miles away, less than a half hour in my jazzy craft.
I found an adequate little marina just short of the highway bridge on the southeast side of Naples. I filled the tanks, bought an extra five gallon can, had it filled with the right gas and oil mix and stowed it aboard. I said I might be leaving it there off and on for a week. The man said a dollar a day. And how about leaving a car here when I’m out in the boat? I asked. Right over there next to the building, where that pickup is, it’ll be okay there, no charge. I paid him a week on the dockage, and after he had shown me where to put it and wandered away, I tied it up in such a way that though the lines were firm, I could free them with one yank, shove off bow first, hit the starter button and be on my way. This was one of the elemental precautions. Never go in until you are damned well sure how you are going to get out. There are few roads in the Glades country, but more waterways than have ever been counted. With the jacket over my arm, I went up to Route 41 and walked across the highway bridge and down the other side of the bayou to the Fish House Restaurant. It was clean and quiet. The decor was seashells stuck into cement on the pillars, beams and ceiling. Tourists had pried out a lot of the oneswithin reach. I found they served a clam chowder with character. It would cure debility, angry the blood, and turn a girl scout troop into a baritone choir.
I didn’t bother phoning Crane Watts’ office. His residence was on Clematis Drive. A maid announced it as The Watts Resydense and told me, “They’s at the Club.” And when I asked if it was the Cutlass Yacht Club, she said, “Nome, they play tennis at the Royal Palm Bath Club.”
I looked up car rentals, phoned one and was told they couldn’t deliver. Just one man on duty. I took a cab to the place the other side of town. I signed up for a dark green Chev, four door, with air-conditioning. The attendant told me to go about another mile north and then look for the Bath Club sign on a road to the left, turn and go about a half mile. I couldn’t miss it. I didn’t.
I found a parking place in the lot. The huge pool, behind woven fencing, was a gabbling, shrieking, belly-whomping mass of kids. They had a crescent of private beach dotted with bright umbrellas and oiled brown flesh, prone and supine. Despite the early afternoon heat, their dozen asphalt courts beyond the pool area were all full. You could see at a glance it was very proper tennis. Everyone raced about in spotless white, sweating and banging hell out of the ball, calling out Love, Add, Out and Nice Shot.
The club house was a flaking Moorish pastry onto which had been pasted a big wing in supermarket modern. I wandered in and found a bulletin board in a corridor. They are always useful. The bulletin board was folksier than the tennis. There was a mimeographed copy of the last club bulletin tacked to it. Seems that on May tenth the Taylors had given a big farewell bash for Frank and Mandy Hopson, before theyleft on their dream trip, three whole months in Spain. Crane and Viv Watts were listed among the guests. I found a phone booth and book, but it gave me no clue as to good old Frank’s occupation, if any. I roamed until I found a door labeled OFFICE . I knocked and pushed it open. A thin girl was alone in there, typing. She had a pert look, a large toothy smile. “May I help you, sir?”
“Sorry to bother you. I just got to town today. I called Mr. Frank Hopson at his home but I couldn’t get an answer. I remember him speaking of this place, and I thought maybe Frank and Mandy might be out here.”
She made a sad mouth. “Oh, dear! They went away on a long trip.”
“Don’t tell me they finally made it to Spain. Son of a gun.”
“They were as excited about it as a pair of little kids, believe me, Mr.…”
“McGee. Travis McGee. They’ve been after me for years to come over and see them. Well … that’s the way it goes. At
I found an adequate little marina just short of the highway bridge on the southeast side of Naples. I filled the tanks, bought an extra five gallon can, had it filled with the right gas and oil mix and stowed it aboard. I said I might be leaving it there off and on for a week. The man said a dollar a day. And how about leaving a car here when I’m out in the boat? I asked. Right over there next to the building, where that pickup is, it’ll be okay there, no charge. I paid him a week on the dockage, and after he had shown me where to put it and wandered away, I tied it up in such a way that though the lines were firm, I could free them with one yank, shove off bow first, hit the starter button and be on my way. This was one of the elemental precautions. Never go in until you are damned well sure how you are going to get out. There are few roads in the Glades country, but more waterways than have ever been counted. With the jacket over my arm, I went up to Route 41 and walked across the highway bridge and down the other side of the bayou to the Fish House Restaurant. It was clean and quiet. The decor was seashells stuck into cement on the pillars, beams and ceiling. Tourists had pried out a lot of the oneswithin reach. I found they served a clam chowder with character. It would cure debility, angry the blood, and turn a girl scout troop into a baritone choir.
I didn’t bother phoning Crane Watts’ office. His residence was on Clematis Drive. A maid announced it as The Watts Resydense and told me, “They’s at the Club.” And when I asked if it was the Cutlass Yacht Club, she said, “Nome, they play tennis at the Royal Palm Bath Club.”
I looked up car rentals, phoned one and was told they couldn’t deliver. Just one man on duty. I took a cab to the place the other side of town. I signed up for a dark green Chev, four door, with air-conditioning. The attendant told me to go about another mile north and then look for the Bath Club sign on a road to the left, turn and go about a half mile. I couldn’t miss it. I didn’t.
I found a parking place in the lot. The huge pool, behind woven fencing, was a gabbling, shrieking, belly-whomping mass of kids. They had a crescent of private beach dotted with bright umbrellas and oiled brown flesh, prone and supine. Despite the early afternoon heat, their dozen asphalt courts beyond the pool area were all full. You could see at a glance it was very proper tennis. Everyone raced about in spotless white, sweating and banging hell out of the ball, calling out Love, Add, Out and Nice Shot.
The club house was a flaking Moorish pastry onto which had been pasted a big wing in supermarket modern. I wandered in and found a bulletin board in a corridor. They are always useful. The bulletin board was folksier than the tennis. There was a mimeographed copy of the last club bulletin tacked to it. Seems that on May tenth the Taylors had given a big farewell bash for Frank and Mandy Hopson, before theyleft on their dream trip, three whole months in Spain. Crane and Viv Watts were listed among the guests. I found a phone booth and book, but it gave me no clue as to good old Frank’s occupation, if any. I roamed until I found a door labeled OFFICE . I knocked and pushed it open. A thin girl was alone in there, typing. She had a pert look, a large toothy smile. “May I help you, sir?”
“Sorry to bother you. I just got to town today. I called Mr. Frank Hopson at his home but I couldn’t get an answer. I remember him speaking of this place, and I thought maybe Frank and Mandy might be out here.”
She made a sad mouth. “Oh, dear! They went away on a long trip.”
“Don’t tell me they finally made it to Spain. Son of a gun.”
“They were as excited about it as a pair of little kids, believe me, Mr.…”
“McGee. Travis McGee. They’ve been after me for years to come over and see them. Well … that’s the way it goes. At
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