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Mike O'Shaunessy was a notorious proprietor of road houses and "clubs" of shady reputation, and there was no question as to what sort of place the Royal Yacht Club would be. Mr. Guff was furious about it. "I knew it," he said. "The women have just telephoned me an authorization to send for this Jacobs blackguard and buy back the option." "Jacobs?" inquired Johnny, "Not Abraham Jacobs?"
He had a pleasant ironic expression. "For what?" There were white paint stains on his button-down blue shirt. "Says he's looking for work." "Patrick O'Shaunessy." Patrick extended his hand. "Parker Ives." He looked Patrick over as they shook hands. "Ladders, Patrick. Wasps," he said. "No problem." "Good. Meet me in the News Shop at 8; we'll see how it goes." "Tomorrow?" Patrick asked.
Martin asked. "Yeah, a guy I met Patrick O'Shaunessy." "Patrick O'Shaunessy?" "Yes." "I'll be damned. I met him the other day." Patrick, she thought. Martin reminded her of Patrick; that's who it was. More people arrived. A soprano sax joined the piano. A man with gray hair set up a drum kit. Joe Burke stood near the piano with a blonde leggy, like me, Willow thought, but better looking.
When his father wasn't reading, he enjoyed fixing things; he looked forward to becoming a sort of anti-hero Major O'Shaunessy to the rescue, the tools, the truck, the little boxes of washers and screws and finishing nails, the retirement checks punctually in the mail. Patrick's mother fussed about Patrick's eating habits, but she wasn't really worried.
He and Mom are arguing about whether to live in Florida or Costa Rica. Heidi went over to the door where there was an intercom much like the Van Slyke's. "Martin? Martin, can you come over? Patrick O'Shaunessy is here. His father is an old friend." A voice crackled through the speaker, "O.K., just a minute." Patrick looked around. "Nice house," he said. "We've been here many years."
A woman with a heart shaped face, wheat colored hair, and clear blue-green eyes answered his knock. "Yes?" "Good morning. Are you Heidi Merrill?" She nodded. "My name is Patrick O'Shaunessy." She straightened. "My father said that you were an old friend. He asked me to say hello for him and see how you're doing." "Well! What a surprise. You must tell Brian that we are doing just fine. Come in."
She was shorter than Patrick but seemed to be looking down at him. "This is a quiet house." "Yes, ma'am." "No smoking." "Yes, ma'am." She opened the door and showed him a corner room with a matching bed and bureau and a small rocking chair. "Bathroom down the hall." He paid for a week and signed the guest register. "O'Shaunessy?" "Yes." She handed him two keys. "I lock the front door after dark."
There was a defensive note in her voice that surprised him. As he was telling her about his job, a tall man in his late twenties pushed open the kitchen door. He walked directly over, holding out his hand. "Patrick O'Shaunessy?" "Yes," Patrick said, standing and shaking hands. "Martin Merrill." "Patrick is working in town; he's not sure how long he will stay." "What do think of the place?"
"This is Patrick O'Shaunessy calling from Woodstock. I hate to tell you this, but Gert is in the hospital." Ginger said that she would come as soon as possible. She thanked him and hung up. What else could he do? He left a note for Bob, explaining the situation, and walked back into town. He kept seeing Gert that clear shake of her head, no. Claude had left the Depresso.
On the following morning he saw in the papers that the Royal Yacht Club, a new organization, the moving spirit of which was one Michael T. O'Shaunessy, was to have magnificent headquarters on Riverside Drive and he immediately went to see Mr. Guff.
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