Free The Beach Girls by John D. MacDonald Page A

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 advertisesa 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