The young girl behind the information desk was in her early twenties. She was blonde, quite attractive in clean-cut American style. She watched Carol with just a tinge of competitive jealousy as the journalist moved purposefully across the room. ‘Can I help you?’ she said with feigned cheer as Carol reached the desk.
‘I would like to charter a boat for the rest of the day,’ Carol began. ‘I want to go out to do a little diving and a little swimming and maybe see some of the interesting shipwrecks around here.’ She planned to say nothing about the whales until she had picked the boat.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ the girl responded. She turned to the computer on her left and prepared to use the keyboard. ‘My name is Julianne and one of my jobs here is to help tourists find the boats that are just right for their recreational needs.’ Carol noted that Julianne sounded as if she had memorized the little speech. ‘Did you have any particular price in mind? Although most of the boats here at Hemingway are private vessels, we still do have all sorts of boats for charter and most of them meet your requirements. Assuming of course that they’re still available.’
Carol shook her head and in a few minutes she was handed a computer listing that included nine boats. ‘Here are the boats that are possible,’ the girl said. ‘As I told you, there’s quite a range in price.’
Carol’s eyes scanned down the list. The biggest and most expensive boat was the Ambrosia, a fifty-four-footer that chartered for eight hundred dollars a day, or five hundred for a half day. The list included a couple of intermediate entries as well as two small boats, twenty-six-footers, which rented for half the price of the Ambrosia. ‘I’d like to talk to the captain of the Ambrosia first,’ Carol said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Where do I go?’
‘Do you know Captain Homer?’ Julianne replied, a strange smile starting to form at the corner of her mouth. ‘Homer Ashford,’ she said again slowly, as if the name should be recognized. Carol’s mind began going through a memory search routine. The name was familiar. Where had she heard it? A long time ago, in a news programme….
Carol had not quite retrieved the memory when the girl continued. ‘I’ll let them know that you’re coming.’ Below the desk counter on the right was a huge bank of relay switches, several hundred in all, apparently connected to a speaker system. Julianne flipped one of the switches and turned to Carol. ‘It should only be a minute,’ she said.
‘What is it, Julianne?’ a booming feminine voice inquired within about twenty seconds. The voice was foreign, German judging from the way the first word was pronounced. And the voice was also impatient.
‘There’s a woman here, Greta, a Miss Carol Dawson from Miami, and she wants to come down to talk to Captain Homer about chartering the yacht for the afternoon.’
After a moment’s silence, Greta was heard again, ‘Ya, okay, send her down.’ Julianne motioned for Carol to walk halfway around the circular desk, to where a familiar keyboard was sitting in a small well on the counter. Carol had been through this process many times since the UIS (Universal Identification System) was first introduced in 1991. Using the keyboard, she entered her name and her social security number. Carol wondered which verification question it would be this time. Her birthplace? Her mother’s maiden name? Her father’s birth date? It was always random, selected from the twenty personal facts that were immutable and belonged to each individual. To impersonate someone now really took an effort.
‘Miss Carol Dawson, 1418 Oakwood Gardens, Apt. 17, Miami Beach.’ Carol nodded her head. Julianne obviously enjoyed her role of checking out the prospective clients. ‘What was your birth date?’ Carol was asked.
‘December 27, 1963,’ Carol responded. Julianne’s face registered that Carol had given the correct answer. But Carol could see something else in her face, something competitive and even supercilious, almost ‘Ha ha, I’m years younger than you, and now I know it.’ Usually Carol paid no attention to such trivia. But for some reason, this morning she was uncomfortable about the fact that she was now thirty. She started to indicate her annoyance but thought better of it and held her tongue.
Julianne gave her instructions. ‘Walk out that door over there, at the far right, and walk straight until you come to Jetty Number 4. Then turn left and insert this card in the gate lock. Slip “P”, as in Peter, is where the Ambrosia is berthed. It’s a long walk, way down at the end of the jetty. But you can’t miss the yacht, it’s one of the largest and most beautiful boats at Hemingway.’
Julianne was right. It was quite a distance to the end of Jetty Number 4. Carol Dawson probably passed a total of thirty boats of all sizes, on both sides of the jetty, before she reached the Ambrosia. By the time Carol could discern the bold blue identifying letters on the front of the cabin, she had started to sweat from the heat and humidity of late morning.
Captain Homer Ashford walked up the gangplank to meet her when she finally reached the Ambrosia. He was in his mid-to-late fifties, an enormous man, well over six feet tall and weighing close to two hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was still thick, but the original black colour had now almost completely surrendered to the grey.
Captain Homer’s wild eyes had followed Carol’s approach with undisguised lubricious delight. Carol recognized the look and her reaction was one of immediate disgust. She started to turn around and go back to the marina headquarters. But she stopped herself, realizing that it was a long walk back and that she was already hot and tired. Captain Homer, apparently sensing her disapproval by the change in her gait, changed his leer to an avuncular smile.
‘Miss Dawson, I presume,’ the captain said, bowing slightly with fake gallantry. ‘Welcome to the Ambrosia. Captain Homer Ashford and his crew at your service.’ Carol reluctantly smiled. This buffoon in the outrageous blue Hawaiian shirt at least did not appear to take himself too seriously. Still slightly wary, she took the proffered Coke from his outstretched hand and followed him along the smaller side jetty beside the boat. The two of them then descended on to the yacht. It was huge.
‘We understand from Julianne that you are interested in a charter for this afternoon. We would love to take you out to one of our favourite spots, Dolphin Key.’ They were standing in front of the wheelhouse and the covered cabin area as they talked. Captain Homer was clearly already into his sales pitch. From somewhere nearby Carol could hear the clang of metal. It sounded like barbells.
‘Dolphin Key is a marvellous isolated island,’ Captain Homer continued, ‘perfect for swimming and even nude sunbathing, if you like that sort of thing. There’s also a sunken wreck from the eighteenth century not more than a couple of miles away if you’re interested in doing some diving.’ Carol took another drink from her Coke and looked at Homer for an instant. She quickly averted her eyes. He was leering again. His emphasis on the word ‘nude’ had somehow changed Carol’s mental picture of Dolphin Key from a quiet tropical paradise to a gathering place for debauchery and peeping Toms. Carol recoiled from Captain Homer’s light touch as he guided her around the side of the yacht. This man is a creep, she thought. I should have followed my first instincts and turned around.
The clang of metal grew louder as they walked past the entrance to the cabin and approached the front of the luxurious boat. Carol’s journalistic curiosity was piqued; the sound seemed so out of place. She hardly paid attention as Captain Homer pointed out all the outstanding features of the yacht. When they finally had a clear view of the front deck of the Ambrosia, Carol saw that the sound had indeed been barbells. A blonde woman with her back toward them was working out with weights on the front deck.
The woman’s body was magnificent, even breathtaking. As she strained to finish her repetitive presses, she lifted the barbells high over her head. Rivulets of sweat cascaded down the muscles that seemed to descend in ripples from her shoulders. She was wearing a low-cut black leotard, almost backless, whose thin straps did not seem capable of holding up the rest of the outfit. Captain Homer had stopped talking about the bo
at. Carol noticed that he was standing in rapt admiration, apparently transfixed by the sensual beauty of the sweaty woman in the leotard. This place is weird, Carol thought. Maybe that’s why the girl asked me if I knew these people.
The woman put the weights back on the small rack and picked up a towel. When she turned around Carol could see that she was in her mid to late thirties, pretty in an athletic sort of way. Her breasts were large and taut and clearly visible in the scant leotard. But it was her eyes that were truly remarkable. They were grey-blue in colour and they seemed to look right through you. Carol thought that the woman’s first piercing glance was hostile, almost threatening.
‘Greta,’ said Captain Homer, when she looked at him after her first glance at Carol, ‘this is Miss Carol Dawson. She may be our charter for this afternoon.’
Greta did not smile or say anything. She wiped the sweat off her brow, took a couple of deep breaths, and put the towel behind her neck and over her shoulders. She squared herself off to face Carol and Captain Homer. Then with her shoulders back and her hands on her hips, she flexed her chest muscles. With each flexure her abundant breasts seemed to stretch up toward her neck. Throughout this routine her astonishingly clear eyes evaluated Carol, checking out her body and clothing in minute detail. Carol squirmed involuntarily.
‘Well, hello, Greta,’ she said, her usual aplomb strangely absent in this awkward moment, ‘nice to meet you.’ Jesus, Carol thought, as Greta just looked at Carol’s outstretched hand for several seconds, let me out of here. I must be on a strange planet or having a nightmare.
‘Greta sometimes likes to have fun with our customers,’ Captain Homer said to Carol, ‘but don’t let it put you off.’ Was he irritated with Greta? Carol thought she detected some unspoken communication between Greta and Captain Homer, for at length Greta smiled. But it was an artificial smile.
‘Welcome to the Ambrosia,’ Greta said, mimicking Captain Homer’s first remarks to Carol. ‘Our pleasure awaits you.’ Greta lifted her arms over her head, watching Carol again, and began to stretch. ‘Come with us to paradise,’ Greta said.
Carol felt Captain Homer’s burly hand on her elbow, turning her around. She also thought she saw an angry glance from Homer to Greta. ‘The Ambrosia is the finest charter vessel in Key West,’ he said, guiding her back toward the stern and resuming his sales pitch. ‘It has every possible convenience and luxury. Giant screen cable television, compact disc player with quad speakers, automatic chef programmed with over a hundred gourmet dishes, robot massage. And nobody knows the Keys like Captain Homer. I’ve been diving and fishing these waters for fifty years.’
They had stopped at the entrance to the cabin area in the middle of the yacht. Through the glass door Carol could see stairs descending to another level. ‘Would you like to come down and see the galley and the bedroom?’ Captain Homer said, without a trace of the earlier suggestiveness. He was a clever chameleon, there was no doubt about that. Carol revised her earlier judgment of him as a buffoon. But what’s this business with muscle-bound Greta, whoever she is, Carol wondered. And just what is going on here? Why are they so strange?
‘No, thank you, Captain Ashford.’ Carol saw her opportunity to exit gracefully. She handed him what was left of the unfinished Coke. ‘I’ve seen enough. It’s a magnificent yacht but I can tell it’s much too expensive for a single woman wanting to spend a relaxing afternoon. But thanks a lot for your time and the brief tour.’
She started to walk toward the gangplank to the jetty. Captain Homer’s eyes narrowed, ‘But we haven’t even discussed price, Miss Dawson. I’m certain that for someone like you we could make a special deal….’
Carol could tell that he was not going to let her go without some additional discussion. As she started to leave the yacht, Greta came up beside Captain Homer. ‘It would give you something to write about for your paper,’ Greta said with a bizarre smile. ‘Something unusual.’
Carol turned, startled. ‘So you recognized me?’ she said, stating the obvious. The strange pair grinned back at her. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
Captain Homer simply shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘We thought maybe you were travelling incognito, or were looking for some special fun, or maybe even were working on a story….’ His voice trailed off. Carol smiled and shook her head. Then she waved goodbye, mounted the gangplank, and turned on the jetty toward the distant marina headquarters. Who are those people? she asked herself again. I’m certain that I’ve seen them before. But where?
Carol looked over her shoulder twice to see if Captain Homer and Greta were still watching her. The second time, when she was almost a hundred yards away, they were no longer in sight. She sighed with relief. The experience had definitely unnerved her.
Carol walked on slowly. She pulled the computer listing that Julianne had given her from a small purple beach bag. Before she could look at it, she heard a telephone ring on her left and her eyes lifted naturally to follow the sound. The telephone was ringing on a boat just in front of her. A husky man in his early thirties was sitting in a folding chair on the same boat. Wearing only a red baseball cap, a pair of swim trunks, dark sunglasses and some thongs, the man was intently watching a small television propped up on a flimsy tray of some kind. He held a sandwich in one hand (Carol could see the white mayonnaise oozing out between the slices of bread even from her distance of ten yards or so) and a can of beer in the other. There was no sign that he had even heard the telephone.
Carol moved closer, a little curious. A basketball game was in progress on the television. On about the sixth ring of the phone, the man gave a small cheer (with his mouth full of sandwich) in the direction of the six-inch picture tube, took a swig from his beer, and abruptly jumped up to answer the call. The telephone was underneath a canopy in the centre of the boat, on a wood-panelled wall behind the steering wheel and next to some built-in counters that appeared to contain the navigation and radio equipment for the boat. The man fiddled with the steering wheel unconsciously during the brief conversation and never took his eyes off the television. He hung up, issued another short cheer, and returned to his folding chair.
Carol was now standing on the jetty, just inches away from the front of the boat and no more than ten feet away from where the man was sitting. But he was oblivious of her, totally absorbed in his basketball game. ‘All right,’ he shouted all at once, reacting to something pleasing in the game. He jumped up. The sudden movement caused the boat to rock and the jerrybuilt tray underneath the television gave way. The man reached out quickly and grabbed the TV before it hit the ground, but in so doing he lost his balance and fell forward on his elbows.
‘Shit,’ he said to himself, wincing from the pain. He was lying on the deck, his sunglasses cocked sideways on his head, the game still continuing on the little set in his hands. Carol could not suppress her laughter. Now aware for the first time that he was not alone, Nick Williams, the owner and operator of the Florida Queen, turned in the direction of the feminine laugh.
‘Excuse me,’ Carol began in a friendly way, ‘I just happened to be walking by and I saw you fall….’ She stopped. Nick was not amused.
‘What do you want?’ Nick fixed her with a truculent glare. He stood up, still holding (and watching) the television and now trying as well to put the tray back together. He didn’t have enough hands to do everything at once.
‘You know,’ Carol said, still smiling, ‘I could help you with that, if it wouldn’t injure your masculine pride.’
Nick put the television down on the deck of the boat and began to reassemble the tray. ‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘I can manage.’ Obviously ignoring Carol, he set the TV back on the tray, returned to his folding chair, and picked up his sandwich and beer.
Carol was amused by what the man had clearly intended as a putdown. She looked around the boat. Neatness was not one of the strengths of the proprietor. Little odds and ends, including masks, snorkels, regulators, towels, and even old lunches from fast-food res
taurants were scattered all over the front of the boat. In one of the corners someone had obviously taken apart a piece of electronic equipment, perhaps for repair, and left the entire works a jumbled mess. Mounted on the top of the blue canopy were two signs, each with a different type of print, one giving the name of the boat and the other saying THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING.
The boat looked out of character for the sleek modern marina and Carol imagined the other boat owners reacting with disgust each day as they passed the Florida Queen. On an impulse Carol looked at the computer listing in her hand. She almost laughed out loud when she saw the boat listed as one of the nine available for hire.
‘Excuse me,’ she began, intending to start a discussion about chartering the boat for the afternoon.
Nick heaved an exaggerated sigh and turned away from his televised basketball game. The miffed look on his face was unmistakable. It said, What? Are you still here? I thought we’d finished our conversation. Now go away and let me enjoy the afternoon on my boat.
Carol couldn’t resist the opportunity to harass the arrogant Nick Williams (she assumed that the name on the computer listing and the man in front of her were the same, for she couldn’t imagine a crew member acting with such apparent confidence and authority on someone else’s boat). ‘Who’s playing?’ she said cheerfully, as if she had no idea that Nick was trying to get rid of her.
‘Harvard and Tennessee,’ he answered gruffly, amazed that Carol hadn’t got the message.
‘What’s the score?’ she said quickly, now enjoying the game that she had just created.
Nick turned around again, his quizzical look acknowledging his exasperation. ‘It’s 31-29 Harvard,’ he said sharply, ‘just before the end of the first half.’ Carol didn’t move. She simply smiled and returned his fierce stare without blinking. ‘And it’s the first round of the NCAA tournament and they’re playing in the Southeast Regional. Any more questions?’
Cradle Page 4
