Джон Макдональд - The Last One Left

“Something about bottled propane?”

“They finally figured out what had happened. That woman had found a piece of brain coral on the beach, worn almost round, and she put it in a saucer on top of a cupboard in the galley. When they came in through the pass the boat rolled and the hunk of coral fell and hit the copper tubing to the galley stove just right, and the gas leaked out and being heavier than air, filtered right down into the bilge, and when there was enough of it to ignite, that poor woman happened to be sitting on the cockpit hatch cover, and it broke her back and threw her into the sea.”

“I gather you think they’ll clear Staniker.”

“I think any other action would be terribly unfair.”

“There’s one thing for sure. Nobody is going to get a look at what’s left of the Muñeca. She’s a couple of thousand feet down. I’m grateful to you for giving me so much of your time, and being so frank and helpful, Mrs. Harkinson. It’ll give us a good chance to do a report in depth when we cover the investigation, and I’ll make sure there isn’t any wording in it that might embarrass you in any way.”

“I’ll be very grateful, Mr. Weldon. It certainly is getting an awful lot of publicity, isn’t it?”

“These things depend on the ingredients. Texas millionaire, young beauty-contest wife, crippled daughter, pretty young guest, luxurious cruise in the tropic isles, and pow! And the captain is the only one left. How long the media keeps leaning on it will depend on how soon something else comes along with juicy ingredients. Thanks again, and if I come up with a question I forgot to ask, can I get back to you?”

“Of course. It’s been nice talking to you.”

She reached and replaced the pink Princess phone on the cradle in the recess built into the headboard. It had gone well. And now if Garry was only playing his role just as it had been planned.

She remembered drilling one thing into him. “You are going to be stunned, sweetheart. Shocked and stunned. You’ll have lost a boatload of people, including your own dear Mary Jane. So slow yourself down. You won’t be tracking well. You won’t seem to hear some of the questions. Give yourself lots of time to answer. If you let anybody trick you, it could be my neck too.”

“You’re so right, baby.”

“And when the time and place is right, do it, and don’t let yourself stop or think until that part of it is all over, and then for what happens next, keep thinking every minute! ”

“Stop worrying!”

“Go over it for me now, every little thing.”

“Again? For God’s sake, Crissy!”

“Again, yes. And again and again and again. Lover, this means clover forever. This is big casino. Every chance you’ve had, somebody or something has messed you up. A man like you! Who should have had the whole ball of wax. You’re due , Garry!”

It was strange how gradually it had dawned upon her that Staniker could be turned into a weapon, and used. When Fer had told her he had hired a captain to go with the gift cruiser, and they had gone to give her her first look at it and take the first short shakedown cruise, she had been startled and slightly amused at the Senator’s selection of a captain. Garry Staniker was a familiar type, one of those big, easy-moving, outdoor studs, in fact almost a caricature of the breed. Big brown craggy face, an acre of shoulders, bulging wads and pads of muscle, boyish lock of brown hair to fall across the seamed forehead, dimming tattoos on the powerful arms, a slim waist and even his work clothing tailored to display the power of his build. The crinkles around blue eyes had been shaped by weather and amusement. He had that lazy, half-mocking assurance of the man whose animal magnetism has given him his choice of women wherever he had roamed. And he looked at her with interest and approval, which did not displease her. It did not seem plausible that he could be so theatrically decorative and still be able to run the boat. He looked as if Central Casting had dug him up to play a bit part, a smuggler in the China Sea, a gun runner in the Indian Ocean.

But he could take the Odalisque in and out of tricky dock spaces in wind and tide with the casual competence of a taxi driver stealing a parking place. He maintained the cruiser beautifully, doing all chores not only with a tidy efficiency, but with a manner which seemed to say that he was indeed from Central Casting, but had learned the procedures aboard his own series of luxury vessels.

Ferris Fontaine obviously liked him and trusted his ability and judgment and discretion. On longer cruises Mary Jane would come along to take care of cooking, buying provisions, bunk-making, laundry. She was a plump, subdued, busy and docile little woman of about forty. Her only flaw as an employee was a somewhat uncomfortable anxiety to please. She obviously adored Staniker. He had an amiable manner toward her most of the time, the gentle, condescending attitude one might have toward a house dog one is used to and fond of. When displeased with her, he would put an edge in his voice which would make her jump as if stung by a lash. Crissy, by getting Mary Jane to talk a few times, learned that when they were married Garry had just gotten out of the Navy, and she was working as a waitress in San Diego. It had been mostly her savings they had used for the payment on the Bahamian ketch. After two stillborn babies and a series of miscarriages, her tubes had been tied for reasons of health. She said she often felt homesick for the Bahamas. It had been hard work. But so lovely. From little nuances when Crissy was able to get her to talk about her husband, she could guess at the emotional adjustment Mary Jane had achieved. Her rationalization was that women threw themselves at her husband, and men were often weak and did not have very good sense about women.

On cruises, sunning herself, Crissy often felt Staniker’s eyes upon her. She wondered what sort of approach he would make. She intended to fend it off with vivid directness. Finally she tested him by having him take her, alone, down the Waterway, inside the Florida Keys and anchor overnight in the seclusion of protected Tarpon Bay. Not only did he make no move, but the situation seemed to unnerve him. She made him join her for a nightcap out on the stern deck while the Odalisque swung at anchor in the moonlight, and got him talking enough to confirm her growing suspicion that he was not going to take any chance which might lose him the job. It paid five hundred a month. His small triumphs seemed to be all in the past. He had some vague conviction things would get better, but he was frightened by any idea they might get worse. Studying him the next day she saw more clearly how his forty plus years were eroding his image of himself. Pucker of flesh under the chin. Slight discoloration of the whites of the eyes, a little softness bulging over the tight-drawn belt. When she was alone on the boat she poked around in the crew quarters forward and found his little bottle of hair dye, and the gummy little applicator brush. The evidences were plaintive. As with athletes and beach boys and beefcake movie stars, the years were nibbling away the morale by corrupting the image, and he had to convince himself that nothing had really changed, that nothing really would, ever.

After Fer’s sudden and badly timed death, and after she had failed in her clumsy effort at blackmailing Fer’s cronies, she knew she ought to sell the Odalisque as quickly as possible. The money had stopped. She had a few thousand in a checking account, and half that much in her safe in the back of the closet wall. But the money had stopped.

Yet when Staniker, obviously troubled about his own future, sought her out and said that he guessed she would be getting rid of the cruiser, she found herself staring at him in an imitation of astonishment, and heard herself saying, “Why should I sell my lovely boat, Captain?”