Done.
Three little pirates all in a row, two of them wet and foul-smelling.
I can’t believe I’ve managed to pull this off. Now what the hell do I do?
Seizing the gaff hook on the wall to give myself some added authority, I march back and forth in front of my three tormenters, all tied helplessly to the deck rail.
“So, who wants to start?” I say cheerily. “Okay, I’ll go. You guys have been having some yucks at my expense, haven’t you? Well, I’m not a huge fan of assault and attempted murder, FYI. So now it’s my turn.” Deliberately echoing the words Trooper Dan used in my kitchen, I say, “The way we work is this: I ask questions, you answer them without a moment’s hesitation. Thus you avoid the gaff. Are we clear on that?”
Moving the huge, needle-sharp gaff-hook back and forth between Gym Bob’s and Wiry Guy’s eyes, I say, “Which one of you is Edgar Goslin?”
In their eyes I see only blank confusion.
I march over to Cliff and press the tip of the hook sideways against his neck skin. “Which of these guys is Goslin?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Cliff replies. Cocky dick.
“I know Edgar Goslin is here on Musqasset,” I tell him evenly. “And I know you’re working together. If he’s not one of these two clowns, he must be the one I saw you with yesterday at the maintenance garage.”
“Ronnie Milloy? The road guy? He works for the town. I was just borrowing his truck. I think you know why.”
“Then which one of these two is Edgar Fucking Goslin?”
Cliff rolls his eyes. “I heard you went off the deep end,” he says. “Guess the rumors were true.” Boy, do I want an excuse to rip this guy a blowhole.
“Don’t even bother denying it, Cliff,” I say. I march into the wheelhouse and grab the envelope I found in his to-do basket (and my wallet along with it). I march back to Cliff and, with the flair of a movie lawyer doing his big reveal, I whip out the news articles about the highway accident and dangle them in front of his face.
He does not break down and blurt out a courtroom confession. Instead, he laughs. “That? You think all this is about that?”
“You’re going to try to claim it isn’t?”
Cliff shakes his head as if in pity. “Jeannie told me you were the smartest guy she ever knew. Guess she didn’t get around much.” He pauses and reconsiders his words. “Although you and me both know that ain’t true.”
I almost punch his clown-sphincter face. “I’m running out of patience here, Cliff. I know Jeannie told you about me and this car accident.”
“So what if she did? You think these guys give a shit about that?” He tosses his head contemptuously toward his compadres.
“Well, given that they tried to kill me in my own home,” I say, my voice tightening, “and went to great lengths to write a convincing suicide note in which I confessed to the crime, then yeah, I’d say they give A LITTLE BIT OF A SHIT.”
Wide-eyed, he backs into the steel post he’s tied to. “Jesus,” he says. It’s not the “Jesus” of a man who’s thinking, Dang, I’ve been caught red-handed, it’s the “Jesus” of a man who realizes he’s dealing with a truly unbalanced individual.
“Are you seriously going to tell me you don’t know about what happened in my house in Wentworth?” I ask him.
He looks me fully in the eye and says, “I. Have. No. Idea. What-you-are-talking-about!” Either he’s a better actor than he has the brains to be or he’s telling the truth.
“Goslin didn’t tell you?”
“WHO THE FUCK IS GOSLIN?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know! I’m holding the evidence right in front of your face.” I read aloud a sentence from one of the news articles in which Goslin’s name is mentioned.
Cliff sighs and lets his head slump. After a moment, he says softly, “I didn’t remember that was the guy’s name. Honest. I barely even read those stories.”
“Then why are you carting them around on your boat?”
“They were just supposed to be between you and me. The other guys don’t even know about them.”
“So why do you have them?”
“A little added insurance, that’s all. To make sure you got the message.”
“Message?”
“The reason you’re here on this boat, dickwad.”
“Which is...?”
“I think maybe I should let your friends explain that. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Oh, right. The cavalry is on its way.”
“Believe me, don’t believe me, I don’t give a shit. But they’ll be here. High noon. The appointed time of your sentencing.”
“My sentencing?” I say, barely able to stifle a laugh. This guy has a flair for cheesy drama. “My sentencing?”
He looks at the deck for a long count, then raises his head with a sneer. “Fishermen’s Court, asshole.”
Chapter 33
Fishermen’s Court is more than the name of the street I once lived on.
If you’ve dwelt for a time on Musqasset—or certain other islands off the coast of Maine where there is no resident police force—you may have heard whispers of an entity that goes by the same name. Fishermen’s Court. What is it? One learns not to ask.
A trawler captain finds his net cut to ribbons one morning.
A lobsterman discovers sugar in his gas tank has ruined his boat’s engine.
A heedless clammer gets his teeth knocked in after leaving the Anchor one night.
In coffee joints and bars ‘round the island, heads nod darkly and someone inevitably mutters, “Fishermen’s Court.” Conversation over.
It is well known that there’s a code of honor in the Maine seafood procurement trades. You don’t encroach on another guy’s fishing grounds. You don’t pull up another guy’s trap. You don’t mess with another fisherman’s livelihood. If you do so on Musqasset, you will soon find your luck running thin. The punishments doled out to offenders are not usually lethal—though there was a killing on Matinicus Island a few years back that made all the papers—but neither are they slaps on the wrist.
Fishermen’s Court aims to send unambiguous messages.
But the first rule of Fishermen’s Court is the first rule of Fight Club. Best not to chit-chat too much about it. In truth, most people believe it’s just an island myth, a poetic way of saying fishermen watch out for one another; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
But the old-timers and insiders know a different tale.
. . . . .
“I don’t see anyone else here but you and your nasty-smelling friends,” I say to Cliff. “So why don’t you explain what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Not my place to say.”
I kneel before him and aim the knife blade at his eye—weird how accustomed I’ve become to playing the demented heavy. “Make it your place to say. What did you mean about Fishermen’s Court?”
He mulls his conversational options, concludes they are limited. “All you had to do was stay off the island,” he spews. “That’s all you fuckin’ had to do. There wouldn’t have been any more punishment.”
“Punishment? For what?”
“The Court heard your case four years ago, asshole. And found you guilty.”
“And what was my crime, exactly?”
“Treason,” he says, without a hint of irony. “We were ready to give you your sentence at the time, but you skipped town. We figured you musta got wind of what was coming your way and took off. We said fine, let him go. That was what we all wanted anyway.” He thru
sts his reddened face at me. “But you had to come back, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
I hear the distant snarl of a boat engine. Looking out toward shore, I see two small craft chugging in our direction. I get the gut sense that Cliff is telling the truth and that the approaching boats contain the other members of my tribunal.
“So now what?” I ask, feeling the walls closing in. “Now I’m supposed to receive my sentencing and punishment? Let me take a wild guess: death by execution at sea.”
Cliff says nothing. Which makes me believe my guess is correct. “Is that it, Cliff? Execution?” No answer. I lay the knife blade against his bearded cheek, unintentionally drawing blood. “Are you guys planning to kill me? Answer!”
“Jesus, no!” he blurts. “What the fuck do you think we are? You got most of your punishment already, for Chrissake. All we wanted to do was follow you around for a few days, throw a scare in you, rough you up a little. Then, at the end, toss you in the hold for a while, break you down for good, and give you the fishermen’s farewell.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You know damn well what it means. Shit, maybe you don’t. Each member of the court gets a minute alone with you, to do whatever we want, short of killin’ you—punch you in the gut, spit in your face, speak our piece. Then, when we’ve all had our turn, we haul your ass back to the mainland and toss you out near Pemaquid Point. The end.”
“And these?” I say, waving the paper printouts I still hold in my hand. “How do you explain these?”
“Those?” He laughs again. Annoying prick. “Those were just a send-off from me to you. A little reminder, so in case you were ever tempted to drag your sorry ass back to Musqasset, or talk to anyone about what happened on this boat today, you would know I had something I could talk about too. And yeah, that something came to me courtesy of Jean Eileen Gallagher.”
I don’t think Cliff is capable of making up stuff like this. Thus I am inclined to believe him. The two small boats are drawing near now, and they don’t look like a Coast Guard rescue team, that’s for sure.
“Can I ask you one last question, Cliff?” The macho has drained out of me.
He shrugs in a slap-worthy way.
“What were you talking to Jeannie about yesterday morning?”
He laughs wearily and shakes his head. “You and me, bro, we’re members of the same sad club. The Jeannie Left-Behinds. Miss Jeannie G., she’s got a... situation goin’ on, but it ain’t with me, and it ain’t what you think. One thing I can tell you, though—you got a world of hurt comin’ your way.”
Yeah, I’m starting to get that impression.
. . . . .
When the small boats draw up alongside Cliff’s trawler on the port side, my heart deflates—more with sadness than fear. There are seven guys aboard the two vessels, and I know all of them: Billy Staves, my old Scrabble buddy; Matt and Mike, two of the three Bourbon triplets; Gerry Harper, husband of Ginny and frequent dinner guest of Jeannie’s and mine; and three other lobstermen/fishermen I sometimes shared a table with at the Anchor.
As I stand at the rail looking down at them, I can feel a lump forming in my throat. I don’t want my voice to crack when I address them.
I wait till I’m sure I can talk steadily and say to the small crowd, “I’m afraid Captain Kangaroo’s Court has been canceled for the day, folks. You’re going to have to take your lanterns and pitchforks somewhere else.” I signal for Cliff to swivel his head so they can see his face, then I point the knife at him. “If anyone tries to board this boat, I’m going to shove this knife into your friend’s neck.”
Several seconds pass in silence.
“Like the one you shoved in us?” says Billy Staves, staring at me with stony eyes.
“What are you talking about, Billy?”
I look out at the septet of men glaring at me from the boats. Their faces vary in age, race, and ethnicity, but I see only one countenance: cold Yankee rectitude.
“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” I ask. “Because I don’t get it. What did I do that was so unforgivable? Yes, I brought Miles Sutcliffe to the island. Mea fricking culpa. Yes, I vetted him as a friend and asked you to break bread with him. That was a huge mistake. I know that now, but that’s all it was: a mistake. I didn’t mean harm to any of you. Can’t you see that? I have apologized to you in every way I know how.”
My words are met with arctic silence. “I had no idea he was going to kill Fish Pier,” I continue. “I tried to stop him. In fact, I tried to help you fight him.”
“Oh, right. That’s rich, Finn,” says Matt Bourbon.
“What? You know I did, Matt. Once Fish Pier was put on the chopping block, I started fighting the whole project. That letter-writing campaign was my god-damn idea. Or have you conveniently forgotten that? I was the one who proposed it. I was the one who organized it and convinced you all to try it. I was the one who put my friendship on the line for it.”
A few of the boat riders look at one another bemused. “I wouldn’t brag about it if I were you,” says Billy.
“I can’t help it if it didn’t work. I never guaranteed it would. I just thought it was worth a try.”
“So did we,” says a lobsterman named Jean-Claude. “That’s why we humbled ourselves to a bunch of rich-bitch assholes. Because you told us to. Because we trusted you.”
“And I did everything I promised you I would!”
“Like hell you did!” thunders Billy. “You blew town, that’s what you did. You slunk off like a weasel when the henhouse light comes on. And we all know what happened next.”
“No, we don’t, Billy. I don’t, that’s for sure.”
As I stare into the simmering eyes of those men across the short breach of water that separates us, I realize I am staring across a vast gulf of understanding. We are seeing things from divergent perspectives. Operating from different sets of facts. Where does the disconnect lie?
. . . . .
In the final days of my Musqasset tenancy, as I’ve mentioned, Miles’ marina/yacht club project was morphing into something no one had seen coming. Miles had overcome many of the islanders’ resistance to the project by showing them what a boon it would be for Fish Pier and for all of Musqasset. Once the town had fallen in love with the idea of having its own resident police and fire department, a new schoolhouse, a tax surplus, and, oh yeah, a huge increase in the flow of retail money, the bait-and-switch started. Miles, speaking for his partners, began to present amendments to the plan. The most radical of these involved the scrapping of Fish Pier for a more “revenue positive” idea.
At the town meeting when that amendment was presented, there was, needless to say, a hue and cry—mainly from the fishermen, lobstermen, and artists. But you could feel the tide had already turned. The number of residents in favor of the new commercial development—no matter what changes it entailed—now far outweighed those who opposed it. There was still a vote to be taken, a few weeks hence, but we all knew how the vote was going to go.
After the meeting where the Fish Pier amendment was proposed, the fishermen and their friends gathered at The Rusty Anchor to commiserate and voice their anger. Bo Baines, the guy who ran the Seafood Exchange, stood up on a chair, drunk, and shouted, “Fish Pier’s dead! Long live the Mall of Musqasset!”
Saul Guptill chimed in, “Aye, there’s nothin’ can be done about it now.”
Or was there? I was sitting alone in a corner of the bar, thinking. Stewing. About Miles, to be specific. I realized I wasn’t completely sure I trusted him. During the whole proposal period, he alone had served as representative for his mainland partners. All information going back and forth between the island and the developmen
t group had traveled through him. When I would talk to him privately, he would assure me he was fighting tooth and nail against his partners to preserve Fish Pier. But…
But what if that weren’t true? I now began to wonder. Maybe it was the Tullamore Dew talking, but I started to think maybe Miles wasn’t fighting quite as hard for Fish Pier as he claimed to be. Maybe he wasn’t presenting the full picture to his partners, or to us.
I didn’t want to voice my doubts to the fishermen; they were already pissed off enough at me for bringing Miles to the island. But I did stand up and say, “Listen to me for a minute, folks.” The place went quiet. “These people—Miles Sutcliffe’s partners—are human beings. Right?”
“That’s being pretty fucking generous,” slurred Billy Staves.
“Maybe we need to put a human face on the pier,” I said. “Maybe if the developers knew a bit more about what Fish Pier meant to each of you—not just money-wise but in your lives, in your blood...” Okay, the Dew was definitely having its say. “Maybe if they knew what it stood for, to you and your families, living and dead... Maybe if they heard your personal stories, they might decide to stick with the plan that preserves the pier instead of scrapping it. So why don’t we tell them? Why don’t we write to them? All of us. Tell ‘em our stories.”
No one spoke for several seconds. “What you’re talking about sounds like begging to me,” said Emmet DuPry, one of the old-timers.
“Aye,” echoed Saul Guptill.
Drinking recommenced.
But over the next few weeks I hammered away at the fishermen. I went to each of them individually and worked with them to get their memories down on paper. Some of these guys hadn’t written a paragraph since high school, yet here they were, pouring out their life stories. Billy Staves, Matt Bourbon, and others rounded up old photos of their parents and grandparents on Fish Pier, and wrote down the old folks’ stories as well. Dorna Caskie dug up a children’s book she had written about Fish Pier. I even saw a tear on the face of old Gawk Larson, the hardest and proudest of the lobstermen, when he shared his tale of seeing his father on the end of the pier one night, singing “The Bells of Aberdovy” to the mermaids.
Fishermen's Court Page 26