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Authors: William G. Tapply
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Mr. Paradise. He did sound anxious.”
“I’ll call him first,” I said.
“Yeah, sure,” she said.
Well, she knows me too well. I called Doc Adams. I got his assistant, the delectable Susan Petri, who told me that Doc was conferring with a patient at the hospital. I told her to have him call me at home later in the evening. Then I phoned Charlie McDevitt’s secretary, Shirley, and told her to confirm with Charlie our Friday golf date. She told me Charlie had cured his slice. I figured we’d read all about it in the papers, the way Charlie was spreading his joyous news.
Frank Paradise lives in Brewster on Cape Cod. He owns an old farmhouse with two centuries’ worth of ells and dormers, a big barn converted to a workshop, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a tennis court with a clay surface, a sailboat, a forty-eight-foot tuna-rigged boat, and a pair of hostile Dobermans.
Frank made a lot of money designing jet engines after the war, and since then he has devoted himself to his lucrative hobby of inventing things. Most of the stuff he dreams up I don’t understand—computer innards, electronic doodads about the size of a B-B pellet, and elegant little gizmos that make space ships fly and weapons kill.
Once in a while, though, he comes up with something I can appreciate. For example, he concocted a super-strong instant-drying glue that bonds anything to anything else, but rubs right off human skin as slick as rubber cement. He sold the patent to a big drug company. Almost at the same time, he came up with another glue that bonds only human skin. He was negotiating the sale of that stuff with the CIA.
Frank sends me off to Washington about twice a year to conduct patent searches. I usually enjoy the trips, unless Frank happens to have invented something in August. There’s a political science professor at Georgetown who insists that the restaurants in D.C. are better than those in Boston, and always likes to try to make her point. She also knows the Smithsonian inside out and enjoys showing off her expertise.
Frank answered the phone on the first ring. Judging by the static, I figured he was out in his barn. I said hello a couple times, and he yelled back, “Hang on. Gonna change phones.” When he came back on, he sounded better. “This one’s got my own receiver in it,” he said. “The guys who make commercial cordless phones don’t know beans about insulating. This salt air raises hell with ’em.”
“What’s up, Frank?”
“Brady, listen to me. I’m going batshit down here. Outta my mind. Somebody hijacked my boat.”
“Hijacked?”
“Hijacked, whatever. They stole it, for chrissake. Woke up this morning and she’s gone from her mooring.”
“Sounds like she broke loose in the storm.”
“Brady, I got this rig for mooring her—made it myself—”
“Okay, Frank. I believe you. She’s hijacked. Did you tell the cops?”
“Yes I called the cops. And I called the Coast Guard and the insurance guy, too. She’s a sweet little boat, Brady.”
“This is the sailboat, right?”
“No. The Egg Harbor.”
Frank’s “sweet little boat,” I happened to know, was worth about a quarter of a million dollars. Frank had the teak varnished, the twin diesels overhauled, the brass polished, and the hull caulked and painted every winter. It came equipped with loran and sonar and every other piece of electronic gear imaginable. Frank and I had landed an eight-hundred-pound bluefin tuna off the tip of Provincetown in that boat back in eighty-three, not to mention the tons of bluefish and occasional striped bass we had hauled onto her decks from Casco Bay to Long Island Sound.
A sweet boat.
“I am saddened at your news,” I told him truthfully. “But I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”
“I keep telling you about pirates. Now maybe you’ll believe me.”
“You were talking about guys swiping your ideas, not your property.”
“Same difference.”
“Frank, seriously, what
“I’ll call him first,” I said.
“Yeah, sure,” she said.
Well, she knows me too well. I called Doc Adams. I got his assistant, the delectable Susan Petri, who told me that Doc was conferring with a patient at the hospital. I told her to have him call me at home later in the evening. Then I phoned Charlie McDevitt’s secretary, Shirley, and told her to confirm with Charlie our Friday golf date. She told me Charlie had cured his slice. I figured we’d read all about it in the papers, the way Charlie was spreading his joyous news.
Frank Paradise lives in Brewster on Cape Cod. He owns an old farmhouse with two centuries’ worth of ells and dormers, a big barn converted to a workshop, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a tennis court with a clay surface, a sailboat, a forty-eight-foot tuna-rigged boat, and a pair of hostile Dobermans.
Frank made a lot of money designing jet engines after the war, and since then he has devoted himself to his lucrative hobby of inventing things. Most of the stuff he dreams up I don’t understand—computer innards, electronic doodads about the size of a B-B pellet, and elegant little gizmos that make space ships fly and weapons kill.
Once in a while, though, he comes up with something I can appreciate. For example, he concocted a super-strong instant-drying glue that bonds anything to anything else, but rubs right off human skin as slick as rubber cement. He sold the patent to a big drug company. Almost at the same time, he came up with another glue that bonds only human skin. He was negotiating the sale of that stuff with the CIA.
Frank sends me off to Washington about twice a year to conduct patent searches. I usually enjoy the trips, unless Frank happens to have invented something in August. There’s a political science professor at Georgetown who insists that the restaurants in D.C. are better than those in Boston, and always likes to try to make her point. She also knows the Smithsonian inside out and enjoys showing off her expertise.
Frank answered the phone on the first ring. Judging by the static, I figured he was out in his barn. I said hello a couple times, and he yelled back, “Hang on. Gonna change phones.” When he came back on, he sounded better. “This one’s got my own receiver in it,” he said. “The guys who make commercial cordless phones don’t know beans about insulating. This salt air raises hell with ’em.”
“What’s up, Frank?”
“Brady, listen to me. I’m going batshit down here. Outta my mind. Somebody hijacked my boat.”
“Hijacked?”
“Hijacked, whatever. They stole it, for chrissake. Woke up this morning and she’s gone from her mooring.”
“Sounds like she broke loose in the storm.”
“Brady, I got this rig for mooring her—made it myself—”
“Okay, Frank. I believe you. She’s hijacked. Did you tell the cops?”
“Yes I called the cops. And I called the Coast Guard and the insurance guy, too. She’s a sweet little boat, Brady.”
“This is the sailboat, right?”
“No. The Egg Harbor.”
Frank’s “sweet little boat,” I happened to know, was worth about a quarter of a million dollars. Frank had the teak varnished, the twin diesels overhauled, the brass polished, and the hull caulked and painted every winter. It came equipped with loran and sonar and every other piece of electronic gear imaginable. Frank and I had landed an eight-hundred-pound bluefin tuna off the tip of Provincetown in that boat back in eighty-three, not to mention the tons of bluefish and occasional striped bass we had hauled onto her decks from Casco Bay to Long Island Sound.
A sweet boat.
“I am saddened at your news,” I told him truthfully. “But I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”
“I keep telling you about pirates. Now maybe you’ll believe me.”
“You were talking about guys swiping your ideas, not your property.”
“Same difference.”
“Frank, seriously, what
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