Free The Pirate's Daughter by Robert Girardi

roundabout and catch the bus into the city. But now, he went into his bedroom with a screwdriver from the box under the kitchen sink, and took the air-conditioning unit out of the bedroom window and pulled open the casement. The bright stars were gone now, given way to the haze of another morning—who could say when the stars would come like that again?—and the city steamed banal in the ordinary light.
    Wilson sat in the window for a long time, legs dangling against the side of the building, a warm wind on his face, missing buses and watching the big tankers of the Black Star Line, long as city blocks, rise off their moorings in the channel below.

PART TWO
A BOARD
THE
C
OMPOUND
I
NTEREST

1
    The
Compound Interest
sat low and gleaming in the water at the Presidential Slip of the Harvey Marina.
    â€œÂ â€˜â€¦ eighty-five feet from stem to stern, her radical new carrot-shaped hull has been wind tunnel—tested in California by NASA scientists,’ ” Cricket read aloud from a xeroxed copy of an article out of July’s
Yachting News
. “ ‘An onboard computer gauges the currents, satellite uplinks give precise coordinates,’ blah, blah, blah, ‘the experimental conical sails of tough, weather-resistant Mylar fibers raise and lower themselves as if hoisted by a crew of ghosts—’ Disgusting, don’t you think?” Cricket folded the article into the pocket of her jeans. “And you should see what goes on belowdecks. It’s like a goddamned hotel down there. Staterooms, offices, showers. On a sailboat. There’s even a walk-in refrigerator full of all kinds of food. Apparently the owner is a real heavy eater, a big gourmet. That’s where you come in.”
    They stood on the concrete pier just below Marina’s in the Marina, its chartered terraces now filling up with the lunchtime crowd. The morning haze had burned off to blue sky, and the sun shone high and bright directly above the Harvey Channel. The
Compound Interest
’s strange conical sails stood out against this brightness like two huge folded white beach umbrellas.
    â€œAll that stuff sounds good to me,” Wilson said. “The more comfortable the better.”
    â€œYou don’t get it,” Cricket said, but she didn’t try to explain.
    They went up to Marina’s for lunch on the terrace because it was only a few steps away. Wilson always seemed to end up there, perhaps because he hated the place so much. He ordered the lunch special of crab cakes and asparagus spears wrapped in ham, and Cricket ordered a glass of wine and the guacamole-shrimp salad. Waiting for the food, they sat enveloped in an awkward silence. They were still strangers, really, on unfamiliar ground. He watchedthe professional lunchers from the Financial Mile, half afraid he’d see Andrea coming through the crowd. What could he say to her?
    Cricket’s rope-scarred hands looked out of place against the creased white tablecloth. She put them in her lap and nodded at the sleek vessel moored below.
    â€œI’ll tell you what,” she said, “that ugly tub should be called the Ignoble Experiment. I don’t like the way she sits in the water. Too low. Like a submarine.”
    â€œO.K.,” Wilson said, relief in his voice. “So you’re not shipping out.”
    Cricket turned quickly, a strand of her coppery hair loose and snaky along her neck. “I may not like her looks, but she’s safer than an aircraft carrier. You read the article. Cost something like a hundred million dollars to develop and build. Got everything, all the latest equipment. Can’t sink.”
    â€œThat’s what they said about the
Titanic
.”
    Cricket frowned into her dark sunglasses and shook her head. “There’s too much negativity in your life,” she said. “You need a change of air, a new perspective.”
    Maybe you’re right
, Wilson thought, but he