Harry & the Bikini Bandits
Page 7
The dawn came.
CHAPTER 16
AND WITH IT CHARITY. NINETY-TWO SUN-scorched pounds. Blonde as a new chick. Eyes as clear and gray as gull wings. From Birmingham. England. We found her on a rubber raft.
It began with the frigate bird. A big bird soaring overhead and bombing us with white turds. Harry roared with laughter while we ducked.
“The best of luck! Oh by God the best of luck!”
Not in my book. Still there might have been something to it for the bird was no sooner gone than Charity appeared. A yellow splinter on the blue-blue sea. Bobbing. Sitting primly on her rubber cushion. Waving at us as casually as if she were on a park bench. What ho, chaps. All that sort of thing.
Hauled her aboard. Raft and all.
“Jolly good of you.”
“Not at all. Just happened to be sailing by. Glad to be of service.” He bows gallantly. Sir Walter Raleigh. Straightens up. Puts on his ape face. “Now just what the fuck are you doing out here anyway?”
“Waiting for someone to come along, luv.”
“Obviously. Where’s your ship?”
She gestures vaguely toward the horizon with a thin red arm. “Thataway.”
“Sunk?”
“Good lord, I should hope not.”
“Then what are you doing out here on a raft?”
“Got tired of it all. Decided to get off.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
“You’re about forty miles from the nearest land, you blinking limey idiot.”
She gathers herself together and gives him the benefit of her gull-wing eyes. “No need to be abusive. I can always get back into the raft, you know.”
Harry grins. “You would too.”
“Did it once, friend.”
“Come in out of the sun,” said Miss Wong. “Would you like to lie down?”
“That I would.”
“Show her, Clay.”
I led her forward. Told her my name.
“Mine is Charity Smeeton.”
“You mean you were on a boat and you just took off on the raft?”
“Exactly.”
“What happened? I mean on the boat?”
“Just couldn’t stand the chap I was with. Waited until they were all snoring and then blew up the raft and slid it over.”
“Without any water?”
“Didn’t think of it. But I could do with a drink now.”
I filled a glass for her.
“Nothing stronger?”
“We have a little rum.”
“Right on.”
She drank it off, wrinkled her nose, and fell asleep.
We sailed on. By midafternoon New Providence was in sight and Charity still slept. A water tower like a giant silver ice cream cone popped over the horizon. White and pink buildings and a fringe of trees. Ocean liners like a cluster of ducks. Hustle and bustle.
“Smeeton,” said Harry.
“Yes, skipper?”
“What happened to you on that yacht you were on? Chaps always wanting to boff you?”
“Oh that. Well yes that of course. But I wouldn’t jump ship for that.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course not. Rather to be expected after all.”
“What then?”
“Talk. Yammer. Drive one mad.”
“How did you get in with them in the first place?”
“Was on another yacht. Great pig of a motor sailer. Boff boff boff all the way across the Atlantic. Yammer too. Very boring actually. Walked ashore in Barbados and never went back. Sort of hitch-hiked up to Nassau. Met these other chaps on Chris-Craft. Obscene vessel with chromium tits. Asked me if I wanted a ride.”
“Where were they going?”
She shrugged. “Never asked, actually.”
“You have any dough, Smeeton?”
“Dough?”
“Bread. The wherewithal.”
“Not a shilling.”
“What now?”
“Something will turn up.”
“Sleep here tonight, if you like.”
“Good-o. Kind of you.”
“Oh shit,” said Harry.
Hellish tide against us. Barely moving. Palmer groans into life and we inch forward past cruise ships and over bar. Battery of cameras clicking away. Local color. Native sailing vessel. Something to tell Aunt Gertrude on those long winter nights in Des Moines. Still, as Harry said, it was their film and no skin off our ass.
We are inside now. A real port, the first we have come to. Dredges, markers, channels.
“Take a good look at all this, Clay. We might have to run it in the dark sometime.”
And he gave me an enormous wink.
“Over there on Paradise Island is the casino,” said Harry.
“Where do we tie up?”
“We don’t. Drop the hook like real bleeding sailor-men.”
“What about a shower?” said Miss Wong.
“With all this water? Are you mad?”
“It would be nice to stretch one’s legs now and then.”
“We’ve got a raft. Nice new yellow raft. We can row ashore in that.”
We pass under the high-arched bridge that goes across from Nassau to New Providence. Native sloops loaded with chickens, goats, crates of Coca Cola bottles. MGs and Austins crawling along the narrow road like a river of ants. Hertz. Avis. Civilization.
“Drop the hook, Clay.”
Down she goes into the clear water. Watch the fluke bite. We swing with the tide and round up. Canvas slatting.
“Down sails, Clay.”
I let the halliards run and everything comes down with a clatter. Furl them loosely and tie the gaskets. Soft sea breeze. Hondas, bicycles, straw hats. Jezebel has somehow made it again. Fine old girl. I am getting rather fond of her.
“I must have a bath,” said Miss Wong.
Harry gestured over the side.
“In fresh water.”
“Row her ashore, Clay.”
I put over Charity’s yellow raft and rowed Miss Wong over to the yacht club landing. Some very fancy rigs tied up there. Skippers and crews rush to the rails to watch Miss Wong go by. She floats by, towel in hand, haunches moving like oiled silk. I wonder if Harry is boffing Charity Smeeton.
I used a hose on the dock to rinse off. Miss Wong emerged gleaming, a yellow rose. She has washed her long black hair and it hung down her back to her tiny waist. For no good reason she gave me a hug and kissed my cheek. Bath oil. Delicious. Crowds at the windows to watch her go. Creates more stir than an earthquake.
Bought a conch from an old man with black toes six inches long. Reminded me vaguely of my darling Elvira. He strung the conch on a sliver of palm frond and all the while never took his eyes off Miss Wong. We strolled back while she twirled the conch from her little finger. Rowed back. Miss Wong has given herself a pedicure. Her little pink toes peep out at me like bits of crabmeat. I want to suck on each one.
Charity and Harry are sitting in the cockpit listening to music on the ancient, hand-wound phonograph that Harry has dug out of the litter of junk in the forepeak. “Aquarius.” Charity regards us with a dreamy stare. Harry raises a languid paw. It takes me a little while to realize they are stoned.
Charity had it in her little red sea bag that was all she carried when she came aboard. Thin cigarettes pointed at both ends.
“Puff, luv?”
I shake my head.
Harry is indignant. “By God well have no two-faced, moralizing, hymn-singing missionaries on this vessel. Shape up or ship out, boy!”
All right then. I puff on the butt. Harry instructs me. Deep down. Hold it. Suck air only when you can’t stand it. Sharp taste. Cough-cough.
“Have you never smoked anything but cornsilk, you silly blighter?”
“Never.”
“God save the mark.”
I am beginning to feel it now. Something anyway. Charity was telling us about her trip a
cross on the motor sailer. Vessel owned by a thundering old bull dike.
What, I wondered, was that?
“Did you sleep with her?” asked Harry.
Charity shrugged.
With her blue eyes and golden hair and childish limbs she looks about twelve. She goes on with the story. Bull dike’s father had made all the money. Laxative pills. Bedlington’s Little Pinks. Never heard of them over here? Incredible. Find them on sale in the Gobi desert. Started making them in his kitchen in Belfast slum. Became a zillionaire and then a Member. Harry snickers. Charity giggles. Member of Parliament but famous for his member too. Picked up every other day exposing himself in the park. Said of him he was the only commoner in history who had opened his fly to the queen at an affair of state. Put the poor old boob away. Bull dike now in charge of funds. Let constipation flourish. Dike proposed marriage. Too awful. Loves the sea but not those who go out upon it. Present company excepted of course. Met these other chaps on the Chris-Craft. Three of them. Boffing her all the time. Bit much. Went off in raft. Stole their grass.
I am feeling dreamy. How can she have been through so much and still look like a child? Puts her hand in mine. Feel the bones beneath the flesh. Like holding a very small defenseless bird. Little lost child. Want to take care of her. Skin so soft a butterfly would bruise it. Half in love.
But then I am half in love with so many people these days. Mary Ann. Elvira McGee. Miss Wong. Now Charity.
Another puff and still don’t feel a thing. Except the music getting quite loud. All by itself. I mean no one has touched the old phono.
I like music but not as much as most kids. Rather be out throwing a ball. When I was seven or eight they tried me out for a Christmas pageant, but after I opened my mouth they demoted me to spear carrier. Never carried a transistor or tapes like some I know. Too big and dumb maybe. But tonight something has unplugged my ears. Hear every note like a bell. All very slow and easy like floating downstream in a canoe. Bounce over the riffles. Bubbles spark. Easy glides.
Charity, hand in mine, leans against my shoulder with closed eyes. She looks like Cinderella. Sly secret smile. Harry, too, in a world of his own. A nice world to judge from the expression on his face. Sometimes he looks arrogant, discontented. But not tonight. Tonight all men are friends and the world is at peace. The wind sighs in the rigging and the old girl swings to her chain. I can hear the water bubble in the bilge. She leaks and things break and she is stubborn as a mule against a head sea, but I am fond of the old tub. She has a certain style. And she seems to get there no matter what.
I loved the boat and I loved them all. It no longer seemed to matter if the generator belt was broken. Or if the Palmer was asphyxiated. Or the masts fell down. Or the sails tore and the halliards parted. Or we robbed the casino or didn’t. We were all good friends and we could stay right there and listen to “Aquarius” forever.
Beautiful.
CHAPTER 17
“TO WORK, TO WORK,” SAID GROGAN, RUBBING his palms together. Regarded Charity with raving tic. “And who is this?”
“Picked her up at sea,” said Harry. “On a raft. Name of Charity.”
“Ah.”
“Professor Grogan, Charity Smeeton.”
“Smeeton. Smeeton. Once knew a Brigadier Smeeton. Sailed around the world on a Chinese junk. Shipwrecked in the Tuamotus. Married a native princess. Made a fortune in copra.”
“No relation.”
“Where can we talk privately, Harry?”
“Talk here if you like.”
“Well, I mean…”
“Charity? What about her? Think she’ll run off and blab to the fuzz? What for? Saved her life after all. Might even include her in the caper.”
“Eh?” said Charity.
“Thinking of cracking the local casino.”
“Cracking?”
“Heist.”
“Oh good show,” said Charity.
“Carry on, Grogan.”
Grogan mopped his sopping pants legs. I had rowed ashore for him in the yellow raft and he had half tipped us over. He was an awkward little man.
“Why don’t you take your pants off?” said Harry. “Sit around in the buff. Do you good.”
“Couldn’t do that, old boy.”
“Why not?”
“The ladies.”
“Nothing they haven’t seen before.”
Grogan’s tic jumped. “To business, please.”
“Meeting called to order,” said Harry.
“About the gas.”
“Ah, the gas. What about it?”
“All here in good order. That is…” again he looked doubtfully at Charity.
“Oh I don’t want to hear your nasty little secrets,” said Charity. “I’ll row about for a bit.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said. “Harry, you can tell me all about it later.”
“Well I didn’t mean to drive you off,” said Grogan.
Charity smiled. “Of course you didn’t, luv.”
We lowered the raft and rowed away. She leaned back against the rubber cushion and dangled her slim fingers in the water.
“Friends of mine did it once to an armored car,” she said.
“Did what?”
“Blew it up. Payroll. Fifty thousand pounds.”
“What happened to them?”
“All inside now. Did it for a lark, of course, but no one would believe it. Wouldn’t like to see you chaps go the same route.”
“Well I don’t really know how serious they are.”
“Oh they’re serious all right. That uncle of yours is a rather serious chap.”
“What, Harry?”
“Mmm.”
“I never would have thought of him that way.”
“Doesn’t want you to. Perfectly obvious. Take the boffing for instance.”
“What boffing?”
“When you and the tiger lady were ashore. Offered to boff him in exchange for a place to stay. Grinned at me and said he hadn’t got around yet to boffing children, but when he did he would let me know. Mark of a serious man, that.”
“I suppose so.”
“Believe me, luv. I know. If he says he means to jimmy the local casino, he will.”
“He certainly seems to trust you,” I couldn’t help saying.
“Chap works with instincts. Never go wrong with instincts. But who is the wee one?”
“Professor Grogan?”
“Mmm.”
“I’m not sure really. Some kind of professor of archeology.”
“I think he’s cute.”
“Grogan?”
“Mmm.”
No answer to that. No accounting for taste. Rowed around. She closed her eyes and slept. Rowed close to shore among cluster of parked yachts. Observed street signs, DOGFLEA LANE, SCRATCH ROAD. Native humor. Heard shouting. Three men on deck waving arms yelling. Charity looks up. Violet eyes. Very cool.
“Well there they are.”
“Who?”
She laughs and waves back. Men on the boat seem to be going nuts. Shaking fists.
“Those are the chaps I took the raft from. Suppose they want it back.”
“What should we do?”
“Fuck ’em.”
I dug in the oars and we shot away down wind. In and out among the moored yachts. Charity laughing. Tears of glee rolling down her cheeks. Embankment at the foot of the bridge. Culvert there five feet across. Tide rushing through. Who knows what’s on the other side? Soon find out. We shoot through into darkness. Pop out like champagne cork. All quiet. Row back to Jezebel. Can see Chris-Craft prowling up and down like fat hunting dog on far side of bridge. Lift Charity onto deck.
“What’s so funny?” asked Harry.
I told him.
“Get below.”
We duck down. Chris-Craft snuffling alongside.
“Hey there! You there! That’s our raft.”
“What raft?”
“That one right there. The yellow one.”
“Of course.”
“What makes you think it’s yours?”
“I know my own raft when I see it. Just let me come aboard and take a look at it.”
“You step on this boat and I will knock your fucking head off and tuck it under your arm.”
“Now wait a minute. Where’s the girl? We saw her.”
“You mean that fifteen-year-old girl you bastards were screwing?”
“Fifteen?”
“Next birthday. You can go to jail for a hundred and ten years, the three of you. The trial will make great reading. Your wives back in Fort Lauderdale will enjoy every word.”
“Now look here.”
“Shove off. Shove off and be grateful for small favors.” We heard the rumble of the twin 260s as they opened her up. Rooster tail and wake. Never looked back.
Charity threw her arms around Harry and kissed his cheek, her little nose lost in his beard.
“I love you. I love you all.”
“What about me?” said Grogan.
“Oh you too.” And she kissed the top of his head.
CHAPTER 18
“TONIGHT WE WILL TAKE A LITTLE TURN through the casino,” said Grogan. “Size things up, so to speak.”
Harry looked down at his jeans torn off at the knees. “In these?”
“Is that all you own?”
“I’ve got an old pair of white ducks somewhere but they have a little blue paint on the seat.”
“I see. And the ladies?”
Miss Wong shrugged. “When I dress up I usually wear one of Harry’s old denim shirts.”
“And you, young man?”
“I have a sweat shirt that says Peckinpaugh Corn Huskers on the back,” I said.
“Well then we will simply have to purchase new clothing.”
“Not on your mothering life,” said Harry.
“Think of it as an investment in a good cause, Harry. You can throw it all away as soon as the thing is done.”
“What will we need?”
“Shirts, ties, jackets. And dresses for the ladies. They simply won’t let us in without it. I suggest we go ashore now and get it over with.”