“I heard the guy struck it rich practically overnight,” explained Mr. Cox, pulling at his septuagenarian jowls.
Mr. Duke pursed his lips and shook his head. “Probably some illegal scam.”
“Yeah,” agreed Mr. Collier. “Like dealing pharmaceuticals.”
Mr. Cox widened his eyes. “Word is the boat was bought for a pittance off some Columbian who needed to unload it real fast. Nearly factory fresh. Less than a hundred hours. Fully loaded. Lucky bastard.”
As if on cue, Fred Sage, the “man of the hour,” was hustling up the dock in his bright plaid Bermudas, a red Polo and fresh-out-of-the-box Top-Siders. A few steps behind him was his fiancée, Trish, a former “swimsuit model” who under normal circumstances would never have given this middle-aged munchkin as much as a sniff. She was dressed for the occasion in her fresh-out-of-the-box four-inch stilettos, neon blue short-shorts and a pink tank top across which ran the rhinestone letters “r-i-c-h-b-i-t-c-h.”
“Fred, can you please slow down? I’m going to—SHIT!” shrieked Trish as the heel of one of her strappy metallic Manolos plunged in between the wooden planks and snapped off.
“Didn’t I tell you not to wear those shoes?”
“What the hell do you know about fashion?”
“Enough to pay for the bills you run up at Neiman’s, honey bunny.”
“But now what am I supposed to do?”
“Walk barefoot, perhaps?”
Trish, clearly miffed, had no choice but to heed Fred’s advice.
“Why did you make me come here anyway?”
“Please don’t whine. It’s not your most attractive quality,” said Fred. “I wanted you to come see the boat I bought for us.”
“But I decided I’m—I’m seasick.”
“Seasick? You’re joking, right? We haven’t even left the dock!”
Several yards away, Mr. Cox, Mr. Collier and Mr. Duke observed the couple with great interest. Like a modern-day Greek chorus, the men sang their disapproval in varying pitches of disgust.
“Sweet Jesus,” exclaimed Mr. Duke. “If those clowns get any louder…”
“They’ll break the sound barrier!” said Mr. Collier, taking the liberty of finishing his friend’s sentence.
“Only goes to prove,” piped in Mr. Cox. “You can take some people out of New Jersey, but you sure as hell can’t take New Jersey out of some people!”
Because Misters Cox, Collier and Duke—all plagued with hearing problems they refused to acknowledge—voiced their opinions in less than dulcet tones, Woody, who’d just finished securing the lines of the Midas Touch, was privy to their conversation. It came as no surprise to him that the “Geezer Patrol” would slice, dice and convict Fred Sage before actually meeting him.
If Sage’s reputation preceded him, the same could be said for his and his fiancée’s colognes—a fusion of scents like coconut, musk, bubble gum and a forest of lilacs. Woody also wondered whose diamond reflected the sun with more intensity—the rock on the girl’s finger or the equally big stone adorning Sage’s ear. But as he was about to switch into his ambassador mode, he needed to keep objectively focused.
“Mr. Sage?” he said.
“Live and in person, I’m afraid,” said Fred.
“I’m Woody, the assistant dockmaster. I’d like to welcome you to the Trade Winds Yacht Club.”
“Thanks, bro,” said Fred, shaking Woody’s hand. “The pleasure, I hope, will be all mine. Certainly cost me enough to join this friggin’ joint. Jesus, will you get a load of this friggin’ tub of mine!”
“It is quite a boat, sir,” said Woody.
“No shit! Gonna cost a small fortune to fill up the tanks!”
Personally, Woody had no sympathy for anybody dumb enough to buy a gas-guzzling, noise-polluting stinkpot like that.
“Had no idea this boat was gonna be so friggin’ big.”
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Collier. “I’m not sure if I understand. How could you make a costly purchase like this sight unseen?”
“Well, I did see it. On-line. Bought it on Craig’s List.”
“What the devil is that?”
“It’s a Web site on the Internet, Mr. Collier,” said Woody. “Kind of like an on-line bulletin board for all sorts of things.”
The concept was too obtuse for him to grasp and only served to make the grumpy old man more grumpy.
“How could you possibly buy a boat from a photograph?” asked Mr. Duke, ruffling his unibrow.
“People do it all the time,” said Fred. “Bought my Porsche and Trish’s Beemer on-line, too.”
Woody watched Mr. Duke roll his eyes at Mr. Collier, who in turn rolled his eyes at Mr. Cox.
“But you gentlemen can’t deny Mr. Sage has found quite a beauty,” he said, doing a quick course correction to avert a collision.
“Gee, thanks,” piped in Trish, who up until now had been deeply involved with text messaging on her phone.
“No offense, honey bunny,” said Fred. “But I think Woody was referring to the Midas Touch.”
The girl sneered at the vessel and then back at her fiancé. “Oh, excuuussse me. So what exactly are you trying to tell me, Fred?”
“Hey, come on, who thinks you’re the most gorgeous gal around?”
“I don’t know. Who?”
“Allow me to demonstrate.”
And with that, Fred pressed his mouth to Trish’s and held steady. Woody pretended to check out a hangnail while the Geezer Patrol snickered amongst themselves.
“Oooh,” said Trish when she came back up for air. “Now I gotta pee. That iced coffee ran right through me.”
Woody suggested she use the head on the boat.
“Like what’s that supposed to mean?”
“The shitter,” said Fred, whose red-stained mouth failed to make him more attractive. “Excuse my French. The head is nautical lingo for toilet.”
“Well, if it’s all right with you,” said Trish, “I’m gonna use a real bathroom. One that’s on terra fema.”
“Firma,” corrected Fred. “As in your sweet ass, honey bunny.”
“Whatever.”
And with that, the girl scurried off with all six eyes of the Geezer Patrol fixated on her perfectly rounded posterior.
Fred motioned to Woody. “Come on, bro, what say we check out this baby?”
“Ah, sure,” said Woody, caught unawares.
The Geezer Patrol awaited an invitation as well, but when none came, they all retreated to the club bar for their gin and tonics.
Fred, meanwhile, nearly lost his footing while boarding the Midas Touch.
“You know a lot about boats and shit, right?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose,” said Woody. “Spent most of my life on the water.”
“Me, I grew up in East Newark. Near the scenic Hackensack River. Nothing but trash, industrial waste and floaters in there. Speaking of which, I’d like to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“I’m not sure if I like the