The Right Jack

'You don't have to come,' she'd told Alan Knight, but he pointed out that she could hardly drive herself the length of Long Island with one arm in a sling and besides, he wanted to see this thing to the end.

Mantausic, on South Oyster Bay, was a scruffy little sea town, the kind that could be found all up and down the Atlantic coast. Unlike the towns that serviced Fire Island a little further east, Mantausic had never drawn a white- wine-and-brie crowd, and it did not pull down the shades or roll up its waterfront after

Labor Day. Mantausic was home port to a small fleet of charter boats and October had always been a good month for blues, weakfish and flounder.

Dedicated sportsmen from all over Brooklyn, Queens or Nassau would arise before daylight and drive through the dawn hours to be at the dock by sailing time at six A.M., tackle boxes and coolers in hand.

It was a little past ten and all the boat slips were empty as a car from the Navy's motor pool drove slowly along Front Street looking for the repair shop where Victor Earle was said to work.

Petty Officer Schmitt had been left in the city and Sigrid sat on the front seat beside Alan Knight and peered through the windshield.

'There it is,' she said, pointing to a tin-sided garage with a sign over the open sliding doors that read 'Kryschevski's Marine Repairs-Diesel Engines our Speciality.'

'Sorry,' said Mr. Kryschevski, straightening up to wipe his hand on a grease-smeared rag, when they inquired for Earle. ''Fraid you've got a little wait. The Margie Q was short-handed this morning so Vic went out with her.'

'Out where?' asked Sigrid. 'Maybe we could-'

'Out on the water,' said the mechanic. 'Don't you worry though. The Margie Q's only a half-day charter. They don't go all the way out. Just do a little bottom fishing off the point. They'll be back around twelve-thirty, one o'clock.'

'We thought he worked here,' said Knight.

'Does. But when things are slow like they are right now, Vic picks up a day now and then on the water.',

'Has he worked for you long?' j

''Bout a year now, off and on.' Kryschevski walked over to a drink dispenser, pushed in some coins, and popped the top of a diet cola. He took a long swallow, eyeing them carefully all the time. 'Vic in trouble again?'

'What makes you ask that? Has he been in trouble before?'

'No, no.' Kryschevski took another swallow. 'Not really. There was that business with the Peconic Pearl. You're

Navy though, aren't you? Not Coast Guard.'

With prodding, Kryschevski described a little scrape the Peconic Pearl had gotten herself mixed up in late one night back in the summer. The Coast Guard accused her of rendezvousing with a Colombian freighter a few miles off shore and perhaps taking on a few bales of drugs. By the time they overtook her and searched her, though, the Peconic Pearl seemed to be clean and there was no proof.

'Was Early aboard the Pearl that night?'

'Yeah. The Coast Guard was around next day to talk to him.'

'What about this past weekend?' asked Sigrid.

'This weekend?';

'Friday night or Sunday morning?'

'Well, Friday night he helped me work on the engine of the Seabreeze II till after midnight. Sunday? I don't know. Seems like he might've gone out on the Pearl Sunday. You'll have to ask him.'

***

Kryschevski told them they were welcome to wait inside the garage, but Sigrid and Knight decided to poke around the small town instead.

It had rained during the night and heavy gray clouds overhead promised more, but they left the car parked near the berth of the Margie Q and walked up the main street, a tree-lined thoroughfare that led directly from the waterfront. They walked past two pharmacies, a bank, a grocery, and a tackle shop-the usual small town assortment-and paused before a window full of what would be antiques over in the Hamptons but were here unpretentiously labeled Frank's Used Furniture.

They had excellent coffee in the Chowder Bowl, browsed through the reduced book table at the Inglenook Book Shop, and read all the tombstones in the tiny graveyard surrounding the Mantausic Anglican Church at the end of First Street.

Beyond lay a marshy area that had been designated a wildlife refuge for sea birds. Knight was ready to explore it, but Sigrid became uneasy whenever her feetl eft concrete, so they turned back.

It was a little past eleven.

They crossed to the other side of the street and Knight paused in front of the Lobster Pot Cafe. 'Want another coffee?'

'Not really.'

'Too bad they don't have a movie or something.'

'You didn't have to come,' Sigrid reminded him.

'I wanted to come. I just didn't know we'd have to hang around doing nothing for three hours in the world's most boring town.'

'Why don't you buy a paper and go read in the car?' she suggested, drifting on to the next shop.

It was a small beauty parlor with a dozen or more sun-faded pictures in the windows of an eclectic range of hair styles, from rock punk to country club conservative.

'That cut would look good on you,' said Alan, pointing to a multilayered style very short on the top and what looked like a rattail hanging down the back.

Mantausic on a gray Tuesday morningd id not seem to have provided the fortyish 'tyoman inside the shop with any customers and she peered out at them with a hopeful air. Sigrid shook her head.

'What makes you so afraid of looking feminine?' Alan asked curiously. 'Worried that you can't command if the troops find out you're a woman? Or that Oscar Nauman will wrestle you to the nearest bed?'

'Don't be an ass,' she snapped and started past.

Possessed by a sudden spurt of mischief, he grabbed her free hand and brashly tugged her into the shop. 'Good morning,' he caroled before Sigrid could protest. 'Do you have time to style my friend's hair?'

'I think I can work her in,' the woman answered solemnly. 'Let's see. Yes, I believe station three has just opened up.'

To Knight's complete surprise, Sigrid strolled over to that chair and sat down without any argument.

'You'll really do it?' he asked, stunned. Sigrid flashed a wicked smile at himt hrough the mirror and spoke to the woman. 'I haven't been able to shower with my arm bandaged like this. Could you give me a shampoo?'

'And a cut,' said Alan Knight, refusing to give up.

'And a cut,' Sigrid agreed serenely. 'I usually take about an inch off every month, but that's something else I can't do with my arm out of commission.'

The beautician began pulling pins from the braided bun at the nape of Sigrid's neck. 'Did you break your arm?' she asked in a sympathetic tone.

'I meant a real cut,' Alan protested. 'Throw away your inhibitions.

'Go away, Alan,' Sigrid said. 'I'm not going to have you stand there and nag me for the next forty minutes. Go torpedo something in the bay.'

'A real cut,' Alan begged the beautician. 'Something wild and completely different.'

'I'll meet you back at the car,' Sigrid said in a voice that brooked no further argument.

He went.:

The beautician loosened the thick braid. 'Your hair's as fine as babys ilk. Doesn't hold much curl either, does it?'

She lifted the soft dark mass in her capable hand and looked at Sigrid in the mirror, considering the younger woman's thin face, high forehead, and wide gray eyes.