Mitch showed his driver’s license for identification to a sour young Polynesian girl at Le Bureau de Poste, and got a little bundle of mail. Lindy’s dad was fine, and Justice Holmes was thriving, and Tony had a job as an office boy at Nancy’s father’s TV station. They had taken an apartment in the Sunset District. A postcard edged in black gave him a scare until he read it: it was from Bernie.

“Magellan: Good news first. (I) Western Casualty bailed out, due your leaving. (2) Hal leaving us, taking the only fraternity beer stein, button-down collar, and decent law degree remaining in firm. (3) Client with Golden Snatch died of pneumonia, but after appeal denied (4) Tony borrowed $300 from firm for emergency downpayment on automobile. Will write bad news later, when Chaplain goes ashore. My love to Lindy. Have a good day. BB.”

“That’s our Bernie,” Lindy muttered. “The bastard!"

“She died,” murmured Mitch. “We wrecked that poor son of a bitch, and the net result is to make a millionaire out of an alcoholic husband and two crummy kids who weren’t even taking care of her! Jesus!”

“Don’t let Bernie wreck this, Mitch. It’s been too hard getting here.”

A breeze had come up and the afternoon sun had turned golden. The Post Office was on a rise above the bay, and the tiny yachts clustering below seemed placed by an artist. Even the Navy ship, in the softer light, looked better.

A glowering Marquesan maiden swung by on the road, glared at them, and looked away. She wore a colorful pareu and was slim and graceful as Melville’s Fayaway. Trudging along with her was her little brother, or son perhaps. The boy beamed up at them. “Bonjour!” he piped. “Iorani!”

No bullshit here: the girl hated them, the boy loved them; the vibes were so strong you could touch them. On the battered cutter below, the old Aussie slumped in his cockpit. No crap there, either: he made your throat ache, but there was truth in every line of his anguish.

He tore up the postcard and let the pieces flutter to the road. The card was black-and-white; here the world was in color.

He needed a beer very badly, so they went to find the famous Cercle d’Or d’Henri.

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

He watched tiny elves appear in the glow of the binnacle light and march around his compass, heaving and grunting to turn the lubber’s line when he let it drift from south-southeast. The engine droned a chanty for them: heave-ho, heave-ho, heave-ho, heave...

“Lindy?” he called. He needed coffee, or relief at the wheel: where the hell was she? "Lindy!"

She was not there. The mizzen boom, caught napping as he drifted right, shot past an inch above his head and brought up with a brutal crack.