Tooner Schooner

by Mary Lasswell

  “What about the notary? We hadn’t ought to be seen around offices here in town,” Ethelbert said.

  “Start writing it out,” Velma said. “I’ll get a friend of mine over here with his seal in a few minutes. Be sure you spell my name right: Yandell. Two l’s.”

  Miss Tinkham and Mr. Cobb stayed frozen against the wall of the booth. Miss Tinkham had unclasped her crossed fingers and clutched them together in the attitude of fervent prayer.

  Velma handed Chartreuse a clean menu. “Write on the back of this: ‘For the sum of one dollar and other considerations, I, Chartreuse Mulligan Dowdy, sell outright, in fee simple, the schooner South Wind, of which I swear and assert I am the legal owner; all title and ownership reposing in said boat, I hereby assign and convey to Velma Yandell, proprietor of the Pango Pango Club, and hereby agree to sign over to said Velma Yandell the official Coast Guard registration of said vessel as soon as same is attainable.’ Read it over while I go get Solly.”

  “You ought to back-date it,” Ethelbert said, “to be out of it ’way before the accident.”

  “This is Solly,” Velma said. “What’s that about back-dating?”

  Solly set down his triple Scotch without ice and looked over the bill of sale.

  “I don’t mind,” Solly said, “but Velma’d be in trouble with the authorities for not re-registering the boat in her name. You only got a few days to report change of title. I forget just how many. I didn’t know you were interested in boats, Velma.”

  “Hadn’t you ever heard of my yacht club: Yandell’s-On-The-Rocks? Let’s get the signing done; these folks are on their honeymoon.”

  “Funny time to sell your boat. Been a fine place for a honeymoon…” Solly peered nearsightedly at the menu.

  “They both get boat-sick if they pass a travel ad in a window,” Velma said.

  Chartreuse signed her name with the fancy writing and circles instead of dots over the i’s. “Chartreuse Mulligan Dowdy. And Chartreuse Mulligan Dowdy Tights underneath. Okay?”

  “Put down the date of your divorce and your marriage to Ethelbert so Solly can notarize that, too,” Velma said.

  “Duly sworn and subscribed…” he muttered and banged down the seal. “That ought to do it. Gimme the pen.”

  “Pour yourself a drink on your way out,” Velma said. “I’ll give you a receipt.”

  “Receipt!” Chartreuse squeaked. “Couldn’t we just forget I ever had anything to do with the rotten business?”

  “If that’s how you want it,” Velma said.

  “We gotta get going.” Ethelbert rose.

  “Where are you going to be? How am I going to find you to sign over the registration papers? By rights, you ought to stay in town…”

  “Not for anything in the world!” Chartreuse moaned. “We stayed too long now. First time in seven years that I want a drink.”

  “They’ve got enough on us without liquor on our breath,” Ethelbert said. “We can make Yuma tonight.”

  “I got a friend there runs the Desert Rose Motel,” Chartreuse said. “We’ll stay there till we hear from you.”

  “Don’t louse me up.” Velma stubbed out her cigar and handed Chartreuse a dollar bill. “I’ve written down your car registration and the name of the motel on this.” She slipped the bit of paper in her pocket. “You’re not in the clear until the title is recorded right here in the home port in my name. I’ll bring the papers myself. You better be there!”

  “We stand to lose more than you do, Velma,” Chartreuse said. “We’ll be there.”

  “Better pick up a copy of the newspaper,” Ethelbert said, “in case things go sour and we need it for your lawyer.”

  “You can have that one on the cashier’s desk,” Velma said.

  “Have they really gone?” Miss Tinkham whispered. She was pale and drawn. Mr. Cobb was wilted away.

  “You must be dead,” Velma said. “This isn’t much,” she held out the bill of sale, “but it’s the best I could do. That damn Tooner!”

  “The Coast Guard is your best bet,” Mr. Cobb said. Miss Tinkham picked up one of the cold glasses of beer Velma set in front of them and emitted a long sigh.

  “He can’t have got so far away in less than twenty-four hours.” Velma banged the table with her open hand. “I’m going to have one try anyway; the marine operator may be able to rouse him on that ship-to-shore phone. You ought to get out in the air. Miss Tinkham. You look faint.”

  “Mr. Cobb will come home with me and help me carry the message to Garcia.”

  “There’s no use going back to Mrs. Feeley’s until we know something,” Velma said. “I’ll put in the call.”

  “Speed in completing the signing is essential. Otherwise, they’ll have time to discover the hoax,” Mr. Cobb said.

  “It is almost as frustrating as giving a “woman a dozen new hats and locking her in a room without a mirror,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “She’ll call me back.” Velma came up with a tray. “I’m starved.” The headwaiter was seating early diners. “It won’t be long until the place fills up. We’d better go into my office.”

  Miss Tinkham jumped as the phone shrilled. Mr. Cobb moved forward to the edge of the chair.

  “Ready with schooner South Wind.” They could hear the clear tones of the operator. “The party wants to know who is calling, please.”

  “Velma Yandell, of the Pango Pango.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Velma smoked furiously, rolling her eyes around in her head.

  “Tooner?” she shouted. “Where the hell are you?” Sounds like static filled the air. “What’s it to me? I’ll tell you, wise guy. I could be signing over the boat registration to you this minute if you hadn’t hauled…What’s that? You damn well better believe me. Where are you? If you want that boat back, you get that registration in here quick. How did we? Foxed her out of it, that’s how. But it won’t keep, not even in dry ice, more than another day.” Miss Tinkham could hear the captain’s bass explosions over the wire. “All I’m telling you is that I have a bill of sale and a signed agreement to sign over. You’ve got them, haven’t you? It’s no trick.” Velma held the receiver at arm’s length. “We scared the begracious out of them. Where? In Arizona, dope. I’ll hire a plane and take the papers over, but can’t you get it through your dome? You’ve got to bring the papers back to me to be signed by Chartreuse! How the hell do I know?” She gestured frantically to her friends. “Look! If you don’t tell me how long it will take you to get in with the registration, I swear I’ll send the Coast Guard after you. The boat is mine, now. You’ve moved it from the home port without the bill of sale. We’ll see how stubborn you are!” The sounds emanating from the receiver made Miss Tinkham think of the assorted asterisks used in the funny paper to represent profanity.

  “I know they bitched you up, Tooner,” Velma said. “But it’s all set. If I’m lying I’ll buy you a brand new schooner out of my own pocket. You never let anybody guess the boat was in her name, and while I’m reminding you of things, Tooner, you weren’t above stretching the charter laws a wee bit in your own favor.” The noise coming from the receiver subsided a little. “The Coronado Islands?” Velma cried. “Swell! Hurry up, man. Time’s a-wastin’!” Velma dropped into her desk chair with a thud. “You broke a spring in the engine? Won’t it even limp?” Miss Tinkham lay back in a chair and fanned herself with a magazine. Mr. Cobb undid his necktie. “Okay, Tooner.” Velma’s voice was hoarse. “Don’t do anything till you hear from me. Stand by for a call. If there is any answer to this one.” She turned in the chair.

  “You heard what he said. It’s rough, having the thing almost settled and then have the crummy boat not able to navigate. I don’t know why we even bother with him,” she muttered.

  “The same reason we all do,” Miss Tinkham said.

  Chapter 24

  “I DON’T KNOW HOW it ain’t dawned on you,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  Velma and Miss Tinkham stared at her. Mr. Cobb and
Mrs. Rasmussen stopped eating.

  “They ain’t but one way to get them papers. Go get ’em ourselves.”

  “How are we going to get to the Coronado Islands and back before next week?” Velma said.

  “You’ve fit along too many fronts all day,” Mrs. Feeley said kindly. “Water taxi; motor launch…”

  “Sea planes!” Velma cried. “You’re right. Only trouble is, the commercial airlines don’t have many of those for hire. And I don’t know a single private owner who would lend us one.”

  “What we should have is a helicopter,” Miss Tinkham said. “So long as we’re in the realm of the imagination, why should we deny ourselves the latest inventions?”

  “A whirly birdy!” Velma jumped up.

  Mrs. Feeley came over and stroked Velma’s forehead. “Sit back, lamb, and let Feeley look after you. Your fan belt’s slippin’.”

  “The egg beater!” Velma’s eyes gleamed. Mrs. Feeley looked pityingly at Mrs. Rasmussen and shook her head.

  “When them solid ones crack up…tchk, tchk.”

  “C’mon,” Velma was on her feet, “if you’re going with me. The Coast Guard has one. I’m going to make them take us out to rescue him. His engine won’t run. If they won’t do that, we’ll tell them he took my boat without leave. They’ll bring him in and lock him up. At least we will have a chance to get the papers.”

  “Velma, dear,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “are you sure you’ve got all your buttons?”

  Velma nodded. “They get in for close work where a plane couldn’t even come near. We’ll put the bill of sale in a bottle and drop it down to him. If he has the registration all ready for us to pick up, we’re set.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to bother with protecting him any more?” Miss Tinkham smiled. “You’ll have to telephone him on that device again, if you expect him to co-operate.”

  “We’ll scoop it up as we go by,” Mrs. Feeley said. “If he don’t want to be towed by them Coast Guards, he better rig a spring outa bailin’ wire. He’d never survive the disgrace o’ bein’ towed. Run, Mrs. Rasmussen, tell Ol’-Timer to stand by to help Tooner, while I get my pants on.”

  Mr. Cobb looked embarrassed.

  “I’ll contact Tooner from the office. Meet us there.” Velma’s fatigue had vanished.

  “I’d love to go, but I haven’t written my column for tomorrow,” Mr. Cobb said. “Lord knows when this wild-goose chase will end.”

  “Without your help, we wouldn’t be this far,” Velma said.

  Mrs. Feeley was back in a few minutes clad in her dungarees.

  “Sunshine, dear,” she said. “Be a good girl and keep outa trouble; God only knows if you’ll ever see any of us alive again, but it’s all for the flag, dear.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen galloped in, followed by Old-Timer carrying a glass jar full of springs, bolts, screws and other small articles of taste and utility. He wore a Navy watch cap and carried a dip net over his shoulder.

  “Gawd, this is somethin’ like our usual speed! Wonder how close Chartreuse an’ him is to Yuma?”

  The duty officer at the Coast Guard Station looked silently at the assorted humanity lined up in front of his desk.

  “This is all highly irregular, you know, Mrs. Yandell,” he said.

  “It is a rescue mission, Captain.” Velma knew he had only half as many stripes as a captain, but she had not lived around the armed services for nothing. “The captain is unable to repair the engine by himself. I am supplying a mechanic at my own expense.” She turned to Old-Timer. “All I ask of you is transportation.”

  “I’d have to reach the vessel first to take a bearing on his position. Has he a ship-to-shore telephone?”

  “I have talked to him twice today, sir.” Velma was losing patience but managed to hold on to her temper.

  “I could only spare one man.” He weakened.

  “It’s only about an hour’s trip on the engine. How long would it take you in the helicopter?”

  “The time element is nothing, really,” the officer said.

  “That’s good enough. How many of us can go?” Velma said.

  “This is strictly against the rules.” The man ruffled his hair till it stood on end.

  “Captain, dear,” Mrs. Feeley cried, “we’ll be back in half an hour an’ nobody the wiser.”

  “Jenkins,” the officer said wearily to the neat enlisted man who stood at attention, “stand by to dispatch a helicopter to the aid of schooner South Wind, Coast Guard Number C-5.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The lad saluted smartly and tried not to grin.

  “How many, sir?” Velma said.

  “Two and the pilot. I’ll lose numbers for this.”

  “Would it help if we signed a release?” Velma said. “All you have to worry about is your pilot.”

  “It’s not my pilot I’m worrying about,” he said.

  “We’ll draw straws,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Ol’-Timer has to go.”

  “You are the one who really thought of it, Mrs. Feeley. If you want to go, I won’t draw,” Velma said.

  “Lend us a book o’ matches, sonny.” The Coast Guardsman standing by took out three matches, broke them into varying lengths and held them out carefully concealed in his hand.

  “Long straw rides,” he said.

  “You won it fair an’ square.” Mrs. Rasmussen clapped Mrs. Feeley on the back.

  “Dearest Mother!” she cried. “Is it that little glass fish bowl I’m to get into?” The pilot helped her in. Old-Timer looked the contraption over and paid strict attention as the pilot showed him the steel landing sling from which he was to swing onto the deck of the schooner. “Nothin’ to it!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Just like droppin’ a sack o’ pitt-atoes.”

  Miss Tinkham and Velma were giving names and addresses to a coastguardsman.

  “Don’t forget, Danny’s my next o’ kin,” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “I’m sorry for everythin’ mean I ever done! Look after Miss Tinkham an’…” the Plexiglas door closed and the little blades of the helicopter began to turn slowly. Mrs. Feeley observed a moment of silence, out of respect for the Coast Guard. “Ain’t near as sickly-like as them elly-vators.” Mrs. Feeley was surprised to see the ground many feet below her; it began to look like bits of patchwork quilt and soon was replaced by the calm expanse of the bay.

  “This here daylight savings is the thing,” she remarked to the pilot. He did not deign to answer. “Broke up his acey-ducey game,” Mrs. Feeley muttered. Old-Timer was less voluble than usual, gazing steadily into the ocean. Mrs. Feeley liked the way the clouds swooshed by. “Don’t seem like we’re movin’ at all. We’ll never find him at this rate, lad,” Mrs. Feeley prodded the pilot. “Can’t you send her along a bit?”

  Old-Timer pointed at the instrument panel.

  “Gawd! I thought that was gallons o’ gas!” Mrs. Feeley whispered. The pilot motioned to Mrs. Feeley to look down. “That’s him! To-o-o-o-o-o-o-ner!” she screamed. “We’re standin’ still! Just like one o’ them hummin’birds in the fewshers! How long will she stay gentle, young man?”

  The pilot was getting ready to launch Old-Timer.

  “Goo’bye, darlin’!” Mrs. Feeley shrieked as he got onto the sling. “You been a good an’ faithful friend to me these many years! Just remember, you ain’t no actor-bat on that trapeze! His paper’s in your bottle. Guard it with your life now!” She hushed as the little egg beater hovered over the deck of the schooner. Captain Dowdy stood on the deck, one vast grin splitting his face.

  “’Y God,” he bellowed above the noise of the propellers, “this is where it hits the fan, ent it?” He held a pickle jar in his left hand. His right hand was extended to help Old-Timer out of the sling and onto the deck. The helicopter buzzed steadily.

  “The jar!” she bellowed. “Gimme the jar, Ol’-Timer!” She grabbed the dip net and shoved it through the opening left by the sling. Captain Dowdy dropped the bottle into the net.

  “Steady as you go, Mate,” he bellowed. “H�
��ist it up slow an’ don’t drop it!”

  “Who ever heard o’ me droppin’ a bottle?” Mrs. Feeley shouted back. “Fix that busted spring an’ hurry on home!” The pilot put out a hand and dragged Mrs. Feeley back by the shirttail as he raised the sling to its riding position.

  “Good on you, lad,” she said. “In another minute, I’d a been skinnin’ the cat on that bar meself. I’m bound to have one o’ these or bust a gut.” She scratched her head. “The only thing…” After a moment she had the solution: “One o’ them old-fashioned iron hitchin’ weights we used to drop on the ground from the buggy. That’d take care o’ the parkin’!”

  “It was over ’fore it happened.” Mrs. Feeley held out the jar triumphantly. “He looked like his old self for a change. Young feller, if you ever feel for a beer, drop in to see us.”

  “We really should say goodbye to the commanding officer,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Make it a straight telegram,” Velma said. “Ten words.”

  Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley went in and came back in record time for them.

  “An’ I told ’em I’d not call ’em the hooligan Navy no more.”

  “Tommy Ryan at the airport is flying me to Yuma. I can just about beat Chartreuse and Ethelbert to town.”

  “You’d oughta go by helly-copter,” Mrs. Feeley said smugly. “That’s what I want for Christmas.”

  “A common plane will have to do,” Velma said. “You going?”

  “I’ve had my treat,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Take Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Rasmussen. You won’t be gone long. These ain’t the ol’ oxcart days, you know.”

  “Take my wallet,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “You ain’t got a cent in them jeans. You’re gonna be hard to live with for a while after that ride.”

  The pilot had Velma’s plane all revved up.