No sight of Hicks, she walked toward Bahrs; along the way she ran into a man she knew was a friend of both Dutch and Hicks. A rail-thin, rheumy-eyed man with a limp by the name of Hector. Also a good mechanic, one who had formerly worked for Dutch, and she greeted him, but before she could start talking, Hector pulled her down a small alley.
“What’s wrong?”
“Lots a strangers around lately.”
She really had been out of touch for a long time. She had never seen people act so suspiciously, as if a wave of paranoia had swept in during her absence. “I saw them. Who are they?”
“I don’t know, but steer clear, and don’t let anyone overhear your conversations.”
When she finally raised the subject of the boat, he told her to replace the carburetors with new ones and consider adding naphtha to the fuel to boost octane. But new carburetors were expensive and naphtha was highly flammable. He advised her to consider the changes carefully and warned her a final time about the strangers in town.
She went to discuss the ideas of naphtha with Dutch. He was captain and owner and should make the decisions. She found Rudy at the pier washing the boat, and he told her Dutch had gone for a meeting with some new buyers at the Highland House Hotel. Frieda wouldn’t dare interrupt his meeting, but she decided to head over there in hopes of catching Dutch on his way out.
The hotel, built in 1898 in the old Victorian style, stood on Navesink Avenue near the bridge, one of four grand hotels in the borough. Frieda sat on the steps leading up to the ornate portico fronting the building and waited while the sun poured down and the air turned stagnant and still.
Dutch finally emerged. After she told him they needed to talk about the boat, he nudged her farther down the steps toward the street.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Some runners have quit and gone to work for the government. I don’t want any one of them leaning in on my conversations no more.”
“Who?”
He rattled off some familiar names. It was shocking.
Knowing that these men had been as eager about running as Dutch himself, Frieda shook her head. “Why would they go work for the government?”
“They can get a nice little salary and then blackmail all their old friends for a portion of the take, so they’re still making money, but with nearly no risk. Bloodsucking sons of whores, double-crossing crooks. Don’t trust anyone now.” Frieda blinked once, hard. Compounding this news, she recalled seeing other strange and unknown men down at the docks—the innocuous, quiet, shifty-eyed sorts. Were they government guys? She would have to advise Charles to be careful about talking in public now, even down at the docks and in Bahrs. She blinked again and then stared at Dutch. His hair was now a mix of blond and white, his skin aged and ruddy, and he looked more the Viking warrior than ever.
She told him what she’d learned about the carburetors and naphtha, the pros and the cons. And then finished with, “The new carburetors are expensive.”
He didn’t hesitate. “How much money is it worth to stay alive?”
Frieda gazed out at the view, so beautiful from these heights. The tide was still, a momentary calm before it swept back to the sea.
She spun her gaze to Dutch. “Are you saying you want me to do it?”
“Hell yeah, I’m saying I want you to do it. So I have to lay out some cash. The money we’re pulling in from the booze will make up for it. ’Specially if we don’t have to worry about them bastards chasing us down, we can go out more often. It’ll be better than ever.”
Frieda glanced away again, toward the water. “The naphtha is risky.”
“Everything we do is risky.”
“I think we should give it more thought.”
“Bullshit. This is the best news I’ve had in weeks. Get on it right away, will you?”
She hesitated. “O-K. I guess.”
“That’s an order, girl. Remember you said you’d always follow my orders?”
“Of course, but—”
“No buts. Time’s a wasting.”
“I’m going to do it right, Dutch. Not in a hurry.”
“I didn’t say not to do it right. But you can be right and fast at the same time, cain’t you?”
“No pressure.”
“I’m under pressure. Don’t talk to me about pressure. No money coming in: that’s pressure.”
“I know, I know.”
He reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “Atta girl.”
She shook her head and smiled grimly at the same time.
When she returned to the docks, more fishermen and clammers had come in for the day, and some of them looked at her strangely. At first she thought it was because of Silver’s death and the fact that she’d been away for a while. But then she remembered what Dutch and Hector had told her about locals and runners who had turned informant, and it occurred to her: maybe they were worried that with Silver gone, she’d stop running and turn against them. Trust was hard to come by these days.
Hicks was on board the Wren. Wearing his fishing gear, but with his hair combed back with pomade, he was coiling the mooring lines. She followed him on board, where he told her he’d spent his morning at the funeral service for Whitey and the other men lost on his boat.
“But there are no . . . bodies,” Frieda said solemnly, tears threatening to fall at that brutal realization. She sat next to Hicks and stared down at her hands, curled into a knot.
“I guess the wives wanted to have some kind of service anyway.”
“How was it?”
“Lots of weeping.”
“That makes sense.” She peered upward. “But I’m surprised you went. I didn’t know you knew Whitey all that well.”
“I didn’t know him well.”
“So . . . why did you go?”
He looked away, and she could tell that Hicks didn’t want to answer. Frieda decided it wasn’t worth prying and changed the subject. There was nothing more to be said about Whitey and his men anyway. They were gone; their story had ended, and in such a vile way, no one wanted to fixate on it. She told him what she planned to do with Dutch’s boat, and he cautioned her against adding naphtha, saying the dangers were too great. “You can carry five-gallon containers of naphtha on board in case you want to add it as a booster, but the stuff could blow up like a bomb. It’s like liquid dynamite.”
Frieda frowned, her chest tightening.
“Find ways to lighten the boat instead—take only what’s necessary and nothing more—but don’t use the naphtha.”
She listened intently to what Hicks said, but in the end she told him she was doing it anyway. “Will you help me with the carburetors?”
“Not a chance.”
“I’m under Dutch’s orders, and I’m going to do it. If you help me, I know it’ll be done right.”
Hicks looked tormented, as if the decision was tearing him apart. Finally he breathed out, “I can’t. I just can’t . . .”
She felt strongly that Hicks wanted to say more, and she knew what it was. She could’ve finished his sentence for him: “. . . spend that much time around you anymore.”
Frieda closed her eyes for a moment. “Understood.”
“I’ll look in on you as you replace the carburetors, but I’ve never used naphtha. You’re on your own there.”
“Understood,” Frieda said again.
The next few days were spent below deck on the Pauline, replacing the carburetors and making adjustments for a for a new fuel mixture. She worked all through the daylight hours and then at night by a light Hicks had rigged up. Despite what he’d said, Hicks didn’t exactly leave her on her own. He wouldn’t help directly with the work, but he stayed nearby. He brought her mugs of steaming coffee, handed her tools, went in search of anything she needed, and even advised her on a few of the adjustments. He was helping with something that he didn’t think was right, and all because of her.
The night she completed the work, he suggested they take the
boat out for a short test run. Frieda glanced toward the hills and the house where Charles awaited her return. She would’ve rather headed back to him, but it was difficult to turn down Hicks’s offer. So they started the engine and slid away from the docks on that sickle-moon night. They rode free of other boats, then opened up the throttle out in the bay. The boat was loaded with only Frieda’s tools and gear, and she flew over the surface as if it were made of slick oil instead of heaving salt seas.
They throttled down to a crawl, turned around, and let her drift for a few minutes. Frieda looked around, always searching the seas, always on the alert for danger. Which made her think of Whitey again, despite her desire to push his memory away.
“Did you figure out that Whitey was Bea’s father?” she asked Hicks while staring into the night.
Slowly he said, “Yes.”
A simple answer, but one that left her longing for more. Normally around Hicks she felt comfortable and serene, but something was nagging at her tonight. What he wouldn’t say to her. The killers out there. The boat. The naphtha. Charles. Hicks’s one-word reply felt incomplete, and it seemed everyone was withholding something from her.
Hicks was too kind to suffer one of her snarky comments, so she simply asked, “How long ago?”
“Does it matter?”
Frieda let loose a sigh. “Probably not. I’m just curious.”
“Not sure when I guessed it, but it was a long time ago. Probably the first time I ever laid eyes on Whitey. The resemblance, their coloring, it was too close to be coincidence. Right off I was pretty sure.”
Frieda nodded. “Is that why you went to the service?”
He fixed his soft gaze on her. “I figured Bea doesn’t know.”
“You’re right.”
“And you—you figure out everything. But I guessed you wouldn’t go, so I went for you.”
Why did he always do that? Things that made her feel as if she owed him? But she had never managed to stay angry or annoyed with Hicks. He was too kind, and she knew he could tell that she was unhappy. She was sure he also knew that he couldn’t fix her unhappiness. Part of her despair came from what she had let herself become: a woman consumed by a man. And how could Hicks help her with that?
In another few days the moon had waned to the slimmest of scratches, and Dutch decided they were back in business. On the first night they were to go out, both he and Charles were late for the cast-off time.
With everything ready to go, Frieda and Rudy waited for them in the boat.
Frieda glanced around as the town began to fall silent behind them and lights clicked off in houses settling down for the night. “I’m surprised Dutch would be late.”
Rudy took off his glasses, brushed off some dust, then replaced them, curling the ends around the back of his ears. “A palm reader’s been in town telling people’s fortunes. Making the rounds of all the speakeasies. I saw Dutch with her.”
Astounded, Frieda turned to Rudy. “He’s getting his palm read?”
He nodded knowingly. “Dutch is a strange man. Superstitious as hell. Behind all that bravado there’s a lot of restlessness rattling around.”
Frieda could scarcely imagine Dutch succumbing to the hype of a palm reader. “How long have you known him?”
“Long time. He was a friend of my uncle’s, so I always knew who he was, and when I first started fishing he showed me some tricks. He always had better luck than me.”
“And he’s ended up a captain.”
“I don’t envy him. I think he’s made too much money. The more material things you have, the more you have to lose. And hell, I’m a good first mate.”
Frieda thought about Dutch for a minute longer. He was as unpredictable as a teenage girl at times, but solid as Ulysses on the water.
“Did you go to the palm reader?”
“Not me,” Rudy said. “I don’t want to know what’s around the next corner. I like my life mysterious.” He winked. “I’d rather wait and see.”
Frieda relaxed in the glow of Rudy’s company. She always felt a tinge of wonder when he talked. She hated to bring up a serious subject but was curious. “Have you made a decision about quitting yet?”
“Nah. Just waiting and seeing.”
Frieda nodded.
“Besides, I haven’t got that sailboat yet.”
First Dutch and then Charles appeared, ready to go out, and when the Pauline finally cast off, the seas were flat and black and the wind puffed only a few salty, steamy gusts from time to time. They headed out to the rum boats just before ten, easily cutting through the water, and once beyond the Hook, Dutch ran at full speed to test the changes Frieda had made and to make certain that if anyone was out there they’d have a hard time catching up to the Pauline. They skimmed the surface as if they were airborne.
Dutch whooped. “Love it! Great job, Frieda!”
The most dangerous part of the journey was now, when they had all the cash on board to buy the contraband. The go-through men preferred hijacking boats when they were loaded with money rather than booze. Even with the increase in speed, the crew of the Pauline held at rapt attention, and the air was thick with apprehension. A fear of the unknown, a dread of something appearing out of the darkness, driving closer, overtaking them. Over the sound of the engines the night seemed still—too quiet, too shadowy.
But the run was uneventful and ended up being highly profitable. When they had cleared the drop zone and were heading into the docks for the night, Charles whispered to Frieda, “It’s all going to be OK now.”
She reached for his hand, and he took it.
All night long they’d had no contact, Frieda spending most of her time below deck and Charles on deck near the helm. Rudy, in the bow position, had leaned down and spoken to Frieda a few times, once saying, “Good work,” complimenting her skills with the engines. He’d smiled, and for the first time in a long while she felt a burst of pride, or at least satisfaction in her work. Pleasing Dutch was one thing—he was her boss—but pleasing kindhearted, cautious Rudy was another thing altogether. She smiled back at him, and he gave her a thumbs-up.
Frieda had been staying every night at Charles’s house, and so after that night’s run they headed home without stopping at the bar to celebrate. Charles had seemed preoccupied all night and only wanted to fall into bed when they entered the still, dark house. Frieda had a hard time going to sleep; Charles was breathing deeply and twitching a bit in his sleep as he dreamed restlessly beside her. She was perplexed by her insomnia. The engine adjustments had worked, the boat was faster, they were making money again, and everything had gone well. So why was her mind a mess of thoughts and feelings she couldn’t decipher?
It was the tiny chill in the predawn air, an indication that summer was nearing a close, a sign of change to come. She felt it on her arms—not a breeze but a shift in the air. The long sultry nights were over. Every sunrise and sunset was another little slip toward September, a month that loomed as desolate and unwelcome as sleet. Each day that went by with no words of assurance from Charles, another star fell from her sky. Summer was seeping away, but Frieda still believed they had time. Charles still had time to make a decision, to turn his life around, to trust in what they had. She had hope, though she already knew that hope could sometimes be a sad mistake.
In the morning Charles was still asleep when Frieda awakened. She slipped out of bed and bathed, then wrapped herself in his robe and padded about the house in her bare feet, her hair dripping down her back. As she puttered about the kitchen making coffee, a short stack of mail on the kitchen table caught her attention. She had seen few pieces of mail arrive here for Charles, so she was curious. Sipping on steaming coffee, she crept closer. Two envelopes, both of which had been opened. The first had come from Harvard University, and the other had a return name of Bitty Wallace, Charles’s mother. She stared at the envelopes for a while, blowing on her coffee to cool it and listening for any sounds indicating that Charles was up and about.
She slid the second envelope out from under the top one and set down her coffee cup. With both hands shaking, she slipped her fingers inside the envelope, her heart pounding. It had been opened already, and he would never know. She had not sought to pry into Charles’s private affairs before, although when she thought about it now, almost living here had afforded her many opportunities to go snooping. She had never fallen so low, but . . .
“What are you doing?”
Charles. Standing in the passageway to the kitchen, wearing only his underclothes, a look of infuriated disbelief on his face.
Suddenly lightheaded, Frieda dropped the envelope on the table. “I-I . . .” What had she been doing? She had no idea what to say.
“Were you going to read my letter?” Charles demanded as he took a step closer. “From my mother?”
A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. “No, not really. I only picked it up.”
“Come now,” he said with a disgusted laugh. “You were only picking it up?”
“I don’t know what I was doing!” Frieda searched his face, hoping to find some compassion there.
He stood with both feet planted, like a soldier. “Come now,” he said again. “Excuses don’t become you, Frieda. Just tell the truth. What are you looking for?”
Frieda licked her lips nervously. She gazed into his eyes and let her guard melt away. “I’m having a hard time of it, don’t you see? I-I don’t know where I stand with you. I don’t know what you’re planning to do, and summer’s almost over. I don’t know anything. Maybe I was drawn to the letter to see if I could find any hints of what’s to come. You tell me nothing.”
The Whiskey Sea Page 24