I nodded thoughtfully. Hell, anybody could have a car and an apartment, but a boat like this was the nuts. I wanted it, and considering the value I placed on my soul in those days, I might have struck a bargain if that sign had been there on the bow.
We spent all afternoon at Yacht Haven, desperately scouring the docks for an outgoing boat where Yeamon and Chenault could sign on with no questions asked. One man offered to take them as far as Antigua in a week or so, another was going to Bermuda, and finally we located a big yawl that was headed for Los Angeles, via the Panama Canal.
Great, said Yeamon. How much would you charge us to ride that far?
Nothing, said the owner of the yawl, a poker-faced little man wearing white trunks and a baggy shirt. I won’t take you. Yeamon looked stunned.
I pay my crew, said the man. And besides that I have my wife and three kids — no room for you. He shrugged and turned away.
Most of the boat people were gracious, but a few were openly rude. One captain — or maybe a mate — laughed at Yeamon and said: Sorry, pal. I don’t carry scum on my boat.
Far out at the end of the pier we noticed a gleaming white hull flying the French flag and rocking leisurely in deep water.
That’s the finest craft in the harbor, said a man standing next to us. A world cruiser, seventy-five feet long, eighteen knots, radar dome, electric winches and a walkaround bed.
We continued along the pier and came to a boat called the Blue Peter, where a man who later introduced himself as Willis told us to come aboard for a drink. Several other people were there and we stayed for hours. Yeamon went off after a while to check the other boats, but Chenault and I stayed and drank. Several times I noticed Willis staring at Chenault, and when I mentioned that we were sleeping on the beach he said we could leave our bags on the boat, instead of lugging them around. Sorry I can’t offer you bunks, he added. But I only got two. He grinned. One of ’em’s double, of course, but that still makes it crowded.
Yeah, I said.
We left our bags there, and by the time we started for town we were all drunk. Willis rode with us in a cab as far as the Grand Hotel, and said he’d probably see us later in one of the bars.
Fifteen
Sometime after midnight we found ourselves in front of a place called the Blue Grotto, a crowded waterfront dance hall with a two dollar cover charge. I tried to pay, but people laughed and a squatty woman grabbed my arm. Oh, no, she said. You come with us. We go to the real party.
I recognized our friends from the street dance. A bully was slapping Yeamon on the back and babbling about a whip fight and some spies with a case of gin. I know these people, said Chenault, let’s go with them.
We ran down the street to where they had a car, and about six more people piled in with us. At the end of the main street we turned up toward the hills above town, climbing and twisting on a dark little road through what appeared to be the residential section. The houses at the bottom of the hill were wooden, with peeling paint, but as we went higher, more and more houses were made of concrete blocks. Finally they became almost elaborate, with screen porches and lawns.
We stopped at a house full of lights and music. The street in front of it was jammed with cars and there was no place to park. The driver let us out and said he’d join us when he found a place for the car. The squatty girl gave a loud whoop and ran up the steps to the front door. I followed reluctantly and saw her talking to a fat woman in a bright green dress. Then she pointed back at me. Yeamon and Chenault and the others caught up as I stopped at the door.