“Tragic,” Weezie said, shaking her head sympathetically.
“Emma was really helpful last night,” I said.
“So,” Weezie said. “Last night turned out okay?”
“In some ways,” Harry said, putting his hand on my thigh under the table.
I moved it away without changing expression.
“I think I’ve figured out how to get my money back from Roy Eugene Moseley,” I told the three of them. “And I think it might even work. I’ll need you two, of course,” I said, nodding at Weezie and Granddad.
“Now,” I said. “We can’t pull this off unless we have a legitimate crew for the yacht. Fortunately, Emma has agreed to help out, and she thinks Liam, he’s the only other crew member still living aboard the Reefer Madness, will sign on too.”
“Why?” Weezie asked. “What’s in it for them?”
“When Anya Bauers really does sell that yacht, and that’s gonna be pretty soon, they’ll both be out of a job anyway,” I explained.
Weezie shook her head vigorously. “That’s still not a good enough reason to risk going to jail—for a woman you just met.”
“Emma’s a chef,” I said. “She’s going to be needing a job. I have a restaurant.”
“Had,” Weezie said.
“And when we reopen Guale, which we’ll be doing very soon, Daniel can always use good help.”
“And the other guy? What’s his name?”
“Liam. I haven’t met him, but Emma says he’ll go along. And if I have to pay him for his participation, I will. It’s part of the cost of the operation.
“Fortunately,” I said, “we don’t have to question Harry’s motivation. There is no way I could do this without somebody like Harry.”
“A man of experience,” Harry said smugly, sliding his hand up my thigh. “Motivated for entirely selfless reasons.”
“A man who knows how to steal a boat,” I agreed. “In fact, he’s stolen boats lots of times.”
“Hang on a minute,” Harry protested. “The Jitterbug is my boat. And I wasn’t really stealing it, I was just borrowing it.”
“Better yet,” I said. “Harry here is going to help us borrow the Reefer Madness.”
“I am?”
“Yes,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes at him. “And you’re also going to pose as Doobie Bauers.”
“But not the supersize Doobie,” Harry said.
“You’re going to be the trim, sexy, slightly drug-addled Doobie,” I said. “And you, Weezie, are going to be the lovely, if bitchy, Anya Bauers.”
“I like the lovely part,” Weezie said, studying the photo.
“And the bitchy part shouldn’t be much of a stretch either,” I told her.
“And what about me?” Granddad asked. “Did you bring me down here just to watch the weather channel and hang out at bars all day?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I am so grateful that you brought that blazer and cravat. Because you’ve got the most important job of all. You’re going to be the yacht broker who sells the Reefer Madness to Roy Eugene Moseley, for, I’m thinking, $4.8 million.”
“He only stole two million from you,” Weezie said, frowning.
“But the Reefer Madness is worth a lot more than that. I checked prices on that Internet yacht brokerage site. And that gives Sandra Findley her inheritance. Besides, yacht brokers earn a ten percent commission. And that’s just about what Roy Eugene stole from my grandparents.”
Granddad frowned. “I hate to be an old stick in the mud, young lady, but this plan of yours has one basic flaw. It’s illegal to sell something you don’t own. And don’t you think Doobie Bauers is gonna get pretty annoyed when he figures out somebody sold off his yacht?”
“He’ll never know it happened,” I said. “Doobie is in drug rehab out in Phoenix. By the time he gets out, the Reefer will be tied up right where he left it, at Bahia Mar. But I’ll have my money back, and with any luck, Roy Eugene Moseley will be in jail.”
“And if things go wrong?” Weezie asked. “If we don’t get the money, and Roy Eugene steals the Reefer Madness, and we can’t give the boat back, and the police show up?”
“Your uncle James is a very good attorney,” I said. “He kept you out of prison, didn’t he?”
50
Weezie
The FOR SALE signs went up on the bow and stern of the Reefer Madness on Monday. At two that afternoon, Spencer took his place at the bar in the Grille, equipped with a cell phone and enough money for two Scotches and a ham sandwich. And Harry and I made our debut as Doobie and Anya, the battling Bauers, that same day.
Being somebody else was fun at first. Naturally, I made a run up to the Junior League Thrift Shop in Palm Beach for my wardrobe, which I’d decided should be sort of BoHo resort wear. Bright-colored silk capris and tops, a couple of little sundresses, sandals, and to top it all off, wide-brimmed straw hats. I spent $86 for my whole wardrobe, which included $12 for the Prada sandals that put me in a swoon.
BeBe wanted to make me dye my hair Anya blond, but that was one battle I won. I’d be wearing hats most of the time, I argued, and anyway, who was to say that Anya Bauers wouldn’t have gotten bored with blond and dared to go red—like the real me?
Harry was not what you’d call cooperative when it came to his own wardrobe. I’d picked him up some perfectly acceptable pre-worn Tommy Bahama tropical-print sport shirts and colorful shorts, and BeBe managed to talk him into trying them on. Briefly.
“No way,” he said flatly, once he took a look at himself in the mirror in our motel room. “I look like a Hawaiian fruit fly.”
“You’re adorable,” BeBe cooed, circling around him, touching and patting in all the right places. “You look like Jimmy Buffett. But younger.”
“Hell no,” Harry said, peeling the shirt off over his head without even bothering to unbutton it. “Not even for you. I’m not that whipped. Yet,” he added darkly.
I held up the only photo we had of Doobie Bauer. “You’re supposed to be him, remember? Not Harry Sorrentino.”
“Fine,” Harry said. “I’ve already thought of that. After I dropped you off at that fancy thrift shop, I did some shopping of my own.” He held up a crumpled brown grocery sack. “At the Kidney Foundation store.” He ducked into the bathroom, and when he came out, BeBe and I were amazed. The transformation was complete. And inspired.
His shorts were a pair of cut-off green army fatigues. Over it, he wore a tie-dyed purple-and-blue Grateful Dead T-shirt that proclaimed “It’s All Good.” On his feet he wore gnarly brown leather huaraches. His sweat-stained Florida Marlins baseball cap was on backward, and for the first time I noticed that he apparently hadn’t shaved in a week.
“Oh my God,” BeBe muttered. “He’s found his inner derelict. The only thing he lacks is a cardboard ‘Will Work for Food’ sign.”
Harry grinned and held up a small wire apparatus.
“Is that a roach clip?” I squealed. “Harry, you’re a genius!”
He shrugged. “I found it in the pocket of the shorts.”
For three days, we hung out on the deck of the Reefer, under impossibly sunny blue skies, trying to do whatever it is that the idle rich do. Mostly, Harry lolled around in a deck chair swigging from a seemingly endless series of Coronas while listening to selections from the real Doobie’s head-banging rock CD library, while I lolled in my bikini, under an umbrella, reading one of the real Anya’s well-thumbed magazines. Vogue, O, Elle, Harper’s Bazaar, Self, and yes, even Cosmopolitan.
“Be a Dirty Girl!” was the headline on one Cosmo article Anya had dog-eared. “Sleaze, Squeeze, and Tease Him Till He Begs for Mercy.”
There go twelve years of Catholic schooling, I thought, carefully tearing the article out and slipping it into my beach bag for future reference. Mama was gonna have to have some extra novenas said for my soul. Daniel, I thought, would be grateful, as always, for this kind of continuing education.
While we lazed, Liam and Emma puttered aro
und doing what they said they always did, polishing and wiping and generally keeping the yacht ready to go to sea at a moment’s notice. At noon, Emma brought us lunch trays, and fruity tropical drinks.
“I could get used to this kind of life,” Harry said, that first day, after he’d polished off a grilled-grouper sandwich and before taking his second siesta of the day.
While Harry was napping, Liam suddenly materialized at my side. “Sunscreen?” he asked, squeezing out a dollop on my shoulder.
I flinched as the cold lotion hit my bare skin. “No thanks,” I said quickly.
“Anya always has me do her,” he said, his sleepy brown eyes lingering a little too long on my chest.
“What does Doobie have to say about that?” I asked, pulling my beach towel around me.
“Doob? Man, as long as the beer’s cold and the seas are smooth, he’s chillin’.”
I got up and walked over to the port side of the yacht, being careful to keep the hat brim pulled down low. The marina was a hive of activity that day. Boats were pulling in and out of their slips. I could see people on the yachts nearby hosing down decks, loading and unloading gear from two-wheeled carts. As I leaned on the rail, I saw a guy on a fat-wheeled silver bike ride slowly by. His head turned as he took note of the sign lashed to the stern. He wore dark, mirrored sunglasses, and he made no effort to hide his admiration for what he was seeing. I went quickly back to my deck chair.
“Harry,” I called quietly.
Nothing.
“Harry, wake up. A guy just rode by on a bike. I think maybe it was Roy Eugene.”
Doobie’s music was starting to give me a headache. I went over and sat down on the edge of Harry’s lounge chair. He had his baseball hat covering his face, and the dull buzz of his snores made the cap rise and fall with each exhalation. I put my lips right next to his ear.
“Harry!”
He bolted upright. “Christ! What’s wrong?”
“You were snoring,” I said.
“It’s part of my disguise. You woke me up to tell me that?”
“I woke you up to tell you that a guy just rode by on a bike and took a long, hard look at our FOR SALE sign,” I said. “I think maybe it was our guy.”
“Good,” Harry said, lying back down again. “Wake me up when he gets ready to write the check.”
“You’re worthless,” I told him.
“And don’t call me Harry,” he added
Our third day on the Reefer, I noticed that Harry was taking a lot longer to finish a lot fewer Coronas. After a lunch of curried lobster-tail salad, instead of taking another nap, he roamed the boat restlessly. He spent two hours inspecting the engines, emerging grease smudged and sweat soaked and awe inspired by what he’d seen down there.
“Christ,” he said, sinking down into his deck chair with a tall glass of what looked suspiciously like iced tea. “Twin 750 Caterpillar diesels with 360-degree walk-around access. We could take off tonight and be in Belize by tomorrow afternoon, up to our asses in bonefish and tarpon.”
I put down Anya’s January issue of Town & Country. I was bored out of my gourd with reading about the newest options in nonsurgical facial peels, irritated with ads for “whimsical” diamond-crusted doodads that cost more than my parents’ house, and truly peeved by a story about a Houston society matron who’d spent $40,000 importing orchids for a charity gala to benefit a local humane society.
“Being rich and sun intolerant is incredibly tedious,” I told Harry. “I can’t even get a good tan. No wonder Anya Bauers is such a bitch.”
“Try being rich and stoned all the time,” Harry said. “And this godawful music! My eardrums are starting to bleed. I don’t know how much more I can take of it.”
I saw a blur of silver out of the corner of my eye. “Don’t look now,” I said carefully. “But the guy on the bike is back.”
“Mirrored sunglasses, white golf visor?” Harry said, barely tilting his head in that direction.
“Check.”
“He’s turning around and coming back for a second pass. By God, I think you could be right,” Harry said. He got up, made a big show of stretching and yawning, then ambled over to the gangway leading to the belowdeck’s area. “Liam,” he hollered. “Bring me my bong.”
“Doobie!” I screamed, getting into the spirit of the part. “Don’t you dare! I’m calling your shrink.”
“Fuck you, Anya,” Harry said, snarling.
With my hands on my hips, I fixed him with an icy glare. “Like you could, you limp-dick has-been.”
“Whoa,” Harry whispered without moving his lips. “Lay off the personal stuff. I’m a recovering addict, remember?”
“Hey, Emma,” he called, in a loud, lazy voice. “We’re gonna need some nachos up here too. And a bottle of Cristal for me, and a coupla chill pills for my old lady.”
Now I was standing up screaming down at the gallery. It was actually pretty cathartic. “Don’t you dare bring him anything. Either of you! If you want to keep your jobs until we sell this goddamn tub, you stay right where you are.”
Harry slumped down in his deck chair with his back to the pier. “Okay,” he said. “He’s moved on. Show’s over.”
Emma stood just belowdeck, staring up at me with her huge green eyes. “This is all an act, right?” she whispered.
“We had an audience,” I told her. “And I think we just baited the hook.”
“Man,” Emma said. “That was scary. You sounded exactly like her.”
“Thanks,” I said. “If you think this was good, stick around for the second act.”
Harry and I were sitting up on the deck, pretending to ignore each other, when my cell phone rang. I picked it up and listened, smiled, and then clicked it shut.
“That was Spencer,” I said. “He just got a call from a man named Rory Mason, who would be very interested in taking a look at the Reefer. Four o’clock tomorrow.”
“Good,” Harry said, running his hand over his chin. “Let’s get this over with. No offense or anything, Weezie, but I don’t know how much more I can take of being married to you.”
51
“Game on,” Harry said when he called Wednesday night.
I gripped the phone tightly. “You’re sure it’s him?”
My nerves were past frayed. Since Harry and Weezie had moved aboard the Reefer Madness, I’d spent the past three days pacing around the motel grounds, willing Reddy to take our bait. I’d tried watching daytime television, reading, even sunbathing by the pool, but I was too keyed up to concentrate on anything for more than an hour.
Granddad wasn’t much help either. He’d been camped out in the bar at Bahia Mar, posing as a yacht broker, and he’d been having a high old time. Every night he came back to the room with stories of the people he’d met, and what he’d watched on the television in the bar.
He had a new passion too. The golf channel. After his first day as a professional barfly, he’d raced back to the motel to share his discovery with me. “Look,” he’d exclaimed, pointing to the television. “That’s the first qualifying round for the Masters.” He jabbed at the screen with a finger. “That’s Davis Love the third. I used to see his daddy when I went down to St. Simon’s Island to play golf with the fellas at home.”
“Wonderful, Granddad,” I said. “Did anybody call about the boat today?”
“Nah,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Just some foreign fella, says he owns a shoe factory in South Africa. I told him we already have a buyer.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t Reddy?” I asked anxiously. “That’s the kind of story he’d make up. He told me he was a Millbanks from Charleston, and that was a load of bull.”
“This was an older man,” Granddad said. “Not your guy at all. Anyway, after lunch today, I watched Chi-Chi Rodriguez giving a putting exhibition. Then I watched the 1998 British Open. They had a lot of high winds and rain that year…”
Granddad reported another call about the yacht on Tuesday. “
Fella says he’s in the entertainment business too. Ever hear of somebody calls himself A. T. Money?”
“He’s a major rap star,” I said. “He sang the national anthem at the World Series last year. Did he call you himself?”
“His business manager. Or so he said,” Granddad said. “He sounded black.”
“That would make sense. A. T. Money is black. You didn’t offend him, did you?”
My grandfather was no racist, but he’d been born and raised in Savannah, after all.
“Hell no,” Granddad said. “I just told him we had a pending contract, and I took his phone number and told him I’d call if nothing came of the other offer.”
“Good thinking,” I said approvingly.
Wednesday night, right after Harry called, Granddad sashayed into my room at the Mango Tree. He was wearing a brand-new hot pink golf shirt with “Grande Oaks Golf” embroidered over the breast pocket, and carrying a Styrofoam take-out carton, with a brown paper sack stuck under his arm.
“You talked to him?” I asked, pouncing on him. “You’re sure it’s Roy Eugene?”
Granddad set the carton on the kitchenette counter and opened the paper bag, which turned out to contain a bottle of Scotch.
Granddad said “It’s him, all right. There’s some dinner there for you,” he said, sliding the carton in my direction. “You must be getting tired of turkey sandwiches. Anyway, I thought you’d want to celebrate tonight.”
The carton contained a slab of meat loaf topped with congealed brown sauce, a mound of lumpy mashed potatoes, and some wan-looking steamed broccoli.
“How nice,” I said, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “It, uh, looks delicious.”
“Go ahead and eat before it cools off,” Granddad urged. “This was the early-bird special at the diner down the street from here. And can you believe it was only $1.99?”
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