by Boyle, Gerry
“He just wants to be left alone, enjoy his holiday.”
“Right,” Kelvin said.
“So you tell Joel. What’s his last name?”
The point pressed, definitely drawing blood now.
“Fuller.”
“You’re not making that up?”
“No,” Kelvin said quickly, starting to shake his head, then stopping as the pick jabbed deeper.
“Well, tell Joel Fuller to find some other mark,” she said. “You’re way out of your league. Where I come from guys like you are stepped on like bugs.”
“Right,” Kelvin said.
“And you know what, Kelvin? If I didn’t like you, I’d tell my friend. And that’s what I’ll do if I ever see you again.”
And she dropped both hands and shoved him backward. One, two, three steps and over the edge, a long, tumbling, windmilling fall down into the black, cold water. As he surfaced and thrashed, coughing up sea water, Kelvin heard her heels tapping on the boards of the dock.
CHAPTER 21
They were in the car, driving through the dark in West Falmouth, the heat on full. Kelvin sat with his boots off, socks pressed to the heater vent, feeling like he was wrapped in soggy bread.
“I ain’t gonna fit in your clothes,” he said.
“They’re sweats,” Fuller said. “They’ll stretch.”
“I’d like to get my hands on that bitch right now, she wouldn’t know what hit her.”
Fuller smiled, leaned back in the driver’s seat. “Tell me again,” he said. “What she said.”
Kelvin did, starting with when Angelika saying he looked familiar, ending with the plunge.
Fuller grinned, tossed his head back, and chuckled.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” Kelvin said.
“Dude, I was right. I was so fucking right. An ice pick. A sharpened ice pick, stuck in your neck. Dude, she’s a freakin’ pro. She’s a goddamn professional criminal.”
“So are you,” Kelvin said, feeling the bloody welt on his neck. “Big shit.”
“Oh, but these people ain’t doing paving scams on old ladies.”
“Those worked pretty good.”
“Man, you don’t see it, do you? These guys are big time. Mister Smooth there spends more money in a week then you and me see in a year. And if that’s just setting up the deal, then what the hell you think the payout is on the other end?”
“Pretty big,” Kelvin said.
“Mega,” Fuller said.
The car slowed on the dark country road. The lights picked out a running shoe nailed to a tree, the reflective part shining. Fuller braked, pulled off onto a track, just two tire ruts leading into the tall grass. He drove in fifty feet and stopped, and they got out. Kelvin sat on the seat to pull on his sodden boots.
“Maybe they steal these fancy boats,” he said.
“No, too hard to unload. And the people who want ’em don’t need to buy stolen ones because they’re rich already or they wouldn’t be wanting one to begin with.”
“Maybe not.”
Kelvin got his boots on, didn’t lace them. Feet squishing, he followed through the brush, walked down a path deeper into the woods.
“No, they’re here for something,” Fuller said, “and they don’t want us poking our noses in. I’ll tell ya, he finds out she stuck you, shoved you in the fucking water, he’s gonna be pissed. He’s gonna say, ‘Don’t you get it? You just told them what they wanted to know.’”
“She did?” Kelvin said.
“She told us that whatever it is, it’s worth sticking you to protect.”
“I coulda fucking drowned.”
“Right. And you know what that means.”
“Payback’s a bitch,” Kelvin said.
“No,” Fuller said. “It tells us we just stepped in the shit. Megabucks, dude. Big time.”
He turned and held up his fist. They touched knuckles.
“Are we good,” Fuller said, “or what?”
Ten o’clock, clear skies, a cool dry wind out of the northwest at fifteen to 20 knots. They were on the dock, greetings done, sizing each other up. Lucky was in jeans and pale gray Nikes, a black Patagonia vest. Irina was dressed in khakis and trainers, a turtleneck and a handknit sweater. Doc Lynch, wearing a bright yellow jacket with the name of a medical conference embroidered on the breast, pointed to Ocean Swell, riding on a mooring in the midst of the marina fleet.
“My baby,” he said. “My soon-to-be ex said, ‘Sometimes I feel like that boat’s more important than me.’ I said, ‘What do you mean, sometimes?’”
Lucky grinned. “Spoken like a sailor, man,” he said. “I can tell you the name of every boat I’ve spent any time with, but the women—just kidding!” He looked at Irina and she shook her head in mock dismay.
Brandon started the Whaler, the marina launch. Mia took a place beside him at the helm and the other three stepped aboard, took hold of a rail. Lucky gave them a shove from the float and they motored off, threading through the boats.
Mia watched Irina, standing by Lucky, both of them leaning on the bow rail. It was cold, the wind cutting, but they stayed apart, six inches of daylight between them.
Brandon brought the launch alongside Ocean Swell, held the throttle as Doc stepped aboard. He held out his hand to Irina and she climbed over the lifeline and jumped heavily into the cockpit. Lucky stepped across easily, and Mia followed, held the Whaler as Brandon shut the motor off, moved to the bow, took a line, and stepped aboard. As the Whaler drifted, he tied it to the sailboat’s stern.
Lucky looked up into the big boat’s rigging.
“Harken roller furler?” he said.
“Can go all season, never touch a sail,” Doc said.
“Ever sailed her single-handed?” Lucky said.
“Sure,” Doc said. “My wife, every time we went out it was single-handed. Seriously, she’s very predictable. The boat, I mean. Not my wife. Autopilot is new. Not the fastest in light wind, but a very easy sailer. And getting in and out under power, very manageable. Don’t know where you’re going, but there’s some tricky little entrances on the Maine coast.”
Lucky touched the polished brass.
“Trickiest entrance I remember was just north of Mombassa, in Kenya,” he said. “Don’t even try go into the harbor there. Bitch to anchor and the locals have very sticky fingers. Couple of Aussies we were cruising with showed us this little harbor twenty miles north, Mtwapa Creek. You gotta make the run in through a break in a reef at the peak of an incoming high tide. Then hit this hard dog-leg channel just right.”
“Really,” Doc said. “What were you doing over there?”
“Delivery crew,” Lucky said. “Young and footloose. Took a boat from the Red Sea all the way down the east coast of Africa to Cape Town. Now there’s a gorgeous spot.”
They smiled, moved to get underway. Charmed, Doc hustled, the two of them working like they’d sailed together for years. Doc took the helm, powered up to take the slack off the mooring. Brandon worked the Whaler up the side of the sailboat, ready to tie it on. Lucky unhooked, handed the mooring line to Brandon. He cleated it onto the Whaler and Doc steered them clear. Under a cold spring sky, they eased out of the moorings, toward the big bridge.
They swung back, pointed the bow toward the harbor mouth. Lucky moved to the starboard side, looked to Doc and he nodded. Lucky cranked the winch and the mainsail unfurled, snapping in the wind and pulling the boom out. The boat heeled, Doc shut off the motor, and in that first moment of quiet, ears adjusting to the sound of the wind ruffling the sail, the near-silent rush of the water sliding over the hull, the slap of the chop, the gurgle of the wake, they smiled.
Irina said to Mia, “Let’s see below.”
They went down, leaving the three men on deck. Brandon stood aside, watched Doc and Lucky as they peered up at the sail. They were posturing for each other, a game Brandon could never play. Maybe not growing up with a dad, a brother, another guy.
They ran a long tack that cl
eared the point, then came about, the big boat doing a neat pirouette, Lucky watching as the sail filled again. Portland was on the port side, receding as Ocean Swell skimmed toward open water. Early in the season, there were a few lobster boats working, a ferry headed for the islands, a big cruiser coming in.
“Time for the jib?” Lucky said, and he moved forward, unfurled the sail, adjusted the sheets. Doc called, “Lucky, come take the helm.”
He did, the two men peering upward at the sails like old buddies. The boat was doing seven knots, and Lucky said, “She’s got more in her than this.” Doc cranked and Lucky adjusted course and the boat heeled, the starboard gunwale dipping to the water. Lucky whooped.
“Now we’re sailing,” he said.
They ran out to Peaks Island, easing off as Doc showed Lucky the electronics: radar, state-of-the-art GPS with chart plotter. The boat slept seven, had a two-burner stove, head with a shower and pressurized hot and cold water, the linens all supplied. Irina and Mia came up and Doc met Irina’s gaze. She nodded to him, said, “It’s perfect.”
“A lot of boat for the two of you,” Doc said.
“You can never have too much boat,” Lucky said, a hint of sadness that Brandon caught. If Black Magic had been sixty feet would they have survived?
They brought the boat around south of Peaks, began beating back into the harbor. The wind had picked up and the boat was heeled, Brandon, Mia, and Irina pressed against the windward side of the cockpit, Irina hanging on tight. Doc and Lucky sailed wordlessly, the boat snapping about, settling into each new tack like a swimmer following a turn.
“Do you want to take the helm?” Doc said to Irina.
She smiled and shook her head. “My job is usually dinner and drinks,” she said.
Soon-to-be-divorced Doc melted at her accent. “Hey, if we didn’t already all have plans, I’d say the whole bunch of us should take a week and go for a cruise,” Doc said.
Irina gave him a quick smile and looked out at the city skyline.
They came up to the mooring under sail—Lucky at the helm, Doc dropping the sails as the boat turned into the wind. They eased Ocean Swell alongside the Whaler like a limo driver parking at a curb. Brandon uncleated the pennant, and Mia reached a line from the launch and held on. Brandon made the mooring line fast, moved back to the cockpit.
“Well, my friend,” Doc was telling Lucky. “I guess you passed the test with flying colors. Love to have a few drinks sometime, hear more about your travels. I’ve never sailed her south of Block Island.”
“We’ll do that, Doc, my friend” Lucky said. “And she’s a beautiful boat.”
“Yes, it’s really lovely,” Irina said.
“Yeah, we’ll treat her right. Just gunkhole our way up the coast,” Lucky said. “Putter along. Irina’s never seen Camden or Bar Harbor.”
“But I don’t know if I want you making the boat tip way over like that,” Irina said, smiling coquettishly.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Lucky said. “Just the boys getting a little carried away.”
As Brandon eased the Whaler back to the stern, and Mia climbed aboard, Doc and Lucky were finalizing the deal. Brandon had seen this done before, usually with a check. Lucky took a thick wallet from his vest pocket and unzipped it.
“You don’t mind cash?”
Doc shook his head, thinking this was money his wife would never see, eyes fixed on Lucky’s hands as he began peeling bills off of a roll.
“There’s the three thousand for the week, and here’s five for the deposit,” he said.
He zipped the wallet shut, moved toward the launch. When they were all in, Brandon headed for the dock, Mia beside him on the helm seat, Irina and Lucky in the bow. Mia was watching them closely as Brandon wended a route between the moored boats. They eased up to the marina dock, and it was Mia who moved around, stepped off, and held the boat steady so the others could get off.
They did, Irina wavering as she found her balance on dry land. Doc and Lucky shook hands again, Doc slapping Lucky on the back in a sort of man-hug.
“You’ll have a good time,” Doc said. “And you get caught in fog, you got the radar. And just let that GPS show you the way. Hell, that thing’ll navigate for you.”
“I’ve always gone by compass and watch and a little feel,” Lucky said. “You know what’s worse than fog? Snow. Did a late season crossing from France once, forty-six-foot Cambria. Real nice boat, headed to Newport. We’re coming down the coast of Newfoundland. You couldn’t see six feet.”
“Snow,” Doc said. “Now there’s one I haven’t tried, eh Brandon? We do have to have some drinks when you get back.”
Another back slap and Doc walked to an inflatable, stepped in, and started the outboard, headed back out to button Ocean Swell up for the night. Lucky and Irina walked with Brandon and Mia up to the office, paused, and Lucky said, “So you live aboard? Where’s your boat?”
“Beyond that point,” Brandon said. “It’s a small cruiser.”
“Well, let’s see it,” Lucky said, giving him a tap on the shoulder, and turned. They trooped off down the boardwalk, Lucky pointing out a Tashiba cutter, saying he sailed one like it from Ireland to Portugal, riding the winds south. Irina was looking straight ahead, Lucky talking about the boats, saying Ocean Swell was a very nice boat, not a great one.
“I know,” Brandon said. “She’s got kind of a homely stern.”
“Could have been me, new to her, but feels a little like you’re dragging something when the boat comes about,” Lucky said.
“Was Black Magic a great boat?” Brandon said.
Lucky paused, said, “Yeah. Great design—a Hinckley Bermuda Forty. Classic. But that particular boat had heart and character, too.”
“Some boats just have it,” Brandon said.
“Exactly right. And she did. Everything in balance.”
“Ketch knew that?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Was he a good sailor?” Brandon said.
“A natural. I learned a lot from him.”
“But he couldn’t save them.”
Lucky hesitated.
“It’s the ocean,” he said softly. “It’s like life. Sometimes you’re up against forces beyond your control.”
They walked in silence for a couple of minutes, and then they were at Bay Witch, and Irina said, “What a cute boat. It’s so cozy.”
“A Chris-Craft,” Brandon said. “It’s old.”
“It’s really nice inside,” Mia said.
Lucky turned to Brandon and said, “Bay Witch. This was Nikki’s boat.”
Brandon hesitated, said, “You’ve been on board?”
“Once. Except the boat was across the way in Portland. You weren’t there.”
“Were you all partying?” Brandon said.
“Probably.”
“Then I was with Nessa. My grandmother.”
“I remember Nessa,” Lucky said. “How is she?”
Brandon hesitated. “Okay,” he said.
“She was a sweetheart,” Lucky said. “Tell her I’ll come by when we get back.”
Brandon was about to say Nessa wasn’t well, she didn’t have company much, but Lucky had taken Brandon’s hand. He gave it a quick, firm shake, said thanks for connecting them with Doc and the boat. He bussed Mia on the cheek, said it was so nice to make new friends. Irina said, “Bye now, guys,” and they turned and headed off down the walk.
Brandon and Mia stood watching, his arm linked through hers, just the two of them now.
“What do you think?” Brandon said.
“He’s a real charmer,” Mia said. “But they definitely aren’t sleeping together.”
“And she doesn’t like boats,” he said.
“She’d rather go to Saks,” Mia said.
“He’s a good sailor, but it’s still a big boat to handle by yourself,” Brandon said. “Especially if you don’t have to.”
“Maybe he does have to,” she said.
“Get back
on the horse, you mean?”
“His friends all drowned,” Mia said. “That’s got to be hard.”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “When we were out there and he had the rail in the water, all that sail up—it didn’t seem hard at all.”
CHAPTER 22
It was a little Pearson centerboard sloop called Sea Pony, the old couple who owned it just back from their winter place in Georgia and in no hurry to get out on the bay in the cold of early June. On the job list on the board in the office, the little sloop had been queued up behind the boats of squeaky-wheel owners who started calling before the snow melted. But the priority boats were in the water. Sea Pony’s time had come.
Brandon had left Mia curled up in a chair on the foredeck of Bay Witch, turned to the sun. She was writing in a notebook, and covered the page with her hand when Brandon got close.
“What?” he said.
“It’s like a painting,” she said. “The artist doesn’t let anybody see it until it’s done.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She smiled, kept her hands on the page. Between her fingers and on the edges, Brandon saw a few words: something about sea and sky, something about a liar. He turned and made his way back to the stern and went to work.
He was thinking about her writing as he stood in the back of the yard beside Sea Pony, a grinder in his hands, respirator mask over his nose and mouth. She divided her time between reality and fiction, a couple of times telling him about people, their upbringing, going on for a while before Brandon figured out it was part of a story.
He smiled thinking about it, this odd contradiction. Mia studied real things to death, why people did what they did, what the sky looked like, and then turned it into something completely made up.
Tucked between a big lobster yacht and an Alden ketch, he was sanding off loose bottom paint, stuff laced with chemicals that killed barnacles and the other things that liked to fasten on a floating boat like it was an island. Brandon had ear protectors on, iPod buds under those. Tupac.
A tap from behind. Brandon lowered the grinder, reached for his mask— and froze.
The guy smiled. Held up his hand, gave a little wave. There was another guy beside him, much bigger, hands tucked inside the pockets of a gray sweatshirt. Brandon pulled his ear protectors off.