The Scarlet Ruse - Softcover

John D. MacDonald

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0449224775 ISBN 13: 9780449224779

Publisher: Fawcett, 1996

Synopsis

Travis McGee is too busy with his houseboat to pay attention to the little old man with the missing postage stamps. Except these are no ordinary stamps. They are rare stamps. Four hundred thousand dollars worth of rare. And if McGee doesn't recognize their value, perhaps Mary Alice McDermit does, a six-foot knockout who knows all the ways to a boat bum's heart. Only it's not McGee's heart that's in danger. Because a syndicate killer has put a contract on McGee. A killer who knows something about stamps . . . and even more about McGee.

About this title

About the Author

John D. MacDonald was an American novelist and short-story writer. His works include the Travis McGee series and the novel The Executioners, which was adapted into the film Cape Fear. In 1962 MacDonald was named a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America; in 1980, he won a National Book Award. In print he delighted in smashing the bad guys, deflating the pompous, and exposing the venal. In life, he was a truly empathetic man; his friends, family, and colleagues found him to be loyal, generous, and practical. In business, he was fastidiously ethical. About being a writer, he once expressed with gleeful astonishment, “They pay me to do this! They don’t realize, I would pay them.” He spent the later part of his life in Florida with his wife and son. He died in 1986.


From the Trade Paperback edition.

Reviews

*Starred Review* Number 14 in the Travis McGee series starts slowly—unless philately is your thing—but quickly picks up the pace, leading to a vintage MacDonald climax that evokes the classic Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck film Cape Fear. McGee is reluctant to get involved in an aging stamp dealer’s problems—inexplicably, a client’s $400,000 stamp collection has been switched with one containing far less valuable material—but the dealer is an old friend of Trav’s pal Meyer, and, in the end, Meyer usually gets what he wants. It doesn’t hurt that one of the dealer’s assistants is Mary Alice McDermit, a six-footer nearly as fit as the legendarily flat-bellied McGee. As Meyer cogitates over how the locked-room switch could have been engineered, McGee noses around the client, one Frank Sprenger, who turns out to be a money launderer for the Miami Mob. Series fans will immediately see that Sprenger does more than the laundry—the cut of this guy’s jib (and the width of his shoulders) clearly indicates that Travis has found his adversary. No one is quite what they seem this time around—Mary Alice and Sprenger, especially—and it takes Trav quite a while to put the pieces together. Cut to the Busted Flush, run amok deep in the mangroves, as Trav lays in wait for a predawn visit from Sprenger, on his way, like Mitchum in Cape Fear, to settle scores once and for all. MacDonald writes terrific climaxes—it’s always McGee versus the sociopaths, often with a new wrinkle or two (this time the sociopath is holding Meyer hostage), but as good as the climaxes are, the denouements are almost their equal, delivering postmortem details on the conflagration and showing off Trav’s scars. This time the wounds cut deep, into both Meyer and Trav, but, whereas the former shows that he can play in the hard guys’ league, the latter proves that his rawhide body isn’t quite as vulnerable as we assumed (“I felt as if I was made of cornflakes, stale rubber bands, and old gnawed bones”). This is A-list McGee—and not just because it may be the only time in the series when MacDonald describes his hero in terms that could apply to my own cornflake-brittle frame. --Bill Ott

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

One

After seven years of bickering and fussing, the Fort Lauderdamndale city fathers, on a hot Tuesday in late August, killed off a life style and turned me into a vagrant.

“Permanent habitation aboard all watercraft within the city limits is prohibited.”

And that ordinance included everything and everybody from the Alabama Tiger aboard his plush ’Bama Gal, running the world’s longest floating houseparty, all the way down to the shackiest little old pontoon cottage snugged into the backwater mangroves.

It included Meyer, the hairy economist, living comfortably aboard his dumpy little cruiser, The John Maynard Keynes, low in the water with the weight of financial tomes and journals in five languages and chess texts and problems in seven.

It included me and my stately and substantial old barge-type houseboat, the Busted Flush. The edict caught me off balance. I had not thought I was so thoroughly imbedded in any particular environment that being detached would be traumatic. Travis McGee is not hooked by things or by places, I told myself.

But, by God, there had been a lot of golden days, a lot of laughter and happy girls. Moonrise and hard rains. Swift fish and wide beaches. Some gentle tears and some damned good luck.

Maybe that is what made the gut hollow, an old superstition about luck. Long long long ago I stepped on a round stone in darkness and fell heavily at the instant that automatic weapons’ fire yellow-stitched the night where I had been standing six feet four inches tall and frangible. I had two souvenirs from that fall--an elbow abrasion and the round stone. I still had the half-pound stone after the elbow healed. I kept it in the side pocket of the twill pants. Then they leapfrogged two battalions of us forward by night to take pressure off some of our people who’d dug in on the wrong hill.

Our airplane driver didn’t care for the attention he was getting and kept his air speed on the high side as he dumped our group. I came to the end of the static line with one hell of a snap, and there was such a sharp pain in my ankle I thought I’d earned another Heart. I pulled the shrouds around, landed on shale, favoring the right leg, rolled and unbuckled, unslung the piece, and listened to night silence before I felt my ankle. No ripped leather or wetness. Pain lessening. Then I missed the round rock. When the chute popped, the rock had popped the pocket stitches, and it had gone down the pant leg, rapping the ankle bone on the way out, hurting right through the oiled leather of the jump boots. And I felt at that moment a terrible anxiety. “My rock is lost. My luck is lost. Some bastard is sighting in on me right now.”

Later I realized that I had made some bad moves during those next five days before they pulled us all back.

This was the same feeling. I’d clambered up onto the sundeck of the Flush so many mornings at first light and had looked out at my world from the vantage point of Slip F‑18 and known who I was. True, the great panorama of the sky had been dwindled over the years by the highrise invasions. But it was my place. I’d taken the Flush out a hundred times and brought her back and tucked her, creaking and sighing, against the piers, home safe. Safe among her people and mine.

I guess there weren’t enough of us, all told. The City Commissioners authorized a survey and found out there were sixteen hundred people living on boats within the city limits. That isn’t much of a voting block in a place the size of Lauderdale. And boat people are not likely to act in unison anyway.

We’d all been pretending it would be voted down, but they made it unanimous.

So all day Wednesday, little groups formed, re-formed, moved around, broke up, joined up again aboard the watercraft at Bahia Mar.

Meyer lectured an embittered audience aboard the ’Bama Gal, standing on the cockpit deck amid a decorative litter of young ladies, quaffing Dos Equis, spilling a dapple of suds onto his black chest pelt.

“They say we have added to the population density. Let us examine that charge. Ten years ago perhaps a thousand of us lived aboard cruisers and houseboats. Now there are six hundred additional. During those ten years, ladies and gentlemen, how many so-called living units have appeared in this area? Highrise, town houses, tract houses, mobile homes? They were constructed and trucked in and slapped together and inhabited without thought or heed to the necessary water supply, sewage disposal, schools, roads, police and fire protection. All services are now marginal.”

“Fiffy thousand more shore people, maybe, huh?” said Geraldine, mistress of the old Broomstick.

“They say we have created sewage disposal problems,” Meyer intoned. “Doubtless a few of the live-aboard people are dumb and dirty, emptying slop buckets into the tide. But for the majority of us, we have holding tanks, we use shoreside facilities, we want clean water because we live on the water. Thousands upon thousands of transient cruisers and yachts and houseboats stop at the area marinas every year. Hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of marine hardware, paying a high ticket for docking privileges and bringing ashore a lot of out-of-town spending money. And we all know, we have all seen, that it is the transient watercraft which cause a sewage disposal problem. They do not live here. They take the easiest way out. They do not give a damn. But will the City Commissioners pass a law saying transients cannot stay aboard transient boats? Never! Those transients are keeping this corner of Florida green, my friends.”

He was applauded. Yay! We would march on City Hall. They would see the error of their ways.

But Johnny Dow put the whole thing in perspective. He cleared his throat and spat downwind, turned away from the rail and said, “Ad valorem, goddamnit!”

“Speak American,” said one of the Tiger’s playgirls.

“They hate us. Them politicals. You know what they make their money on. They come from the law and real estate and selling lots and houses. Ad valorem. We not putting dime one in their pockets. They drivin’ past seeing folks live pretty free, not needing them one damn bit, and they get scalded. We’re supposed to have property lines and bushes and chinch bugs and home improvement loans. Jealous. They all nailed down with a lot of crap they don’t like and can’t get loose of. So here we are. Easy target. Chouse us the hell out of town forever and they don’t have to see us or think about us. Figure us for some kind of parasite. Scroom, ever’ damn ass-tight one of them. Can’t win this one, Meyer. We’re too dense, and we make sewage. Easy target. Neaten up the city. Sweep out the trash. Ad valorem.” He spat again, with good elevation and good distance, and stumped across the deck and down the little gangway and off into the blinding brightness of noontime.

Meyer nodded approvingly. “Scroom,” he murmured. The end of an era.

We walked together back to the Flush and went aboard. We sat in the lounge, frowning and sighing.

Meyer said, “I saw Irv. He said something can be worked out.”

“Something can always be worked out. Sure. If a man wants to live aboard a boat, something can be worked out. If he can pay the ticket. A man could buy a condominium apartment right over there in that big hunk of ugly and make it his legal and mailing address and stay there one night a month and aboard all the other nights. Can something be worked out for all the people who get hit by the new law?”

“Hardly.”

“Then it isn’t going to be the same, old friend. And do we want any part of it, even if I could afford the ticket?”

“You short again?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“You in the confetti business? You make little green paper airplanes?”

“I have had six months of my retirement in this installment, fella.”

He beamed. “You know, you look rested. Good shape too. Better and better shape this last month, right?”

“Getting ready to go to work, which I seem to remember telling you.”

“You did! You did! I remember. That was when I asked you if you would help an old and dear friend and you said no thanks.”

“Meyer, damnit, I--”

“I respect your decision. I don’t know what will happen to Fedderman. It’s just too bad.”

I stared at him with fond exasperation. A week ago he had tried to explain Hirsh Fedderman’s unusual problem to me, and I had told him that it was an area I knew absolutely nothing about.

Meyer said, “We have thirty days of grace before we have to move away, boat and baggage. I just thought it would be a good thing to occupy your mind. And I told Hirsh I knew somebody who maybe could help out.”

“You got a little ahead of yourself, didn’t you?”

He sighed. “So I have to make amends. I’ll see what I can do by myself.”

“Stop trying to manipulate me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Take a deep breath and say it. If it’s what you want, take a deep breath and say it.”

“What should I say?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Well . . . Travis, would you please come with me to Miami and listen to my old friend Hirsh Fedderman and decide if you want to take on a salvage job?”

“Because you ask me so nicely, yes.”

“But then why was it no before?”

“Because I had something else shaping up.”

“And it fell through?”

“Yesterday. So today I need Fedderman, maybe.”

Edition details

• Publisher: Fawcett
• Publication date: 1996
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0449224775
• ISBN 13: 9780449224779
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 352