard top, away from the hammer of the sun. She already resembled a salmon steak, and she needed to mull over the snafu that had just erected a concrete wall across the path of her success.

She plunked herself onto the teak bench and turned a doleful eye to the coms console, her dream of any red glows of renascent power crushed. “Curse all boat rental rackets,” she growled.

Truth be told, the fault lay not at the door of the rental company, but squarely at Helen’s.

“The lubber that called put down money enough for fuel for just a half day’s journey,” the owner had told her. “Make sure ya keep yer eye on the gauge.”

Helen had observed the eye patch and the space where the left hand should have been and conjured for the old man a past as a buccaneer. None of her colleagues would have thought her capable of such fancy. “We’ll hug the coast,” she’d assured the old salt, as though she’d have company on her sojourn, “and be back by noon.”

“Make sure y’are,” he’d warned, one eyebrow cocked. “Ya don’t want to end up on the menu for a shark’s tea.”

Helen had been tempted to ask how a Scotsman had landed at a boat rental on Key Largo, but acknowledged to herself she really couldn’t care less about the answer. She merely nodded and warbled her usual false cheer, “Have a good day!”

Now, sun at the apex, she blew out a puff of breath and accepted that she should have kept her eye on the gauge. What mattered was the next step she would take.

A fount of pure energy, Helen refused to wallow among the kelp fronds of trouble that fought to drag her underwater. Her hand went to the pocket of her nylon jacket and wrestled the cell phone out. Her patron had presented the burner to her as part of the last mandates for the job.

“Call me,” he’d drawled, the southern accent syrupy enough to cloy her. “The second the job’s done, understand? The very second.”

That twang has to be a sham, she’d told herself. But she’d merely nodded her acceptance.

“Use that there cell phone, then take the battery out, and toss the whole package over the gunwale.”

She’d barely kept her temper, though she managed a pleasant tone as she noted, “Everyone from our agency knows how to use a burner. We’re well versed.”

He’d only glared at her, affronted that a woman would talk back. She nearly walked away from the job then, but deep down, she knew she couldn’t muster enough outrage to really care, so she’d stayed. He’d repeated, once more, the exact locale of the rendezvous for the job he’d contracted her to do, as though she were a neophyte.

And, as always, she’d cheeped, “Have a good day!”

“Should’ve turned my back on the contract then,” she told the phone, her thumb pressed to the on button. “Lecture me about spycraft! Tell me how to do my job! Me, Helen Katasko, who’s expertly bumped off more people than he’s years old, that ersatz Tennessean.”

The phone powered on and bore out her conjecture. Zero bars. No coverage.

“Fuck.” She flung the phone onto the bench next to her. She had no way to call for help, sure, but her troubles had snowballed beyond that over the last quarter hour: no bars, no report to her patron. Worse, the mark had never shown up at the rendezvous. Helen hadn’t been able to complete the job. Once that got out, her workmates would laugh themselves loopy. They’d never let her forget she’d fallen flat on a meet, greet, and whack. A candy-from-a-baby job. Secret Agent Craft 101.

“Oh, who cares what they say! Focus on next steps,” she told herself. “Control what you can. Recourse A, jump overboard and breaststroke to the nearest Key. Or Cuba.” She shrugged. “Whatever’s closest. B, paddle.” She glanced around. “Boat’s too large for that. Also, no paddle. On to C, stretch a sheet on the jackstaff, hope a gale comes up and propels me to a useful locale.” She paused, then, “D, expect the old salt who runs the rental company to send someone out to rescue me.” That would be an embarrassment. She scanned the ocean for any token of human-caused movement. Nada, goose egg, bugger all. “And E, take a nap.”

She slapped her knees, stood, then clambered down the short ladder to the narrow berth below deck. “Lucky,” she breathed, and tore the top sheet from the mattress. Back on deck, she found plenty of rope and before many seconds had elapsed, she’d managed to craft a passable canvas. She assessed her work and detected scant excuse for cheer; the sheet hung slack.

“Whatever.” She turned her back to the jackstaff. “On to plan E.” She stretched her body along one teak bench, flung an arm across her eyes, and went to sleep.

She woke to the thrum of a motor and the splash of water on a nearby hull. The sun showed an hour or two had passed. Helen sat up. The new boat was only an outboard, much smaller than her craft. A solo seafarer steered the modest vessel.

“Ahoy,” he called to her, the tone packed full of Tennessee snark.

Helen groaned but hauled herself to her feet and faced the man, her patron. “Why are you here?” She refused to mask her annoyance.

“Seems to me you need some help.” The two hulls bumped gently, and he bound them together by means of a rope snugged to each cleat. “Thought you were an expert.” A sneer revealed teeth yellowed by tobacco. “Maybe you’re not as good as you thought, huh?”

Helen shrugged. “Your mark never showed. You assured me you’d set up the rendezvous.”

He laughed. At her. The asshole laughed at her. “And you’re the one stranded seven leagues from any port.”

“You don’t measure by leagues at sea. They’re a land measurement.” She regretted her response at once: Don’t let the jerk deflect you. A thought dawned on her, and she added, “No way my junket burned a half tank of gas. You had the old fart sabotage the boat.”

“At the rental company? Course.” He sneered once more.

“Why?”

“Oh, bless your heart,” he drawled. “You tell me.”

“Because you never meant our contract to be completed. Your goal was to double-cross me.”

“Good start.” He was clearly amused. “Go on.”

“Why would you make the down payment, the necessary half up front, and not expect my job to be completed?” She watched the man’s face for a clue; one eyebrow crept northward. “Because the job was never the central factor. Because the target was me.” She narrowed her eyes and glared. The oaf had both thumbs jammed through a belt loop, elbows jutted out. Sweat crescents darkened the purple polo he sported. The comb-over helmet that usually masked male pattern baldness had succumbed to the breeze so the Tennessee yokel resembled an upturned man-o-war, tentacles unfurled to the heavens.

A new thought struck her, and she guffawed. The man’s face fell, the smug look erased as though rubbed clean by a soaked sponge. “You know,” Helen declared, “who cares why you double-crossed me? Whatever rancor you have towards me, that’s on you.” She shrugged. “Not my problem to solve.”

The patterns born of decades at her job took over. Her hand went to her shoulder holster, drew the gun she found there, and blasted a hole through her patron’s forehead. She hadn’t been aware of a thought before she acted. “What an amateur,” she snorted at the corpse sprawled at the bottom of the outboard.

Buoyed by a well-deserved whack, though not the one she’d been contracted for, Helen hopped across the space between the boats, heaved the dead man up by the underarms, and dragged the body to her rental boat where she dropped the ex-Tennesseean on the deck. She tore the sheet from the jackstaff, used her teeth to create a frayed patch, and pulled a matchbook from her pocket. She struck a match and held the flame to the shredded patch of sheet. When the strands smoked and flared, she hopped back to the smaller craft and loosened the ropes at the cleats. “Have a good day,” she peeped as she pushed herself free.

Helen started the motor of her small craft and steered the prow toward a new world, free from one wretched excuse for a human, at least. She’d ponder the consequences of the broken contract tomorrow, but for now, she really couldn’t care less.

To her rear, the flames swelled cheerfully, and she turned her face toward the breeze.