The Big Score

by Kilian, Michael;

  Poe didn’t rise until midmorning. He’d washed, shaved, and changed clothes, but still looked haggard. Matthias guessed he’d had a nightcap or two before retiring. It seemed quite unlike the man to let his discipline go like that. Perhaps he was trying to be like Ted Turner, who’d mugged for the television cameras after winning the America’s Cup with a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

  “Shit,” said Poe, looking to the east, “the bastard’s still there.”

  “I expect he may even get ahead of us again,” Matthias said. “But not by much. Anyway, my hope is to leave him behind for good when we make the turn to the west. I’m afraid we’re going to have to take another gamble.”

  “What’s that?”

  Matthias called for one of the crew to fetch him a chart. When he had it spread out on his lap, he pointed out their present position, which was lying off the Door County town of Bailey’s Harbor.

  “Between the end of the peninsula here and this big island—Washington Island—is le Strait des Mortes, the gateway to Green Bay. Translated, it means ‘the Strait of Death.’ In English it’s called ‘Death’s Door Passage.’ Very dangerous water for big boats like these. Lots of rocks and shoals. There are a lot of shipwrecks on the bottom. Centuries ago hundreds of Indians were drowned there when their war canoes got caught in a storm.”

  “How dangerous?”

  “It’s fine if you stick to the middle and follow your chart, but that’ll cost time. If you cut sharply southwest and run close in shore here by Gill’s Rock, you can grab yourself a great big lead—unless, of course, you hit a shoal and founder. I can’t envision the commodore trying to follow such a course. He has a somewhat deeper draft than we do, and he really loves that boat.”

  “You don’t think I love the Lady P?”

  “You hardly know her.”

  “I love my ass. I sure don’t feel like joining all those dead Indians. How are you going to avoid those rocks and shoals?”

  “I’ve sailed these waters. I’ve sailed this race five times. The chart’s pretty well marked. Beyond that, I’ll post a lookout in the bow pulpit and keep a close watch on the water ahead. And maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to pray, if that’s something you do.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ve done it before,” Cindy said. “Made the close run by Gill’s Rock.”

  Poe stared at her. She wasn’t giving him any choice. Peter Poe couldn’t be shown to have less balls than some twenty-eight-year-old blond Yuppie.

  “I want to win the fucking race, Captain,” Poe said. “Let her rip.”

  Matthias wished he had chosen a better word.

  The sun was sliding into its afternoon phase, dappling the waves ahead with shimmers of reflected light as Matthias smoothly turned the wheel and the gliding bow swung toward the broad expanse of water separating mainland from island. The commodore’s boat, ahead and to the right, had made the course change just before, apparently headed for the middle of the passage. Matthias followed meekly along, doubtless making the commodore feel supremely confident. There were pine trees all along the shore, which was also marked by slate-gray cliffs. The wind had moved slightly to the northwest and freshened. Poe could see waves breaking beneath some of the rock outcroppings along the coast.

  “When are you going to do this?” he asked.

  Matthias pointed ahead. “As soon as we get by that headland. It won’t be long.”

  Matthias had ordered everyone into life jackets, and Poe had put one on, as well. He wondered where to position himself through this ordeal, deciding to stand by the cabin bulkhead. There was a handhold to grip without too much obviousness, and he’d be near the rail in case they had to abandon the boat. The water up this far north would be cold, but it was hardly freezing.

  His vantage spot gave him a clear view over the bow. He decided it couldn’t be much worse than the times he’d flown through thunderstorms. He’d done that, all on his lonesome, and survived handily.

  He heard Matthias call out the course change. The bow swung again, the mainsail and jib billowing farther out over the side. The young man in the pulpit was peering through binoculars. Other crew members were using binoculars as well.

  Matthias was not. His eyes—temporarily, Poe hoped—were on the commodore’s boat.

  “He’s holding steady to his course!” Matthias said. He was grinning. “He must think we’re crazy.”

  Poe grinned back. He felt like having yet another drink, but pushed that idea away. He was very mad at himself for having such a rotten hangover on a day like this.

  The Lady P sailed resolutely on. If it happened, Poe realized, it would be all of a sudden. Until then, everything would be as smooth as a Sunday cruise. Poe wondered if they should reduce sail and proceed more slowly and cautiously—but, hell, going fast was what this ballsy maneuver was all about.

  He cursed himself for not having taken a video camera aboard. One way or another, this was going to be history.

  The one jutting headland had given way to another, larger one. Matthias seemed to be steering directly for it. The shoreline was much nearer. Poe could hear the waves.

  How fast were they going? Twelve, fifteen knots? As ordeals went, this one was taking painfully long. A dentist’s drilling would seem a real zip after this.

  How would Diandra stand up to something like this? How would Mango? He could see her standing on top of the cabin, hands on her hips, laughing her head off. That girl was completely nuts.

  Sometimes.

  Seagulls were circling overhead, as Poe thought upon it, like vultures. He’d seen the gulls picking over dead fish on the beach at his casino. Would they eat dead humans washed up on shore? They were scavengers. They’d eat anything.

  For all his concentration, the lookout’s cry caught Poe by surprise. He didn’t understand what was happening. Nobody moved but Matthias, who jerked the wheel to starboard. The others stared to port. What did they see?

  Poe heaved himself to the other side, gripping the rail. All he saw at first was water, then there it was, a long, dark gray shape just below the surface, like the back of a huge whale.

  They passed the damn rock by no more than ten feet. Poe expected relief and exultation when they were clear of it, but the grim silence of the crew continued unabating. They still had a long way to go.

  The lookout shouted again.

  By the time they’d gotten around the second headland—the little fishing port of Gill’s Rock appearing on their left—they had altered course half a dozen times, squeezing by obstructions to right and left, one rock so close Poe felt he could reach out and touch it. Twice the keel scraped bottom. Poe could feel the deck shudder beneath his feet. But the grating sound quickly diminished.

  Fishing boats dotted the water ahead of them. The declining sun suffused everything with a bright and golden light. Now, at last, the crew began cheering.

  Smiling, Matthias gave the helm over to Cindy. He stood up, stretching his back and arms.

  “Well, Mr. Poe. You’ve won the race.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The Lady P crossed the finish more than seven minutes ahead of the commodore’s boat. With Jill Langley in his crew, Matthias had once won this race by a margin of nearly half an hour, but he was just as pleased with the lesser showing. To Poe, that seven-minute separation was as good as beating the Russians to the moon.

  Matthias had given him the helm as soon as they’d gotten through the cluster of fishing boats off the Gill’s Rock wharf. The commodore had made one last desperate try, making a run down the west side of Chambers Island on a fast beam reach while the Lady P swept close-hauled along the island’s east coast, but the effort came far too late. Poe steered his yacht into the Menominee River estuary looking like Columbus returning to Spain.

  It wasn’t as grand as an America’s Cup finish. They were on the southern edge of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, not at Newport or San Diego, but there were a number of small craft at anchor awaiting their arrival
and a sizable number of spectators on the shore—even a small, five-piece band playing on the dock.

  To Poe’s greater satisfaction, there was a press boat crowded with photographers and TV cameramen—many of them presumably from Chicago—waiting at the river mouth. Poe became so preoccupied with posing for them at the wheel that Matthias had to warn him sharply to steer to port to avoid running aground.

  They dropped anchor where an escort boat instructed, then Poe and Matthias went aboard for the trip to shore, leaving Cindy and the rest of the crew to stow the sails and follow later. The representatives of the race committee waiting on the dock greeted Poe warmly, but the trophy presentation and victory presentation would of course have to wait until the other boats finished and the official times were calculated.

  This didn’t prevent the reporters present from swarming around Poe, who obliged them with several conquering hero poses and a few quotes about the dangers of the voyage and the ease of his victory. He worked in the revelation that he had found sailing so much fun he’d lost interest in running a baseball team, and would probably abandon his plans to buy the White Sox. He said, however, that he was going to buy a larger boat and was thinking seriously of entering the next America’s Cup race.

  Diandra was hanging back at the edge of the crowd. Poe, annoyed that she hadn’t rushed up to congratulate him, waved her forward with a curt gesture. She complied, moving gracefully through the spectators, giving Poe a kiss for the cameras and then standing with her arm around him. She was wearing a white, loose-fitting pants suit with a navy blouse and scarf, looking a little like a 1940s movie star.

  She had taken off her sunglasses for the picture-taking. When Poe was done with her, she put them back on, then eased away and came over to Matthias.

  “You did it,” she said quietly.

  “It wasn’t easy. I’m quite amazed we pulled it off.”

  “Did Peter do anything at all?”

  “You saw him take her out at the start. He stayed up top with me during a rather bad storm and had the helm for the last leg.”

  “After you had the race won.”

  “He acquitted himself well, given the circumstances. It’s his boat. He’s entitled to his moment of glory.”

  The commodore came ashore looking grim. He ignored the crowd that had gathered around Poe and went directly to the building adjoining the dock that the race committee was using for its headquarters. Poe watched him, then disengaged himself and joined Matthias and Diandra.

  “What’s that about?” he asked.

  “I can guess.”

  “A protest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you take care of it?” Poe asked. “I have some calls to make.”

  Matthias nodded.

  “Can he make it stick?” Poe asked.

  “No. We didn’t come that close to him. But whatever he has to say is going to get into the newspapers.”

  “Maybe not. I’ve invited all the news guys over to the hotel for a little party. I’ve got a couple of suites, and rooms for you and the crew.”

  “Do you want me to come with you, Peter?” Diandra asked.

  “I want you to play hostess to the newsies at the party.” He looked to Matthias. “I want the crew over there, too. Maybe that Cindy of yours will keep the reporters’ minds off of the commodore’s beef.”

  Matthias nodded again. What the crew doubtless wanted most was a hot shower and some sleep. He desired precisely that himself.

  “We’ll see you in a little bit, Matthias,” Diandra said.

  Something about her was different—an edge to her voice, a sharpness in her glance. Matthias wondered if Poe was in for a fight that night. He wouldn’t be expecting it.

  Matthias watched them get into the big red limousine for the short drive to the hotel, then started over toward the race committee. He’d begun the race with friends in this group. Now he might not have so many.

  Poe’s first call was to Mango Bellini, who was waiting as instructed at his Chicago office.

  “Everyone in the world has called you, Peter. I’ve got state legislators, aldermen, two banks, Bitsie Symms, and a guy from Cudahy, Brown.”

  Poe was in the bedroom of his suite, the door closed and locked. “Don’t they know I’ve been on a goddamned sailboat for three days?”

  “I guess they want to be at the top of the list for callbacks.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is there anything else I have to worry about?”

  “There sure as hell is. Bobby Mann.”

  “Mango. This call is going through a hotel switchboard.”

  “I understand, but listen to me good. Bobby had some visitors—three guys I really don’t like the looks of. And he’s been making some calls from pay phones. Pay phones! He goes out of his office and uses the pay phone by the boardwalk when he thinks no one’s looking.”

  “How do you know that? You’re in Chicago.”

  “I’ve had a couple of our guys keep an eye on him. He met with those three guys in some bum joint in Valparaiso—the kind of place he wouldn’t be seen dead in, you know? Afraid he might get grease on his French cuffs or something.”

  “I’ll talk to him when I get back. It’ll be another three days on the boat, maybe more, since we won’t be busting our hump.”

  “I wouldn’t wait that long, Peter.”

  “I promised Diandra a sailboat trip back. You know, a little cruise. She’s really looking forward to it.”

  “Bobby’s acting spooky, Peter. One tipoff is how nice he’s been to me. I was out there last night. He treated me like a lady, a real queen. Usually when you’re gone he treats me like shit.”

  Poe had taken off his shoes and socks. He stared at his bare feet, thinking.

  “What’s your best idea of what’s up, babe?” he said.

  “I think your partners—Bobby’s friends in Atlantic City—are fixing to do something quick about your new accounting procedures. Maybe even a change in management. I think these three mutts are their business representatives. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “You warned me, okay?”

  “By the fucking way, those state legislators are getting kinda antsy, Peter. They extended the session to take up your museum bill, but they’ve got no one around to send in the signals. The House is taking the bill up on second reading tomorrow. You and Bill Yeats picked a hell of a time to go sailing.”

  Poe looked out the window. More sailboats were approaching the little port. He’d just won this race. Why was he allowing himself to be hectored like this?

  “Lighten up, Mango. I’ll charter a plane, all right? Fly it back myself. There’s a big dinner here tonight. They’re going to present the trophy. I’m not going to let Bobby Mann fuck that up for me.”

  “Congratulations, Peter. You must feel terrific, beating all those stuck-up bastards. But this is serious. You can’t get back too soon. I’ll meet you at Meigs in one of the limos. Radio ahead and give me some notice. I think we ought to have some friends around.”

  “Okay. Everything else is quiet?”

  “Yeah. Quiet enough.”

  “Keep it that way. Don’t go for any walks in the park, okay?”

  “Love you, Peter.”

  “Me, too, babe.”

  “Are you bringing Diandra back with you?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Maybe not, huh? We could have some fun.”

  “See you, Mango.”

  He sat a moment after hanging up. Krasowski had a couple of pistols in the stretch. Had it come to that? The biggest man in Chicago, sweating a few scumbags? Worrying about gunplay?

  Once he was done with these bastards, that would be it. “You can do business with anyone, but you sail only with gentlemen,” Curland had said. From now on, only gentlemen.

  The commodore filed two protests—one against the Lady P and another against Yeats’s boat. The race committee waited until most of the o
ther skippers were in and took statements. Once that was done, they were quick to reach a decision. The complaint against Poe was dismissed. The Lady P had in no way interfered with the commodore’s navigation, and stealing wind was a commonplace and permissible if ungentlemanly tactic. With Yeats they were harsh. Three other skippers had seen him steer toward the commodore. Yeats was disqualified and his fourth-place finish given to the next boat. The officials ignored the commodore’s charge that Poe had put Yeats up to the underhanded tactic. He certainly had no proof of that, and the circumstance of his being Poe’s lawyer was not unusual. Several of the yachtsmen in the race were on each other’s corporate boards of directors. The commodore’s own doctor had been in the race.

  Furious, the commodore vowed to have Yeats ousted from his yacht club. Of Peter Poe’s pending application for membership, he spoke most unkindly, indeed.

  The commodore hoisted sail and started back for Chicago immediately, but all the other skippers and crews were at the dinner, as were a lot of yachtsmen from Door County across the bay, who had sailed or motored over to watch the finish of the race. The speeches and joking went on much longer than Poe, impatient, wanted, but finally they got around to presenting him with the trophy—a gold-plated cup much smaller than he had expected. He kept his remarks brief, but, to the surprise of many, gave Matthias a lot of credit for the victory—describing him as “my helmsman and navigator.” He made a little ceremony about signing a check for $100,000 payable to his foundation, but did not elaborate on how it would be spent.

  He’d already decided to hold another news conference in Chicago to do that. It would give him an opportunity to deal with the commodore’s charges, making the old curmudgeon look like a bad sport. He might even suggest that the “favorite charity” the commodore would have given the $100,000 to had he won was the Republican Party. The mayor would appreciate that.

  The dance band started up. Poe leaned over to speak to Diandra, but not to ask her for a turn on the floor.

  “I called Chicago,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve got a lot of pressing business. I chartered a Lear out of Sturgeon Bay. I’m going back tonight—right now. You want to come?”