The Lund and the canoe were tied up alongside, leaving the stern open. Schmidt angled in slowly. His friend leaned and caught hold, looping the bowline around a cleat. He waited for Charlie to secure the stern line, turned back and smiled.
“Welcome.” Marion waited as the two stepped on board.
“Well, here we are.” Charlie took off his cap and smoothed his hair. “Louis, this is Marion—”
Hand on top of his head, looking at her, he laughed. “Help me out here, please, Marion.”
“I’m Marion Ross,” she said, and held out her hand. “Glad you could join us.”
Hesitating for some reason, taking off his hat and steadying his glasses as he looked at her, Charlie’s friend at last stepped forward and shook her hand.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, still shaking. “Unbelievable.”
Smiling herself now, Marion raised her eyebrows. She looked to Brenda and back.
“You don’t recognize me?” He laughed and let go to rub his bald head. “And why would you?”
“Uh oh.” Brenda looked to Tina and Heather. “Get ready, everybody. I think we have a recognition scene in the making.”
“Don’t tell me.” Marion went on looking at him, the mental Rolodex at work. A client? Law school, or an art gallery owner? Marion’s hobby was pottery, and she was good.
“Five seconds more,” he said. “Larry, Moe, but definitely not Curly.” Still smiling, he looked to Charlie, and back. “Time’s up.”
“You have to forgive me.” Marion shook her head, studying him. “This is happening more often. I need a clue, please give me something.”
“Albion.” Marion nodded, her college wheels working. “Albion and Paris.”
Now her hand went to her mouth, eyes wide. “Louis. Louis Rohmer—”
She went to him and they hugged, turning together, Marion laughing with relief. “My God, Louis…out here.”
It was fun to watch. Marion, the competent professional, the maestro lady lawyer, suddenly at a loss. Finally, she let go. Still wide-eyed, she held him at arm’s length, studying him. “This…it’s too much, I have to sit down.” She looked quickly at Heather. “Who cooked this up, you?”
Wide-eyed herself, Heather shook her head. “Not me, I promise. But I remember you, Louis.” They shook hands. “You did magic tricks, you were Mr. Magic. You were good, too, there were talent shows. I remember seeing you.”
He reached up to her ear, and held his closed fist in front of her face. He opened it, holding a fifty-cent piece. Everyone laughed. Even Charlie was half smiling, looking a little lost.
“So long,” Marion said. “So many years. What…twenty-two? Three? This—” She took him by the arm and turned with him to face the others. “—was a serious romance.”
“Trouble, I see trouble.” Brenda winked at Charlie, working to include him. “Shipboard reunions, look out.”
Genuinely pleased to see him now, Marion again hugged Louis. When done, she turned to them, arm over his shoulder. “We’re not going to bore you with this much longer.”
“Oh, yes you are.” Brenda opened the door and motioned everyone forward. “Drinks and then dinner, so the rest of us have something to do. After you.” Tina wheeled through, and all followed, talking at once. Charlie brought up the rear.
“How’d you do today?” he asked.
“One lunker,” she said. “It’s on the menu.”
“No kidding. What on?”
“A Rapala, twelve-pound test. We did everything you said.”
“You used the trolling motor?”
“I was born to troll.”
“I’ll charge it for you later. You look…I see you got some sun.”
“Instant freckles.”
He smiled and held her gaze a moment, then went in. She followed, easing the door shut. Seeing his broad back moving ahead, hearing voices, she felt ready now for a glass of wine. Ready to troll, she thought, smiling at herself and following.
“Hah hah… Yeah, that’s good, yuck it up.”
Another burst of laughter issued from the houseboat. Lomak stood concealed by trees, on the hill in front of the boat. The sun had dropped. Now, the cove was a mirror filled with tall pines. On the houseboat’s stern, heat waves still rose from the two grills. One for fish, one for steak. Each time the breeze shifted, he smelled garlic and teriyaki.
It made his mouth water. He remembered the steak Diane they served at Mario’s. Duke and Pilar. When Doreen got high on wine, she laughed just like that, the way they were doing with Rohmer and Schmidt. For nights out, she always went to the salon and got little pictures painted on her nails.
He trained the binoculars on the empty upper deck, and again down to the bow’s door wall. A plank was in place for going ashore. With his back braced against a tree, Lomak could partially see them inside, at the table. They had cleared the dishes. Now they were finishing up with the single malt Scotch Schmidt had brought as a gift. Rohmer was starting another card trick. The dog sat outside the door wall, looking in.
He had taken care of business at Schmidt’s. Buried the accident, found a rake on the porch. By the time he finished, everything looked normal. Then the channel passage in the aluminum utility. It had been easy getting here, not so easy climbing the hill in cowboy boots. After breaking the lace on his Reeboks, the boots were all he had.
He lowered the binoculars, uncapped another beer and drank. “Ooh, ah,” he said, mimicking the voices below. Again, the patter of applause echoed out over the inlet. “Cut the amateur hour, Rohmer, you’re wasting daylight.”
He screwed the beer bottle into sandy soil between his feet, straightened and raised the binoculars. As though they had heard him, all of them were now pushing up from the table. Rohmer’s last card trick still lay on the cloth.
“Yeah, yeah—” Here they came, out the back, the wheelchair first. “Now we see if she stays or goes.”
The others followed. Schmidt jumped into the Stratos, talking as Rohmer stepped forward and nodded—okay, good, that will work—nodding again. Now Rohmer ducked under the canopy. A second later his bald head reappeared on the starboard catwalk. Untying the Lund, he jumped in and shoved free. He bent down, came up with a canoe paddle and began maneuvering around the stern. Still in his own boat, Schmidt was pulling the Stratos clear of the transom. When Rohmer got the Lund alongside, the women knelt to hold it close. As Schmidt jumped back on deck, the cripple shoved up from her chair and grabbed the handrail. He came to her—more words, laughter. He picked her up, and stepped down onto the houseboat’s transom. He paused a moment, checking to see the others were holding it close. Now he stepped into the Lund and set the woman in the passenger seat.
More clapping. Lomak got his beer and drank, watching as Schmidt helped Ross down, then the other woman from that afternoon. Not the redhead, the timid one. “Right on, Charlie,” he said, watching. “Go with Red.” Now Schmidt jumped back on the houseboat and turned. He used his foot to shove them free. A few seconds passed before Rohmer started the motor. Once back in his own boat, Schmidt helped the redhead step down. She went to the bow, untied the line and shoved off. The big Stratos motor came to life.
“That’s good. Everyone go see Indian Joe’s favorite fishin’ hole, have a ball.”
He watched the two boats moving slowly toward the mouth of the cove. His bandaged hand throbbed as he steadied the binoculars. He remembered falling into the Lund, the treble hook catching him. It was why he had taken the third shot with the Remington, jumpy and off message from the bandage. People said that on TV, politicians—off message.
When both boats had cleared the cove, Lomak finished the beer, then started down the slope. Blinkered through trees trunks, he saw the two boats slip from sight behind the land spit. Now the motors whined higher, heading out. He kept moving down, slipping in the boots, lurching between trees.
He thought again of the waitress from Brownie’s, in a bikini this time, joining him in the houseboat’s hot tub. Kicking
back, taking in the evening. If it was clear tonight, Schmidt had said they might see the northern lights, some kind of show the sky put on over the north pole. From solar particles, he said, shit like that. Sliding down the sandy incline, Lomak saw himself and the waitress in the hot tub looking up, seeing fireworks. The air would be cool, the water hot, little Jacuzzi jets working on his back.
The trees grew farther apart as he neared the base of the hill. He came down onto the beach and stopped to listen. The two boats now sounded far off, still fading. He crossed the sand to the swaybacked plank that served as a ramp.
The dog barked, and Lomak stopped. It was watching him from the bow, front paws on the end of the plank. “Hey Fido, what’s up?” The dog barked again, tail going. Jerry waited, clucking, patting his leg. “Come on, check it out, I’m cool—”
Pleased, he watched the golden retriever trot down the board. It understood. The thing with old man Nielson, that had been an accident. Bad luck. The dog reached him, sniffed his pant leg and looked up. He patted the dog’s head, feeling vindicated. “Go on, we’re buddies—” He waved. “Lead the way, show me your house.” The dog turned and trotted back to the glass door wall.
As he followed, Lomak saw the outside screen was closed, but the glass door wall had been left open a foot, for fresh air. He stepped to it, looked in. Captain’s chairs were pulled away from the table, Rohmer’s card trick still there. He looked down at the dog. It was whining now, wanting in. It had been Lomak’s plan to work along the catwalk and enter from the stern. But the retriever’s paws and belly were caked with sand and burrs. If it got in and was there when they returned, anything out of place would be blamed on Fido.
“You tired of this lockout shit?”
The dog barked.
Lomak knelt and ran his hand over the screen. It was stretched in places, kicked accidentally. He felt a snag. “Okay, see, here’s our story. They leave you out here with junk food when they’re chowing down on the good stuff. Then…” He pushed on the snag, increasing the pressure until his good hand broke through. When he drew it out, the dog shoved its nose in. Lomak tore the screen vertically. Now the retriever shouldered aside the sliding glass door and slipped inside.
Lomak pulled the screen back and entered. The dog was prowling, smelling the rug. “Let’s check out the bedrooms.”
He moved down the passage. Four cabins, two bathrooms. All the curtains were pulled back, there was still plenty of light. With the dog banging around his legs, he inspected the two occupied cabins. Clothes and undies, packages of Handiwipes. He opened all the cabinets and closets, looking for phones or two-way radios, laptops, palm pilots. Finding none, he checked the bathrooms, the lounge—down between the sofa cushions, the window sills, the galley and chart cupboards under the controls.
He went then out the back, up to the sun deck. Reentering, he looked in the first cabin, seeing the redhead’s clothes from the afternoon. With them on her bunk was a book. He stepped in and picked it up. The picture on the back showed a woman with glasses. Poems. Maybe Red was a lesbo. Fishing, hopping up and down, showing off her ass to another woman. He dropped the book, knelt and rummaged through her duffle.
Bingo, a phone.
He studied it, trying to figure out how to get it apart, to get to the battery. He could just stomp it, but she might notice before tomorrow. Finally he found indentations on the back, for pressing and sliding off the cover.
He cradled the phone in his bandaged palm and pressed gently. Then with more pressure until it hurt. He took the phone in his good hand, raised it to his mouth, caught a corner of the cover in his teeth and pulled.
It gave with a snap that made him drop the phone. The battery popped out and went flying.
Cheap Chinese crap. He got down on all fours, looking, feeling. “Where the fuck are you?” He was wasting precious daylight, and feared driving the boat after dark. At last he found the battery, and stood. Lomak pocketed it, then slid the phone’s cover back in place. He knelt and shoved the phone deep in Brenda’s duffle bag, stood and crossed to the cabin opposite.
Ross’s. Her smell. For two days he had smelled her scent in court. Seated behind her table, he watched her leaning and whispering to Doreen, patting her arm. On the second day, they had called him, made him swear and sit, looking out at Doreen’s aunt and sister. Both were wearing sweatshirts with HANG IN THERE DOREEN. Every time Marion Ross came close—bringing printouts and receipts, pointing and asking if this was his signature—a cloud of scent rolled over him.
He looked through her things—designer jeans and sweaters, a cashmere robe from Neiman Marcus. Paid for by people she fucked over, like himself. Everything had the smell. He had to fight the urge to pee in her bag, to drop his pants and squeeze out some actual shit for her to find. Or burn the houseboat. Why not? An accident from the grills, a fire.
No. Stay on message. Her life from now on, that would be shit.
Lomak finished the search. There were no other phones, and no laptops on the houseboat. He went back down and returned to the lounge. The dog lay on the floor, sand marking the clean rug, muzzle between its paws. On the counter rested a plate wrapped in tinfoil. He stepped over and raised it to his face. Teriaki. A steak they hadn’t eaten.
“This one must be mine.” He peeled back the wrapping, lifted out the steak and dropped the foil. He took a bite, watching as the dog got up and began licking the foil. “They locked you out. You were pissed.”
He took another bite, and moved to the door wall.
“Tina got one!”
Marion’s voice carried over the water with perfect clarity, along with the ratchet noise of a spinning reel being cranked. Brenda looked up from her own line. A hundred yards from Charlie’s boat, the Lund was anchored at the end of the bay. Tina was working hard in her seat.
“Go, Tina!” she yelled.
It was six-thirty, utterly still. Shouts and words of encouragement crossed the placid water with sharp precision. Trees rose on all sides, black against the setting sun’s copper light. Simplified this way, the moment held a static magic.
“That’s four for them and three for us.” She cranked her reel, seated on the forward seat. “What’s going on?”
“Welcome to fishing. When they’re hungry, this is what you get.”
Charlie cast again, standing at the back, cigar between his teeth. Rohmer had brought the cigars, saying they would keep off no-see-ums. He claimed that currents in the Pacific had made for a warm winter and early hatch. Everyone but Heather was puffing. As she cranked, smoke rose from Brenda’s own cigar, a blue, sweet-scented rope.
“I do believe this is just about as good as it gets,” she said. “I’m sold.”
A splash. She looked again—more shouting. Ripples were fanning out from the Lund. She raised her lure and turned to face Charlie. Watching him fish was part of the moment’s magic. It made you understand both the conservation of energy, and the meaning of it’s all in the wrist. Each cast he made formed a simple, fluid gesture. The force of it was evident only in how far the lure traveled before it hit the water, a distance out of all proportion to the effort used.
Still a little high from wine, she set her rod on the bow and sat back. He had brought beer. She took a sip from her bottle, puffed her cigar, and sighed.
“Tired?”
“In the best way,” she said. “I wish we could cue the sun to give us another couple hours.”
“That’s no good.”
“I mean it. I want this to go on as long as possible.”
The rod whipped again and Charlie’s Rapala sailed out. “No, it’s better this way.”
“Why better? This is perfection.”
He cranked slowly. “If you could cue the light and weather, you wouldn’t like it. The point’s the luck, don’t you think? This kind of day, at this time of year isn’t supposed to happen. It’s better as a found thing.”
He was right, a gift from Mother Nature. “Speaking of found things,” she said,
“how about your buddy and Marion?”
“Yeah, like it was planned. But such things happen.”
“Have you known him long?”
“We aren’t really friends.” Charlie had lowered his voice. Every sound seemed amplified here. Unreal. He looked out toward the Lund. “To be honest, I kind of wish he hadn’t called.” He turned back to her. “We met in Mexico, shared a fishing charter. He phoned three weeks ago. Said he had some problems, did I want to do some fishing.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Money, investments. He took a big hit in the stock market. Used real estate to collateralize a margin call on a stock he bought last year. A lot of it. When it tanked, he lost the property.” Charlie shook his head. “I told him to come on, take his mind off it. Then he shows up with some guy that works for him. I’m glad he didn’t want to come tonight.”
“How so?”
Charlie tapped his cigar over the side, put it back in his mouth and set his rod next to the engine. “Just a strange guy. Bitter. He got himself in some kind of trouble. Louis didn’t give me details, but he’s up for sentencing this week or next. Then his lady dumps him, and, yeah, that’s too bad. But I own rental properties, and I’ve hired guys like him. People that did time. Roofers, rough carpentry. Sometimes it works out, but this guy…. He’s looking at jail time, and gets the chance to come up here for a few days. If it was me, I’d try to have some fun. Not Jerry Rizzo. He comes all this way to feel sorry for himself. You could mope back home, that’s what I want to tell him.”
“He has weird hair?”
Charlie nodded.
“Heather and I met him this afternoon. When she caught the northern.”
“He and Louis were out in my boat.”
“I thought it looked like yours, same guy. He was alone at the time.” Smoking her cigar, seeing Louis Rohmer getting the net ready for Tina’s catch, she described what had happened.
“Yeah, that’s the guy,” Charlie said. “Jerry Rizzo. I bandaged his hand. I thought Louis might’ve brought him along to check out property up here, but that’s not it.”
Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2) Page 13