The Conch Pearl – scene 2 pg3

Margaret was leaning back now, far into the corner of the couch, with her legs crossed.  She gave Noel her skeptical look.  Intrigued but skeptical.  ”Who’s Quinn?”

Noel spun around softly on his heel and headed for the ice box.  ”He’s a Caribbean Cowboy, I guess.”  He could be heard dropping ice cubes into a glass.

He came back with two glasses quarter filled with a whiskey her father had given them.  He handed her one, and sat down at the other end of the couch.

“My friends aren’t stupid, you know.”

“I know, it –”

” — they just don’t fit in.  That, I’ll grant you.”

“Ok, that I’ll take.  I’ve never met these two, but, knowing you quite well, if you say they don’t fit in, I won’t argue.”

“Quinn was  a boat delivery captain, back when boat delivery might have been called fun.  ’70s, ’80s.  I think he spent a lot of his early years sailing boats out of California, Southern California.  For rich people, of course.  Deliver them up to Seattle, down to Cabo, Puerta Vallarta, and into the Carribean, too.  I guess that’s how he found Key West.  You don’t make much money delivering boats, but you don’t have many expenses either, and you do learn a lot about the water.  He’s been in every port between Los Angeles and Key West, going by the Panama Canal.  He was jailed in Panama, because they liked the boat he was delivering.  They tried to trap the boat on trumped up pot charges.  This is all stuff he told me.  I think he’s always had dreams of striking it rich, somehow striking it rich.

Maybe it grows on you, delivering all those rich people’s boats, maybe you want to get your own.  I don’t know what spawns every man’s “get rich now” scheme.  Nor why some men seem to be constantly spawning them.  Well, most people just don’t have the follow through, do they? But they enjoy dreaming.”

“Noel, what – how could you help this guy?”


“I can see you drifting off to there already, to the Cay Sal Bank or wherever, you’re already there.  You’re not really going to go, are you?”

“No, realistically, I can’t go.  Just pack up and leave, you mean, after these two guys?”


“No.  I’m not even sure what the trouble is, or could be.  No one knows what the trouble could be.  That’s why Sean wrote, right?”

“Why can’t Sean spell?”  Margaret was driving a point.

Noel looked over at her cautiously.

“I think he just can’t type.”

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