“A series of lessons,” is how the dockmaster had put it. A series of lessons. “She wants to race in the Labor Day Regatta off of Whidby. I told her you were the finest skipper we had. Finest available skipper,” he had added, excluding himself from consideration. “I warned her that between your damn bicycle races and your combo”—the dockmaster always called the band a combo—“she would have to check with you about Labor Day.”
“One day at a time,” Jay had replied, to the obvious disgust of the dockmaster, who in turn had said, “That’s the attitude I can’t stand. It’s got no darned future in it. You young people gotta think about the future. It’s always me, me, me—now, now, now.” And with that he had huffed away.
Jay had checked with Jocko. Labor Day weekend was still free. He had felt like clicking his heels.
He made the mistake of glancing to his left, across to Pier K where The Lazy Daze was tied up. He had been varnishing on that boat last night when Linda had arrived. He wondered how a person could end up living with another person for so long, knowing the whole time it was wrong, and never do a thing about it. It had taken him until last night to do anything about it, and strangely enough he did not feel guilt now, just relief. For four years he and Linda had struggled to hold something together. Month by month their love had diminished. Month by month the problems had mounted. And Jay had never had the strength to do anything about it. That was it, he had realized last night after it was all over until that moment he had never found the strength. He felt so strong in so many ways. He had the legs of a champion, and could out-ride anyone in his age class. He had the strength to endure the hardships of playing original music in clubs for ten years, a strength of the mind. But strength of the heart? A weakling. He could give his love. No problem. But take his love away? Heaven forbid. He had stayed with Linda longer than he should have, and all because he had no strength of the heart. Or perhaps it was too much strength. He wondered: Is the strength in staying with somebody, holding on to the bitter end, or in being able to cut loose?
She had cried. Linda knew Jay Becker’s vulnerabilities. She wouldn’t go down without a battle—not Linda. Jay had always felt more like Linda’s trophy than anything else, and last night, when push came to shove, Linda had not been about to hand over the trophy without a final scene. So she had cried, and Jay Becker had found strength of heart, at last. He had waited for her to stop. Though he felt relief now, he also felt a distinct hollowness, a sense of loneliness, that he had not felt in yean. Perhaps it had been this loneliness that had kept him awake last night. Perhaps it had been his continual re-playing of the ugly scene with Linda. Perhaps it had been anticipation of what today might bring.
One day at a time, he thought. One minute at a time. He stopped by the bowsprit of the forty-two-foot ketch and studied The Lady Fine. She wasn’t the best ever made, nor the worst. He was hungry to have her out under sail, to test her and put her through the moves. Sailing, like bicycle racing or music, demanded one live a moment at a time. He gritted his teeth and knocked on the hull. He knew somehow that after this moment, things would never be the same.
“Hello,” spoke a voice with a German accent. She was backlit by the morning sun, and all he could make out was the sweeping line of her shoulders and the nervous tapping of her right foot. She moved toward him and suddenly the sun pierced his eyes, blinding him, but not before he caught a glimpse of her. She was wearing white pants and a pink-and-white collared blouse; her hair was brushed out and held back by a single barrette. “You must be Mr. Becker,” she said.
Jay felt himself standing there in cut-off blue jeans, a rugby shirt with a hole in the shoulder, and two-year-old Top-siders, and felt like dying. What had he been thinking? What kind of a damned fool impression had he planned on making dressed like a kid out of junior high on summer break? Here was a woman of the Riviera, of the Greek Islands, of Marina del Rey, West Palm Beach, and Cancun. Who was he? A hired hand here to win her a trophy for some oak-burl mantel in some goddamned castle in Bavaria.
“You are Mr. Becker, are you not?”
He was staring. “Yeah, yes. Jay Becker.” He climbed aboard and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She took the hand gently and they shook hands quickly. He noted that she had none of the calluses of a sailor. She was new to this. His hands, in contrast, were tough from fingertip to wrist. Between the music and the boats and the occasional bicycle spill, Jay’s hands were anything but tender.
She said softly, “I do not know whether the superintendent informed you, but I am hoping to learn how to sail. I would like to race The Lady in the Labor Day Regatta. It is not my boat, so the final decision will not be mine…”
“The decision?”
“Whether or not you skipper the boat…”
“I see…”
“The decision is not mine, but my… employer’s.”
And there it was, plain as day, Jay realized. The mystery. Her mystery. Whatever was bothering this woman had something to do with her “employer.” She had nearly choked on that word.
“So what do I do?” she asked innocently. She had the most vivid green eyes Jay had ever seen.
Only you,
You’ve got the eyes…
Lyrics. Always lyrics. He thought her eyes looked sad. Not a permanent sadness, but the presence of sadness, as if she had just finished a long, hard cry. He felt like taking her into his arms to comfort her. He wanted to say, “Tell me what’s bothering you. Tell me. I’ll listen.” Instead, he said, “Let’s have a look around.”
She followed him. She studied him. He stopped at every cleat, every winch. He tugged on this, pulled on that, pushed against the rail. He ran his fingers along the sailcloth, checking the stitching, banged on the teak, and ducked his head through the companionway and went below.
The Lady Fine was equipped as a pleasure craft, not a racer. He noticed an open briefcase on the counter that contained a telephone. He had seen them in catalogues. Fancy stuff. A portable phone. “Cellular phone?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Quite a luxury. It’s no good once you’re out to sea, is it?”
“No. I do not think so. The owner—my employer—does not like using the ship-to-shore radio.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“This is his.”
“All the comforts of home,” Jay said, noting the television, stereo, and video recorder. He could have added a comment about expensive taste: the TV was a Sony, the stereo looked like something from Star Wars; but everyone who owned a boat had to have bucks. The expression was: a boat is a hole in the water you pour your money into. It was not a new expression, and it did not surprise Jay to see all these luxuries. It was fancier than some, less than others. All relative. He pulled on the tiny closet door and noted that the latch needed repair. The door was loose, even when closed. It would clatter endlessly under sail. Jay had sensitive ears—he hated it when things clattered. He went forward to examine the sails. They were stored below the two forward bench/beds. There was a blue-and-white spinnaker, a genoa jib, and an extra mainsail in the bench to port. Stored to starboard he found the jib and some skin diving equipment: masks, snorkels, and spear guns. All the luxuries. “Do you dive?” he asked. When she didn’t answer he turned around. She was standing back in the galley watching him. “Do you dive?” he asked again. She seemed so frightened of him.
“No. I do not dive.”
“What does your employer do?”
She hesitated again. This time longer. “He is a businessman,” she replied finally. Then, changing the subject, she asked, “What do you think? How is the boat?”
“She’s a beauty.” Jay offered one of his patented smiles, to which he got no response. “Can’t tell much until we put her through the moves,” he said, thinking, Just like you. He stuffed the jib bag back into the hold and closed up the storage area.
Once they were topside Jay asked her, “What do you know about sailing?”
&nb
sp; “I have windsurfed before.”
“Great sport,” Jay said, lifting a seat-hatch in the cockpit and leafing through the contents somewhat carelessly. “Have you ever crewed before?”
“When I was younger,” she told him.
He turned to look at her, and again the sun was behind her, giving her an ethereal quality. Twice in a matter of minutes, he thought—twice in a matter of minutes you’ve looked more like a ghost than a person. “Your name,” he said, squinting in her direction. “What’s your name?” And despite the lighting he could sense her smile. When she spoke he knew she was smiling. He could hear it.
“Marlene,” she informed him. “Marlene Johanningmeir.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
She nodded, still smiling, and then put on her stone-sober face and looked away. He let the hatch fall shut, banging as it did. He noted that the sudden sound did not jolt her. She remained calm, her arms crossed. Her eyes caught the sun and seemed to glow. Perhaps that was all there was to her mystery: those eyes. Perhaps it was nothing more than appearance and his own runaway hormones. Perhaps.
“Should we take her out?”
She shrugged. “You will teach me?”
“Yes.” He paused. “I will teach you. Let’s take her out.”
“Tell me what to do.”
So he did.
***
A few minutes later Marlene tossed the bowline onto Pier L, and Jay backed the craft out of the slip, the diesel humming. A sea gull spooked and lifted off the top of a piling, its wings carrying it effortlessly into an indigo sky. The breeze caught Jay Becker full face and a smile curled his lips. He was aboard a fine boat with a beautiful woman, being paid to sail. There were others in glass towers not far from Shilshole Marina probably looking out right now and spotting the tiny vessel as it motored out past the long breakwater. Had his life taken a different turn it might have been him looking down from just such a skyscraper. It might have been him in the suit with a large desk, two phones, and a secretary. And he thought about that now, thankful for where he was. Despite his debt to Linda for the wrecked car, despite his eight hours at Shilshole and five with the band—every day—he felt gratitude overwhelm him. Who else was this lucky? Who else was being paid to sail today? Who else could win demanding bike races at thirty-one years of age? No, Jay Becker knew his fortune: he was a rich man, and he counted his blessings as he hollered forward and had Marlene pull in the inflatable bumpers and store them in the cockpit seats. He had his health, his friends. He had his dream, his optimism. He believed. What else was there?
They studied each other for the first hour out. Jay had no intention of forcing himself on her. The dockmaster had said a series of lessons; there was no sense in coming on strong and jeopardizing a week or more of this kind of work. So he held The Lady Fine pointing upwind and studied her sails.
He knew in the first fifteen minutes that The Lady would never win a race. He had entered plenty of regattas where a boat like this would be lost at the gun, a good five lengths out by the first buoy, out of sight by the end of the course. But that wasn’t his problem. He had been hired to make the boat move as fast as it could and give the woman aboard the chance to feel like she was part of the race. That much he could do.
Marlene had smiled once, a few minutes earlier, though it had seemed more a mistake than anything else. She had looked back at him, the green of her eyes mixing with the green of Puget Sound, her lips curled at the edges, her teeth peeking through briefly only to retreat back behind pursed lips. It had happened during a nice gust from the port side, and The Lady had lurched to starboard, causing spray to splash across their faces. That’s why she smiled, he figured, so he cinched in the mainsheet, cranked the jib’s self-tailing winch two clicks, and pointed her up a bit farther. Again The Lady heeled heavily to starboard, again spray tossed up over the gunwales and smacked them both in the face. But she didn’t smile at him, white-knuckling a teak rail instead. So Jay let the wheel slip to starboard and righted the boat, slowing it down and eliminating the spray. “What do you think?” he asked.
She looked back at him and he felt her holding back the smile, keeping it to herself. “It is fun, yes. But I am not learning. I want to learn.”
A woman of purpose, he thought. “Okay, deal. Come back here.”
Now the smile was genuine and her enthusiasm evident, and Jay suddenly realized that she had allowed herself to believe she might never get a chance at it. Perhaps, he thought, she had had to fight like hell just to get these lessons. Perhaps this was her only chance at “fun.” If that was the case then Jay would give her all the fun she could handle, for a pleased customer keeps coming back for more—and who could beat this for work? “Did you see the way I’ve been trimming the sails?”
She nodded.
“Here, I’m going to let her fall off some,” he said, quickly loosening both the mainsheet and the jib sheet and moving the bow of The Lady downwind a few degrees. The boat hesitated a moment. Then the mainsail snapped loudly and The Lady began moving smoothly again. “As I point her back upwind, trim the mainsail… just like windsurfing… you let me know when you think you’ve got it.” He spun the boat’s wheel to port and watched Marlene as she studied the luff in the mainsail and went about trimming it. He noted her concentration, and realized immediately that Germans and Americans were two different beasts. Her attention to detail, her determination, impressed him. This was important to her. Then he noticed that her pink blouse was spotted from the spray. Her hair whipped behind her, and he thought she looked quite at home on a boat. “Perfect!” he announced. “You’re a natural. Now the jib.” The Lady leaned back into a steep heel and Marlene squealed and smiled quickly. She saw him notice her smile and turned away from him.
Puzzled, Jay told her, “Nothing in the Boatsman’s Guide to Better Sailing that says you can’t enjoy it, you know.”
“Is this a book?” she asked, dead serious.
He shook his head, disappointed.
And then she laughed: one quick bark into the stiff breeze, eyes sparkling, teeth white. Jay felt his heart pound and then race away from him, like The Lady Fine jumping into a good heel. One smile. Look out for her, he warned himself, she’s a powerful one.
“Are you having fun?” she asked.
He wanted to answer her, but found himself staring into those green eyes and no words would come out. He nodded.
The spray hit them both at the same time. They laughed together, Marlene’s blouse wet and sexy, salt water running from Jay’s chin. He reached out and took her hand and placed it on the wheel.
Boom, boom, boom.
“It’s all yours,” he told her. And he slid out of the way and let her take control.
6
It had begun to rain and, even though a commonplace occurrence in Seattle, it seemed terribly symbolic to Kepella. Nature’s tears, wasn’t that what rain was? In the past few days he had photocopied and removed too many FBI files to count. Hidden in groups of three, he had scattered them around town in safe deposit boxes, lockers, and storage areas. It had begun. The “eyes only” material, printed in light blue ink so it could not be photocopied, he had read into a cassette recorder. He had enough information spread around this city to set the military complex back years. Decades perhaps. One man. He switched on his blinker, the green indicator light pulsing across his face. The thrill overwhelmed Kepella: action, real action!
There was no turning back now Just over twenty-five minutes ago he had been suspended indefinitely, pending further investigation of his car wreck. As expected, the committee was making a scapegoat out of him. His story had moved from page four to page two for the last three days. He was an unwilling celebrity, a target for the anger and animosity of thousands of total strangers. A Richard Nixon of Seattle. He had screwed up, and was not about to be forgiven. Just as Brandenburg had hoped.
Kepella turned right off of South Washington and onto 6th Street. When he reached South King he turned left an
d parked. The section of Seattle he was in is known as the International District, though many prefer to call it Chinatown, in spite of the variety of people who live there. The streets are not particularly clean, there are no fancy highrises, but there is a unique energy—like the energy in a hive of bees or a nest of red ants.
Kepella walked past a grocery store, the sign in Chinese characters. Through the rain-stained glass he noticed several women rummaging through the bins of roots and beans, scooping and weighing, marking and wrapping. A small, wide-eyed child held against a hip watched her grandmother shop. Kepella grinned spontaneously and winked at the child. Children had a way of making Roy Kepella smile.
Fu Won’s, a ratty bar on the north corner of South King and 8th Street, hadn’t been remodeled since the early sixties. But Kepella liked it. It was one of those places no other FBI agent would be caught dead in, the kind of place where you had to get to know people before they gave you the time of day. Everyone called the bartender Georgie. His real name was Lon Wong, but that name had been the cause of so many jokes and bar fights that Fu had ordered him to change his name to Georgie, and the name had stuck. What Fu said, went: he had the aura of a Buddhist monk, the toughness of a drill sergeant, the face and teeth of a man somewhat deformed. It was rumored that at the age of seventeen, in Bangkok, Thailand, Fu had slipped while running to place a bet at the Bangkok Sports Club. The Sports Club’s golf course was partly contained within a horse track. Golfers inclined to place a few baht on a thoroughbred would send a “boy” in with the cash. Fu and the other “runners” had long since abandoned the route to the betting cages sanctioned by the club. They chose the short-cut instead: straight across the track. Fu had been knocked down by Galloping Dream. He had been stepped on by Darling Dancer. Dancer had gone down with a broken leg. Miraculously, Fu, in need of two dozen stitches, had stood up and run. He knew that one didn’t drop a race horse and live to tell about it. He had not stopped running until he had reached Seattle. That had been forty-one years ago.
Blood of the Albatross Page 4