Charon's landing m-2

by Jack Du Brul

  The room was similar in decor to the bar, wood and brass and leather. A huge desk dominated the center of the room, a computer and its peripherals occupying a third of it and half the matching credenza. Mercer’s hand brushed against a flat slab of kimberlite as he strode into the room. The bluish rock resting on a side table was the lodestone of every diamond mine in the world and was a memento from one of Mercer’s many trips to the mines of southern Africa and his personal good-luck piece.

  The twisted piece of metal he’d recovered from Alaska was locked in the upper drawer of his desk. He grabbed it and returned to the kitchen. The toaster had burned the waffles to the texture of roofing shingles, so he tossed them into the trash and headed back to the bar. He wasn’t that hungry anyway.

  He retrieved a one-foot section of railroad track from the back bar and a shoe box filled with tins of metal polish, rags, and other cleaning items. As he started stroking the track with a polish-soaked piece of steel wool, he regarded the metal plate solemnly. The repetitive act of polishing had served him for years as a means to focus his thoughts on a single problem, and at the pace he was going, he’d have a few miles done before he figured out the significance of the plate.

  It was ten inches long, four wide, and made of stainless steel. All its edges were ripped by the violent explosion that had destroyed the Jenny IV. The stencil roger, done in black ink, was its only identifying mark.

  Mercer had gotten the crew list of the fishing boat from the Coast Guard before he’d left Alaska. No one even remotely connected to the ship was named Roger. He thought about the possibility that the letters weren’t a proper name, but no other option came to him. And even if it wasn’t a name, he still couldn’t decipher the meaning.

  “Come on, Rog,” Mercer said to the plate. “Who in the hell were you and what were you doing on a fishing boat with personalized steel luggage?”

  Mercer spent his life solving mysteries. Amassing clues as to where the earth hid her mineral wealth, interpreting data, and finally pointing to a spot and saying, “Dig here,” were stock-in-trade. He thrived on the challenge of millions of dollars and potentially hundreds of lives resting on his word, but he admitted that the enigma of the scrap of steel was beyond him.

  The phone rang, its shrill tone scattering his thoughts. He glanced at his watch as he reached to pluck the portable from its recharging pad on the corner of the bar. It was quarter of ten. The call had to be either Tiny telling him that he had the Daily Racing Form and to come over, or Harry White reminding him not to forget the crossword.

  It was neither.

  “Dr. Philip Mercer?”

  “Yes,” he replied warily. “Yes, who is this?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you so early on a Saturday morning, sir. My name is Dan MacLaughlin. I’m the Chief of Police of Homer, Alaska.” His voice was deep and gruff but sounded tired.

  “Christ, it’s not even five in the morning there.”

  “I’m afraid this is the tail end of a shitty night rather than an early start to a good day. Were you acquainted with Jerry Small and his son, John? They ran a charter boat here called the Wave Dancer.”

  MacLaughlin’s use of the past tense was not lost to Mercer. “You know I was or you wouldn’t be calling me. How’d they die?”

  “I’m sorry to ask that way. I’m dog tired and pretty shook up. I’ve known Jerry ever since he moved here.”

  “I’m sorry too, Chief. I didn’t mean to snap. What happened? An accident on the boat?”

  “They were found earlier this morning by a neighbor who was getting back from the fish factory’s graveyard shift. It seems Jerry and John had themselves a couple of drinks at home and must have wanted to go out and get a few more. Well, they both passed out in Jerry’s pickup. The truck was still in the garage; the door was closed with the engine running. That was what brought his neighbor over, the running engine. Well, we figure that the fumes got ’em both.”

  “Jesus,” Mercer breathed.

  “The reason I called is, Coast Guard records show you were on that charter when Jerry found the Jenny IV. That makes you one of the last people to see them alive. Well, it seems the two of them had been fighting. There were bruises all over them. Jerry had two black eyes and John’s mouth was pretty busted up. Like I said, I’ve known Jerry for a while, and he and John got along better than most parents and kids, so this fight kinda seems out of character. I was just wondering if they had any problems when you were on the charter boat with them. Arguing, fighting, anything like that?”

  “No. They seemed to get along just fine. Finding that derelict shook us all a bit, but they weren’t fighting.” Mercer was genuinely shocked that Jerry and John had brawled. He never suspected that they would have family disputes like that. But he’d only known them for a short time. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you. I left Homer the day we found the Jenny IV. You might want to call Jerry’s cousin at UCLA. He stayed with Jerry for a couple of days after I left.”

  “I plan to wait until a little later in the day. It’s still a mite early on this coast.” MacLaughlin fell silent. It seemed he wanted to talk about this, get his feelings about his friend’s death into the open, but he held back. “I won’t keep you any longer, Dr. Mercer. Thank you for your time.”

  “Not at all, Chief. I’m sorry about your loss.” Mercer broke the connection and let out a long breath. He made a mental note to call Howard Small later and offer his condolences. He stared into space for a moment, remembering Jerry and his son, their fishing trip, and the discovery of the eerie derelict. He had liked them both. They were honest men, hardworking and dedicated. Their deaths were a tragic waste.

  Mercer stared at the metal fragment in his hands. He wondered if there was some sort of connection between the deaths and the steel shard, but he discounted it quickly. He’d learned a long time ago that happenstance could be a capricious thing. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to concentrate any longer, he went upstairs to change and then left the house to meet Tiny and Harry.

  Tiny, whose real name was Paul Gordon, owned a seedy bar a few blocks from Mercer’s house. On Saturdays, he opened early for Mercer and Harry White, his best customers, so they could enjoy a few morning drinks and go over the Racing Form for the afternoon races at Belmont Park. Though once a promising jockey who had a few bad breaks, mainly his knees by some mob enforcers for not throwing a race, Paul still enjoyed horse racing as best he could. He ran book for about forty guys in and around Arlington.

  Mercer had discovered the bar on his first day in Arlington. He’d expected a hulking gorilla behind the bar, but Tiny was, in fact, tiny. No more than four foot ten and one hundred and ten pounds, Paul had a special platform installed behind the bar so he could comfortably serve drinks. He was already hunched over the Form when Mercer pushed through the glass door.

  The bar smelled of stale beer and cigarette butts, and no matter how much disinfectant Paul used, the odor never dissipated. A couple of tables were near the long bar, while the back of the establishment was taken up by vinyl booths. The peeling wallpaper was dotted with cheaply framed sports pictures. Next to the cash register were pictures of Tiny, liveried in silks, accepting handshakes from grateful horse owners, the winner he’d ridden always right beside him. Tiny was about fifty, but his small size and wrinkled face made him look like some ancient gnome.

  Harry White, on the other hand, really was ancient. Pushing eighty, Harry looked as if he would die at any moment, yet he’d looked that way for all the years Mercer had known him. His face was so weathered it seemed to have collapsed in on itself. His body, though tall and erect, appeared to have withered away from something larger, giving his skin the look of a poorly fitted suit. His hands resembled bundles of sticks under sheets of liver-spotted rice paper. Despite his decrepit look, he was far from frail. He boasted of an active libido, and his eyes were bright blue windows to a sharp mind and an acid wit. His voice was a raspy snarl that crashed like a broadside of cannon fire. Mayb
e because of their age difference or maybe in defiance of it, he was Mercer’s best friend.

  “ ’Bout time you showed up. Where in the hell is my goddamned crossword?”

  “Why don’t you buy the paper yourself, you cheap bastard?” Mercer tossed the folded puzzle on the bar in front of Harry.

  “Listen to him, Mr. Moneybags. He can afford to buy the newspaper every day.”

  In fact, Harry had a decent pension from Potomac Electric Company. He had also recently received a sizable cash gift from the government as compensation for the loss of his right leg, an injury he’d sustained fifty years ago. While Mercer knew about the money and had been instrumental in getting the settlement, Harry made him agree never to discuss it.

  Harry snatched up the crossword, unfolded it neatly, and held his pen poised. “How was Alaska?”

  Mercer smiled as he regarded Harry. Underneath his crocodile hide, he was a true friend. “Good time, but the damnedest thing happened.”

  He related the story of finding the Jenny IV, sparing no details. Neither Tiny nor Harry could speculate on the origin of the mysterious steel plate, and they both doubted that Jerry and John’s deaths were in any way related.

  Tiny poured Bloody Marys for Mercer and himself and set a Jack Daniel’s and ginger ale in front of Harry. While Harry smoked a dozen Chesterfields and muttered through the crossword, Tiny and Mercer worked the Form, handicapping the day’s fourteen races with as much attention as surgeons trying to save a patient. They broke down the indecipherable minutia of the racing paper, discarding numbers they felt were unimportant, multiplying others through secret systems and, in the end, often just went with their guts. Tiny was much more proficient at interpreting bloodlines, trainer streaks, and Beyer’s Speed Figures, but he did bow to Mercer’s innate ability to pick winners on instinct alone.

  All through the morning, Tiny received calls from his regular customers, taking bets and laying odds as he got them from a buddy who worked at the track. By eleven-thirty, Mercer and Tiny were just about finished handicapping the last race. Harry was still working on the crossword, but he seemed to be down to just a few clues.

  “Shit,” he exclaimed with disgust. “I’m stumped.”

  “What ya got?” Tiny invited.

  “Five letters, the middle one is r, Mendelssohn’s Wedding…”

  “Dirge,” Mercer offered without looking up from his Form.

  “Cynic,” Tiny replied with a glance. “Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. You know, ‘Here comes the bride, da da da daa.’ ”

  “Oh, right. I thought Mendel composed ‘The Wedding March,’ ” Harry replied, inking in the answer.

  “No. Father Gregor Mendel was the pioneer of modern genetics. He did those experiments with peas back in the 1800s.”

  “Really. All this time I was sure that Mandlebrot founded genetics.”

  “Untrue. Benoit Mandelbrot was one of the creators of fractal geometry,” Tiny explained.

  “Then who in the hell was the guy who developed the periodic table?”

  “That would be Dmitri Mendeleev,” replied Tiny.

  Mercer stared at his friends. “God, it gives me the creeps when you guys do stuff like that.”

  As the morning wore into afternoon, Tiny’s Saturday crowd began shuffling in. To a man, they were all there for the races. Uniformly, they were older, late fifties and up, paunchy, and dressed in thirty-year-old suits. They were living proof that cliches were based on fact. Mercer was the youngest man in the room by fifteen years, but he felt right at home. There was a special camaraderie among bachelors that transcended age or status. It was refreshing to be involved in conversations that didn’t revolve exclusively around the other person’s problems.

  The racing card at Belmont was short that day; the last race went off a little after four in the afternoon. After Tiny paid off the winners, he finally allowed himself a drink, his first since the morning Bloody Mary. Harry White had been drinking whiskey as if he’d just escaped a temperance meeting, but he seemed unaffected. Mercer had switched to club soda and was sober.

  “What’s ya doin’ tonight, Mercer?” Tiny asked, running glasses through the three small cleaning sinks under the bar. The smell of liquor was removed from the glasses, but they weren’t actually clean.

  “I’m throwing myself into the penguin suit tonight.”

  “Formal dinner?”

  “I’m blowing off the dinner, but there’s an open-bar reception afterward.”

  “Open bar?” Harry breathed enviously.

  “I knew that would get you.” Mercer smiled.

  “What’s the occasion?” Tiny asked.

  “The inauguration of a new think tank called the Johnston Group, sponsored by none other than Max Johnston, the owner of Petromax Oil. The group’s made up of scientists, economists, and environmentalists working on practical ways to implement the President’s Energy Direction Policy.”

  “You going to be part of this group?” Harry asked as he unwrapped his second pack of cigarettes for the day.

  “No, but I’ve known Max Johnston for a couple of years. The invitation to the party was in my box when I got home from Alaska.”

  “Hobnobbing with the rich and famous again,” teased Harry. “What the hell is Johnston worth?”

  “Christ.” Mercer combed his fingers through his thick hair. “He owns Petromax Oil outright, plus he has control of the Johnston Trust established by his father when he started Petromax. I’d say a couple billion dollars, maybe more.”

  “Find out if he has an eligible daughter.” Harry paused and reconsidered. “Hell, for that kind of money find out if he has a toothless grandmother who wets herself. I’m not fussy.”

  “For your sake,” Tiny added, “I hope he does so you can pay back some of your bar tab.”

  Harry shot him an innocent look.

  Mercer laughed. “I’ve got to go. The dinner’s at six and the reception starts at eight-thirty. I want to be the first in line at the bar.”

  He walked home slowly. The day had turned out to be milder than expected, and the humidity seemed to be held in check by the angry clouds that were threatening in the east. Thoughts of Jerry and John Small had faded to their proper place. Mercer felt bad for them, but it was their own stupidity that got them killed. He felt worse for John’s mother, wherever she was. No parent can deal with outliving a child.

  Both of Mercer’s parents had been killed in the Belgian Congo during the Katanga uprising. Being an orphan, raised by his paternal grandparents in Vermont, he had never experienced the difficult adolescent phase. Mercer’s desire to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a mining engineer precluded any thoughts of teenage rebellion. He couldn’t imagine what would bring a father and son to physical blows. But something had made them brawl, and the consequences had turned deadly. Like MacLaughlin had said, they had both been drinking.

  Just as Mercer turned the key in the door of his house, he cocked his head slightly, as if hearing a voice. In fact, he was hearing John Small again, as if he was standing next to the teenager aboard his father’s boat. Mercer had just offered him a beer and the young man refused with a shake of his head. “No, thanks. I’m captain of the basketball team this year and there’s a good chance I’ll get a scholarship out of it.”

  Jesus, John doesn’t drink.

  Mercer raced through his house to his office, his fingers touching the piece of kimberlite like a mezuzah. He threw himself into his chair and quickly dialed information. A few moments later he was connected to the sheriff’s office in Homer.

  “Dan MacLaughlin speaking.” He sounded better than he had earlier this morning, but exhaustion still dragged at his voice.

  “Chief MacLaughlin, this is Philip Mercer. We spoke this morning about Jerry and John Small.”

  “Of course, Dr. Mercer.” MacLaughlin sounded shocked by Mercer’s call. “Can I help you?”

  “You said that both of them were drunk, right?”

  “Prelim
inary autopsy showed a blood alcohol count of over point two in both of them. They were hammered.”

  “Chief, John Small didn’t drink,” Mercer said triumphantly.

  MacLaughlin was hoping for a big revelation, so his disappointment sounded especially bitter. “Dr. Mercer, just because he was a minor, don’t mean he didn’t drink. This is Alaska. We do things a little different up here. Hell, I buy my kids beer on the weekends.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. John mentioned his basketball team and not screwing up his chances of a scholarship. We had just found two corpses on a burned-up boat and the kid refused a beer. That sight would have made a ten-year A.A. veteran consider drinking again.”

  MacLaughlin was silent for a minute, the static over the line the only indication that he hadn’t hung up. When he spoke, he did so softly, slowly, as the full implications of Mercer’s news sunk in. “My son’s best friend is on that team, and they all pledged not to drink until the season was over. It was a way to keep them focused and fired up. What the hell does this mean?”

  “Either John broke his oath or something’s not right and I’m willing to bet it’s linked to the Jenny IV. Did you manage to reach Howard Small in Los Angeles?”

  “No, not yet. But I left a couple of messages. He’ll get back to me by tonight I’m sure. Tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Let me ask you, what happened to the hulk of the Jenny IV?”

  MacLaughlin paused before answering. He didn’t like the answer he was about to give. “It was scuttled by the Coast Guard the day after Jerry found it. By law, he had salvage rights to the vessel. Since the owner had died in the fire, there was no one to buy her back. There was nothing worth keeping, so Jerry had the Coasties tow it back out and sink her.” He paused again and then added lamely, “Old boats make great artificial reefs for the fishermen.”

  “Did anyone explore inside the ship?” asked Mercer hopefully.

  “No, I’m afraid not. She went out the way she was found, flooded to the freeboards.”