Savannah Breeze (31 page)

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 around 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.”

“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 get
ting 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?”

I forked into the meat loaf with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “Tell me about the meeting. Tell me everything. All Harry said was that Reddy is going to take a look at the boat tomorrow at four.”

“Not just look at it,” Granddad said, pouring whiskey into a chipped juice glass and topping it with water from the faucet. “He wants to take it out for a spin.”

“No!” I said quickly. “We can't do that. It's too chancy. What if something goes wrong with the boat? Or Reddy tries to pull a fast one and steal it?”

“It's called a sea trial, and it's purely routine in this business,” Granddad said, offering me the glass of Scotch.

I took a long, calming sip. “How do you know what's routine in the yacht business?”

“You're not the only one who does research,” Granddad said, preening a little. “I stopped by a very nice establishment on Seventeenth Street on Monday, Case Marine Sales, and had a long talk with one of their brokers. Very illuminating. They answered all my questions, and I looked at several nice midsize yachts. My favorite was a fifty-four-foot Bertram.
The Lucy Goosey
. Beautiful. And only $750,000.”

“You're not really considering buying a yacht,” I said. “You're too old. Anyway, Grandmama would never allow it.”

He sighed. “I know. Lorena barely allows me to buy flashlight batteries, even. But a man can dream. And now, I'm all set to deal with Reddy, or Roy Eugene, or Rory, as he's now calling himself.”

“I can't believe you met with him,” I said.

“He's very convincing,” Granddad said. “Very presentable. If I didn't know different, I'd swear he really was a semiretired orthodontist.”

“An orthodontist!” I hooted. “He's really getting brazen.”

“Semiretired,” Granddad said. “Since he invented those new invisible braces all the kids are getting these days.”

“Such a liar,” I said, grinding my teeth. “What else did he tell you?”

“Just that he's been in the market for a yacht for some time now, and that he'd narrowed his choice down to a Sea Urchin. He's been up to Michigan and seen the manufacturing plant and everything.”

“He probably tried to hijack one from the factory,” I said.

“He claims he's also shopping for a waterfront house,” Granddad said mildly. “Moved down here from Charleston, and he was visiting friends who have a boat at Bahia Mar when he saw the sign on the bow of the
Reefer Madness
.”

“Good,” I urged.

“He asked a lot of questions. Wanted to know how long the current owner has had her, who he is, how many hours the boat has logged, why it's being sold.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Told him I couldn't discuss it over the phone,” Granddad said, chuckling. “That's when he offered to meet with me for a drink. Which we did this afternoon.”

“And?”

“I was pretty cagey with him,” Granddad said. “You'd have been proud of me. I told him the owner's name was confidential, but that I could tell him the fella is in the entertainment business. He's owned the boat for three years, bought it new, and the engines have only about four hundred hours on them.”

“That is good,” I said admiringly.

“He asked me point-blank if the owner was Doobie Bauers,” Granddad said. “I hemmed and hawed, but finally admitted it and swore him to secrecy. And then I told him my client was selling the yacht because his business doesn't permit him enough free time to enjoy the boat properly.”

“You're good,” I said. “I never knew you had it in you, Granddad.”

“I surprised myself,” he admitted. “Never knew lying could be so much fun.”

“Take my advice,” I said. “Don't make a habit of it.”

“Anyway,” he continued. “Rory, or whatever his name is, already knew quite a bit about the boat, and about Doobie and Anya Bauers. He even knew they're currently staying aboard it.”

“Good,” I said cautiously.

“And he insisted that they be along for the sea trial tomorrow,” he added.

“Huh?”

“Claims he's a big fan of Meat Loaf.”

“No,” I said flatly. “That's not possible. Reddy's not the type. He's too young to know about Meat Loaf. Anyway, Harry looks very convincing. Weezie too.”

“I certainly hope so,” Granddad said, leaning back in his chair. “There's five million dollars riding on this thing tomorrow.”

“Five million? I thought we were asking $4.8.”

“I upped it,” Granddad said. “After I looked at those other yachts, it seemed to me the
Reefer Madness
should fetch a much higher price.”

“How did Reddy react to the price?”

“He tried a little horse-trading,” Granddad said. “But I told him it wasn't negotiable. And I also told him to bring a cashier's check for $50,000 tomorrow.”

“What! Are you trying to scare him off?”

“Not at all. It's standard practice. Earnest money. Just like in real estate,” Granddad said serenely. “Besides, that way, if his deposit check clears, we'll know he really does have the money. We'll be one step ahead of him.”

“You're scaring me, old man.”

Granddad just grinned and sipped his whiskey.