She stayed with him until he walked into the surf, then she stopped and waited. He waddled into the sea until the water sloshed at his knees; then, balancing himself unsteadily, he tossed the ski poles back toward her, pulled off the jacket and threw it over his shoulder and fell forward into the ocean and began swimming. His powerful arms pulled him through the big breakers and out beyond into clear water and he swain hard, without letting up until he was fifty feet r so from the Jacob’s ladder of the yacht. He looked up at the deck through piercing black eyes that glimmered under heavy brows, and treading water with his powerful arms, yelled, ‘Ahoy there, would that be Lieutenant O’Hara?’
‘Aye, sir,’ O’Hara yelled back.
‘Good show. Charles Gordon Howe here. It’s a pleasure, sir.’
‘Thank you. The pleasure’s mine. It’s a beautiful boat.’
‘How’s the shoulder?’
‘Fine. Just a little stiff.’
Howe spoke in a strong Boston accent laced with Irish, clipping his words off short, his O’s becoming ah’s.
‘Good enough. Care to join me, sir? What’s the water running there, Mr Carmody?’
‘Fifty-eight degrees, sir. Fourteen and a half Celsius.’
‘Uh . . . thanks, anyway,’ O’Hara said. ‘I think I’ll wait until the shoulder’s feeling a little better.’
‘And the water’s a little warmer, eh?’ Howe laughed, a big, barracks room laugh. ‘My beach cottage is right up there on the hill. I move out here every May and stay until September. I’m thirty minutes by helicopter from downtown Boston. Start off every morning with a dip.’
Howe took half a dozen hard strokes to the dock and hoisted himself up to a sitting position, his wasted legs dangling in the cold sea, then reached up to the Jacob’s ladder, his massive arms bulging, and pulled himself, arm over arm, up the ladder by its railing. The mate, Carmody, was waiting for him with an electric wheelchair and a heavy pea jacket. As he reached the top Howe twisted his entire torso and dropped into the chair. He towelled off, slipped on the jacket and draped a wool blanket over his legs. ‘Welcome aboard, sir,’ he said and held his hand out to O’Hara. It was like shaking hands with a trash masher.
The steward, a young man with a pasty complexion, wearing blue bellbottoms and a white starched jacket with a blue dolphin embroidered over one pocket, asked O’Hara, ‘How do you like your coffee, sir?’
‘Black, please, brandy on the bottom.’
‘Aye aye, sir. The usual, Captain?’ be asked Howe. ‘Strong tea with a touch of vodka. Takes the edge off, y’know. Breakfast in fifteen minutes, please, Mr Lomax.’ Then to O’Hara: ‘Scrod and scrambled eggs, I believe scrod’s a favourite of yours, right, Lieutenant?’
‘Yes, thanks. And I prefer simply O’ Hara, if you don’t mind. I’ve been out of the Navy almost six years now.’
‘You earned the rank, by God, sir. Be proud of it.’
‘I resigned the commission, Mr Howe.’
‘But you left honourably, Lieutenant. I’m a strong believer in titles, sir. Aboard this craft, we honour rank.’
The steward returned with the drinks.
‘This should do until we’ve had a chance to shower and dress. We can do our talking over breakfast, Lieutenant.’
A brass christening plate beside the hatch that led to the main salon identified the yacht as:
THE BLACK HAWK
· Catalina Is, Calif
Launched: October 9, 1921
Owner: Edward L. Doheny
The robber baron Edward Doheny? O’Hara wondered. Of course, stupid, what other Edward Doheny could afford a tub like this?
A crew of eighteen. Stateroom space for forty. And it could sleep about sixty ‘in a pinch,’ whatever the hell Howe might consider ‘a pinch’ to be.
The dining room, like the rest of the ship, had the look of a museum piece, its brass portholes and lanterns gleaming like golden Inca treasure, the solid mahogany panelling oiled and black with age, the floors daring to be scuffed. The silverware, like everything else aboard, was elegant, old and defied appraisal. The walls were covered with photographs in thin brass frames of Howe with almost everybody imaginable except God. Most of them, which appeared to have been taken in the thirties and forties, showed a r3uch younger, trimmer Howe.
‘I always enjoy reading your stuff, Lieutenant. A very natural style. Not too formal.’
‘1 write it the way I’d say it. An editor told me that once, and damned if he wasn’t right.’
‘Good advice. Who was the editor’
‘Ben Bradlee.’
‘Oh ... Well, have a seat, sir.’
Howe took a letter from his jacket and leaned it against the water glass in front of his plate.
Ah, he likes drama, O’Hara thought . The letter is obviously part of the script. A little mystery with the scrod.
‘I must admit,’ O’Hara said, ‘I know you only by reputation. Were you in the Navy?’
