by John Moralee
“I don’t know.”
“You’re afraid of finishing it.”
He slammed his knife into a plank. “Okay, then. Let’s do it.”
We went to the barn. In the shade the boat looked like something evil. My dad showed some diagrams of what it was supposed to look like completed: a beautiful 42 ft-long cabin cruiser. He said he had all of the parts. He looked resigned to doing the job like a janitor would at cleaning toilets. I felt bad about pressurising him, but sometimes you had to make things happen or they never happened. I had enough free time while I was recovering to make a difference.
We got our hands dirty. We sweated like pigs. The boat started to take shape, and the more it formed the harder we worked, encouraged by our progress. It gave me something to take my mind off my injuries far better than prescription medicines.
A week later I put the last coat of white paint on the cabin. The final touch was the addition of the name. Dad painted it by himself in gold paint. He named the boat Caroline, after my mother. Dad and I looked at the cabin cruiser that had taken decades to build but not long to finish. Caroline was looking good. You could not tell it had been made by an amateur. We hired a tow-truck to carry it down to the water’s edge, where we’d built a launching ramp. I was feeling pretty fit, at least seventy per cent of normal health. I called my friends and asked them to come to the little party we were having that weekend. I didn’t get a reply from Abby or Wayne, but Sarah and Fiona said they’d come. Fiona brought her kids and her mother, Grace. Sarah arrived on her Harley-Davidson wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans. She’d just come from a rally against the Emerald Point development project. She told me a hundred and fifty locals turned up. It would be on the news later.
Before the launch, we had a barbecue and my father enjoyed cooking six weeks worth of fishing catches for our friends and neighbours. In Florida, Grace had gone marlin fishing like Hemingway, so they had something to talk about. My dad actually looked comfortable talking to her.
Then it was launch time for the Caroline. Dad got on board while I stayed on the shore and thanked everyone for coming. I thought the boat looked like anything a professional could do. Better. My dad asked Fiona’s mother Grace to christen it with champagne. I was as surprised as she was. Grace did so, and white foam soaked the hull and everyone standing nearby. Then I pulled the blocks away and launched it into the water. Dad steered it straight and true. It went in smoothly with hardly a ripple. It didn’t sink. Everyone applauded. I quickly tied it to the jetty, then Dad joined the party again. I looked at him, wondering what his reaction would be.
He studied it from several positions, rubbing his chin. I couldn’t read his expression. Was he disappointed? To me, it looked like the finest boat ever built. You could see the loving craftsmanship.
“I guess my new hobby is sailing this damn thing.”
I patted his back. “Great boat, Dad.”
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she? Your mother would have loved her.”
I drank Pepsis and envied the people drinking beers for being able to stop after two or three. There are some people who drink because they like the taste, and there are people who drink solely for the effect. It could taste like caster oil and elephant dung and I would drink it. The ‘old’ me would, anyway. The ‘new’ me recalled the times I’d lost days on the booze, vomited into strange toilets, woken up with the DTs, and hangovers like chain saw lobotomies. There was something to be said for soft drinks, but the constant exposure you get to beer commercials makes you feel like a wimp and a party-pooper. I could live with it, though. I had to. It was better than option two: alcoholic oblivion.
I watched the party from under the shade of a tree. It was good to see people enjoying themselves, especially Fiona’s kids. Sarah showed them how to drink a whole can of Dr Pepper in one go by putting a hole in the side and then pulling the ring pull. Fiona didn’t look as though she approved. Sarah walked over and sat down beside me.
“You look beat, Michael.”
“Yeah? I thought I was feeling better.”
“I meant mentally. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. You want a drink, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I won’t.”
“Good. Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to disappoint you.”
She kissed me and I felt her mole brush my cheek, tickling like a feather. “You can’t disappoint me. You’re the strongest man I know.”
“I got beat up quite easily.”
“I mean mentally. You’re not afraid of a fight.”
“You’ve got a high opinion of me.”
“And you’ve got a low opinion of yourself. Here you are, being miserable, when look at what you’ve done today. Look at Harry. He’s happy right now, with a beautiful boat that you helped him finish. You achieve these things but don’t give yourself any credit.”
“I’m thinking Van Morgan has all the advantages. He’ll win. He’ll get away with whatever he did to Scott.”
“I don’t,” she said.
“No?”
“Certainly not.”
“Not even after what he did, sending those jerks to your house?”
“It showed he was scared. Now I have the campaign going properly he’s running scared. He can’t touch me now hundreds of people are protesting. Freeman thinks public opinion is swinging our way – particularly with the locals. And locals will be on the jury when the case starts.”
“I admire your optimism, I really do.”
She grinned. “I must be crazy, huh?”
“It helps. But I admire your determination. It’s as sexy as hell.”
“Sexy, huh?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Sarah’s eyes sparkled. “Well, Betsy and Joely need me at a meeting in twenty minutes. Got to fire up some support from a women’s group downtown. Betsy’s done the catering. Should be interesting – half the women there are members of the yacht club.” She rolled her eyes. I laughed. “Tell your dad I think the boat is cool.” She kissed me, then got up and walked towards her bike.
“Good luck,” I said.
“Thanks. You too. Get well soon – I’m starting to miss our running thing. I don’t want you using injuries as an excuse when I beat you.” She pounced on her bike and rode off like a spaghetti western heroine, her hair spilling from her helmet like a sheet of black silk.
Eventually, the party ended by mutual consent. My father invited Fiona’s family on Caroline’s maiden voyage. Before I knew it, we were pulling away from the jetty, leaving the shore behind for the deep blue water. The boat steered easily, cutting through the waves with confidence.
My father stopped the boat when it was a few miles out. The water was light green and clear down to a depth of several yards. I could see tiny yellow fish dancing in the current, moving in perfect synchronised motions. The kids wanted to fish. So my dad showed Amanda and Elizabeth how to use a fishing rod. Amanda was squeamish with the worms, as was her older sister, but he reassured them the worms wouldn’t bite and, after some coaxing, Amanda and Elizabeth picked up the worms in their tiny fingers. Fiona stepped back, smiling but disgusted. Her mother wasn’t disgusted, however. Grace picked up a handful of worms and demonstrated how she hooked bait when she was fishing. My father watched her.
“Harry’s good with children,” Fiona said to me. “It’s not often you see that.”
“He had to be a mother and father to my brother and me. He worked at the bar, too. It must have been frustrating, but he never lost his temper with us even when we acted up. I think Vietnam showed him violence wasn’t the answer to everything.”
“Hmm,” she said. “My mother likes him, too.”
Grace had joined my father in the fishing, scooping Amanda up in her arms and swinging her onto her lap.
Fiona watched them, sniffing back tears.
“Hey,” I said. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “I
suppose.”
“But?”
“I was thinking Scott would love this.”
The sun was cooling. A band of orange glowed in the sky at the horizon. Fiona leaned on the rail and looked at it. The orange light reflected in her eyes like a corona. She looked infinitely sad and lonely. In another world Amanda and Elizabeth were squealing with delight as Elizabeth caught something on her line.
“Mommy, Mommy! I got a fish!”
Fiona wasn’t hearing.
“Mommy?”
I tapped her shoulder. Fiona snapped out of her trance, then realised Elizabeth was calling. “That’s nice, honey. Be right there.”
She turned and adopted a false smile. “I suppose I’ve got to get on with life as if nothing’s changed, Mike.” To the girls, she said, loudly, “Wow! You’ve got a big one!” And she acted as if she was having a fantastic time for the girls’ benefit. My father had probably done the same when I was growing up, but to his credit and skill I had never known.
The fish broke the water, thrashing. It was bright silver and at least a foot long. I joined them as it was brought aboard. I took photographs of everyone holding it up, then because the girls didn’t want to kill it we released it back into the water. It swam away as if nothing had happened.
The heat was dissipating now. I got behind the wheel and steered the boat back to the shore shortly before the sun disappeared.
Chapter 28
After we got back and my dad and I said goodbye to everyone, Wayne Leary showed up at the jetty. I had not seen him in almost a week. The last sunlight of the day bathed him in an eerie red glow. He was smoking a cigarette, sucking the marrow out of it. I couldn’t see his eyes; they were swallowed by the darkness. We shook hands; his was firm and bone-crushing. It felt like one of his tattoo dragons had taken a bite out of my flesh. “Sorry I couldn’t get to your party thing, man. But I’ve been real busy. Let’s talk.”
We walked to where he’d parked his truck. I got in and he turned on the internal light. “Okay, here’s the rundown. I know who Frankenstein is. His name is Zeke Morrow. He’s an employee of H&E. Supposedly a foreman, but he doesn’t do much work. He spends a lot of time building up muscles at the gym, where he tries to impress all the girls. That place is filled with beautiful, fit women, but Morrow frightens them off because he’s so ugly, with the personality of a crocodile. Apart from then, I couldn’t get near the guy, but I’ve seen him with Ecker and Gruemann. Ecker and Gruemann are like a buffer between Van Morgan and Zeke Morrow. I’m surprised you saw them together because they’re usually very careful about not being associated.”
“What does Morrow do for Van Morgan?”
“Anything illegal he needs doing,” Wayne said, “but you’d have a time proving anything because Ecker and Gruemann stay as the middlemen. It’s a dead end. But I have something else.”
“What?”
“There’s a redneck bar on Lincoln Street called the Fast Buck. Lowlifes hang out there most nights.” He grinned, as if to say he was including himself. “An ex-girlfriend told me she’s seen Frank Poole come in with a broken arm. She told me Poole hangs out in the bar every night, usually with a bunch of H&E guys. He’ll be there tonight. I was thinking we could go in with our Ecker and Gruemann IDs. You up to it?”
“I am,” I said.
“Then we’ll head over to the Fast Buck.”
Wayne turned the truck around and headed into town.
“Are you armed?” I asked.
“I have a Smith and Wesson .45 right here,” he said, patting his waist. “You?”
“Got a 9mm same place.”
“Keep it loaded, buddy. Keep it loaded.”
Lincoln Street was in the poorest section of Cape Mistral. It was where the temporary workers at the bars and restaurants lived. The Fast Buck looked seedy as we stopped across the street. Twenty years ago the residents of Cape Mistral would never have allowed the place to open. I opened my door, but Wayne stopped me getting out. “Have you heard what Van Morgan’s done to make himself look like a good guy?”
“No – what?”
“You know all these rumours are flying about that it was Heaven and Earth guys who attacked you and made Scott vanish? Well, he’s offered a reward for any information. $10,000.”
“He put that up?”
“It’s in last night’s Tribune.”
I had not got around to reading it. “I don’t believe it.”
“I swear it’s true.”
“I swear for a totally different reason.”
“You mean you doubt his sincerity?” he mocked.
“I doubt his suntan, never mind his sincerity. It’s the perfect way to deflect suspicion from himself.”
“This is California cynicism coming out.”
“He must be confident we won’t catch the guys. I have a nasty feeling Poole will be on his guard. Hold on a second.” I looked in the rearview mirror and hastily changed my hairstyle. “Okay, I don’t look like me so much now.”
We entered the Fast Buck. I need not have worried about being seen, though. The bar was dark and smoky and crowded. Most of the men were H&E workers. We blended in as we looked for Poole. A bulky man with his arm in a cast was standing at the bar talking to a girl. She wasn’t interested in him, so he drank his beer and looked around. He looked as though he was waiting for someone. Wayne and I watched from a distance. Poole almost made me when he looked over where we were – but Wayne blocked his view. A younger man aged about 20 approached Poole and said something into his ear. Poole nodded. The younger man went into the restroom. Poole waited a minute, then went in. The younger man came out a minute later, rubbing his nose.
“Our man is a coke dealer,” Wayne said.
“Let’s have a word,” I said.
We went into the restroom. There was nobody in there except Poole. He was by a stall, counting some money. He looked up at us and opened his mouth to say something – but Wayne never gave him the chance. He shoved Poole into a stall and slammed him against the toilet and wall. Poole grunted. “Get off my arm! God!”
Wayne had a hold of his broken arm at the elbow and wrist. It was a big stall, so I stepped inside and closed the door. The three of us were crammed in, pressed up against the graffiti-enhanced walls. Wayne took the money off Poole.
“You tried to kill my buddy,” he said. “We want all the names, now.”
Poole shook his head, masking his pain. Wayne applied pressure. Poole screamed. “Okay, okay.” Wayne forced Poole to sit down on the dirty toilet seat. Poole looked almost green. He looked at me. “I was just told to rough you up, I swear. I didn’t know nothing about killing you. I didn’t know he would use a knife.”
“Who used the knife?”
“Zeke. Zeke Morrow. He ordered us to do it.”
Poole gave up the names. There was one man called Kess. Kess was the one I’d given a broken jaw. He’d left Cape Mistral immediately after the incident. There was another called Danza. Danza looked like a bodybuilder whose experiments with steroids had gone awry. He was part of a four-man workcrew, all ex-cons. Their names were Poole, Danza, Kess and Strykner. They made a living by selling cocaine and speed to H&E employees, with Zeke Morrow taking a percentage of the profit. Zeke had told them I was nosing around in their business. Morrow had told them to ambush me. There were also two other men with Morrow. By their descriptions, they had to be Ecker and Gruemann.
I asked Poole questions about Scott. Poole claimed he didn’t have anything to do with that. Wayne literally twisted his arm to get a confession, but Poole denied it.
We had all the information Poole would give up.
Wayne found several dime bags of cocaine on Poole. He flushed them down the toilet. “I see you again, you won’t see anything again, okay?”
“Yes!”
“What?”
“Yes!”
“Here’s a reminder.”
I heard his bone snap.
We left Poole vomiting into the toile
t.
It was cold outside and I could not quite believe Wayne had broken Poole’s arm.
But at least we had some leads.
We just had to connect Van Morgan to Morrow with solid evidence.
For one whole day, I felt almost optimistic. Finally, we were getting somewhere.
But then it rained.
It rained hard.
Chapter 29
It was the first day since coming home that it rained, but it rained hard as if making up for lost days. The sky was one grey smear unleashing cold water in an endless barrage. It was a day when the tourists stayed on the mainland, and the locals stayed inside their homes. The water poured down the hills towards the ocean in great torrents. Some people had to abandon their mobile homes as the water swept through the trailer park. It continued to rain worse as the day drew on, the clouds becoming darker and burgeoning with water.
It was a day when an undercurrent washed black mud onto the shore, bringing with it a battered and mud-caked car. A man and his dog discovered it on the beach. The man called the police, but while he was waiting he tried opening the driver’s door. It opened with a hard pull and thick, black silt poured out, soaking his jeans and boots. The man recoiled at it and the foul stench that spiked up his nostrils like smelling salts. The dog started barking. It growled. It was afraid. The man was afraid, too. He had never smelled anything so bad.
The man was recovering from the initial shock when the blackened body tumbled out onto the sand.
I learned about the discovery when Fiona phoned. She spoke in a rush that I couldn’t understand – her voice grew high-pitched and incoherent and panicky. Her mother took the receiver.
“Michael, it’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“The sheriff called, saying a body had been found in Scott’s car.”
“Is it …?”
“He doesn’t know. He wanted Fiona to go down to the beach and see if she could identify it, but she can’t, not like this. She’s too upset. She – we – hoped you could do it.”
“Okay,” I said.