“But it is the social occasion. Everybody goes.”
“Except me, this year,” Molly said. “I’m right here three to eleven. Applying legal theory.”
“And I’ll be out in the harbor,” Jesse said, “committing piracy.”
“Shiver me timbers,” Molly said.
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24
T he caterer’s clambake crew started Friday afternoon, digging a hole two feet deep and fifteen feet across. They lined it with rocks, built a bonfire on top of the rocks and let it burn, feeding it through the night with hardwood. In the morning, when the fire had burned down, they spread seaweed over the rocks and then began layering in clams, lobsters, corn on the cob, potatoes and thick Portuguese sausages. They repeated the seaweed and the food layers until the pit was full. Then they put on a final layer of seaweed, and stretched a tarpaulin over the pile while the hot stones made the seaweed steam, and the food cooked.
Another crew set up a vast striped tent with a pole peak at R O B E R T B . P A R K E R
either end, from which flew Paradise Yacht Club banners. A full bar set up underneath it, and beer kegs chilled in huge tubs of ice. By two-thirty in the afternoon the island was already crowded. People came from the harbor in their own small boats, or were ferried by the Paradise Yacht Club launch.
People from town drove over the causeway and parked where they could. A four-man police detail would try to manage the traffic, and later, the clambakers.
Jesse stood beside Hardy Watkins, resting his elbows on the low cabin of the harbor boat, as it idled near the outer harbor. Through the binoculars, Stiles Island was a swarm of tan legs, white shorts, tank tops, big hats, long dresses, pink cotton, blue ribbon, floral patterns, yellow linen. The smell of the bake drifted to him, edged with the smell of fresh spilled beer.
Jesse moved the glasses back to the
“That’s nine,” Jesse said. “The boat should be empty.”
“You want to come in from the other side,” Hardy said.
“Yes.”
Hardy opened the throttle gently and the harbor boat moved quietly through the small harbor chop, behind the screen of moored yachts, to the far side of the
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S E A C H A N G E
“You see anyone heading for the boat,” Jesse said, “give me a shout. If we get caught, I’ll lie, and you’ll swear to it, that I just went aboard thinking there was someone home, and was about to leave when I found there wasn’t.”
“We doing something illegal?” Hardy said.
“We are.”
“I was hoping it would be something better than this.”
Jesse went effortlessly over the side, and onto the deck of the
“Hello?” Jesse yelled.
No one answered.
He walked into the cockpit and stopped beside the helm.
“Hello?”
No one answered. He went down the short wide teak stair-way. It was a big boat, but there was no extra space. Jesse paused for a moment and yelled once more. No answer.
Everything was built-in. Dining table, seating for six, bar, galley, a big plasma television screen, polished hardwood and shiny brass. A small corridor off the back of the dining room had staterooms along either side. Each had a built-in bed and bureau. The master suite had its own head. There were several other facilities tucked in among the staterooms. Jesse counted sleeping for more than nine, though it probably depended somewhat on gender and relationship. Everything looked neat and cozy and expensive and luxurious. The table was set. There were flowers in small crystal vases. Jesse won-1 1 5
R O B E R T B . P A R K E R
dered how it was in thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds with a six-foot sea running. The thought made him smile.
The boat was empty. After his walk-through, Jesse began to search each space. He began with the master bedroom. Most people hid the most incriminating stuff, Jesse knew, in their bedroom. Or stateroom, or whatever the swabbies called them.
There were women’s clothes and toiletries as well as men’s.
There were sex toys in the top bureau drawer under some neatly folded sport shirts. One of the toys was a massager which was held onto the back of the hand with springs and imparted its vibration to the hand. Jesse remembered that when he was a small boy in Arizona, his grandfather had used one like it for scalp massage. Jesse smiled. Or maybe not. In the bottom drawer of the same bureau, among a lot of exotic woman’s underwear, was a stack of videotapes held together with a thick red elastic band. Jesse picked them up and took off the rubber band. The tapes were numbered with a Magic Marker, but there was nothing else to say what they were. Jesse glanced around the bedroom. In a wall cabinet was an entertainment center which included, Jesse was sure, a videotape player. Jesse studied the equipment. There seemed to be a computer involved. After awhile he shook his
