“Thanks for the compliment. No, I’m with Wimbledon Sporting Goods. How about you?” Canfield backed himself into the stool, turning his head to continue surveying the crowd.
“Godwin and Rawlins. Securities. Father-in-law owns it. Fifth largest house in town.”
“Very impressive.”
“What’s your drag?”
“What?”
“Drag. Pull. How come you’re at the big table?”
“Oh, friends of the company, I guess. We work with English firms.”
“Wimbledon. That’s in Detroit.”
“Chicago.”
“Oh, yeah. Abercrombie of the sticks. Get it? Abercrombie’ of the sticks.”
“We’re solvent.”
Canfield addressed this last remark directly to the drunken blond Adonis. He did not say it kindly.
“Don’t get touchy. What’s your name?”
Canfield was about to answer when his eyes were attracted to the drunk’s tie. He didn’t know why. Then Canfield noticed the man’s cuff links. They, too, were large and striped with colors as intense as those of the tie. The colors were deep red and black.
“Cat got you?”
“What?”
“What’s your name? Mine’s Boothroyd. Chuck Boothroyd.” He grasped the mahogany molding once again to steady himself. “You hustle for Abercrombie and … Oops, pardon me, Wimbledon?” Boothroyd seemed to lapse into a semistupor.
The field accountant decided that the brandy wasn’t doing a thing for him, either. He really felt quite ill.
“Yeah, I hustle. Look, friend, I don’t feel so good. Don’t take offense, but I think I’d better get going before I have an accident. Good night, Mr.…”
“Boothroyd.”
“Right. Good night.”
Mr. Boothroyd half opened his eyes and made a gesture of salute while reaching for his bourbon. Canfield made a swift but unsteady exit.
“Chucksie, sweetie!” A dark-haired woman slammed herself against the inebriated Mr. Boothroyd. “You disappear every God damn time I try to find you!”
“Don’t be a bitch, love.”
“I will be every time you do this!”
The bartender found unfinished business and walked rapidly away.
Mr. Boothroyd looked at his wife and for a few brief moments his wavering stopped. He fixed his eyes on her and his gaze was no longer unsteady, but very much alert. To the observer the two appeared to be nothing more than a husband and wife arguing over the former’s drinking but with that quiet violence that keeps intruders away. Although he still maintained his bent-over posture, Chuck Boothroyd spoke clearly under the noise of the party. He was sober.
“No worries, pet.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Who is he?”
“Glorified salesman. Just sucking up for business is my guess.”
“If he’s a salesman, why was he put at a table next to her?”
“Oh, come on, stop it. You’re jittery.”
“Just careful.”
“I’ll spell it out for you. He’s with that sports store in Chicago. Wimbledon. They import half their stuff from a bunch of English companies.” Boothroyd stopped as if explaining a simple problem to a child. “This is a British ship. The old lady’s a hell of a contact and somebody’s in on the take. Besides, he’s drunk as a hoot owl and sick as a dog.”
“Let me have a sip.” Mrs. Boothroyd reached for her husband’s glass.
“Help yourself.”
“When are you going to do it?”
“In about twenty minutes.”
“Why does it have to be tonight?”
“The whole ship’s ginned up and there’s some nice, lovely rotten weather. Anybody who isn’t drunk is throwing up. Maybe both.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Slap me in the face good and hard. Then go back to whomever you were with and laugh it off. Tell them when I’ve gone this far, the end’s in sight, or something like that. In a few minutes I’ll pass out on the floor. Make sure two guys carry me to the stateroom. Three maybe.”
“I don’t know if anyone’s sober enough.”
“Then get the steward. Or the bartender, that’s even better. The bartender. I’ve been giving him a hard time.”
“All right. You’ve got the key?”
“Your daddy gave it to me on the pier this morning.”
CHAPTER 20
Canfield reached his stateroom thinking he was going to be sick. The interminable and now violent motion of the ship had its effect on him. He wondered why people made jokes about seasickness. It was never funny to him. He never laughed at the cartoons.