Port City Shakedown

by Boyle, Gerry

  “There wasn’t one. I read, prowled around the bay. On the rocks, rowing in this old leaky dinghy. Came back in time to make dinner, get it into her. Went around the house picking up the wine glasses, put a cork in the bottle, if it wasn’t empty.”

  “She didn’t see that that was wrong?”

  “Full of plans until the first glass, usually by ten-thirty. Lots of promises. We were gonna go to Europe, see Normandy. That was during my World War II phase. Disney World ’cause she got it in her head every kid had to go to Disney World.”

  “Never happened?”

  “None of it. She meant well.”

  He smiled.

  “She’s alive?” Mia said.

  “Oh, yeah. I’ll see her tomorrow. I make sure she’s okay, but most of the time I’m around here.”

  Brandon paused. “Wondering how to bail out of this?” he said.

  “No way.”

  “Not exactly what you expected.”

  “I knew you were different from guys I know. You’re serious, like you have some sort of secret.”

  She reached out and put her hand on his arm, let it run down to his hand. He took her hand and clasped it, small and soft and a perfect fit. They drew each other closer, Mia thinking that his eyes were like tunnels, deep and dark and leading somewhere, to a place very faraway. That was the difference between him and the others. They were defined, had a beginning from which she could see clear through the middle and all the way to the end. In an instant.

  With Brandon—watching him for weeks in class, talking, now standing here—she felt she was close to something important, mysterious, maybe even wonderful.

  Brandon was thinking that she was cut from no mold he had ever seen, beautiful and inquisitive, like she was on some sort of mission.

  “Sometimes I row out at night, just sit there, look at the lights.”

  “Really,” Mia said. “I’d love to do that.”

  “Sometime we will,” Brandon said, but she was looking at him, her gaze unavoidable.

  “What’s wrong with now?” Mia said. “Or is that one of those promises that don’t come true?”

  CHAPTER 9

  The jail van dropped Joel Fuller on Congress Street at Longfellow Square. He flipped the van off as it pulled away. Not as good as a rock through the back window, but better than nothing.

  Fuller headed downtown, plastic bag under his arm holding toothbrush, deodorant, underwear, and socks. He saw five chicks he would have given it to in a minute, one of them a little old, probably forty, but who cared after four months inside? People on the sidewalk looked up at him, swerved to the curb. Guys on a bench watched him pass, seeing the bag, knowing what that meant.

  “What are you fucking looking at?” Fuller said.

  “Want to buy some reefer?” one of the guys said.

  Fuller couldn’t buy reefer, couldn’t even buy a shot. He had two bucks and change, enough for a draft, Old Milwaukee. Two blocks down, he took a right, headed toward the harbor, and stopped at a bar called Jolly’s, the only place the rich shits hadn’t ruined.

  It was full, ten o’clock. Crew just off a fishing boat, their night just beginning. Five bikers, flabby old guys thinking leather vests from harley. com made them tough. Fuller sat at the bar, asked for an Old Mil, then, after it came, stared at it for a minute. Watched the bubbles rising to the surface. Took a deep breath and then the first sip. He felt a wave of mellow euphoria sweep through him. Fought off the urge to drain the beer in one gulp, knowing the bartender wouldn’t let him run a tab.

  He looked around. One of the bikers was playing AC/DC on the jukebox, “Hell’s Bells,” over and over. Fuller figured that oughta get somebody pissed off, hoped it was the fishermen so he could watch them kick some fat biker ass. Guys off the boats, man. Some tough mother fuckers.

  Fuller finished the beer in three gulps, skinny little rip-off glass. Got up to take a leak and snagged a five-dollar bill and a couple of quarters, some-body’s change on a table at the back. “Score,” he muttered to himself, slipped the bill in his pocket, went to the bathroom. Came out and went to the pay phone, all dusty now that everybody had cell phones.

  He dialed.

  Kelvin’s wife Crystal answered, a kid screeching in the background, television blaring.

  “Get Kelvin,” Fuller said.

  A pause and then Crystal said, “He ain’t here.”

  “The hell he ain’t. Go get him.”

  “Just stay away from us, Joel,” Crystal said. “We’re getting our shit together. We don’t need your—”

  “Get him, you stupid cow. Don’t make me come over there and drag him out.”

  The phone slammed down, Crystal stomping off, Fuller picturing the trailer rocking, Crystal’s big boobs bouncing. Kelvin had really screwed up the day he married that crack whore.

  A clatter.

  “Hey. Where are you?” Kelvin said.

  “I’m out.”

  “Fucking A. That went by fast.”

  “Maybe for you,” Fuller said. “Meet me at Jolly’s.”

  “Ah, shit, Joel. I can’t. I mean, I got the kid, Crystal’s supposed to go to her sister’s, I just—”

  “Kelvin. Listen to me. Jolly’s in an hour.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, the car ain’t registered—”

  “And bring some dinero. I’m broke.”

  He looked at his watch. Sipped his third beer. Stared at the TV behind the bar, some show about a family of assholes, all yelling at each other. “Hey,” Fuller murmured. “It’s Kelvin and Crystal.”

  At 11:03, an hour on the dot, Kelvin walked in. He took the stool beside Fuller, held out his hand, and they bumped fists.

  “Welcome back, dude,” Kelvin said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  Fuller signaled the bartender, draining his glass at the same time. Kelvin dug in his jeans and tossed a 10-dollar bill onto the bar. They sat, not talking, waiting for the bartender to come. He set down two beers and Fuller held his up in front of him. Kelvin reached over and clinked his glass on Fuller’s.

  They drank. Wiped their mouths with their hands.

  “So, how was the food?” Kelvin said.

  Fuller looked at him, wondering how Kelvin came up with this stuff, always asking questions like that, which was why he was living in a beat-to-shit trailer with the most annoying chick on the friggin’ planet.

  “Delicious,” Fuller said. “What do you think?”

  He paused, added, “I got a job.”

  “What? Work release?”

  “Not that kind of job.”

  Kelvin looked puzzled, but only for a second.

  “Oh,” he said, noncommittal and wary.

  “Let’s go. We’ll talk in the car.”

  “Dude, I still got half a beer,” Kelvin said.

  “We can buy some for the road.”

  Fuller was off his stool, bag under his arm. He crossed the barroom, gave the fishermen a wide berth, but threw the fat bikers a cold stare. Kelvin caught up on the sidewalk, stopped at a rusting Chevy Caprice.

  “You still driving this piece of shit?” Fuller said.

  “Shouldn’t be. Took the plate off this wreck that got towed in down the road,” Kelvin said.

  “Why don’t you register it? Good way to get picked up, plates don’t match.”

  “Kinda short. Kid got sick, Crystal goes to the chiropractor, pays cash.”

  “You are whipped,” Fuller said, yanking the door open. They stopped at 7-Eleven and Kelvin grudgingly went in and bought a 30 of Bud and two packs of Marlboros, Joel’s getting-out-of-jail present, the second in nine months. Fifty yards down the road they both opened beers, lit cigarettes. Cans tucked between their legs, they drove up the hill to Congress, took a right.

  “Rich assholes taking over up here, too,” Fuller said, as they passed restaurants, an antique shop, a guy carrying an L.L. Bean canvas tote, cream with a red monogram. “You know what would happen to that douche bag in jail?”


  Kelvin didn’t answer because he was checking the rearview mirror for cops before he took a swallow of beer. Maybe he was a wuss, but so what, he thought. He drank. At the end of Congress he took a left, swung down into the parking lot that overlooked the bay, all black with twinkling lights. He pulled up beside a Subaru with kayak racks and shut off the motor. Fuller finished his beer, tossed the empty into the back seat, and reached for another. He got one for Kelvin, too.

  Fuller sat back, pleasantly buzzed.

  “So this job,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Kelvin said, disappointed that Fuller had remembered.

  “We gotta get this asshole. He punched out Sylvia.”

  “Your mother?”

  “We were at my grandmother’s funeral.”

  “She died?”

  “No. They had it fucking early so she could watch. Of course she died.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad,” Kelvin said.

  “She was an old bag. Got me out of jail for half a day.”

  “Why’d this guy punch Sylvia?”

  “Who the fuck knows? Everybody started fighting, this kid is some kinda cop wannabe. Wades into it, picks out Sylvia. Busts her nose.”

  “Surprised she didn’t break his arm back. Who is he?”

  “Brandon something. Brandon Blake. I had a guy ask around. This guard, he’ll do anything for blow.”

  “You got some coke?”

  “No, not yet. Gave him a rain check. Sucker.”

  Kelvin looked disappointed, stared off at the bay, the lights on the bean plant across the cove. Fuller sucked down half the new beer, rested the can between his legs. A woman in running shorts came jogging up to the Subaru, taking care not to look at the two scruffy guys in the old junker.

  “Nice ass, honey,” Fuller murmured, as the woman slammed her door, locked it. “You’re nuts running around here at night, fucking perverts loose all over the place.”

  “So how you gonna get this guy?” Kelvin said.

  “I’m on probation forever. I gotta be careful, stay out from now on. I ain’t gonna do no five years. So you gotta do it.”

  “Like I need another assault charge?” Kelvin said.

  “You owe me,” Fuller said.

  “For what?”

  “Who took the hit for the coke you left in the glove box? Who took the hit for the tools—nice of you to tell me they was all stolen. Who didn’t say shit? Who sat there in jail for four months while you were out having a good time, even if it was with Crystal.”

  Kelvin was quiet.

  Fuller finished the beer, crumpled the can and flipped it into the back seat. Lit a cigarette with the lighter in the dash.

  “The guy goes to college, riding with the cops is part of some goddamn class.”

  “Like you’re gonna learn shit doing that,” Kelvin said.

  “The cokehead at the jail, he ran him for me. Address is someplace in South Portland. Even found out the class meets Tuesday and Thursdays, over off Forest Avenue.”

  “So we put on trenchcoats and walk into the room and blast everybody?”

  “Kel, I’m not kidding around. This guy busted my mother’s nose.”

  “You don’t even like your mother.”

  “That’s immaterial,” Fuller said, liking the sound of the word, now that he wasn’t hearing it from the defendant’s table. “It’s the principle.”

  Kelvin took a deep breath, not liking this at all. Joel out for what, two hours? Already dragging him into something. But then Joel had kept his mouth shut about the cocaine.

  “What do you wanna do? Bust his nose back?”

  “Fuck that,” Fuller said. “This is like the Israelis.”

  “The what?”

  “Watched a lot of TV in there. History Channel, dude. I like those Israeli guys. They got a rule. You kill one of them, they come back and kill ten of you. You fuck with them, they make you pay bigtime.”

  “Israelis. That’s Jewish people, right?” Kelvin said.

  “I don’t want you to kill him,” Fuller said, not listening. He gazed out at the water, the red winking lights on the channel buoys.

  “For taking the hit for three grams of coke and a ripped-off table saw?” Kelvin said. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “We’ll bust his knees. Come up behind him, take a bat to the bastard. You do it at night, you wear a mask. Two swings and out. Do it myself but the probation—”

  “No blood,” Kelvin said. “Fucking DNA.”

  “No blood from a knee,” Fuller said, relaxing now that Kelvin had agreed. “Just a big bundle of bones and cartilage.”

  “He big?” Kelvin said.

  “Nah, average. Hey, he’s some dipshit college boy. Don’t worry.”

  “Busted Sylvia’s nose—that takes some balls,” Kelvin said.

  Fuller took a long drag on his cigarette.

  “Only if you know her,” he said.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I guess it’s kind of like swimming in the ocean in Maine,” Brandon said. “The hardest part is getting in.”

  “So just dive,” Mia said.

  They were sitting in the skiff at the edge of the cove, red and green running lights clamped to the bow, glowing like candles.

  The wind had shifted to the northwest, clouds clearing out. Stars were painted overhead, pinpoints on the blue-black canvas. Across the harbor, headlights streamed. A tug slid under the bridge, trailed by a distant rumble. Brandon pulled on an oar, turned the bow in the direction of the wake that was moving toward them.

  “Your parents,” Mia said, from the stern seat.

  “Okay. Well, the story is, well, this is going to sound strange, telling you out here, but my mother, she was lost at sea. Sailing from Maine to the Caribbean, the boat disappeared. Lost with all hands, as they say.”

  Her face fell. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I was four. I mean, it’s the way I grew up.”

  “Huh. So where was your dad?”

  Brandon hesitated, almost never told this part. But something about her, the way she listened. “My mom got pregnant when she was nineteen, the guy wasn’t from here, just working on a dragger. He took off. So she never put his name on the birth certificate, wouldn’t tell anybody who he was. Said he didn’t deserve it.”

  Mia’s eyes were liquid in the reflections off the water.

  “So it was just the two of you?”

  “Three, if you count my grandmother. Nikki, my mom, she was funny. She really rebelled, I guess. Her dad, my grandfather, was this bigshot doctor, at least for Portland, Maine. And she didn’t even go to college. Worked in bars, had me. A huge disappointment, I’m sure. But on the other hand, she and my grandmother were really close. Almost like friends. Maybe ’cause it was just the two of them after my grandfather died.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “Smoked and drank and ate a lot of meat. Worked all the time until he had a heart attack. Nikki was eight. Their only kid.”

  The tug’s wake moved across the harbor like a water snake. The dinghy rocked and Brandon pulled the oars to steady it. Mia waited, then said, “So your mom went on this sailing trip and left you home?”

  Brandon smiled. Held his empty beer bottle. “You have to understand. That was Nikki. I mean, I don’t even call her mom. She was kinda wild. Good person but just, I don’t know, restless.”

  “Like in what way?” Mia said.

  A deep breath, the hard parts to admit.

  “Like she’d rather go out to the bars than stay home, rather hang out with her friends than be home with her baby. Always ready for something new. Very easily bored. Probably A.D.D., but nobody ever said that.”

  He paused. “It was like she had me but she was missing some piece of maternal instinct or something. Like you know how some animals in zoos, they have to take the baby away because the mother doesn’t pay attention to them?”

  “Who took you away?”

  “My grandmother. She kind of took over.
”

  “Huh. So then Nikki, she went on this voyage?”

  That word again. Brandon smiled.

  “Right. Supposed to go to the Caribbean, didn’t make it.”

  “They never found it?” Mia said.

  “The boat? No. Disappeared off of Charleston.”

  “A big storm?” Mia said.

  “No, not really. It just disappeared. Left the harbor one night and was never seen again.”

  “Huh.”

  “Happens. Sailboats get hit by freighters, even a big trawler. Everybody’s below. No chance to get to a radio. Bang, you’re just gone.”

  She pictured that— a crash, screaming, water rushing in, darkness. She shuddered, the black water looking ominous now. “What was the name?” Mia said.

  “Of what?” he said.

  “The boat.”

  Curious like a little kid, Brandon thought.

  “Black Magic,” Brandon said. “It had a black hull. Maybe that’s why it was hard to see at night.”

  Another pause, the sound of the chop slapping against the skiff.

  “How many died?” she said.

  “Four. Three guys and my mom.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Just people she met. They weren’t from here. Came through on their way south from Canada, but I don’t think they were from there, either. One of them had lived in California. My grandmother didn’t even know their real names. They went by nicknames. Ketch and Lucky and Timbo.”

  “Your mom just jumped on a boat that pulled into the harbor?”

  Brandon winced inwardly, the image of his mother hopping onto a boat like she jumped into a bed, his own hook-up of a conception.

  “No, they were here for a few weeks. Motor problems. They ordered parts, hung out.”

  The boat rocked gently like a porch swing. There was a puff of cool breeze.

  “Her friends went off to college or whatever. She worked the bars in Portland. Bought an old boat herself, which was kind of crazy. My grandmother could never tell her what to do, I guess. Even when she was little. So these guys came into port and they got to be friends and off she went.”

  Mia pictured exotic sailors from a big sailboat charming the locals.

  “Like pirates,” she said. “I can see the appeal.”