Blonde Bait Page 9

  “Mickey, I pray that you'll never be that frightened, for then you'll never be able to dismiss it with a 'merely!'“ Rose stood up, walked away. “You know what you're really saying: you don't trust me.”

  “Babes, I'm the guy who didn't ask questions when I was convinced you were in deep trouble with the law. And remember, if you are in a jam, so am I—so I'm not saying stick our necks out to make small talk. Rose, get the picture in focus. A moment ago you were hysterical, probably thought I was a louse, that we never hit it off. Hysteria can distort anything. I say we have nothing to fear, why jail ourselves on this island, or some other one? If we had to, we could take it. But we don't have to!”

  “How do you know? Will my dead body convince you you're wrong?”

  I went over and tried to put my arms around her. “Do you think I'd risk a single hair of yours? Have I ever? Stop acting like I'm trying to turn you in.”

  For a second she still looked away, then stared into my eyes—almost on a level with them—and I was proud she was such a big woman. When she kissed me, fingers digging into my back, she sobbed, “Mickey, I'm so scared!”

  “Of what? I'm not talking big. You know I never bull. I don't say you're wrong, merely that you've sold yourself a bum bill of goods. I believe right this moment the police couldn't care less about you. If we were trying for Paris, say, there might be some risk in getting a passport. But we have the Sea Princess, we can sail... Honey, I'm certain I'm right, the way things will work out. Besides, we have to go to the States!”

  “I don't have to.”

  “The boat and the oil cooler. Look, sooner or later I'll have to get a new cooler. A mechanic in Georgetown said it would be impossible to get the part in the islands, so we have to sail her to the States. No getting around the fact we need a boat.”

  “You sail her over.”

  “Hon, listen to me; we sail the Sea Princess into Tampa, or New Orleans. We take care of the motor, and who will know we're there? Cut your hair short, dye it. You won't be Rose Brown but Mrs. Mickey Whalen. We have to try it.”

  “I don't believe in pushing my luck.”

  “Rose, you're my luck, the only good thing in my life. I wouldn't suggest this—even if it meant losing the boat due to overheating and a fire—unless I was positive it's a sure thing. Why go batty here? We sail to the mainland and spend a few days in any big port city we wish. We'll take a month or two, then return here. Believe me, we'll appreciate the island then, be a change of pace. Honey, I wouldn't ask you to go to Havana or Kingston, we'd stick out there—a couple of tall Americans. But in Charleston or Savannah, who pays any mind to a couple off a small boat? We won't live big or flashy.”

  She shivered in my arms.

  “Any time you even feel there's the smallest sign of trouble, we run up sail and take off. Honey, it's a tonic we both need—aside from the engine cooler. When we first came to the islands a rainy season didn't get us down. But we're stale now: a few damp days and look at us. Think it over for a couple of days. You still say no—I'm with you. I'll go for the oil cooler alone.”

  “No, I don't want you to leave me. Mickey, I'm frightened.”

  “Plenty of times you were scared stiff of the sea, but we always came through okay. Honey, think it over —and remember I'd go nuts if anything happened to you.” I knew I meant that and for a moment I was full of chilling doubts. Was I risking losing Rose? We did have it made, why chance anything? Hell, testing to see if she was telling the truth wasn't that important...

  “Of course I'll think about it—but not now. I have a splitting headache. Guess I need some chow.”

  “Sure, forget it—for now.”

  Rose went to the refrigerator, which was barely working due to the lack of current—pulled out a crock of cheese we'd opened for lunch. Placing the cheese on the table, she opened the cracker jar. She ate in the dim light and suddenly spit out a shower of crumbs. Cursing savagely, Rose lit a match and pointed at the cheese —it was already moldy. I told her, “Easy, hon, we can always open a fresh tin.”

  Rose wiped her lips with the back of her hand, somehow a terribly weary motion. Then she shook her head. “No, no. You're right, Mickey. Another few days of this lousy rain and I might flip. No sense kidding ourselves about the engine—we can't get a new oil cooler out of thin air. We'll leave here. We'll leave... but... oh it scares me!”

  VI

  When we dropped anchor in Jacksonville, Florida, it was exactly seven weeks from the time Rose and I had it out in our hut on Ansel's island. The odd thing was, even talking about leaving had been a tonic: the rain had kept up for another few days but we were no longer bored—we argued. But without much heat. Rose tried to make me understand I'd be risking her life by returning to the States and I kept saying she was in the clear—if she had told me the truth.

  After a few days we switched sides. I didn't care if we left the island or not. All the gamblers I'd ever known had yanked the rug out from under themselves when they had it made—never knew when they were well-off. I was troubled by the thought that if Rose wasn't telling me the truth, why chance the ideal set-up we—or I—had? But Rose now had a sort of fatalistic outlook, said she had no right to stick me in the islands for the rest of my life and anyway—what was going to happen was going to happen no matter what she did. So, crazy as it may seem, she was the one insisting we leave.

  We both agreed on a few precautions. We'd register at hotels as Mr. and Mrs. Mickey Anderson of Tampa and I had cards printed, stating I was in the wholesale shrimp business—along with a few “identification" papers —a phony Lions Club card, and an old novel-of-the-month card I fixed up with ink eradicator. Rose cut her hair short and colored it black, wore plain eye-glasses, and was to dress simply and a bit on the sloppy side. We made a list of the three names Josef had mumbled in his sleep: William Sour, Me-Lucy-ah, and Gootsrat —which sounded like “Good rat.” The first thing we'd do on landing would be to check the phone books for these names. We'd live modestly and never carry or flash much money—leave most of the loot locked up in the Sea Princess. Rose flatly refused to go to Miami but the general idea was to work our way up the coast and then back to the island. We told Ansel we were sailing the Gulf of Mexico and would return in a few months, or sooner.

  It was a cold, rough crossing. Rose was so tense every time we even passed a boat flying the USA flag, I felt lousy. But when I suggested we turn back, she said we'd already thrown the dice and had to see what came up. Our first night in Jacksonville we quickly ate in a waterfront restaurant, checked the phone book, and slept for over fifteen hours aboard the boat. Rose acted lovey-dovey and coy, trying to keep me in her bunk, but we finally went ashore in the afternoon. Replacing the oil cooler was a snap. Then we bought clothes and bags, checked into a modest hotel. It was the first time I'd worn a suit and tie in years.

  That night we kept to our room, Rose hitting the bottle. But she couldn't get juiced enough to overcome her jitters. The next day we took in a couple of movies, watched TV in a bar, and returned to the hotel to sleep like tops. I awoke first and soaking in a tub of hot water, I decided all this was wrong. Certainly not worth Rose having a breakdown over.

  To my surprise, when she awoke Rose seemed very calm. When I mentioned heading back to the Caymans, she said we might as well stay a few days at least and get our fill. We did about all there was to do in Jacksonville, and Rose was in such a sudden good mood she told me the suit I'd bought was a double for an undertaker's helper, and we went into a swank men's shop and bought me a mild sport jacket and slacks. She wore a formless dress that made her look a big hick.

  After two days we sailed up to Charleston and then on to Wilmington. In each city we had a ball, especially in Charleston, where we took in the night life, and of course all the movies. Rose seemed at ease. One night in bed she told me I'd been right, all her fear could have been her shocked imagination. Of course we still checked the phone books, avoided talking to people in bars, and didn't live too big. If
Rose had lost her tenseness, I had a new bug in my head. Now that we were back in the States, what had I proved—except Rose's cock and bull story had been exactly that? I not only felt I was farther than ever from her real story, but I became nervous if she was out of my sight for a few minutes. I had this feeling that since she thought she was safe, Rose might leave me and go back to wherever she'd come from—to the guy who'd given her the loot. The fact she didn't want to go back to Ansel's made me suspicious.

  I told her we'd gone far enough North; we'd had it. I'd given up any idea of going to New York City. I practically insisted we go back to the island. But I had one other idea in my empty head. I was very proud of the Sea Princess, felt she could go anywhere in the world. As a sailor I'd heard what a rough place Cape Hatteras was and I wanted to give it a try. Don't ask me why. I was like a clown trying to see if his car can make a hundred miles an hour and forgetting what a blowout would mean.

  We agreed to sail around the Cape to Norfolk, then head back to the Caymans, stopping at coast towns we hadn't visited on the return trip. I carefully checked the charts and the weather, listened to the bull stories fishing boat men told me, and even Rose was fairly excited about trying the Cape. We set out for Norfolk and the ocean off the Cape was so calm I nearly laughed.

  We didn't like Norfolk very much. For one thing it was March and so cold we had to buy coats. So after two days we ran up sail again and headed South. We'd about rounded Hatteras with the water merely choppy, when a hell of a storm hit us, knocking the Sea Princess on her beam ends. The lousy storm came out of the Southeast full of sudden fury, snow and sleet. While the radio had warned of a “possible squall,” this was far worse than the hurricane. Waves higher than our mast pounded the Sea Princess badly and Rose was terrified. I was scared dumb myself. I tried going out to sea, afraid we'd hit the reefs and rocks near the coast.

  I kept Rose in the cabin while I sat at the wheel with a rope around my chest to keep from being washed over.

  The icy water went through my oilskins and I thought my fingers were breaking off as I close-reefed the mainsail. But the storm grew worse; the only thing to do was turn and run before the wind. The battens in the big sail had snapped, and the backstays and rigging were in a crazy dance. I managed to furl the mainsail and even with only the jib up, we went down the wind—and North—like a speed boat. The radio rigging was carried away, the dinghy smashed and yanked off the cabin top.

  We went roaring before the wind all night and I was numb with cold. In early morning the jib went to pieces —I didn't know how it had stood up so long. I figured we were far enough at sea to lash the wheel and put out a sea anchor. Anyway, there wasn't anything else I could do. After locking the hatch, I went below. The cabin was a mess; broken dishes and junk all over, Rose in her bunk moaning and screaming with fear. I told her to shut up and had some food and whiskey. I felt human again even if we were bouncing around so it felt as if we were living inside a soccer ball.

  I forced Rose to kill a bottle but it didn't knock her out. She crouched in her bunk, stiff with fear. I sat on my blankets, holding on to the bunk, sure we were going to die.

  Toward dawn we stopped bouncing—a little. I went on deck and the wind was dying. The rigging was mostly okay and steering by compass, for a change, I headed due West with both engines; thankful we had the power —as I wondered how long our fuel would last—we were still running in a full sea. I started the pumps, happy to find we hadn't taken on much water. The sky cleared and a few planes passed. I made Rose come on deck where she felt better, the raw wind acting like a shot in the arm. Several hours later we crossed the wake of a rusty freighter, watched some sailors calmly waving at us. Perhaps they thought I was a rich yachtsman out for a sail.

  We began passing more ships—all of them work boats—soon we saw the coastline. Rose had to make the usual crack about kissing the ground. Within two hours we were tied to a dock in Asbury Park, New Jersey. The storm had blown us that far North. Except for the loss of the dink, the jib, and some shrouds, the boat was okay.

  It was a sunny day, but cold, with a thin layer of snow on the ground. Going ashore for lunch, we read in the papers that a “freak" squall had pounded the coast, damaging plenty of boats and summer homes. When I said we had to go back to the Sea Princess, Rose flatly refused. I told her to wait in the greasy spoon. I found a boatyard, arranged for the boat to be hauled out at once, the rigging repaired, her bottom scraped and painted.

  We took a room in a cheap hotel. Rose was all for selling the Sea Princess, flying back to the islands and buying another boat there. I told her to shut up—we'd see. We hit the bed and pounded our ears for sixteen straight hours. I was feeling good, cocky. I'd been sailor enough to ride out the storm.

  The next few days we hung around the boatyard, I even helped out with the overhauling—I didn't want to be too far from our dough with men working on the ship. The owner of the yard was impressed with the Sea Princess' lines, and of course he could tell, I think, by what came off her keel that we'd been in the Caribbean. Rose spent most of her time in various movies, and at night we took long walks on the cold boardwalk, and then watched TV in some bar. I began working on her, pointing out how well the boat had stood up, that it was really my fault for not paying the radio storm warning any mind, and except for the bouncing giving us a hard time, we hadn't suffered any real damage. The point was we had to sail the Sea Princess back to Ansel's and there wasn't anything to be afraid of.

  After a few days Rose was able to laugh at the memory of the two of us lying on our bunks like scared stiffs, and I knew she really admired me for having pulled the ship through single-handed.

  When the Sea Princess was back in the water with a new dink and other repairs, all told costing us $569, we decided to stay in Asbury for a few more days. There was another storm on the way. I tied her up to the boatyard dock and locked the cabin. There's little chance of robbery at a private dock, so Mr. and Mrs. Anderson took a room at a hotel and the next day we decided to give Atlantic City a fling. We registered at the biggest hotel we'd stayed in thus far and Rose bought a new dress that clung more to her figure. We had a steak dinner, saw a movie, and then dropped into a good night club. Rose was a bit nervous when we first hit Atlantic City, she'd once worked there, but felt at ease again when she found the club had been torn down and replaced by a small apartment house.

  We were sitting in this swank night spot, laughing at a wiseguy comedian who had a sharp tongue. Rose was giving me the lowdown on about what the guy was making and how much the members of the band were paid... when I suddenly felt her thigh stiffen against mine under the table. I turned and she was staring down at the table cloth, her face sickly pale in contrast to the dark frames of her phony glasses, her black hair. She was so pale even the remains of her sun tan seemed to have vanished. I asked, “You sick?”

  “Oh, God! Mickey, it's him!”

  “Who?” I asked, looking around wildly. “Hon, what is it?”

  “It's him... the Federal man who tried to shoot me!”

  “Where?” I asked, my guts full of a chill—mainly because I thought Rose was off her head.

  “That table over in the corner, by the post. The big guy with the redheaded girl. Oh God, I knew we shouldn't have come to the States!”

  “Take it easy,” I said, glancing around casually. I had no difficulty making him. He was staring hard at our table. He was a handsome cuss, well set-up and lean, and with a mean face. He looked like a guy who could handle himself, a nasty joker in a brawl. Younger than me, too. Maybe five or six years since he was the star halfback.

  Toying with a spoon I asked a dumb question. “Rose, are you sure?” The way the guy was looking at us told me how sure he was.

  “Of course!” Her voice had the shakes.

  I pressed her thigh as I told her, “Listen to me: we're going to sit right here and play it cool. For one thing, with your glasses and all, he can't be positive. If he comes over, we're a couple of to
urists named Anderson, so don't get excited.”

  “No. He's the one... he'll try to kill me!”

  For a second I realized how jerky I was acting. What was I getting tense about? Even if this proved Rose's weird story was true, Rose was in the clear. I squeezed her hand under the table—and it was cold as death. “Don't worry. If he starts anything I'll handle him.”

  Rose turned and gave me a tight smile—a tender tiny grin that somehow seemed a farewell smile. “No, Mickey, stay put and be careful. Say I'm a pick-up and you don't know a thing about me. I'm going to the head. If he tries to... don't let him stop me. And don't get yourself hurt.”

  Before I could argue, or ask what she meant, Rose stood up. Holding her small pocketbook in one hand, she gave me a light, phony smile, and started for the ladies room, which was located just inside the entrance to the club. The fur trimmed coat she'd bought a few days before was still on the back of her chair.

  While I was wondering why the speech about going to the can, I saw big boy get to his feet. From different angles he and Rose headed for the same point. I got up and crossed directly toward him. Rose was almost running and he wasn't even watching me.