Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

and hooking up the halyard. The head of the bungeed sail shivered as they motored out into the main channel towards the bridge against a sluggish tide.

“Not much wind.”

“No. Maybe find some when we get out past the bridge. Supposed to be a change in the weather tonight, low coming in later this afternoon. Could pick up some breeze ahead of the front if we’re lucky.”

There were two sailboats further out and they looked to be struggling in light air. A pair of fifty-foot American powerboats blew by at full throttle rocking Arrow violently in their wake as their captains waved from the bridge decks. Jared cursed under his breath as he steadied the boom before hooking up the autopilot and seating himself beside Danny on the rail. The two of them stared intently forward into the wind’s quadrant as if their combined focus might make it suddenly increase.

The cat’s paws disappeared and a sluggish oily sheen appeared on the water as they passed under the bridge and moved out among the anchored freighters. A crewman in soiled galley whites threw scraps over the rail to a dozen gulls and waved insipidly as they went by. Half an hour later they motored past a stalled-out dinghy race off English Bay and threw in the towel.

“Never even got the sails up,” Danny grouched. “Talk about nothing happening, this is getting ridiculous.”

“Maybe a change of scenery is what we need. How about we head over to the yacht club, tie up at the visitors dock for a couple of nights? We could check in with Merlynn, have a couple of martinis, see how Clarke is making out. It sounded like he was spending a lot of time there last time we spoke.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Danny went forward and pulled the cover back over the mainsail and tied everything off while Jared unhooked the autopilot and headed Arrow back under the bridge.

The visitors docks were busy and they had to stand off and idle in slow circles for half an hour until a space large enough to accommodate Arrow opened up. After tying up they headed for the bar where they were greeted warmly by Darren, their well-tipped new best friend who was on duty behind the counter. He drew two cold pints and brought them up to speed on club gossip.

“Everyone’s talking about it. All the club officers and staff have had interviews. I had mine with some big old ugly dude. He never really said what it was about. Wanted to know if any strangers had been around, had gone into the office unaccompanied, that sort of thing. Ha! Look around you. There are probably thirty people in here right now and I might be able to tell you who ten of them are. It’s high season, man. Anyone can tie up and come in here for drinks. They sign in at the door, or are supposed to, but the guest list is really just an honourary thing. Nobody polices it because nobody really gives a damn either way. It’s just there to satisfy the legal requirements of a private club. What’s all this about anyway?”

“Not really sure,” Danny said. “Is there a John Newcombe registered with the club?”

“The name sounds vaguely familiar.” Darren reached under the counter and handed over a club yearbook. “This is up to date, apart from a few new members.”

Jared picked up the book and thumbed through it with little hope.

“I’ll be damned. There he is. John Newcombe. They’ve even got an address for him. And a cell phone number. Let’s just give him a call, shall we?”

He moved down to the end of the bar and picked up the club phone and dialled. The number rang three times and then clicked over and was picked up.

“Good afternoon. Where may I direct your call?”

A bored receptionist. Answering service would be his guess.

“John Newcombe, please.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

More clicks as the call was transferred, a half-dozen rings and then a pickup.

“Yeah?” A loud angry voice.

“Mr. Newcombe?”

A pause and then a throat clearing and change of tone.

“Yes, this is he. Who is calling, please?”

Jared knew that voice. Clarke.

“Wrong number,” he said, and hung up and moved back down to the end of the bar.

Danny raised his eyebrows.

Jared said, “Wrong number.”

The bar phone rang and Darren picked it up.

“Yes, sir, he’s here. Just a moment, please.” He handed the phone across to Jared.

“Hello, Clarke. What can I do for you?” He held the phone away from his ear and slid a twenty over to Darren.

“Bring us another round, will you? We might be here for a while. Have one yourself.”

Danny smiled and flipped through the yearbook pages. He paused and turned back a page and studied it.

“We were getting bored,” Jared said into the phone, and then held it away from his ear again.

Danny was looking at a picture of a group of men in wigs and Hawaiian hula skirts holding drinks with umbrellas in their hands. They were standing on a dock and had goofy smiles on their faces. The caption read “Newcastle Island party 2018.” One of the men was John Newcombe. He called the bartender back over.

“Sure, I know him,” Darren said. “John. Not a bad guy. In here quite a bit. Trying to hustle women a lot of the time. Doesn’t do very well at it, though. That would be William Lacey standing beside him, or ‘Queer Bill’ as he sometimes calls himself when he’s had a few. I’ve seen them together a few times. He’s a bookkeeper or accountant, something like that. Does the books for the club.”

The bartender told them Bill was one of the long-time live-aboards with a converted tugboat in one of the big sheds. A beautiful old Foss that he kept in pristine working condition. “It’s a showpiece, absolutely immaculate, won the Summer Regatta honours this year. He was an officer of the club back in the day, so you’ll find his picture with all the rest of the