4
KEY West was proud of its new marina. Completed in 1992 just after the explosion in cruises had brought an influx of new visitors to the old city, the marina was thoroughly modem. Scattered around the jetties on high towers were automatic cameras that constantly surveyed the marina. These cameras and the rest of the electronic surveillance systems were just one facet of an elaborate security setup that protected the slips when the boat owners were absent. Another of the new features of the Hemmingway Marina (it was naturally named after the most famous resident of Key West) was a centralized navigation control center. Here, using a virtually automatic traffic control system, a single controller was able to pass instructions to all the vessels in the harbor and provide for efficient handling of the burgeoning water traffic.
The marina was built on Key West Bight, on what had been a decaying part of the waterfront. It had slips for almost four hundred boats and its completion changed the nature of the city’s commerce. Young professionals wanting to be near their boats at the marina quickly purchased and upgraded all the wonderful nineteenth-century houses that lined Caroline and Eaton streets on what was known as the Pelican Path. Smart shops, toney restaurants, even little theaters crowded into the area around the marina to create an atmosphere of bustle and excitement. There was even a new Japanese hotel, the Miyako Gardens, which was famous for its magnificent collection of tropical birds that played in the waterfalls and ferns of its atrium.
Just before noon Carol Dawson walked into the marina headquarters and approached the circular information desk in the middle of the large room. She was wearing a sharp silk blouse, light purple in color, and a pair of long white cotton slacks that covered the tops of her white tennis shoes. Two petite ruby and gold bracelets were wrapped around her right wrist, and a huge amethyst set in a gold basket at the end of a neck chain dangled perfectly at the vertex of the “V” in her open blouse. She looked stunning, like a well-heeled tourist about to rent a boat for the afternoon.
The young girl behind the information desk was in her early twenties. She was blonde, fairly attractive in the clean-cut American style originally typified by Cheryl Tiegs. She watched Carol with just a tinge of competitive jealously 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 ship-wrecks 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, that 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 program . . .
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.
“Vat 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. Blonde 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 a “Ha-ha-de-ha-ha, I’m lots younger than you are and now I know it.” Usually Carol didn’t pay 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 to smug little Julianne 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 hike 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 color had now almost completely surrendered to the gray.
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 out-stretched hand and followed him along the smaller side jetty beside the boat. The two of them then descended onto 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 favorite 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.