Shifters

by Lee, Edward

  Carl plunged beer mugs two at a time into the triple sinks. “Never what?” he asked.

  “Never fall in love with a girl you meet in a bar.” White Shirt’s bloodshot eyes drifted up. “Never—” Again he pounded his fist. “—and I mean never ever ever!”

  I hear that, Locke thought. Never fall in love with a girl you meet in a bar. He’d met Clare in a bar, in this bar. He’d never forget that first moment he’d seen her…

  “Never, never… ,” White Shirt stammered on.

  …the impact, the power, in that first single glimpse of her beauty…

  “—never, never, ever, ever fall in love—”

  …yes, the sheer resplendence of her…

  “Like this asshole over here,” Lehrling whispered to him. “Look at him. He’s wasted, ruined, because of a girl. He’s got nowhere to put his feelings, so his feelings are turning him inside out. You want to end up like that?”

  Locke glanced down the bar. White Shirt was staring up into the rafters now, his eyes pasted open, mouthing Never, never, never…

  Love was supposed to be a wonderful thing, but look what it had done to this guy. No, Locke didn’t want to end up like White Shirt. That was scary. But what scared him more was not knowing exactly how he would end up.

  Locke quickly grabbed a bar napkin. Lehrling said he must write about his feelings, he must take his feelings from his heart and put them somewhere else. So be it, he resigned, and took up his pen.

  He quickly scribbled:

  POEM ON A BAR NAPKIN by Richard Locke

  This is how I feel, my love…

  in the muse of the poet, or the destitute hack.

  You would love me again in the wink of an eye

  if you knew how bad I want you back.

  Lehrling looked on, afrown. “You’re shitting me, right? That’s not a poem. It’s frivolity. I’m talking about real work, Locke, a real communication of your psyche, not some little ditty you doodle down on a bar napkin. That’s shit.”

  “I know,” Locke muttered. Everything I write is shit. But it wasn’t a self-condemnation. That was how any real poet should feel: that nothing could ever be good enough to be art. Lehrling was a novelist—naturally he didn’t understand. Locke wadded up the napkin and with a sigh tossed it into the can behind the bar. More of his heart crumpled and tossed away as so much garbage.

  “Hey, keep,” White Shirt drunkenly demanded. “Another beer.”

  Carl put a mug of coffee down.

  “That’s not beer,” White Shirt observed.

  “It’s the closest thing to beer you’re gonna get tonight,” Carl came back. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re drunk.”

  White Shirt shrugged. “I guess you’re right.” Carl’s eyes widened as White Shirt gulped down the entire steaming mug at once, scalding his misery.

  “What do I do?” Locke pleaded.

  “Write off the loss,” Lehrling said. “I told you. Forget it.”

  I can’t forget it.

  “Look at the facts. You fell in love with a girl. The girl dumped you. It happens every day. The only way you can preserve what you are is to forget it. And the only way to forget it is—”

  “Yeah, right. Catharsis.”

  “Catharsis,” Lehrling concurred. “Exorcism. Turn your feelings into art. Write the best poem you’ve ever written. Then you’ll be free. Take my word for it.”

  But Locke could only frown at this emphasis of advice. The moment merged then into a hectic chaos. The three girls at the end of the bar jabbered meaninglessly, like parrots. Music beat bleakly from the stereo; it sounded far away. White Shirt resumed the forlorn pounding of his fist: “Never fall in love with a girl you meet in a bar! Never! Never!” But all Locke could see was his love. All he could see was Clare.

  He felt supplanted. He felt unreal.

  “Get drunk,” Lehrling suggested. “That’ll help.”

  It did not help. Locke’s beer tasted like loss, like every loss in the world. He finished his second pint, then his third, then his fourth.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Spirit? Do I even have one anymore?

  Locke’s eyes lifted to the window. Murky light throbbed, moving—light the color of blood. Another ambulance roved slowly down the street.

  Its lights were flashing, but its siren was off.

  (iii)

  Arrivals?

  That’s what I thought, I guess, as I stepped naked up onto the cold splintery wooden dock. I thought of arrivals. Plural. Not merely my arrival to wherever this place was, but something more complex. Many arrivals, in many different meanings.

  Rebirth!

  The water gives me up now, from its depths like the calm monotony of death. Am I trite to say I feel reborn? Before me the sea stretches on forever, and behind me looms the city, like an intricate, carved mesa in black, flecked in tiny lights. I feel cleansed, vibrant. I feel alive in heat against the wet, dragging, deathlike cold. In my death, I’m alive. In my age, I’ve emerged like the first second of life from the sanctuary of the womb.

  Am I here by chance?

  I’m standing on a pier, looking out. I cannot distinguish where the sea ends and the night begins. Ice cold salt water drips off my hot skin. Boats bob in their slips, in total silence.

  I like the silence. It makes me feel blessedly alone and so aware in this vast and awesome night. The big bright moon is looking at me. I can feel its vibrant light on my face, my breasts. I’m caressing myself in the light. I feel like the gleam on the edge of a razor.

  I feel so beautiful now!

  But I sense something else—I can feel it like a joyous promise in my heart. I know it’s something good, even though bad things follow me wherever I go. I know now, my face staring up into the moon, my breasts cupped in my hands, that I’m not here by chance.

  I’m never anywhere by chance.

  Then comes a third sensation.

  Hunger.

  SIX

  Sustenance

  (i)

  Fisherman’s Terminal, the gaudily lit ornament of Puget Sound, made Jason think of palm trees, hurricane lamps, large thick drinks and Anna wearing nothing but red ribbons. Silly thought those ribbons, but so were palm trees in November. For that matter so was the possibility of seeing Anna in the buff. He had his chance and took it, just before they turned in that evening. Say, “good night,” a gentle kiss dragged out, maybe run your tongue past her lips. He thought the chance was good, but she pulled away before he got a taste of her lips. Anna kept Jason at arm’s length for a moment, then retreated to her cabin.

  All shipping ground to a halt as police boats and helicopters circled the area north of the marine terminal. The area was secured, and no one was offering explanations. Yachts circled the barges that floated idly and waited. Tugmasters kept their vessels at idle throttle to keep their charges stationary. The bitter cold morning pulled sea smoke from the factories on Harbor Island to shroud the tugs in a mist that gave them the majesty of distant mountains.

  A ghostly moon was sinking behind Seattle. The Sea of Tranquility was still visible to the naked eye as the sun cleared the Cascade Mountains. Jason braced the morning chill in a knit sweater and Levis jeans. As a rule he hated early mornings. He also hated paying taxes and waking up for the 2 a.m. watch change during deliveries. Jason took all this in great stride. Most of it was, after all, part of the job. The concept of being a professional marine captain seemed luxurious to most people. On paper it looked good: $100/day plus expenses. Reality was often a different creature. Leaking hatches, contaminated water, faulty electrical, and twelve hours a day worth of watches could make it a tough way to earn a buck. In truth, he was always glad to finally reach port with someone else’s vessel.

  Coffee would be nice, he thought. The newly varnished teak wood door, to the main cabin, nudged him in the back.

  “Coffee,” Anna announced or possibly asked as she handed him a mug. Things like that were hard to distinguish through h
er German accent. She had a warm, inviting smile. Though after last night, Jason was pretty sure that the invitation ended with coffee.

  Jason nodded at the gangway, “Heavy bastard.”

  They both were watching the crews reassemble the passageways. “Ja was es das?”

  The question knocked Jason for a loop. Lethe had hired Anna to be Jason’s crew, which suited Jason fine. After all, it was one less detail to work out. Jason assumed that she was to become a permanent crew on the boat after he departed. “You don’t know either?”

  “Nien.”

  He was starting to get aggravated by it all. Lethe openly offered Jason a two-hundred-dollar-a-day fee for the delivery—along with provisioning cash and transportation to the Emerald City, both of which were standard. Two-hundred-a-day plus expenses made him wonder what he was in for. The doubled fee sent alarms off in his head, but…well, he needed money.

  And then there was the guy himself, this… Lethe.

  “Weird trip, and a weirder client,” Jason muttered aloud to the fog. “Not to mention a mystery cargo, and a frigid crew that can’t speak English.”

  “Swine.” Anna retorted and stalked off to the galley. His eyes followed her. She filled her jeans well, not lacking in the sweater either.

  Jason, next, caught the eyes of the laborer, who was resetting the teak doors to the aft salon. The man had been watching them, or possibly only her. He smiled a toothy grin and went back to work. Below deck, other locals of the boat yard were reassembling hand rails and more doors which led aft. An hour and a half before they had to disassemble everything to accommodate the passage of one 7 X 3 metal box through the Betruger’s companionway.

  Yeah, that’s some mystery cargo, all right, Jason thought.

  With four double staterooms with baths, this yacht, the Betruger, could double as a small hotel. The main salon and dining room were all art deco. Salmon-colored wall-to-wall carpeting, which ran to the ceiling, was trimmed out in black and gold tiffany molding. The word “exquisite” kept popping into Jason’s mind. He asked himself if this guy was a swish or something. The Betruger’s galley rivaled most restaurant kitchens in his home town. Even the engine room was carpeted. Her heart was driven by twin 343TA Cat diesels which could propel her at a speed of 10 knots for about 3,000 miles. To help make life comfortable aboard the 97-foot yacht, there were three generators on line which powered everything from the reading light in the head to the windless, which raised both 150-pound anchors. The bridge was fully enclosed with all the essentials; fore and aft thrusters, three VHF and a pair of single side band radios, two Furuno radars, a Furuno sonar unit, LORAN and SAT-NAV. Her lines were the pride of the Burger design team. For a million-five-plus, before amenities, she could be anyone’s pride.

  In Jason’s case the Betruger happened to be the pride of a man named Lethe, and like the yacht, Lethe was full of amenities; elegant, stylish, respectable, and on a first-name basis with the word money. Jason met the owner of the vessel at one of the posh restaurants which overlooked Fisherman’s Wharf (Their money was paid upfront. Again another alarm.) Lethe drew the attention of the waitress just by sitting down.

  Lethe was tall, about a head larger than Jason, slim and graceful. He wore his clothes in the way a king might wear a crown, an accentuation of his own power but not its source. His face was wan yet healthily so somehow, and his hair was a wave of salt and pepper. It made it impossible to calculate the man’s real age; late forties, early fifties, Jason could only guess. He could even be in his sixties.

  “Did the Betruger pass your personal inspection, Captain?” asked Lethe. His eyes gleamed like polished onyx and his voice betrayed a proper English accent. It was properly spoken, like one would hear from someone who was taught the language.

  “It’s quite a yacht, Mr.…”

  “Just Lethe. It is the only name I go by.”

  “Is the Betruger a corporate vessel?” asked Jason.

  “Why do you ask?” he replied, but those eyes burned their way past all Jason’s thoughts to the secret recesses of his mind.

  “It’s just that some marinas apply discounts to corporate vessels. Also some have kitchens that’ll provide catering.”

  “No, the Betruger is my private yacht.”

  “Most of the vessels that size usually have some big money to back them unless they’re doing charters,” Jason fished a little more.

  Lethe smiled, a long finger unconsciously tapping the table by his napkin. “Ah, let me speculate, if you will. I’ve offered you the job of transporting my yacht up the coast, and entrusted you with making arrangements for transporting its cargo to my estate in North Bend, and you’re curious as to why I won’t be on the yacht myself, why I choose, instead, to meet you at the destination-point, hmm? Curious? And about the fact that I’m paying twice your fee, plus abundant expenses?”

  “Well,” Jason began. “I, uh—”

  “And more curious still are you, about the ‘strange cargo,’ yes?”

  “Well, Mr., er—excuse me, Lethe,” Jason fumbled. “You have to admit, the cargo is kind of strange. I mean, sure, lots of owners prefer to pay someone more experienced to transport their yachts long distances, and sometimes they prefer not to go along for the ride—fine. But this cargo of yours, this crate—it’s so big that you’re actually having contractors take apart the companionway just to get the thing on board. Why not just truck it up to Seattle?”

  Lethe sipped from his glass of Montrachet. Jason had peeked at the wine list—$270 a bottle! “Let’s just say that it suits me far more to transport the crate by water. Hiring a truck seems… mundane.” Then Lethe smiled. “But, seriously, Jason. Do I look like a drug smuggler?”

  “Hey, sir, really,” Jason jabbered too quickly. “I wasn’t for a minute suspecting—”

  “Please, Jason.” Lethe seemed utterly amused, pausing to sniff at his wine every so often. “It’s your job to be suspicious, and it is that level of thoroughness that I expect. If you want to know what’s in the crate, why don’t you ask?”

  “Okay, uh,” Jason said. “What’s, uh, what’s in the crate?”

  “A twelfth century footstand.”

  “A what?”

  “An entablatured footstand. Think of it as a medieval coffee table; it’s solid oak, weighs close to three hundred pounds.”

  “What, some kind of antique?”

  “Perforce. This footstand was the actual gold carrier in which a ransom of 150,000 marks was paid to Emperor Henry VI of France, for the safe return of England’s King, Richard I, in the year 1192. It’s quite dull to look at, I’m afraid, but of course the entails of its history make it very valuable.”

  A…footstand, Jason thought dumbly. “So you’re an antique collector, is that it?”

  Lethe made an odd smile. “A collector, yes.”

  “And I guess this footstand is worth a lot of money.”

  “Oh, yes. Actually, it’s worth about as much as the yacht.”

  Jason nearly spat out his Killian’s Red. A million-five for a fuckin’ footstand! You gotta be out of your mind!

  “Because,” Lethe continued, sipping more wine, “the footstand also happens to contain the original ransom agreement, which is signed by both kings. It happens to be the only surviving document, in fact, that bears Richard’s signature.”

  I guess that’ll do it, Jason thought. Collectors, what a weird bunch. If Jason had a million-five to blow, he’d pass on the footstand.

  “Ah,” Lethe announced as a sultry waitress wended to the table. “Here come the snails. Have some, Jason.”

  Jason took one glance at the things on the plate, and that was all she wrote. “No thanks. I’m trying to cut down.”

  “Anna?”

  Jason’s silent accomplice made a face and shook her head, but she didn’t hesitate to let Lethe pour her more wine. It was then that Jason noticed that most of the women in the restaurant kept stealing glances in their direction. Their waitress seemed to appear at Leth
e’s shoulder about every five minutes, as if she seemed eager to serve on bent knee for him. When he commanded her it was by her name. Her face glowed every time he spoke. Lethe was getting her hot and bothered. Jason expected her to pull off her panties at any minute, and beg Lethe to take her on the table.

  Jason leaned close. With a conspirator’s tone he commented, “I think she likes you.”

  Lethe dismissed the attention as something that he was used to. “It is, after all, her job.”

  Jason gravitated to the man. He also noticed that Anna seemed more reticent than before. It was clear that she was not comfortable around her new employer. Jason didn’t really care—money was money. And this was good money.

  At any rate, the deal was done. Jason and Anna would take the Betruger up the coast in the morning, and meet Lethe in Seattle. “That reminds me,” Jason spoke up. “I’ll need the number of your hotel so I can call you once we’ve arrived.”

  “No need,” Lethe replied and rose. “I’ll find you.”

  “You’re leaving now?”

  “Yes, I must go. So I’ll see you both in a couple of days.”