Bernard Cornwell - Crackdown

McIllvanney stared at me as though I was a complete idiot. “Of course he’s focking involved. He’s up to his black eyeballs in the drug trade. He’s even got a house on Murder Cay, so he has, and he’s not the only one with his nose stuck in that particular trough, but it’s not your business, and you don’t mess with the man because he’s got friends who won’t think twice about feeding you to the sharks. I’ve got a job for you.”

I almost ignored his last words because I was still thinking about Billingsley’s dishonesty, but then I realised just what McIllvanney had said and I frowned. “A job? What kind of job?”

“What the hell sort of a job do you think it is? It’s an extra charter for Wavebreaker , of course.”

“I can’t do it, you know I can’t,” I said instantly and very firmly. McIllvanney did not respond, except to stare at me with his unblinking and reptilian eyes, and thus he forced me to add an unnecessary explanation. “I want to sail Masquerade south before the hurricane season, so I’m going to need all that’s left of this summer to repair her.” That was entirely true, but it sounded very limp as I said it and my voice just tailed away. “Of course I’d like to help you, but…”

“The job will pay extra,” McIllvanney said flatly. He was not looking at me any more, but was staring out to sea where a small tanker, her navigation lights glowing bright in the falling darkness, nudged gingerly towards the bunkering buoys. “A lot extra. And it’s legal.”

“If it wasn’t for Masquerade —” I began, but McIllvanney cut me off.

“The client’s offering 115 American dollars a day for the skipper, which makes the whole thing worth over ten thousand bucks to you. Ellen will clear eight thousand, so she will, and Thessalonians will make over three.”

I was doing some swift mental arithmetic, and the result was so crazy that I paused to rework the sums in my head. The car salesmen cheered from the darkness beneath as I stared into McIllvanney’s implacable eyes. “Three months?” I asked in disbelief. “The client wants the boat for three months! That’s impossible. I’ve got Masquerade to repair.”

“The client says he’s an admirer of yours.” McIllvanney managed to insert a sneer into the word admirer. “He wants you particularly, so he does. You remember Senator Crowninshield?”

“Of course I do.” I remembered George Crowninshield very well, for he and his wife had been my very first clients on board Wavebreaker and I had been nervous, not just at the prospect of a new job, but because of the client’s eminence. George Crowninshield was a US senator, one of the stars of that legislature, and these days it was impossible to see his name in a magazine or newspaper without the added speculation that he might soon become the President of the United States. He was not the clear favourite for the Oval Office, for there were other men whose achievements were more palpable than George Crowninshield’s, but he looked good, sounded better and no journalist had ever discovered him with his fingers in the till or his legs in the wrong bed. His enemies said that he was a politician without a cause, but if that was the worst they could say of him then he could indeed look towards the White House.

I had liked the senator. I had expected an American senator to be as pompous and flatulent as a British MP, but George Crowninshield had proved affable and friendly. He had been intrigued by my relationship with my father, and sympathetic to my rejection of the theatre. My father, Sir Tom, was the second most famous man of the British stage, of any stage for that matter; a towering and famous figure, one of the great actors of all time, who accepted the adulation as his due and who had expected me, like the rest of his children, to follow in his footsteps. Instead, in rebellion against the illusions of the stage and films, I had run away from home and joined the Marines. Not as an officer, but as a marine. Sir Tom had tried to get me out, had failed, and had then left me to my own devices. What hurt him was how much I looked like him. I, the only one of his children who had not gone on to the stage, had inherited the famous Breakspear eyes, the Breakspear height, the Breakspear cheekbones, the brooding Breakspear presence that my father had used to break the hearts of unnumbered women. I was often called Hamlet because I so resembled my father’s appearance in his most famous film, the ‘Coronation’ Hamlet, so named because it had been released in Coronation year. Yet I was not my father. I was an exmarine sergeant who was also a damned good sailor.

Senator Crowninshield had been sympathetic to the problems a child might have with a famous parent. The senator had a son and daughter of his own and, though he had never talked specifically of their problems, I sensed that in my life he was seeking an answer to his own family’s complexities. He and I had talked long into the tropical nights and I had enjoyed his company, and I would have liked to have spent more time with Senator Crowninshield, but three months? “Just how can a US senator take off from his job for three months?” I now asked McIllvanney in astonishment

“The senator doesn’t want the boat for himself.” McIllvanney shook a cigarette out of a packet, then opened his briefcase that lay on the floor beside his chair. “He wants the boat for his two children. Except they’re hardly children any more; the wee bastards are twenty-four, so they are. Twins, you see, a boy and a girl.” He had found his lighter in the briefcase, as well as a letter that was embossed with a blue and gold eagle above the rubric ‘From the Washington Office of Senator George Crowninshield’. McIllvanney held the letter out to me as though it explained everything. “The girl’s called Robin-Anne, and the boy is Rickie. It’s a graduation present for her, so it is.”

I ignored the letter. “A graduation present?” I was accustomed to wealthy Americans treating their children to lavish rewards for completing extremely average educations, but three months’ charter aboard Wavebreaker seemed uncommonly generous, even to a man as famously wealthy as Senator Crowninshield.

“It’s his focking money,” McIllvanney justified the senator’s generosity.

“But it’s my time,” I said as I stood up, “and I can’t spare it. I’ve got a boat to repair.”

“Ellen will be disappointed,” McIllvanney said slyly, “she likes her money, so she does.”

He again managed to invest his words with a sneer. “She’s only saving her money,” I sprang to Ellen’s defence, “so she has something to live on while she writes her first novel.”

“She should shack up with a man, then, like the other women writers do,” McIllvanney said nastily and, when I did not respond, he jabbed a finger at me. “If she’s so keen to save a spot of money then she won’t thank you for cheating her of eight grand.”

“Find someone else to skipper the charter,” I said. “Why don’t you ask Sammy Meredith? He’d love to do it.” Sammy was another of Cutwater’s skippers, and a good one.

“Because the senator asked for you personally,” McIllvanney said. “He wants you, not Sammy or anyone else, and if you won’t do it, then you’re not just putting Ellen’s money at risk, but you’re putting my commission on the line too, and I might not like that.”

“Get lost.” I would not be threatened by McIllvanney. “Ask Sammy Meredith.”

“A hundred and twenty-five dollars a day?” McIllvanney offered.

It never occurred to me that something quite extraordinary must be implicated in the charter if George Crowninshield was willing to pay such an egregious price for an out-of-season charter. “The answer’s still no,” I said.