The Marital Corporation Ch 08

Synopsis: Peter has met with Seattle's gay community, describing his proposal and soliciting their support in his bid for election. The gay newspaper editor intends to endorse his proposal.

Chapter Eight

While deflating a person's tires hardly compared with capital murder, Peter was shaken by the vandalism. He had no experience with personal malice, and found it both frightening and painful.

He had no intention of telling Marge about it. He knew it would only distress her and could serve no useful purpose. Besides, he felt that her support for his new-found political career was lukewarm at best, and he suspected one reason for that was because she viewed his budding relationship with the gay community with suspicion and distrust.

Peter suspected that his bisexuality had much to do with it, even though Marge was similarly inclined. She was never concerned about his heterosexual liaisons; but the gay community was a place where she couldn't go, and the dangers that lurk in unknown shadows are always the most fearful.

Peter thought she might enjoy meeting Doc Porter, but Sunday morning, on their way to Shilshole Marina, when he told her of his tentative invitation to the old man, she had drawn back. "Why do you have to bring your work home with you?"

"This isn't work, dear," Peter replied. "He's a bright, witty old man, and I'm sure you'll like him, if you'll just give him a chance."

She nodded doubtfully. "Well, if it's important to you, of course we'll have him to dinner. When?"

"That's your department," Peter said. "He said any night but Tuesdays."

"How about Friday? Around 7:30? Is his diet limited? Salt free? Anything like that?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't think so, but I never noticed what he ordered for lunch. I'll ask him."

"Also find out if there's anything else we should know, like where he keeps his heart pills, for instance."

"For God's sake, Marge!" Peter said irritably, "He's a senior citizen, but he isn't infirm or senile. I don't know how old he is, but when I reach that age, I only hope I have as much get up and go as he does!"

"Well, you don't have to get your balls in an uproar," Marge said primly.

Peter apologized, then added casually, "It looks as if Gordon and I may be flying to San Francisco next month to pick up Love Boat II."

"You hadn't said anything about that!"

"I'm still not sure about it. I need to talk to Gordon first, but I wasn't able to reach him Friday. Cap Bowker completed her survey, and called to tell me that, all things considered, she looks pretty good."

"What's `all things considered'?" Marge was ever suspicious of anything to do with boats.

"I don't know," Peter replied. "He said he had found twenty-six deficiencies, but when I asked if she was sufficiently seaworthy to make the delivery passage to Seattle, he said `yes' without qualification. The survey is in the mail, so we should have it in a day or two."

"I wish you'd keep me better informed," she said quietly.

"I'm really sorry," Peter said contritely, "and I will try to do better. It's just that things have been happening so fast, I sometimes forget. Believe me, it's not intentional." But a little voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he still hadn't told her about those flat tires.

Peter turned into the Shilshole parking lot. The Schaefer family drove into the parking lot behind them, and parked their Mercedes next to them. Kenny, Kathy and Peter went to the store for beer and ice, while Marge and the Schaefers unlocked Love Boat's companionway hatch and prepared the boat for what had become a regular Sunday outing for the two families.

Later, as the boat sailed briskly along the coast south of Alki Point in a fresh northwesterly breeze, Anne took the tiller while Gordon and Peter sat on the high side of the cabin top, enjoying the cleansing briny smell of the salt breeze in their faces as they watched little white horses march toward them.

Peter told Gordon about Bowker's call, adding, "This would be a great trip if you could take a couple of weeks off. I'm open almost any time in July. What about you?"

"I'm glad to hear about the survey," Gordon said, "but I can't tell you, offhand, what my calendar looks like. Let me give you a call tomorrow. But this brings up another question. I don't mean to question your sailing ability, but shouldn't we plan to hire a captain?"

"I hadn't thought about it," Peter said slowly, "but the boat's a big investment. If you'd feel better about it . . ."

"No, no," Gordon said quickly. "That's not the idea. I just don't know how much offshore experience you have, or how you would feel about the responsibility."

"I've sailed offshore, but never as a captain," Peter said thoughtfully. "But I have no doubt whether I could do it; it's not as if we were getting ready to sail around the world, you know."

"You could do the navigation?" Gordon asked.

"Enough to get by," Peter said. He owned an old plastic sextant. He made a mental note to brush up on the simple right angle geometry required to reduce the classic noon sight, which yields a vessel's latitude. He also decided to invest in a GPS receiver.

He explained to Gordon how captains of sailing ships, for hundreds of years, had navigated by the simple expedient of "sailing down the latitude." In this case, since they would be traveling generally in a northerly direction, knowing their daily north/south position was all the information they really needed. He grinned at Gordon. "When we reach 48 degrees, 20 minutes north, we'll just make a right turn," adding that the ocean phase of their passage would end in the sixteen mile-wide Strait of Juan de Fuca. Then he smiled again. "I'm not a complete fool, Gordon. If it turns cloudy, making sights impossible, I've got a handy-dandy little GPS receiver -- the same global positioning device American troops used with great success in the Gulf War. That thing will give us our position anywhere on earth to within a few yards or so!"

"That sounds OK, I guess, but can two of us handle the boat?" Gordon asked. "Anne will have to stay home looking after the kids, and somehow, I doubt whether Marge would be very interested in sailing offshore."

"Sure we could; hell, on the East coast, the old lumber schooners went north and south for years manned only by a captain and an idiot boy. Things were never quite that informal here on the West coast, but why do it the hard way? Let's take Kenny along."

The men made their way back to the cockpit where Kenny was seated, trying to ignore a persistent Kathy who was all but sitting on his lap. George looked at his daughter. "How about letting your father sit down?"

She made a face at him, but obediently moved across the cockpit to sit next to her mother who was confidently steering the boat.

"We have a proposition for you, Kenny," Gordon said.

Kenny grinned. "OK. What's up?"

Gordon studied Kenny silently for a moment. Then he said, "We need a third man to fill out the delivery crew when we bring the new boat up from San Francisco. We thought you might like to come along."

Kenny's grin widened to near maniacal proportions. "Cool!" he said.

There was no partying with the Schaefers that evening. Peter had an early office appointment the next morning; besides, he knew that Gordon and Anne probably needed some time to talk.

Captain Bowker's survey arrived in the morning mail. Guiltily eyeing the heaping in-box on his desk, Peter closed the office door and opened the envelope.

As the Sausalito Yacht Club secretary had promised, Bowker was thorough. The twenty-eight "deficiencies" mostly included things Peter had already noticed: the chafed docklines, rusty anchor chain, inadequate ground tackle and dry, worn blocks. However, Bowker had also discovered three poorly insulated electrical wires (none critical to their passage), that the port navigation light bulb was burned out, and that one of the burners on the galley stove failed to light. He also commented on the engine. It was balky and hard to start. He had also found some soft spots in the forward port channel. However, he thought a new truck battery, and an injector overhaul would solve that problem.

The boat's hull integrity was good, except for minor rot in the head of a frame on the starboard side at station 12. Installing a new battery, cleaning the engine's injectors, and fitting a new channel were the only repairs he recommended before they put to sea.

The standing rigging, as Peter had surmised, was tarred, parceled and served galvanized wire. The rig needed to be retarred, but no rust was found.

He turned eagerly to the page dealing with her sails. The four lowers were worn and stained but serviceable except the outer jib required a grommet repair. Her gaff topsail and fisherman were new.

Peter knew he'd have to get a carpenter on that channel right away. He dialed Cap Bowker's number. No response. He made a note to try again after lunch. Then he called Gordon's office. Peter was surprised when Gordon picked up the phone.

After the usual pleasantries, Gordon said, "I've been waiting for your call, Pete. I just got to the office. Anne and I were up half the night sorting things out. Then, when I saw your name in this morning's paper, that started us off again in an entirely different direction."

"What do you mean, my name in the paper?"

"Haven't you seen it? Do you have a copy of the Post Intelligencer handy?"

"Hold on a minute; I'll get one," Peter said, carefully laying the phone down before dashing next door to Connie Marco's office. "Got a morning paper?"

She nodded, and handed a opened, neatly folded newspaper to him. "It's there, right hand column on page four," She grinned at Peter. "Is it too late to join?"

What the hell? Peter hurried back to his office and picked up the phone. "I'm back," he said.

"Yeah, I heard you coming down the hall. Anyway, you tell me your news and then I'll tell you mine."

"Christ. It sounds like we're playing doctor."

"In a way, I think we are."

"What do you mean?"

"Skim the article; I'll wait."

It was a reasonably fair account of the coffee house meeting Peter had attended. The locale wasn't identified, and his ideas were mildly garbled, but the reporter accurately quoted Peter's impassioned statement of the social problems facing the nation. He also quoted Lansing's comparison of the present congress with Oliver Cromwell's revolutionary parliament in mid-17th century England.

"OK," Peter said with a false cheerfulness, "I plead guilty."

"Do you really believe this crap, or is this just political horseshit you cooked up for the occasion?" Gordon's voice sounded strained, almost harsh, and Peter suddenly realized he would have to tread cautiously.

"Let me put it this way," Peter said slowly, "if you're asking whether I think the conclusions that were drawn at that meeting are inevitable, I would have to say `yes'. Not today, perhaps, or even tomorrow. Perhaps not even in my lifetime. But eventually? Yes, I'm sure of it."

There was a long pause at Gordon's end. "OK," he said hesitantly, "but I'll have to be honest with you. Despite some of the things we do, remember, Peter, we're church people, and that story upset Anne very much. So much so in fact, that she even suggested that perhaps we should back out of our deal on the boat. You may not believe this, but she takes her religious ideals very seriously."

Peter's stomach constricted, and the palms of his hands were suddenly slick with sweat. Struggling to keep his voice steady, he said, "OK. Now I know how she feels. How do you feel about it? Are you preparing to shoot the messenger, too?"

"I don't know," Gordon said slowly. "Does Marge feel the same way you do?"

"I have no idea," Peter said. "We've not discussed it."

"Well," Gordon continued, "it's easier for you guys; you don't have stockholders or kids to worry about. You can play around all you like. But Anne seems to think your ideas will lead to some kind of Armageddon or a free love cult or something. Don't ask me to explain."

Peter took a deep breath. The tension flowed out of his body as he heard Gordon's defensive explanation. "I guess we're all entitled to our opinions, Gordon, but you can't leave it there. Are we still partners?"

"I guess so," Gordon replied hesitantly. Then, more brightly, he added, "OK, tell me about the boat."

"Alright. Here's what the old man had to say." Peter cleared his throat and quickly read Bowker's letter and survey notes. When he came to the end, he added, "I can fax the letter to you, but most of those things are really inconsequential. It looks to me like we've hit real paydirt in this boat!"

"You know about those things the surveyor described?"

"Sure. Just think of it as a house. The boat's a little more complicated, of course, but the idea is the same."

"What's the next step?" Gordon sounded cheerful, almost as if Anne's reservations were forgotten.

"I've been trying to reach Bowker," Peter said. "I want him to put a carpenter on that channel and get a mechanic to pull and clean the injectors. I also think, although he didn't recommend it, that we probably should have the fuel and tanks cleaned."

"That sounds sensible," Gordon said, "but I don't understand about the fuel."

"The boat's been idle for 3 or 4 years. Certain algas grow in diesel oil. Of course, I don't know there's algae in that fuel, but I'd say there's a pretty good chance."

"Well, you do whatever you think is best. I've just checked my calendar, and I can take the two weeks starting July 3. How's that?"

"Perfect," Peter said.

Miss Perkins stepped through his opened door. Her expression reflected concern. "Mr. Robbins wants to see you right away," she said in a loud whisper.

Gordon overheard her. "Looks like someone else has read the morning paper," he said dryly. "I'll get back to you later."

Peter hung up and hurried down the hall to the big corner office. The senior partners were gathered around the big conference table in Marty Robbin's office. A row of solemn faces silently turned to watch him enter the room. The atmosphere was frigid. Peter saw an open copy of the newspaper on the table.

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Baylis." Mr. Robbins could be devastating when he was sarcastically polite.

"Good morning, sir, gentlemen," Peter said. A keen thrill of anxiety ran down his spine as he wondered if he would still have a job when this meeting ended.

"We've been reading about some of your interesting social theories," the old man went on, ice dripping from each word.

"Yes, sir."

"Will you please tell us why you didn't discuss these ideas with me or some of the other senior partners before running to the newspapers?"

"Well, sir, first, I didn't, as you put it, run to the newspapers. I thought I was addressing a private gathering; I didn't know a reporter was present. Second, when Mr. Tolliver, the 43rd district incumbent died, any chance I had of prevailing in the primary also died. My only hope lay in the large block of voters on Capitol Hill and in Portage Bay who are interested in the same-sex marriage issue, and who usually vote Democratic.

"I was trying to address their concerns by seeking middle ground between the extreme Hawaiian position on same-sex marriage and that of the several states that seem bent on repealing the full faith and credit clause of the Constitution.

"As lawyers, whether it pleases us or not, it must be fairly obvious that when the Hawaiian case reaches the Supreme Court, as it surely will because of the equal protection argument it presents, if the recent Colorado case meant anything at all, the state court will be sustained.

"Apart from the implications of the Colorado case, I also think the Court will zealously guard against any state effort to diminish the reach of the full faith and credit clause. In a way, this situation almost reminds me of the old commerce clause cases from the 1930s."

A couple of the older partners nodded. Peter wasn't sure whether they were agreeing with his argument, or were merely taking a brief nap.

Mr. Robbins glared at him down the table. "I understand your point," he said gruffly. "But remember, you're making a lawyer's argument to lawyers. What are you going to say to your -- and my -- fellow Republicans who may object to being compared to Oliver Cromwell?"

Inwardly, Peter breathed easier. His job was safe for the moment. "I didn't make the comparison, sir," he said. "Barney Lansing did."

"Yes, that's another thing. I can't let you tarnish this firm's reputation by associating openly with people of Lansing's stripe."

"Because he's a homosexual? Or because he edits what some would consider a radical newspaper?"

"A little of both, I'm afraid."

"May I ask a question, Mr. Robbins?"

"Certainly."

"Why did you want me to seek the Republican nomination?"

"I thought it would be a good experience for you, and would enhance the firm's reputation."

"But you don't want me to win?"

"I didn't say that. I just don't want you to win recklessly or at any cost."

There was a long silence while Peter tried to think of an appropriate response. One of the partners glanced at his watch, and Robbins began to rustle his notes. Peter finally said, "I'm not sure I can accept those conditions."

"Don't be hasty," Mr. Robbins said. "Take as much time as you need; talk to your lovely wife. Seek the council of friends here in the firm, but . . ." his voice hardened, ". . . stay away from Lansing. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Peter said as he stood to leave the room.

"I'm deadly serious about that," Peter heard Robbins' voice behind him as he closed the door.

Peter was angry and depressed when he returned his office. Ignoring the small pile of phone messages in the middle of his desk, he stared unseeingly out the window for a full hour before the intercom buzzed. "Dr. Porter is on one," Miss Perkins said.

Mechanically, Peter punched a button on his phone and picked up the receiver. "Hi," he said listlessly.

"Just got your ass kicked, did you?"

"And then some," Peter replied.

"Good thing I wasn't there," Doc said, "I'd have booted it right over your building."

"Et tu, Brutus?"

"Aw, shit. You're just feeling sorry for yourself. Come on. It's almost noon. Let's meet at that new salmon place down near the Pike Place Market."

"You mean Haverty's?"

"Sure"

"OK. I'll be there in half an hour."

Peter was so anxious to get out of the office that he was a few minutes early. He had a chance to inspect the restaurant's decor which was intended to resemble the inside of an ancient Indian long house. The otherwise cheerful room, decorated with Indian paddles, totems, and colorful bark wall hangings, enclosed a sooty, smoky circular fire place. Ceramic trays resembling chunks of cedar bark were stacked neatly next to the glowing alder coals. These held the fish while it baked. The decor was so obviously fake that it was campy, but the food was supposed to be very good.

"Ah, here's the hero of the hour." Peter hadn't seen Doc approach. "My God! Don't you have a drink, yet? Waiter, bring my son a double whatever he'll have and a vodka martini for me." The waiter looked at Peter.

"Make it bourbon-water," he said. Turning to Doc, he added, "Why are you pissed off? I thought you wanted me to talk to that crowd."

"I realize you got bushwhacked," Doc replied sternly, "but that's no excuse. Rule number one. Before you say anything in any gathering, you always ask if there are reporters present. If you don't want to do that, you say, `these are preliminary ideas, so this discussion is only background. It has to be off the record.' There are bastards everywhere, but almost any reporter will respect a request like that."