David Stern has seen their ilk before, creeping like shark fins through the breakers. And as he would with an actual dorsal fin, he assumes there's something more sinister lurking beneath the surface, so he watches with a stone face and a cold glare, waiting for the men in the boat to validate his worst suspicions. He even leaves a light on, so they know he's watching; but deep down he's relieved that their interaction never goes beyond a staring contest. Because, in all honesty, he's not too sure what an old man should do about a bunch of contraband runners. Sometimes he thinks to himself, it's better to be a statue in the garden than to risk being nothing at all, noting that paradise was lost by men, who stepped outside their norm, overreached their boundaries, and smuggled wisdom inside their mouths.Tywon's voice idles like a carburetor, "Who's that old man watching us?"
"We call him the vulture cuz he jus' sits, stares, and waits," responds J.R. slowly, like his voice is a tattoo artist, using the ocean's breeze to trace Queequeg onto his young companion's flesh.
Tywon stares at the old man on the shore, eventually withdrawing his eyes from the contest, and he speaks as if he is being pricked by a needle, "Should we be worried? Does he know what we're doing?"
J.R. lets out a laugh as deep and mocking as the waves smacking the sides of the boat. The two sounds blend together until one can not be separated from the other.
"Worry about yourself, worry about your crew, and worry about the cargo. Everything else is just footnotes," Carmelo instructs Tywon, not even looking at the newcomer, but out toward the ocean, the waves, and the sharks. If Carmelo were to turn around, he would see Billups nod his approval, while confidently steering them around the bend.
The S.S. Karl disappears into the night like skin underneath black ink.
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