Ed Lacy - Blonde Bait

     The Sea Princess had half of her underbow ripped open and Mr. Decker had some skin missing and a busted arm. We took him to the hospital and managed to tow the Sea Princess to the dock where she sank in four feet. I was so angry at Hal I could have killed him. When we got around to seeing Decker in the hospital it turned out he really had the bucks. He'd rented the best room and had a private nurse. Decker was in bed, a cast over his side and right arm, and he wasn't hungover but all executive as he asked how much the boat was worth.

     He was talking to me and I was too confused to answer. I'd come to ask him for a few hundred to repair the boat.

     I stammered, “Fixing her will cost...”

     “Take at least ten thousand dollars, Mr. Decker, to replace the Sea Princess,” Hal said calmly, cutting me off.

     I nearly swallowed my tongue. My old man hadn't paid over six hundred dollars for her, back in the twenties. No matter what she was worth today, we'd never get a buyer. Her kind of boat had gone out of style half a century ago.

     This Mr. Decker sure was a big apple. He barked, “Parker!” and a trim little fellow, a real pretty boy, came on the run from the sitting room, pad and pen in hand. You could get a rough cut from the crease in his linen suit. He said, “Yes, sir?”

     “I'm buying a boat I wrecked belonging to these boys, for ten thousand dollars. Take care of the necessary papers.”

     Parker was a real do-it-yourself kid and by noon the next day we signed the papers and had a certified check made out to me and Hal. We took Parker in for a few belts and he turned out to be a fairly regular joe. He told us Decker was in lots of top stuff: steel, construction, planes. He was even important enough to have been a desk admiral during the war. Parker was but one of his secretaries. I was impressed, and more impressed by glancing at the check every few minutes.

     The following morning, while Hal was busy showing Parker the sights, I went looking for a new boat. Miami was a sucker's paradise and the prices were crazy. I told Hal we'd best see what could be found in the gulf ports. Hal said, “You look for me. Wally Parker and I have a couple of hot chicks in tow. Besides, what do I know about boats?”

     I put in a few days traveling around and in Mobile I found a good buy for about seven grand, including the overhaul. When I wired Hal to come for a look-see, he wired me to return. I wasn't worried; the check was certified.

     I stepped off the bus at 12:03 p.m. and at 12:05 p.m. Hal let me have the haymaker. “Mickey, half the check is mine and I've earned it. I big-talked Mr. Decker into paying us ten grand, you would have settled for a grand or two, so...”

     “So you'll be half owner of a fine boat that....”

     “No, Mick. I would have told you sooner if I'd known where to reach you. I'm using my five thousand for college, making something of myself.”

     “Look, we buy this boat and you still finish college under the G.I. Bill. I'll run the boat with a kid and you help on weekends and during the summer.”

     “Mick, I'm going to one of the Ivy League schools. Wally told me the deal. With the money and the G. I. Bill, I can go first class, develop the right contacts. And James —Mr. Decker—is interested in me—after he heard about me being an ensign.”

     I must have looked sick for Hal said, “I know you think I'm crossing you, but Mick, my name is on the check and opportunity only knocks once and...”

     “Shut up!” I walked on to the bank and he followed. We had the money a few days later. Hal took his five grand and I never saw him again until now, in Haiti.

     I hunted for a cheap boat, but there weren't any worth a dime. The Sea Princess seemed to have been abandoned. Only the top of her cabin showed. When the Coast Guard threatened to tow her out and sink the old babe, I paid to have her pulled up on the ways. I found Decker's address and wrote him a couple of times but never received an answer. Then I wired I wanted to buy the boat back. Finally I hitched a ride to Chicago. He wouldn't even see me but I collared Wally and left a few hours later for home with a letter stating I had bought the Sea Princess for one buck. It took $3100 of the $4200 I'd left to refit her, and it wasn't until a half a year later I was back to charter fishing again.

     By then there were so many boats in the racket I barely made coffee and cake money—even though the Sea Princess was a better sea boat than most of them. But she still looked like hell.

IV

     In the long twilight the sky was a thin, milky light spotted with a few pale stars on the horizon. The sea was running choppy but it looked like a good night. Tuning in some fair music on the radio, I lit a cigar and sprawled on my bunk again to read a New York City paper I'd bought in Port-au-Prince. It was only three days old. I'd hardly started the sports section when I heard the slight splash of oars and a rough voice calling, “You here, mister?”

     I went on deck and there was my old man buddy I'd had on board earlier. He held up a pint of cheap rum and gave me a large grin. I motioned for him to come aboard and he tied up, careful not to bang against the Sea Princess. I didn't mind company. We sat in the cockpit and he wanted to know how the radio ran. I explained about the Diesels charging the batteries when I was under power. I wasn't giving a very clear explanation and he didn't understand a word of it, but he nodded and patted the knee patches on his pants, as if agreeing with everything. I changed the subject by asking if I could drink from his bottle. He said most certainly. The junk burned on the way down and then made a blast furnace of my stomach. And I'd only taken a polite sip. It was like guaro, the coarse sugar cane rum of Central America. I knew what the old guy was sucking around for, and that was okay, too.

     I asked if he would care to try some of my whiskey? After the proper hesitation he said he would—as a favor to me—and slipped his bottle into his pocket. We had several shots of Canadian with crackers and sharp cheese. The old man discussed my boat, and the advantages of whiskey as against rum. We were quiet for a short time, drinking more whiskey. Islanders love to talk and soon the old man pointed at the cloudless sky and said it would most certainly rain by morning. I told him he was wrong, gave him the radio weather report. But he rubbed his knees, said his joints knew better than any radio.

     He had been eating steadily at the cheese and crackers so I broke out another tin and he insisted I have a shot of his rum. It didn't burn as much this time. I tried it with ice, and so did he, and it wasn't too bad. Then we went back to the Canadian and he told me about fishing in his youth.

     By the time we'd finished the Canadian, and the rum, I realized we were both drunk. The old man assured me he could row ashore with ease despite the choppy sea. Outside the cove it was really blowing. But I pulled in my dinghy and tied it to his heavy boat. While he was admiring the teak planks of the dink, I got the outboard over without falling on my face and attached it to the stern of his boat. He was delighted and I let him steer and we made an extra run around the cove, taking on spray and water, before we hit the beach. While I stood in water up to my can and fastened the outboard to the dink, the old man staggered around in the shallow water and asked how much the motor cost, what was the best make, and the amount of gas the tank held. I answered him with drunken carefulness, as if he would ever be able to buy one. I helped him beach his boat and we shook hands solemnly and he said he would bring me some mangos and fresh fruit in the morning. That he had meant to ask if I had an extra pair of old pants I could spare?

     I said I was sorry but I didn't. I waved and headed back for the Sea Princess. The dink was full of water and even though I was soaking wet, I was still drunk. I hadn't been this high in a long time.

     I tied the dink securely, put the outboard in its rack, and checked the anchors. I went below. Usually liquor is a sleeping pill for me—not that I need anything to make me sleep. But now I was feeling wide awake and I dried myself, stretched out in the bunk and went back to reading the paper. Not the news, but the ads. The show and Broadway ads, the pictures. I'd never been to New York and I wanted to see it. Right now I wanted to very much.

     It didn't make sense, night life never meant a thing to me. But with Rose's money and her looks, I had this desire to taste big time spending. The feeling had come up several times in the past months.

     Of course that was out—at least until I knew what kind of trouble Rose was in. It wasn't anything that worried me. I had no lack: a woman like Rose, the Sea Princess, money. Only I'd get to thinking we weren't putting the money to its fullest use. If I only knew what she'd done, we might be able to see New York, Canada, maybe even take a crack at Paris.

     I studied the few pictures of Broadway in the paper, read the gossip column. I turned to the sports section again, then the news. There was a piece about some slob who had knifed his girl friend because she hadn't given him money. The paper said he didn't deny he was a “kept man.” As I folded the paper and put it away carefully—Rose loved to read the papers but flew into a temper if they were torn or wrinkled—I turned off the light and wondered if I was a “kept man.” I didn't give a damn if I was. But I told myself I was really working hard for whatever I spent. For one thing I would be an accomplice to whatever she was jammed over. Yeah, I was earning my keep... and it certainly was damn nice work.

     The boat was bouncing when I awoke. It was dark out and I had a big head. My wrist watch said it was a few minutes after five. It was raining hard. I listened to the rain awhile, then sat up. I felt creepy. Then I noticed the hatch door was pulled shut. I went up on deck and even the cove was full of white caps rolling before a strong wind. The rain felt good on my face and chest. As I turned to relieve myself over the side, I saw the old man's boat tied to the dink. I looked around and he was crouched up near the bow, wrapped in part of the jib sail, watching the anchor ropes.

     I went forward and he turned and waved a dark hand at me. He said something that was lost in the wind. I put my face next to his and he said he had never seen a man sleep so hard, that he had been trying to awaken me all afternoon.

     “Afternoon?” I repeated stupidly, glancing up at the dark sky.

     I couldn't believe I'd slept the day away but the old guy insisted he had come out with fruit before noon, then took up an anchor watch when he couldn't shake me awake. He thought the storm would blow over during the night. I hated losing a day away from Rose and it wasn't a big storm. If my head felt better I probably would have started the engines. But you can't play catch-up with time and there wasn't much point in going now— if it was this dark in the afternoon the night would be pitch black.

     The anchors seemed okay and I told the old man to come with me. He sat and marveled at the cabin, felt of the bunks and the galley metal, while I dressed and cooked a good meal of eggs and bacon, toast and plenty of coffee. I had some of his bananas and when we finished he said he had work to do ashore. I wanted to give him a pair of pants but I couldn't after telling him last night I didn't have any. He asked if I wanted him back later but I said it was too rough. I thanked him and held out a ten dollar bill. He shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. There was a kind of angry dignity about him as he said he'd sat anchor watch both as a friend and as a man who admired a good boat.

     I finally gave him a new sweat shirt and a large box of tinned meats, making sure to explain it was merely in exchange for the fruit.

     I helped him load it into his bouncing boat. We both knew I couldn't leave the Sea Princess to ferry him ashore with the outboard. I watched him row, kneeling in the boat to get all the leverage of his body behind each stroke. Once ashore I could dimly see him pull the boat up, wave to me, and disappear among the Woman's Tongue trees, carrying the stuff I'd given him. The seed pods on the trees must have been really chattering in this wind.

     For want of something to do I took a rain shower on deck, soaping myself good, and when I dressed again and put on oilskins, I felt sober and okay. I spent the rest of the night listening to the radio, checking the anchors every half hour. I still thought about Rose and myself dolled up, living it big on Broadway.

     By early morning the storm died and the stars were visible. At dawn I started the motors, noticed the oil temperature shot up too high. I had a little trouble raising the anchors, but once out of the cove I ran up sail and keeping a good mile out to sea, followed the Jamaica coastline. I considered putting in at Green Island, which is a town and not an island at the tip end of Jamaica, for a few hours sleep. I had a good twenty-hour run to Grand Cayman. But I kept sailing because now that I was a day late, I missed Rose more than ever. The fact is, at the moment I even looked forward to seeing my landlord, Ansel Smith, and his sharp puss. I had a big box of the Havana blunts he prized so much.

     Old Ansel could—and generally did—talk your head off but he had been a break for us.

     After hauling anchor from port to port like sea-going gypsies whenever Rose got her wind up because she thought a man might have looked at her suspiciously, we had lucked up on Ansel's island. If it wasn't much of an island, most of the land actually was his and free of tourists. I'd vaguely heard of him years ago—a small time operator interested in smuggled bolts of cloth or anything else he could sell at his rundown general store. Ansel lived in a fine wooden bungalow within sight of our hut and the whole island was about a half a mile of land many hundred yards off one of the “bigger” Cayman islands, on which his store stood. While I've never been to the South Pacific, I suppose we had the closest thing to a South Sea isle. It has white sandy beaches, colorful and heavy-smelling flowers, coconut palms, and we live in a large thatched hut facing a small reef. This same reef wrecked the first Sea Princess, but actually our cove is a protected and safe mooring, with plenty of water to cross the reef at high tide.

     Although I'd heard of Ansel, we had sailed into his cove by pure chance and when we found the hut had running water—it had been his house before he built the bungalow to celebrate his newest and last child—we decided this was for us. I explained we were on a prolonged honeymoon—but under wraps because Rose had a husband who didn't think much of our honeymoon idea. Ansel took the lie and assured us he was a man of the world and understood perfectly. The only time I've actually seen him amazed was when we installed a bathroom in the large hut at our expense.