Jack
Jack was in Saint-Tropez, sitting in the shade of the chestnut trees at the Café des Arts, as usual, sipping his morning café au lait and eating croissants. The Place des Lices had a deserted air. A cool north wind, the tail end of a blustery mistral, rattled the leaves on the chestnut trees and sent the paper napkins fluttering across the cobbles. The season was definitely over and life was for the locals again, except for hangers-on like himself who just didn’t know when to go home.
Of course, he should have stayed home in the U.S. when the In a Minute sank, and at no other time in his life would he even have thought twice about that. Except now, and all because of Lola March Laforêt. How had she gotten herself into this kind of trouble? And why did he feel compelled to help get her out of it?
He called for a double espresso, deciding it might clear his head, sharpen his thoughts in this matter, because all he was working on right now was emotion, pure gut reaction to a woman who had gotten under his skin the way no other woman had since the beautiful Mexican, Luisa. That relationship had lasted exactly three months, and he wondered if it would be the same with Lola. Three months and he would be back in his own world, back cranking the In a Minute into tip-top shape, assembling his crew, sailing halfway round the world in search of adventure. That was the kind of guy he was. Right? So why would he change? He heaved a big sigh as he downed the espresso. There was no answer.
He dialed his boatyard on his world phone and spoke to Carlos. The In a Minute had been raised the day after it sank from fifty feet of water, using heavy-duty cranes. Repairs were progressing slowly. “But you’ll be back soon, right?” Carlos said. “Yeah, right,” Jack replied, one more time.
He ended the call and studied the yellow legal pad in front of him on the table. A long list of automobile and bike dealers scrawled the length of the page. All were crossed out with the exception of two that his detective friend in Marseilles had just provided him with. He thought the one in Paris was a long shot, but then you never knew, Patrick might be moving around, one place to the other, hiding out. The other was in Genoa, the port city up the coast on the Ligurian Sea. He’d give it one last chance.
He dialed the number, asked to speak to the manager or anyone who could speak English, waited endlessly with Italian rock blasting in his ear, then somebody came on and said, “Pronto, I can help you?” Jack asked about the Ducati. Yes, the Italian said, he sold Ducatis, the 748S was a lovely machine, the best in the world and not always available, one had to order, then wait.
“How long a wait?”
Jack could almost feel his shrug. “Three, six months.”
“Sold many lately?” Jack asked, feeling him out.
“Sold many? Hah, I wish, but my allocation was only two.”
“Sell any to foreigners?” Jack asked.
The Italian laughed and said, “Signore, there is no foreigner’s discount, if that’s what you are asking.”
“You know what,” Jack said, “I’ll be there tomorrow and you can show me what you have.”
“But I have only one, signore, and it is already sold.”
“So, I’ll order one like it,” Jack said, “and the name is Jack Farrar. Expect me tomorrow, in the afternoon.”
He finished his coffee, fed the rest of the croissant to Bad Dog, who was lounging under the table, walked back to the quai, and took the dinghy back to the sloop. Within half an hour, Bad Dog was in his life jacket and running excitedly back and forth on deck, barking, and Jack was chugging out of Lola’s cove, rigging his sails and heading west to Genoa.
Genoa is a big city that has grown along the coast, encompassing many of the old fishing towns and villages into its urban sprawl. It was not exactly where Jack wanted to be on a breezy sunny afternoon, but he moored the sloop and took the dinghy into the old port. Bad Dog panted next to him as they walked up the unprepossessing street in search of a taxi. It took a while, and when they did, the driver wasn’t too happy about having the dog in his cab, but consented for an extra few euros to let him ride along.
Muttering darkly in Italian, the driver wound through a series of narrow streets, into a busy area crowded with traffic. The fumes were killing and Jack thought longingly of the sea and the fresh wind behind him, sails billowing. He only hoped it wasn’t a wild-goose chase, but he had a gut feeling about this one, and he always trusted that. Or at least he had, until the gut feeling he had about Lola March and exactly what he felt about her.
Hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts, in a blue T-shirt bleached gray by the sun and the salt water, wearing his comfortable old Tod’s, Jack tied Bad Dog to a convenient lamppost and strolled into the glossy premises of the automobile dealer. He got a couple of sharp looks from the young salesmen hanging about, who decided he didn’t warrant their efforts and left him alone. He headed for the manager’s office, pausing to admire a shiny black Fiat Barchetta en route, smiling at the young woman assistant, who looked at him twice and decided he was definitely worth the effort.
“Hi,” Jack said, “I’m looking for Signor Mosconi, he’s expecting me.”
“He is?” She gave him a dazzled look, then remembered to ask his name.
Signor Mosconi came bustling from his office, a middle-aged man in a pin-striped suit and polished wing tips, a thin mustache and rimless glasses.
“Signor Farrar,” he said, offering his hand. “Buona sera. But I’m afraid your visit is in vain. I warned you there are no Ducatis. The last one has gone. We must await our shipment, and those are already pre-ordered.”
He ushered Jack into his office, offered him a seat, an espresso, and a large brochure showing the Ducati motorcycles.
“So, what is the one that interests you?” he asked, struggling with his English.
“As a matter of fact, it’s this one here.” Jack pointed to the picture of the 748S. Then said, “Sell many of these lately?”
“Of course, signore, we sold two just a month ago. A magnificent machine, a magnifico design, and the power. Ahh, forget the Harley, there is nothing to match a Ducati.”
“Any chance one of the new owners might want to sell? At a substantial profit, of course?”
Signor Mosconi assessed him in a quick up-and-down glance. “You are talking a great deal of money, Signor Farrar.”
Jack nodded conspiratorially. “I guess so. But a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do to get a Ducati these days. And with a little help from you, Signor Mosconi, I can guarantee I’m a very generous man.”
The Italian sat silently for a moment, thinking, then he got to his feet. “Why don’t we discuss this over an aperitivo, Signor Farrar,” he suggested. “There is a very nice bar not too far from here.”
Two hours later, Jack and the mutt were back on board the sloop, munching on a slab of still-hot-from-the-oven focaccia sprinkled with salt and olive oil, a local specialty picked up in a pizza joint in the greasy-spoon quarter near the docks. The wind had dropped and Jack started up the engine and headed out to sea, then, hugging the coast, headed west to the dowager queen of the Ligurian resorts. San Remo.
In his pocket was the name of the Ducati owner, Cosmo March, and the address of the Hotel Rossi.