Triggerfish

by Dieter Kalteis

  “I hear you.”

  “How about you?”

  “Me? Ride? No.”

  “Nothing like the open road.” Burt rubbed his spotted hands together, asking, “I interest you in something to finish?” Opening his door, he said he was going for a Chilly-Choc, asking if Eddie ever tried one, chocolate-coated ice cream on a stick, with vanilla flecks, made in heaven.

  “How about I get you one?” Eddie said.

  “You just sit tight; you’re our guest.”

  Our.

  Burt disappearing inside, Eddie considered checking behind the curtain, say how you doing to Puddin’. He let it go, the busted hand looking like it belonged to somebody else, Eddie feeling feverish, wishing he had painkillers, wishing he knew how Ramon would play it, what he’d say about going to see the ex-cop. Thinking about it until Burt shouldered back through the Grill ’N Chill door, a Chilly-Choc in each hand, giving the rice burners another look, shaking his head and grinning.

  Taking a Chilly-Choc, Eddie asked, “You mind if I hang in to Vancouver? Maybe drop me at the Grandview exit?”

  “What about your car?”

  “Got somebody in the city can lend me a hand.”

  Taking a bite of the chocolate coating, Burt looked at him, Eddie thinking he’d make his way across to False Creek, maybe find a walk-in clinic, lay low till dark, go see Rene Beckman, lay it on the line.

  . . . RIGHT THING THE WRONG WAY

  “Don’t sound so enthused,” she said, tucking her bare feet under her, sitting cross-legged on the floor, lettering the sign for HEART, the paint wet and red. Leaning and blowing to dry it, her lips in an O. Wondering what Beck was doing back here, looked like he’d been drinking again.

  Leaning against the desk, Beck said no thanks to a cup of Jimmy’s coffee, looking at him on his bunk, saying to her, “Got nothing against HEART. Just haven’t got your . . .”

  “Compassion,” Jimmy said.

  The urge was coming back, decking Jimmy. Beck saying, “Don’t need to go to the South Pole to save the whales, just to . . .”

  “Just to what?” she said.

  “Forget it.”

  “What, get in my pants?”

  Beck shrugged.

  Vicki slapped the brush down, paint blobbing on the floor. “There’s a ship that’s sailed.”

  “Reminds me . . .” Reaching in his pocket, Beck pulled out the raspberry thong and held it out to her, looking at Jimmy. The reason he came down.

  After Danny Green came to see him on his boat, catching Beck and Jimmy set to go toe-to-toe with the biker, Beck spent the rest of the day getting to the bottom of a bottle of Johnnie, called Hattie a couple of times, getting no answer. Didn’t answer when he went over and knocked on her door, either. The biker didn’t show up again, just Griff coming by to ready Triggerfish for a charter, making sure the batteries were charged.

  Still some left in the bottle when Beck left Griff on board, told him not to fuck anything up this time, Beck driving to the anti-whaler with the last of the Johnnie and the thong, now saying, “Already told you, the Japanese shut down whaling this year.”

  Vicki snatched the thong from him, tossed it down on the spilled paint.

  Jimmy saying there was always Iceland or the Faroes.

  Grabbing the brush, she rose, pointing the bristles at Beck, saying, “He tried to help you today, you know that?” Stepping on the thong, grinding a heel, swishing it through the spilled paint. “Know your problem, Beck? You’re all about you.”

  Jimmy sat back, loving the way this was going.

  Jamming the brush in the water jar, the water clouding red, Vicki glared at him. Beck went to the door, taking his vibrating phone from his pocket, looking at the text, Vicki stepping behind him, grabbing the door, ready to slam it.

  “Shit.” He stopped and stared at the screen.

  “Piss somebody else off?”

  “It’s my boat . . .”

  And he was running.

  . . . SITTING TIGHT

  The voice on the phone told her she was going to Mexico, told her how she was getting there. Told her to just sit tight.

  Pacing with the Bersa in her hand. Nothing felt right about being in a sub all those days, trapped under the water. Living with mice in the walls was one thing, but Ashika always had a tough time in confined spaces, they took her breath away.

  The tap at the door. She nearly sent a round through the wood. Checking the side light, she inched it open, shut it after Axel stepped in.

  Stopped him from saying what he wanted. Arms around his neck, kissing him. A stack of towels in his hand, dropping them on the desk, putting his hands on her hips, the two of them getting into it again, Axel backing her to the bed.

  The old man and Regular Joe had gone with the coke that morning, six hundred pounds still on the sub, fifty that Eddie stole. With his older brother, Max, up in Pemberton, Rudi told Axel to just sit tight, wait for word on the guns. Billy Wall went to take care of the ex-cop, Diego sitting at the bar, the case with the sat phone next to the bottle, drinking the old man’s shit whiskey.

  Reyes stood outside her cabin, eyeing Axel when he came out the back door of the lodge, the kid coming with towels this time, middle of the night, holding up a bottle of the same whiskey, saying, “Thought you might be thirsty.”

  Reyes looked at it, taking the bottle, stepping aside, letting Axel tap on the door.

  . . . NITTY GRITTY

  The flare gun and a smoldering life-vest laid on the dock. The funk of burnt fiberglass hung in the air. The bow line limp in the water, the edge of the dock charred. He stared at the empty slip.

  Hattie slung an arm around him, her eyes wet, the last of the firefighters standing behind her, helmet and all that gear on.

  “It’s just awful, Beck.” She spoke into her fist.

  “Where the fuck’s Griff?” Left him to watch the boat while he went to see Vicki, dropped off the thong.

  She pointed across to First Light, putting a hand on his chest, stopping him, saying it happened when Griff took a supper break, went up to the Pirates for buttermilk wings. Hattie promising she’d keep an eye, throwing in, “And he’s fine.”

  He reached down for the Olin flare pistol, shook water from it. This was it, all that was left.

  “Want to blame somebody, blame me,” she said. “Really am sorry, Beck.” Fingers squeezed his shoulder. “And it was me that cut her loose, pushed her out.”

  Beck needed a drink.

  Helmet in hand, the firefighter stepped up like he was offering condolences. Over six feet, weighing in about two-twenty, chiseled jaw.

  “Lucky the lady here did what she did, Mr. Beckman,” he said. “If the tanks caught, it would have been worse.” Pointing to the neighboring boats, the guy talking to him like Beck was six.

  “Where is she?” Beck asked.

  “Towed her to the launch ramp after we put her out.” Pulling off the big glove, he stuck out a big hand. “Dade Holliday, sir.”

  Hesitating, Beck shook the hand. A probationary firefighter with Fireboat Crew 5, Dade told him, near as they could tell the blaze took place before midnight, preliminaries pointing to it sparking in the galley.

  “Arson?” Beck thinking of Griff and that toaster, hoping for something so dumb, but knowing it was the biker from that morning, guy putting his cowboy boot up on the transom. The way the guy said see you around.

  “No cause yet, sir.” Holliday looked from him to her, saying again, “Lucky the lady here called it in, did what she did.”

  She told Dade to call her Hattie.

  The smile was professional, Holliday saying to Beck, “Cut her loose and pushed her out. Quick thinking, you ask me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kept your neighbors from lighting up,” Holliday said. “Family of three were sleeping one boat over
.”

  “The bright side, huh?” Beck said. “It look suspicious to you?”

  “Little early for that, but our arson people will take a look.”

  “Fire just breaks out middle of the night, nobody on board . . .”

  “Like I said, little early to say.”

  Beck regarded the flare in his hand.

  “Just be glad nobody got hurt,” Holliday said, Beck thinking he used to say shit like that, trying to find a bright spot in the worst kind of hell. His retirement dream up in smoke, and Beck with lapsed insurance.

  A couple of uniforms were walking from the parking lot, coming down the steps to the dock. It wasn’t Danny Green and Liz Crocker this time. Beck felt their steps on the dock, coming to ask questions, file their report.

  “Mrs. Winters, Hattie . . . on behalf of Fireboat Crew 5,” Holliday said, holding his hand out, “like to thank you again for your quick action.”

  Hattie took his hand, wanting to correct him on the Mrs. part. The sixty-pound jacket did little to hide the shoulders — Mr. April in the Hall of Flame calendar, picturing Holliday posing next to a rolled hose with his foot up on it, jacket pulled back to show the abs he worked on between bells — the Colgate smile, the dimpled chin.

  Felt like he’d been kicked in the sack, second time tonight, Beck hearing Holliday say again he wished they could have done more.

  Hattie thanked him, not sure what to call a firefighter, Holliday telling her just plain Dade would do.

  Beck’s boat was a total weenie roast, and these two had sparks flying. The cops coming looked like a pair of rookies, both with notepads at the ready.

  Holliday tore himself away, edging by the cops, exchanging professional courtesy.

  Jimmy and Vicki were hanging around the edge of the parking lot, insisting they come along after Beck got the call. Pity making them all friends again.

  The cops wanted to have a word, Hattie saying to Beck, “Call SeaSmart in the morning. They’ll make it right.”

  Beck watched her go to her boat, Hattie saying over her shoulder, “Tell me you got insurance, Beck?”

  “Might have skipped a payment . . .” The envelope had been stuffed in the drawer in the galley, in there with his operator’s card, boat license, safety compliance. Never seemed to have the funds when the premiums were due. Living aboard, he didn’t worry about it too much. Saw it as wasting money.

  Letting go a sigh, she went to make tea, left him to the cops and their notepads, Beck wishing Danny Green had been on shift tonight, taken this call. Wishing he had another bottle of Johnnie Red.

  . . . EYE ON THE PRIZE

  Billy Wall kept watch from outside the marina office, the place closed up this time of night, shadows of a maple hiding him. The last firefighter was leaving, two cops walking down the dock to where Beckman was standing with the woman, the woman stepping across the dock to her own boat. Torching Rene Beckman’s boat was part of it, getting the ex-cop’s attention. Any fingerprint or trace of the Mexican on board was gone now. The cartel wanted the fucker dead, the woman, too, Smiling Jack telling him to get it done. Show the cartel some taking-care-of-business, regain their faith.

  Beckman got lucky, hadn’t been on board when Billy came the first time. He’d get another chance, catch Beckman with the woman on the other boat, sure she was the one who’d been in the cove. Had a feeling her boat was where Beckman would end up later, the woman looking like the consoling type. Not so happy about it, Billy never did a woman before. Still, it shouldn’t be too hard. Slip on board when they were asleep.

  He saw Jimmy and Vicki under the light by the steps, recognizing Beckman’s smug buddy, guessed Vicki for the buddy’s girlfriend. He’d wait till they were gone, then do it quick.

  . . . BOUNCING ON THE BOTTOM

  The pair of cops headed back up the steps, their notebooks tucked away, going to their cruiser. Beck walked down the dock to where Vicki and Jimmy waited.

  “You tell them?” Vicki said.

  “What, we spotted a sub? Show them the pic?”

  “God, Beck, so you were naked. Get over yourself.”

  Twenty years of pension with penalty and reduced benefits. Barely enough to secure the loan in the first place, Beck getting the Grady-White by the skin of his teeth, the charters covering the basics with a little left over. Now this.

  “Time for a plan B,” Jimmy said.

  “What you need is to stop pissing people off,” Vicki said to Beck, slapping at Jimmy’s arm. “Didn’t need to go back looking for them.”

  Beck glanced past Jimmy, Hattie coming along the dock, two mugs in her hand.

  “Me, I say we go after them,” Jimmy said.

  We.

  “You for real?” Vicki asked.

  “Start with the dickhead put his boot on your boat.”

  Taking a mug from Hattie, Beck introduced her around, the two women saying hi, Jimmy offering his hand, Hattie asking if anybody else wanted tea.

  Nobody did.

  Beck needed more than tea, but figured once he got started on the Johnnie Red, he’d wake in back of his Jeep, face in his own puke.

  Taking the flare gun from Beck, Jimmy cracked it open, the big shell popping out, dripping water, Jimmy catching it, asking, “We got more than this?”

  “Jesus, Jimmy,” Vicki said, tugging his sleeve, heading him for the car. “Isn’t it bad enough?”

  Sipping tea, tasting like it came off a forest floor, mushrooms, pine needles, lichen, Beck watched Vicki saying, “We got whales to save.”

  “Haven’t even agreed on a name yet,” Jimmy said, meaning the ship, stepping back to Beck, handing him the flare. “Say we find the biker with the boots. Ask some questions.”

  Hattie and Vicki looking at them like they were both crazy.

  “Can talk to Captain Angus, get my hands on one of the Sea-Doos,” Jimmy said, like the girls weren’t even there.

  “Attack them with a Sea-Doo? What, in our flip-flops?” Beck raising the flare. “And this?”

  Hattie hooked Beck’s arm, steering him back toward the dock, saying to Vicki, “He’s calling his insurance first thing . . . See where he stands, then the refit outfit. Going to be a busy boy.” Said good luck with saving whales.

  Vicki took Jimmy’s hand, telling Beck she was sorry about the boat, saying to Hattie, “Nice to meet you.” Then leading Jimmy to the car, asking if he was nuts.

  Beck watched the two heading for Jimmy’s car, one of those hybrids, Sea Rangers decal on the door, Jimmy swinging his windbreaker around her shoulders.

  “Promised Griff the extra bunk,” Hattie said. “But, you want, you can curl up on the deck. Comes with a spare blanket, all the tea you can drink.”

  “Don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “You can’t help that.” She saw the silhouette of a man crossing the parking lot, coming from the other way. Nudging Beck.

  Beck’s first thought it was the asshole with the boots, coming back for more. The figure passed under the lamp, Beck seeing this guy lacked size, coming their way. Recognizing him from the tugboat, he handed Hattie the mug and started forward.

  Eddie stopped, knew this was a bad idea, then started to angle away, picking up the pace.

  Still parked, Jimmy saw him too, thinking it could be the guy with the matches. Throwing the door open, Jimmy jumped out, forcing the guy to shift direction, Beck grabbing him and spinning him around, getting enough behind the punch, putting Eddie down. Grabbing a fistful of shirt, Beck lifted him back to his feet, knocked him down again, yelling something about his torched boat, Jimmy pulling him off, Hattie running up, yelling, Vicki joining in, Eddie screaming he didn’t do it and cradling his busted hand.

  Stepping in like a ref, Hattie shoved at Beck, Beck shaking Jimmy off, telling Eddie to start with a name.

  “Eddie Soto.” Eddie wobbling to h
is feet, middle of the parking lot.

  “The guy on the tug,” Beck said.

  “Yeah. Other guy on the tug was my uncle.” Eddie spilling that they killed him, showing his hand. “Trying to kill me, too.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Guys you think I’m with.” Getting to his feet and looking around, Eddie’s gaze stopped at Vicki, the girl from the boat.

  Could be the guy with the boots sent him, setting him up, Beck ready to drag it out of Eddie, send him back with his own message. He said, “You got ten seconds.”

  Eddie spilled how they moved the blow from the sub to the tug that night, hid the sub, then drove the bales out to Rudi’s lodge, how the Mexicans forced him and his uncle back to take care of the witnesses. How they jacked his boat, everything going wrong.

  “Who torched her?” Beck asked.

  “Don’t know that, but take your pick, these guys are all serious crazy. Could be any of them.” Eddie told about Ramon getting stabbed to death, how he got away.

  Having heard the yelling, Griff came down the dock and up the steps, recognizing Eddie as he came across the lot. Coming at a run, he waded in, windmilling his fists, landing a wild punch, putting Eddie back on the asphalt.

  Curling up, Eddie went armadillo, clutching his hand, the skinny guy kicking at him, Beck and Jimmy pulling him off.

  Shoving him back, Beck gave Griff a shake, saying, “Can’t you see we’re talking here?”

  Griff pointed. “The fucker who jacked our boat, tried to kill me.”

  Our boat.

  Catching some jacket, Jimmy hauled Eddie up, dusted him off, took hold of the wrist just above the broken hand, putting on some pressure, asking again, who torched the boat.

  “Cartel, bikers, take your pick,” Eddie said, squirming, telling about the stash in the bunker out back of Rudi Busch’s. “All me and Ramon did was run the shit.”

  “Just got caught in the middle, that it?” Jimmy said, easing his grip.