The Beach Girls (8 page)

“George, you’re a damn pest.”

“Hell, I know that. But something new came up.”

“Come on up, then.”

He followed me up to the apartment, breathing hard on the stairs. He’s a big soft man with an oddly small head, a sun-red face, big black glasses and a gay wardrobe of pastel slacks and gaudy sports shirts which are always worn hanging outside the pants. His real-estate office is half a mile south on Broward, a little air-conditioned cinder block building not as big as the sign on the roof. D
EAL
D
AILY WITH
H
ALEY
.

I opened us a pair of beers. He sat in Jess’s big chair and I sat in the rocker.

“Late for a business call, George?”

“I saw the lights. Thought I’d take a chance.”

I decided to needle him some. “How you coming along
with the most beautiful girl in Florida? Agnes thrown you out of the house yet?”

His face got redder. “Now I’m telling you, like I told Agnes and like to tell everybody that’s got the wrong idea—I hired Darlene Marie Moyd for pure business reasons.”

“Sure, George.”

“And it’s working out, too. You’d be surprised how many more customers come in the office.”

“Men.”

“They buy the property, Alice. And another thing. I leave that door open so she can’t help hear what goes on in my office. You’d be surprised how many men, knowing a girl like that can hear, won’t dicker as much as usual. It’s a pure business thing with me.”

“Wouldn’t it look better if she could type?”

“Her typing is coming along real good. I don’t know why everybody has to go around thinking I—”

“What’s this new thing that came up, George?”

He looked happy to be off the subject of the winner of fourteen beauty contests. He leaned forward.

“Now you know, Alice, you’ve been pretty slippery about talking to the boys who want this place.”

“I never said I wanted to sell. And if I did, what they offered is ridiculous.”

“I’ve wasted time talking sweet to you. Now I’m going to put the cards right out where you can see them. This is a crummy, run-down place. It’s a damn eyesore. It’s hampering the development of the land around it. Important people own some of the land around it. They want to see that land value go up. You haven’t got the capital to improve this place. And so, sooner or later, in one way or another, they’re going to squeeze you out of it. Right?”

And I knew he was right. When they decided it was time, they could dig up enough city ordinances to close me down. Jess was always able to handle city and county commissioners, but he couldn’t do me any good now.

George said, “I’ve kept them off your back, Alice. This has been building for a year. I want a good commission out of it. And I won’t get it if I let them close you down. Right?”

“Keep talking.”

“I admit the syndicate offer was a little low—”

“Low! It was less than the value of the land with nothing on it, George.”

“Do you know why?”

“What do you mean?”

“You aren’t zoned right.”

“I’m zoned right for what I’m doing, George.”

“But not for what they want to do. They want to tear everything out, put in new docks, shops, a motel, and a big restaurant and bar. But they couldn’t be sure they could get a zoning change.”

“I see.”

“Today they fixed it so they know they can get the zoning change. They cut the Decklin brothers in. They’re the ones could have blocked it. And they’re the ones that can guarantee it will go through. So now they can go higher.”

“How high?”

“Hundred and eighty thousand. Twenty down, balance in equal installments over eight years at five per cent. You hold a first mortgage.”

“That isn’t a lot higher.”

“It’s thirty thousand more, and that seems to me like a lot of money, somehow. And I’ll take my commissions out of the payments as they come along instead of out of the first chunk. Okay?”

“I don’t know, George. I don’t know.”

“Use your head, Alice. You know those Decklins. Now that they’re in on it, and believe me, the boys thought a long time before letting them in—they squeeze so hard, you haven’t got a prayer in hell of selling to anybody else. Nobody bucks the Decklins on this coast.”

“I don’t know why this has to happen, George. Why can’t they leave me alone? I make enough to pay the help and support myself. Who am I hurting?”

“The city can use a first-class marina, Alice. Like down in Lauderdale.”

I got up and went over to the window and looked out across the big boat basin. Something big was moving south down the waterway. Opposite the entrance to my place they started to give their three longs for the Beach Bridge.
A little while later I heard the bridge siren and I could see the flashing red of the signal that stopped traffic across the bridge.

I knew that if you took the Stebbins’ Marina and stuck it way off somewhere by itself, it wouldn’t be worth twelve cents. The important money was for the land, which Jess had paid six hundred dollars for a long, long time ago.

“Where will the people go, George, the ones living here?”

“What do you care about that?” he asked in an irritable way. “You responsible for them? You haven’t been charging them as much as they should pay for years.”

“They’re my friends.”

“For God’s sake, Alice!”

“And where’ll I go?”

“With that money you can live about any place you feel like. Do some traveling, maybe.”

“How much time have I got?”

“I wouldn’t say you got too much time. I’ve been telling them you’re going to be reasonable.”

“Every year, you know, they give me a surprise birthday party. You came to the last one.”

“I’m not about to forget it.”

“I’ll let you know then, George.”

“I forgot when it is.”

“The thirtieth. A Saturday.”

“This is only the seventh. That’s a long time. I don’t know if—”

I turned around from the window. I’d had enough of being pushed. “That’s the way it is, George. It isn’t going to be no different, no matter what you say.”

“Don’t get sore, Alice.”

“And you got yourself something to do the rest of the month. I’m paying the commission. They’re not. You go get me a better price, hear?”

“But it’s—”

“Maybe some other real-estate people can get me a better price, George.”

I saw him get sore and cover it up quickly. He did a little wheedling. But he knew my mind was made up. And, damn him, he knew what the answer had to be when I’d tell him on the thirtieth. I was being pushed out. It’s
a hell of a word they use—a marginal operation. It means you just get along. No money for fancy improvements and maintenance.

When he left, I went down with him. Moonbeam was gone. She’d put the door on lock. I let George out. The night was soft and quiet. Traffic had thinned out on Broward. Just as George started out of the lot, there was a terrible squealing and yelping of tires and I braced myself for the sound of the crash. But nothing happened. In the Boulevard lights I saw the little white Triumph turn into the lot and park. So Rex Rigsby was back. He took a suitcase out and then started to put the top up on the little car. I strolled out.

He turned and looked at me and said, his voice a little shaky, “Who was that damn fool, Alice?”

“Deal Daily with Haley.”

“I was turning in. He didn’t even look.”

I saw no point in mentioning the fact that if George had killed him, it would have been an excuse for general rejoicing. “Rex, you took off without catching up on your rent like you promised. And you got a gas bill and a laundry bill and a repair bill.”

“I was a little short.”

“If that was true, I wouldn’t lean on you. But I know damn well you’re not short. You’re just close with money, Rex. You got it and I want it.”

“Now, Alice—”

“Don’t turn on the charm, boy. It won’t work. Don’t bother smiling. Just pay up.”

“First thing in the morning.”

“For all I know the
Angel
will be gone in the morning and I’ll sit here a couple weeks wondering if I could attach this little car. You come in the office right now, boy, and pay up.”

“Can I finish putting the top up, please ma’am?”

“You can do that, yes.”

He came into the office. I turned the lights on and opened the file and got his bills out, added them up. He owed a hundred eighteen seventy. He looked them over real careful, and then the son of a gun took a bill clip out of the pocket of his linen shorts, thick with money folded once. He put down two fifties and a twenty without
making it look any thinner. I marked the bills paid and gave him his change. He shoved it loose into his pocket, grinning at me. When he grins I find myself thinking how fine it would be to kick him square in the face. He wore a white shirt, unbuttoned, the tails knotted across his flat brown belly. The gap in the shirt exposed the curly mat of hair on his hard brown chest. Christy calls him “that Errol Flynn, junior grade.” He’s got a brush-cut, amber eyes set tilty, a neat mustache, a white-toothed, knowing, wicked grin.

“It doesn’t look like you’re fresh out of money, Rigsby.”

“It was a lovely house party. Charming people. A beautiful home near Naples. But they drink more than they should, doll. And when they drink they have this fantastic belief in their own ability to play gin and poker and what-all. Even Scrabble, hardly a game for wealthy illiterates.”

“Why don’t you just carry a gun?”

“I’d much rather be a house guest, Alice dear. I met them at Varadero last year and they said
do
come over and see us in Naples because now we’re living there all year round. And this seemed like the time to go. People are so much more relaxed in the summer, don’t you think?”

“You’ve paid your money and made your brag. I don’t need conversation, Rex.” He left, still grinning. You can’t insult him. You can’t dent his ego with a sledge. And, as some indignant husbands have learned, he’s rough. He’s quick and hard and he doesn’t scare.

I don’t know how old he is. You would think he’s about thirty unless you took a close look at the skin under his eyes and on his throat and the backs of his hands. He makes a living as a tomcat. That’s the most accurate way to put it. His ketch sleeps six. He knows the Bahamas the way most men know their own back yard. From the Abaco Cays to Turks Island. I’ve heard men who know the water say he’s a fine sailor, but a little too bold. They say that whenever you find a man who loves to wear a turtleneck sweater and a sheath knife in port, it’s certain he’ll take a few more chances than he should.

He has a small income, I don’t know where from. The
Angel
is always available for cruise charter, specialty, the Bahamas. He generally picks up a deck hand at Bimini after taking it across the Stream by himself. He advertises
a little in the yachting magazines, but mostly he bird dogs the charters himself. And he has some friends alerted to hand out his cards to the right sort of customers, with a kickback if it goes through.

Rigsby picks and chooses. He won’t take honeymooners, or an all-male charter, or a middle-aged couple. Christy said one time that she’d figured out the ideal charter for Rigsby. Five rich, handsome, restless women, all on trial separation from their husbands, all generous, vulnerable and semi-alcoholic, and with no tendency toward jealousy.

Sometimes the
Angel
will be gone so long we’ll begin to hope he’ll never come back. But he always does. It’s an inexpensive mooring. Sometimes he’ll lay over at Nassau and bird dog customers from there. He has the trick of getting himself invited on parties and house parties. It isn’t much of a knack. All you have to have is gall. Somebody says, “You must come and see us sometime.” Next thing they know, he’s either pulling up to their dock, or turning into their driveway. It means free food, free liquor, gambling winnings and, generally, free women.

He’s a small-souled man, but picturesque. When he takes the
Angel
out, all sparkling in the sun, with him brown and adventurous at the tiller, you can practically hear the music on the sound track and see the cameras panning on him.

His success with women who should know better is enough to make you sick. His score around here is only fair, however. Jannifer Jean, of course, which is about as much of a triumph as shooting a hen in a chicken yard. And Beezie Hooper, Stan Hooper’s wife. Stan Hooper owns the
Fleetermouse
and keeps it in charterboat row, and he’s licensed to run it as a charter fisherman, but that’s only a tax dodge. It’s too much boat to run it at a profit that way. And he lines up just enough charters a year to satisfy his accountants. He’s loaded, and they have a big waterfront house north of town, and they live fast and hard, and party a lot. Beezie is scrawny and beautiful and mostly drunk. Stan found out about it and tried to make an issue of it, and got the hell beat out of him by Rex. They’re the same size, but Rex’s intake is two drinks a day instead of a fifth.

And he caught Amy Penworthy in a reckless mood. It
had rained for three days and poor Amy was so blue she didn’t care what she did. So that hardly counts. And I’m not counting the women on the tourist boats. When three or four of them pull in, traveling together, and tie up close, and set up a party, Rex has a way of easing himself into the group, knowing that sooner or later, if he’s careful and patient, he can talk some gal into walking around onto D Dock and taking a look at the way he’s got the
Angel
fitted out below. Few men have ever had a better chance to combine their business and their hobby.

But he has been smart enough to stay away from Ginny Linder. And he has scored zero with Anne Browder, Christy and Helen Hass. He came close to getting to Helen. But she’s such a serious, intense, humorless little thing, that it was taking him a long time to manage it—so long that the others caught on. Orbie and Lew went and had a little talk with Rex. They never let on what they said to him, but from then on Rex has stayed forty feet away from Helen. She looked wistful for a few days until she got over him.

Anne let on right away that she wouldn’t dip him up a bucket of water if he was on fire. Christy played up to him. When she came up to my place with Gus and Orbie and Joe and told us about it, we all got laughing so hard we were crying.