I TOOK THE T into the middle of Boston and cut across the North End to a particular yacht club. Mostly it was run by lifestyle slaves who were studying to be Brahmins, but there were a couple of old vomit-stained tour boats that ran out of there, one fishing boat, and it was the home base for GEE Northeast's nautical forces. They'd donated a small odd-shaped berth, a little trapezoid of greasy water caught between a couple of piers, for the same reason that someone else gave us the Omni. Upstairs we had a locker for our gear, and that's where I headed, driving up the blood pressures of all the deck-shoed, horn-rimmed twits waiting to be let into the dining room. I cruised past and didn't even turn around when some high-pitched jerk issued his challenge.
“Say! Excuse me? Sir? Are you a member of this club?” It happens every so often, mostly with people who've just spent their Christmas bonuses on memberships. I don't even react. Sooner or later they learn the ropes.
But something was familiar about that goddamn voice. I couldn't keep myself from turning around. And there he was, standing out from that suntanned crowd like a dead guppy in a tropical aquarium, tall and slack-faced and not at all sure of himself. Dolmacher. When he recognized me, it was his nightmare come to life. Which was only fair since he was one of my favorite bad dreams.
“Taylor,” he sneered, ill-advisedly making the first move.
“Lumpy!” I shouted. Dolmacher looked down at his fly as his companions mouthed the word behind his back. Grinning yuppie hyenas that they were, I knew that I had renamed Dolmacher for his career.
The implications did not penetrate and he sauntered forward a step. “How are things, Taylor?”
“I'm having the time of my life. How about you, Dolmacher? Pick up a new accent since we left B.U.?”
His soon-to-be ex-associates began to file their teeth.
“What's on the agenda for today, Sangamon? Come to plant a magnetic limpet mine on an industrialist's yacht?”
This was vintage Dolmacher. Not “blow up” but “plant a magnetic limpet mine on.” He cruised bookstores and bought those big picture books of international weapons systems, the ones always remaindered for $3.98. He had a whole shelf of them. He went up on weekends and played the Survival Game in New Hampshire, running around in the woods shooting paint pellets at other frustrated elements.
“Yachts are made out of fiberglass, Dolmacher. A magnetic mine wouldn't stick.”
“Still sarcastic, huh, S.T.?” He pronounced the word as if it were a mental illness. “Except now you're doing it professionally.”
“Can I help it if the Groveler lacks a sense of humor?”
“I don't work for Basco any more.”
“Okay, I'm stunned. Whom are you working for?”
“Whom? I'm working for Biotronics, that's whom.”
Big deal. Biotronics was a wholly owned subsidiary of Basco. But the work was impressive.
“Genetic engineering. Not bad. You work with the actual bugs?”
“Sometimes.”
Dolmacher dropped his guard the minute I started asking him about his job. No change at all since our days at B.U. He was so astounded by the coolness of Science that it acted on him like an endorphin.
“Well,” I said, “remember not to pick your nose after you've had your hands in the tank, and enjoy your lunch. I've got samples to take.” I turned around.
“You should come to work for Biotronics, S.T. You're far too intelligent for what you're doing.”
I turned back around because I was pissed off. He had no idea how difficult... but then I noticed him looking sincere. He actually wanted me to work with him.
The old school ties, the old dormitory ties, they're resilient. We'd spent four years at B.U. talking at each other like this, and a couple years more on opposite sides of the toxic barricades. Now he wanted me to rearrange genes with him. I guess when you've come as far as he had, you feel a little lonely. Way out there on the frontiers of science, it hurts when a former classmate keeps firing rock salt into your butt.
“We're working on a process you'd be very interested in,” he continued. “It's like the Holy Grail, as far as you're concerned.”
“Dolmacher, party of four?” demanded the maitre d'.
“If you ever want to talk about it, I'm in the book. North Suburban. Living in Medford now.” Dolmacher backed away from me and into the dining room. I just stared at him.
Up at our locker I picked up an empty picnic cooler. My deal with the cook was that he'd fill it up with free ice if I told him a dirty joke, a transaction that went smoothly. Then out and across the docks to our little grease pit.
The tide was out so I had to use the rope ladder to get down into the Zodiac. As soon as you drop below the level of the pier, the city and the sun disappear and you're dangling in a jungle of algae-covered pilings, like Tarzan sliding down a vine into a swamp.
It's not doing a Zodiac justice to call it an inflatable raft. A Zodiac has design. It has hydrodynamics. It's made to go places. The inflatable part is horseshoe-shaped. The bend of the horseshoe is in front, and it's pointed; the prongs point backwards, tapering to cones. The floor of the craft is made of heavy interlocking planks and there's a transom in back, to keep the water out and to hold the motor. If you look at the bottom of a Zodiac, it's not just flat. It's got a hint of a keel on it for maneuverability.
Not a proper hull, though. Hull design is an advanced science. In the days of sail it was as important to national security as aerodynamics are now. A hull was a necessary evil: all that ship down under the water gave you lots of drag but without it the rest of the ship wouldn't float.
Then we invented outboard motors and all that science was made irrelevant by raw power. You could turn a bathtub into a high-performance speedboat by bolting a big enough motor on it. When the throttle's up high, the impact of the water against the bottom of the hull lifts it right up out of the water. It skims like a skipping rock and who gives a fuck about hydrodynamics. When you throttle it down, the vessel sinks into the water again and wallows like a hog.
This is the principle behind the Zodiac, as far as I can tell. You take a vessel that probably weighs less than its own motor, you radio the control tower at Logan Airport and you take off.