The Marital Corporation Ch. 05

. . . Like you and Anne did? Seeing the expression on Peter's face, Gordon explained, "Sometimes I have to guess what she's up to. When she told me about your lunch, and I got home to find our baby sitter cooking supper because Anne was still out `shopping,' nobody had to draw any pictures."

Oh boy, Peter thought, remembering how Anne had slipped the room key into her purse. She did have a use for it, after all. He shrugged and smiled. "What can I say? By the way, I called the phone number in the schooner ad." Peter briefly summarized the substance of his conversation with Mr. Jensen.

"What's our next step?" Gordon asked.

"I think we need to get a surveyor to take a quick look at her," Peter replied.

"How do we arrange that?"

"I'll ask Bill Knowles to call the secretary of the Sausalito Yacht Club and get them to recommend a good local wooden boat surveyor. Then we'll hire him or her to do a quick walk around. I'll tell you the truth; I'm a little concerned because we have an apparent live-aboard situation here. Places like Ernie's Boat Yard are not noted for the Bristol fashion of their tenants."

"I see." Peter heard disappointment in Gordon's voice.

"Don't give up too quickly," Peter said. "This boat is fairly new, and if she was built right out of the proper materials, no matter how badly she's been abused, there's bound to be a lot left. I didn't think to ask Jensen the name of her builder, but the surveyor will."

"It's getting late," Gordon said. "You go ahead with the surveyor. Keep track of your expenses. Meanwhile, you might draft a limited partnership agreement so we'll have it handy if we decide to buy the boat." He looked at Marge and grinned. "The next time we go sailing, we'll leave the kids at home," he said.

Peter shut the door behind him. "I trust things went well," he said dryly.

"It wasn't easy," Marge replied. "I tried all the usual stuff, you know, going down on him, sticking my finger up his ass, rubbing my boobs around his face, I even told him about how Kenny and I first got together; but he just couldn't get it up. There was only one thing left. I went into the other room and put on a stage costume. Then I put my stripper CD on the player, and gave him a private show.

"His cock was like a crowbar by the time I shed my bra. Man, I jumped his bones in a hurry! He turned out to be one hell of a good piece of ass. I'm just sorry it took so long to get him started.

"He told me, by the way, that he'd had this problem for a long, long time, and that he just couldn't get it up with most of the women he'd gone to bed with, so you don't have to worry about betraying Anne's confidence."

"Well, what about that big come-on at the yacht club the night we met? When you said he did everything but hand you a motel key?"

"I don't know. It was an act, I think. He couldn't have had any idea that I might take him up on it."

Bill Knowles called Peter back at his office the following afternoon with the Sausalito Yacht Club's secretary's name and phone number. "He's expecting to hear from you," Bill said. "I think you had better talk to him directly."

Peter quickly dialed the number Knowles had given him. The phone was answered on the second ring. Peter identified himself, and said, "I'm interested in a Murray Peterson schooner . . ."

"You mean Dancing Lady?"

"Well, yes. How did you know?"

The man at the other end laughed. "Sausalito is a small village," he said, "and there aren't that many Murray Peterson yachts around."

"What can you tell me about her?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. We used to have her here at the yacht club, but when her owner died, the nephew who inherited her decided to move her to a marina with standards more congenial to his lifestyle than ours."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I imagine so," he said dryly.

"Can you tell me about how long ago this happened?"

"I can tell you precisely. Just a moment." Peter heard the clicking of a computer keyboard in the background. "Here we are. She came into the yacht club, and changed her hailing port from Camden, Maine to San Francisco on May 2, 1989. She left the yacht club on January 31, 1993.

"Mr. Knowles said you were looking for a surveyor familiar with wooden sailboats. Many members call on old Cap Bowker. He's slow, and a bit on the expensive side, but exceedingly thorough. Most boats are in the water this time of year, so you might be able to get him on fairly short notice. If that doesn't work out, get back to me, and I'll think of someone else."

Peter jotted down the surveyor's telephone number, thanked the gentleman for his courtesy, and hung up. Then he dialed the surveyor's number. When the old man answered, Peter identified himself, explained that he had been referred by the yacht club, and asked if the surveyor would be willing to take a walk-around, in-water look at Dancing Lady? He carefully avoided using the word `survey'.

The old man's answer was succinct. "No."

Peter wasn't surprised. Surveyors, good ones, at least, often refuse to do horseback surveys. The money wasn't that good, and the chance for error was too great. It's too easy, even for professionals, to be fooled by a carefully fitted Dutchmen, or by the judicious use of paint and a varnish stick.

"I understand," Peter said. "Would you be willing to do a survey on her?"

"In-water?" he asked suspiciously.

"No, if we get that far in our negotiations, we'll have to haul her. No, I'm talking about the whole rigmarole."

"Sure," Captain Bowker said cheerfully. "I charge $100/hour. A survey on a boat that size will take one and a half to two days. It just depends on what I run into. I haven't been aboard her in several years, but I don't think we'll find much wrong. She was well built, and was well looked after while she was berthed at the yacht club. Of course, I'm sure the old man's nephew has let her slide, but he hasn't had her long enough to do damage that can't be fixed."

Peter thanked the old man, and promised to get back to him. Then he called Gordon, and told him that he was going to take a little trip to California.

His calendar for Thursday was clear, so he made reservations to San Francisco that left Seatac International Airport early in the morning, and returned late in the evening. He also reserved a rental car at the California end. It was going to be a long day.

Wednesday morning, Peter told Miss Perkins he was going campaigning, and drove down to the editorial offices of Seattle Alternatives.

(To be continued)