landed them on the Central American coast? Florida was my best bet now. I could lose myself among the thousands who made a living along the edge of the sea in one way or another, and gradually build up a whole new identity. I tore all my identification into tiny shreds and flushed it down the plumbing along with the remainder of the bus ticket. As soon as I turned out the light and lay down I was thinking of her again.
It was a little after eight when I awoke. I shaved hurriedly, noting my face was almost back to normal now, and dressed in a clean white linen suit. Brassy sunlight spilled into Canal Street, shattering on the chrome and glass of traffic as the sticky New Orleans heat began. I pushed through the crowds, looking at my watch. The banks wouldn’t be open for over an hour.
I got some change in a cigar store and went back to the battery of phone booths. Putting in a long-distance call to Sanport, I caught the yacht broker just as he came in his office.
“Hello,” I said, sweltering in the airless little cubicle. “My name’s Burton. I understand from a friend of mine you’ve got a New-England-built sloop over there, 36 footer by the name of Dancer , or something like that—”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s right. The Ballerina . Good boat, in first-class condition—”
“How much are you asking?”
“Eleven thousand.”
“That sounds high to me,” I said. “But I’m looking for one of her class and I’d go to ten if it’s in top shape. Suppose I come over and take a look at it? I’m in New Orleans now, but I could be there sometime tomorrow morning if you could make arrangements for the boat yard to haul her out.”
“Fine,” he replied. “She’s at Michaelson’s Yard. We’ll be looking for you.”
“Around nine a.m.,” I said.
So far, so good. She hadn’t been sold yet.
When the banks opened I went into the first one I came to, endorsed the check for deposit, and opened an account, asking them to clear it with the Sanport bank by wire. They said they should have an answer a little after noon.
The used car lots were next. I didn’t find a station wagon in the first one and was just about to leave when the idea began to come to me. Part of my mind had been occupied with the problem of getting Macaulay out of that house, and now I was starting to see at least part of the answer. I didn’t want a station wagon; I wanted a panel truck, a black one. I found one in the next lot. After trying it out, I told the salesman I’d come back later and let him know. I couldn’t buy it until the check cleared.
The wire came back from the Sanport bank a little after one. I cashed a check for three thousand, picked up the truck, and drove over to a nautical supply store. It took nearly two hours to get everything I needed here, chronometer, sextant, azimuth tables, nautical almanacs, charts, and so on, right down to a pair of 7 by 50 glasses and a marine radio receiver. That left diving gear. Of course, there was still the aqualung in the back of her car, but the coast of Yucatan was too far to come back for spare equipment if anything went wrong. I bought another, and some extra cylinders which I had filled. At five o’clock the truck was full of gear, and nothing remained but to check out of the hotel and start back.
No, there was one thing more. I went into a dime store and bought an anniversary greeting card.
I drove all night.
Just at dawn I was approaching the outskirts of Sanport, and stopped at an all-night service station to shave and clean up a little while the attendant filled the tank. I was a little nervous as I approached the downtown area, but I shrugged it off. There was nothing to worry about yet. In the panel truck I looked like any laundry route-man or cigarette salesman.
Michaelson’s Boat Yard lay some three miles from town, in the opposite direction from the Parker Mill. It was on a sandspit running out toward the ship channel beyond the eastern end of the
It was a little after eight when I awoke. I shaved hurriedly, noting my face was almost back to normal now, and dressed in a clean white linen suit. Brassy sunlight spilled into Canal Street, shattering on the chrome and glass of traffic as the sticky New Orleans heat began. I pushed through the crowds, looking at my watch. The banks wouldn’t be open for over an hour.
I got some change in a cigar store and went back to the battery of phone booths. Putting in a long-distance call to Sanport, I caught the yacht broker just as he came in his office.
“Hello,” I said, sweltering in the airless little cubicle. “My name’s Burton. I understand from a friend of mine you’ve got a New-England-built sloop over there, 36 footer by the name of Dancer , or something like that—”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s right. The Ballerina . Good boat, in first-class condition—”
“How much are you asking?”
“Eleven thousand.”
“That sounds high to me,” I said. “But I’m looking for one of her class and I’d go to ten if it’s in top shape. Suppose I come over and take a look at it? I’m in New Orleans now, but I could be there sometime tomorrow morning if you could make arrangements for the boat yard to haul her out.”
“Fine,” he replied. “She’s at Michaelson’s Yard. We’ll be looking for you.”
“Around nine a.m.,” I said.
So far, so good. She hadn’t been sold yet.
When the banks opened I went into the first one I came to, endorsed the check for deposit, and opened an account, asking them to clear it with the Sanport bank by wire. They said they should have an answer a little after noon.
The used car lots were next. I didn’t find a station wagon in the first one and was just about to leave when the idea began to come to me. Part of my mind had been occupied with the problem of getting Macaulay out of that house, and now I was starting to see at least part of the answer. I didn’t want a station wagon; I wanted a panel truck, a black one. I found one in the next lot. After trying it out, I told the salesman I’d come back later and let him know. I couldn’t buy it until the check cleared.
The wire came back from the Sanport bank a little after one. I cashed a check for three thousand, picked up the truck, and drove over to a nautical supply store. It took nearly two hours to get everything I needed here, chronometer, sextant, azimuth tables, nautical almanacs, charts, and so on, right down to a pair of 7 by 50 glasses and a marine radio receiver. That left diving gear. Of course, there was still the aqualung in the back of her car, but the coast of Yucatan was too far to come back for spare equipment if anything went wrong. I bought another, and some extra cylinders which I had filled. At five o’clock the truck was full of gear, and nothing remained but to check out of the hotel and start back.
No, there was one thing more. I went into a dime store and bought an anniversary greeting card.
I drove all night.
Just at dawn I was approaching the outskirts of Sanport, and stopped at an all-night service station to shave and clean up a little while the attendant filled the tank. I was a little nervous as I approached the downtown area, but I shrugged it off. There was nothing to worry about yet. In the panel truck I looked like any laundry route-man or cigarette salesman.
Michaelson’s Boat Yard lay some three miles from town, in the opposite direction from the Parker Mill. It was on a sandspit running out toward the ship channel beyond the eastern end of the
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