Winnie climbed aboard and went below to turn on the lights and start the engine. There by the galley, on the mahogany chart table, was a note in Tess Binder's handwriting. The note said: "Sailing well is the best revenge."
The harbor was quiet when Winnie hoisted sail. His was the only boat out this late. He wished there was more wind, but even in light air she responded.
She was a wonderful light-air boat. He tried not to think of anything until he reached the jetty.
He didn't want to sail her out on the ocean. It seemed a cruel and brutal thing to do. He was already beginning to think of her as a living thing, this quick agile sloop. So he merely pointed her toward the open sea and started the diesel. Then he went back on deck and dropped the inflatable dinghy over the side, letting it trail. He went below again and poured five gallons of gasoline over everything. When he was finished, he poured the other can over the deck, letting it puddle in the cockpit.
He tossed the empty cans into the dinghy, started the dinghy motor, and made sure it was securely tied. Then he climbed back on deck with the flare gun. He glanced down the hatch for only a second or two. He fired once and ran aft. There was a loud PLOOM! and fire burst out of the companionway within seconds. He got the dinghy untied just before the flames spread topside. It was correct what he'd always been told-the resin in a fiberglass boat burns extremely hot and is almost impossible to extinguish.
The burning boat powered out into the bleak infinite ocean, sails alight in the darkness, blazing through sapphire water. The moon had vanished for a while.
When Winnie walked into the office of the Harbor Patrol an hour later, he was greeted with skepticism. An Orange County sheriff's deputy said, "Your boat caught fire the same day you took it from the broker?"
"It was my own fault," Winnie said. "I bought a lotta gas for my dinghy and I accidentally dropped a can into the galley. The stove was lit."
The deputy obviously suspected a torching. He said, "And how much insurance did you have on this new boat, Mister Farlowe?"
"None," Winnie said. "Not a dime's worth."
That stunned the deputy, who said, "Damn! You should've gotten insurance before taking it out!"
"I've always been a loser," Winnie Farlowe said.
It was after ten o'clock when he arrived at Spoon's Landing. All the regulars hollered his name, and made a fuss, and shook hands with him the moment he entered. Guppy Stover was there and Bilge O'Toole with his turtle, Irma. Carlos Tuna was there with Regis, his stud turtle, who was in a carrying bag on the bar. Tripoli Jones was berating two Vietnam vets who worked at the boatyard next door.
Everyone said how good Winnie looked and how much they'd missed him. But they seemed to sense that he was much changed after two months of sobriety. In that they were all alcoholics, they were confused and threatened by such a change. But Spoon understood.
When everyone drifted off and Winnie was alone at the bar, Spoon said, "You sure look different."
"Yeah," Winnie said. "Gimme a Polish vodka on the rocks. Double."
Spoon's grin faded. He started to speak. He thought it over, then said, "Not here, kid. I don't want your business no more. I was hopin I'd never see you again."
"I read your warning, 'Alcohol can harm an unborn fetus.' Now gimme the drink."
Spoon started wiping the bar nervously. He said, "Why'nt ya give A. A. a try? Ain't ya had enough misery?"
"You got a liquor license on the wall," Winnie said, a throb in his voice. "I'm a paying customer! I demand a drink!"
"Okay," Spoon said. "May as well be me makes a few bucks off your corpse."
While Spoon poured the drink, Winnie went to the old Wurlitzer and dropped in a quarter. The drink was on the bar when he got back, a double shot of Polish vodka on the rocks. In a bucket glass. A sturdy honest bucket. Then Frank Sinatra began to sing.
It seems we stood and talked like this before We looked at each other in the same way then But I cant remember where or when.
Winnie Farlowe touched the glass. He left his finger mark in the condensation. A puddle was already forming around the base. He could smell it. American vodka smelled and tasted like nothing, but Eastern Europeans understood that vodka should have flavor and aroma.
The clothes you re wearing are the clothes you wore We smiled at each other in the same way then But I can't remember where or when.
Spoon pretended not to look at Winnie. He went to the other end of the bar and talked to Bilge O'Toole. In fact, several of the others tried not to look at him. Winnie didn't notice anybody. He was thirty-eight miles away, on a hill overlooking two lovely harbors, where a zephyr blew gently and he could smell jasmine mingled with the gardenia in her hair.
And so it seems that we have met before And laughed before and loved before But who knows where or when.
When Spoon looked up again, Winnie Farlowe was gone. Spoon moved quickly back down the bar. The bucket glass was still full.
The saloonkeeper picked it up, toasted the empty doorway and said, "Okay, kid, you made it through one more day."
Spoon drank the Polish vodka himself, then said to Tripoli Jones, "Hey, this ain't too bad. Them Polacks can do something besides go on strike!"
While everyone was watching the big TV, while the Dodgers were rallying from a two-run deficit, Carlos Tuna's stud turtle, Regis, crawled out of his leather carrying sack with a blink of surprise. Bilge O'Toole had left Irma on the bar, dozing in a saucer of beer. Regis eyed the sleeping Irma with a sidelong reptile glance. Then Regis began creeping stealthily along the bartop.
the Golden Orange (1990) Page 30
