Deadman's Cay

by Boyd Craven

  That sort of broke the mood, but I couldn’t help but look him over. He was thin, but he didn’t have a heavy bone structure like I did. He didn’t look malnourished, but rather that he didn’t have much in the way of padding on him anywhere. If he didn’t wear the bowling hat cocked at a funny angle all the time and put a shirt on, he wouldn’t have even stuck out. I decided he must be talking about mortality in general, probably too many long nights without somebody to talk to. I ate the last roll as he wrapped the wooden frame and added more apple chunks to the re-hung pie tin over the fire he had stoked back into life and fed.

  “You just gotta boil ‘dem jars for a good two hours, then put fire out. We not sleep much last night, but once those jars are done, we can nap and start again in the morning.”

  Start again?

  Chapter Seven

  I was covered with a sunburn and mosquito bites the day I pulled back into Franklin’s boatyard. I saw several of the hulls I had worked on were gone, and the junkyard seemed to have been picked up some. At first, I didn’t see the Chris Craft I had been staying in, but I found it soon after. It had been moved and put up on blocks right next to the warehouse, underneath a small lean to shed that had once housed all the empty scrap metal waiting to go to the scrap yard.

  I carried my personal stuff to the boat and slid the hatch back. I got inside and tossed my bag on the bench and saw the note.

  Tony, had to run into town, then upstate. Moved your boat so it was in the shade more and we can hook up the electrical so you can run air or a fridge. I left you a surprise in the spot you showed me you stash your stuff.

  Thank you for helping Irish out.

  I folded the note and went to the stairs I had come down. The 2nd step from the bottom had been loose when I had gotten in and I had tacked a small coffee can to the edge underneath the wood that I remounted on hinges. It wasn’t a super secret hiding place, but it kept what little bits of cash I had out of sight. A junkyard wasn’t the most secure place, especially one without a dog, and it really wasn’t a true junkyard. Just a warehouse that Franklin had owned since the times when property was cheap. He used to moor his larger boats here, but as the channel was dredged and things improved, it was easier and made more sense to park his charter boat here, rather than pay the higher prices at the larger marina with fuel dock and pumping stations. He would go there daily instead, plus, that was where the tourists came into.

  I lifted the step and found on top of the can a thick envelope. I looked at it, and saw that it was a piece of mail, addressed to me, here at the marina. I opened it and saw an application for a commercial fishing license. My eyes got large and then I saw the second envelope underneath it. It seemed to be half full of hundreds and twenties that had been stacked inside of a new note.

  If you hadn’t fixed up those hulls, I never would have. They would have just sat there. I had somebody from the auction come through and bought everything that ran, that I’d sell him. I figured I paid you hourly for the work already and you were using my tools… but it doesn’t feel right keeping all that money, so I decided to split it with you 60/40. If you hate the deal, lets talk. He still wants those three hulls you rebuilt motors on, so as soon as we can mate those up, there’s more money to be made.

  I thumbed through the cash, not reading the rest of the note. There was almost thirteen thousand dollars. I flipped back to the application form, then I went back to the second note.

  The Tri-hull and motor you used to help Irish John are my payment to you for that work. It’s worth a little more than two days worth of labor, I think. Things might slow down here, and I hope that you’ll stay on, but I understand if you don’t. I wanted to be fair about this and give you an opportunity that might not have come otherwise. I was once young, dumb, and stupid and found myself in the same sort of situation you were in. It was about a girl, I’m sure you can figure out the rest as you had a similar story.

  I ran upstate to check on family. With that mail addressed to you, see if you can’t get your driver’s license changed. It’ll make it easier for you overall.

  -Franklin

  My hands were shaking a little bit. I didn’t see the title or whatever they used for boats here, but he had said it was mine and Franklin was as good as his word. I knew the tags were good for another year… Wait, things were slowing down? His charter business? I decided to head inside and use the bathroom in there to clean up. I had been washing with salt water for a couple of days and felt crusty with brine and I smelled like fish again, though not as bad as I did when I had first gotten off the boat from catching them.

  The bathroom held one last surprise. There was a cell phone plugged in on the wash basin with a sticky note on it.

  “This was an old prepaid. It’s a Verizon. You want it, it’s yours. You have to pay for your own minutes.”

  I shook my head. I was starting to feel bad, what Irish John had called being a charity case. I didn’t feel horrible about taking the money and the boat. I didn’t feel entitled to it, but I had worked my way for it and Franklin had been clear in his note, he wouldn’t have done anything with the now ugly, but usable boats. I figured the aluminum one he’d overpaid me by a lot, but I knew he would probably send me out to check on his friend Irish from time to time, and that was worth it to me. The phone I really needed though; I had been using the landline in the few instances I’d needed a phone to call for parts on something I was working on. A cell phone with internet…

  “Huh,” I said, before getting cleaned up.

  When I was done and changed into fresh clothes, I pocketed the phone in a pair of khaki shorts I had picked up at the salvation army and went looking for my backpack. I mulled on his words that things were going to slow down, but I wondered if he meant mechanical work, junkyard work, charters? Would I have to move again? I had enough to put down on a small apartment now, but something had gotten into my head.

  Yesterday morning. The taste of the rolls. The sound of the surf. I thought about the commercial license and what that might mean. Did I want to? I would have to talk to the old timers around the marina, talk to Franklin. He had a different license for his charter, I think he said he had his captain’s license or something from the Coast Guard. A lot of hoops to have jumped through, but I could fish, and I could get a boat designated as a fishing vessel. Could I get Irish John to fish with me? Or show me where to go? He seemed inclined to help teach me, and I actually liked the crazy old coot.

  I got my backpack, loaded it with a couple jugs of water and an extra shirt, my notes and money in a Ziploc bag in case it rained while I was out, as Florida seemed to do even when the sky was clear, and started walking. I was headed toward town and, although I was full, I knew I needed food for later. I didn’t want to get that first though, I wanted to see about the phone and my driver’s license. I didn’t have a car, but it would make things look more legitimate if I had to find a job elsewhere, or if I wanted to fill out an application for an apartment.

  My first stop was a wireless store. I showed them my phone and they went through it and pulled it up on their computers.

  “Franklin’s Charters?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s the one. I need to get more minutes on it, or see about buying a month worth of an unlimited plan.”

  “These old prepaid’s… they’re grandfathered in. If I transfer this to your name, you might lose the unlimited everything at the old price.”

  “Can you just add my name? Franklin still owns the charter, but it’s like a work phone.”

  “No big deal,” he said, smiling. I showed him my ID and I made sure he put in the warehouse’s address, the same one used on the note back from the FWC, then gave me something I hadn’t realized would come in handy later on: a receipt with my name and address on it.

  Once that was done and the phone rebooted, I paid the $45 reluctantly, knowing I had unlimited phone and data for an entire month. Of course, the first thing I thought about was getting on the internet, but I saw a
pawn shop, and decided to walk across the street. What had caught my attention was a newer looking mountain bike. It had a hand drawn sign taped to the handlebars with ‘$65 cash’ on it. I stopped in front of it and knelt down, feeling the tires, seeing knobby on the almost new tires. A chain ran through the frame and that of the bikes parked outside next to it, keeping would-be thieves from just walking off with them.

  “You looking for something?” a lady said, walking out the door, a gun on her hip.

  I stood quickly, keeping my hands out. “Sorry, I was just looking. I don’t have a bike, and I was checking this one out.”

  “It’s $65,” she said, eyeballing me.

  This had happened quite a few times when I had gone into town. The warehouse was on a rough edge of the city where crime was a little more common than not. Mostly petty theft, strong armed robberies and rumor of trafficking, not that I had seen any evidence of it. It was safe where I was at, as far as I knew, but a big guy like me always seemed to put people off, or at least made them uneasy. I think it was the fact I was more muscle, scar and ugly, than anything else.

  “I’m more worried about it being able to hold me up?” I told her after a moment.

  “It should hold you fairly good. Tires got air.”

  I reached into my pocket and peeled four bills off from a small wad I’d kept back, “Here’s $65 you can hold onto. Can I try it out before we… close the sale?” I asked, looking at her, then down at the gun on her hip.

  “Ahh, thanks, this helps,” she said, putting the money in one pocket and fishing some keys out of another. “Bikes are a big ticket item for thieves around here,” she explained. “No offense, but you don’t look like the usual guy who rides a bike.”

  “I know, I’m going to look like a gorilla on a tricycle,” I deadpanned, and watched as she was going through the keys, looking for the right one.

  She cracked up at that and threw her head back and laughed, holding her stomach. “I can’t… you… I wasn’t going to say it,” she said, her posture relaxing.

  “When you’re as big and ugly as me, you sort of get used to it,” I told her. “Just like I don’t always make good first impressions. Tony,” I told her, offering her my hand.

  She took mine and shook. “Carly, this is my parents’ place, but since they retired, I run things.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I told her, and it was.

  She wasn’t hard on the eyes, anything but. Maybe a few years older than me, but the sun did that to some people, and I had no illusions that it wouldn’t do the same to me, once my burn turned my already tan skin darker. She was thin but not scrawny the way Irish John was, and she moved with a confidence that I somehow liked. A short pixie cut accentuated her features. Usually short hair on a woman wasn’t a turn on for me, but on her it looked good with her nearly red hair.

  “Nice to meet you, here we go.” She unlocked the chain.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told her, rolling the bike out, then got on it.

  She laughed politely as I took off. What they say about bikes is true, but it had probably been twenty years since I would last been on one and I wobbled before I got the hang of it again. The tires didn’t squish into the pavement, something I had worried about, and I pumped my legs experimentally. The bike reacted and I saw there were three gears on my right hand, so I thumbed it to another gear before I hit the end of the block. The bike performed like it was new and everything seemed to work smooth. For once, the wind blowing on me didn’t have a salty spray. I decided right then this was the bike for me.

  When I got back, Carly was still standing there, a smile lighting up her face. “It’s been a while since you rode a bike.”

  “You bet. Any chance you have some bike locks I can buy?”

  “Locks, or do you need just one?”

  “Just one, actually,” I told her.

  “Wheel your bike inside,” she told me, then held the door open.

  I did and tried not to gape at all the cool stuff I saw when I walked in. TVs, radios, car stereo equipment. Power tools, hand tools. The back wall, behind the counter, was covered in rifles, and in the glass-case was jewelry and handguns. I parked the bike near the front counter and followed Carly as she walked toward a section I could only describe as ‘Sporting Goods’. She dug through a shelf that had wooden oars, life jackets and tackle boxes. Each item seemed to have a chunk of blue painters’ tape with the price printed on it in sharpie.

  “Ahh, I do have one. This one takes a key,” she said, turning. “If people don’t know the combination, I won’t buy a lock.”

  “Sounds good to me. How much?” I looked for the tag.

  “It’s yours, free with the bike,” she said. “I haven’t seen you around here before. New to town?”

  “Sort of,” I told her. “I’ve been staying down the road for a while now, but I’ve been traveling off and on for the last couple years,” I told her, not quite telling all the truth.

  “Ah, good. What kind of work you do?” She looked at my hands.

  They were stained from grease, and my nails weren’t quite clean. Thick calluses covered them, and light scratches from a motor tear out a week ago were nearly healed.

  “Mechanic over at Franklin’s warehouse. I keep things fixed up.”

  “Horton’s? Really?” her face brightened up.

  “Yeah, I think that’s his last name.” I felt stupid for not knowing that piece of information.

  “You must be Anthony then. He’s told me all about you.”

  Alarm bells. Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.

  “How did he…?”

  “Church, he’s part of our church family. You’re the guy who has been helping him take care of Irish John, the ‘make you shit in your hat and eat it,’ guy.”

  I laughed. Her impression of him was spot on, right down to the Jamaican sounding accent, though feminine.

  “Yeah, I just helped him put up some mullet for lean times,” I admitted.

  “That guy … if we could only convince him to come back to the mainland, we could get him housing and some services going…”

  “You know, I don’t think he’d like that,” I told her, not quite cutting her off. “I think he’s living the paradise he’s always wanted.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, he’s from one of the islands in Jamaica. Fell in love with the area after visiting at some point, but I think something happened, and he doesn’t like people.”

  That was partially true, but I was deliberately being vague.

  “I’ve heard that about him. I don’t know, that has to be lonely.”

  “I’m sure it is, but out there on the sand, watching the big boats come in and out… it’s also peaceful.”

  “Sounds like you know a little bit about loneliness?” Carly asked, then immediately apologized, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like…”

  “No, it’s okay. I know what you meant. I guess so. I grew up knowing I wanted to be a mechanic, and once I got my dream job, I realized it wasn’t what I really wanted. When my dad got sick, I took care of him, so now I’m kind of drifting a bit, figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.”

  “Well, if you aren’t grown up enough now, I’d hate to see what kind of bike you’ll be riding in a few years.”

  I grinned and realized she was flirting. Not much, but in a gentle, easy manner.

  “I see lots of fishing tackle and gear in here. I was thinking about getting some gear, is it… I mean…”

  “Most of it’s in good shape. I’ll steer you away from anything that isn’t; though, price reflects the product. You get what you pay for.”

  “Thank you. I’ve got a couple errands to run today, but if I’m not back today, maybe tomorrow?”

  “Sure! And hey, if you’re not busy on Sundays…” She went behind the counter and ducked down, to come up a moment later and pressed a business card in my hand.

  “Everybody goes to church there,” I said softly, pulling my wallet out of
my pocket.

  “It’s a great church. You should really come.”

  “I’ll… I’ll give it a shot,” I told her.

  The printout from the wireless store, my fishing license, and the mail I got from the FWC were able to be used to get my license. After a small fee and a new picture, I had a brand new driver’s license on the way. I didn’t even have to fib on the form, because I actually lived at the warehouse. I took that and, instead of grocery shopping, I decided to head down to the marina. Most of the boats were out, the ones on the commercial pier, but there was one sports fishing boat there, with a deck hand spraying down the deck and scrubbing it with a broom.

  “Hello?” I called.

  “Hey, looking for a charter?” the guy asked.

  “Naw, I was just looking to ask a question, actually.”

  “Sure thing, shoot.”

  “The job I’m working on sounds like it’s slowing down for the season, and a friend sort of suggested I look at getting my commercial license.”

  “Got a boat?” he asked me.

  “A small aluminum one.”

  “Know how to fish, where to go?”

  “Sort of, and yes. I even think I’ve got somebody who’d help me out a bit from time to time.”

  “Ahhh, so you’re not looking to run charters; more like sell small quantities to restaurants and stuff, maybe the fish market?”

  “Exactly,” I told him. “It doesn’t take much money for me to get along.”

  We talked for an hour, and I got on the boat when he invited me. I picked up a spare broom while we talked, and we scrubbed the back deck down with a bleach solution, then hosed everything down. He told me which restaurants were looking for what, and gave me the basics on how the seasons worked; though he was in a different business than I was looking at. I could have gotten a lot of this information from the fishing guide the FWC gave out, with the exception of where to sell stuff to. What this guy was giving me was priceless.