‘Yeah.’
‘That’s good.’
‘We were—’ A sheepish look filled in the blanks. ‘I’d be embarrassed to let you in. My underwear is all over the floor.’
Dave grinned and said, ‘Same old Lisa.’
She was looking past him now, around the neighborhood. ‘Hey, less of the old Lisa, will ya? I’m only five years older than you.’
That was right. He remembered now. She had been just his age now when he went inside Homestead. Dave was about to pick up on that but then let it go. He wasn’t here to reproach her, but to help.
He said, ‘I brought you a present.’ He handed over the bag. Inside were two parcels, each containing 50,000 of the 250 grand plus interest Jimmy Figaro had given him. ‘Actually, there’s one for Mom as well.’
‘Why thank you, Dave,’ she said and, hesitantly, brushed his hair with her hand.
As she touched him his nostrils detected a sweet cloying smell that for some reason made him start thinking of babies. It was on her hands. A kind of sheen.
‘Just promise me that you’ll only open it when you’re alone,’ he said.
‘Sure, OK.’ She frowned and laughed at the same time. ‘Whaddya do? Rob a bank or something?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Look, why don’t you come back, in about an hour, and we can talk. I’m not much of a cook, but hey. What the hell? You never complained when you were a kid and big sis fixed your dinner.’
Now he remembered the smell. It was baby oil. Johnson’s Baby Oil. Only Lisa had never had her baby. It had been stillborn. And what with the two C-notes and the anonymous boyfriend back in the bedroom an unpleasant thought began to strut its way along the sidewalk of Dave’s imagination.
‘Whaddya say, little brother? Be like the old days.’
It was Dave’s turn to be evasive now.
‘I’d like to, Lisa, really I would. But I’m on a pretty tight schedule.’
There was no need for him to say anything. He told himself it wasn’t his right to do so. Whatever family obligation he’d had, he’d fulfilled, hadn’t he? Fifty thousand dollars a head was a lot of payback for not much of an upbringing. Now he just wanted to get the hell away from there. Forcing a smile that was the equal of the pinched nerve that was Lisa’s own, Dave backed toward his car.
He said, ‘Another time, huh?’
‘Sure honey, but call first, OK?’ she told him. Like he was some John.
‘I’ll do that.’ He jumped into the open car and started the engine.
‘Nice car,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you didn’t rob a bank?’
‘Not yet,’ he repeated and waving stiffly, drove off, trying not to floor the gas pedal and look like he was suddenly desperate to be away from her. And at the same time ashamed. Ashamed for what he felt he was. Just another john in his sister’s life, giving her money and then going away again. His own sister. His own sister.
Kate Furey was giving Kent Bowen a tour of the boat. The Carrera was moored alongside dozens of other yachts on Fort Lauderdale’s intercoastal waterway, and a stone’s throw from R.J.’s Landing, one of the dockside area’s better restaurants. Bowen had already suggested lunching there, but Kate had told him they had too much to do getting him up to speed with the lexicon of yachts and their equipment. She had already figured out a way around his lack of boating knowledge, but she wanted to punish him a little for not being scared off with all her best stories about squalls and seasickness. A water taxi slipped by with a couple dressed up to get married. They waved, and from the sunny skylounge aft deck where he and Kate were standing, Bowen waved back.
‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said.’
‘Sure I have,’ said Bowen.
Unconvinced, Kate pointed toward the davits above their heads. She said, ‘OK, what are those?’
‘You mean those things holding up the boat?’
Kate made an inhuman noise that sounded like the wrong answer button on a TV game show.
‘Incorrect. That isn’t a boat. It’s a tender. As in Tender is the Night. But don’t get any ideas. And the tender is attached to? What?’
‘A crane, I guess.’
Kate made the noise again. She said, ‘Davits. Those are davits, dammit. Look sir. Kent. This isn’t going to work unless you become a little more familiar with the right names for things. You won’t, thank God, have to try and sail this boat. But the chances are you’ll have to talk about her with people from other boats. You know? Like you’re proud of her? And by the way, those shoes you’re wearing? They’ll have to go.’
Bowen glanced down at his Air Nikes.
‘What’s wrong with them?’
Kate shook her head firmly and said, ‘They’re not proper boat shoes, that’s what’s wrong with them. A real boatman wouldn’t be seen dead in those things. But we can fix that. We can stop off somewhere along Las Olas on our way down to the port. There’s bound to be a man’s shop, or a chandler’s somewhere on the boulevard. Docksiders are best. Leather uppers, flat rubber soles. At least you can look the part even if you screw up on the glossary.’
Kate walked through a glass doorway and into the salon where a large and extremely comfortable leather couch, arranged aft to port, faced an enormous TV. A smaller sofa and narrow built-in counter with maple wood cabinets lined the starboard side of the salon. The arrangement of furnishings prompted Kate to ask Bowen yet another question. She pointed at a circular, six-place dining table that was located forward of where they were now standing.
‘Am I pointing to port or to starboard?’
Bowen thought for a moment. Impatiently Kate started to click her fingers at him.
He said, ‘Port.’
‘C’mon, it’s got to come faster than that. Like the difference between your right and your left.’
He followed her through the salon casting a look of regret in the direction of the 27-inch TV. He wished he could fetch himself an ice-cold Corona from the refrigerator and go and watch the play-off game on the TV in his stateroom. Dragging his fingers across the satin-finished wood he said, with just a hint of sarcasm, ‘So what’s this part of the boat called in that McHale’s Navy glossary of yours?’
‘The dining room.’
‘Ask a dumb question.’
They climbed a few thickly carpeted steps.
‘Hey, swell kitchen,’ remarked Bowen. ‘Look at this.’
Kate made the wrong-answer noise again.
‘It’s the galley,’ she said.
Bowen sighed, ‘As in slaves, right? Jesus, I’m never going to remember all this shit.’
‘Well it probably won’t matter that much. I already thought of a way to explain your ignorance.’
‘You did, huh?’ Bowen contained his momentary irritation.
She went on: ‘For the purposes of SYT’s insurance cover, I was obliged to describe you as the boat owner and me as the captain. A lot of owners have decided to travel with their boats because of the air traffic controllers’ strike. It looks as if it’s going to drag on for a while. So, under the circumstances, it won’t seem that unusual, you coming along on the voyage.’
‘I can’t see how that helps,’ said Bowen. ‘Why should the owner know any less than the crew?’
Kate smiled. ‘For a lot of yacht owners, a luxury yacht is just a floating den. Another expensive toy. Believe me, it’s not uncommon for these guys to know jack shit about their own boats.’ She was enjoying this. ‘So, it’s possible your complete and total ignorance won’t be noticed.’
‘OK.’ Bowen looked around with a proprietorial air. ‘You know, I always did kind of fancy owning one of these things.’
‘I also took the liberty of inviting Sam Brockman to join our crew and make up the numbers.’
‘Sam Brockman?’ Bowen couldn’t help but look disappointed. ‘From the US Coast Guard?’
Kate noted the look on his face and smiled. Coast Guard. That was a laugh. More like bodyguard, just in case Bowen was thinking of trying anything when they were at sea.
‘Well, think about it. It would have looked odd with just me crewing,’ said Kate. ‘And after all, it is his department’s boat, at least until it goes up for auction. We’re going to pick him up at the Lake Mabel station on our way down to SYT’s cargo terminal.’
Bowen tried to feel positive about Sam Brockman’s imminent arrival on board. ‘I’m sure it’s a good idea. Especially with all his, um, nautical knowledge.’
But Kate hadn’t finished. ‘That does of course mean that when we’re in company we ought not to be too familiar with each other. I’ll call you sir, as usual. Everyone’ll assume you’re just another Miami plutocrat with more money than sense. Sir.’
‘I’ve no problem with any of that, Kate.’ Bowen was already thinking of a way to exploit his new status as a rich boat owner. ‘You know what? I’m going to find a bathroom.’
‘Head, sir.’
For a moment Bowen couldn’t believe his luck.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘On board ship, sir, we call the bathroom the head.’
‘Oh. The head. Whatever. Well, that’s where I’m headed, anyway.’ He laughed. Now he had thought of a way. ‘Then I’m going to find me a cold beer and, like any convincing plutocrat with more money than sense, I’m going to put my feet up for a while and I’m going to watch the big game on TV.’
‘We really ought to finish our tour of the boat, sir,’ advised Kate. ‘There’s still a lot you should know about. The engines. The communications system. The ship’s computers.’
Bowen shook his head. ‘Kate? The only thing I want to see right now is the Chiefs taking the Dolphins apart.’ Noting Kate’s expression, he added, ‘I’m from Kansas, remember?’ He walked back down the steps. ‘Let me know when we’re underway, Captain. I’ll be in my quarters.’
Kate watched him go, mouthing a silent ‘asshole’ at Bowen’s back. A second or two later she had the satisfaction of hearing him fall down the circular stair connecting the midship accommodations deck with the formal salon and dining room.
‘Asshole,’ she said and climbed the portside companionway to the wheelhouse skylounge, where she began to get to grips with the Carrera’s computer-based dynamic reporting system. She was almost disappointed to discover how easy it would be to sail the boat. With its exhaustive on-line diagnostic testing and troubleshooting, the Carrera was so well equipped that even Bowen could have piloted it. And she wished that the part of her mission in which she was actually obliged to sail the boat could have lasted longer than the few minutes it would take to cruise down to Port Everglades.
Kate started the engines and then went out on deck to pull up fenders. She might have asked Bowen for help except for the inevitable joke that it would have produced:
Now Kate, you don’t have to worry about fending me off...
Kate’s lip wrinkled with distaste. ‘Not any more,’ she said, and began to pull on a rope she wished had been knotted around Bowen’s stupid neck.