Virgin Cay

by Basil Heatter

  Dino sat motionless, his head turned away from her.

  “Dino,” she said in a softer voice. “Please look at me, Dino.”

  He continued to ignore her.

  “Won’t you even talk to me?”

  “Get out.”

  “I must talk to you. You’ve got to give me a chance to explain.”

  He leaped to his feet so suddenly that she backed away. “All right then,” he said. “If you won’t get out, I will. And to hell with you!”

  The door slammed behind him. She sat down on the bed telling herself it would be all right. He would come back. He had, after all, nowhere else to go.

  Dino walked along the white shell road to the village. He entered the Flame Club and sat down at the bar. It was early in the day and the place was empty but it was cool and dark and suited his mood.

  He stared at his face in the mirror behind the bar. How would he size up that face if it belonged to a stranger? It would not be hard. He was a type. The Portofino, Nice, Cannes type. A stock model. You saw them at all the resorts lying in wait for very young girls or ageing widows. The hair was always a bit too long and the shirt was usually open halfway down the chest to expose the bronzed skin. Often there was a medallion on a thin gold chain around the neck. Or if it was not the exposed chest bit then it was the open collar and blue blazer and silk square-knotted at the throat. And always there were silk slacks fitting at the hips as though they had been sewed onto the wearer. And, of course, suede shoes pointed in the Italian style. And the eyes—vacant, opaque eyes that automatically translated everything they saw into terms of money. The eyes were like one of those American Express cards that immediately converted dollars into francs and lire at the current rate of exchange. And the mind was like that of a concierge or a headwaiter or a whore—trained to distinguish at a glance between those who possessed genuine wealth and the others who were simply off on a weekend toot.

  Oh yes, he decided, I am a stock model identifiable at once by anyone who has had a little experience with the type. And, like all of them, selling one commodity. Sex. In all its fascinating and endless ramifications. I am the male equivalent of the rich man’s mistress—flirtatious, elegant, vacant and always a little dangerous for the unwary or the inexperienced. A man with only one thing to sell—myself. And the product must always be available for women like Clare…

  He had deluded himself that with Gwen he could break the mold and look at himself in the mirror and see not a goddamned half-assed fairy, but a man. Well that final illusion was destroyed now and he was back where he had started. Even this last scene with Clare was play-acting, and they both knew it. She had let him off the leash for a bit of a run, but by God when she blew that whistle he had better scamper right back to momma.

  In this bitter moment of self-revelation he wanted to pick up his glass and hurl it at the handsome face in the mirror. What kept him from it was the knowledge that it would be at once overly theatrical and expensive. Money would soon be a problem again. By the end of the week he would have to make a decision—whether to leave Spanish Cay or go back to Clare. But how—even for a trained whore like himself—would it be possible to conceal the hatred and contempt he now felt for her?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Caldwell, head of Florida Yacht Sales, came charging out of the office with outstretched hand when he heard that Robinson was in the waiting room. “Gus, old man. Where the devil did you spring from?”

  “It’s kind of a long story, Ed, and I’m in a hurry. I’ll tell you some other time.”

  “I don’t know what all the rush is but I hope you’re not in too much of a hurry to have a drink,” Caldwell said leading the way into his office.

  “Hell, no.”

  The yacht broker pushed back a section of paneling in the knotty pine wall and revealed a built-in bar and refrigerator.

  “Very impressive, Ed,” Robinson said. “What’s in the other wall? A swimming pool or half a dozen blondes or both?”

  “Nothing so exciting. I’m afraid it’s just a wall. But I must say you’ve given me an idea.”

  Robinson took the glass Caldwell offered him and looked around the room and said, “Well anyway it’s pretty posh. The brokerage business must be good.”

  “It’s terrific.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Aren’t you drinking?”

  Caldwell shook his head. “Not in the middle of the day and not when I’m working. If I started drinking now I’d be dopey all afternoon.”

  “So all this elaborate layout is just for customers.”

  “And friends.”

  “I might be both, Ed.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re tired of old Charee.”

  “She’s sunk,” Robinson answered flatly.

  As briefly as possible he told him how the ketch had gone down.

  “I’m sure sorry to hear that, Gus,” Caldwell said. “Charee was a sweet little boat. Anyway, you were damned lucky to get ashore.”

  “I want another boat, Ed, and I want it in a hurry.”

  “It’s tough to find a real bargain right now. Everybody and his mother seem to have been bitten by the boat bug. I’ve never seen anything like it. We’ve done more business in the past year than we did in five years previously. But I’ll show you our listings and then if you give me a few days to look around I’ll see what else is available.”

  “What about Senegal?”

  “She was sold two months ago to some hot shot in Palm Beach.”

  “Will he sell?”

  “You can buy anything for a price, Gus, but the price will be steep.”

  “How much?”

  “Well he paid twelve five and I guess it’s a little too soon for him to have gotten tired of her. And he’s put a little money into her—stainless standing rigging and a new genoa. I doubt if he’d listen to anything much under fifteen thousand.”

  “Make him an offer.”

  “Of what?”

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  Caldwell pursed his lips in a soundless whistle and said, “Charee must have gone down right over one of those old Spanish bullion wrecks.”

  “That’s part of the long story. Anyway, I have the money and I want Senegal.”

  “You don’t even want to see the boat before making an offer?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I know what she’s like.”

  “Why the big blitz, Gus? Can’t you take a few days on it? That’s a powerful lot of money.”

  “I want to get back to sea. I’d like you to make him the offer today.”

  “Okay, chum. It’s your dough. I’ll call him right now.”

  Caldwell dialed a number and Robinson heard him say, “Mr. Marple, this is Caldwell at Florida Yacht Sales. An old friend of mine is in town and he wants to make you an offer on Senegal. That’s right, I told him you hadn’t listed it for sale but he wanted me to call you anyway. Yes, I know you’ve put some money into her. He’s offering fifteen thousand.” Caldwell turned to Robinson and said, “He wants to know if that’s cash, Gus.”

  Robinson nodded.

  “Fifteen thousand cash, Mr. Marple.” Caldwell listened to the answer and then said, “No, I don’t think he’d be interested in anything like that but I’ll pass it on to him and if he has a counterproposal I’ll call you back.” He hung up and turned to Robinson and said, “What a crook!”

  “What does he want?”

  “Eighteen thousand. A measly profit of five and a half thousand just for holding the boat for two months. Of course he knows he’ll never get it but he’s just gutty enough and rich enough to think he might pull it off. Forget it. I can do a lot better than that for you with some other boat. How about a nice little Rhodes Weekender? There’s a sweetheart up at St. Pete and on that one I can guarantee you the price is right. Take a few days to look around, Gus. This is no way to buy a boat.”

  Robinson shook his head. “Call Marple back and tell him I’ll take the boat at his price.”

  Caldwell
shrugged and said, “You always were a stubborn cuss. Okay, it’s your dough.”

  “There’s only one thing. Tell him I want the whole deal completed today. Tell him to get a bill of sale ready and I’ll take the afternoon train up there to Palm Beach.”

  “What did you do, Gus? Stick up a bank somewhere?”

  “Sure. Get on the phone, Ed.”

  Caldwell completed the transaction and when he had hung up he said, “Now I’ll have that drink. After all, you don’t buy a boat every day. Or do you? Hell, Gus, you know I’m busting with curiosity. Can’t you tell me what this is all about?”

  “Sorry, Ed.”

  “Well, if you won’t discuss your shady past at least tell me about the future. Where are you going after you have the boat?”

  “I’m putting to sea the day after tomorrow but I won’t know where I’m going till I get there.”

  “How long are you going to go on this way, old boy?”

  “What way?”

  “Knocking around the globe. Don’t you ever feel the urge for a wife and kids?”

  “Occasionally, but I do my best to fight it down. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching some broad making love to herself with a cake of soap on teevee and then go out to wash the car on Sunday afternoon and eat nonfattening ice cream and wear plastic pants and live in a goddamned stainless steel, air-conditioned kennel.”

  “All the same, you can’t live on a boat forever, Gus.”

  “I don’t see why not, but even if you’re right the house I want won’t be here. It will be made of natural wood and it will be open on all four sides to let the breeze blow through and there won’t be any windowpanes or screens because it never gets cold and there aren’t any bugs.”

  “I’ll have to admit it sounds good. Where is this paradise?”

  “In the valley of Paea in Tahiti. And if I do get stuck with kids I won’t need any diaper service because they can run bare-ass through the woods and wash in a waterfall. And from my front porch I’ll be able to see the mountains of Moorea and there is nothing in this world more worth while for a man to look at than a sunset over Moorea. But if I ever do get tired of looking at it then I can look at Senegal moored in the lagoon and maybe get on board and go away for six months and see how the sunsets look on the other side of the world. You can take ‘Gunsmoke’ and ‘Rawhide’ and ‘What’s My Line?’ and all the other juvenile crap you call civilization. I’ll take Moorea any day.”

  “I know money is no object to you these days but I’ve been wondering what you plan to live on while the sun is going up and down over Moorea.”

  “I might marry a rich woman,” Robinson said. “I’ll require that she own at least five pigs and a couple of goats. If you go barefoot and shirtless and there are no movies and the food grows on trees, what the hell do you need money for?”

  “I guess you’re right but it’s kind of a shame,” Caldwell said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a funny coincidence that you should come walking in here today. I was just thinking this morning of some way to get in touch with you. As a matter of fact, I wrote to you a couple of times in the past few months but I guess your mail never caught up with you. Or did it?”

  “No,” Robinson said. “What was on your mind?”

  “I wanted you to go into business with me.”

  “Hell, Ed, you know I’m no businessman.”

  “I know you’re not but I am. The thing is, you probably know as much about sailing auxiliaries as any man in the world. As I told you, the boat business is terrific. With the roads as crowded as they are there’s damned little fun left in automobiles any more and so more and more people are turning to the water. Most of them start out with those damned little Fiberglass outboards with fins sticking up all over them, but eventually they learn what it’s all about and they want to move on to cruising and real sailing. It’s my guess that in another year or two, barring some major financial calamity, there will be a tremendous market for a really good, sound auxiliary in the 28-to 35-foot class. And that’s where you come in. With your experience you know exactly what ought to go into a boat of that sort. I figured you could design the boats and Charlie Edwards over at Miami Shipbuilding could build them and I know damn well I can sell them. It would make a great combination, Gus.”

  “I don’t see what you need me for, Ed. There are plenty of damn fine naval architects around who could do the job for you.”

  “Of course there are but I have something more in mind than just a design. I want to exploit your name as well. There’s a lot of romance attached to a man who has sailed singlehanded across most of the world’s oceans. To the average weekend sailor that sort of accomplishment is on a par with climbing Mt. Everest. He’ll never do it himself and he probably wouldn’t want to if he could, but he’s willing to pay handsomely to share in the experience of the man who did. In addition to which he’ll get a little vicarious thrill out of picturing himself at the helm of a boat designed by such a man. I see no reason why we shouldn’t cash in on your background just as I intend to cash in on my own selling experience and on Charlie Edwards’ experience in building boats. I still say it would be a great combination.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Ed. I always thought you had me figured for nothing more than a seagoing bum.”

  “That’s all you are,” Caldwell said, “but I plan to make a solid citizen out of you yet. Since I’m caught up in this rat race of earning a living and keeping up with the status symbols I don’t see why the devil you should be allowed to go and sit on a porch with some big-bosomed wahine and do nothing but enjoy the view of Moorea. And if money isn’t the right bait for you then I have a few other tricks up my sleeve. You’re coming to us for dinner tonight and I have a date for you. My sister-in-law. Twenty-seven, a knockout and freshly divorced. Let me work on you for a couple of days, Gus, and you’ll never know yourself. What do you say?”

  “I’m sorry, Ed, but it’s no deal. I’ll be in Palm Beach tonight on board Senegal. My regrets to your sister-in-law.”

  “You’re the most stubborn cuss I’ve ever met and you’re passing up a hell of an opportunity. Will you do me a favor then?”

  “Just so long as it doesn’t keep me from getting to that boat tonight.”

  “This won’t hold you up. I just want you to keep an open mind on it. Think about it. Let me know where you’re headed for and when you get good and lonesome I’ll send you a picture of the sister-in-law in a bikini. That ought to bring you racing back with your tongue hanging out.”

  “I thought you were running a yacht brokerage here, Ed, but I guess I’m wrong. It’s a goddamned marriage bureau.”

  “We’ll talk about it some more on the way up to Palm Beach.”

  “Are you going with me?”

  “I’m personally driving you up. You happen to be a very important customer. I don’t turn over an eighteen thousand dollar deal every day in the week, you know, and if I let you go off by yourself you might change your mind and decide to sock it away in a motel in Ft. Lauderdale.”

  “Suit yourself, but if you’re going let’s go.”

  “I never saw a man in such a hurry to get rid of his money. That dough must be hotter than hell, Gus.”

  Caldwell had the top down on the Buick. As they drove north on One they passed orange juice stands, monkey jungles, parrot jungles, snake farms, seaquariums, glass blowers, wax museums and a seemingly endless parade of hideous gingerbread motels—jerry-built horrors laid out back to back with every sound from fornication to defecation seeping through their cardboard-thin walls. And beyond the motels, mile after mile of concrete-block housing developments thrown up on government mortgage money with the full knowledge that they would have long since crumbled apart before the final payment was made. And dominating the whole scene—triumphant in the tepid air—a forest of television antennas sucking in mass culture through their hollow steel fingers.

  Caldwell, accustomed to this nightmare la
ndscape, drove through without giving it a thought, but to Robinson it was a scene straight out of hell. Any brief temptation he might have felt in regard to Caldwell’s offer vanished in a miasma of pink stucco and melting tar and nylon-girt buttocks.

  Senegal was lying at the far end of a pier that fronted on Lake Worth and the towers of West Palm Beach. The yawl rode the blue water as lightly as a gull. With her dazzling white topsides and gleaming mahogany deckhouse she was perhaps more of a yacht than Robinson fancied but he did not hold these affectations against her fundamental soundness and beauty of line.

  Thirty-four feet long and generous of beam, she still had a racy look that promised a good turn of speed. Her deckhouse, while ample and offering full headroom, was not high enough to spoil her appearance, and though she had a bit more glass in her than he liked in a heavy sea he knew from long experience in the tropics how welcome that extra ventilation would be when he was anchored in some harbor.

  All in all he was more than pleased with what he saw. To a sailor it is the first impression that matters. Unless he falls in love with a ship at first sight his heart will never really go out to her. And best of all she had been well kept up and was obviously ready for sea. Her lifelines were rigged in heavy, through-bolted stanchions and her rigging was stainless steel and dacron. Her sails were neatly furled under green canvas covers and lashed amidships was a small Fiberglas dinghy.

  Caldwell looked at Robinson’s face and saw the admiration in his eyes and, with the experienced broker’s sure instinct in these matters, remained silent. No one could sell Gus Robinson a boat. If he wanted to buy it he would, but certainly no one could sell him on it.