“We don’t guarantee results. And we don’t teach Latin. We try to teach acceptable social behavior such as the avoidance of profanity.”
“Well, goddamn it, I’m sorry. But the trouble I’ve had with that kid—”
“You’re going to have more, Mr. Whitfield.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’d better sit down and discuss it.” To Aragon she said, “I was about to deliver this envelope. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to do it for me. It’s a rush job and I may be occupied here for some time.”
Aragon had no choice. He took the envelope and departed. There was no exchange of goodbyes.
As he was walking toward the parking lot he looked back and saw Whitfield through the window, slumped in one of the leather chairs. His right leg was slung over the arm of the chair and his chin was resting on his fist. Upside down on the desk was his captain’s hat, a symbol of his store-bought authority.
Aragon left the envelope at Police Headquarters and drove down to the harbor. The harbormaster’s office was on the second floor of a small building beside the yacht club. From it the entire coastline could be seen for miles in either direction, as well as everything that was happening on the breakwater and the wharf and at the marina. The entrance to the harbor lay between the end of the wharf and the breakwater. Almost every day its depth varied according to the movement of sand by the tides and currents. In spite of almost continual dredging, the channel was sometimes blocked entirely for the larger craft. On many occasions the commercial fishing fleet had to wait at anchor outside the harbor while the other half was trapped inside like grounded whales.
Today the entrance was navigable. A ketch, still under power, was heading for the open sea, raising its mainsail. A boat that serviced the oil platforms was picking up speed as it left the five-mile-an-hour limit of the harbor.
The harbormaster, Sprague, an ex-Seabee, had had an indoor job for half a dozen years but it was too late to prevent the sun damage that mottled his face in the form of skin cancers. Now in his sixties, he had difficulty remembering names and faces but he never forgot a boat and he considered all the craft tied up in the harbor as his personal fleet. Only God and the weather outranked him.
He was on the phone when Aragon entered.
“Hold it, Wavewalker. I’ve had two more complaints against you for littering.”
“Hell, a few beer cans ain’t littering. They sink to the bottom.”
“Sure, and pretty soon you’ll be trying to float on a pile of rust. So clean up your act. Where are you heading?”
“The Ruby. She’s laying in her usual supply of caviar and Chivas Regal.”
“When will you be back?”
“As soon as possible. You think we like rolling around on this tub?”
“Get a horse.”
Sprague motioned Aragon to sit down. “What’s on your mind?”
Aragon offered one of his business cards. Sprague studied it for a moment, then dropped it on his desk.
“I’m interested in Peter Whitfield’s yacht,” Aragon said.
“Interested in what way?”
“I hear it’s heading for Ensenada tomorrow.”
Sprague raised his binoculars. They were very powerful and heavy and his hands shook as he adjusted the focus. When they steadied he said, “It looks as if they’re getting ready for something. They’ve taken off the sail covers.”
“May I see?”
“Go ahead. It’s the blue ketch Spindrift, Marina J, port side.”
Aragon took the binoculars. He had more trouble steadying them than Sprague had had, but eventually he could make out the large boat that bore the name Spindrift. Two men were on deck, dressed like twins in dark blue pants and blue-and-white diagonally striped T-shirts. One was folding the dark-blue covers that protected the sails from the weather; the other was sitting astride the boom.
He said, “What’s the little flag at the top of the mast?”
“That’s the burgee indicating the captain’s on board.”
“Who is the captain?”
“Whitfield likes to take the wheel but he doesn’t have his captain’s papers. The boat’s actually run by Manny Ocho and a couple of permanent crewmen. Whitfield calls himself captain. A lot of people do who hang around here. It’s a case of more captains than boats.”
“Would the burgee be flying if Ocho was on board without Whitfield?”
“No, no. Whitfield couldn’t allow that.”
“Can you get me in touch with the boat?”
“No problem.”
There was some delay in getting through to the Spindrift, then a man’s voice answered, “Yes.”
“Hi, Manny. What’s up?”
“Oh, Mr. Sprague. We pretty soon get under way.”
“No goodbyes, no farewell party?”
“Not this time, no sir.”
“Is the captain on board?”
“No. Wait... wait a minute—”
Another man’s voice came on the line. “You’re damn tootin’ the captain’s on board. Who wants to know?”
“Sprague. I’m just checking.”
“Yeah? Well, everything’s A-OK, Sprague, old boy. We’re off and running.”
“Where to?”
“The moon, man, the moon.”
“Hold it, please.” Sprague put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Aragon, “You want to talk to Whitfield? He sounds drunk.”
“I saw Whitfield less than half an hour ago and he wasn’t drunk,” Aragon said. “I’d better go out there and check things out.”
“Sure. I’d go with you but I can’t leave my post. Take the ramp nearest the breakwater. The gate’s open. These guys are always squawking about security but they leave the gates open for convenience.”
“Thanks, Mr. Sprague.”
“Sure. Tell Manny, next time I want a party.”
Some of the boats were owned by people who lived out of town. These seldom left the harbor. Others were used only on weekends and for the sailing races on Wet Wednesdays. A few were permanent residences, as permanent as the city’s bylaws allowed. A Monterey seiner was coming in loaded with fish, moving low and slow in the water, surrounded by a noisy tangle of gulls.
A lone pelican, sitting aloof and self-sufficient on the breakwater railing, viewed these barbarous antics with contempt. He didn’t need handouts, though he was not above accepting offerings from the fishermen who lined the breakwater. A pelican had occupied that same spot for years. Aragon and his school friends used to come down to the harbor on Saturdays and fish solely in order to feed the bird, flattered by its friendship. Perhaps it was the same pelican, or a son or grandson.
There wasn’t enough activity in Marina J for Aragon’s approach to go unnoticed. When he reached the Spindrift there was nobody on deck. The boat seemed suddenly deserted, though a radio was playing rock music in one of the cabins.
He called out, “Whitfield?”
He knew there were at least four people on board — Manny Ocho, the two crewmen and the man who had claimed to be Captain Whitfield — but none of them responded to his call. There was further evidence that the Spindrift wasn’t expecting visitors. The gangplank had been drawn up. When he’d first seen the ketch from the harbormaster’s office the gangplank had been down like a welcome mat.
“Captain Whitfield?”
There was a slight response this time. Someone turned off the radio. A dark-winged gull perched on the bowsprit let out a raucous laugh, then went back to his task of cleaning the oil off his breast feathers.
“Manny Ocho?” Aragon switched to Spanish. “What’s going on down there? Are you in trouble?”
Ocho started to reply but someone yelled, “Speak English, you bastard.”
“Chinga tu madre,” Ocho said.
“I told you, speak English.” The voice rose hysterically. “What’s that mean, that chinga business?”
“Guess.”
“I am guessing, you bad-mouthed little creep. I ought to kill you.”
“You need me, I not need you.”
Aragon was forgotten for the moment as the argument continued. Only a couple of feet of water separated the ramp from the deck of the Spindrift. He jumped it easily and landed on the deck. The door was closed to the forward cabin where the argument was taking place. Aragon pounded on it with his fist and there was immediate silence. Then the door was jerked open so violently that he almost fell down the steps into the cabin. After the glare of the sun it was dark and he could see very little at first. But the voice was recognizable, half whine, half bluster:
“Well, well, look who’s dropped in, my old pal that leaves his car keys in the ignition.”